Chiragh e Sehri

The first year results had come out. Chiragh had failed in two subjects.

Let me backtrack some. My father had returned from a business trip the year before. And at a stopover at a duty free port he had bought an Agfa 35mm and a Yashica Mat 120mm camera and scores of rolls of B&W and Colour films and slide rolls.

He got busy with business and his interest waned. And mine picked up. I had yet to discover my passion for words. Agfa became part of my existence. I joined some basic courses at the Arts Council. I would develop my own rolls and later enlarge them.

I bought a daylight developing tank and learned to develop my rolls at home. Kodak used to make a developer D-76. Open the packet, add water, load the exposed film in the tank roller, put the lid on and pour the developer, shake and roll for the required minutes, drain the developer in a storage bottle and add hypo to stop the process, drain it and wash the film in water, take it out and hang it to dry.

On one such foray I accidentally spilled some developer on a note book. And discovered that the pen written words disappeared from the book page.

Chiragh looked really worried at his dismal first year marks sheet.

Life has its ups and down and we all fail in one thing or another at sometime, pick ourselves up and move on. But Chiragh could not contemplate failure at all then. Why?

He was the fourth child in six. Bhayya the eldest, Talat Baji and Nighat Baji topped in school, college and university throughout their career. But Bhayya was his all-time hero. The failure in two or three subjects really stung Chiragh.

I am not sure if he approached me or I approached him. Whether he asked me for the magic ink potion or I offered it to him. The memory is hazy. But I vividly recall the expression on his face as I used a paint brush dipped in D-76 and made his failing marks disappear from his mark sheet.

We moved but stayed in touch. He failed in the second year too. But by now he was becoming a consummate liar. He loved Bhayya who remained his role model till he died. Bhayya excelled at everything he attempted. And my friend always came up short.

That one lie led to many subsequent lies.

I had mentioned earlier he vowed to marry his child hood sweetheart, which he did. Vowed to follow in the steps of Bhaiyya to the US, which he did. Vowed to succeed at success, which he failed. Career, marriage, business all floundered. He consistently came up short.

I can only speculate at the number of lies he must have told in his short life to cover that one lie. And I have to live with the knowledge that I helped him with that first crucial lie.
___________________________________________________________


Chiragh*

Na laaee shoukhi andesha, taab-e-ranj-naumeedi
Kaf-e-afsos malna, ehd-e tajdid-e-tamanna hai
- Ghalib

The impudence of my thought could not
Sustain the affliction of despair. And
Wringing the hands, ostensibly in remorse,
In fact renews the covenant of desire.
(Translation: Yusuf Husain)


I lost a part of me that Friday in March. My yaar Chiragh lost his last temporal battle. "He suffered a massive stroke. The doctors tried hard to..."I could not hear the rest of what Nasim Bhabhi was telling me.

I found myself in the hospital ICU. Dull, colour co-ordinated, septic, Oxygen, drips, monitors.

"...we decided to allow the doctors to remove the respirator. He was dead in a couple of hours."

I saw him re-live his life. His family, his love, his children. Zenith of successes, big and small. Nadir of despair and defeats. He considered the pros and cons one more time and then concluded that it was time to move his residence permanently.

"Kitna pyara lag raha hai mera bhaiyya," (1) said Talat Baji as she struggled to contain the flood of tears ready to gush forth.

In the building across the road a new family moved in. It must have been the month of Ramadaan. In the coolish lull between sehri and school we used to play our version of one-hour cricket. "My name is Chiragh, I would like to play with you guys." He was soon part of our team. He had a very inquiring mind. Conversation with him was not easy. Why? How? What if....? Some of us did not appreciate his questioning mores.

I heard of Aflatoon, Sukraat, and Aristo from him much before I heard of Plato, Socrates or Aristotle. In his way Chiragh did much to inculcate a passion for reading, assimilating, thinking and arguing amongst us.

"Bhaiyya, kuch tou bolo,"(2) Nighat Baji pleaded with him. I heard him reply, "Boulnaay ka waqt guzar gaya." (3) They did not hear him.
We moved. They moved. I lost touch with other friends from the neighbourhood. But Chiragh and I remained in touch.

When Tariq Bhayya left for Fairfax, Chiragh inherited his unique Jeepster convertible. I had a Vespa then. One cloudy day we skipped classes and went to Paradise Point. On the way back he insisted on borrowing my Vespa. I followed him in his Jeepster. At a curve on the Mauripur Road he lost his balance and hit a tree. He was unconscious, bleeding profusely and making strange noises. That was the first time I had seen an unconscious person. Somehow we dragged him in his car and took him to the nearest clinic near Mereweather Tower. The doctor wanted a police report before treating him. Another first. My first brush with bureaucracy.

Nasim Bhabhi looked intently at the inert body, then glanced at Talat and Nighat. She did not utter a word. Mist in her eyes enveloped the whole ICU.

When I moved to Fairfax, I learned from Bhaiyya that Chiragh wanted to marry his childhood sweetheart. There were hints of family discord. He persevered and in the end married her. As I left Fairfax for Toronto, he arrived in the States, and settled down in the Mid West. Kids followed.

Something somewhere went drastically wrong. They were divorced last year.

One evening, in October ’94 the phone rang. "Yaar come on down for a few days. Ruma is getting married. The reception is on November 25--would be a nice occasion to meet up with the whole gang......Chiragh will be there too." That was the clincher.

At Ruma’s reception, I met Bhaiyya, Bhabhi, Talat Baji, Colonel, Anjum, Cathy, Pervez, Andrea, Zubair, Sabiha, Ali, Nayyar, Kamal -- too many old friends. And yes, there was Chiragh.. What dichotomy. He was the same old Chiragh, yet he was different. Ravages of time had made him older, sadder.

As we were taking our leaves that evening, he walked over from the other end of the hall, and hugged me. There was a warmth in his hug that only old friends can either experience or feel. Maybe he had some premonition. That hug barely lasted a couple of seconds. But in those few seconds images went by on my mental screen that covered an eternity. Pervez, who had known him from our Karachi days said, "Yaar what is the matter with this guy, there are no lights on!"

That 25th of November I penned these lines:

A hug
just one warm hug
at encounter’s end
anguished me.

Will I get another hug
with that warmth
ever again?

Why do I not flow
with the music
why do I feel
the coming pain?

Tum aao gay, tum ko aana hoga
tum milo gay, tum ko milna hoga
hazaroN ranjishaiN haiN, shikway HaiN
tumhaiN suna-naa hay
tum say suN-naa hay
shayad phir
yaadoN kay manON bojh talay
aahoN kay ghubaar hatakar
phir ekbaar
tumhaiN dil se laga laiN hum.

You will -- you have to return
we will -- we have to meet
views and issues aplenty
have to be resolved
only then, perhaps
break away we can
from the shackles past
and hug each other
once more.......

With your death, my friend, something of me died too. The only consolation is that you are at peace, finally.