I mourn today a woman who to me was more than a first cousin. Hers was a presence powerful and pervasive; she remained an all-embracing blanket of security and strength. She filled so many vacuums in one’s life that the thought of life without her is yet to crystallise into accepted reality.
Books will be written on her. She will be idolised, myths will be spun. It is also inevitable that there will be a rush to capture and canonise her memory. But in all the colourful stories that are told about her, one hopes that her true essence is not destroyed.
One hopes that lament rather than lucre remains the motivating factor in recalling her memory.
My earliest memories take me to the time when we were children all, playing hide-and-seek, climbing hills and having our usual spats. I recall how as kids we would be prancing around the lobby of 70 Clifton and her father would suddenly walk in.
After greeting the other children, he would head to his library, a sacred and out-of-bounds area. He would always pluck Pinkie, as we called her then, out of our small crowd and take her into his library. While we were reading comic books, Pinkie was being tutored in the art of politics and world affairs.
http://newageislam.com/benazir--a-song-half-sung---/islamic-personalities/d/1084
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11:30 PM
Moderate Islamist here
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