Life Lessons with Billu

Bilal is my youngest. I call him Billu, Bils, Billy or Bilal Khan depending upon my disposition towards him at that point in time.  Like his siblings, he is acutely sensitive to my choice of greeting, captures its nuance and understands the underlying implication. For example, I could be feeling excessively maternal and coo “Billlsssss?”. This does not happen often but when it does, relief of the “I’m-safe-and-not-about-to-be-skewered” kind descends upon him and I receive a calm, potentially accommodating, almost loving “Jee Mama?” in response, as if he would happily opt for a Panama Leaks discussion with me over an online gaming session with friends. At other times, a grave, sometimes earth-shattering “BILAL KHAAAN!” drives him to maniacal recall of what ghastly act he may have recently conducted to elicit my wrath. This happens often and I listen for a bump, trip, shuffle and finally a breathless, almost terror-stricken “Whad’I’do?”. It’s quite gratifying, the shock value of my moods in his life (chuckles!). “Billy” is used occasionally but is an essential since, given the Punjabis’ penchant for gora nicknames, it keeps us connected to our roots. “Billu” is my favorite and is therefore used frequently. It is quirky and has character. When my mind conjures up my youngest, “Billu” flashes bright as a Broadway sign. It’s how I think him.

Billu was born in Dec 1999. His due date was 24th but because Y2K was around the corner and my OB-GYN was scheduled to attend a conference on the same day, the two of us decided to bring the baby a few weeks early, on Dec 4th.  Such are the curious – sometimes unwise, always bold - decisions of working women. Snuggled up in his carry cot, Billu spent New Year’s at Paktel HQs with my team and me as we monitored our company’s transition from Dec 31, 1999 to Jan 1, 2000. I always knew Y2K was a global money making hoax, but we had prepared meticulously for all eventualities. Nothing happened, the sky didn’t fall and our computers purred their way uneventfully into the new millennium. At 2 am on January 1, 2000 we messaged “all clear” to our parent company’s data center and the party started.  Billu slept peacefully through it all.   


Since he was 3 years old, Billu and I have been “together”. We are parent, child, playmate, advisor, adversary to each other in a relationship of equals. I’ve learnt much from my youngest, recently turned 17. The most enlightening lessons have been in music, football, international relations, and single mom-hood.

Saturday mornings are booked for football. During the week, the Club admin messages game time and venue. Early kickoff doesn’t bother me but constantly changing venue keeps me up the night before because it could be anywhere between Sharjah, Dubai and Abu Dhabi. Since my world exists between JBR and MoE, losing our way is a given.  Whatsapp, email, Waze and Google later, we set off - on time if I am confident of my navigation, much earlier otherwise…latter more often than former! A repeat venue is no guarantee that we will reach our destination without a few extra turns along Sh Zayed or Sh Mohammad Bin Zayed (you know they named the roads thus to confuse me!). I was married to a pilot whose directional references ignored the fact that one was driving and not flying - “head 6 o’clock from Serena hotel, then north at Kashmir Chowk, ETA will be 1930 hours”! “Huh?” was my routine response. I never achieved ETA and the malady continues.

Billu is patient and encouraging. “We have time, you’ll find it….let’s make another round. Waze says this way but Google says that way; let’s pick one and go”. We eventually make it and he flies out of the car to the field, all the while concocting excuses for being a few minutes late. These range from “I thought it was the other place” to “my sister broke her leg, we had to stop by the hospital”. We have agreed that truth is not an option: “My mom lost her way again!” is too humiliating. Never!

In the event that navigation anxiety is overcome, the drive is pleasant. I try to Bluetooth my Coke Studio tracks saved offline on Patari (new feature), but Billu’s patience with my driving does not extend to my choice of music. “Mother, we shall discover some real music…listen and enjoy” is followed by some hip-hop. What I discover is: a) they all sound the same, b) their single moms had serious life issues, c) they can’t complete a sentence without inserting unutterables, and d) I imagine them all wearing oversized pants about to fall off their butts. I suppose the F word is hardly an expletive any more, far more provocative language having found its way into teen conversation.  “Bilal” I protest, “I will appreciate the music if I get past the language. You’re ok with mother-this and f-that blasting away at us?” Billu is embarrassed and we switch to mutually appreciated classics; Eagles, Beatles, Michael Jackson, Abba, Bob Dylan, Simon and Garfunkel….many more. I tell him how I would save up money for concerts, never missing any of my favorites performing in my city. He tells me I was lucky to have the opportunity. I agree. He defends rap as a legitimate form of music representing a generation that is burdened with a multitude of questions about life, truth, justice and fair play. He walks me through several numbers which address the plight of women, the imbalance of wealth, weapons proliferation, and Islam. I concede. Billu has introduced me to Drake, Snoop Dogg, Jay Z, Kendrick Lamar and many others, and I know enough to form an opinion. My favorites are Tupac and Eminem, not just for their lyrics and music but also their life stories. Listening to hip-hop, rap and sometimes “straight” songs is our football trip routine; I don’t hit the brakes like a hiccup every time I catch the F or M word, and occasionally Billu lets me play Qawwalis and Ghazals.

While we are on football, I am reminded of our move to Dubai and my attempts to coax Billu away from video games into sports. “Baba was an athlete Bils, he competed in decathlon at Hasanabdal, he was swimming champ at Sargodha, it took him the shortest time to master golf…y’know you’re so like him!” I bated my 9 year old. My lame trick worked and Billu discovered the athlete’s genes he was born with, and football.  If it were cricket I would be an eager advisor and commentator, but Billu chose football as the game of his heart and dreams and since I can make neither head nor tail of it, I have never progressed beyond an earnest but somewhat ignorant cheer leader-cum-driver.


In the beginning we both tried hard to induct me. He would excitedly narrate a play by play embellished with actions and opinion, then lock on to my face for a reaction. “Yayyy…you hit a goal Billy…that’s awesome” I would step gingerly not certain whether one hits a goal or makes one. “No Mama, I did not “hit” a goal.  I assisted but that’s cool too”. He noticed that I did not grasp the intricacies of the game, and we were both a little disappointed. I tried harder. “Maybe you should play different positions. Y’know, be on this side one day, that on the other, be goalkeeper a couple of times. Good to be an all-rounder” I suggested smugly. He was mortified. “I’m a striker, why would I play on this-that side?  It’s not cricket Mother, no it doesn’t help to be an all-rounder!”. (When Billu is in parent mode, he calls me Mother.) Over the years we have reconciled with my limitations. I am religiously committed to his game but have abandoned efforts to understand it, nor do I pretend to enjoy sitting in the heat watching the game as do blue blooded soccer moms. He appreciates my encouragement and investment and is ok with me dropping him off and driving over to the corner coffee shop to read while I wait. He has promised that when he becomes a rich and famous football player, he will build an annexe for me to live in on his property off the coast of Portugal. I don’t ask why I must live in the annexe and can’t live in his house. We understand each other. 

I will always regret that my decision to move took Billu away from Pakistan. Now, Urdu is his second language and Islamabad a city he visits occasionally.  It has also spared him stressful but valuable participation in the highly competitive Pakistani education system which, for all its faults, prepares young people for the bitter realities of life beyond school. Dubai is peculiarly protective of children. The school system is safe, pleasant and healthy giving them the opportunity to excel but not pressurizing them to do so. They exit the system with endearing naiveté, thinking the world beyond will be equally hospitable. Many have discovered their ill-preparedness too late. The bright side of school in Dubai is the circle of friends one collects, a rainbow of many colors and ethnicities, a veritable United Nations with a happy twist - it works! In our home, only one  person has a social life thanks to his “brothers from other mothers’ who are the best influence that a frequently away, single mom of a teenager could hope for. Saturday morning, post-sleepover, pancakes and cereal piled high, Amn ki Asha in action on a universal scale!     

When he was little, Billu came to believe that laptops were the most loved creatures in the world. The fault was mine for this (mis)understanding. His father would plant Billu on his lap and they would baby-talk for hours. It was Billu’s favorite place and Baba’s favorite activity. Later, he searched for other laps to sit on but found mine perpetually occupied by a machine, leaving no room for him. One day, after I had returned from yet another business trip and was getting ready to – what else – work on my laptop, he asked me shyly “Can I be your laptop today?”. For a moment, this question by a 4 year old to his depressive, workaholic mother did not register, but soon enough I recognized the unintended accusation it carried. Realization, and guilt, hit hard and the walls I had secured myself within came crumbling down around me. I corrected course and time spent with Billu healed me. I’m quite certain he doesn’t hold the blunder against me since, time and again, he has conveyed to me the pride he feels for the life choices I have made and for the single-mindedness with which I pursue our collective dreams. Billu is the best picker-upper an occasionally down and out, exhausted mom can hope for. We often practice his alternate career as a stand-up comedian, with me (who else?) as the prime subject of witty punch lines.  


In our family, Billu and I are the only Pakistanis now, the rest having opted for hyphenated nationalities. The two of us embrace our green identity with stoic pride as we maneuver our international existence. Humor helps. Billu believes we have a right to hyphenation as well. He used to be “Pakistani-Pakistani”, and now, at the fashion conscious age of 17, he considers himself “Modern-Pakistani”. “How are the two different?” I ask. Tongue in cheek, he explains “Modern-Pakistanis know not to wear their pants around their chest, they know what a good haircut looks like, they understand that wearing socks with sandals is a crime (or should be), and if they are cursed with a unibrow, they shave it. Pakistani-Pakistanis, on the other hand…..”. That’s wicked, but I guess when you’re carrying a name like Billu, it’s ok to roast your own kind.