This isn’t technically fiction but it’s one of my favourites. It was meant to be a non-traditional obituary actually, written in a moment of extreme grief.

There are few people who have left me with memories that I will always recall fondly. Deep within these are hidden blessings and valuable life lessons delivered with exquisite humour. For these I thank you now. Although I shall never be able to tell you this in person, I need to put this down in writing for myself.

Memory, 7 years old, Lahore. I’m fascinated with a large golden key in our drawing room. It lies amongst all the usual decorations but it strikes out because of its size. Abbu and Ajji Chachu are sitting on the sofas chatting and I am constantly interrupting them because I want to know what the key is for. In my seven year old universe all keys have locks to go with them. It’s a law of nature. Yet I can’t figure out what this particular key unlocks.
Abbu and Ajji Chachu look at me solemnly and I know that they know. I know that if I pester enough I will get it out of them.
And I do.
“This key,” I am told by Ajji Chachu, “is for your mother.”
“I use it on her every morning,” Abbu reveals to me, “without it she won’t start.”
I believe them and guard the key. I can’t imagine a world where my mother won’t start. I become almost paranoid about the key, checking to see if it’s in its place numerous times a day.
I was convinced my mother had a secret lock in her back which was needed to start her.
Of course, months later, when I finally reveal to her that I know the secret of the key, she laughs at me.
I have been fooled.

Memory, 8 years old, Kuala Lumpur. Ajji Chachu’s new name for me is kukar phaar. I can’t stop eating chicken. I practically live on KFC, refusing to eat anything else that is offered to me.
Abbu and Ajji Chachu are in one of their moods. They’re my real life Laurel and Hardy. And I am usually the best victim because of my gullibility.
I wonder aloud how people grow. I can’t figure out why I’m always being cajoled into eating horrible green things, and why I am made to drink milk, which I hate even more than salad. How can they make me grow?
“You see child, you’re not normal,” Ajji Chachu tells me with a straight face.
I am informed by Laurel and Hardy that I require extra help to grow. Every night as I sleep they take me outside and hang me on the washing line. And then stretch me. That is the reason for my growth. If it wasn’t for them, I would never have grown. I would have remained baby sized.
I am thoroughly bewildered and remain convinced that they are right. That they are the reason why I grow at all. Later when I tell my mother what I have found out she laughs at me again. I fell for it again.

Memory, 17 years old, Lahore. I have just finished my O’ levels and am on my way to UWC in Wales. I’m terribly excited. Never in a million years did I think I would end up with a scholarship to college. Abbu and Ajji Chachu are in sitting in the drawing room and I am informed that my presence is required.
When I walk in both Abbu and Ajji Chachu look solemn. I am asked to take a seat. I am confused at their behaviour and the formal atmosphere that permeates the place.
“Nabiha Meher,” (pronounced Nabiya Mer in true Punjabi fashion) says Ajji Chachu, “we’re getting you married. You’re not going to Wales.”
My father agrees with him and I stare at them in shock wondering what came over the only two Pakistani men who I know that support feminism. I’m on the verge of tears. I know they’re joking but they look so serious. I ask them to stop messing with me but Ajji Chachu calmly tells me that it’s not a joke. He continues to tell me over and over again that I have to get married and that they’ve already consented on my behalf. The wedding is to take place in December.
I really lose it now. I’m screaming. But Ajji Chachu calmly persists. I have to get married.
I am convinced they’ve lost their minds. I am about to run crying to my mother when they crack and start laughing hysterically.
Again.

Memory, 20 years old, Lahore. Ajji Chachu comes over for dinner the night before I leave for Islamabad for two days.
“Why don’t you go in one of my trucks. You can ride with the rest of the animals!” he kindly offers.
You see, Ajji Chachu is doing something brilliant. He’s left his job at ICI and is now working with a Chinese company. They’re reusing the old silk route for trade. I am fascinated. I am in awe of my uncle for taking such a risk and for using a historically important trade line.
Months later Ammi calls me up in Toronto and tells me Ajji Chachu has been promoted to head of his company. I am excited but sad because he told me he would be moving to Beijing.
I express myself to mother who pisses herself laughing on the phone.
“CHINA,” she screams, “why on earth do you think he’s moving to China?”
“Because of the new Chinese company…”
“What new Chinese company?”
“The one he left his ICI job for.”
“Nabiha,” my mother is saying slowly as if talking to an idiot, “Ajji works for ICI.”
I insist that he doesn’t. I inform her he told me about the silk route etc.
She pauses to let it sink in before saying, “he never left ICI. He was just pulling your leg as usual.”
I am twenty years old and yet I believe anything Ajji Chachu says to me because he says it with a straight face.

It’s hard to believe that he’s gone. I know I won’t realise it fully until I go back to Pakistan and notice a large gaping hole in my universe. Ajji Chachu knew me from the minute I took my first breath. He was one of the first people to welcome me into this world in his large open arms. A silent promise to love and protect me was made. His love as the most fun man in the whole big world increased with each passing year. With the doll bigger than me given to me on my first birthday. With bear hugs and words of encouragement when I was unsure of myself. With support and kindness that reassured me of humanity, and lead me to believe that in myself and those around me. He put up with my temper tantrums, usually encouraging them so I let them all out. And he pulled my leg over and over again to cheer me up and make us all have a good laugh.
Now I see emptiness and all I am left with is a lifetime of memories to help me in my journey. Now I see darkness at the end of the tunnel instead of the light that emulated from Ajji Chachu. Now I wonder why. Now I question God again. Now I lose faith. Now I need him more than ever.
But he is gone.
I often lay awake at night and wonder about death. I’m grieving in a foreign land, like I have done before. Yet, never before have I felt a loss so deep, a loss so profound that it sucks life out of me as I howl with confusion over his death. Why! I remember screaming to my empty apartment when my mother’s calm voice declared “Ajji Chachu has died.” Why! I screamed over and over again while staring at the ceiling as if imploring God. How could you take him? I never had the chance to say goodbye. I never had the chance to tell you I love you. I never had the chance to tell you how much you mean to me, and how much I need someone like you around for the sake of my sanity.
Ajji Chachu is in China with a golden key holding a piece of KFC while interviewing my future husband.
I want him to knock on my door and tell me it was all a bad joke. I want to wake up from this nightmare and find him sitting next to me to comfort me.
I hold a purple amethyst bracelet made of gold. It’s the one Ajji Chachu and Lubna Khala sent me when I graduated from college in Wales. All of a sudden it has more power, more meaning, and more memory. All of a sudden it’s the only thing I have that reminds me of him materially. All of a sudden all I can think of is him.
Grieving in a foreign land that doesn’t acknowledge death and loss. Grieving in Toronto on Sentinel and Finch hoping that writing will ease my pain. Grieving away from everyone else. Crying alone desperately wanting a hug. Crying while hugging a stuffed cat.
I’m pickling my memories in foreign land. I’m placing them in a jar in my head, allowing them to change and gain more flavour with time.
Never will the death of any biological uncle affect me as much. Obligation and duty to family never touched my soul as much as Ajji Chachu’s love did. No “real” uncle ever believed in me. No real uncle ever took me seriously. No real uncles cares as much as Ajji Chachu did and I believe still does.
I can imagine the pain everyone else who knew him feels. He touched everyone just by his presence. Those of us who knew him love him unconditionally and we always will. From now until I see you again I know I will miss you and nothing will ever replace the hole in my heart. If I die tomorrow I hope you, Dada and Dado are there to welcome me. I hope you’re all stretching out your arms and leading me through the next life. You were all there when I was born. I know you will all be there when I die.
From now on… everything is in memory… Azhar Malik 1951-2003. On 11th June the world truly lost a great man.
I honour you and your life. I hope I can make you proud.

Love,
Nabiha Meher

The Fish that Needed a Bicycle

This was inspired by Gloria Steinmen’s quote: “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle”.

There was a little fish swimming merrily in the corals. There he saw his best friend, Khaga, jumping up and down with excitement and screaming “Thank you! Thank you!” The little fish’s curiosity was roused. He quickly swam towards Khaga’s house to see what all the fuss was about.
“What’s going on Khaga?” he enquired as he rapidly approached Khaga’s house.
“Look look!” Khaga enthused, “my parents got me a bicycle for coming first in class!”
The little fish was a little bewildered at first but as soon as he saw the shiny new pink bike he also started to feel Khaga’s contagious excitement. It was beautiful, with colourful breaks. Both friends quickly jumped up on top of it and tried to ride it.
“What’s this for?” the little fish asked as he pointed to the pedals.
“This is what will make it work silly,” Khaga replied haughtily, “these are called pedals and the bicycle will move on them.”
So the two fish tried very hard to figure out how they could use their fins to pedal the bicycle. They tried by sitting on the bike and reaching down, but it proved to be very uncomfortable. Khaga was so disappointed that he started wailing. His mother came running out of their corralled house to see what all the fuss was about. When Khaga told her that he couldn’t reach the pedals she promptly went and got her tool kit and shortened the bar so that the pedals could reach Khaga’s fins. “There you go beta,” she said as she kissed him, “now you can ride your bike as much as you like.”
Khaga hastily climbed his bike again. This time his fins did indeed reach the pedals, but when he tried to move them he kept toppling over. The little fish held the bike for him until he got some balance, but he kept toppling over. Khaga was thoroughly disappointed by this point. His face displayed his utter sorrow. Khaga’s father came outside to call the fish in for dinner. He had slaved all evening in order to make some healthy food for his family. When he saw how upset Khaga was he said, “Don’t worry beta, I’m sure we can find someone to teach you”.
When the little fish got home he told his father that he wanted a bicycle. His father scoffed at the idea. “These things are for girls!” he said indignantly, “You need to learn more manly things like cooking, cleaning and taking care of babies!” The little fish got really upset. When his mother came home from work he held on to her and cried until she promised to get him a shiny new bicycle.
The next day the little fish and Khaga went around asking everyone if they knew how to ride a bike. Bicycles were new to the coral, and no one seemed to understand how they worked. The little fish and Khaga asked all their friends, their teachers and anyone else that crossed their path, however they did not succeed. By evening they were ready to give up. By the time Khaga’s mother got home from her job Khaga was on the verge of tears. When she saw how upset he was she promised him that she would figure out a way to make it work.
That weekend Khaga’s mother decided to figure out how the bicycle worked. She discovered that it relied on perfect balance, which was very tricky in the corals. Even a little bit of a gust would overturn the bike. Khaga’s mother finally paved a little area of flat land outside their house. There she helped Khaga learn how to balance himself on the bike. Finally, by the end of the weekend, Khaga was a master bicycler who could move up and down his paved path swiftly.
That Monday Khaga decided to take his bike to school so that he could show off to all his friends. Khaga bicycled to the little fish’s house with great difficulty in the morning. He didn’t realise that the uneven coral path would be so difficult to navigate on a bicycle. Despite the fact that the bike was slowing him down, he insisted upon riding on it. More than once he fell tumbling down and scraped himself. By the time he reached the little fish’s house he was battered and bruised and already late for school. The little fish’s mother, who was on her way to work, hurriedly got them to school without the bicycle and talked to the Principal so that they would not get into trouble. When the Principal saw Khaga’s cuts and scrapes he felt sorry for him and let the two fish go without causing any trouble for them. He also did not want to upset the little fish’s mother as she was the head of security for the coral.
The next morning Khaga decided that he absolutely had to take his bike to school. He was the only fish in the coral who even had a bike, thus he couldn’t resist the urge to show it off. Khaga had to depart from home very early in order to get to school on time. He left one hour before school started. The ride was arduous and vigorous. Khaga kept falling and had difficulty maintaining his balance. Not even half way through he gave up and swam with the bike but just before he reached school he got on it again in order to make his grand appearance.
The other fish gasped at the bike with great admiration. Everyone wanted to touch it and many wanted to ride it. Khaga loved the attention bestowed upon him and his bike, however he was scared that it might get stolen. He had to beg the school custodian to keep an eye on it despite the fact that he had chained it and locked it. The whole day Khaga and little fish took turns to check on the bike. They were both deathly scared that the school bully Raho would try and take it. She was notorious for stealing everyone’s new toys and everyone was wary of her. Even the teachers had a hard time disciplining her since her parents were also bullies. Her mother was known throughout the coral as “the Godmother” and she was the head of the mafia that everyone was deathly afraid of. The school was trying very hard to transfer her to another one, but until then they all lived with a sense of impending doom because of Raho. Luckily for Khaga he was male fish, and although Raho was a bully, she did not pick on the males. She often declared, “I don’t hit boys. They’re too delicate as it is.”
Soon weeks passed and many of the fish in the school had shiny new bikes of their own. Khaga may have been a pioneer but he was now no longer the only one who had a very unique toy. The bicycle craze also caught up with the adult fish, who were seen pedalling around in various different types of bicycles. Most of the adult females and the few adult males that worked bought expensive sport bikes. The females were especially boastful and loudly announced to everyone they met how much money they had spent on their new toy. Most of the adult females also bought their husbands bicycles with baskets so that they could easily bring home the groceries. The father fish took great pride in their bikes and soon one could see babies overflowing in baskets decorated with seaweed parked outside the beauty parlours that the father fish visited so often. And the clown fish bought unicycles of various sizes and colours of course.
As time went by the productivity of the coral deteriorated immensely. The coral government issued an alarm. The bikes were slowing everything down! Instead of ten minutes, fish were now taking half an hour to move around. All that excessive pedalling was also damaging many fins and the hospitals were overflowing with victims of bicycle accidents. Crimes such as thefts, mugging and robberies were also on the rise. The Prime Minister pleaded: “My dear fish. Please give up this ridiculous bicycle craze! These bicycles are causing too much trouble for us.” But no one listened to her and they continued as usual.
Little fish’s mother, who was the head of security, recognized that it was a problem. She banned the use of bicycles for her family members. Her husband became very upset and weepy because of her decision. Little fish was heart broken. She felt bad but she also felt that she was making the right decision. Soon, a few more sensible fish followed suit and also banned bicycles from their homes. Nevertheless the vast majority were still using bikes to get around. Some used excuses such as “my husband already does all the domestic work, the least I can do for him is allow him the use of his bike”. Khaga’s parents didn’t understand what the fuss was all about and they allowed him to continue using his bike.
For the next few weeks the coral police tried to come up with various tactics to deter fish from riding bicycles. They were largely ineffective and thefts and accidents continued to rise.
One night little fish sat near his window brooding. He was still angry at his mother because very few of his friends were made to give up their bikes. He did not understand why she was being cruel to her son, and decided that she was mean to him because he was male. In the distance he saw a lone fish pedalling his bike merrily; staggering and falling like all the other fish who rode bicycles. Soon little fish was screaming so loud his parents came rushing into his room in a panic. What he saw was truly horrifying. A shark was running after the fish on the bicycle. Because the bicycle was slowing the fish down, the shark caught the fish easily and swallowed the bicycle as well.
Within a day the shark had become very clever and had started targeting fish on bicycles. Little fish’s mother issued a security alert and many more fish joined the ranks of those who had banned the bicycle. The few stubborn ones that refused to discard their bikes either got eaten by the shark, or had to abandon their bicycles when the shark attacked them. Even Khaga voluntarily gave up his bike. The following month the entire coral was finally free of the menace of the bicycle. Years later little fish would recall the story of the bicycle mania with great pleasure for his little grand-fish. The era of the bicycle, or “the stupidest mania to ever sweep the coral” as it was known, became a legend that was passed down from generation to generation as a lesson in absurdity. Never again did a bicycle enter the coral and never again did fish ride bicycles.

Nabiha Meher Shaikh