From time to time, Uncle, a friend of the family, whose office was close to my school, condescended to let me ride his buggy with him. I sought this ride only when I knew I would be late for school or when the weather was inclement. I usually walked to school, about a half an hour away from our home.

When I was in the fourth grade, Father agreed to buy me a bike, provided I prove to him that I could ride safely. So I decided to learn the thing. My first training experience was a dreadful one. One Friday morning I borrowed a neighbor's bike. I had already arranged with my special friend, whom I would call F here, to teach me to ride it. He had chosen a steep dirt road in a very quiet area of the city known as Chaman-e-Huzoori. We went there and walked to the top of an incline. The bike had a carryall rack behind and about eight inches below the seat, so that if you sat on it, your hands would reach the handles and your feet would touch the ground. 'F' suggested that I sit there, hold the handlebars and, while keeping my feet dangling above the ground, let the bike roll downhill to the flat bottom of the road. I was to keep the handlebars straight and balance myself so as not to lean to either side. He assured me that he would be holding on to the base of the rack at all times. In case I lose my balance, he would not allow the bike to fall. All I had to concentrate on was to guide the bike down the slope.

I did lose my balance several times but was saved from falling by 'F' as he pulled the bike back to a stop and I dragged my feet on the ground. This went on till we reached the bottom of the road. Then we walked back to the top of the road and again began the same procedure. On the second attempt he told me to put my feet on the pedals without turning them and simply keep my balance with the handlebars. Again, he was to hold on to the bike to help block my fall. Armed with his assurance, I again let the bike roll along comfortably downhill. My hands firmly gripping the handlebars, I tried to keep the bike straight. At one point I suddenly noticed that the bike had picked up speed and was heading towards the steep shoulder of the road. I yelled for help and only heard 'F's distant laughter. Instantly I let my feet touch the ground in an effort to avert my fall. The bike dragged me down the shoulder to a ditch where I fell in stagnant water and became covered with mud and filth. Dozens of yards away 'F' sat on the top of the road laughing his head off. He had lied to me and had purposely let go of the bike the moment I began the downhill ride. It took the rest of the allowed time on the borrowed bike for me to get my hands, clothes and the bike reasonably cleaned and for him to finally compose himself, after his hysterical mirth, at my expense.

Fortunately I was not injured. Neither was the bike damaged. I was angry with 'F' for the dirty trick he had pulled on me. Still I was glad that I had been able to keep my balance for many yards and had not fallen right away. So, there was hope. Thereafter, I practiced alone near our home very early in the mornings. I fell many times and was bruised on several occasions. The bike also showed telltale scratches in many places but its kind owner told me not to worry.

Finally there came a day when I announced readiness to demonstrate my ability to ride a bike. I had still not learned how to get on the bike easily and needed a high spot from where to sit on the seat, put one foot on the pedal, move the bike away and start pedaling with both feet. This was no serious matter and, in time, I would learn it on my 'own ' bike.

The date was set. We walked to a section of the road where there was a big boulder sitting by a ditch which I could use to sit on the bike seat. From that point the road sloped in a straight line to the next thoroughfare almost a mile away. There were no alleyways to create possible obstacles. At that moment, the entire length of the road was empty except for a pedestrian several hundred yards down the road. Once seated on the bike, I pedaled for a few yards. The bike took over on its own momentum. All I had to do was to sit tight, look straight ahead and try not to fall. I began daydreaming about the same ride on my own bike one day soon. It would be so much fun! All of a sudden I became aware that I was heading for the only pedestrian on the road who was some fifty yards ahead of me. I panicked. I knew that I was going to run him down in a moment and tried to turn the handlebars ever so slightly toward the middle of the road. The handlebars would not turn.

I think I was afraid that any attempt to turn the handlebars drastically would cause an imbalance and a fall and the inevitable failure of my test. Spell-bound, I just screamed at the top of my voice hoping that the pedestrian would turn around, see me coming and jump out of my bike's way. No such luck. The front wheel went right between his legs causing both of us to hit the dirt. He disengaged himself somehow, got up and angrily demanded why in the world I had run him down when there was so much empty space on the empty road. I could only say I was very sorry and that the incident was not intentional.

He continued to brush the dirt off his clothes and growled about taking me to the nearest police station for appropriate punishment. I pointed back to my father and the neighbor and explained as best I could that this was my test ride and that I had most probably failed it on account of our accident.

By the time Father reached us, the man had cleaned the dust off his clothes and his hands with a handkerchief. Father apologized for the mishap. To my surprise, the man accepted his apology and went on his way still grumbling about irresponsible kids playing with people's lives.

If looks could kill, I would have been finished at that moment. I was dead certain that there was not going to be a bicycle for me for a long time to come. Our neighbor quietly appropriated his bike, checked it for damages and, saying goodbye to Father, went on his way. Father handed me my books and we started to walk on to school. After a while, he said that at my stage of progress, I would be a menace to everyone on the road. It would have been far better if I had fallen in the ditch or on the road rather than hitting an unaware, innocent pedestrian. Indeed, why had I not done so? Four months later, I had my bike, a secondhand one, and rode it daily to and from school without any mishap.

'F' was quite a mischievous person then. He was an expert prankster and caused trouble at the first opportunity, anywhere so long as he could get away with it.

Prior to our going to our different schools, there was this occasion of our being enrolled as pupils with an Arab imam (a religious person leading prayers in a mosque) when he purposely splattered black ink on his white trousers, got up and yelled, "Teacher, teacher, Khalid, haza!" in Arabic, pointing to his trousers at the same time. Our teacher understood the situation for what it was not. I promptly got slapped for having stained 'F's trousers. I reported the situation to my parents. Grandmother banned me from going to that class again. The incident also ended my chances of learning alphabet and basic Arabic. I also lost my almost daily contact with 'F' for several years as we soon went to different schools in different parts of the city. By the time we graduated the elementary parts of our schools, something happened to his school and he and some of his classmates got transferred to my school where we continued as classmates until high school graduation.

Our association had thus been re-established and we were friends again. But he was still his old self and would do his tricks whenever he had a chance.

Once he caused me to be cursed and shouted at abusively by a total stranger: He saw a man using the roof of an old storage depot for much-needed relief. He promptly threw some rocks and pieces of sun-baked bricks at the man and then immediately ran down the stairs and out of the house to me. Blabbering that there was a run-away kite stuck to a roof beam, he literally dragged me into the house and up the stairs to the roof in no time.

I looked but saw no kite. He said it may have fallen on the roof of the abandoned building.

I peaked over a buffer wall at the roof below and was the immediate recipient of a barrage of curses, profanity and threats from a man on that roof. I turned to 'F' and saw him laughing to his heart's content at the trick he had played on me.

I liked 'F' in spite of all his tricks and we remained buddies. He was often good to me but God save anyone around him when he felt mischievous, even though quite goodnaturedly! Once, the two of us went to an Ashura (annual Shi'a observance). A preacher was honoring one of the martyrs of Karbala. At one point, I thought I saw him touch his bare head with both his palms, in grief for that religious person's martyrdom. Instantly, the audience, some of them already weeping, began slapping their heads lamenting the loss.

'F' began lightly touching the back of the head of the man sitting in front of him. I found this quite rude and was about to tell him to stop when the recipient of the slaps turned around, noticed a grin on 'F's face and shouted, "Why don't you slap your own head?" Several faces turned in our direction. 'F' had no recourse other than to compose himself and begin to slap his head. I did likewise. The incident passed quietly.

It was a known fact that any act of mischief by a Sunni during such observances would bring a reward of severe punishment by the authorities to say nothing of what could happen at the hands of the aggrieved Shia's themselves and justifiably so.

We did not know why some people were Shi'as and some Sunnis, even among our own classmates. We saw nothing wrong in being either a Sunni or a Shi'a. We were all brothers in Islam and very good friends in our schools. In our own homes, our fathers would read the tales of the battle of Karbala during the Ashura. In my home, both Mother and Grandmother wept during the readings. Even Father's voice would become hoarse on occasion. I thought Yazeed was a really bad Amir for he had ordered the siege of a small group of peaceful men, women and children, so close to a body of water, yet not allowed to get a drink just to sustain life. Most of the besieged were related Mohammad (sal�am) the Prophet of Islam and the progeny of Bibi Fatema, his daughter, and Ali (k.a.w.), his cousin and son-in-law. Yazeed caused the most tragic martyredom of all of those who either braved a many thousands strong army in battle or when anyone of the besieged ran for water and got martyred in the process.

We, young ones, saw and felt no animosity between our Sunni and Shi'a classmates.

Ashura, to us, was a holiday and a time of grief mostly for our elders as the descendants of our Prophet were martyred by some cruel people. We were cautioned to remain serious and calm and not to frolic out in the streets for it was a time of sorrow for the loss of so many good lives all those years ago. And we all, whether Shia or Sunni, generally observed those days of sorrow. After the annual commemoration, life returned to normal and the matter was left alone until the next year.

It was not that only 'F' was the source of mischief in our class. Perhaps all of us were, at times, a little mischievous. But none of us did it out of meanness. Even when our acts bothered one of us, we made friends again soon and the thing was forgotten. There was this one occasion when it turned out that I joined 'F' in an act of mischief for which both of us got immediate punishment: One day 'F' and I started a contest of who could throw a stone the farthest from a lookout rock on the slopes of Asmayee at the back of our home. Apparently, some of our stones reached the construction site directly below us. The workers stopped and took shelter.

The owner of the site, �Uncle� appeared and we could hear the workers shouting at us to stop. It was futile. We had gone berserk and felt crazily superior. Next, he sent several workers after us. We could make them retreat by throwing more stones at the ones who came close to us. But we elected to run down and away from them. Unknown to us, some workers had come up on our uncovered flanks. They fell upon us and one of them caught 'F' and began dragging him down the slope. The workers recognized me as a family member and felt no need to drag me along. They probably thought that, in the first place, I would not start the stone throwing on my own, and in the second place, being rather small, it was not my stones that reached the site. But I struggled to have 'F' released, stating that we had hurt no one and should not be punished in any way. Another worker then simply hauled me onto his shoulder thus making any struggle useless. I knew we were in big trouble and would, most probably, receive a beating. When we were brought down in front of uncle, 'F' received several hard slaps on his face and was banned from the area for good. As for me, he simply raised me, shoulder-high, and dropped me flat to the ground on my back. The fall could easily have broken my back. Why had he not just slapped me too or sent me home for punishment by my parents? Of course, if he had, my parents would have disciplined me severely for our irresponsible act that day. I knew our actions were wrong and deserved punishment, but I thought my 'uncle', acted cruelly to drop me as he did.

I remember yet another episode when, 'F's mischief got an innocent classmate beaten and cursed by a passerby in the covered bazaar of Puli Khishti. We were returning from school in the direction of the old city. Five of us were walking along. Two of us, the classmate who got beaten and I, lived in a different part of town. When we entered the crowded covered bazaar, two of us had to follow the other three. 'F' was in the middle, one classmate to his left and the victim to his right. Suddenly I noticed 'F's right arm shoot out behind our classmate and box an unknowing passerby whom we were about to overtake. The man, abruptly turned around, grabbed our friend by the shoulder and started cursing and beating him for 'his' unprovoked punch. His language was extremely abusive. Not satisfied with the curses and beating he had already given our shocked friend, he began calling for the police. Our poor classmate was pleading with him and swearing that it must have been someone else who had done such a horrid thing. The man would not let go. Two of us entered the scene and tried to appease the man. He would not listen. Right then, 'F' seemingly stepped out of the crowd that had already gathered around and began accusing our classmate harshly for 'his' un-called-for stupid act. He made kind, consoling remarks to the man and was able, somehow, to release our classmate from the man's hold and shove him out into the crowd. F made some adverse remarks about the kind of education that the boys were then receiving in schools. The man grumbled his agreement and claimed that the good days were gone forever when boys received their education at the hand of imams in the masjids (mosques) throughout the land and no such foolishness was encountered. Finally he went on his way and the crowd dispersed. Moments later and away from the scene of the incident, 'F' started laughing at the success of his most cunning trick.

Hearing the truth from the real culprit, our classmate promptly turned around and headed home. The rest of us blamed 'F' for his callousness and the pain he had caused both the poor man and our innocent classmate. This was all a joke to him at someone else's expense and he was not at all sorry. I wonder what he thinks now of that long ago and far away episode! We were all quite young then and, perhaps, feeling the first irresistable bursts of the energy of our youth, burned it off at the first opportunity no matter how misguided or misdirected.

Some of this energy was later transferred to sports when we played field hockey, soccer, volley ball and, still later, basketball.

We quarreled and fought among ourselves from time to time throughout the years, but with less and less physical harm as we grew older.

Once I was involved in a one-on-one with a neighbor boy. We spared nothing. Punches, slaps and kicks and blows were exchanged freely. He was physically stronger than I, and I was about to be beaten when a chance kick touched him in a soft spot and changed everything. The fight stopped abruptly as he doubled over to the ground. I got scared. He did not cry or weep. He just ordered me to go away. I went home. Minutes later, the seriousness of my action hit me. I ran out to the street to find and help him. He was not there. I ran to his house only to find that he was not there either. What could have happened? Next, I ran to a mulberry garden, a few blocks away. How relieved I was when I saw him, pale and weak, leaning against a tree! I went to him, expressed my deepest regret and offered any help possible. For a long while, he just looked at me. Then he said that he was hurt badly, that he was angry at our fighting in the first place and that in a fight anything could happen. He said he was glad to be alive and said their must never again be such a fight between us and that we would remain friends.

That, too, was a lesson that I tried very hard not to forget. From then on, during moments of extreme anger, if I have slapped someone, I have regretted it almost immediately and have done everything possible to make amends. I have never let myself be involved in a physical fight.