My Mother, Myself

As an Air Force wife who saw her combat pilot husband through two wars and a highly charged flying career, my mother witnessed many fatal air crashes. Abbi, my father, landed safely day after day, night after night but many of his comrades did not, leaving behind an uncertain future for their young wives and small children. Mrs. Air Marshal Ayaz, a close friend of Ammi’s, reminded me the other day 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 until their traumatized daughter-in-law got her bearings back. 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. It was, therefore, particularly poignant that the last such widow whose hand she had to hold and whose orphaned children she had to cradle was her own daughter. Through numerous personal and communal misfortunes, Ammi remained true to her Rajput spirit and a military wife’s commitment to duty. But that fateful day, as we buried her beloved shaheed, my brave and beautiful mother broke into a thousand pieces and never recovered.

Ammi died of cancer last October. In her own words, which she delivered compellingly in chaste potohari, cancer could not take away what her child had taken already - her life. The flyer’s wife eventually paid her dues, one way or the other. So, I dedicate this tribute to the air warrior’s wife – Shani and Anjum, Naseem and Ida, Ann, Mehernigar, Nayyar and Saira and Samina, Ruby, Riffat and Bilquis – and a few hundred others, widowed or thankfully not, each of who deserves acknowledgment. Most of all I dedicate this to the quintessential Air Force wife, my mother.

In September 1965, Squadron Leader Rais Ahmad Rafi commanded No. 31 Bomber Wing and lived with his wife Roohina and two children, my brother and I, at PAF Station, Mauripur. I must have been an exceptionally bright four year old because, defying biological impossibility, I remember! As the bombardiers took off every night with Abbi at their helm, a gaggle of women with all sizes of children in tow would gather in one flat, I think Uncle Bey’s, to collectively pray for a successful mission and the bombers’ safe return. Uncle Bey’s modest flat was probably unsafe but considerably more comfortable than the trenches that the women were to take shelter in when the “hooter” shrieked. I remember being loved by many mothers and playing with many brothers and sisters. Against the surreal harmony of soft sobs and loud Allah ho Akbars, a vague recollection of President Ayub Khan’s resonant voice over radio rekindles in me a child’s fear that her mother may be the one crying, and that could not be good. I remember searching Ammi’s face for signs of despair but finding none. Instead, in the wee hours of the morning, as slumber overtook exhausted children, our mothers would count the sounds of load-lightened bombers landing not far away. “Yah Allah, Aaj do kum hain” one of them would say and, stoically, those brave women would head for home to await their fate.

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, investment-savvy, stylish homemaker she eventually became. As a community, the Air Force fosters learning for women and encourages their participation in wholesome family activity. 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. Ofcourse, 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 inspite of 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 embued with also made her bless my daunting plan to offer higher education scholarships to needy young Pakistanis in my shaheed husband’s name. A number of children of low income families are attending the best professional colleges in the country today because Ammi chose to help me give something back to Pakistan.

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 Leslie 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 Leslie 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 Saira from whom I subconsciously embibed 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 actually 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 as intensely as I did 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, probably more out of love for Razi than for my education. “Remember to serve him fresh juice in the morning; his sugar level must be stable as he takes off for his first sortie. Aur beta, a pilot’s wife must awaken at the crack of dawn. Subah usko duaon kay saath rukhsat karo, with a smile on your face.” Ammi knew I was not a morning person, as did Razi who laughed away my lingering daybreak lethargy and preferred a warm glass of honey water and three dates, his regular weekday breakfast. I could never match Ammi’s vigilance, but every time my fighter-flying husband left home, I followed her advice and wished him goodbye with a smile on my face and a prayer in my heart. Thankyou Ammi, for I have no regrets.