"But, 'Sen' is three letters, right?", I said.
"
Nahin baba", he replied, "the French say, '
La Sehn'.
"But it's spelled
S-E-I-N-E", he added
, "And that's 5 letters - exactly what you are looking for."
The cross-word puzzle in the English Daily
Arab News, was usually challenging but fun.
I mean, I could figure out what would be the 6 letter word to go with Anwar Al _____ across with clue saying "Camp David" and that would be 'Sadaat' and not fall in the trap and go with the name of the fancy local shop in downtown Jeddah named
Anwar Al Junoob (Southern Lights).
Except for the French words, where I would be clueless.
A river in France - The clue read.
5 letters.
Stumped, and with no Google around back then, I could only think of one 5-letter word at that moment: "Daddy!"
So, when it came to French clues on the daily cross-word puzzles, Daddy, May God Rest his soul in peace, would be my
source of knowledge.
My late Dad's name,
Abdul Mannan Khan, is inscribed on the wall of his hometown high school for his top academic performance.
Despite all his brilliance, he found himself humbled when he started his graduate studies at a university in Paris where he discovered that the professor would not utter a single word in English. No other professor/lecturer would either.
The medium of instruction is French.
Needless to say, he learned French at nights, finished his Masters in Civil Engineering,
summa cum laude, and returned home to become the Chief Engineer helping develop the city of Jeddah - contributing to the soon to be announced Mayor's plan to turn the city into the next Paris of the Middle East - as well as building it's vast infrastructure for millions of pilgrim visitors a year by air or by sea.
He personified in his accomplishments, as a fine Civil Engineer, the essence of Paris, t
he City of Light.
Source of knowledge.
He mentored my uncle who went on to become a fine Civil Engineering Contracting businessman.
Many fine buildings had my Dad's architectural stamp on them.
He also taught me to be a draftsman.
"Why do we have that empty chamber in the middle of the building?", I once asked as we pored over a drawing.
"It's a
munawwar", he replied, "To bring the natural light in."
Munawwar is the term architects use, in Arabic, for the natural light opening.
At a time when Arabs fancied expensive and expansive chandeliers and other artificial lights, my Dad subscribed to the notion of tapping into the abundant sunshine. Source of the natural light.
The City of Light?
He also studied steel structures - which invariably included the study of Eiffel Tower and the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, for that matter (which he would visit in 2012 at the age of 87 and still managed to describe its full specs and design parameters like the back of his hands).
By the time my Dad reminisced about his days in Paris, the city of Jeddah probably had more lights installed on the
Corniche along the Read Sea than the entire city of Paris.
But, that was not the point. The point was, and still is: Paris was and still remains, a beacon of hope, knowledge and innovation to the world.
That is what the nickname
the City of Light stands for.
What Baghdad had in abundance in the way of knowledge back in the day, now belongs in Paris.
And Paris is not shy about sharing that
Light with the rest of the world - much like Baghdad was the place to be back when Muslims ruled the world by virtue of their character and knowledge - and not the sword.
I know. I had promised I won't bring religion in this two part blog - but a passing reference to the torch bearers of that
Light that was since passed on to Paris, became necessary to underscore this city's place in history.
Occasionally, he would let me wear his wrist watch that he brought back from France - and this was before the Japanese, the Taiwanese and the Chinese invasion of the Middle Eastern electronics
bazaars.
His Swiss watch represented
precision, an engineering marvel. And it personified his resolve to inculcate in us the importance of
being on time.
When my Dad was finishing up his studies there, Paris was at the top and Jeddah was at the bottom, so to speak, both literally and metaphorically. Here's a Pakistan International Airlines (PIA) advert from around that time.
Yes, PIA started "Flying to Paris"! How excitingly the stewardess in the ad points to Paris, as if with prejudice.
But it is not prejudice.
It is a privilege that Paris earned. The respect it commanded from lovers. Lovers of arts, sciences, culture, history and engineering.
And lovers, period.
The City of Love.
And PIA back then was also known for being dead on time. So much so that there was also an advert billboard that showed a gentleman synchronizing his wrist watch as the PIA plane took off in the background.
Flying to Paris was a privilege for an airline. It commanded
precision and
being on time.
Those core values were the hallmark of my father's generation no doubt.
My late Mom, visited Paris in the 80's with Dad. She came back from that, the most romantic, trip rejuvenated, boasting her French frequently with, "
Merci beaucoup".
And why not? When Daddy took her out on the town in Paris, she must have been swept off her feet.
My Dad took her with him down the memory lane. Retracing his steps with his better half alongside, such as his commute on train, from the time when he was a student there.
Fascinating stuff - to my Mom - as she would describe the experience upon return.
To her, this was the second honeymoon.
An Evening in Paris.
Except they spent many an evenings in Paris!
The Eiffel Tower, Champs Elysées, Notre Dame, Moulin Rouge!
And the
Seine from my cross-word puzzle. Oh my!
The word that took all of 5 letters across, must have presented a scenic picture to my beloved parents worth a thousand words.
Or perhaps worth a thousand and one Arabian nights.
Thé et lait (Tea with cream) was music to her ears, she said, as she fondly described her fascination for the street-side cafes there. She was even more elated in re-living the passion Dad had for learning and the challenges he overcame to achieve it.
It is Thanksgiving, 2015 today.
For us, it is just another day.
Because, we are thankful 5 times a day, 365 days a year.
Peace and
attitude of gratitude is the mantra we are supposed to have internalized.
But, have we?
Regardless, if my parents were alive today, how happy would I and my family be to have them with us?
Of course! Who wouldn't be?
But I wonder how horribly sad they would be to see their
City of Love engulfed in so much hatred?
It would be a shame if they'd have to shed tears for the city they re-kindled their love in. Surely, after spending their lives crying over Kashmir, Dacca, Beirut, Baghdad, Karachi, Peshawar, Mumbai, etc.
That is why I mourn.
For my parents' very own Paris.
I learned from my parents that Paris deserved respect and love. Not blame or hatred.
And in fact, our generation is crying over a growing list of new casualties.
New York, Washington, D.C., London, Boston and now Paris.
I reflect upon my responsibility.
In fact, our generation's responsibilities.
Where have we gone so horribly wrong to get to this low point of hatred and intolerance in the human history?
And that's why my heart sank when I saw the news alert text buzz on my iPhone.
Another engineering marvel, this device, with
touch screen that was supposed to decipher the
human touch.
But this
engineering marvel ended up sucking every bit of that very same
human touch out of our lives and has suckered us into the world of the social media.
Yet, it showed the precise time when the news broke - punctually and undeniably...
Like a robot,
precise and
on time.
Without emotions - it informed me of the horrific news of the shootings.
Precision.
And being on time.
These were supposed to be welcomed.
Not today.
Please let it be a typo. Another media frenzy of errors.
But, the
precision on my
smart phone heralded - with all of its bells-n-whistles and
lights - the grizzly details of how the
darkness had invaded...
...where once stood
the city of light.
Click
here for Part I
