Fathers day
By Nusrat

My tiny, Chubby fingers grasped the man's fore-finger tightly, as if it was my only support. I took a small shaky step and then to my amazement another and another ... And then I fell. I looked up with a hurt expression, about to burst into tears. But then the man picked me up and caressed me lovingly. His warm smile made me forget everything and I gave a gurgle of joy. Yes, this man - my father - my dearest Abbu.

Just as he has watched me growing up, I have watched him while growing up. I have taken my first step, holding his finger, written my first word holding his hand and even read my first syllable with him. When I was just a small child, he was the person my sparkling eyes would look around for when in a mischievious mood. He would be greeted with a gleeful smile when he would come to play with me or to take me outside.

I do miss those childhood days when I sat with my dad listening to stories or playing with him. Now though we have both become busy. He still tries to give me as much time as possible. We usually sit and talk about our daily happenings or have a game of chess or maybe basketball. At other times, he helps me with my studies. He is my friend while chatting, opponent while playing. teacher while studying, partner while singing, my doctor when I am sick - in other words he play a huge part in my life though as different characters at different times. He is also my role - model and the person I look up to and revere. Having acquired my father's tall stature sharp nose and of course his humour and witness I do fell proud when told that I am 'ekdom baabar moton' Though I feel so much for my father, I have never been able to express it this way. The enormity and intensity of the love and respect for him that fills my heart, cannot even be expressed by words.

Just as we do not always remember that the air around us is supporting our lives, being with our fathers, we tend to forget how much he means to us. Father's Day is the day when we should find sometime within our busy schedule, to probe into our lives and find out what a great space our fathers occupy in our lives. Father's Day gives us the opportunity to tell our fathers how special they are and what they mean to us.

A Call for help
By Jennifer Ashraf

A few days before, a letter just flew in through my window. A letter from one of my friends. Let's call her "Saiqa". Her letter was really heart touching. Let me present it to you.

"Dear Jennie,
They are outside; I know they are! Circling each other, seeking out the other's weak point, and ready to attack like two hungry panthers. They were the most important things of my life, my candle in the darkness, my raindrop in the desert; they were none other than my parents. Yet, now I have come to fear them, come to fear their actions and the harsh consequences that always seem to follow. I know you are wondering if I have gone crazy, "gone over the edge" as you always put it, but this time it is true. Let me explain.
It all started off with minor details you know. We went out for shopping, and everything mum liked, Dad had something to comment on. It was Christmas, and I was so engrossed in my own shopping that I didn't realise that something was wrong till too late. They both kept trying to humour me, but did so by completely ridiculing each other at every chance. Every store that we visited, the salesmen and others kept staring at me. I finally realised at the last store that something was seriously, seriously wrong. Dad had passed another comment, and mum, unable to take it any longer stomped out of the store, cursing dad as she went. I was shocked and upset that day. Little did I know that it was just the beginning.
She left me. Can you imagine this? My mum left me! Of course she didn't tell me that she was leaving me. No, no sir! That would have been much too complicated for her. She just packed her bags, hugged me, and said that she'd be back. "It's a trial separation honey," her words still ring in my ears. " We are getting on each other's nerves a little too often. This will do us good". I had no choice but to see her go. Wait! My mind screamed out. What about me? Why am I going to be the one who suffers? But no one heard the agonies of my heart.
The "trial separation" soon turned out to be a big issue to both my parents. I came back home to often find big, official looking envelopes, all addressed to my father. Later I learnt that those were divorce papers, sent to him to sign. Dad hardly spent time with me anymore. Evening after evening he would sit in the study with a grave and sombre looking lawyer, discussing the settlement of the divorce and other "technical matters" as he liked to explain to me.
They got divorced. My world broke apart. I went to visit Mum in the holidays, but it was like visiting a stranger. She chatted and took me out to dinner, but something had changed. She was just no longer interested in me; I had ceased to be a concern for her. It was the same at home with Dad. Before he used to bring his "work" home. Now he brought a "friend" - a friend who was female and just happened to look like a beautiful model. I didn't know what was going on between them, but the secrets looks, and secret smiles made it obvious that they were more than just friends.
I am tired of this. I can't take it any more. I know that u Jenny, would probably say " Hey come on - it cant be that bad!" but it is. And I know it. And I knew that I could no longer continue living like this. So, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I slashed my wrists. Unfortunately Dad came and found me when I cried out, and he took me to the hospital after calling Mum. Now they are both standing outside the room, blaming each other for my present condition. I can't stand this. And I smile, because I know that I don't have to. In my pocket were sleeping pills - twenty-five of them, which I have just taken. I am sleepy Jenny; I need rest from this world, and peace of mind. I want you to share this letter with as many people as possible to prevent our child victims of divorce from committing suicide.
You were always a great friend.
Love,
Saiqa"…

Ok, I'll confess. The letter is fictitious. Yet, it still makes one think. Think of the pain Saiqa had to endure, think of her torture. Imagine YOUR parents fighting with each other, getting separated, drifting away from you, and there's nothing you can do but just stand there and watch it all happen; trust me, it's the worst feeling in the entire world, this whole feeling of hopelessness. Many children all over the whole are rapidly becoming victims of divorce and suicide. Let's just hope that apart from the many teenagers reading this, there are also some adults. Please don't put your child through the same torture.

Book Review

 

The end of the
affair-Graham
Greene

By Tahiat-E-Mahboob

I hope everyone enjoyed Catch Me If You Can. This week I bring to Graham Greene's bestseller The End Of The Affair. Now a big movie starring Ralph Fiennes (ooh!) and Julianne Moore, the book starts with 'This is a record of Hate far more than of Love'. Thus writes Maurice Bendrix (Ralph Fiennes)compelled by a consuming hate that causes him to think about that time of his life when he had an affair with Sarah Miles(Julianne Moore)-a married woman who leaves him. The book describes their love and how eighteen months after she leaves him Maurice takes the bizzare step to destroy or maybe reclaim her. Thus he sets about hiring a private investigator to tail Sarah and discovers a lot of details that cause his hatred for her to increase. But then the spy hands him her diary. And when he begins to read the diary, things change. Finally when he does meet Sarah, things become clear to him. The apparent after all is not always true. The truth that Maurice discovers, leaves him with regret and a renewed feeling of all the passion that he felt for Sarah. But can he reclaim Sarah, and if he does, can he hold her forever? Will fate take another twist and part them again?

Read to discover. This is a story that brings you to tears. Available in the Penguin Series, grab a copy now. Till we meet next week.