Adnan Siddiqui Writes A Heart-Warming Letter To His Children

Facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

We love reading about celebrity dads giving their children heartfelt advise because somehow we feel all of us can relate to it. 

Adnan Siddiqui, a devoted father, recently took to Facebook to write a note to his three kids, Maryam, Daniya and Zayd, including an anecdote from his childhood.

The note started off with, “I was sixteen when your dadi jaan passed away. She was very ill, in acute pain, and I remember going to the hospital, standing by the door as they pumped her stomach, knowing she was slipping away. She turned her head to the left, where I stood, and smiled with her eyes. She then closed her eyes. For the last time.

Decades have passed. But that moment remains, to date, one of the most painful and most formative of my life. After Ammi died, your taayas and phuphos rallied around, like an army of soldiers, to look after Uzi phupho, Ayesha phupho and me–the youngest three. We grew up playing cricket in the streets–young, old, fat, thin, bespectacled, sporty, the whole lot.”

Reminiscing the good times he continued,”I used to play imaginary cricket. The cricketer: Adnan Siddiqui. The commentator: Adnan Siddiqui. Fielder: Adnan Siddiqui. Bowler: Adnan Siddiqui.

“And it’s a six. What a beautiful shot! Hitting it out of the park!

“Aaaand here comes Siddiqui. What a natural out-swinger. What a smooth run-up!

“He’s caught it! And he’s out! The relief, the joy! Siddiqui never misses a catch!

“Those were good days because they were simple days. The grief of Ammi’s death was dulled, slowly sweated out as I bounced and ran on the streets of Karachi. I was lucky to be surrounded by a big family.”

He concluded the sincere note with a reminder; “This is just a little note to say that I know you love your ipads and ipods and play stations, but I want you to also love your parks, your books, your streets. They can be your friends too.

“It’s a shame that our streets are not as safe as they once were. It’s a shame the three of you can’t hold hands and walk serenely out of the house. It’s a shame, indeed, that the Karachi of my childhood has disappeared as skyscrapers and multiplexes have come to dominate the skyline.”

“But you can still read books. Just as I used to play imaginary cricket in four different voices, I want you to live inside the pages of your books. The truth is, people who talk to themselves aren’t stupid: they’re the opposite–creative and wild and beautiful. Just like the three of you. Love, Abba,” he ended.

What a simple but beautiful note, don’t you agree?

Facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

Be the first to comment

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.


*