A Personal Narrative
Reincarnation
We were in the city of Cambridge, Massachusetts, waiting for a table at a popular restaurant. There were only two benches and a chair arranged in an L-shaped pattern in the beautiful backyard which served as a holding area, and we could see that most of the adjacent patio was set up as a dining area with tables and umbrellas to accommodate the overflow crowd or to provide an outdoor star-lit dining experience for the more adventurous ones. It was a nice summer night and we had shown up rather late, without reservation, hoping to spend some time together in a nice cozy environment. My children had decided to give us a treat for our Wedding Anniversary.
Another group joined us as we were chatting, and he immediately caught my attention. The eyes were twinkling with mischief and he looked at me as he rested comfortably on her lap. She looked too young to be his mother and since there were two other women in that group, I guessed that one of them probably is the mother, although they all looked very young. But looks are often deceiving.
I couldn't take my eyes off of him, as his aunt (as I later learnt) kept on adjusting him on her lap, sometimes putting him in an upright position with his back leaning against her stomach, and then picking him up and holding him in a horizontal position. He did not seem to mind being tossed around in this fashion, and kept staring at me (or so I imagined) as he and his aunt tried to shuffle him around to make themselves comfortable. I did not have my glasses on and the lighting was not very strong where we huddled; I was hoping that they would take the seat next to mine so that I could see him from a closer distance. I got up, and offered my chair to his aunt, but she declined, and one of the other women in the group sat on the chair I had just vacated. Well, I was not terribly disappointed since while this “cut for seat†game was going on, I was busy watching him since I never took my eyes off from him.
He looked incredibly cute, and now he was starting to put his tiny hand in his mouth, and even sometimes suck his thumb. I was a little puzzled that he was doing so since I started to wonder how does a little baby so young learn to lick his thumb (I did not know how old he was). Two of my younger brothers did engage in this pastime of sucking their finger(s) when they were young, but it is my belief that they started to do so when they were a few months old and this baby did not seem to be more than a few weeks old.
My wife complimented the woman holding the baby on his cuteness and his demeanor. He appeared to be friendly, and was not crying even if he might have been hungry or uncomfortable. The woman replied, “My nephew, Henry, is a happy baby and we are sorry to see him go!â€
“Where is he going?†we asked, now that we were all smitten by this lovable baby.
“To Africaâ€
“Where in Africaâ€
“To Zimbabwe†At this point I, my wife, son and daughter all paused and took in the information. We were all very well-travelled and have been to many countries for sight-seeing and to visit family and friends. And we also knew of Zimbabwe, from a personal perspective as well as about the political, social and economic history of the incumbent Mugabe regime. Why on earth would a baby, who looked very non-African, sitting with three very attractive young women who were waiting for a meal in one of Cambridge's most well-known eating places, be heading for Zimbabwe, where nothing but chaos and misery rules, according to the Western press? And, what fate awaits a young, innocent, child sitting so comfortably on his aunt's lap who is totally oblivious of the uncertain life that awaits him as soon as he lands in Harare? I wonder if any of the women who are now in charge of this boy really read the Western press to be aware of the bleak conditions that he will face once he gets there. I could not remain silent, and knowing that Zimbabwe has rich white tobacco farmers who still live there, asked half-seriously, â€So, does Henry own a farm in Zimbabwe? “No, his parents do not own a farm but their house in Harare is located on Edmonds Street, and my sister and her husband gave him Edmonds as his middle name“. The other woman, who looked younger and was sitting next to me, now showed us with great pride a small decorative towel with his initials “HED†inscribed on it. I guessed that the third women, who had disappeared for a little while, probably for the Ladies Room, was the mother, and this was confirmed when she came back. She looked older and displayed a take-charge attitude and reclaimed Henry from her sister's lap. I felt like holding Henry, but did not want to take the risk of asking and being turned down. Plus, he was only two months old, as his aunt had told us during subsequent conversations, and if I were the mother, I would most likely not want to see my son in the company of strangers even if they did not look very hostile or outlandish. I wanted to know more about Henry but realized that my inquisitiveness might not go down well with the three young women. I had in the meantime, informed them of my elder brother, who died in Zimbabwe, just outside Harare in a road accident. I did not want to turn our little time together in this pleasant setting into a discussion of Mugabe, roads in Zimbabwe, and the pain and loss I have endured since my brother passed away. But, I could not conceal from them or from my family the excitement I felt at meeting a new baby who is going to Zimbabwe, like my brother, and who will live there and even travel the same roads my brother did. I also, probably with my enthusiasm, made it transparent to them that I considered Zimbabwe to be my favorite country in Africa and was happy to meet another soul heading for Harare. I've never been to Harare, although I promised myself time and again that I would one day. My children now were chatting with each other about the latest movies showing in theatres since we had originally planned to go to a midnight show after dinner. My wife, sitting next to me on the bench, and being the consummate multitasker that she is, was turning her head left and right in an attempt to keep up with the threads of conversations on both flanks at the same time. I was by now totally immersed in the world of Henry, but also mindful of the serenity of the time and place we were at, and tried to carefully to walk a tightrope as I tried to push back memories that were trying to come to the fore. The memory of losing my brother in Zimbabwe often haunts me, and I frequently search for his wandering soul about me, but tonight I put aside any dark thoughts lurking in the shadows and was determined not to entertain any feeling that might tip the balance even slightly, or leave any traces of blues in this happy gathering with my family. I struggled to remind myself that any pain that I might harbour deep inside me should not smear the joy we all felt here under the open sky with stars looking down on us. In this accidental group of eight, four from my family, and four from the other, Henry was obviously keeping us all charmed, and even though I was enjoying the interactions I also started to feel uneasy about the trend in the conversation and my revealed preference to continue doing so. I felt a keen affinity with Henry, fixated by his domicile in Zimbabwe, and somehow the notion that his soul might be tied to that of my late brother whom I have not seen for many years. The last time I saw him was a few years before he flew to Zimbabwe, when he was on home leave from his job in Libya. I left Dhaka soon after that too, and while he did go back to Dhaka the following year after leaving his job in Libya, our paths never crossed again. He was planning to come to the US to study, but did not get a visa to come to the US due to his Libyan “connectionsâ€, and decided to go to Zimbabwe instead. Needless to say, I had felt since then a sense of despondency that I could not help in getting him a visa to come to the US, nor see him in Africa before or after his death. I see him in my dreams, once in a while, but have always cradled the irony of dreaming and my skepticism about afterlife whenever he appears. Now, as I sit here, I wonder if he came to see me through the eyes of Henry. At least he looked at me very deeply. Even at the cost of looking too eager, and the sense of unease that I might trigger in my own children due to my self-absorption with a two-month old, I tried a little conversation with Henry. I called out aloud “Henry†in French (“onghiâ€) just to keep Henry at the center of the conversation. “Vous etes tres jolieâ€, as if I was hoping that flattery would draw him out or he would jump out from his mother's lap, where he was now resting, to come to me. But there was no indication from Henry that he understood me or had any inclination to come closer to me. He continued to lick his hand and thumb while keeping his eyes on me, and I reciprocated that gesture. It was nice that he was looking at me which gave me a reason not to turn my attention away from him. I was in a state of trance by now, and was almost channeling to Henry. I became oblivious for a second that my visible vibes with Henry or attempts to strike up a conversation with him might arouse the anxiety of my family, and even worse, of his, and, finally, feltwhy I can't explain now--needed to offer an excuse for my interest in Henry. “I have always loved little babies, even before my two children were bornâ€, pointing to them, “I have always enjoyed the company of babies, and held them in my armsâ€. I could not tell whether they felt reassured, or my family was pleased, but I was convinced that if I were to get up and gently prod his cheeks, I would be able to get away with this brash move. Right then, I saw the hostess coming in our direction, to inform us that our table was ready. I was somewhat relieved, I must say, since I don't know how long I would have continued before one of the other six would have said, “Ok, that is enough talk about Henryâ€, and pull us apart. As the hostess waited for us, I looked at Henry a last time. He was calm and appeared to be ready to say goodbye. I, without any forethought, just wished him “goodbye†and, then as an afterthought, said, “Bon voyageâ€. I was then thinking of leaving him with a parting message, “See you in Harareâ€. But before I could, I felt a gentle tug on my sleeve from my wife and turned around and started walking. As I walked behind my family and followed the hostess towards our designated table, I knew his eyes were following me. I don't know remember if I said, silently, “See you in Harare, soon!†but I dragged my feet as I entered the patio and was taking my seat. In my heart a little music rang out, “parting is such a sweet sorrow†(Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet). Dr. Abdullah Shibli lives and works in Boston.
“Where in Africaâ€
“To Zimbabwe†At this point I, my wife, son and daughter all paused and took in the information. We were all very well-travelled and have been to many countries for sight-seeing and to visit family and friends. And we also knew of Zimbabwe, from a personal perspective as well as about the political, social and economic history of the incumbent Mugabe regime. Why on earth would a baby, who looked very non-African, sitting with three very attractive young women who were waiting for a meal in one of Cambridge's most well-known eating places, be heading for Zimbabwe, where nothing but chaos and misery rules, according to the Western press? And, what fate awaits a young, innocent, child sitting so comfortably on his aunt's lap who is totally oblivious of the uncertain life that awaits him as soon as he lands in Harare? I wonder if any of the women who are now in charge of this boy really read the Western press to be aware of the bleak conditions that he will face once he gets there. I could not remain silent, and knowing that Zimbabwe has rich white tobacco farmers who still live there, asked half-seriously, â€So, does Henry own a farm in Zimbabwe? “No, his parents do not own a farm but their house in Harare is located on Edmonds Street, and my sister and her husband gave him Edmonds as his middle name“. The other woman, who looked younger and was sitting next to me, now showed us with great pride a small decorative towel with his initials “HED†inscribed on it. I guessed that the third women, who had disappeared for a little while, probably for the Ladies Room, was the mother, and this was confirmed when she came back. She looked older and displayed a take-charge attitude and reclaimed Henry from her sister's lap. I felt like holding Henry, but did not want to take the risk of asking and being turned down. Plus, he was only two months old, as his aunt had told us during subsequent conversations, and if I were the mother, I would most likely not want to see my son in the company of strangers even if they did not look very hostile or outlandish. I wanted to know more about Henry but realized that my inquisitiveness might not go down well with the three young women. I had in the meantime, informed them of my elder brother, who died in Zimbabwe, just outside Harare in a road accident. I did not want to turn our little time together in this pleasant setting into a discussion of Mugabe, roads in Zimbabwe, and the pain and loss I have endured since my brother passed away. But, I could not conceal from them or from my family the excitement I felt at meeting a new baby who is going to Zimbabwe, like my brother, and who will live there and even travel the same roads my brother did. I also, probably with my enthusiasm, made it transparent to them that I considered Zimbabwe to be my favorite country in Africa and was happy to meet another soul heading for Harare. I've never been to Harare, although I promised myself time and again that I would one day. My children now were chatting with each other about the latest movies showing in theatres since we had originally planned to go to a midnight show after dinner. My wife, sitting next to me on the bench, and being the consummate multitasker that she is, was turning her head left and right in an attempt to keep up with the threads of conversations on both flanks at the same time. I was by now totally immersed in the world of Henry, but also mindful of the serenity of the time and place we were at, and tried to carefully to walk a tightrope as I tried to push back memories that were trying to come to the fore. The memory of losing my brother in Zimbabwe often haunts me, and I frequently search for his wandering soul about me, but tonight I put aside any dark thoughts lurking in the shadows and was determined not to entertain any feeling that might tip the balance even slightly, or leave any traces of blues in this happy gathering with my family. I struggled to remind myself that any pain that I might harbour deep inside me should not smear the joy we all felt here under the open sky with stars looking down on us. In this accidental group of eight, four from my family, and four from the other, Henry was obviously keeping us all charmed, and even though I was enjoying the interactions I also started to feel uneasy about the trend in the conversation and my revealed preference to continue doing so. I felt a keen affinity with Henry, fixated by his domicile in Zimbabwe, and somehow the notion that his soul might be tied to that of my late brother whom I have not seen for many years. The last time I saw him was a few years before he flew to Zimbabwe, when he was on home leave from his job in Libya. I left Dhaka soon after that too, and while he did go back to Dhaka the following year after leaving his job in Libya, our paths never crossed again. He was planning to come to the US to study, but did not get a visa to come to the US due to his Libyan “connectionsâ€, and decided to go to Zimbabwe instead. Needless to say, I had felt since then a sense of despondency that I could not help in getting him a visa to come to the US, nor see him in Africa before or after his death. I see him in my dreams, once in a while, but have always cradled the irony of dreaming and my skepticism about afterlife whenever he appears. Now, as I sit here, I wonder if he came to see me through the eyes of Henry. At least he looked at me very deeply. Even at the cost of looking too eager, and the sense of unease that I might trigger in my own children due to my self-absorption with a two-month old, I tried a little conversation with Henry. I called out aloud “Henry†in French (“onghiâ€) just to keep Henry at the center of the conversation. “Vous etes tres jolieâ€, as if I was hoping that flattery would draw him out or he would jump out from his mother's lap, where he was now resting, to come to me. But there was no indication from Henry that he understood me or had any inclination to come closer to me. He continued to lick his hand and thumb while keeping his eyes on me, and I reciprocated that gesture. It was nice that he was looking at me which gave me a reason not to turn my attention away from him. I was in a state of trance by now, and was almost channeling to Henry. I became oblivious for a second that my visible vibes with Henry or attempts to strike up a conversation with him might arouse the anxiety of my family, and even worse, of his, and, finally, feltwhy I can't explain now--needed to offer an excuse for my interest in Henry. “I have always loved little babies, even before my two children were bornâ€, pointing to them, “I have always enjoyed the company of babies, and held them in my armsâ€. I could not tell whether they felt reassured, or my family was pleased, but I was convinced that if I were to get up and gently prod his cheeks, I would be able to get away with this brash move. Right then, I saw the hostess coming in our direction, to inform us that our table was ready. I was somewhat relieved, I must say, since I don't know how long I would have continued before one of the other six would have said, “Ok, that is enough talk about Henryâ€, and pull us apart. As the hostess waited for us, I looked at Henry a last time. He was calm and appeared to be ready to say goodbye. I, without any forethought, just wished him “goodbye†and, then as an afterthought, said, “Bon voyageâ€. I was then thinking of leaving him with a parting message, “See you in Harareâ€. But before I could, I felt a gentle tug on my sleeve from my wife and turned around and started walking. As I walked behind my family and followed the hostess towards our designated table, I knew his eyes were following me. I don't know remember if I said, silently, “See you in Harare, soon!†but I dragged my feet as I entered the patio and was taking my seat. In my heart a little music rang out, “parting is such a sweet sorrow†(Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet). Dr. Abdullah Shibli lives and works in Boston.
For all latest news, follow The Daily Star's Google News channel.
Comments