Yawar & Sarah


My brother is a very nice fellow. My mother tells me that when he was about to breathe his first breath outside her womb, it was raining and there was no electricity. She was at her parents’ house in a rural town in those days of her confinement. It rained so heavily as if the rain was a beast kept in a cage for a long time and  then escaped from it after killing its guard. Her father went out in the dark with his old flashlight, without an umbrella to call the local lady doctor who attended women at births. She looked at the clock which struck two when her husband woke her up from deep slumber telling her that old Mr.Y was waiting outside and shivering and that he won’t come in.

At 3 in the morning on 27 August 1981, he was delivered. The doctor said care should be taken as she feared the weather will make the little baby, already very weak, suffer. Mother was worried afterwards as her two previous daughters were born healthy and still are. But he grew up to be her best child.

He has that charisma which makes a man visible in sea of dry minds and dirty faces. His face is handsome with strong jaws and clear brown eyes. He has wavy black hairs and he keeps them long but regularly trimmed. His smile gives such beauty to his face which is pure and untouched by any malice, kindness drips from his face.  When he laughs you can see his perfect white teeth.My mother tells me that he has never been ill in his life and was only taken to a hospital as a child for vaccinations.

My love for Yawar bhai is unimaginably immense.

He and his wife Sarah left for Australia last week.

A day before his departure, we were sitting in his room, him and I discussing how greatly he will miss everyone in the home.

‘Here, this is for you’, handing me a black diary, he said smiling his usual smile.

‘What is it bro?’, intrigued, I asked.

‘This is my diary Jawad. Some reflections and affections and emotions.’

‘I didn’t know you wrote a diary’.

‘ I am sure you are unaware of how much you don’t know’.

Next day at the airport, he hugged me and whispered in my ear, ‘Know what you don’t!’  and smacked on the back of my neck.  As we said goodbye, mother could not hold her tears back.

At night , sipping tea, I opened his diary and on the first page was written in centre in italicised handwriting :


Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage

The night was cold and tea very hot.

                                                                                                                                  (to be continued)