Life  Without Chachi

This will be the first New Year's Day in almost 55 years that Chacha  F. E. Chaudhry , that doyen of news photographers, will be spending without Chachi  who decided to call it a day late on Monday.

          I did not attend the funeral service at the Lawrence Road  Church; because I could not suffer the idea of seeing Chacha  without Chachi  by his side. I will require some time to get used to the idea of visiting the F. E. House, off Jail Road , and expect not to see the ever-smiling, ever generous Chachi .

          The last time I visited the Chaudhry's, Chachi  wasn't too well, but she still managed a weak smile for me and asked me to sit by her side for a while until she got tired of knitting. I don't know what she was knitting but those needles will never feel the warmth of those honest hands again.

          It was in 1982, I think, that the Chaudhry's threw a big party at the Mughalpura  Railway Institute, to celebrate the 50th anniversary of their wedding. All of us had a whale of a time, especially a senior friend, Ashfaq  Naqvi and myself.

          Now before I proceed further, let me tell you one thing: I have no intention at all of spoiling New Year's day for you. I am remembering Chachi  with love and affection. I am not in mourning but in remembrance. Chachi was one of the best women who ever walked the earth- sedate and serene and sympathetic to a fault.

          I have loved the game of cricket and my feeling when a life well spent comes to an end is to stand up and cheer and say "well played," back to the pavilion after having played a great innings.

To Chacha  F. E., I offer these lines from Swinburne:

From too much love of living
From hope and fear set free
We thank with brief thanksgiving
What're the gods may be
That no life lives forever
That dead men rise up never
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.

So even if I can't wish Chacha  and Cyril and Cecil  and Anthony and Sheila and Stella a happy New Year today, I do want to tell them that they have been a wonderful husband and five wonderful children of a wonderful mother. Well played, Chachi . I'll miss you but I'll always cherish your memory.

          Talking of New Year wishes, Alys Faiz  says she has received tons and tons of them from a friend abroad. She had wished Alys sunshine and security and peace and happiness and health and you name it. I have been wondering how to get all these things for Alys and from where.

          Then there was this news item in the papers the other day.

The University of the Punjab  held an examination in Mass Communication (part I) a year behind schedule. Forty-seven of the 51 candidates who took the examination failed, two were declared successful and two abstained. A staggering pass percentage of 3.9 of the two who passed, one must have, stood first and the other second. A very Happy New Year to both of them, but not for the Department of Mass Communication, which should be wound up anyhow.

          Having got myself into this mood, how do I get the blues out of my system? You bet, I won't even make the attempt. For us newsmen, New Years' Day is just like another day in the calendar. All days are working days, Fridays included. I can't remember the last day I had all to myself.

          A very happy New Year to you and your's then, but I must share these two poems with you. A young Turkish  poet , Ahmet Erhan, has written them. Here they are:

Country in Twilight

(Excerpts)

The sad sons of my country
Sit silently in the coffeehouses
If you look at their eyes, you will see meadows
A path through the grain cut by a rabbit
A feeling of shyness, of estrangement
The sad sons of my country
Their bodies marked with provincialism
They drink cheap wine, smoke bad cigarettes
In their pockets are crumpled newspapers
A humid room in a shanty
On the floor a lute with broken strings
On the table tea-glasses
Breadcrumbs, an ancient teapot
Under it papers, books
On the walls pictures, graffiti
Broken panes behind a nylon curtain
The sad sons of my country
Die on some evening
In some dark, remote street
Their eyes open on life to the end
Their hands joined, as though they did not know
Of death and treachery in this world
The next day their picture is in the papers
And a date under the picture
That of their birth, three dots for their death.

* * * * *

They spoke no words
Fit to be carved on marble
Their features were never meant
To inspire painters
Too often did they alter
With pain and joy
From hope to disappointment
Nor need you try to remember
All their names
Say only, they were killed
In dastardly fashion
Say that they loved this country
Say these things, if it should happen
Tomorrow . . .

Midnight Lullaby

It's all over, don't go out at night
It's all over, wrap yourself tight in your blanket
It's all over, don't look at me like that
It's all over, go to sleep my man
What grows thin must break, the things you say are breaking
I'm bored, the things you say are bored with you
You know in the end we are the ones it happened to,
Remember, we used to talk to the good days once
It's all over, do not listen to the street
It's all over, the police are on patrol
It's all over, have you burnt the books
It's all over, the curfew is beginning
That's why I've learned to walk within myself
In the past I used to hear the drunkards' cries
I think of my life, or all the things that were
A sense of loneliness oozes from my heart
It's all over, what time shall I wake you
It's all over, whether you shout or weep
It's all over, all your friends are gone,
It's all over, far away from us
No one rings our bell except for beggars
Not a word in the post from anyone
No sense in going out to look for something
You are unseen by eyes that once searched yours
It's all over, Morning's a long way off
It's all over, should I pull the curtains open
It's all over, everything's dark outside
It's all over, how shall I make you believe

(Translated by Nermin Menemencioglu )

December 1987