I’ve been avoiding the conversation with Happy for three months now.
The five-year plan. Where we’re going. What we want. The kind of talk that could change everything or reveal we want different things.
Too important to approach. Too weighty to begin.
But last night, I rushed through Arash’s bedtime story because there were emails to check. Skimmed the pages, skipped descriptive passages, got to “the end” as quickly as possible.
He noticed. “Baba, you’re reading too fast.”
“Sorry, beta. Lots of work.”
He accepted this. Went to sleep. I went to check emails that weren’t actually urgent.
Avoided what mattered most. Rushed through what mattered most.
Same pattern, different fear.
This morning, Happy asked, “Should we talk about the plan tonight?”
“Maybe. If I’m not too tired after work.”
Translation: I’ll make sure I’m too tired.
At work, I stared at the presentation I’d been delaying for weeks. The important one for the senior management. Required competence I could summon when needed—research, slides, practice. Manageable.
But calling Abba to ask about his childhood memories before they fade? That required something else. Emotional availability. Presence. Vulnerability.
Competence feels safe. Presence feels exposed.
I’ve postponed that call for six months.
During lunch, my colleague Farhan mentioned his father died last month.
“I kept meaning to record his stories,” he said quietly. “Kept putting it off. Now they’re gone.”
I thought about my own father. Seventy-six, memory starting to slip. How many more chances would I have?
Still didn’t call him that day.
That evening in the car, Arash asked, “Baba, what happens when we die?”
The kind of question that deserves stopping the car, giving full attention, entering the moment completely.
Instead: “We go to Allah, beta. Now let Baba concentrate on driving.”
He went quiet. I’d shut down the meaningful moment because I couldn’t handle its weight.
Traffic was actually light. I wasn’t concentrating on driving. I was avoiding the conversation because it would require me to sit with uncertainty, with his fear, with my own mortality.
Easier to compress it into efficient response. Get back to thinking about work deadlines, grocery lists, the mental checklist that never ends.
At home, Happy was making dinner. I helped mechanically—chopping vegetables while thinking about everything except the present moment.
“You’re somewhere else,” she said.
“Just tired.”
“You’re always tired lately. Or busy. Or distracted.”
“Sorry.”
“I don’t want sorry. I want… presence.”
But presence meant vulnerability. Meant acknowledging that these moments—cooking together, talking about nothing and everything—wouldn’t last forever. That we were aging, Arash was growing up, time was moving.
Rushing through kept the impermanence at a distance.
That night after Arash slept, Happy tried again. “Can we talk about the plan?”
“I’m exhausted. Tomorrow?”
“You’ve said tomorrow for three months.”
“I know. I just… I need to be ready for that conversation.”
“When will you be ready?”
Good question. When would I be ready to face what we might disagree about? What compromises might be necessary? What truths might emerge?
The conversation demanded I confront myself—my fears about money, about success, about whether I was enough. Easier to delay indefinitely.
“Soon,” I said. Meaningless word.
Happy sighed. Didn’t push. Went to bed.
I stayed up checking social media. Not because anything there mattered but because nothing there demanded anything real from me.
The next morning, Abba called. Rare for him.
“Just wanted to hear your voice, beta.”
“How are you, Abba?”
“Fine, fine. Getting old. Forgetting things.”
This was my opening. Ask him about his memories. Record them. Do what I’d been postponing.
Instead: “That’s normal, Abba. Nothing to worry about.”
“I’ve been thinking about my father lately. Wish I’d asked him more questions when he was alive.”
The irony struck hard. But still I didn’t ask. Changed subject to safe topics—weather, Arash’s school, general pleasantries.
After hanging up, I felt hollow. The meaningful conversation was right there. I’d rushed past it.
At breakfast, Arash was eating slowly, thoughtfully.
“Baba, at school they said everyone dies. Even you and Amma.”
My chest tightened. This was the conversation from the car yesterday, returning.
I could rush through again. Offer quick reassurance. Move on to easier topics.
Or I could stop. Be present. Enter the difficult moment.
I sat down across from him. Put my phone away.
“Yes, beta. Everyone dies eventually.”
“When will you die?”
“Not for a very long time, inshallah. But yes, someday.”
“I don’t want you to die.”
“I know. I don’t want to either. That’s why we need to make the time we have matter.”
He thought about this. “Is that why you’re always busy? To make time matter?”
The question cut deep. I’d been rushing through meaningful moments thinking I was making other things matter. But what actually mattered?
“No, beta. I’ve been doing it wrong. I’ve been busy with unimportant things and rushing through important ones.”
“Like stories?”
“Like stories. Like this conversation.”
We sat together. He ate his cereal. I drank my coffee. Present for once.
“Can we read properly tonight?” he asked.
“Yes. We’ll read properly. No rushing.”
At work, I finally scheduled the presentation. Two weeks from now. No more delay.
Then I called Abba back.
“Abba, do you have time to talk? Really talk?”
“Always, beta.”
“Tell me about growing up. About your father. About things I should know.”
For an hour, he told stories. I recorded them on my phone. Heard things I’d never known about my grandfather, about Abba’s childhood, about family history that would have died with him if I’d kept postponing.
When we hung up, I felt full instead of hollow.
That evening, Happy tried once more. “The conversation about our plan?”
This time, I didn’t deflect.
“Yes. Let’s talk. I’m ready.”
“Are you really?”
“No. But I don’t think I’ll ever be completely ready. And waiting for ready means never talking.”
We sat on the balcony after Arash went to bed. Had the conversation I’d been avoiding for three months.
It was hard. Revealed disagreements, required compromises, forced me to confront my fears about adequacy and future.
But we didn’t break. We figured things out. Made actual plans instead of avoiding hypothetical ones.
“Why did it take three months?” Happy asked afterward.
“Because I was scared. Of what might come up. Of not being enough.”
“And now?”
“Still scared. But it’s less scary than avoiding it forever.”
That night, I read Arash’s bedtime story slowly. Every word. Every illustration. Fully present.
He noticed immediately. “You’re reading normal tonight.”
“Yeah. This is how it should be.”
“I like it better.”
“Me too, beta. Me too.”
After he slept, I made a list. Not of tasks to do but of what I’d been avoiding:
- Medical checkup (6 months overdue)
- Conversation with my brother about his drinking
- Financial planning we’d postponed
- Recording more of Abba’s stories
- Actually asking Happy about her dreams, not just logistics
And what I’d been rushing through:
- Time with Arash
- Conversations with Happy
- Moments of actual peace
- The present moment itself
The pattern was clear: I avoided what challenged me and rushed what completed me.
I procrastinated on important things because they demanded confronting uncomfortable truths. I hurried through meaningful moments because fully inhabiting them meant acknowledging their temporary nature.
Both fears served the same purpose: keeping me from being fully present in my own life.
The next weeks, I practiced differently. Scheduled the medical checkup. Had the difficult conversation with my brother. Made time for financial planning.
And slowed down for Arash’s questions. For morning coffee with Happy. For moments that fed something deeper than productivity.
Not perfectly. Old patterns don’t die easily. But more often.
One evening, Arash asked, “Baba, why are you different lately?”
“Different how?”
“More here.”
“I’m trying to be. I realized I was missing my own life.”
“Were you lost?”
“Kind of. But I’m finding my way back.”
Happy overheard. Later, she said, “He’s right. You are more here.”
“I’m trying. Still learning to stop avoiding what’s important and stop rushing what’s meaningful.”
“It’s hard.”
“Very hard. But worth it.”
We sat together in comfortable silence. Present. Not rushing. Not avoiding. Just there.
And for once, that was enough.
