A WEEK WITH MY RAZIA SULTANAS

How long would I remember them, their names? How long would I hold on to their memories? Better to pen it down before my memory betrays me.

Nasreen, Masuma, Rizwana, Shagufta, Rima, Asifa, Lucky, Shirin.

It was destiny that took me there, a residential co-educational mission school. I was put up with the students of class 9. It was a room of around 14-16 beds. They were the most promising girls I have ever come across my life. Their philosophy of life, their ambitions to not just be educated, but do something meaningful with their lives astonished me. Somewhere they gave me goosebumps when I realized this was the same spirit and ambition that I had once but somewhere I lost track of it. They were classmates, yet they behaved like sisters from another mother. Their compassion touched my heart, touched my soul. I believed they were a bit closer to the Almighty with their compassion. Just about 15 years old, their exuberance was so perfectly matched with their understanding and affectionate nature.

Their weekdays were clearly hard for a teenager, waking up at 4, for their day’s first Namaz and then a whole day full of classes. By the time the sun had set, their bright faces were equally dull with lack of sleep and stress of classes. I still remember how painfully one rued…. “oho, again we have maths tuition … hai Allah”, Allah surely would have smiled at such sweet complains. I certainly smiled when they hated their extra classes.

It was the Saturday evening that was surely their party night. Strangely they found more of a compatriot in me than a teacher. The only Saturday I spent with them, about 20-25 of them mobbed me around my cot, and started “Apa (elder sister), you have to sing”, I obliged. Thank god they didn’t ask me to dance. And then after two of my performances, began the real party, almost each of them came up with one or the other numbers and their faces shone like bright stars. A little later, after hard partying, they simply sat around me asking nitty gritty details but very nicely not getting into my private space. They came up with their own complaints, their fears, their desires. I was so touched to see the bunch of such sensitive brigade, it shocked me as to how these young people knew what to ask what not to, whereas, social butterflies proved to be so brutal and insensitive.

Their observations put me in awe. Their observations about other teachers and their behaviours were so honest, I did not feel like correcting them and in a way teach them how to hush up things. I liked the fact that they were observant, but not revolting, they were judgmental (they sure had good enough reasons to be), yet forgiving. I had told them that I would teach them how to determine the location of a place based on latitude and longitude, but sadly they were too occupied with their classes and I, unfortunately, did not get time enough to teach them.

Instead in the most unnoticed time, they taught me they taught me life, sharing and caring in a very unique and beautiful way. They shared their dorm, their food, their buckets and their home-made kababs, “taler bora”, “narkel nadus”, ‘muri makha’, their love with me.

The day I left, I did not meet them, as they were in class. I knew they would cry, if not they, it would be me doing the honors. So, I just left my phone number with them. The very next day they called up and complained about why I had not said a bye to them. I could not tell them the truth. All they asked me was when I was about to return. I told them I would soon. If only I had known then, that my life was about to take me to a new venture and that it was perhaps the last I saw of them.

They would undoubtedly shine as bright as the Sun or the Moon in their lives. The purest and virtuous souls I have ever come across. The Razia Sultanas, that I met in my lifetime.