Sunday, March 14, 2010

Bonds of love...in times of pain

Uncle Vishi was tall, fair and aristocratically towering.
His wife was short, fair and always draped in exquisite silk and rich cotton saris, with tasteful jewelery that complimented her saris with a deep feminine sophistication that was near absolute.
His shoes were always well polished and in tune with his aloof and snobbish personality. His oval fair face shone with self-confidence that was a shade arrogant.
The wife seemed more humane, soft-spoken and friendly. Someone with whom the children could easily take liberties. But not with him. He was a frightful disciplinarian. As near a perfectionist as God would allow in this imperfect world!

My siblings and me and Uncle Vishi's children were the best of friends, spending summer afternoons reading stories, and evenings playing badminton. And so were our mothers, going out shopping and visiting friends together.
Can't say the same about our fathers. Uncle Vishi was my father's boss.

Years passed and by a leap of fortune my father got promoted to match Uncle Vishi's position. But that apparently brought the end of our togetherness. Our families went to different division of the company and we hardly met except in some inter-divisional function etc.

But years later by some twist of Fate we were destined to meet in much different circumstances and more than a thousand miles away from Mumbai.

It was a pleasantly cold evening in Allahabad. I was hurriedly getting the famous "special" Allahabadi guavas packed properly into a neat basket. ("Special" because as they ripe they become reddish from outside and look like apples from far!)
Uncle Vishi had called up a day or two back from Banaras that he and aunty would pass through Allahabad by the evening train en route to Mumbai.

I can't explain my feelings at the thought of meeting Uncle Vishi and his adorable wife after so many years. So much had changed for us in the time that had passed. I didn't know what they would say...but more painful for me was to decide what I would say to them...and how would I bring myself to say all that?
In a confused moment of emotionally charged dilemma, nostalgia gripped me tight. Suddenly I felt my vision becoming hazy and realised that my eyes were brimming with tears.

When I reached the platform, the train had already reached and I saw uncle Vishi pacing up and down restlessly near his compartment, aunty standing near by looking up anxiously as if not sure if I would really make it to the station in time to have a small chat with them.

It was not just age that had matured and mellowed Uncle Vishi. He and aunty looked like a ghost of their past glowing selves. They had lost their lovely daughter to a venomous brain tumor a couple of years back and with her had gone the light of their lives.
Even then Aunty had taken the tragedy bravely and looked more in control of her emotions. But for all I could make out, Uncle Vishi was a broken man. His daughter had taken away with her his pride, his confidence, his snobishness...whoever thought daughters were a burden should meet Uncle Vishi at least once.

I realised that some friendships bloom even in the absence of face to face meetings and actually blossom into becoming the strongest bonds of love to be shared in times of pain. I hugged uncle spontaneously and he held me lovingly placing his hand over my head in a gesture of blessing me from the depth of his heart.
My fear of The Perfectionist had gone. He was no more the dreaded disciplinarian whose sight made children run for cover!

A few more years went by. And then I lost my father. Uncle Vishi and aunty came to meet me and my family. We went inadvertently to our past. Uncle remembered the evening at Allahabad station. He said,
"It must have looked strange to the onlookers and passersby...a Hindu man hugging a Muslim woman so affectionately!"

And after a pause, which I'm sure he took to control the emotions choking his speech, he added:
"But that was the most affectionate hug that I got in a long time...in fact the only one that made me feel the presence of my daughter...!"
And saying so his hand impulsively reached to bless me like he had done at Allahabad station, placing his hand lovingly over my head...
And I felt the presence of my father all around...

1 comment:

AbdulAziz said...

this small story is so beautiful. oh we lost the hormony, the gap becaming gulf between hindu and muslims. need not to say it is politics, and division
تقسیم ایک برا خواب تھا لیکن اج بھی یہ شیطان زندہ لگتا ہے-- ورنہ ھندو مسلم ایک محلہ ہوتا تھا-- پڑوسی رشتے دارسے بڑکر ہوتے تھے-- ایک کلچر فنا ہوا