Minto Circle was never just a school for me.

It stood as a complete space of becoming—where:

* taleem ( Education / Learning)

* tarbeyat (Upbringing / Nurturing / Character Formation)

* not separate from parwarish. (Care /Holistic Nurture - more encompassing term—raising someone with love, care, environment, and emotional)

Classrooms did not end at the blackboard; they continued in corridors, in hostels, in quiet evenings, and in shared mornings. It was a place where living itself was taught—gently, repeatedly, without announcement.

Looking back now, I do not remember it as an institution alone.

I remember it as a training ground for life—a place that did not only prepare us for exams, but for living. Not through grand lessons, but through everyday experiences that slowly shaped how we think, how we relate, and how we carry ourselves into the world.

It was a parwarish gah—where taleem and tarbeyat merged into something larger than both.

Here, life was not explained.It was lived, observed, absorbed.

Years later, I understand—this was not ten years of schooling.

This was ten years of learning how to live.

Morning Assembly — Learning to Stand Together

Before we knew who we were,we learned how to stand—together.

No competition. No comparison.Just presence.

In those quiet mornings, something deeper was forming—a sense of belonging that life would later test again and again.

We thought we were attending assembly.We were learning how to exist with others.

Teachers — The Invisible Architects

They stood in front of us,but their influence moved far beyond the classroom.

A word here. A pause there.A correction that stayed longer than the lesson.

We thought they were teaching subjects.They were shaping thought, direction, and character.

Years later, we realize—their work did not end when the bell rang.

Homework — Discipline Before Ambition

There came a moment when learning followed us home.

No supervision. No structure.Just a task… and ourselves.

We resisted it, delayed it, negotiated with it.

But slowly, something shifted.

Homework was never about completion.It was about showing up when no one is watching.

The Last Bench — Where Observation Began

Not all learning happened at the front.

Sometimes, the deepest understanding sat quietly at the back.

From there, we saw everything—expressions, reactions, patterns of people.

While others answered,we learned to observe.

And observation… became awareness.

Friendship — Where Trust Began

No contracts. No expectations.Just a desk shared, a moment understood.

Friendship arrived without effort.

We did not measure it.We did not question it.

We simply trusted.

Before life added complexity,we learned what it means to be there for someone.

School Bells — When Time Spoke

A simple sound—and everything moved.

We did not question it.We followed it - aligned with purpose and promise - with courage, curiosity and committment to learn.

Start. Stop. Move. Pause.

Years later, we realize—that bell was not controlling us.

It was introducing us to time.

Report Cards — When Numbers Tried to Measure Us

A small envelope…but it carried weight.

Numbers began to speak.And we began to listen.

We thought they defined us.

Years later, we understand—they only measured a moment.

Never the possibility within us.

Exams — Life’s First Rehearsal

Silence.Paper in front.Time moving.

No guidance. No second voice.

Just us… and uncertainty.

We thought exams were about answers.

They were about how we respondwhen answers are not clear.

Supplementary Exams — The Courage to Return

Sometimes, we did not succeed.

And then came something unexpected—another chance.

Not judgment. Not finality.

An invitation.

To return. To try again. To grow.

We thought it was another exam.

It was life teaching us:falling is not the end.

Graduation — When the World Opened

We thought it was the end.

A farewell. A completion.A moment to move on.

But something else was happening.

The classroom was expanding—into the world.

There were no more walls.

Only life… waiting to be lived.

This is not a story.This is not a daastaan.

This is haqeeqat.

A ten-year journey—that took a lifetime to understand.

🎧 Episode #20 — now live.

Next week:

Episode 20 — Part I“Morning Assembly — Learning to Stand Together”Arrival into Belonging

A moment not just of attendance…but of presence.Not just of routine…but of recognition.

Until then…

Let us remember—learning is not always taught.Sometimes, it is simply lived.

Let’s continue the conversation.

🇨🇦 www.salmiinconversation.com🇨🇦 salmizindagi.substack.com

We do not always notice the moment we begin editing ourselves.

It rarely feels dramatic.It feels practical. Responsible. Necessary.

Somewhere between childhood honesty and adult expectation,between first failure and first promotion,between wanting to belong and fearing exclusion,we learn a quiet skill:

How to trim ourselves just enough to fit.

Not because we lack authenticity —but because we crave connection.

And over time, that small trimming becomes habit.

We call it maturity.We call it professionalism.We call it growth.

But sometimes, it is simply survival.

What We Cut

We learn to cut parts of ourselves to survive. This essay explores belonging, identity, and the quiet return to authenticity.

We cut pieces of ourselves when they begin to feel unsafe.

We cut the thought that might sound naïve.The emotion that might appear excessive.The question that interrupts certainty.The memory that still aches.The truth that does not fit the room.

Not because these things are wrong —but because they are vulnerable.

So we trim them.

Not all at once.Just enough to get through the day.

Where We Cut From

We do not cut from the surface.

We cut from lived experience.

From moments that shaped us.From failures that taught us quietly.From reflections that took years to mature.From cultural crossings.From rooms where we were the only one who sounded different.

We cut from the inside —and then tell ourselves it was only editing.

That is why it sometimes hurtsin ways we cannot easily explain.

Because something real was removed.

Why We Cut

Rarely to deceive.

Mostly to belong.

We cut to survive expectations.To function inside systems.To keep conversations smooth.To avoid being misunderstood.To remain employable, agreeable, acceptable.

In boardrooms.In classrooms.In families.Across continents and generations.

Cutting becomes a form of self-protection.

At first, it helps.

Over time, it begins to cost.

Where We Paste

Once something is removed, something must replace it.

So we paste.

We paste borrowed confidence over uncertainty.We paste certainty where curiosity once lived.We paste opinions we have not fully examined.We paste identities that photograph well.We paste fluency where honesty hesitates.

Not to mislead others —but to reassure ourselves that we still belong.

The world often rewards this version.

The résumé grows stronger.

The image becomes polished.

The soul grows quieter.

When Pasting Becomes Hiding

There is a kind of pasting that covers.

It smooths edges.Masks cracks.Keeps tenderness out of sight.

This pasting is not wrong —it is learned.

But when practiced too long,it slowly distances us from our own voice.

We begin sounding correctbut not connected.

Successfulbut slightly removed.

Presentbut carefully arranged.

When Pasting Becomes Revealing

There is another kind of cut and paste —one that often arrives later in life,quietly, without announcement.

It begins when we stop cutting truthand start cutting illusion.

We cut the need to impress.We cut the pressure to perform.We cut the fear of being unfinished.We cut the habit of over-explaining.

And then — gently — we paste something back.

Presence.Simplicity.Honesty.Enoughness.

This kind of pasting does not hide.

It reveals.

The Turning Point

The difference is not skill.

It is intention.

The same hands.The same action.

One edits to disappear.The other edits to arrive.

One removes self.The other removes noise.

And that shift changes everything.

A Quiet Recognition

Most people do not realize they have been cutting and pasting their lives.

Until one day they feel tired —not from work,not from age,but from maintenance.

From carrying versions of themselvesthat once helped them survivebut no longer help them live.

That moment is not failure.

It is awareness.

What Remains

Somewhere along the way — often later than we expected —we begin to notice something subtle.

The parts we cut to survivewere never weaknesses.

They were tenderness.Curiosity.Unfinished courage.

And the identities we pasted to feel safewere not lies —they were armor.

Necessary once.

Heavy now.

Perhaps maturity is not becoming more impressive.

Perhaps it is becoming less edited.

Less managed.

Less assembled for approval.

In five decades across five continents,I have seen this pattern repeat —in professional spaces and private lives,in young ambition and seasoned reflection.

The most peaceful people I have metare not those who perfected their image.

They are those who stopped cutting what made them human.

And stopped pasting what made them acceptable.

There is relief in that.

Not loud relief.

But steady.

The kind that lets you enter a roomwithout rearranging yourself first.

Not because you fixed yourself.

But because you stopped editingwhat was never broken.

Final Quiet Question

Perhaps the question is not whether we cut and paste.

We all do.

The quieter question is this:

Are we editing to disappear —or editing to arrive?

Five decades. Five continents. Still arriving.

🇨🇦 www.salmiinconversation.com 🇨🇦 www.salmizindagi.substack.com

Time has moved on.Classrooms have emptied.Voices have softened into memory.

And yet, something remains—alive, present, and quietly guiding.

Because some teachers do not belong to the past.They become part of the soul.I can still hear the echo of footsteps in old corridors,the turning of pages,the gentle pause before a teacher chose a word carefully—knowing it would stay.

And it is from that place…that this remembrance begins.

There are names we remember.And then there are presences we carry.

A teacher, in the truest sense, is not someone who simply transfers knowledge.

A teacher is someone who rearranges the architecture of a human being—quietly, patiently, and often without ever knowing the full extent of their impact.

As I look back—from my earliest days in primary school to the corridors of university—I do not see a sequence of classrooms.I see a lineage.

A lineage of individuals who did not just teach subjects…They taught ways of being.

Beyond the Lesson — The Formation of a Life

Some taught me how to read.Others taught me how to think.A few—rare and unforgettable—taught me how to live.

They introduced me to language, yes.But more importantly, they introduced me to silence between words—where meaning matures.

They taught formulas.But also showed me that not everything of value can be measured.

They corrected my mistakes.But never reduced me to them.

Looking back, I realize:What they offered was not instruction alone—it was formation.

The Invisible Curriculum

There was always another curriculum running quietly alongside the official one.

It was never written on the board.It was never part of an exam.

And yet, it shaped everything.

It taught:Dignity without arroganceCuriosity without restlessnessDiscipline without fearCompassion without display

They did not announce these lessons.They embodied them.

A pause before responding.A fairness in judgment.A gentleness in correction.A firmness when it mattered.

These were not methods.These were messages.

A Home Within Tarwala Bangla — Where Learning Became Living

There are places we pass through.And then there are places that pass into us.

Tarwala Bangla was not a house.It was a mohalla—a lived-in world of memory, people, and shared rhythms.

And within it stood a homethat carried a presence far greater than its walls.

It was the home of Professor Zaheeruddin Malik.

To enter that space was not merely to visit a residence.It was to step into a way of living—one shaped by compassion, curiosity, common sense, dignity, humility, and grace.

Nothing was announced.And yet, everything was understood.

Learning did not arrive as instruction.It unfolded through presence.

Conversations carried depth without weight.Silences invited reflection, not discomfort.Guidance corrected gently—without ever diminishing.

This was not just taleem.This was tarbiyat.

Professor Malik did not present himself as an authority.He lived as one.

He showed—quietly, consistently:That humility refines knowledgeThat dignity does not need displayThat learning is a responsibility, not a possession

The mohalla of Tarwala Bangla gave it context.But his home gave it meaning.

And those who entered it did not leave unchanged.

They carried something with them.

In how they listened.In how they spoke.In how they held themselves in moments unseen.

If I am to trace the formation of my own inner compass,I cannot do so without pausing here.

Because somewhere between those walls—within that mohalla—something in me was quietly aligned.

Teachers as Architects of the Inner World

If I am to speak truthfully, then I must say this:

I did not build myself alone.

There are fingerprints within me that are not mine.

The way I listen.The way I question.The way I hold silence.The way I return to learning—even now.

These are not accidents.They are inheritances.

Each teacher became, in their own way,an architect of my inner world.

They did not construct walls.They created space.

Space to think.Space to doubt.Space to grow into something I could not yet name.

Roots That Do Not Age

Time has moved forward.

Classrooms have emptied.Voices have faded.Many of those who shaped me have now moved to their final place of rest.

And yet—their presence has not diminished.

Because true teaching does not end with time.It becomes part of the learner.

They live on:In every thoughtful pauseIn every careful decisionIn every moment of restraintIn every act of quiet integrity

They are not behind me.

They are within me.

A Quiet Promise

There is a responsibility that comes with being taught well.

It is not to replicate.It is not to imitate.

It is to honor.

In my own journey—across years, continents, and experiences—I have tried, in my imperfect way, to live in a manner that would make them proud.

Not through achievement alone.But through conduct.

Through:Respecting knowledgeValuing humanityRemaining a studentOffering what I can, where I can

If there is any worth in what I have become,it is, in part, a continuation of what they began.

Gratitude Beyond Words

How does one thank those who shaped the unseen?

There are no ceremonies for this.No final acknowledgments.

Only a quiet knowing.

And perhaps…a life lived with enough gracethat it becomes a form of gratitude.

To My Teachers

Wherever you are—in memory, in time, or in eternity—

Know this:

Your lessons did not end in the classroom.They became a life.

And in that life,you are remembered—not in words alone,but in ways of being.

Some inherit wealth.Some inherit land.I inherited teachers.

And through them—a way to live,a compass to walk with,and a life to honor.

🇨🇦 www.salmiinconversation.com 🇨🇦 www.salmizindagi.substack.com

Observing this moment:Badruddin Faiz Tyabji, Vice Chancellor.

A moment where presence, learning, and history stood quietly together — not merely as individuals, but as custodians of a time that continues to speak.

After hearing, some moments remain incomplete — they arrive fully only when seen.___________________________________________________________________

A morning walk, a childhood home, and a quiet realization that the deepest lessons of life are learned by witnessing how others give.

Some lives teach without speaking, and their lessons continue long after the doorway has closed.

Every life is shaped by places that never announce themselves as teachers.For me, one such place was a house in Tarbangla — where generosity moved quietly through doorways, and where I first witnessed what it means for one life to sustain another.

A House That Became a Centre of Gravity

Every neighborhood has places that shape its moral climate. In Tarbangla, certain homes steadied the community simply by how life was lived within them.

The household of Major Hameed ul Hassan Sahab was one such place.

Some houses shelter families.Some houses shape character.

What one felt there was balance — strength without harshness, dignity without distance, humility without display.

Even as a child, you sensed an unspoken standard. Respect flowed naturally. Care required no announcement.

That home became a centre of gravity, drawing people not through authority, but through quiet integrity.

What moves me most today is that this spirit did not end with one generation.

The same values — love offered gently, generosity practiced naturally, dignity carried with humility — continue through the offspring of that household, not as memory preserved but as character lived.

The lesson remains simple and enduring:

Giving is not an act. It is a way of being.

Years later, during a morning walk far from that neighborhood, a flower and a bumblebee returned that memory to me — reminding me that some ways of living never leave us. They simply wait for recognition.

Where Giving First Learned to Breathe

Some truths do not begin in books.They begin in homes.

Long before I understood generosity as a virtue or dignity as a principle, I witnessed a way of living in Tarbangla where giving moved quietly through everyday life — through open doors, shared spaces, and unspoken responsibilities toward one another.

Among those living memories stands one home that shaped my understanding without ever announcing that it was teaching: the house of Major Hameed ul Hassan Sahab. (Papa and Baji)

It was not generosity displayed, but generosity practiced.Not kindness spoken, but kindness lived.

Care seemed to pass naturally through its doorways — offered without calculation, received without hesitation — as though life itself flowed through that house and continued outward into the neighborhood.

Only much later did I understand that what I had witnessed there was not merely culture or courtesy, but a philosophy:

giving without keeping score.

A Morning Walk, A Returning Memory

Years later, during an early morning walk far from Tarbangla, I encountered a scene that felt strangely familiar.

A Coneflower — Echinacea — stood open to the morning light. Upon it rested a bumblebee, gently receiving the serum of life the flower offered.

There was no urgency.No bargaining.No awareness of giving or receiving.

And suddenly the moment felt less like nature and more like remembrance.

The flower was not merely a flower.The bee was not merely a bee.

Together, they reflected something I had known since childhood — the quiet exchange I had once witnessed moving through the doorways of the house of Major Hameed ul Hassan Sahib:

one life offering,another life sustained,both participating in something larger than themselves.

In that instant, distance between past and present dissolved.

The morning walk became a return.

The Silent Conversation Between Two Lives

The flower gave.The bee received.And beauty multiplied beyond both.

The flower did not calculate loss.The bee did not question worthiness.

There was no transaction — only participation.

Nature was not teaching something new.It was reminding me of something already lived.

Giving and Receiving: A Way of Living

In Tarbangla, generosity was never discussed as virtue. It existed as atmosphere.

Doors opened before requests formed.Care arrived before need was spoken.Neighbors carried quiet responsibility for one another without calling it kindness.

As children, we absorbed these rhythms unconsciously. We were not instructed to be generous; we were surrounded by generosity until it felt natural.

We did not learn giving from books.We learned it by watching how people lived.

What the World Later Confirmed

Life eventually carried me far beyond Tarbangla — across continents, professions, and cultures.

Only then did I recognize how rare such quiet generosity truly is.

Again and again, I witnessed that societies move forward not only through ambition but through unseen acts of care:

a mentor giving time without gain,a colleague sharing credit without calculation,a stranger offering help without inquiry.

Each moment echoed the same silent agreement I had first known in childhood — the agreement now unfolding between flower and bee.

A Morning That Became Understanding

As I watched the coneflower and the bumblebee, realization arrived gently:

This was not discovery.It was recognition.

The flower gives because life continues through giving.The bee receives because life continues through receiving.

Neither keeps score.

And suddenly decades of experience aligned into one quiet truth:

The most enduring lives are not those that accumulate the most,but those that allow others to grow.

Gratitude Without Measurement

In that moment, gratitude felt less like emotion and more like awareness.

Awareness of the many invisible flowers that nourished my own journey — people whose kindness shaped paths I could never fully repay.

I offered a silent thank you:

to the morning,to the flower,to the bee,to Tarbangla,to neighbors who practiced care without naming it,and to the household of Major Hameed ul Hassan Sahib, whose example continues to illuminate dignified living.

Gratitude, I have learned, is not repayment.

It is remembrance.

When Life Continues Through Life

The sun rose higher. The path called me forward again. The world resumed its pace.

But something within remained still.

The deepest teachings of life are rarely spoken. They are witnessed through how people live — through homes where humility and strength coexist, through families where generosity becomes instinct, through traditions that survive because they are practiced daily.

When life touches life without expectation,when giving flows without keeping score,life does not merely pass forward.

It continues.

And somewhere, even now, a flower offers life,a bee receives it,and kindness moves quietly through unseen doorways.

A Quiet Acknowledgment

Some influences shape us without declaring themselves teachers.

Among the enduring impressions of my childhood, the household of Major Hameed ul Hassan Sahib remains one such influence — a place where dignity, humility, and generosity were practiced naturally rather than performed.

What makes this legacy remarkable is its continuity. These values continue today through the members of that family — not as inheritance of reputation, but as inheritance of conduct.

Perhaps the highest form of giving is this:to create a way of living that continues nourishing others long after the lesson itself was never spoken aloud.

Let This Be Our Dialogue

If this reflection speaks to you, pause with it.

Where was your life quietly nourished?Who became the flower in your story?Where might you now become that presence for another — gently, without announcement?

Because when life touches life,and no one keeps score,beauty does not merely remain.

It multiplies.

I have come to believe that life endures not through what we achieve, but through what continues because we were present — a kindness repeated, a dignity remembered, a way of living carried forward without instruction.

Somewhere, a flower still offers.Somewhere, another life receives.And through quiet homes and open hearts, the world becomes gentler — one unseen act at a time.

🇨🇦 www.salmiinconversation.com 🇨🇦 www.salmizindagi@substack.com

Some lives teach without speaking, and their lessons continue long after the doorway has closed.

Every life is shaped by places that never announce themselves as teachers.For me, one such place was a house in Tarbangla — where generosity moved quietly through doorways, and where I first witnessed what it means for one life to sustain another.

Years later, during a morning walk far from that neighborhood, a flower and a bumblebee returned that memory to me — reminding me that some ways of living never leave us. They simply wait for recognition.

Where Giving First Learned to Breathe

Some truths do not begin in books.They begin in homes.

Long before I understood generosity as a virtue or dignity as a principle, I witnessed a way of living in Tarbangla where giving moved quietly through everyday life — through open doors, shared spaces, and unspoken responsibilities toward one another.

Among those living memories stands one home that shaped my understanding without ever announcing that it was teaching: the house of Major Hameed ul Hassan Sahib. (Papa and Baji)

It was not generosity displayed, but generosity practiced.Not kindness spoken, but kindness lived.

Care seemed to pass naturally through its doorways — offered without calculation, received without hesitation — as though life itself flowed through that house and continued outward into the neighborhood.

Only much later did I understand that what I had witnessed there was not merely culture or courtesy, but a philosophy:

giving without keeping score.

A Morning Walk, A Returning Memory

Years later, during an early morning walk far from Tarbangla, I encountered a scene that felt strangely familiar.

A Coneflower — Echinacea — stood open to the morning light. Upon it rested a bumblebee, gently receiving the serum of life the flower offered.

There was no urgency.No bargaining.No awareness of giving or receiving.

And suddenly the moment felt less like nature and more like remembrance.

The flower was not merely a flower.The bee was not merely a bee.

Together, they reflected something I had known since childhood — the quiet exchange I had once witnessed moving through the doorways of the house of Major Hameed ul Hassan Sahib:

one life offering,another life sustained,both participating in something larger than themselves.

In that instant, distance between past and present dissolved.

The morning walk became a return.

The Silent Conversation Between Two Lives

The flower gave.The bee received.And beauty multiplied beyond both.

The flower did not calculate loss.The bee did not question worthiness.

There was no transaction — only participation.

Nature was not teaching something new.It was reminding me of something already lived.

Giving and Receiving: A Way of Living

In Tarbangla, generosity was never discussed as virtue. It existed as atmosphere.

Doors opened before requests formed.Care arrived before need was spoken.Neighbors carried quiet responsibility for one another without calling it kindness.

As children, we absorbed these rhythms unconsciously. We were not instructed to be generous; we were surrounded by generosity until it felt natural.

We did not learn giving from books.We learned it by watching how people lived.

A House That Became a Centre of Gravity

Every neighborhood has places that shape its moral climate. In Tarbangla, certain homes steadied the community simply by how life was lived within them.

The household of Major Hameed ul Hassan Sahib was one such place.

Some houses shelter families.Some houses shape character.

What one felt there was balance — strength without harshness, dignity without distance, humility without display.

Even as a child, you sensed an unspoken standard. Respect flowed naturally. Care required no announcement.

That home became a centre of gravity, drawing people not through authority, but through quiet integrity.

What moves me most today is that this spirit did not end with one generation.

The same values — love offered gently, generosity practiced naturally, dignity carried with humility — continue through the offspring of that household, not as memory preserved but as character lived.

The lesson remains simple and enduring:

Giving is not an act. It is a way of being.

What the World Later Confirmed

Life eventually carried me far beyond Tarbangla — across continents, professions, and cultures.

Only then did I recognize how rare such quiet generosity truly is.

Again and again, I witnessed that societies move forward not only through ambition but through unseen acts of care:

a mentor giving time without gain,a colleague sharing credit without calculation,a stranger offering help without inquiry.

Each moment echoed the same silent agreement I had first known in childhood — the agreement now unfolding between flower and bee.

A Morning That Became Understanding

As I watched the coneflower and the bumblebee, realization arrived gently:

This was not discovery.It was recognition.

The flower gives because life continues through giving.The bee receives because life continues through receiving.

Neither keeps score.

And suddenly decades of experience aligned into one quiet truth:

The most enduring lives are not those that accumulate the most,but those that allow others to grow.

Gratitude Without Measurement

In that moment, gratitude felt less like emotion and more like awareness.

Awareness of the many invisible flowers that nourished my own journey — people whose kindness shaped paths I could never fully repay.

I offered a silent thank you:

to the morning,to the flower,to the bee,to Tarbangla,to neighbors who practiced care without naming it,and to the household of Major Hameed ul Hassan Sahib, whose example continues to illuminate dignified living.

Gratitude, I have learned, is not repayment.

It is remembrance.

When Life Continues Through Life

The sun rose higher. The path called me forward again. The world resumed its pace.

But something within remained still.

The deepest teachings of life are rarely spoken. They are witnessed through how people live — through homes where humility and strength coexist, through families where generosity becomes instinct, through traditions that survive because they are practiced daily.

When life touches life without expectation,when giving flows without keeping score,life does not merely pass forward.

It continues.

And somewhere, even now, a flower offers life,a bee receives it,and kindness moves quietly through unseen doorways.

A Quiet Acknowledgment

Some influences shape us without declaring themselves teachers.

Among the enduring impressions of my childhood, the household of Major Hameed ul Hassan Sahib remains one such influence — a place where dignity, humility, and generosity were practiced naturally rather than performed.

What makes this legacy remarkable is its continuity. These values continue today through the members of that family — not as inheritance of reputation, but as inheritance of conduct.

Perhaps the highest form of giving is this:to create a way of living that continues nourishing others long after the lesson itself was never spoken aloud.

Let This Be Our Dialogue

If this reflection speaks to you, pause with it.

Where was your life quietly nourished?Who became the flower in your story?Where might you now become that presence for another — gently, without announcement?

Because when life touches life,and no one keeps score,beauty does not merely remain.

It multiplies.

I have come to believe that life endures not through what we achieve, but through what continues because we were present — a kindness repeated, a dignity remembered, a way of living carried forward without instruction.

Somewhere, a flower still offers.Somewhere, another life receives.And through quiet homes and open hearts, the world becomes gentler — one unseen act at a time.

www.salmizindagi@substack.com

Returning takes courage - not because the past might hurt, but because it might tell the truth.

It might reveal that we survived.That we changed.That we outgrew certain dreams without betraying them.

The greatest risk is not that we will feel too much.It is that we will finally understand.

And understanding reshapes responsibility.

Some journeys do not end with arrival; they deepen, quietly, as we learn to stand fully in the now.

I am not standing in memory - I am standing with it, in the present, as it continues to shape who I am becoming.

I returned to a place I once called home, believing I was coming back to walls, corridors, and familiar corners.What I discovered instead was that the place had been waiting - not for my explanations, but for my presence.

This was not a trip.It was not nostalgia disguised as travel.It was a reckoning with time, experience, and the quiet accumulation of life.

A personal pilgrimage is not measured in miles.It is measured in awareness.

The Journey That Never Really Ended

Across decades - across continents, professions, responsibilities, and expectations - I had kept moving forward. Like many, I equated progress with motion: more effort, more exposure, more velocity. Life rewarded momentum generously.

And yet, something essential remained unresolved - not unfinished, but unexamined.

Returning was not an attempt to relive the past.It was an invitation to stand beside it, with maturity instead of longing.

Roots That Do Not Chain - They Guide

We often misunderstand roots.

We assume they bind us, limit us, pull us backward.In truth, roots do not imprison. They orient.

The roots I returned to were not intact. Some were gone - people, voices, certainties, entire chapters of life. But absence itself carried meaning. It reminded me that guidance does not require permanence, only imprint.

What shapes us once continues to shape us - quietly, invisibly - long after the form disappears.

Roots do not ask us to stay.They ask us to remember how to stand.

What Experience Teaches That Memory Cannot

Experience is not repetition; it is refinement.

Life teaches slowly, and only when we are willing to listen without demanding answers. With time, I learned that growth is not about accumulation, but discernment- knowing what to carry forward and what to release without resentment.

The pilgrimage of self-understanding is rarely dramatic.It unfolds in pauses.In silences.In moments when nothing demands our attention - and yet everything becomes clear.

Wisdom does not announce itself.It settles.

The Quiet Courage of Returning

Returning takes courage - not because the past might hurt, but because it might tell the truth.

It might reveal that we survived.That we changed.That we outgrew certain dreams without betraying them.

The greatest risk is not that we will feel too much.It is that we will finally understand.

And understanding reshapes responsibility.

Carrying Forward, Not Backward

I did not return to reclaim ownership.I returned to acknowledge influence.

What mattered was not what remained standing, but what had already taken root within me - values, resilience, perspective, gratitude.

I left lighter than I arrived.Not emptied - but clarified.

A pilgrimage of this kind does not close a chapter.It realigns the narrative.

What a Return Is Really For

In the end, it wasn’t the homes of Tarbangla that had changed - it was the way I stood before them.

English House–Tarbangla asked for nothing from me: no explanations, no apologies, not even nostalgia.

It simply welcomed me with presence.

In its silence, I found a mirror; in its stillness, a reminder that time keeps moving us forward even as memory tries to hold us close.I walked away with no souvenirs and no certainties - only a quiet compass, steady enough to guide the days ahead.

And perhaps that is all a return is meant to offer:not proof of belonging,but a renewed understanding of the road ahead.

This is not a return to what was, but a moment of alignment - where memory becomes a compass, not an anchor.

www.salmiinconversation.com

Same is nothing.And nothing is ever the same.

I understood this not as a thought, not as philosophy -but as a truth that rose from the ground beneath my feetthe moment I stood again on the soil where my life first opened its eyes.

I returned carrying decades - continents crossed, responsibilities lived, people loved, people lost. I returned with memories heavier than anything I packed, yet lighter than breath. I did not come back to search for what once was. I came back to acknowledge what still lived quietly inside me, waiting.

The soil did not ask where I had been.It did not question my distance or my delay.It simply received me, the way only birthplaces do -without ceremony, without judgment, without demand.

Some homes I knew stood empty. Others had changed shape, purpose, rhythm.Childhood playgrounds were silent - the laughter that defined them now only alive in memory.

Teachers who shaped my earliest sense of dignity and discipline had retired; many had returned to the heavens. Their voices, however, had not faded. Their lessons walked beside me like loyal companions.

Returning to the soil that shaped me, to learn what change could never erase.

Routes had shifted. Roads had disappeared.

But memory - my oldest guide - had not lost its way.

Was this return for the worse or for the best?

Neither.

It was a return to understanding.

Memory does not calculate loss or gain.It holds both with the same gentle hand.It allows grief to sit beside gratitude,joy to coexist with absence,and reality to breathe without needing perfection.

The “same” I once knew no longer existed.The “nothing” I feared was never empty.

What lived in between was truth.

I did not return to relive childhood.I returned to recognize what childhood quietly planted:values absorbed without instruction,grace practiced without words,dignity offered without any expectation of return.

The soil whispered a reminder:Roots do not call out for attention -they only hope to be remembered.

I realized then that journeys are not measured by miles,but by what we carry back - not as trophies, but as responsibility.A responsibility to honour what shaped us,to move forward without abandoning what grounded us.

Time had not taken my beginnings away.It had simply protected them -refined, simplified, waiting patiently for me to be ready.

I did not come back to stay.I came back to bow.

To bow in gratitude.To bow in recognition.To bow before the truth that nothing essential is ever lost -it simply waits for our return.

A Return That Became a Beginning

And yet, this return held something more -something I had not expected.

This time, during this visit,I may have left a part of myself behindwith the younger faces I met for the very first time -young, innocent, hopeful faces carrying dreams still tender,yet powerful enough to shape the future.

They stood before me not as children of a forgotten past,but as torchbearers of a long and dignified legacy -descendants of teachers, educators, professors, doctors,technocrats, and lifelong learners who believedthat knowledge was not just a path,but a promise.

They carry big shoes to fill -shoes carved by forefathers who built futureswith chalk, compassion, discipline, and dignity.

As I looked into their eyes,

wondered whether I had managed to leave with themeven a small fragment of my seven decadesacross five continents -not as stories of survival,but as a map, a compass, a usable inheritance.

Something they could hold.Something that might help them walk straighter,reach higher,or at least believe that their dreams are valid.

In the meantime….

The Gift of Returning

Same is nothing.Nothing is ever the same.

But in between -in that quiet, sacred space where memory and meaning meet -life offers its most generous gift:

The chance to move forward without ever forgetting the soil that first taught us how to stand

.

There are days when Time feels like something slipping away from us —something we are always failing to hold.

We say to ourselves:

* I didn’t have time.

* Time betrayed me.

* Time is running too fast.

We treat Waqt as if it lives outside us: a force we chase, fear, resent, or depend on.

* But what if Time was never outside?

* What if Time is something living through us?

1. When We Turn Time Into an Enemy

We blame Time when we are late.We blame Time when we feel unprepared.We blame Time when life unfolds differently than we hoped.

“I wanted to change - but Time didn’t allow it.”“I tried to hold on - but Time took everything from me.”

We treat Time as the obstaclebecause Time reveals the truth:

What we have chosen.What we have avoided.What we have nurtured.What we have neglected.

Time itself is not harsh.Our encounter with truth is what hurts.

2. The Running

To avoid truth, we stay busy.We fill our hours with noise, movement, tasks, screens, conversations.

Not because life requires it -but because stillness sees us too clearly.

Time is not chasing us.Time is not running.

We are the ones running.

3. The Mirror Moment

Then one day - without planning -you see your own face in a mirror.

And it is not the face you show others.It is the face that has:

Carried stormsCarried silenceCarried loveCarried lossCarried courage without applauseCarried grief without witnessCarried hope without guarantee

Recognition comes quietly -not as judgment, but as truth returning home.

4. The Realization

Waqt is not something passing.

We are passing through Time.

Your reflection is not your age - it is the map of your becoming

5. The Human Face - A Scripture of Time

Your face is not tired - it is seasoned.Your eyes are not weary - they are wise.Your story is not broken - it is human.

Your face is:

A biography without inkA poem without soundA testament of endurance

Closing Acknowledgment

Stand in your own presence.

I see you.I honor your survival.I am still becoming.

We are not moving through Time.Time is moving through us.Time lives within us - carrying our becoming.I Am Waqt.

My journey began in a world where a handshake was a signature and a word was a bond.

We didn’t need digital contracts or encrypted approvals; our credibility was our identity.

It was planted in the soil of family values and watered by humility, perseverance, and patience.

Our elders never lectured about credibility - they lived it.

They taught us that dignity was a daily discipline and grace the highest degree ever earned.

Those lessons became my first curriculum - not in a classroom but at the dinner table,

in the silence of prayer, and in the way truth was spoken even when it cost comfort.

That was the foundation: a life where credibility was not a status - it was a standard.

2. The Age of Credentials - When Recognition Became Reward

As the world evolved, the era of credentials arrived - degrees, titles, and distinctions.

They opened doors to global institutions and professional landscapes,

and I embraced them, knowing they were important.

Yet I soon discovered something deeper - credentials introduced you; credibility kept you invited.

A certificate could open a conversation, but only a character could sustain it. In every boardroom and classroom, I saw that the most credible voice was not the loudest one but the most consistent one. Credentials are earned by fulfilling requirements; credibility is earned by fulfilling responsibilities.

3. The Test of Time - When Choices Define Character

Life’s true examination is not written on paper; it’s written in decisions. Each crossroad - between ease and ethics, between applause and authenticity - tests whether we seek comfort or conscience.

Credibility is shaped in those silent moments when no one is watching and strengthened in those visible moments when everyone is.

* It is not the product of policy; it is the proof of principle.

* And every time we choose integrity over advantage, we deposit another coin in the timeless treasury of credibility.

4. The Cloud of Possibilities - The Digital and AI Age

* Now we live in an age where velocity has replaced volume.

* Artificial Intelligence, automation, and digitization define our new rhythm.

* We are surrounded by data, decisions, and dashboards - but we must not let algorithms erase our authenticity.

AI gives us speed, but credibility gives us direction. Technology amplifies reach, but dignity refines purpose.

* Data informs, but grace transforms.

* In this hyper-connected world, credibility becomes the rarest algorithm - the human code that cannot be hacked or replicated.

To the new generation - the architects of tomorrow - let your credentials open doors, but let your credibility open hearts.

5. Credibility - The Currency of Character

In every era, humanity has needed a moral currency. Once it was gold, then paper, then digital credit.

* But the one currency that never devalues is credibility.

* It does not inflate with applause or deflate with criticism.

* It gains worth through service, sincerity, and self-respect.

Credibility cannot be traded, franchised, or monetized.

* It is not a product - it is a presence.

* It is not a transaction - it is a transformation.

*

Those who possess it quietly shape societies; those who lose it, lose even their most glittering credentials.

6. From Roots to Clouds - A Continuum of Grace

I have traveled across continents and decades - from the roots of simplicity

to the clouds of complexity - and one truth has remained luminous: credibility is the bridge between who we were and who we are becoming.

* It carried me through the corridors of institutions and the storms of change.

* It accompanied me into boardrooms, classrooms, and now into the cloud-age where knowledge is instant but wisdom must still be earned.

As I look back, I know it was not my credentials that sustained me - it was credibility, hand in hand with dignity, decorum, and gratitude. And as I look forward, I hope this truth finds its way

into the hearts of the next generation:

* Be known not for what you hold, but for what you uphold.

* Because credentials can make you visible - but only credibility can make you valuable.

There is a difference between pleasure and happiness. I did not learn this from books or borrowed philosophies. I learned it walking through seven decades of a life that stretched across continents, countries, and cities.

Each place offered its own gifts:

* the scent of freshly baked bread in a European backstreet,

* the call to prayer echoing through ancient minarets,

* the gentle sway of Caribbean waves,

* the disciplined hum of North American cities.

Each place whispered stories through its history, architecture, traditions, and languages - stories of human greatness and human frailty.

🌍 The Mosaic of Experience - Where Pleasure Meets Discovery

In the vibrant markets of the Middle East, I learned the pleasure of taste and color - the spices, the bargaining laughter, the warmth of a stranger’s welcome.

But beyond taste, I walked into worlds of discovery and invention - libraries, museums, and universities where human thought leapt forward.

I stood in the shadows of the Renaissance, feeling the pulse of an age when curiosity broke the chains of fear.

I listened to echoes of philosophers who challenged minds, educators who shaped nations, mathematicians who found patterns in chaos, and mystics who turned the search inward toward the soul.

Through these encounters, I discovered that pleasure is the thrill of learning, and happiness is the wisdom of understanding.

🌳 The Stillness of South Asia - and the Roar of London Streets

In the quiet courtyards of South Asia, I learned happiness in the stillness of an evening - conversation flowing under the shade of an old tree.

In the bustling streets of London, I learned that pleasure can be the thrill of a first achievement, but happiness is the pride of standing on my own feet far from home.

❄️ Canada - Where Kindness and Curiosity Walk Together

Through snow-laden mornings and open skies, I discovered that happiness can outlast seasons, and pleasure becomes sweeter when shared.

Here, kindness and curiosity are everyday habits.At every turn, humility greets you like an old friend, reminding you to thank everyone - from the neighbor who clears your snowy driveway to the stranger who holds the door open without expecting thanks.

⚖️ The “But” That Defines the Journey

I have seen the best and worst of humanity - walked through corridors of kindness and narrow lanes of cruelty.

* But… I passed through unscathed, unscarred, unhurt in the ways that truly matter.

* But… I emerged enriched, carrying enormous gratitude in my heart.

* But… I stayed humble, knowing everything I am is built on the shoulders of those who came before.

* But… I stayed humble, knowing everything I am is built on the shoulders of those who came before

And above all, I remained human - protected by the purity my parents were made of.

💫 What This Journey Taught Me

* Pleasure is the smile of a stranger who helps you find your way in a foreign city.

* Happiness is knowing kindness is a language understood everywhere.

* Pleasure is the applause after your first public speech in a language not your own.

* Happiness is the quiet pride of having the courage to stand there.

They are not enemies or twins.

They are traveling companions - sometimes close, sometimes apart - yet always part of the same story.

🌅 Final Reflection - The Compass of Humanity

Now, as I look back across these seven decades, I do not count my life in years but in moments that mattered.

* I have learned that pleasure colors the pages of our story, but happiness writes the chapters.

* And when both walk with you - even for a short stretch - you feel the richness of being alive.

So I move forward with gratitude as my anchor and humanity as my compass.Because in the end, the true journey is not in the miles traveled, but in the person you become along the way.

If this reflection spoke to you, join me for more letters and conversations at salmizindagi.substack.c…

Some stories begin at the beginning. But this one begins here - with a quiet meeting between you and me.

I am not here to tell you what to do with your life.

I am here to walk with you, side by side, through the landscapes I have crossed, the skies I have stood under, and the truths I have learned to hold gently.

My story has been shaped by seven decades of living, yet it is not a tale of grand destinations. It is the story of footsteps - some light, some heavy - across far-flung fields of life, across cultures, languages, and customs, through the turning seasons of human nature itself.

The Map Before the Map

When I set out, there was no ready-made map for my journey. I walked into the unknown with a heart curious enough to be surprised and humble enough to be taught.

In those early years, my parents’ presence was not just a comfort - it was a compass.

Their values - respect, simplicity, and integrity - became the first roads I ever traveled. They taught me that the measure of a life is not in possessions gathered, but in character built.

The Weight and Wealth of Exposure

Life gave me more than I could have ever planned. I found myself breathing in the spice-scented air of one city, listening to the ocean’s hymn in another, and standing beneath the towering silence of mountains in yet another. Each place had its own rhythm, its own rituals, its own unspoken codes. And the greatest lesson? To belong everywhere, you must arrive with respect, listen before you speak, and let gratitude be your handshake.

Exposure was not just about seeing the world; it was about feeling it until it reshaped my understanding of humanity.

The Craft of Experience

Experience, unlike exposure, does not happen to you by chance - it is carved through choice, trial, and persistence. There were times when I was certain of my next step, and times when I walked in fog. I learned that success is often silent, but failure speaks loudly if you’re willing to hear it. Like a potter’s hands on clay, every twist and turn of life’s wheel shaped me - into someone who values patience over haste, character over comfort, and understanding over opinion.

Crossing Continents, Crossing Selves - The Bridges Between Past and Possibility.

The more I traveled, the more I realized that geography changes the scenery, but not the essence of human need. In the crowded streets of one country or the quiet lanes of another, people sought the same things - dignity, love, safety, and a sense of belonging. I carried traditions from my own heritage into new lands, and in return, I was gifted with stories, customs, and wisdom from others. Each crossing was not just from one place to another - it was a crossing into a deeper version of myself.

The Bridge Between Generations

Now, I see my life as a bridge - built from the stones of my experiences and the steel of my parents’ guidance - stretching between generations. I stand here not as someone who has “figured it all out,” but as someone who has lived enough to know that wisdom is not a possession, it is a responsibility.

If I can pass on even one truth, it is this: your journey is richer when you walk it with gratitude, humility, and the willingness to keep learning.

The Gratitude Thread

Gratitude is not just a feeling; it is a discipline. It is what keeps the heart light even when the road is heavy. I owe my parents for planting its roots deep within me. I owe countless teachers, friends, and strangers for watering those roots with kindness. I have seen wealth and I have seen need.

I have stood in boardrooms and in fields. But the richest moments were always the simplest - sharing bread, exchanging smiles, listening to someone’s story as though it were the most important thing in the world.

The Now

So, here we are. Two people meeting across the bridge of words. I offer you my story not as an instruction manual, but as a companion for your own path. Wherever you are, whatever you face, remember: life is not about racing to the end of the map. It is about noticing the colors along the way, carrying forward the lessons, and passing on the light. And if you remember me at all, let it be as someone who lived simply, loved deeply, learned endlessly - and never stopped thanking life for the gift of being here.

These seventy years across five continents have not been about collecting achievements, but about collecting meanings.

They have taught me that life is not a puzzle to be solved, but a gift to be lived. To learn how to live, to live with love, and to love simply the act of living - that has been my compass. I have stumbled, I have risen, I have carried both silence and laughter, and through it all, I have tried to honor this truth: that every day is a chance to begin again, to learn again, and to love again. And in the end, I have been trying - with all my heart - to just do that.

Are you ready to walk with me?

So this is where I stand today - still learning to live, still living to love, and still loving to live. And now, my friend, I ask you… will you walk with me?

If this reflection spoke to you, join me for more letters and conversations at salmizindagi.substack.c…

* Dignity — in how we carry ourselves.

* Decorum — in how we engage with others.

* Grace and gratitude — in how we face both trials and triumphs.

* Care and kindness — as the true currency of wealth.

* Love for life — as the melody of every season.

These are not just lessons.They are treasures collected from a journey across five continents.

Join the journey of Salmi’s life - and let’s keep walking it together.

salmizindagi.substack.com

Because what lies ahead is not a retreat from life, but a return to living. And in our next part, we’ll walk together even deeper into how you can craft this new chapter with dignity, courage, and joy.

Think of it… retirement is not a retreat from life, but a renewal of life’s power — a chance to face challenges with grace, carry dignity forward, and step into the future with courage.

Remember - always - you are better than yesterday, and you will be the best tomorrow. This is your life. This is your journey. Keep learning to live, and keep living to love.

And remember who said this? Salmi said this. Not as a claim, but as a truth forged through 70 years of a journey built on gratitude, grace, and dignity.

Reveal the strength built over decades of experience…… more to come.

Fourth Meeting with Salmi – A New Beginning at Minto Circle

This fourth meeting with Salmi continues the journey—this was the day a new light was about to shine on Salmi’s life. It was the day already decided: young Salmi was to be admitted to Minto Circle. That one day opened the door to a decade of learning ahead.A short note was sent a day before through Pirani Bua to Madam Khalida at her home. Pirani Bua was like our family’s WhatsApp messenger—always careful with her dress, clad in white scarf, long shirt, and churidar pajama. She walked about four and a half minutes to Madam Khalida’s house, delivered the note respectfully, and returned with a smile, letting Ammi know the message had been delivered.The next morning, as arranged, Hikmat Mian arrived with his rickshaw. Alongside Ammi and Hikmat Mian, I headed toward Minto Circle. As we turned the bend, the grand historic gate of Minto Circle came into view. When we approached the gate, the old clerk standing inside recognized Ammi and immediately opened the gate. He had a heavy keychain with dozens of keys—likely to every classroom. He was the guardian of that gate, performing his duty with great care.The rickshaw turned toward the primary school and stopped under a tree. As we got down, a teacher approached us swiftly—Madam Shami. She greeted Ammi with respect, addressing her as 'Majli Apa Jaan'. We were happy to see her because she used to visit our home. She was a classmate of my younger aunt, Anjum Khala, in her BA and MA, and also a student of my father. Her address carried that familiarity.Just a minute away was Madam Khalida’s office. Before Ammi could reach the door, Madam Khalida herself came out, greeted her warmly, and smiled at us. Her kind and familiar face reassured us. Soon, Madam Zakia also arrived, greeted Ammi the same way, smiled at us, and held my hand. She too was a classmate of my elder aunt, Shaukat Khala, and had studied under my father—this pattern continued.With joy and excitement, I hopped along with her into the school building. My brown sandals, ironed shirt, and neat shorts—Pirani Bua had prepared them all. We ran into Madam Qudsia along the way, who gently caressed my cheek and welcomed us. She too used to visit our home often.Inside, the required formalities were completed. As we were leaving, Madam Khalida said kindly to Ammi, 'You didn’t have to come, I would’ve taken Salmi myself.' But it was a gesture of formality. Both Madam Zakia and Madam Shami walked Ammi to the rickshaw, chatting warmly. Ammi invited them to visit us, and they promised to come.We rode back toward Tarwala Bungalow. At the gate, the same clerk opened it and greeted us again—this time with a rare smile. People said he seldom smiled, so this was special. Perhaps he thought to himself, 'Another one of their nephews has arrived!' He had served there since age fifteen or sixteen and had seen generations pass through.At home, I was gleaming with excitement. Pirani Bua was delighted seeing my glowing face. She took me to the adjacent room, removed my sandals and uniform, and dressed me in a small pajama and shirt. She asked, 'Would you like to eat something?' and I excitedly made a small request.That was the moment my journey with life began—Salmi had started conversing with life, and life had begun speaking back. In the next meeting—our fifth—we’ll move a bit away from Minto Circle and Tarwala Bungalow. But in the seventh meeting, we’ll return again—with the mention of a name: Azghar Mian.His image still appears before my eyes with deep respect—white beard, white hair, wrinkled face, filled with kindness and experience. Azghar Mian was a gentle soul, from whom I learned so much. I end today’s conversation with deep gratitude and respect. The next conversation will continue in the sixth meeting on this theme.

The third meeting with Salmi begins exactly where the second one ended.We’ll quickly mention my current place of residence, and then turn toward Minto Circle and Tar Bangla.

During this part of my journey, I live in a beautiful country called Canada, in its extremely beautiful capital city, Ottawa.There will be plenty to say about this country — and this city — because I’ve spent nearly thirty-four years living here.You can well understand what this country and city mean to me and what role they’ve played in my journey.

But let’s go back now to Tar Bangla and Minto Circle.The day finally arrived — the day my parents had decided upon.The story of life’s journey was about to truly begin.

It was decided that Salmi would be admitted to Our Lady of Fatima School.There were two reasons behind this decision:the first was that most of the children my age — especially those living in our neighborhood — were either already going to that school or were about to.The second reason was that Urdu would improve at home anyway, but at Our Lady of Fatima, my English would also be polished — which would be quite useful in the future.

Then my mother, with her usual loving way, addressed me:"Son, tomorrow morning we’ll go out."I could hardly contain myself.The joy was written all over my face.

Hikmat Mian was sent word to come the next morning with his “Uber service.”He was a pious, refined, and extremely courteous man, highly respected in our home — though there was just one little flaw:he smoked beedis (local cigarettes) a lot.Clouds of smoke from his smoldering beedi would often surround his face.

He would park his rickshaw in the shade of Professor Uzair’s house,at an angle from which he could be seen from all directions of the neighborhood.A single raised hand was enough to summon his “Uber service.”Ah, such simple and clean days those were.

Morning came.Pirani Bua bathed and dressed me — she treated the children of the house as if they were kitchen utensils that had to be scrubbed clean.She was so committed that I can never forget her radiant, angelic face:clean, tidy white hair tied up neatly, a smiling, soothing face etched in my memory.Pirani Bua was also my mother’s legal, social, hygiene, and general health advisor.You can imagine how many important portfolios she held!

So Salmi was all spruced up — wearing shorts, a half-sleeve shirt, and brown sandals.Pirani Bua gave my hair one last stroke with the comb.I still had no idea where I was going.

Out of respect for my mother, Hikmat Mian hadn’t lit a beedi for ten minutes.

The rickshaw rolled out cheerfully, and we entered a building known as Our Lady of Fatima School.It was probably somewhere in Ameer Nishan or that area — if my memory serves me right.My friends and acquaintances can correct me if I’m mistaken.

I don’t remember whether the building was big or small, because the moment I saw the teachers’ faces, my senses flew away.Looking at their uniforms, I felt: “Oh dear, this really is some kind of school!”

The Sister Principal there had apparently once been one of my father’s students.I was really proud of the fact that in almost every school in that city, every third teacher had been taught by my father at the university.

Anyway, for the teachers, this was a whole new kind of experience.The moment Salmi made his entrance, the little spirit inside me woke up, thinking: “Oh no, this really IS a school!”And without any hesitation, my mischief unleashed a storm.

The chaotic scene that followed, the distress my fearless mischief caused those smiling faces —what can I say?In short, the commotion, the tearful outburst, the emotional turmoil that I created are beyond description.Apparently, the junior teachers even needed first aid.Later I heard that some of the administrative staff — who had fallen victim to my temper — even had to undergo treatment for a certain kind of depression.

Now just imagine how embarrassed my mother must have felt.

One thing I do remember is that the Sister Principal’s face still wore that same peculiar smile.Perhaps she had been trained to keep smiling in the face of such storms, or perhaps her salary included a large allowance for handling these kinds of “tornadoes.”

By then, Hikmat Mian had brought his rickshaw almost up to the office door and was waiting outside, listening to my wailing.

With much embarrassment and apology, my mother asked for permission, gathered her stormy little bundle into her arms, thanked Hikmat Mian, and headed back toward Tar Bangla.

This had been a non-stop tornado lasting about an hour and a half, which my mother, with her usual patience and smile, finally brought under control.

Even after reaching home, she didn’t express the slightest anger.Instead, she told Pirani Bua:"Bring something for Salmi to eat."

I still remember — Pirani Bua brought me a bowl of sago in milk with sugar sprinkled in, which I loved.After eating that sweet sago, I took a deep breath, drank some cold water, and, with innocent composure, busied myself with something else.

This incident flung wide open the great gates of Minto Circle for me.It was a pivotal moment in my life’s journey.For me, it was just an episode — but for the teachers at Our Lady of Fatima, it was surely a catastrophe.

That very evening, another important decision was made at home:I would now be enrolled at Minto Circle.So it was decided.This marked the beginning of my educational journey outside the home.

This story has probably grown too long already — perhaps it’s time to pause here.

Because Salmi’s entry into Minto Circle deserves to be told with all its splendor.Upon entering its gates, I was also introduced to Munshi Ji,and within just a few moments, I felt a deep sense of calm and peace.I kept smiling throughout that hour and a half.

Now you may be wondering:"In one school you were a tornado, and in the other you were all smiles and serenity — why?What was so different about the second school?"

Indeed, this is something to think about.In those days, the strategies that women employed — the decisions they made — were not just full of affection, but also marked by foresight.Their decisions had a philosophy, a consistency.Where affection was necessary, so was discipline.And once a decision was made and carried out, believe me, even affection stood at the door, ready to quietly slip away through a narrow alley if needed.

In the fourth meeting, I will describe the scene at Minto Circle and the considerations behind that decision.

Forgive me — as I mentioned at the beginning, Salmi was bound to speak at length about Minto Circle and Tar Bangla,because this was the era of my earliest guidance —the time when my personality was taking shape,when those aspects of me that had yet to emerge were beginning to come to light.

So for now, Salmi falls silent.The fourth meeting will no doubt be quite interesting…Salmi awaits it.

Believe me — a lot! What can I say? This habit took root in childhood. But I thought it best to warn you right at the start. Speaking has become a mental and physical need for me — and this passion, over time, has proven to be a blessing in my life. In this short journey of seventy years, I have gathered countless truths and lessons that I want to share with you. Lessons that — believe me — are not only important to me but perhaps meaningful to you as well. Where It All Began My life began seventy years ago, on this very day, in a small neighborhood of the Indian city of Aligarh. The neighborhood was called Taar Wala Bangla — “the house with wires.” This modest corner of the world grew under the wing of Aligarh Muslim University, nurtured in the shade of knowledge and scholars. Simplicity was its dress; love, kindness, and humanity thrived here. It was also the playground for all my mischiefs. In fact, I even formed a committee to properly organize these pranks — a committee I appointed myself to chair! To those old friends who may be reading this now: you were all part of that committee, and I’m sure you’re smiling. If you give me permission, I’ll proudly share your names someday too.

Two Names That Shaped My Life Alongside Taar Wala Bangla, another name became a precious part of my life: Minto Circle. These two institutions — more than mere places — became inseparable parts of me. They prepared me for the journey ahead. The education, the values, the resilience I gathered from them have stayed with me, lighting my path through every turn. Looking back, I feel immense pride in my parents’ foresight — that they chose these institutions to help me understand life and shape my character. A Mother’s Wisdom Let me also share a moment that became the philosophy of my life. As a boy, I often complained — and usually to my mother. One day, when I was at my most frustrated, she patiently listened to everything I had to say, smiling all the while. When I was done, she gently called me closer, placed her kind hand on me, and said: “Complain less, be grateful more.” She repeated it several times, as though she wanted it to sink deep. At the time, I only half understood. But as the years passed, and I continued walking through life, those words became clear. They were not just words — they were a philosophy, a gift from a patient, kind, and wise mother. They have guided me ever since. Until We Meet Again Nearly seventy years have passed now — filled with stories, spread across countries, cities, and continents. In our next meeting, I will share more of these experiences with gratitude, and also tell you where and how I find myself today. After that, I’ll take you back once again to Taar Wala Bangla and Minto Circle, and continue the story from there. So, now I’ve proven that Salmi really does talk a lot. For now, I’ll fall quiet — and look forward to our third meeting. Roots steady, horizons wide—walk with Salmi. http://salmizindagi.substack.com Salmi