It is the month of December, the last month of the year, the last month of Father’s life in its earthly form. I find myself thinking about him evermore. I am reading the final proofs of my Ghalib book – it is my commentary on 30 “rejected” ghazals. By some strange coincidence I was reading the final proofs of my first Ghalib book in the December of 2020.
My Father, Shamsur Rahman Faruqi, was one of 13 siblings. He was the first male born after two older sisters. He married my mother against the wishes of his parents when he was barely 21. She was 26 and the principal of a girl’s school. I was their first born. Father, after some stints as an English lecturer in provincial colleges, had joined the administrative services. At first, he was posted in faraway places like Shillong in Assam and Nagpur in Maharashtra. Mother never left her job. His letters to my mother were filled with angst. Mother and I lived with her parents. She was the eldest in the family. I was adored by my grandparents, aunts and uncles. My parents coped with their loneliness in different ways.
I remember Mother being wrapped up in her work, a rather distant being, impatient and short tempered. Father in his letters implored her to be kinder and more patient with me. Looking back at those childhood years etched in my memory, I can now understand her preoccupations and frustrations. My first concrete memories of Father are from the times he was posted in Delhi as the Superintendent of Post Offices. I had not started school yet. Here, I would like to share an incident from that time that was narrated often in our family get togethers.
Father had a second-hand car – a black “Hindustan”. Its ignition often failed and need cranking with a hand tool. But that is not the point of my story. My story is about my little purse in which I kept an assortment of things that caught my fancy – like shells gathered from sand pits and other sparkly things. In this little purse I put the keys to the Hindustan. Summer was over and we were returning to Allahabad; Father was going to drive Mother and me to the railway station. He began searching for the car keys but they were nowhere to be found. Eventually, he called a taxi that took us to the railway station. I sat demurely in the compartment. After the train had gathered speed, I opened my box of treasures. I unclasped my little purse from which I triumphantly pulled out the car keys. I have no recollection of this incident or what might have happened after I brandished the keys.
My parents with my little sister.
The Railways had first, second, and, third class compartments. We traveled second class. I remember the olive green not-too-thick upholstery that covered the wooden sleepers of the second class. It was embossed with the northern railway’s logo. I can recall those rail commutes accompanying Mother when she travelled to spend vacation days with Father. The journeys were long. I would invariably sit by the window, taking in the changing pastoral scenery. In his last days Father recalled Mother’s courage to travel all those distances. She was young and beautiful, he said, and it took a lot of guts to travel alone with a small child. Mother had lots of guts. I caught a glimpse of the sweet, romantic side of my parent’s relationship when Father shared this perspective of the journey with me.
Finally, a time came when Father was posted at Allahabad and my parents could live together. They rented a bungalow in the Civil Lines area. The house itself was quite small but it had vast lawns and an equally extensive backyard populated with guava and mango trees, a cluster of big banana trees that produced special small size “chiniya kela” and a massive bel tree. The backyard was fenced off with a row of thorny jangal jalebi bushes. A great leafy neem tree spread its sturdy branches to shade the driveway. This is where my parents parked their cars. Father had a Fiat and Mother drove a red, two door Standard Herald.
Also read: Farewell Shamsur Rahman Faruqi: The Sun That Set in the Earth
I was fortunate to grow up not in an urban jungle but a neighbourhood encircled with nature’s beauty. My parents took a lot of interest in plants, they loved animals. There was an array of pots of cacti on the front verandah. One day Father and I excitedly admired the ruby red flower that emerged from a thorny cactus. I always wanted to be the first to spot a new blossom and report to Father. In this way I developed an affinity with cacti, a fascination with thorns. The moments we exulted over the exquisite blooms are still fresh in my memory. Here I must mention the vine with feathery, needle like leaves on thorny, woody, twisty stems that wound around the verandah pillars. It bore minuscule flowers growing on fern-like extensions. The flowers were pale but exuded a honey fragrance which attracted lots of bees. Father mentioned that this vine was called “ishq-e pechañ”. The poetic name intrigued me. Certainly, the vine was thorny and intricate, but why would ishq be thorny? I was only eight years old.
Me and Ammi.
Flowering bushes, vines and trees have such beautiful names. I owe it to Father for introducing me to the magic of names – Juhi, Chandni, Kamini, Madhu-Malti, Amar Bel, Gul-e Chin, Gul Mohar; I carry their distinct flower-fragrances inside my nostrils, their velvet textures on my fingertips. In the rainy season, the month of Sāvan, a swing would be strung from the neem tree. One could only swing when the cars were not parked under the tree, or were parked at a safe distance. One morning, I was impatient and couldn’t wait for the cars to be moved. I will swing gently, I thought. But I got carried away. The swing’s edge hit the Fiat’s headlight with an ominous crunch. The glass shattered but didn’t fall out because it was held by the steel frame. I crept back indoors and did not breathe a word about what had happened. It was a Sunday and the day unfolded leisurely. My parents had to go to a meeting in the afternoon. They took the car without noticing the shattered headlight. I breathed easier.
Father called me when they returned. “Why didn’t you tell us about the broken head lamp?” he asked. “The glass and frame fell off in the middle of traffic and could have caused an accident.” I stood there staring at my feet. The answer was that I was scared to tell them. Scared of what? Being severely reprimanded; of harsh words. If I was ever praised as a child, I don’t remember. My parents said harsh words and forgot about them later, but those words were unforgettable for me. Perhaps if I had confessed that I was desperately scared (of them) it would have helped. Our relationship was filled with misunderstandings. I became secretive. I felt unloved and unappreciated.
After six years in Allahabad, Father was posted at Lucknow. Second Saturdays of every month were special because he drove down for the weekend. His visits were precious and time flew. Occasionally, I had school holidays like the long break around Christmas and could drive back with him to Lucknow. The winter days spent with Father without my mother and sister were exclusive and distinct. This was the time when my literary tastes were nourished. Father would drop me off at the British Council Library in Hazrat Ganj on his way to office. I would join him for lunch, his little girl with a bunch of his fellow officers. Post lunch I would sit in his office and work on writing stories. I felt very important. On the way home we would talk about what I was reading and writing. It was bliss.
We went to book shops. We browsed for hours. We returned with an armful of books. On weekends we would go to the old city, to Chowk, and Nakhas. Here we checked out Urdu books. There were vendors on the side walk displaying old, rare books. The energy of the market was a world apart from the quiet Hazrat Ganj book shops. Then there was the bird market under a sprawling banyan tree in Nakhas. Parrots, finches, pigeons, mynahs, budgerigars of all colours chirped here. Their songs intermingled with the raucous voices of sellers and buyers bargaining. Father loved all creatures but it was practical for him to have some pet birds. In Lucknow he kept a two-tier airy cage with an assortment of lal muniyas (red finches) and other local finches. Pigeon fanciers were a part of Lucknow culture and the variety of pigeons at the market was extraordinary. Father couldn’t resist getting a pair of pigeons.
Also read: Shamsur Rahman Faruqi: The Ustad Who Could Catch the Bustle in A Flower’s Scent
Summer months we spent together as a family. Lucknow had a lot to offer; we liked being there. But home was always Allahabad. As I grew older, my relationship with my parents continued to be angst filled. Father understood my rebellious streak. Mother seemed oblivious to the emotions bottled up inside me. I was proud of my mother’s stature but I envied peers whose mothers were not busy professionals and fussed over their meals and homework. I was overly sensitive. I cried a lot. I sulked. I was angry. My remarkable exposure to the world of poetry, particularly of the ghazal, kindled raw emotions. It was a difficult time and I am glad it is over. For years I struggled to find a path that would suit my peculiar combination of erudition and emotion.
I followed different paths only to return to my base. The parental home, a storm filled haven. Mother, still alone, welcomed me and was a pillar of support. A new bond between us flowered. She doted on my children. She encouraged me in every way. My Mother was an educationist. A pioneer in educating the poor, underprivileged girls. Her school in the outskirts of Allahabad was inaugurated in 1956. The area was a settlement area for refugees from Pakistan. A Sufi khanqah nearby gave shelter to the homeless poor. An overbridge to bypass a busy railway crossing became another refuge for homeless people. Mother would stop by these places and encourage parents to send the children to school. I began to take interest in the school. Thus began a wonderful rapport with my mother.
My stars were changing, though. An unexpected opportunity to teach at the University of Pennsylvania came my way. It was bittersweet. A chance that might open a door to another world. Mother was sad to let me go but she didn’t object. There were farewells, hugs, tears; I left the children in her care and went to Philadelphia – alone. I was alone for the first time in my life. Those early months were pitiless. My furnished apartment on the 15th floor had basic furniture. The kitchen was bare. The shelves and drawers were empty. I had brought a pressure cooker with me and that was the only thing I had so I filled it up with water because I was thirsty. It felt strange drinking water straight from the tap. I had never ridden on a subway.
Father during his 2014 visit to Charlottesville.
I have been living in the US for 25 years. I am holding on to my Indian passport and managing with a Green Card. Something deep inside told me to keep that legal marker of my identity. I returned “home” every year. I had no problems falling into the rhythm of life in India. Change is inevitable, inexorable; it happens slowly, it can happen in an instant. The pandemic changed our lives dramatically. The first phase unfolded with the horror of contagion stalking us. A new vocabulary of social distancing began circulating. Then there was the fear of isolation, the ache of loneliness, the frustration of helplessness as we watched Covid strike loved ones.
We hoped for a vaccine by the year’s end. In November, my sister reported that Father was ill; it was Covid-19. Only my Indian passport could get me back to home. I took the Air India flight directly to Delhi. Father was in hospital in the Covid section. The Covid wards of even the elitist hospitals in New Delhi were nightmares. Writing about those days and nights after three years have passed still gives me goosebumps. The treatments for Covid were in an experimental stage. Doctors took chances, concoctions and cocktails of drugs were tried. They mostly failed but occasionally succeeded. Father received plasma therapy; he was on a powerful string of steroids. The steroids destroyed whatever immune system he had. He was losing strength every day. He wanted out.
We had to get Father out of the hospital. We didn’t want him to spend his days and nights in isolation at the mercy of hospital staff. After a lot of persistence, we succeeded in getting him discharged. The evening we got him to my sister’s apartment in South Delhi was one of jubilation. My sister had done the utmost to secure private nursing staff. Her daughter had scoured Delhi and arranged for hospital grade equipment for a critical patient, from oxygen concentrators to spare cylinders. It was the last week of November; Delhi was unusually cold with grey skies, icy winds and a high pollution index. We all had had Covid in different intensities of virus load.
With Father home, we were all in high spirits. He joined us in singing old film songs from the 1950s. We drank tea. I noticed that his one eye was badly swollen. The nurse made a temporary patch to shield it. The next morning it was worse. It didn’t get better. Yet, those days and nights were the most exquisite experience of love and pain. My job was to bring the tray of morning tea and biscuits. I would coax Father to eat rusks soaked in tea, regale him with stories of pets, flowers that were blooming now and had bloomed in the past, recite favourite ghazal verses. I would manage to get through four rusks before he would protest. He loved fine tea; the best of Darjeeling, Oolong, Temi, Jasmine, occasionally Earl Grey. The cup had to be elegant, made of bone china, of the right shape and size. Spoons had to be specific for stirring tea. He had an aversion to ugly spoons. Any time could be tea time, but morning and afternoon teas were special. He seldom poured his own tea; Mother would do that. But she had left us in 2007. After her passing, it was a void that no one could possibly fill.
My sister and I poured tea when we were visiting and he loved that. He drank it tepid but it had to be hot when poured. Conversations over morning tea ranged over many subjects; from the weather to his beloved pets, from his work to mundane anxieties. Generous to a fault, he felt short of money to give away to the charities he supported. The local graveyard was one such project that he took on with dedication. The cemetery was in shambles. Encroachments had reduced the area to a third of its original size. There was no boundary wall; goats and pigs and stray dogs roamed. It became the space for dhobis to dry laundry. Among other things, it was an open-air latrine. A committee was formed; the graveyard was cleaned up. Most of the committee members lie buried there now. My parent’s graves are side by side.
Father with his beloved dogs.
The conversations I had with Father in the post Covid days were wistful. He remembered incidents from his childhood and mine. I listened; he talked in English when the recollection was sad. “Once when I was small, I met a gentleman who knew exactly what I was thinking.” Thus began one poignant story. “It was a very hot summer; I must have been eight years old. I was walking home trying to stay in the shade. I longed for a big, cool slice of melon. I loved melons but my mother rationed the fruit strictly among us and I silently craved for more. That day, I was extremely dejected as I slowly walked by the edge of the road in the shade of the masjid. Suddenly I saw a man, a stranger coming towards me. He stopped as he drew closer. ‘You want a slice of melon, don’t you?’ the stranger said. He looked at me with kindness. Tears rolled from my eyes. How did the stranger know my thoughts? I never saw the stranger again.”
I absorbed this story. Another touching story (which I have shared in another reminiscence) was about puppies. He rescued two puppies and carried them home in his pocket. “They were small-small puppies,” Father said. But he wasn’t allowed to keep them. “Their mouths are dirty,” his father said. He took them back to their mother crying all the way. I loved the way Father used “small” in conversation.
Also read: On Returning Home to Father’s Library
He missed the Allahabad home. He would talk about the times when “your mother and I were saving every penny to build it.” He didn’t address Mother by her name; she called him “Faruqi sahib.” We had to get Father home before it got too late. First, we thought of journeying by train as he could certainly not travel on a regular flight. Precious time ticked by; the train idea had to be dropped. We became desperate; we could charter a medical plane. In moments of crisis our minds become numb. My sister signed up with a plane service, we got Father in a wheelchair and waited. Then at the last moment it was revealed that a Covid negative certificate was required to exit Delhi. Father sat patiently in the wheel chair, losing strength every minute. It was our last night in Delhi and the longest one.
Our Yoga teacher had held us together in moments of panic. He came over to keep vigil. He was Father’s teacher too. Father spoke his last words to him. After that he only communicated with his eyes and hands. At dawn the van to take us to the airport arrived. It was supposed to be an ambulance but it was cold as an icebox and patchy. Apprehension of the coming journey filled me with dread but I was outwardly calm. There was room for only two passengers. Our cousin who had been with us throughout this time was accompanying me. The rest of the family was taking the early flight. Father spoke with his eyes. We made the journey in the little plane to Allahabad.
December 22, 2019.
Nothing could be more beautiful than homecoming. The house was filled with relatives. Father’s two brothers were there. The emerald lawn glistened with dew, lahsunia flowers cascaded over the terrace, finches chirped in the narangi tree by the gate. Winters in Allahabad have a special charm, a heady mixture of the warmth in cold that exudes from the Sangam of the holy rivers. It was December 25, Christmas day. With so many helping hands Father was easily carried to his bedroom and the large shisham wood beds that my parents had custom made from Bareilly half a century ago. He gazed at the loving faces surrounding him. He possibly missed his favourite dog Bholi who was locked in her kennel out of respect for visitors. Someone called – bring Bholi. But no one did. We were tracking the flight on which my sister, her daughters and the two nurses were due to arrive.
A doctor came and suggested that Father should be put on a ventilator. Breakfast was on the table for us. Father was taking his last breaths. He had been saving precious breaths to get home. There was a smile on his face, the transition was peaceful.
Why should I share my pain with my readers? And, who would want to read it? There is beauty in pain, that is what I had learned from reading classical ghazals with Father. He taught me to appreciate and enjoy the finest things that art and nature can offer, like Ghalib’s “autumn rose”, “lamp at dawn” and “the fairy in the mirror”.
Mehr Afshan Farooqi is associate professor at the Department of Middle Eastern and South Asian Languages and Cultures, University of Virginia, US.
