Wrapped in Blue

By Huma Durrani

Zoyas life turns upside down with the diagnosis of Zakis autism. Trigerred by the trauma of her oldest childs condition Zoya plummets into chronic anxiety and depression. Zoyas strength of faith and irrepressible optimism carries her through to Zakis teenage years wherein he has flourished as a loving and jovial young adult

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Sep 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781482856255

Huma Durrani

Huma Durrani is a Pakistani Singaporean, an art therapist by profession and the mother of three beautiful boys the eldest of whom has autism. Spurred by her sons condition and inspired by the power of images Huma pursued a career in Art therapy and currently works with children with special needs and psycho-emotional issues. She decided to write a memoir of her journey with her son, which entailed huge challenges, emotional and psychological, in order to bring attention to the neglected area of special needs and mental illness. Her mission is to encourage openness, acceptance and advocacy of differences in individuals and the endorsement of a pro-active approach towards dealing with mental health issues. Huma is author of the following paper: Durrani, H. (2014). Facilitating Attachment in Children With Autism Through Art Therapy: A Case Study. Journal of Psychotherapy Integration, 24(2), 99-108.

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Copyright © 2015 by Huma Durrani.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

All events in the book are true and are based on the author’s life. The names of characters and some institutions have been changed due to confidentiality.

All artwork belongs to the author.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

www.partridgepublishing.com/india

Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Endnotes

Acknowledgements

A big thank you to Ambreen Noon Kazi, my editor, who helped shape the most significant part of my life into this book.

A word of thanks to Fatima Raja, who put me on the right track when I was floundering to begin.

And last but not least, immense gratitude to all the beautiful people who have been a part of my journey and have enriched my life.

For

Osman, Moeez, Murad, and Mikail

and for all the children of this world born with differences

Wrapped in Blue

Wrapped in blue

One of a kind

Gifted with love

From the Maker of all things

Of all shapes and kinds

A spark

In the shadows

A lamp in the niche

In the heavens I see your eyes,

In your eyes I see the heavens.

Why look for another Moon

or another Sun?

What I see will always be enough for me

—Rumi

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Burden 1

Prologue

Zoya had just completed writing a short article for an online magazine on her experiences at parenting a child with autism and asked Sara to critique it before submission. Sara or Saroo, her youngest sibling, follows Tanya, sister number 2; in all, they are three. Since it was Zoya’s first time at publishing any kind of printed material, she decided to run it by Saroo, who by virtue of being more left-brained than right was considered the smart one in their family. As expected, Zoya promptly received a call from Saroo. ‘It’s nice, Zoya, well-written… you should write a book!’ she commented casually.

Her apparently candid comment, spoken in innocence, was anything but that. Saroo’s words instantly ignited creative sparks in Zoya’s brain, releasing a tide of adrenaline and compelling a rapid firing of neurons that triggered forth a spontaneous ‘Yes, why not?’ from her lips, as if this were the most natural thing for Zoya to say while prising apart two bananas from a bunch of six at the neighbourhood grocery store. ‘Book? But of course a book!’ Energized by the anticipation of writing, Zoya could barely contain herself from getting back home and pounding the keys on her beloved Mac.

Cognizant of the fact that it may never be possible to achieve 100 per cent satisfaction while authoring one’s own life story, more so considering the preciousness of the subject, Zoya promised herself that she would try to enjoy the process of writing her memoir in its entirety, that she would follow her heart and let her memory flow back and forth over the troughs and peaks from a part of her life that she wanted to share with others, a part that had begun with a speck of life, which grew into a luminescent spark, illuminating all the paths that had been tread in its wake.

Joyful sentiments such as bliss, pleasure, happiness, and so on mean nothing if they are not relative to the opposite end of the emotional spectrum. Hence, the experience of true happiness and real joy may evade us if not for the suffering, anxiety, and pain that one must go through by virtue of being born human.

Here, therefore, is a narrative written by a mother, inspired by her seventeen-year-old son, who, when she first set her eyes on him, was ‘wrapped in blue’.

Year 2000

They knew something was not right with Zaki. Still, the referral letter that the paediatrician at Mt Eagles Hospital handed Amaar and Zoya pulled the carpet from under their feet. That day, as their son’s destiny lay brazenly imprinted on the stark white paper, its implications stirred a tidal wave of torment within the two people who loved him the most. The three words that glared at them from the rest of the text, suspected mental retardation spelt the end of their dreams, the fantasy of a perfect life, shattered, just like that!

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Burden 2

Chapter 1

Zaki, 2015

Zoya had not anticipated that walking through London would be so much fun with Zaki. The night before, as she had explained to Zaki the next day’s schedule, Zoya suggested that they stop by the Natural History Museum again. Their last visit had been rushed, as Zaki had run out of patience, and she had not been able to see much, apart from the dinosaur exhibit. For Londoners, the day was bright and sunny, a welcome break from the incessant drizzle of the previous week. A day such as this promised to fade the harsh memory of winter, even if for a little while.

As Zaki marched alongside Zoya down Pembroke Road, his curly black hair glistening in the English sun, he remarked out of the blue, ‘Mama, so what are you writing about in your book?’

Zoya, who was marvelling at the beautiful cherry blossom trees that lined the road, was completely caught off guard by Zaki’s question.

‘I am glad you want to know, Zaki,’ she remarked, glancing apprehensively at her seventeen-year-old, her eldest child, a ball of energy, all of five feet tall. Her trip so far had been full of wonderful surprises, and dare she hope that there were more to come?

‘As a matter of fact, I am very impressed, Zaki. That is a very smart question to have asked,’ Zoya added quickly, wanting to sustain Zaki’s attention, while simultaneously trying to sound casual. Standing at five inches taller than her son, Zoya, who was well built and athletic, struggled to keep up with a surprisingly fast-paced Zaki, whose slightly abrupt gait distinguished him from the average pedestrian. Did he really want to know her answer in earnest, or had he just asked about the book in passing? wondered Zoya. She could feel the quickening of her pulse in synchrony to her accelerated breath.

Taking note of the glowing red man turning a bright green, she cued Zaki to cross the road—‘Go now’—as they both rushed over to Cromwell Road.

‘So as I was saying, your question about the book—very happy you asked. What do you want to know?’ urged Zoya, not wanting Zaki to lose his train of thought. She prayed silently that his curiosity was not just wishful thinking on her part.

‘What have you written about?’ Zaki replied nonchalantly, his big brown eyes focusing on something in the far distance. All three of her boys had inherited their father’s eyes, though Zaki’s were a few shades lighter than his siblings, Asad and Hamza.

Seize the moment, Zoya, you must seize the moment… beckoned the voice in Zoya’s head. Zaki is taking an interest in the book for the first time, and it’s not a restaurant or a game of cricket! Zoya thought silently, trying to ignore the meddlesome sound of her overexcited heart.

Automatically a sentence from an autism-related text floated into her head from some book she had read. ‘Children with autism lack theory of mind [. . .] they have deficits in the area of imagination [. . .] they lack empathy [. . .] they are very focused on their interests.’ The fact that Zaki was showing interest in the book she was writing was simply mind-blowing!

As the silhouette of the Natural History Museum loomed in the foreground, Zoya slowed her pace in order to prolong the precious opportunity that had presented itself unexpectedly. This was a new side to her boy, an aspect of him that she had never come across before. The past six months had been full of exciting discoveries, and for the hundredth time, she thanked God that they had sent Zaki to the United Kingdom.

‘Zaki, you know the book is about you, right? About you and me and our family. How you were born in Pakistan and how we found out that you had autism when we moved to Singapore, then the therapies that we did with you, and finally, how you landed up in England. Basically, you are the hero of the book.’ Zoya spoke hurriedly, attempting to squeeze everything into one sentence, afraid that Zaki would lose interest in the topic.

‘So how did you find out I was autistic, Mama? Did you take me to a doctor in Pakistan?’ continued Zaki, clasping his pen firmly in his small hands. He needed to carry the pen with him all the time. It was his ‘thing’, something that he had to hold on to in order to stay grounded.

‘We did, Zaki beta,’ replied Zoya, tucking her unruly curls behind her ears, feeling fidgety, ‘but the doctor in Pakistan told us that we didn’t have to worry and that you would talk soon, but when you didn’t, we decided to see a doctor in Singapore where we had moved to by the time you were three years old.’ She was mindful that she was beginning to feel a bit light-headed.

‘Also, you had started to stim,¹ and that was something new and strange to us, and we thought maybe we should ask a doctor about it. So we took you to a specialist who diagnosed you with autism.’ Zoya glanced discreetly at Zaki’s face, looking out for signs of distress, but his next question was already coming her way.

‘What therapies did you do with me?’ he asked, not making any eye contact.

‘Um… let’s see—speech therapy so that you could talk better and occupational therapy² for your stimming, and then, you know, the ones we did with Auntie Anna and Auntie Lynn to teach you things like puzzles and stuff,’ explained Zoya. Zaki had a fantastic long-term memory, and he could recall names of all his therapists from the past fourteen years. His ability to remember people and events had always fascinated her.

‘How did the OT help with the stimming, Mama?’ Zaki continued, his slightly hunched shoulders taking away an inch from his already short stature. Ignoring the temptation to remind Zaki to correct his posture, Zoya went on to respond to his seemingly straightforward question, knowing that it begged a fairly complicated answer. She panicked for a second, struggling to simplify her response. Sure as hell, she was going to try her darned best to answer!

Thank you, Allah Mian, thank you, thank you for paving the way for Zaki to come to school here in England, she prayed silently, as she began to explain the connection between OT and sensory integration dysfunction (SID) to Zaki.

Back in the Seventies

Zoya, Sara, and Tanya, Kami bhai’s daughters and Zahida khala’s granddaughters, happened to be their claim to fame in the orbits of the Bandooq Khana and Khwaja family clans, two heavyweight Kashmiri families of Lahore bound to each other by caste as well as numerous intermarriages. Abba, their father, was a product of the illustrious Bandooq Khana clan, whereas Ammi, their mother, came from the Khwaja family gene pool, their marriage a result of an old friendship between their respective mothers, Dado Jan (Zahida khala) and Nani Ammi, who themselves were the progeny of the aforementioned families, as well as classmates at school.

It was no great surprise that Ammi and Abba were bound in holy matrimony; both their families were well known to each other, and of course, not to forget, they were pure Kashmiris. In fact, quite a few of Ammi’s second cousins were Abba’s second cousins; Ammi’s uncle’s daughter was married to Dado Jan’s first cousin, and Dado Jan’s uncle was married to Nani Ammi’s aunt, whose granddaughter was now married to Ammi’s first cousin… and so on and so forth, a web of intricately woven relationships, providing fuel for boundless gossip sessions.

Abba and Ammi, though not directly related, were peas of the same pod in many ways, owing to their lineage, yet polar opposites in others, due to their natural dispositions. For one, both looked like Kashmiris thanks to their fair complexions and rather prominent noses, hallmarks of most Kashmiri men and women. Also they were fairly tall and well-built, and it just so happened that both had very curly brown hair. In Abba’s case, his curls only graced the bottom half of his skull by his early forties, whereas Ammi’s curls had lost their battle to gigantic-sized rollers since as