Death is tragic, real, morbid, cold, and inevitable. Yet why is one so unprepared to witness the true reality of it striking its nefarious
blow on us? Why does one take for granted somebody else’s funeral procession, without even stopping to offer one’s prayers? Yet
one is devastated at the mere idea of one’s loved one ensconsed in the final rites procession. Perhaps its human nature and
nothing else about feeling empathy and relating to somebody deceased, whom one knew and the sheer nonchalance we express in
our actions directed towards other’s losses that one did not know. One naturally feels at a loss for words, when someone dear and
close to one, passes away. Yet some people are extremely articulate in comforting the family of the deceased, in a very
professional capacity, and while people like I are highly inadept at such social skills. Its not that I do not have the compassion or
the vocabulary to do it, its just that I feel that perhaps my sentiments would sound hollow, or that I can not find myself to cry and
feel utterly helpless…” I am so very sorry to hear about your ”close relation’s death… he/she was a kind person”. And so on and so forth.

Yet, it is expected in any society for mourners to come and offer their condolences and attempt to share grief. However in our
society, sometimes it is quite obvious as to who had more reverence; the deceased man, or the anticipation of the ”final dinner”, as
the people’s sentiments are often too lightly disguised behind a veil of civility to let their real emotions show through. Perhaps I am
being very cruel in my appraisal, but I feel at the end of the day, after the funeral, it is possibly healthy for the mourners to stand
up and say some good things they will remember the deceased with; Something similar to the Western Type of funeral, where a few
people undertake to deliver a prepared speech about the life and times of the deceased. Such an effort to remember the deceased
has a therapeutic effect on those left behind, often resulting in lessening of the shock or horror of the reality as they slowly
transcend into the arena of acceptance of the event, and for them to get on with life, renewed with faith that the deceased shall
always reside in their hearts….

I lost my beloved grandfather, on the 10th of Moharram this year. Since I was unable to attend his final rites in Pakistan, I
had a heavy guilt on my shoulders, and a feeling of depression, shock, and a sense of anguish and selfishness for not being able to
go back, on account of my number one excuse: work! I could have said to hell with the job, I am going to attend this funeral, but I
did not. In a way, I was afraid to see him, lying there motionless in a house full of suffering and grieving. I wanted to preserve his
memories when he was strong and young, and when we were kids, and we used to look up to him. He seemed invincible, and in
control of all his physical and mental faculties. Yet, I owe my grandfather a big debt of gratitude, and I wanted to remember and
share some of his life’s lighter moments, trials and tribulations that I had had a chance to witness. No amount of telephone calls,
back home to my Uncles and Aunties left behind could equal the loss that I feel. Allow me to write a little about him, as I like to
remember him from my childhood days; small anecdotes that I find the most valuable in preserving his memory. Perhaps others might
find and relate to some common themes, and interact/share their loved one’s tales… who unfortunately are not here with them today.

My grandfather was known affectionately by all as ”Papa”; that included us, his grandchildren too, which tried to emulate his
children, our uncles and aunts, in callling him by that name. Even though we were reprimanded countless times, for calling him
”Papa”, instead of the approved Nana Abba, we persevered being the naughty kids we were, and took a lot of childish satisfaction
in defying the elders. We knew that Papa actually did not mind at all, being addressed as such, by us, the little people…. My earliest
memories of Papa date back to the times, in the early seventies, when I was a youngster living in Lahore, and him visiting us, on
his work-related trips, via train. He used to persevere the eight-hour train journey from Bahawalpur, where he worked, to Lahore,
just to avoid going by plane. My brother, who is a year younger, and myself would always ask him about his trip, as soon as he
used to arrive from the station and he would invariably reply, ”I need to get a shower first to get the smell of trains and metal out of
my system”. Unusual way to describe a train trip, I always felt…

My brother and myself being the elder grand-children were treated most graciously by him, including simple gifts and presents, and
sweets galore, much to the disappointment of my Ammieji, who always used to say ”Papa you should not spoil these guys…” And he
would just shake his head as if saying ”Oh, nonsense.”. He was still working in those days and was in good health. The best present
we got from him when we were kids, were a couple of snow-white, adorably furry, Bunnies (rabbits). They came complete with a
cage full of two beds made of straw, a drinking trough, and bright red, inquisitive eyes. Indeed to this day I am not sure if they were
guys or girls or one of each, as we at 6 yrs old, did not have access to Internet and ZEE TV at that time…and to us they were just
soft furry playmates… They ate a lot, and made strange noises, and had really despicable bathroom manners, leaving their ”stuff”, on a
”as is, where is”, basis, which Ammie had to clean up, while cursing the rabbits, and asking Papa to take them back. We of course
had other opinions, and Ammie had to give in to us, to let them stay, on the condition that we will deter our pal, Amir, our
neighbour, from poking sharp sticks into their eyes, or other private places…. Later Papa visited us, and he took the greatest care of
these bunnies, by trying to lock them in their cage lest the roaming bobcat decided to make a square meal of these helpless
creatures. But the rabbits were fast for us, let alone for him, and one winter evening as Papa and us were playing hide and seek
with the rabbits, he slipped and fell down, breaking his right leg! That was enough reason for rabbit-priveleges to be revoked
immediately, whereby they were shipped back to our Nani Amman, where she was single handedly running an Amnesty Camp for
unwanted pets, proudly looking after, a lamb, a couple of parrots, a cow, several chickens, bunch of cats, a couple of dogs (OK
The dogs were Papa’s...) amongst other creatures. Incidentally, Papa had always had a penchant for naming his dogs after famous
U.S Presidents or the First Ladies… So we had had a Nixon, Jimmy Carter, and Jackie Kennedy as doggie pets. ……No Reagan.. I
remember Jackie was very sophisticated, and walked very proudly with head held up high, just like the real one perhaps we used
to think…..

Papa was not exactly an avid athlete, and a reluctant cricket player. Often we used to cajole and blackmail him into playing
cricket at our big lawn in Lahore on his trips there... Papa used to do underhand bowling, to which my youngest sister used to say
”Papa, even I can bowl better than you, and you are so grown up…”, and he used to laugh and say that he was an old man, and that
he used to be better…. Nevertheless, he was amazing with kids… He enjoyed spending time with his grand children, something which
was a way for him to recall bringing up his seven children. He took great effort to ask us about our studies and grades, and always
encouraged us a to do a whole lot better. …Bribes of ice-creams and toys used to work very well for us I seemed to remember…

He was a Hafiz-ul-Quran, as well, and was much respected in the community in Bahawalpur. However, looking at him, perhaps
one would not have guessed he was indeed one, or a regular Namazi. Inspite of his religious upbringing, he was able to live the
best of both worlds. In fact whenever we used to have inclement weather, like thunder and rainstorms threatening to ruin the crops,
he used to offer special prayers for it all to finish, He also tried to do lot of community type of work, helping the others. He used to
help the domestic help, the poor women, who used to come to his house in Bahawalpur for work, and their families. These women
mostly lived in the kacchi abadi (mud houses), and were being assaulted and abused by their ignorant/reckless, and indolent
husbands etc., Often Papa would intervene on their behalf to their husbands, who actually respected Papa for being a fair and
honest man, and would listen to him, as a mediator, and would accept not to mistreat their wives. Nevertheless, these were men
without honour and self-respect who lived off the work and earnings of their women folk, and no sooner had they promised not to
indulge in domestic abuse, than they would start again. Nani Amman and Papa often used to give refuge to these hapless,
destitute, and lost women at their house. Papa was indirectly related to the Police type of work…He was the Senior Jails
Superintendent for the Area. As far as I can see, he relished his work, in reforming criminals and murderers, into human beings. It
was not a very distinguished or finacially rewarding job, but still a crucial one according to him... He was not promoted to the
higher ranks in spite of his diligence and persistence, possibly on account of him disdaining at trying to appear psychophantically
servile….

My brother and I moved in with my grandparents at age 10, to attend the Sadiq Public School Bahawalpur, when my parents left
for abroad for better economic endeavours. It was extremely hard as anticipated to leave home for the first time, but the
psychological impact was lessened because of seeing familiar faces of our aunts, and uncles in the new abode. It was here that we
were first introduced to the fact that all is not well in this world. Our microcosm was wonderfully well oriented and we settled nicely,
but the world at large was not! As part of reformation of convicted criminals who were about to be released from the prisons, they
were brought over by Papa, to stay and work for us. They used to do small jobs here and there about the house…a sort of
desi-parole! Nani Amman used to call them ”Qaidis” (Prisoners), when referring to them, but would address them with their proper
names…. I found that the word ”Qaidi” had a certain sobering effect on me and my brother. The expressions on some of these men’s
faces were so morbid, etched over time by misfortune and despair, that they really scared my brother and myself. Invariably, we
tried to keep out of their way. These people tried to be nice, and watered the lawn, or went shopping for us, took the dogs for a
walk, or painted some walls or helped my nani amman sort out dirt/grime stuff from rice, but we were always cautious of them…. One
time we got a murderer, who was released/acquitted, from a karo/kari charge, as his enemies killed his relative and then he had
killed someone or was convicted of it, I cannot recall… He was apparently an educated man, as he often attempted to discuss the
English grammatical idiosyncracies with us, while we studied in the lawn for our exams… I always wanted to ask him if he really did
murder somebody. What was it like to have done it? Did he feel invincible? But somehow I could not pluck sufficient courage to ask
these serious questions…I could see that he was perhaps repentant, that he would never make eye contact with us, and he would
try telling us, seeing our inquisitiveness, ”…sometimes one has to turn into an animal to save one’s honour and that of others, close to
one… as the law can not take care of them….”. Papa was strict with these people, and yet kind to them too, making sure they were
provided the same food that we ate, and that they got clothes and other necessities like toiletries and stuff. I used to wonder, as to
why did these people not just escape, as they were staying in a quarter outside our house? ”They cant” Papa would say, ”they have
learnt that they have a chance at living a second life, wrong-free, a clean start, and some of them value it too much, to do the
wrong again...…” I wonder if these reformed criminals still serve some parole time, and if so do they still feel the same, as these guys I
had witnessed almost 21 years ago…

Bahawalpur used to be a quiet, little sleepy town compared to Lahore in the seventies, in so far that there was not even a chinese
restaurant. There is one there now, as I witnessed on a trip there almost 4 years ago. It used to be incredibly hot in the summers,
and Papa did not have any Air-conditioners installed there as the house wiring was too old, and an A/C would blow it all to bits…
So instead what we had was Water Air-Coolers, which for those who are not aware of, is actually a metallic enclosure, surrounded
on three sides with a sheet of ”Khas”(a natural coolant shrub), on which water drips from a reservopir placed above the roof of the
enclosure. A fan on the last side is normally fitted into any window section of the room. The water falls on the khas, and a cool air
draught is propagated via the fan into the room. It is a sort of a desi Airconditioner, but it worked well. Pape was a strict believer of
”Early to bed, and early to rise” school of thought… so he did not like it one bit that my brother and myself, lounge around in bed say,
after 07:30 in the mornings, even on weekends… So he used to come in, and give us a warning to get up, as Nani amman was
waiting to make ”nashta” (breakfast) for us, and she has to start with the lunch later on, or do some other stuff. And we would say ”of
course, Papa… thori dere aur saheeh, (just a little longer please)” and he would switch of the water cooler, then fifteen miutes later,
he would come and switch of the ceiling fan, and then the final straw; the windows would be opened, along with the ”roshandan”
(the windows at an elevated height, in old houses). Of course one had no alternative but to get up, and proceed sheepishly to the
toilets.

Papa was a strict believer in shaving at the crack of dawn. In fact in his retired life it was a morning ritual which could be
anticipated with as much certainty as that the sun would rise from the East. At 8:30 sharp, he used to sit on the diwan, facing the
courtyard, and spread his assortment of shaving apparatus around him, from his old, heavily used patented ”leather” Shaving kit. He
never shaved in a bathroom, ever, as far as I can recall. He never liked Gilletes razors, when they were introduced, and preferred
to use his 7-oclock razor blades… Yikes! And he used to use this chemical ”pithkri” (it is a sort of anti-abrasion aftershave stuff),
to wipe the cuts.

And all round him was mayhem caused by the chickens running around in the courtyard, and the lamb bleating away, and the dogs
chasing the cats, which were chasing the little baby chicks.... In addition, the lush green parrot hooting away which Nani Amman
used to think was saying ”Mian Mithu”. The Parrot was one of the speaking varieties, according to an overzealous small-scale
salesperson that went from house to house peddling his wares. The parrot could not even save his own life, if it depended on it by
speaking! I am not sure if it was the same salesman who sold some little yellow ”desi” chicks to Nani Amman, saying that they will
grow up to be desi chickens. Of course the only thing desi about them was the yellow paint that was so industriously applied on
these little chicks, which came off ever so effortlessly, as the chicks decided to go for a shower underneath the water pump in the
courtyard… Nani Amman was most dejected, and cursed the salesperson for his crooked sense of honesty! Papa merely laughed out
aloud when he heard of what had happened, and made it a point to tell all our relatives/visistors how Nani Amman was conned by
this travelling salesman.

Papa was an avid cyclist, complete with breeches and all, and even in his retired age, loved to go out on his black Sohrab Bicycle
(from Rustam and Sohrab fame…). The bicycle was old as the hills, and the brown jute/reusable shopping bag hanging on the front
steering bar, along with Papa peddling furiously enroute to the markets to get fresh vegetables etc., was a familiar sight. In the hot
sweltering summers, he used to bring crates of soft, pulpy mangoes, the ”chonsa” variety. He used to put them in a bucket of ice for
cooling to be enjoyed later in the evening, with the whole family. Perhaps I get my strong obssession and cravings for mangoes
from him, as he too was a great connoisseuer of mangoes…. Of course the lamb liked the mangoes as well eating the peelings very
avidly; but then again the little lambsie was not very selective in its diet anyways…

Since Papa was an administrator at his work, some of his job, actually rubbed on to his personal life, e.g the obsession with
organisation, and enough spare and backup stuff, or making detailed checklist prior to embarking on any missions etc. He would
always have spare toilet soaps, and tea, and sugar and all sorts of goodies in the lard in case one day something got finished up
and there was none till the next morning. That never happened! Nani Amman was a wonderful, economist and an organiser as well,
letting Papa know with handwritten lists about what needs to be bought the next time he went shopping on his bike…Sometimes I
used to think that our lard was like a Utility Store, brimming with supplies… When he retired it was actually suggested to him to open
a small shop of his own, but he was not interested in this sort of thing, instead he loved to read his novels and books, specially
mysteries and suspense thrillers, and having discussions about politics. He particularly loved watching the weekly wrestling show,
almost religiously on Fridays, whereby he used to say ”these fights are all rigged… see he is not even hurt, and he was slam-dunked
into the corner railing…” It used to crack my brother and me up, the sheer seriousness of his remarks…which were often added upon by
Nani Amman.

Fatima Surriya Bajia was very popular in those days, and hence we all used to watch her ”sloppy” dramas in the comfort of our
grandparent’s room, where the TV was kept. It used to be so nice, specially on Thursday evenings, when our Munney Mama (
whom we still call Munney Mama, even though he is the father of two kids now) used to bring ”garam jalebis” while we snuggled under
Nani Amman’s Leehaf (Old style blankets), and watched some long drama, while carrying on a lively conversation with Papa, and
Nani Amman and our Aunty. Often Mano, the cat, would come and sprawl herself lazily at the feet of our Nani Amman, and she
would go ”Pare hut jaa, (Go away you silly cat)” affectionately, but Mano knew her mistress better than that! And she would lurk
around, cleaning its white furry skin, and making innocent faces at Nani Ammna until she would let her stay on the leehaf, just
above her feet

My brother and I separated by only one measly year, had enormous power tussles, and fights, as most teen-age brothers do. The
only problem was that Papa was well aware of our tendencies for such aggressive display of manhood, and he was on the lookout
for any symptoms of a brawl, before descending on us, to chastise us with the valour of his tongue, in a manner of speaking. Here
is some good advice from my brother, retrospectively, about dealing with Papa when he used to be in his tempers.. (Read it in Jack
Nicholson’s voice who said ”You want me on that wall, You need me on that wall to defend you”, in the movie, A Few Good Men
where Jack had ordered a killing of a corporal under code red, and was provoked into confessing his crime, by the suave Defence
Attorney Tom Cruise…).” You do not want to see him Angry, You do not want to be close to him when he is Angry”. Papa’s voice was
strong and authoritative enough to send the Allahs Fear into an Atheist! We were merely teenagers! That’s what kept us in check
from becoming ”kharab” (bad boys) in Bahawalpur, not that there was much temptation easily available! His room was adjacent to
ours, and he had an uncanny way to glance at the dressing table in our room, through the door separating his room from ours, and
see if we were indeed silently fighting, and using each other as punching bags! Many an interesting crescendo were spoiled for
me, just as I had the upper hand in the fight, Papa would appear looking like ”Freddy Kruger, all gloom incarnated”, and I had to hug
my brother and shake hands and say ”Sorry old chap…. Let us get down to reading some more Agatha Christie, shall we…”.

In my grandparent’s bedroom, hung a giant grandfather clock, right out of some museum, a lonely Edwardian specimen. The
miraculous thing was that it still worked, though the glass on the front had been broken, since as far back as I could recollect
having seen it. Papa took great pride in winding up the beautiful clock every week or so, and then he would tell us, how old it was,
and how and where he had purchased it… He always had some story to tell of the few things we had in the house. I do not recall
exactly the one about the clock, but I loved this grandfather clock while I stayed with them. It meant a certain stability, and
dependability, that the clock would not stop, while Papa was there to look after it, and that it will carry on showing the correct
time, like it used to perhaps in England somehere, made by a certain Smith & Co. In the later years, the gears of the clock got too
old, and worn, and then Papa would grease the metal surfaces or take it to the old watchmaker shop in the middle of Bahawalpur
Bazaar, to have it reapired. But as with all things growing old, (similar to its owner!) the clock began to lose time, inspite of it being
fully woundup, and serviced, I have immense sentimental value for that old clock, and it serves me to remind of the good times and
laughter that I had shared being looked after by the two kindest, most sincere and remarkable, simple people, my Nani Amman and
Papa…

After my schooling was finished in Bahawalpur, in 1983, I did not see much of them over the next 14 years. I moved away to
Lahore, then to University abroad, started a job out here, and hardly went back. Last time I met him in Karachi was well over two
years ago. He was indeed a changed man, a man whom I thought while growing up was invincible. Time had taken its toll, and all
sorts of ailments had taken hold of his frail body. My dearest, sweet Nani Amman was also alive then though very weak and feeble.
I had spent an afternoon with them, talking of this and that, and papa and Nani Amman both had lovingly hugged me, and blessed
me and my wife, and wished for us to have many kids and to have as prosperous and happy a life as they had had the honour of
sharing…. That statement moved me, as they were truly, madly and deeply in love with each other, and were now more like close
friends, on the last hitch of a long journey….

My dearest Nani Amman finally passed away in November of 1996. (May Allah bless her soul). Papa was, as anticipated,
devastated, a broken man. It seemed to all concerned that he had lost his will to live, he spoke obssessively about his dear wife
who had taken such great care of him, through thick and thin, with little to ask for in exchange, and been most patient and
accomodating to him, and his occasional temper swings…. He would cry, so passionately, unstoppably, as one could see the torment
of the haunting memories on his face. There is very little one could do, when one itself is not interested to carry on any more…

Finally after a life spanning some 75 years, our Papa died in hospital surrounded by his closest family, on the 6th of May, a few
days ago. They were both truly remarkable people, and I was fortunate enough to be very close to them. The day I learnt that
Papa, passed away I cried bitterly, and with so much anguish... I wanted him to be
remembered for the kind; uncomplicated man that he was, full of
good humour, at times strict, at times, one's confidante, and endearing friend. I tried to select my favourite memories of him in this
account, the ones I shall remember him with, and try to pass on to my yet unborn children, about a man they will never have a
chance to know, or experience the magnanimity of his heart, sincere
devotion he had for his wife and family, the strict integrity and honour
with which he lived his life, a life without much lavish luxuries, but still
content at having the love of his wife and that of his family…

Papa’'s last wish was to be buried next to Nani Amman. His eldest son, had reserved this small, final piece of land to indulge him, to
be close to his beloved wife for immortality, just the way, they used to sleep in their bedroom. They are sleeping peacefully side by
side, and nobody will disturb them any more! They deserve their complete rest, after a simple, kind, and honourable life!