I played Cards with them also. And I was leading somewhat clean life, with clean habits until I got myself trapped in a whirlpool, which so far I had kept myself at a distance from it. That was a spellbound time I could not get free from its magic. And at lost, when it was over, I found myself detained from appearing in First year Degree Exam on account of attendance shortage.
My father, as usual, kept calm, without admonishing or scolding but asked me not to lose heart and try next year. That next year never came because I decided to search for a job, which was not such a big problem in the State Era.
I asked my father to help me seeking job but he refused strongly and wished me to carry on with my study. I was eighteen years old and I should not have taken one year loss as the end of the world.
We called our mother “Nabo”. Once in childhood I asked my mother what this meant. She told us that when she was married, my father’s son from his deceased wife, Sher khan was some four years or less younger to her. May be he thought it awkward to call her mother, he invented this term. Originally it was “Nave Babo”, meaning Dulhan Apa, with the passage of time, it became Nabo. So was she called by our friends in Afsar Abad and in our large family in our home village Aboha.
She mothered eight sons and a daughter, the last were twins, a kid and a girl. Though she was illiterate, she learnt to read the Holy Quran and some Pushto books. She could write her name and could understand Urdu a little. News bulletin and when TV came in our house in 1971, she enjoyed Urdu plays also.
She bore all the troubles, the shortage of many things in the home, but she never complained. She belonged to a big family of Akhund Khels. Her father, Lal Mian was a real sports man, fond of hunting in the jungles of Banjir Baba. He had only one son and four daughters. He liked throwing big parties and in this way sold all his lands in the village and some Serai lands in Zarobai.
His last years of life were very hard. Those who enjoyed his feasts, left him. His only son also went to India and came only when his father was dead, some years before. His name was Amir Muhammad Bacha, a stout, handsome man.
My mother was, I felt more attached to my other brothers, but I was my father’s pet. My mother is, Masha Allah still alive. She has hit a Century, and is still at the wicket. One thing more, she sold all her jewelry to meet our education expenses in different time as my father often short of money. We all brothers owe her a lot than any mother owes normally.
To Be Continued…