6-Next new chapter in Life. · July 30, 2023

As our plane landed at Jeddah airport, a new chapter in our lives began. Excitement filled the air as we stepped outside, greeted by my father waiting for us. With a smile, he led us to his parked Toyota Corolla. My mother sat in the front seat, and my siblings and I settled in the back, feeling like curious explorers on a desert road.

The summer hot air through the car windows made us feel sleepy and dizzy. My father kept saying "Alhamdulillah," showing how close we were to reaching the sacred city of Makkah. In an hour, we arrived the gates of Makkah and my father proudly pointed out the magnificent Minarets of the Holy Haram.

Our new home in Makkah was a simple open terrace with two bedrooms and a kitchen. My father kindly prepared refreshing 'Roohafza' for all of us, and after enjoying the drink, we prayed together and peacefully went to sleep, eager to experience the new adventures ahead.

The next morning, my father woke all of us up before dawn. My brother, my father, and I set off for the Harem Shareef. The Masjidul Haram felt like a strange and dreamlike place for us. I still remember the door we entered through for the first time, called 'Babu Ibrahim,' and the vast ground that lay before it. But now, the ground is nomore. There and then it was  always occupied by Hajjas and African women selling grains and wheat packets to feed the doves and sparrows. The car was parked in the very same ground very close to Masjidul Haram.

We prayed the Fajr prayer for the first time in Masjidul Haram and then did a Thawaf around the Kaaba. After that, my father said we could stay in there to explore if we wished, and he left. The Holy Harem felt like a maze, and we felt as if we were trying to solve a criss-cross puzzle. It was similar to what Armstrong must have felt when he landed on the moon – everything looked alike and similar, with the Kaaba at the center no matter where we went.

On that day, we explored a little part of the Harem, but there was still so much more to see. After the Noon prayers, we returned back home, still amazed by the experience we had in the sacred city of Makkah.

As the days passed by, my family and I experienced new things every day. Early in the morning, my father would wake us up, and we would head to the Haram Mosque for prayers and to perform Tawaf, circling around the holy Kaaba and afterward, we would return home.

The weather in Makkah was hot, making our lips dry and our faces sweaty. We even got criss-cross patterns on our feet from the heat. However, despite the scorching sun, my father would take my brother and me in his Toyota car to explore different parts of Makkah. It was like a mini-adventure every day.

At the Haram Mosque, we met many different people from all over the world. It was amazing to see so many faces and hear different languages spoken. We slowly began to realize that our little village, which seemed so big to us before, was just a small part of a vast world full of diverse cultures and people. These experiences taught us valuable lessons about the world and the people in it. We learned to appreciate the differences and similarities among us. Each day felt like a new chapter in our lives, and in Makkah, we were grateful for the opportunity to discover and understand the broader world beyond our little village that we have left behind.

Masjid al-Haram of 1987 was totally different than what we see today. Between King Abdul Aziz Gate and Umrah Gate was a vast open ground. The large air-conditioned Haram constructed by King Fahad was not even at the sketch yet. Facing the Sitheen Street or Ummul Qura was the empty area with many small gates. One of the gates was Bab Ibraheem named after a tailor who used to be near that gate whose name was Ibraheem Khayyath. My brother and I once roamed around to get the names of the gates of Harem. Every gate has a name and sometimes a  historical or references has links to it. Like Bab Ummu Hani besides the large gate of King Abdul Aziz was historically associated with Ummu Hani (R.A).  Babul Umrah was a large gate and a desired place of meeting for the Keralites. Babul-Fath'h, outside of which were large steps leading to the road, was where we used to fill Zamzam in cans. My father would carry twenty liters of cans, and he would give one or two Riyals to the African men who would rush to the car to get the cans and take their wage. There were then old and very old buildings all around. The end of the eighties was a time when the past was about to merge with the modern world, just like how our village was transforming into a city within us. The world too paced with us in time. 

During our stay in Azeeziyya at Makakh,  we had a huge supermarket called Bin Dawood nearby. We often visited it to buy essentials like chicken, Almarai products, and bread. In those times, Alfakieh chicken was all priced at 7 Riyals, and the bigger pieces went to those who arrived first. Almarai laban, yogurt, and milk became a regular part of our life, typical of Saudi Arabian living. Also my father was a regular reader of the Arab News. Occasionally, we played in nearby parks, but my father preferred that we didn't mix with some local kids who seemed to be out late at night. He believed that those who didn't wake up early for Fajr prayer weren't the best companions. So, our world mostly revolved around the walls of our home and Masjidul Haram. 

Gathering around a single platter, my father ensured we always ate together. When it came to prayers at home, we formed a congregation with him. His recitations and heartfelt supplications had a way of extending in length. Occasionally, his friends, who were his colleagues from his civil engineering projects, visited our home. His work involved projects and on going construction sites within Makkah.

However, our most cherished routine involved going back and forth to Masjidul Haram. It was a routine that held countless memories, a journey that remains etched in our hearts.

5-Beginning of a Journey. · July 28, 2023

My childhood in India was short-lived; I was merely nine years old when we received the news that we would be reuniting with our father in Makkah. Makkath Al Mukarrama, a name revered as the birthplace of the beloved Prophet(s.aw), held a special place in my heart, a destination where pilgrims from all around the world gathered. The mere thought of going there was breathtaking, and my young heart was filled with excitement at the prospect of witnessing this awe-inspiring place firsthand. The news of our impending journey thrilled all of us, and together, we made thorough preparations, eagerly anticipating the adventures that lay ahead.

Our journey commenced on an Eid day of 1987 correspondingly 1407AH, marking the end of Ramadan when the days of fasting had just come to a close. Dressed in our best attire, we hired a specialized jeep from 'Eliat' to take us directly to Thodannur, my mother's homeland. At the Thodannur Big Mosque, we offered the Eid prayer, and for lunch, we enjoyed the delicious 'Parambath' gee rice and chicken curries, which were local specialties. At precisely three o'clock, a specialized jeep arrived to take us to the railway station. As we bid our final salaams to all those who stood in the lane on the edges of the paddy fields, little did we know that our journey would span eight long years—a chapter of life none of us could have foreseen. We never knew that this journey would last almost a decade, replacing the greenery and paddy fields with deserts and barren lands. Life has a way of unfolding in unexpected directions, revealing the treasures of destiny and the gems of knowledge and wisdom that accompany us along the way, forever altering our paths. Our Master (Rabb) has His plans that work on us to unfold a different story through us.

By nine o'clock that night, we arrived at Kasaragod and later at Vidyanagar, where we spent the night. The next morning, with excitement bubbling within us, I, Umma (my mother), my brother, little sisters, Pokerka, and Majeedka (my uncles) embarked on our journey to the railway station. My aunt also accompanied us, holding her little child, Sumayya, in her arms. She was just a babe at that time, adding to the warmth and love of our journey.

The following day, we reached Mangalore Station and boarded another train bound for Bombay, a meter gauge train en route via Hasan and Cheklashpur. The journey to Bombay was a delightful experience, offering us stunning sights and fascinating tunnels that captured my young imagination. Two days of train travel brought us to Bombay, where our thoughtful uncle, Pokerka had arranged a lodge for us. Here, we relished a special dinner of chicken fry and parota, savoring the flavors of the journey and the anticipation of what lay ahead.

In the early morning of the next day, on a Friday, we set out for Bombay Airport. Our flight was scheduled for noon, and we patiently waited for about three hours. As departure time approached, we bid farewell to Pokerka and Majeedka, exchanging heartfelt salaams, not knowing that the next eight years would unfold in ways we could not have imagined. The thrill of being inside an airplane for the first time added to the excitement of the journey. After a four-hour flight, we landed at King Abdul Azeez International Airport in Jeddah, marking the beginning of an extraordinary chapter in our lives.

4-My Primary Education · July 24, 2023

My lower primary schooling was at a school nearby called 'Paramal Mappila School,' situated beside a Para (Rock). It was a very old school, almost an ancient monument. During heavy rain, the school would declare a holiday in fear of collapse; that's how old it was. Sometimes, you might even witness snakes and other creatures crawling on the roofs, for the school had a natural charm and looked beautiful in its own way. I remember my teachers, Balash Mash,and Moosa Moilar. Moosa Moilar was too strict at sometimes; he used to terrify us by saying that he would punish all of us if we didn't study. But he never does that and was kind. I also had four years of Madrasa education nearby the school. Adjacent to the Madrassa was a small shop where children used to buy Nellikka (Indian Gooseberry), candies, and other treats with their pocket money.

I have a vivid memory of once going to Balashan Mash, the headmaster of the school, accompanied by my grandma. She humbly requested if he could take my big brother ' Elyas' back, who was studying at Memunda High School in 6th or 7th grade. During that time, there was a fear of mad dogs in the area. So, Ummama (my grandma) and I went to the school authorities to inquire if it was possible to transfer my brother back to Paramel School. However, the authorities informed us that Paramel School only offered education up to the fourth grade. This is a moment where love surpasses reason - when you ask for what you want, oblivious to the limitations and circumstances surrounding you. There was a special love towards my big brother from Ummama. She was a very religious village woman, yet bold enough to handle her village matters alone. For me, the religious harmony that existed in Kerala then and now should be credited to such honest and sincere village dwellers. In our surroundings, we have people of all kinds of faiths, and Ummama, being a religious and devoted person herself, always cared for the neighbors who belonged to other faiths. I have learned that the village friendship was sincere and strong enough to create harmony.

After completing my four years of Primary Education, my parents enrolled me in a nearby hostel named 'B.M.S. (Bafaqeeh Memorial School)' Life in the hostel was a completely different experience. My new school, 'Memunda High School,' also held historical significance, as it was believed that my father and ancestors had studied there. The school was just a stone's throw away from the hostel. Initially, hostel life felt restrictive, akin to being in jail, but it soon transformed into a heavenly experience. I found companionship with numerous comrades, made friends, and enjoyed playing with my hostel mates, all while savoring delightful food.

In the hostel, I learned to be a bit more social as I was one of the most shy kids ever. My speed of speech was very slow, and I would take a long time to reply to questions. Despite my shyness, I was the topper in school that year and won prizes.

Once at the beginning of the school year, the class teacher brought a very limited number of textbooks and said that we would draw lots to determine who would get the books. With over twenty-five kids in the classroom, only 10 books were available. So, whoever drew a chit with "BOOKS" written on it would get the textbooks. I too drew my lot, but unfortunately, my chit was blank. In a moment of quick thinking, I wrote "BOOKS" on my chit with my pen. When the drawing was over, the class teacher asked the kids who had chits with "BOOKS" written on them to stand up. I too stood up along with ten other kids. The class teacher noticed that there was one extra and carefully examined each kid's paper. Eventually, my paper was identified as having a different handwriting. This was the first time in my life I was caught for attempting a smart cheat. I was brought to the school principal's room and warned not to repeat such behavior. What astonished me was that the kid sitting next to me, who never cared for his books, was lucky enough to get the textbooks, while I, who was eager to get one, did not. Life sometimes seems unjust, but we must accept it as it is.

BMS hostel was a religious boarding school at its core, with the purpose of teaching kids discipline and character development. We were allowed to play during the evening and morning hours, along with Madrassa studies. Every morning, we were woken up for Fajr prayer. We marched to the nearby Masjid in an orderly manner for the Maghrib prayer. Before Maghrib, we all sat in rows and chanted glorifications and praises to Almighty Allah. Another memorable aspect of the hostel were the Milaad Nabi programs. I was given a speech to deliver, and I spoke in front of an audience for the first time, though at a slow pace (-2x speed). My brother used to win numerous prizes in speeches and other activities.

Kerala's Muslim community is predominantly characterized by a moderate religious outlook while also valuing and preserving centuries-old traditional arts and music inherited through generations. Among these art forms are Mappila kalakal, Mappila patt, and various other traditional expressions. Additionally, they boast a rich scholarly heritage spanning over a thousand years and maintain a strong sense of respect and adherence to a hierarchical structure within the community.

3-My Childhood. · July 21, 2023

Day by day I float my paper boats one by one down the running stream.

In big black letters I write my name on them and the name of

the village where I live.

I hope that someone in some strange land will find them and

know who I am.

I load my little boats with shiuli flowers from our garden, and hope that these blooms of the dawn will be carried safely to land in the night.

I launch my paper boats and look up into the sky and see the little clouds setting their white bulging sails.

I know not what playmate of mine in the sky sends them down the air to race with my boats!

When night comes I bury my face in my arms and dream that my paper boats float on and on under the midnight stars.

The fairies of sleep are sailing in them, and the lading is their baskets full of dreams.

This poem by Rabindranath Tagore depicts somewhat of the village life I went through: the simplicity and innocence of childhood, being free from any modernized atmosphere. The play and innocence were with the very nature surrounding me. The earliest memories I have are from my life in Eliat house. This is my father's home in another village, and the figure one would see there is my grandma. She is above a Lady, someone who is pure of heart and possesses wisdom that a scholar may not possess.

Though I don't remember many details from my early childhood, I have vivid memories of several unforgettable incidents. They feel like dreams I once had, as every person in their life will have beautiful stories from their childhood to narrate – unforgettable memories.

I spent my childhood days in Eliat House, our family's little home where my roots emerged. ELIAT is the name of my ancestral house. It stands facing fields and large paddy fields, covered with coconut and mango groves and other trees. The house has a beautiful old and rustic charm. From the veranda, one can see the faraway mountains and valleys, and when looking upwards, the blue bright sky adorned with clear white clouds. The voices of my grandma and the children always echo along with the chirping of little birds and the chit-chats of squirrels. There's always a sense of calmness in the village atmosphere. All these features make Eliat look esteemed in its pride and beauty, as if it exists somewhere in the always-silent valleys, far away from earthly clamors and city noises. Eliat remains calm, quiet, and tranquil. This tiny little home has witnessed generations, from my father to grandfathers who grew up there, and elders who breathed their last in the same little home. Its history travels back to the most ancient times, with tales and stories that are untold and unheard of by those outside. Behind the house is a large canal, with the stream always flowing...

Eliat was my heart's desired place. Sometimes my mother's family would come and pick me up to go to my mom's house. But I wouldn't stay there long; I would cry and fight to go back to Eliat. There, I had my rollers and tires, my kotties (marbles) and Pala (adakka tree leaf where a kid sits and another one pulls to ride on), friends and playmates. The days went by playing 'Kotti' and 'thalama,' those village games. As it got dark, Ummama (Grandma) was seen in the Veranda reciting her prayer and recitations. I would sleep with grandma beside her bed. She mostly told us stories while sitting on the padappuram (large raised sitting area front side of house) with her legs stretched out. There in was a joint family with all the children of my uncle.

There was a wooden bridge across a small stream in front of Eliat house and a small lake beside it. We would sit for hours fishing with sticks and hooks. The most adventurous incident was when, once while crossing the wooden bridge, a dog came from the opposite side. I too was crossing from the other side. I kicked the dog off the bridge, and I accomplished my task. Of course, it was a daring thing to do.

"My first fish I ever caught, I was scared and had to go all the way to my mom to get help in pulling the fish off the hook. My mom once narrated that I had eaten raw fish as a child.

At night, we slept on the floors over mats made out of coconut leaves with no pillows. The first thing kids would do in the morning was rush to the mango trees to check if anything had fallen overnight."

2-The Beginnings · July 19, 2023

I was born in a country where a child is born every two seconds, in a remote village in southern India on a winter night, in the very tiny home of my mother where there were no electricity. As the night engulfs the day, kerosene lamps light up the village house. The sounds of insects, followed by the croak of frogs, break the silence of the night. The calmness of the night, with the sound of slumber, remains till dawn. As the day breaks, I wake up to the cries of a rooster and the singing of birds. Sitting in the front yard of the home, one can see the open paddy fields stretching far away in the distance. The cries of crows, along with cows on the ground, create a rhythm. Paddy fields are followed by coconut trees in rows. The fresh air indicates that no vehicles have passed close by the village lanes.

This is the very place where destiny has brought my childhood. My babyhood was spent in this village home called 'Valiya Parambath'. Bapa, my grandfather, was the prime character there. His voice echoes through the walls of this house and its surroundings. He is the headmaster at a government school close by. I was further destined to have my life unfold through various lands and encounters, which I will narrate in the coming pages. The life book of every person is unique. Everyone writes it on the parchment of time. But mine, I remember, is sweet and colorful. I have enjoyed my own story, to be read again and again, and never to be repeated. If I were asked to rewrite it, I would say 'Nay'. The nectar that I carried along the journey is enough. No more repetitions. 'Life is the art of drawing without an eraser.' It is one journey of happiness where my faith says it will surely continue forever and ever, into an everlasting world where sorrow or sadness will never be a part.

As a baby, I must have been carried along with my parents as they moved on, traveling through the rush of Indian trains to Ratnagiri in the Maharashtra district. My father was an engineer for government projects, sometimes working there. I have been to these places long before I could remember any glimpse of them.

I am a connecting link between an Indian remote village and a metro city. Part of me has experienced the very nature of this natural world, and part of me has witnessed the developments of the man-made world. To cope between the two, to bridge the past with the present, to inhale the aroma of the village mixed with the clamor of the city – life's rollercoasters of various colors and lessons, experiences, and encounters. I am a child of the late seventies and of the eighties, also a man of the 21st century.

Life has to be learned by living, and life has to be experienced rather than explained. So, some may find it interesting, and for me, indeed, yes."

1-My Arabian Years-Intro · July 16, 2023

بِسْمِ اللَّـهِ الرَّحْمَـٰنِ الرَّحِيمِ 

I wrote this autobiography of mine, many years ago when I was studying for my higher secondary school. I initially jotted it down roughly in a diary and later typed it into a computer at my first place of work. I believe that by now, half of my life has been completed, considering the average lifespan of humans on this earth. The years have passed so quickly. Like every person, I have my own experiences and stories. I thought of writing my stories here, along with the edited version of my previous diary, which I named "MY ARABIAN YEARS." I write them with the hope that someday my children can read them, and somewhere, sometime, my own children can learn about how their father or their grandfather lived. At the very least, I may someday find my own notes as sweet memories when read after many years. Life is a story, and for someone, it becomes a part of history. While my stories may not be of great importance, I believe that there have been unique experiences in my life that very few people may have had. Hence, I share my story here.