Taking a moment to breathe...

A very long breath...

I am very sorry I have not updated this weblog for ages; and the following may be excuses for not doing so, but are not exactly the main reasons for my absence:

I have been very busy with degree show work, putting my independent study together, attending interviews, organising my personal documents and writing important letters to people who might be able to give me the help I need; as well as trying to keep my health, both physical and mental, in check.

It's not a writer's block, which one may be able to diagnose had he or she been keeping track of my posts for the past seven months since this blog was launched. It's just that since my visit to Aberystwyth, I have tried to put together a post that is good enough for its worth.

Today, I am going to take a long, deep breath and close my eyes; and try to picture my father without looking at his photograph. Would I be able to remember how he looks like without referring to his picture? Would I be able to recall the sound of his voice without having to put on the mp3 file which I created from an audio piece extracted from a family video taken ten years ago?

Hopefully.

Tears can never bring him back, I know, but he will always be in my heart. He's the reason I'm here now. Despite the pain I am going through missing him, dreading the fact that I might have to leave Cardiff - a place I have grown to love, fearing that I might have to end up working at a place that I might not like; I am still happy that he would appear sometimes in my dreams - though most of the time, I wake up and cry from them.

When I went to Aberystwyth, the place where my father studied when he was about my age, I took a deep breath everywhere I walked past. Walking down a park that led to the School of Art, I wondered if he had walked that same lane. When I walked past a cemetary, at a time I had gotten lost, I thought about how seldom I had an opportunity to visit his place of rest. When I wandered through the town, I asked myself which of the shops he would have liked to visit then, or which ones existed during his time. 

And finally, when I went to the beach, I smiled and said to myself "I am breathing the same air he did more than 20 years ago".

He was the most ambitious person I knew. My aunt told me that when he was three years old, he wrapped a hand towel around his neck, and dragged a wheeled suitcase behind him saying "when I grow up, I'm going to be someone big, and see the world".

And you know what? He did just that.

He was a mathematical genius. And was also the most patient person I had ever come across. He had only scolded me twice. Ever. When it was my fault. He never thought it was a burden to help give someone a lift home or pick them up; even if they were two hours away. He was a great guy.

I know it has been 4 years since he left, but I still cannot let go. Every birthday I attend, every Eid celebration, I despise because I have always taken advantage of those events when he was around. I hate how I was back then. So spoilt. So unappreciative over what I had. I hate how I had been moody during those times because I thought about the logic side of things, how I thought those days did not matter because they were just a waste of time, effort and money; but he was just trying to make me happy, trying to spend time with the family.

I especially hated that day when I turned 17; after my exam, when I shouted at people because I couldn't be bothered to blow the candles on the cheap $12 cake. And then one week later he fell ill... and the next month we couldn't celebrate Farah's 10th birthday because he was in hospital... and the week later, when it was Luqman's 9th birthday, we couldn't celebrate it either because our father died the day before. And obviously we couldn't really have him around for Zahidah's 5th birthday, 3 months later, either.

Stupid. I was just stupid. I was the only one among my siblings who had the chance to have a decent birthday and I blew it. Ask me why I hate celebrating my own birthday and everything in the above paragraph is my reason. I am a very nostalgic person.

Anyway, I had gotten myself carried away. This post was not meant for me. But for him.

I miss you, Bapa. You would be 48 now if you were still around.
And I know tears will never bring you back. But just so you know, I will never forgive myself for being so mean to you that day.

But please forgive me.