The Chair: A Symbol of Responsibility - not to be taken lightly

There are many symbols of authority and legacy in our lives, but perhaps none as quietly powerful as "the Chair." More than just a piece of furniture, the Chair of a lawyer, a teacher, a doctor, a CA, or any professional or businessman, is a throne of trust, responsibility, and hard-earned stature. It is not meant to be casually occupied. It is something to be earned, not something to be claimed.

The incident I’m about to narrate is about a senior professional. He could be a lawyer, a doctor, or someone else, but I will refer to him as a senior professional:

Recently, while visiting a senior professional’s chamber, I observed something that disturbed me. The gentleman, a man clearly respected by his clients, had stepped out momentarily to confer with a colleague. In his absence, his grown-up son walked in and, without hesitation, took his father’s Chair. When the senior returned, his son remained seated, even as the father looked over files on his table while standing. Only after the son eventually got up did the senior reclaim his seat and resume consulting. The son, instead of stepping aside, continued looking over the files from another angle. When mildly rebuked, the son responded with arrogance and later reacted similarly when questioned about adjusting the room’s AC.

This exchange, unfolding publicly in front of clients, reflected not just a lack of humility but a lack of basic adab, the etiquette that defines how we interact with our elders and those in authority. Anyway, I return to the topic:

This episode brought back memories of my own youth, especially the days I accompanied my father to his CA office. Even after qualifying as a Chartered Accountant, I never dared to sit in his Chair. It wasn’t just a matter of etiquette; it was about reverence: for him, his journey, and what that Chair represented. I had seen this same sense of boundary and respect in many professional spaces: the rightful occupant of the Chair is the one who has earned it through years of dedication and learning. It is not merely about age or entitlement; it is about worthiness.

When my father eventually began withdrawing from practice, he told me to take his place, his Chair. Even then, I hesitated. He had entrusted me with the responsibility, not just of a profession, but of a legacy. It was a seat of duty and the silent witness to his struggles, perseverance, and wisdom.

Alhamdulillah, I consider myself fortunate today to have a son who shares that same feeling.

The Chair must be earned, not claimed. Taking it without humility or readiness dishonours both its legacy and its bearer. Let’s teach our children that success isn’t just about reaching the seat, it is about respecting the journey and those who came before.

Their lives and Ours!

 They wake up alarmed; we wake up to alarms.

They realise they’re still alive; we enjoy our lives.

They search for food; our fridges are stocked.

They queue up for water; we refresh in showers.

They’re grateful to get dry bread; we have an abundance.

They starve; we feast.

They’re scared; we live carefree.

They strive to survive; we strive to prosper.

They've nowhere to go; we have the entire world.

Their belongings are just what they wear; ours are unending.

They fear for their children's lives; we plan for our children’s lifetime.

They sleep in the open; we relish the comfort of our homes.

They shiver; we have warmth.

Their nights are sleepless; we sleep throughout.

They live in the ruins and dust; we can't stand the dust in our homes.

They've lost hope; our dreams are boundless.

They see only grey and red; we enjoy the beauty of rainbows.

They count their dead; do we count our blessings?

We bury our dead; UNDER RUBBLE, MANY OF THEM GET BURIED ALIVE!

Eyes, Void of Life

 Was he a day, or a week old? And was the baby 'he' or 'she'? What difference does it make? It was a baby, an infant who had, perhaps not even tasted a morsel of solid food.

When was he born? Who are his parents? Where are they? Are they alive? Or died with him? Or died before? Did he even have a name? Could he see his parents and siblings? Unanswered questions cascade through my thoughts.

All that can be seen is his little face, an open mouth with toothless gum, dry lips, a dimpled chin, and a straight nose. And, of course, his eyes! Half-open, tired, without hope, AND DEAD!   Those eyes, that once, would have been bright and shiny at birth, darting from one object to the other. But now, it is so painful to see them. They are so poignant. Once you see them, you won’t be able to forget. And you shouldn’t! Those eyes should keep us awake. Because we have been witness to those eyes becoming lifeless! They demand attention, a lingering reminder of our impotence in preserving that spark.

I hope the mother preceded the infant in departure. Pessimistic, yes. How else could she bear to witness those luminous eyes dimming, life slipping away?

May those eyes torment the oppressors, robbing them of sleep. May the haunting gaze be an eternal companion, a relentless memory of lives extinguished. May those who orchestrated this demise never escape the haunting image of silenced voices, like this baby, who never uttered a single word.

Gaza's New Normal: The Horrors of Genocide

While the rest of the world is busy with their normal lives, there are about 2.3 million people, for whom the whole definition of ‘normal’ has changed - a normalisation of once inconceivable horrors. 

For the past two months, for them, it has become a new normal:

• to hear the non-stop and deafening sounds of bombs 

• to see the reduction of their once-standing havens (homes, businesses, schools, hospitals) to desolate rubbles.

It has become agonisingly routine:

• to witness continuously, the demise of their family members, relatives and friends

• to starve, to just have a few sips of water in days

• to sleep under the open sky

• to just run for their lives

In this stark reality, the once unimaginable has become customary:

• to hear cries for help from under the rubbles of weighty concrete of what was once the very place where one could stay safe

• to flee for safety (which of course, is nowhere)

• to see the new-borns throwing their arms around in their incubators, and then go still, forever

• to carry the injured in their arms, and see them breath their last

• to bury the dead, not just in ones, but in masses

• to hallucinate while awake

• to abruptly wake up frightened

It has become normal to die, nay, to be KILLED!

(Underlined blue fonts are links to related news/articles.)

Children's Day?

 15.11.2023

While children were celebrating “Children’s Day” here in India on 14th November, the same day there were children in Gaza who had just lost everything – parents, family members, friends, relatives, their own limbs, and in many cases their lives (till 14th November, 4650 children). 1755 children have not yet been traced. Many lie injured.

Jason Lee, Save the Children's Country Director in the occupied Palestinian territory, says: "Babies are being born into a nightmare, a humanitarian catastrophe. Their families are being cut off from the basics. Premature babies dying in incubators. …The violence must stop. We need a ceasefire. We need it now."

Living in makeshift and flimsy tents the children are exposed to outbreaks of disease and harsh natural conditions. It has rained heavily recently and winter is soon approaching.

#GazaChildren

#Gaza    

G is for 'Gaza', not for 'Genocide'

 14.11.2023

We are witnessing genocide right now. The Palestinians, who accommodated the Jews decades ago, are being subjected to the most inhuman treatment and torture by the Zionists. Bombs are falling almost every minute. A person is injured every two minutes and killed every 4 minutes. There are about 50,000 women in different stages of their pregnancies. Every day about 200 babies come into this hellish environment called Gaza. Babies are getting killed in the hospitals by bombs as well as lack of treatment. And the bombs on the hospitals, they are not by accident. Homes, schools, hospitals, roads, nothing remain!

Living in the rubble with a risk to their lives every moment, we just can’t imagine the plight of these people. No food, no water, no electricity, no medicines. Perhaps their tear ducts would have long dried. Just how much can a heart bear the loss of dear ones – one, two, five, ten – 42 members of the same family!!! Yes, it is hard to believe but it is true https://www.ndtv.com/.../israel-gaza-hamas-palestine-42....

No amount of statistics can convey their sufferings. And we are helpless, just watching, hearing and counting, the dead, the dying, and those living like dead. Death, that brings grief and sorrow for those left behind. But what when there is hardly anyone left to mourn. Yes, this is what is happening, entire families are being wiped out as if they never existed.

While the Governments all over the world, except for a few, watch. No, sorry, not just watch! They encourage the oppressors to do more, supplying them with more funds, more weapons, and more excuses, so that they continue the massacre of even those who left their homes to save themselves, and as per the tyrant’s commands. Yes, these Governments, having double standards, and hiding behind their ulterior motives, have lost their moral grounds to be so called.

But the patience that we see in the Palestinians, their belief, their destiny, their hope, in the Almighty, Subhan Allah. They don’t mourn, they thank Allah, for the dead have been accepted by Him as “Shaheed”, a martyr.

Thousands of kilometres away from them, we can just try to feel their plight, pray for them, and boycott the business of those who support the Zionist agenda.

My appeal to you, join this boycott call.

#Gaza

We the memory-places

We the homes, schools, hospitals, offices, shops, malls, places of worship, and so on, we are not just buildings, we are memory-places. We are not just buildings. We are not just a mixture of sand, cement, iron and stones. We are not just structures of different shapes and sizes and colours.

We are witnesses. Yes, we are! And we preserve memories for life, for you, and for your lineage.

As hospitals, we have heard the first cry of the babies when they are born and the joy of its mother when she takes it in her arms for the first time.

As homes, we have seen the baby crawl and then when they stand without anyone’s help. We have seen the baby take its first steps and take every object in his mouth when he is to have his first tooth, and their parents cushioning any of our jagged edges. We have seen them snuggle to peaceful sleep with their mothers and play with their fathers and grow with their siblings.

As schools we have seen the babies cry the first day they are left alone by their similarly crying parents, and then how they grow, make friends, study, play, give exams in silence.

As colleges and universities we have seen them become graduates, become mature, specialise in their fields, become politically active.

As offices we have seen them work till late nights while taking endless cups of coffee, earn their livings and become independent of their parents’ pocket-money.

At shops we have seen them winning over customers and selling their wares with expertise.

At malls we have seen them shopping, first alone, then friends and wives and then with their children.

At hospitals, once again, when they fell ill.

At places of worship we have seen them bow their heads down, talking in whispers with their Lord, asking them for n-number of their wishes, repenting for their wrongs, and thanking them for the gifts bestowed upon them.

AND THEN WE HAVE WITNESSED…

We have witnessed the same babies who are now grown-ups, and those who have acquired proximity with a certain ideologue, a certain political outfit, a certain extremist group, roam around the streets in groups, with weapons that I shudder to see. They beat, maim, and kill who don’t adhere to their thoughts, to their philosophies. And when that is not enough, they come to attack us – US!!!

We, who had only given them shelter, from harsh climates, from theft, from dangers, from roving eyes. We, who were happy on their happiness, sad when they were sad. We, who kept all their secrets. We who guarded all their wealth. We, who stayed with their families as a protection, while they were out earning their livings.

They attacked us with rods and hammers, and harmed us. They put us on fire! We cried, as we do, in silence. Humbled, we crumbled. We are pained. But not that much for our pain, than for the people who were taking shelter in us. We failed in our promise of providing shelter to them, protecting them. We saw them crying, helpless, calling their dear ones to save them, dialling 100 frantically without getting any answer. We are horrified seeing them being locked, tortured, raped and burnt; we tried, but couldn’t close our eyes. Their shrill cries echoed inside us; we tried, but couldn’t close our ears. The valuables were looted, the (holy) books burnt, our identities violated, and the rioters laughed an evil laugh. And then they vanished in the dark. The eerie silence, the sobs of those yet alive, were enough for us. WE DIED!

When such happens, when we die, we die with the memories you would have wanted us to keep. With our death, your memories die too. We apologise. We couldn’t keep our promise.

But it was some of you, amongst you, who did this to us. And the others, others who could have kept us alive, helped us keep your memories, they looked the other way, they didn’t come to our help, perhaps because we were not to their liking. And this pains, a pain greater than the pain of DEATH.

- Faiz Anwar