New Day Reflections--Feb 10

NEW DAY
REFLECTIONS
Shujon
My mother sweetly foils any attempts I make towards chivalry with her. Don't get me wrong; she appreciates it when I hold the door open for her, or pull out her chair at dinner. She likes it when I hold her arm when we walk on the street. But that is the extent of what she will allow me to do for her. If I try to take the smaller piece of fish at lunch or the less ripe fruit from the basket, or the harder mattress when we travel, or attempt, however slyly, to provide her a better berth than me on this journey that we are taking together, she laughingly brushes my attempts away; as if magically, the bigger piece of fish ends up on my plate, the riper piece of fruit is handed to me, the more comfortable berth is given to me. My mother does not see anything she does or gives up for me as sacrifice. Neither do I, as I have accepted that even though I am two decades away from being a child, I am and will always be, her child. She is programmed, like all mothers, to ensure the safety and comfort of her child. This is the way it is and it sometimes blinds me with its beauty. The selfless love a mother feels for her child, and the need for the child to bask and grow in that love: this is beauty, unadulterated and born out of the mother carrying and protecting life that grows in her during her pregnancy. This is beauty that may sometimes be blemished by a mother's struggle with her personal demons but that, nonetheless, provides succour to the child.
Being my mother's child, I have been the recipient of such beauty. Being the husband of my child's mother, I have observed this beauty. But I was not content with that, for I also wanted to be the source of it. When my wife was pregnant with our son, I wanted to join the biological connection my wife had with my son. I believed that if I continued to mouth the words 'we are pregnant' that I could somehow insinuate myself into my wife's and my yet-to-be-born son's biological unit. I believed that if I slept every night with my hand on my wife's pregnant belly and felt my son nudge his way around and explore his little universe, that I could somehow join in their silent conversations. I believed that I could come home after twelve to fifteen hour marathon runs on the partnership track at the firm that slowly shred my soul, pick up my new born son during the 'arsenic' hour (new parents will know what that is; the hours between 7 pm to bedtime when the little one's howls can wake the dead), and expect to have the same calming effect on him as his mother. No, I was sorely disappointed. I realised that I could not, can not and will not be able to give my son what his mother gives him. I was rescued from my disappointment by a friend, a veteran of fatherhood with three tours of duty to his credit, who told me that I, father, have my place in my son's world. I slowly discovered my place, my source of the beauty, not the blinding light that I had mistakenly sought, but as enduring. I now feel the magic of fatherhood, when my son now mimics me, wanting to be like his father in all things ('I like spicy chicken because Baba likes spicy chicken'). I feel blessed that I also am my son's pillar of strength, just like his mother, grandmothers, and all the other loved ones who surround him and provide him strength and guidance in his journey through life. I feel grateful that I too play a pivotal role in his growth into someday being a good man, a man whom he can be proud of.
My random reflections on motherhood and fatherhood today came about from two painful stories that I came across while connecting to the world around me. A mother, denied the God-given right to see her child and drink in his love. A father, excluded from his child's world and the honour of leading him down the righteous path. Like all stories that reek of brimstone, these too, I am sure, are partly based on moral and other justifications, and somewhat likely on resentments. The two individuals I am speaking about are folks who have written their own stories, and have made many an error in grammar and syntax in their writing. But should their mistakes, their fallibility, their flaws, deny them the love of their children? More importantly, should their imperfections deny their children the pillar of strength they are as mother? As father? I don't believe so. Dear reader, in a world where many a father and mother are taking divergent paths on their journey and in many a family where such stories are being written and told, play your part in making sure the child gets to walk with both parents. Please, for the love of and in the best interests of the child. Please.
This column is the last one on the editorial page in New Age...http://www.newagebd.com/edit.html

Stream of consciosness...1

Stream….

We called them pinnarets
Fluttering of our eyelashes against each other’s faces
I was 16, you were 18, 20 some years ago
Lost on the streets of Kowloon
Pimps grabbing you, whores grabbing me
“Dew le Moh”, they shouted
“Fuck your mother”, as we laughed and pulled away
I knew no other girl like you, my twin
without fear, laughter so manic
it kept the tattoed triad thugs at bay
you found me that day, sitting by the harbor
a stolen bottle and Henry Miller in my hands
you asked for a swig, I looked up
and saw you
beautiful is an understatement,
Eurasian eyes that looked into me
Long black hair that fell over my shoulders as you reached for the Jameisons
Life pulsating from every pore
Henry Miller and 1920s Paris forgotten
With my own Paris beckoning me to explore Kowloon with her.

We held hands, ran through the streets
I took you to my friends, a Fillippina street walker
Who would feed me and buy me booze while I watched her kids
While she worked.
The kids loved you, and my friend told me to be careful
“she is beautiful, she can make you madder than you are,”
“take you to a place where you can not come back.”
I laughed; I was invincible
I wanted love, adventure, and you were it
I took you to my friend Chin’s, on the east side of Chunk King
He made us soup, while he fixed himself with the best White money can buy
You looked on, unfazed; I smiled, falling hard
A woman without fear, a partner in adventure
We walked deeper into the everlasting night that was Kowloon
Past the pimps, hookers and junkies
To the Go Go Bar where I could drink for free
With a mattress in the basement, with my books next to it

On nights when I could not go home to Hong Kong
This was my home; and now it was yours
This is where you taught me how to give pinnarets
Butterfly kisses, prayers to the gods
This is where you taught me how to speak
Without words,
How to love with a touch
How to draw without chalk,
how to paint without colours
How to know each other in silence
How to be a man with a woman.
Next morning, I woke up with a note next to me.
It was unsigned and said “I Love You.”
I was happy, ready for another day.
Walking the streets, making friends and learning life.
I have not thought of you for 20 years
Until today; it must be the rain, making day into night
It must be because I miss my wife, a woman as beautiful as you
As mad as me, someone who stayed after the night
And who taught that I needed no other.
I think of you and I am happy
Lived a life without regrets
Maybe
Except one,
I wish you had signed your name on the note
For, in the magic of that night
I forgot to ask your name.
To you, my nameless one
I pray you are happy
As I am.

Stream of consciosness...2

I see you, smiling
covering your mouth
hiding
teeth, destroyed
by the syrup we craved
believing
that it will connect us
make us feel
help us touch god
free us from the chains
of society, being good boys
trying
to run away from ourselves.

I see you, laughing
my sweet, sweet brother
forgetting
to cover your mouth
as you tell me of your love
share with me your joy
fill me with your happiness
finding
peace, god and yourself
no more
running away
just hold her hand
look into her eyes
finding
last 25 years not wasted
just a detour
to the happiness today.