“Seventy-Five,” said my son as my head tilted up in pride.
The journey to seventy-five was not linear. Eight years ago he was born. Any one that held him exclaimed, “He is so tiny.”
He was tiny, weighing a meager five-pounds, eight-ounces, having barely crossed the underweight threshold of newborns, his size presented a contrast to the whirlwind of energy he gyrated in, storming into busy streets, pounding his legs in a constant bounce, the invisible strings under his legs, a permanent dimension of his personality.
That was Sahir. Six years later, when Sahir held his little brother, mesmerized, speechless, admiring Mir, that was the longest he had sat still. His reasons for not moving needed to be grand. That was quite unlike his tearful welcome to his sister, born three years before Mir. Crocodile tears were not of joy but of heartbreak of having been left alone so we could get Dua, the reason for all his misery.
Seventy-Five was not a score on a school exam. It was better than any lesson I could have taught him in the confines of a book or a classroom.
When I learnt I was pregnant for the very first time, as I and my husband stared at the test, I envisioned what lessons I could teach my child that would equip “it” to face the world with dignity. I guess the seed for “Seventy-Five” must have planted then.
So, this morning as I placed the call to the local gym bowing to the ferocity of my laziness to cancel, I knew I was going to miss working out (the only healthy act of the week) on one condition, and that was to invest the sunlight of a warm Chicago Spring day in the confines of nature.
So, here we were, hiking along Fox River, on a hill over numerous islands in the river as Dua hopped like a bunny on my right, behind me Mir sat like a king on his stroller pushed by his dad, and Sahir played with my left hand when I came up with a game of silence.
The game was to stay silent and ward off all noises, the occasional cries from Mir, the tick of the stroller wheel against the hard concrete, the swish of the fast bikers overtaking us, or the whir from the factory we passed along the way across from the river. We were to focus on but one sound, the chirps of birds and really hear the chirps, how different they were from each other, their pitch, was it a cry for help or a song of joy.
I explained my game to them with one thought, “Ah, they are but an eight-year-old and soon-to-be, five-year-old. Let us see how far this goes.”
At first, it was hard not to discuss the sounds that were now reaching our ears. Soon, seconds melted into minutes. A heavenly tranquility transcended into our hearts and minds and my kids, miraculously, played along.
As our happy hike breathed its last whispers, we started to notice the multi-colored, yellow, orange, birds that were making the sounds. When we reached our mini-van parked right next to the shimmering waters of the Fox River, I asked them, “So, how many sounds did you hear?”
Dua said, maybe, five, and an, “I don’t know,” despite the fact that she was the most serious “silence observer.”
Sahir thought a moment and said, “Seventy Five.”
He made my day. I needed to train their minds to hear these little treasures of nature most ignore. I needed them to stop and stare at the river flowing underneath the hill we were on. And, I remembered Sahir, the little peanut, always skinny and tall, jumping around like there was no tomorrow, pausing to not dilute the noise of birds by the chatter of every other noise. He practiced amplifying the chatter of birds this evening and for that I will always be grateful.
