AZEEZ AHMAD ZAI

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Daastan Publishing 2026

 

First Published in Pakistan by Daastan 

House # A-41, Madni Street, Lala Rukh, Wah Cantt, Punjab 47040

 

www.daastan.com 

 

Text copyrights © Azeez Ahmad Zai

Book Design Copyright © Azeez Ahmad Zai

Edited by: Shanzay Hussain 

 

The moral rights of the writer, illustrator, and editor have been asserted.

 

All rights reserved

 

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or distributed in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

 

ISBN E-Book: 978-627-526-143-8

ISBN Print: 978-627-526-142-1

ISBN Paperback: 978-627-526-153-7

 

 

 

 

Nannay and Waldah,

Between your prayers and your patience,

I somehow found myself

 

 

 

 

 

اس طرح زندگی گزری ہے مری ،عزیز

یادوں کے اور وعدوں کے درمیاں کہیں

 

 

 

 

        

Preface 4

The Making of Me 3

More Than a Number 4

Not Entirely a Lie 7

Permanent Residents of Memories 11

Where Eid Lives 15

Thank You 20

The Second Box 24

Of Lineage and Language 29

Inheritance 35

On the Way to Myself 38

What Chose Me 39

A Miscalculated Risk 45

Looking Up 48

Iqbal-Ufer 52

A Different Civilization 56

On My Own 59

Beyond the Mona Lisa 65

Love and Its Complications 72

Better Late Than Planned 73

Somewhere in a Storeroom 75

The Balance She Held 77

The Work of Living 81

Success, Interrupted 82

On Trust Alone 86

Negotiations 89

Backing 92

Academy 97

A Different Class 100

Stepping Out 102

Time Given 106

He Saw Me There 114

What Remained with Me 119

Mother 120

When the Invitation Came 125

Guilt 129

In Confidence 132

What’s in the Name 135

Out of Character 140

And She Meant It 142

Finding Myself in Her 147

My Boy 152

Letters Across Oceans 156

About The Author 167

Acknowledgement 168

 

 

 

 

 

 

I had always wanted to write something personal. Something that expressed and documented my feelings. Not for recognition. Not to present myself before the world. And certainly not to prove any literary talent. I wanted to capture my view in words. And so, I wrote. For years, too many memories had remained gathered quietly somewhere inside me. I wanted to acknowledge them. To give them some shape outside the mind. Perhaps even to save a few of them from disappearing completely with time.

The strange thing is that lack of time was never really the obstacle. I always had time. What I did not have was stillness. Life kept moving through work, responsibilities, transfers, family obligations, ambitions, worries, and the general noise with which adulthood slowly occupies a person. And whenever I tried to write, memory refused to cooperate. I could never casually revisit an old moment. Once remembered, it demanded atmosphere. I did not merely recall moments. I re-visited them repeatedly. And that takes emotional courage. 

Then, unexpectedly, life slowed down for a while. During an administrative pause between postings, I suddenly found myself back in the same room with those faces and voices that only lived in my memory. What was supposed to be a break turned into a walk down memory lane, as old memories resurfaced. Some arrived gently. Some painfully. Some with such strange clarity that it almost unsettled me. A sentence spoken twenty years ago would suddenly return complete. A forgotten street. My father’s voice on the telephone. My mother sitting silently in a recliner. 

Small moments that had looked ordinary at the time but had somehow remained alive beneath everything else. There were nights when I remained awake till morning—not out of discipline, but because one memory led to another. So, I picked up the courage to pen down all the memories on a page. As memories began to flow, a story I had not thought about in years suddenly connected itself to something entirely different. Childhood opened the door to friendship. Friendship wandered into loss. Loss somehow returned me to humour. There was no method, only movement. Soon enough, it had quietly become a book. What seemed like an arduous task at first now filled the pages with memories only retained by my mind. 

The title ‘Somewhere in Between’ came naturally. The photograph on the cover carries a meaning I perhaps understood fully only later. I took it. In it, my father is walking while holding my son’s hand. Their faces are not visible. When I first looked at the photograph years afterwards, I realized it had quietly captured the emotional shape of this memoir long before I began writing it. Somewhere in between them stood my own life.

The memories in these pages are real, though memory itself is rarely perfect. I have written these chapters not as historical verdicts, but as honest recollections of how moments remained within me. I have also tried to preserve the people in these pages with fairness and affection, especially those who unknowingly shaped me. My parents, above all, remain present throughout this book—not merely as figures in memory, but as continuing influences in thought, language, humour, faith, and feeling. Much of what I became began with them long before I understood it myself.

I must also acknowledge my wife, children, sister, friends, teachers, colleagues, and companions from different phases of life. Some appear directly in these pages. Others exist quietly behind them. The memories are mine. The voice, I hope, remains mine too. If these pages succeed at all, then I hope they succeed not because of achievement or importance, but because somewhere within them, readers may recognize fragments of their own lives, too. After all, memory links are rarely solitary. It only waits for someone else to speak first.

 

 

 

نا زمانی تھی نا مکانی تھی

زندگی تو فقط کہانی تھی

 

 

 

 

When people look at a child's report card, they believe they are reading the child. Marks, ranks, and comments are neatly arranged in a set of columns to define the student. But how can something as complex as human nature be reduced to definitive terms? In the rush, adults often mistake numeric evidence for understanding. I have never been a bright student. Following the years after grade two, I was not considered a promising student. In a class of more than fifty, I frequently stood near the bottom when results were announced. Forty-eighth. Forty-ninth. Numbers that sounded final when spoken aloud. 

What no one around me fully knew was that I was carrying a fear too large for a child. Something had gone wrong in those years. Deeply wrong. I chose not to describe it here because some doors, once opened, change every room. What matters is the impact it had on me, a child who learned that silence was safer than speech. Fear is a terrible tutor. It teaches silence, distraction, and hypervigilance. It leaves very little room for multiplication tables. I could not explain what was happening. I could not tell anyone. So, I did what many children do when they do not have the language for pain—I continued outwardly and struggled inwardly. And through the lens of school, I became a weak student.

My mother, understandably, began to lose hope in my academic future. Mothers worry endlessly. They see the road ahead and fear it narrowing. My father was different. His firm belief in me that I would do better in the upcoming years seemed more like a foresight than just fatherly support. Then came that one annual report card. My father always accompanied me on the annual results day. Sometimes my mother would join us too. But this time, thankfully, it was only him. I stood forty-ninth—if I am recalling correctly.

 I could still read his eyes. There was no disappointment there. At the time, I couldn't have named what I saw. But now I know that he saw potential. "You have got good numbers in each subject," he said. "Good job." I felt myself rise a little. Then, to my surprise, he looked around the school grounds. His eyes stopped on a rose bush—large, beautiful red roses. He walked towards it. My heart began racing in immense anticipation. This was every boy’s dream. My father presenting me with a flower as a token of appreciation was the most precious moment of my life. But he did not pick a rose.

He picked a thorn. I stood bewildered as he took my report card and gently began scratching at the rank. The number nine slowly erased its existence under his hand. The rank that initially placed me at the bottom now ranked me fourth. He blew the dust off the card, slipped it back into the envelope, and handed it to me. Then he smiled. In that moment, I switched from a struggling child to the proud holder of fourth position. We put the envelope back in my backpack and went home. My mother was delighted. She was not usually expressive. But this time, she held the report card in both hands—something I had never seen her do—and her eyes, usually so carefully measured, softened completely.

And there I stood, a boy carrying two embarrassments at once: The first was that I had not stood fourth; The second was that I could not expose the small fraud without exposing my father. So, I stayed quiet, for I knew breaking it would unleash the unknown. Even now, I smile at the tenderness hidden inside that absurdity. My father changed it because he refused to let a temporary truth become my permanent identity. Years later, life proved him closer to correct than the report card ever was. 

I pursued my BE in Electrical Engineering from NED University, followed by a master’s in information technology, and eventually cleared the CSS examination—becoming the first in my family to do so. But when I look back at these achievements, I do not see them as proof of my ability. I see them as proof of his belief. That day, without words, I made him a promise: I would prove him right. And maybe that is why I can tell this story now—not to expose a harmless mischief, but to honour the faith behind it.

Because some children are not failing. They are simply surviving. And sometimes, survival looks like a father scratching a number off a report card with a garden thorn—because he already saw the number that mattered.

 

The night I stood fourth in the class. Or did I?

 

 

When I was in class five, I forgot to complete my Islamiat homework. This was serious because the teacher treated unfinished homework not as an academic lapse but as a moral event. It was also the last period that day, which meant I could not escape the punishment. He also possessed a disciplinary philosophy. He used this philosophy through his heavy palms. When my turn came, and I could not produce the homework, he slapped me twice, and with commitment. 

Since it was the final class, I went home with visible fingerprints on my cheek like official remarks. My mother saw them immediately and asked what had happened. I lied. I told her the teacher had hit me for talking in class. This was not noble, but it was strategic. Had I admitted the truth — that I had neglected homework — two further slaps were waiting for me at home under separate jurisdiction. Those were different times. Children were disciplined physically, often efficiently, and nobody launched seminars about it. 

I thought the matter had ended. Or so I wished. The next day, during class, the legendary Baba — the principal's peon and messenger of institutional doom — appeared at the door. He said something quietly to the teacher. The teacher looked at me and announced that the principal had called me. My classmates stared as though I had been selected for public execution. I did not entirely disagree.

Our principal, Mr. Abdul Hameed Sindhi, was a towering figure in every sense. He was exceptionally tall, broad-built, possessed a deep commanding voice, and radiated the kind of authority that can silence corridors. I suspect not only students feared him. Some teachers likely revised their confidence while passing his office. I had no idea why I was being called, and I walked into the principal’s room as if I was about to be condemned for a crime. I looked up to see my mother sitting there. This was the confusing part where fear began to settle in. I could not read her face, for she bore no expressions.

 At that moment, fear achieved a higher level. It was not because of her face but rather the uncertain atmosphere that I had walked into. Now there were two authorities present: institutional and maternal. I did not think it could get any worse than this. But it did. I suddenly remembered my lie, and it was about to be examined in the worst possible courtroom. But once a child commits to a lie under pressure, retreat feels impossible. I stayed silent.

No one spoke. The principal looked at me. My mother looked at the principal. At that very moment, everything in the room became more interesting. I never noticed that my shoes had always been this clean. Even the rhythmic ticking of the clock seemed fascinating. However, my efforts to avoid the questioning atmosphere were in vain. 

The grumbling voice of Mr Sindhi broke the silence, "Azeez, what happened yesterday?" Hearing my name from his mouth was unusual yet so personal. I felt uncomfortable. Uncomfortable because the truth was at the tip of my tongue, ready to come out, and the repercussions were going to be severe. I held my breath. I considered telling the truth. But no. That was the worst time to say so. I stuck to my version. "Sorry, sir, I was talking during the class. I am so sorry."

Now, recalling the moment, I do not think I was as innocent as people assumed me to be. "Don't worry." He picked up the phone and called the teacher. The Islamiat teacher entered. He looked at everyone before his eyes finally landed on me. His confidence, which had filled the classroom only yesterday, seemed to be leaking out somewhere between the door and the principal's desk. "Did you hit this boy?" the principal asked. "Yes," he said. "He did not complete his—" 

"For talking in class?" my mother interrupted. The teacher paused. I watched his face rearrange itself. First confusion. Then a flicker of doubt. Then — and this was the moment I will never forget — genuine uncertainty. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "I… I know I shouldn't have," was all he could say. He accepted that he had hit me. But when told it was supposedly for talking in class, he could not deny or clarify it with confidence. Perhaps he had disciplined so many children that individual incidents had merged into a general method. 

And so, to my astonishment, the teacher ended up apologizing to my mother. I should have felt relief; however, the embarrassment had me feeling conflicted. A man of such authority seemed so powerless in that moment. All because I could not muster up the courage to speak the truth, someone else had to face the consequences. Years later, I remembered something I had forgotten to take into account. A boy in my class — quiet, smaller than the rest — had once forgotten his homework. The teacher didn't slap him twice. He slapped him until the boy cried. 

Then he slapped him again for crying. That boy transferred schools the next term. No one asked why. Now, years later, my entire perspective on this episode has changed completely. I did lie. But he also had a habit of hitting children quite often. My lie may have been self-protection, mischief, panic, or a child's crude attempt at justice. Perhaps it was all four. What I learned that day was unforgettable: never underestimate a mother, never overuse your authority, and never slap a child who has access to a better story than yours.

 

 

Some relations are made; some evolve; some are born into existence. The relationship with siblings belongs to the last category. It arrives before understanding, before choice, before personality fully forms itself. One simply opens one's eyes and finds another human being already standing somewhere inside one's life.

I have only one sister; Saima is older by almost two years. Yet, when I look back now, it feels as though she existed before many of my memories themselves. Childhood, teenage years, adulthood, even life after marriage—almost every important memory I possess somehow carries her presence too, either loudly or quietly. There are too many threads attached to this relationship. 

From the very beginning, she was protective of me. To an outsider, it may have seemed like dominance, yet children cannot truly comprehend dominance. Children only understand belonging. They know who is "theirs," and they develop strange little instincts about protecting those people from the world. That instinct existed in Saima from very early on. And somehow, I grew accustomed to it.

I remember one afternoon after my final examination of grade four, I returned home expecting an ordinary day but immediately sensed something unusual. My father was at home in the afternoon, which itself was rare enough to qualify as a warning sign. That should have alerted me. He asked casually how the exam had gone. I answered without giving it much thought, which was my first mistake. After asking two or three questions, he realized my performance had not exactly represented academic excellence.

His mood changed immediately. I was unprepared for the seriousness of the situation. He closed the room door. Saima remained outside. In frustration, he picked up my toy rifle and struck it so hard against the foot of the bed that it shattered into pieces. I remember being more shocked about the rifle than the scolding. I had a strange habit in childhood: whenever I cried, I tried to do it silently so nobody outside would know.

The moment passed. He scolded me but never touched me. In fact, he never hit either of us throughout our lives. But Saima did not yet possess this important clarification. When Waldah (my mother) returned home from school later that day, the breaking news bulletin was already prepared—and the newsreader was my sister herself.

"Nannay has beaten Ajji so badly that he even broke his toy rifle!"

The statement was explosive enough to disturb the political balance of the entire household, including the treasury benches. She was furious. Not dramatic-furious. Protective-furious. Thank God the situation settled quickly. My father smiled almost immediately and explained that he had not hit me at all. But now, looking back, I understand something I could not back then. Saima knew she could not confront my father directly. But she also knew exactly which authority to approach if she wished to register a protest on my behalf. That was her version of resistance. That was care. 

We were partners in crime, too. During afternoons, when my mother was at work, we were often left gloriously unsupervised. We had all the time in the world, and without a care, we utilised this period without thinking about the consequences. Though we never did anything harmful. There was a small nearby shop run by Liaquat Uncle, an elderly man whose greatest mistake in life was trusting children too much. Along with a cousin, we developed a carefully coordinated heist. 

One of us would ask for something placed on the back wall: a pencil, an eraser, perhaps a sharpener. The moment Liaquat Uncle turned around to retrieve it, the remaining hands would descend rapidly upon the candies and biscuits displayed near the counter. The truly embarrassing part is that we could easily have bought those candies with the money we were already spending on the pencil or eraser. But the objective was never economic. It was operational excitement. Fortunately, history records no major expansion of our criminal careers beyond this point.

Years passed. Life became fuller. Responsibilities arrived quietly and then all at once. When my mother was first diagnosed with cancer, I was in Lahore at the Civil Services Academy for training. Leaving the Academy was not possible. It was one of those periods in life where duty and helplessness sit together uncomfortably.

During that difficult time, my sister carried far more than her own emotional burden. My mother was naturally more comfortable with Saima. Daughters often understand a mother's suffering in ways that sons can only try to. I should also acknowledge my brother-in-law, Arshad Bhai, whose kindness and understanding during that period deserve genuine appreciation. He not only accepted the situation gracefully but also took over my responsibilities in my absence.

Life eventually teaches us something about siblings that childhood cannot fully explain. The relationship changes shape many times. Protectiveness becomes concern. Shared crimes become shared memories. Conversations become shorter, perhaps, but deeper. One no longer needs constant presence to feel connected. The thread remains. Even now, whenever something happens in life—good, painful, absurd, emotional, or worth remembering—some instinct inside me still feels that my sister should somehow know about it too. Perhaps that is what siblings truly become in the end: not merely witnesses to our lives, but permanent residents of our memories

 

My sister holding the moment