My Mother, My Self

As an Air Force wife who saw her combat pilot husband through war operations and a highly charged flying career, my mother witnessed many fatal air crashes. Abbi, my father, landed safely night after night but many of his comrades did not, leaving behind an uncertain future for their young wives and small children. Through numerous personal and communal misfortunes, Ammi remained true to her Rajput spirit and a military wife’s commitment to duty. Mrs. Air Marshal Ayaz, a close friend of Ammi’s, reminded me once that through peace and war, whenever a tragedy occurred, Ammi was invariably the first one to arrive at the stricken household and could be found holding the young widow’s hand, hugging her recently orphaned children, looking after the fallen flyer’s aged parents while their traumatized daughter-in-law gathered her bearings. Everyone who knew Ammi as a young Air Force wife recollects the strength and compassion she brought to the community of air warriors amongst whom she lived. 

So, today as we step into Naya Pakistan with hope and resolve, I dedicate this tribute to the air warrior’s wife, she who marries into a role that is singularly demanding but one she embraces with heart and soul – Shani and Anjum, Naseem and Ida, Jean, Mehernigar, Nayyar and Saira and Samina, Ruby, Riffat and Bilquis – and a few hundred others, widowed or thankfully not, each of who deserves acknowledgment for her silent contribution in ensuring this independence we so cherish. 

Most of all I dedicate this to the quintessential Air Force wife, my mother.

Ammi was in her early twenties when her father, Col. Dr. Mohammad Sharif, OC CMH Mardan, accepted a marriage proposal for her from Capt. (Retd.) Mohammad Ajaib for his son, Flt. Lt. Rais Ahmad Rafi. Her father favored education for his daughters and encouraged them to adopt professions, but theirs was a conservative Punjabi family. Abbi fondly told stories about the “rishta” process. He had never seen her and once, when he visited Mardan after their engagement, he was told by a well-wisher trying to arrange a "sighting", "do larkiyan abhi college ke liye ghar se niklein gi, aik lambi hai...wohi wali hai". He forgot to mention that they would both be in burka, so the eager groom-to-be was bitterly disappointed although he noticed that his intended bride was indeed tall with a graceful and stately form. Abbi reminisced often about the first time he saw her face, through the mirror during "arsi mashaf". He said he was spellbound, never having seen eyes so beautiful. Ammi was characteristically less expressive and all I ever got out of her was "my sisters told me he has blonde hair and grey eyes...angrez lagta hai....but I didn’t believe them. Then I saw him when he visited us in Mardan. Haan, bilkul angrez hi lagtey the". Matter of fact, to the point - the Ammi way.

Burka-clad and tearful, Ammi boarded the train from Mardan to travel with her dashing young pilot husband to Karachi. She left a large and close-knit family to find a new life and make new friends in his Air Force world. Abbi regaled us with stories about the train journey. "Across four stations she wouldn’t stop crying, nor talk to me. Then, tears well-shed, she wiped her face and took charge. She secured the luggage which I had randomly placed across the floor, spread the bedding out for me on the sleeping berth, then asked me to order tea”.  “That was so Ammi”, I thought. Tea was her go-to strategy to tackle every crisis in life.  She said she could think better with a tea cup (never a mug, always a cup) in her hand. “Tears and home forgotten, she has been in-charge since" Abbi chuckled. 

Abbi had lied to her that he had a flat allotted. The Air Force has a complex process of “points collection” for allotment of housing to junior officers.  The more points you have, which are based upon myriad criteria not all having to do with rank and seniority, the better chances of securing living quarters.  Abbi, sheepish and defensive, told his new bride he didn’t have enough points and therefore had no place to take her.  “Tussaan pehlaan nai dassiya!” Ammi gave him an accusatory look and rightfully objected, implying she would happily have stayed with her family a few months until living quarters became available. “Her father had asked me” Abbi would admit while recalling the event. “Barkhurdar, you have housing allotted I hope?” my Nana inquired, one military man to another. “Haan jee, all is ready Sir, please do not worry" lied the unremorseful young man, all too aware that awaiting points could last months, years sometimes. “Jhoot bola tha!" Ammi would exclaim during every re-telling of the story, never having forgiven this first breach of trust. Upon arrival at Karachi train station, they were picked up by Abbi's cousin, Uncle G.A. Khan, also a PAF officer and their host for several months while PAF Station Mauripur was made to feel pity and urged to allocate a flat to the homeless newlyweds. “It was the done thing then”, Ammi recalled “Hamarey paas bhi kaee couples aa ke thehrey the….we were family, all PAF. Ab nahin hota”. They were finally allotted a flat across from the “Jhooley Bagh” - Children's Park - in the old RPAF barracks. Ever the efficient homemaker, Ammi turned the old flat into a warm and comfortable home. I was born while they lived there. Of course, I don’t remember the place but I have seen pictures of it - Abbi in his coveralls on the balcony with my brother and I in his arms. I must look for those gems in her “petiyan” lying silently at our home in Islamabad, awaiting exploration. Ammi was a picture-taker…. I’m sure she would have been a selfie queen were she alive today.

Ammi discarded the burka at Abbi's suggestion but of her own choice. Abbi often said that the Air Force transformed her. She learnt to drive on the then wide and well paved roads of Karachi, from Mauripur to Victoria Road to Elphinstone Street, to the railway station and the airport (since she would be the one to pick up guests arriving in Karachi either for a visit or on their way abroad, Karachi being the only airport at the time to offer international flights). Abbi expressed great pride in helping a shy young girl discover a confident woman in herself. 

I thought Ammi was the most beautiful creature on earth. I would stand by the mirror looking at her when she dressed for parties. I cherished my job as her dress-up assistant, fixing the pins in her hair, tucking and pulling the sari so that the fall would be even and only so much skin showed. Ammi wasn’t physically expressive, did not hug and kiss me often, but when she looked at herself in the mirror and her eyes approved of my handiwork on her clothes, I felt that a warm and loving embrace had encircled me completely. I cannot imagine Ammi being shy or underconfident ever in her life. When we visited her parents’ home in Jhelum, she would don her brown burka when venturing out, and I recall a sensation of anger and frustration every time she did. Her burka was very stylish, but I did not appreciate it; in it, she did not look like my mother and that bothered me. One could not tell Ammi to not wear it, she was far too reserved to entertain personal questions. I told Abbi though, persistently, until one day I found Ammi had packed the burka away for good. I never saw it again, in Jhelum, during visits to the village, anywhere at all. She didn’t acknowledge my objection, but she listened and responded, in her own way.

Ammi and I had a difficult relationship. She was strict and reserved, a disciplinarian with an expectation of compliance and propriety. I was born bohemian, irreverent and careless. Molding myself into her preference was not easy for me, but I did it throughout my life partially because she scared the living daylights out of me, but also because I felt Abbi too preferred it that way. The only thing that mattered to me more than proving to Ammi that I could be "well put together", like her, was impressing my father. So, I became the person my parents wanted me to be, but with a softly burning hope-flame in my heart that once I was married, I could be different - less proper, more myself.

It did not happen. Razi was Ammi's choice, the one she loved, perhaps, more than her own children (since she was the first one in whose arms he arrived after he was born, the adoring, permanently connected khala). If ever there was anyone equally correct as Ammi, it was Razi. I went from being a "good daughter" to a "good PAF wife". Well, I thought I was good anyway, although I suspect my rebellion raised its impatient head occasionally because Razi encouraged me to be myself, even as Abbi had encouraged Ammi to be herself.

Ammi’s extreme discipline manifested in all aspects of life – except one. To her grandchildren – Andaleeb and Taimur, and later the rest - she was “Ammi” with a reverse profile; doting, physically expressive, playful, and uncharacteristically generous to spoil. I discovered Ammi’s anxious need for a baby when my first child was born.  I was wholly committed to parking my professional career and devoting my time to bringing up Andaleeb – until Ammi kidnapped her.  I am sure she planned it all, cleverly convincing my father and my impressionable mother in law that I was not fit to look after their newly minted, universally adored grandchild. Young as I was, and not accustomed to being housebound, I struggled with the baby as do all first-time moms.  For a week, Ammi pretended to guide and advise me. One day, as I frustrated myself and the baby with a clumsy feeding-changing-sleeping routine, Ammi barged into my room, scooped Andaleeb up, thrust a formula bottle in her eager mouth, wagged an admonishing finger at me, and together they floated away to her bedroom. Protesting, I jumped out of bed and shuffled hurriedly behind her only to find the baby sound asleep between Abbi and Ammi, their smiling faces staring adoringly at her. It was a decisive moment; I wanted to grab my child, reprimand Ammi for putting her on formula, and claim ownership. Instead, harassed and intimated by Ammi’s stare down, murderous “look”, I dragged myself away, crashed on the bed, fretted for a minute and a half, then fell dead asleep. The next day, my parents in law were asked to drive down from Murree, a call was made to Razi in Sargodha, and it was decided that I should return to work as early as possible, the baby being in the incomparable care of conspiratorial Nani and Dadi, accomplice Nana and Dada, an excitable teenage Khala, and a dozen household helpers.  Andaleeb lived with Ammi for 3 years as Razi and I moved to Karachi. In between, I returned home to give birth to Taimur. Ammi decided to be generous and let me take him back to Karachi, but my first born was returned to me only when we moved closer to Ammi. I don’t believe Andaleeb considers me her mother.  Deep in her subconscious, we are equal – Ammi’s children.     

My mother was the original liberated female, and the Air Force contributed greatly to her evolution from a burqa-clad conservative Punjabi girl to the socially confident, stylish homemaker she eventually became. With her plucky personality, Ammi took to her new surroundings like a fish to water and became one of the more popular welfare workers and hostesses of the Air Force. During my husband’s tenure at PAF Base Masroor, as I struggled with cooking classes conducted by the legendary Juma Khan, I was duly admonished by the great chef upon my disastrous attempt to raise a souffle. The rebuke - “Bibi, Aap apni Ammi ki tarah khana nahin paka sakteen; woh baat nahin hai” – was quite heartwarming. Ammi was equally popular as the Defence Attache’s wife in USA where she cooked up a storm every few weeks for international guests. Her able representation of Pakistan created much goodwill amongst the diplomatic community. Of course, Ammi never totally cast off her innate propriety. In true Rajputi tradition, she would offer her lowered head to anyone she noticed moving towards her with puckered lips. Many a State Department official kissed my mother on her head and staggered away dumbstruck. Except for her resolute refusal to receive a peck on the cheek by men despite their brotherly intentions, Ammi was often the belle of the ball! I believe it was Ammi’s association with the Air Force that broadened her mind and expanded her heart enough to encourage her own daughters to pursue careers. The spirit of adventure that she was imbued with also made her bless my daunting plan to offer higher education scholarships to needy young Pakistanis in my Shaheed husband’s name. Several children of low income families have attended the best professional colleges in the country because Ammi chose to help me give something back to Pakistan.

Speaking of Naya Pakistan, Ammi’s memorable encounter with its architect – well, not with him exactly, but close - was a story she told with relish. Imran had brought Jemima and their new baby to live in Islamabad’s swanky E-7 sector, and they took a bungalow around the corner from my parents’. The neighborhood was abuzz with talk of Imran’s new bride, and particularly concerned were the “begum” brigade and their collective household staff about the gori’s longevity in Pakistan, given the radically different lifestyle she had left behind.  Ammi fretted much, sending duas with “phoonks” of sympathetic concern across the walls dividing her and Jemima. Then one day she did what good neighbors in her world did; she prepared a tray full of goodies – samosas, haleem, kheer – placed her best embroidered tray cloth over the delectables and marched herself and her beloved companion Parveen the cleaning lady to Jemima’s home. In her version of the story, she rang the bell and Jemima “aapey” opened the door, an indication that she was utterly untutored in snooty Isloo ways. Ammi presented the “shagan” along with a discreet envelope of salami, welcomed her and wished her well.  In Ammi’s story, Jemima loved the haleem, they chatted at length, shared a pot of tea, and she departed after offering some wise words of advice. “What advice!?” we shrieked, incredulous. “Imran de baarey vich thora warn keeta si, bas.  Sohna bohat ae, kuriyan chiryan picha naeen chad diyan, that’s all”. None of us believed her, except Parveen who swears by it to this day.

Ammi’s gesture to align socially with the celebrity couple did not extend to Imran’s political play, and I find it ironic that I write about her today, on the eve of our nation’s new beginning under his leadership.  Ammi was a politically aware citizen who believed in grassroots representation and activism. Proprietors and shopkeepers with businesses in our neighborhood knew her well.  When Siddique Sweets of Rana Market was a mere startup, Ammi commissioned it to supply mithai for my wedding.  The business has not looked back since. She was one of the first locals to discover the khokha at Pir Sohawa and remained disgruntled with the sneaky commercialization of the picturesque spot. Ammi could be found in any random real estate shop in Jinnah Market, drinking tea and discussing plot prices.  She campaigned endlessly to make the Gol Market area a no-drive zone and the dusty little ground not far away a play area for the children of French Colony.  Gol Market in Jinnah Market still suffers endless traffic, but the children have a nice park on the main road. Win some, lose some.  

Thus it transpired that Ammi’s candidate during repeated elections remained Mian Aslam of MMA. I was horrified, “MMA? Ammi, what on earth do you have in common with them?” I challenged her. “Nothing”, she replied calmly, “except our community. Woh har dukandaar ko jantaa hai, har gali aur mohalley ke masley samajhta hai. I don’t have to vote for his religious alliance, I will vote for his suitability for my community”.  If ever there was a secular statement for a religiously affiliated candidate, this was it! She had another peeve, and his name was Ahmed Raza Kasuri, the hapless candidate for PTI.  “Kadi naee aya vote mangan, bas partiyan shartiyan te nazr aa janda ae”, Ammi was not impressed. Eventually, Mr. Kasuri showed up at her door one day. She was as candid as a well-mannered PAF hostess could be; welcomed him and offered tea, listened to him and finally saw him off with “tussi umeed na rakhna, mera vote te nahin miley ga, but my children intend to vote for PTI so they must vote for you”. He lost, Mian Aslam won and Ammi reminded her candidate once again about the lack of security in our sector due to the growing presence of violent, angry elements.  For Islamabad, in those days, her concerns proved prophetic.

The quiet courage of the women of my community has reverberated around me all of my life and I am now beginning to tell their story. Shani Auntie was in her early twenties when her husband embraced shahadat. In her college uniform, she looked as if she was yet to be married let alone be mother of two boys. It was a few years before my friend Lesley Ann Middlecoat received confirmation that her father was not missing in action anymore but had died in the line of duty. Her mother’s trip to our boarding school in Murree to break the news to Lesley must have been long and painful. Naseem Ashfaq is as charming today as the day she was left with a toddler by her side, a baby in her arms and no clear direction in life. A generation later, there is the spirited Ruby from whom I subconsciously imbibe the etiquette of widowhood. My mother made me aware that these are special women, simply by the way she treated me after I became one of them. Weak as she was and barely able to move, she would sit up and receive me every time I walked into her room. She had taken to kissing my hand reverently as if I were older, and bigger, than her. She would speak of happy things to me, encourage me to remain strong, tell me lies about how she was feeling better than she looked, and finally, unable to continue the pretense, would fall apart and cry. I understood her predicament; without Razi, she saw me un-whole. She was too used to looking after me and wanted desperately to continue but couldn’t. I did not spend much time with Ammi during her illness. Her helpless tears and desolate eyes were more than I could bear, and the realization that I was about to lose my other anchor in life terrified me. I was shocked that another human being felt my pain so intensely and was determined to channel it out of me, into herself. Yet, I believe Ammi understood and did not begrudge me the detachment. Of all the people who have attempted to analyze my emotional and mental state, my mother is the only one who knew exactly what space I existed in.

In the end, cancer rapidly devoured Ammi’s insides and chemotherapy left her exhausted, virtually speechless with pain. For the first time in my life I found my mother sleeping late and I recalled the advice this veteran flyer’s wife gave me several years ago, out of unbounded love for the institution into which she had married. “A pilot’s wife must awaken at the crack of dawn. Don’t let him leave without a prayer, a smile”….and she left the rest…. “he may never return home, and you may regret not wishing him”…. unsaid, as pilots’ wives are wont to do. I could never match her vigilance, but I made an effort. I wished, but sometimes….I do regret.

Ammi is no more, neither is Razi - the two people who created the greatest awe in me, but also protected and loved me most. I have eventually come into my own; independent, liberated, somewhat bohemian, highly irreverent. Ammi is not around to give me "the look" and Razi is not here to defend me regardless of how much my ways challenged his sensibilities. I had to lose them to find myself, a price too high for a return too low, sadly.

Happy Independence Day Ammi. I wish you were here today to see Naya Pakistan dawn upon us, even though you may have again voted for Mian Aslam of MMA.  I would happily have left my grandchildren in your superlative care.  I can see us – you, Ayesha and I – sitting in your beloved, pampered, lusciously green front lawn, sipping tea from proper tea cups, gossiping and laughing. We would have been good friends, I am sure.