Memories of Ashfaq Abbu

Ashfaq Ahmed Saheb was famous for masculine looks, which he inherited from his father, Mohammed Ahmed Saheb. In his youthful days, he would swim across river Yamuna and back without break, pushing water aside with the powerful strokes. He would take the plunge, even during monsoon, tearing river’s overflowed belly, at times disappearing in the ferocious current, only to emerge later violating nature’s force.

During leisure days he could be spotted riding heavy duty “Triumph”, or driving the open, low bonnet, left hand drive “Willys”, with hunters net. Sipping coffee at the “Coffee House”.

Ashfaq Saheb was a man of few words and much substance. Had a very exclusive circle of friends, I’ve had the privilege of going through his photo albums, surrounded by many fine admirers, during his college days. Hunting shots at “Chambal” jungles, or at times sporting black glares at few Hill stations.

Ashfaq Saheb got married to the only daughter of” Nawab of Seoni”, Nawab Saheb too had a passion for hunting, and wouldn’t trigger the rifle for anything less than a Tiger. I have heard of Nawab Saheb’s legendary kills and of stuffed tigers at his mansion. The gaming passion was much before hunting restrictions came into force.

Back at our ancestral home “Plot”, there was a section reserved for Ashfaq Saheb, we would rarely get to see the place as Ashfaq Saheb or Abbu, slept all day and was up all night. There was a huge revolving dining table in middle of his Majlis, and we kids would take turns by sitting on top and someone would make it run in circles. Those heavenly “chakkars”.

Sometimes all kids joined together and cleaned up his place, sweeping of all dust, in return Abbu would give each a pack of “mithi supari”. Those days Abbu’s wife “Aunty Begum”, and only child, ” Baba Bhai”, lived in “Seoni”.

After my Father was laid to rest, Ashfaq Saheb, regularly inquired our well being, he was my father’s elder brother. And often showed his concern over our education.

During teenage days I would prepare tea flask for him at nights and tried getting into discussion, asking about my father, his temperament, my ancestors and the blood line. Who else could have given a better narration other than my father’s own brother.

Apart from his countless acres of land in Seoni, Abbu had a Petrol Station on Rewa Road, I visited him there at times . Specially when I was broke. And never hesitated demanding money. We only negotiated the amount, as my demand exceeded few thousands and not hundreds. Eventually, I wrested the money out from him, Abbu never refused. I think he always saw my father in me.

By his order a liter of petrol became my daily bike quota, which was debit ed to his personal account. At times it could even become two.

After Abbu’s wife, Allah E Rehma, Aunty Begum passed away, Abbu and Baba bhai moved permanently to Allahabad. Now Baba bhai is a tall, royal man of 6 “2″. We have our houses built close by and I would spend more hours with Abbu.

When I started working, I bought fragrances for Abbu, and still remember the joy in his eyes. I told him about the work and voyages, in detail. Convincing him probably that I did not wasted myself, that I too inherited the old blood. Proving many failed negative prophesies on self by pseudo relatives. I tamed my anger, “angry young men” look good only on the big screens.

Last meeting with Abbu was heart wrenching and desperately painful, I found him on the bed. I shivered when I saw my once powerful Abbu so weak. He had severe memory loss, and could not recognize me, but called by my fathers name. I sat there holding his hand. Crying. I was too young to mourn my own father’s death. But the thought of losing my noble, father figure was not acceptable. I kissed his majestic forehead and looked into the royal eyes, and sat there asking Allah not to take Abbu, pleading for his health and life, but Allah always has better plans.

Abbu passed away after some time of my visit. I mourned him then and I mourn him everyday. I visit the family graveyard whenever I’m in town. No happiness will ever fill the pain of losing my regal and majestic Abbu. Sometimes I see them all, my father Akhlaq Saheb and brothers Ashfaq Saheb, Mushtaq Saheb, Anwar Saheb, Ishtiyaq Sahib, may Allah have mercy on their souls.

Sometimes I think that Allah has stopped making this noble breed of men. Men like Abbu, pure and true. Men of few words and strong commitments. Men who believed in doing rather than bragging. Men who will not leave your hand during hard days, but hold you firmly, even if hell went lose. Men who could look at devil and bring him to knees.

In our lifetime we meet few people who change the way we see and live life, I’m glad for me Abbu, Ashfaq Ahmed Saheb, is one of them.

Knowing, Shariq Niaz

My first memory of Shariq playing mouth organ on roof top was quite questioning. I wondered who on earth, would play mouth organ on a roof top, probably a creative and artistic genius. I was 16 then.

As usual Shariq became pal of my older brother, and we got introduced, he looked interesting with many hobbies under his belt, had a huge collection of music, books and” santa banta” jokes. He was an engineering student then and loved breaking down gadgets and fixing them.

Shariq had an opinion on every and any thing, how ever hard I tried with my limited logic, shariq always had better plans and would like the art of war’s general, over rule the ideas with his better and proven ones. That’s the price one pays to hang out with Shariq bhai.

After Sarosh bhai left the town Shariq found a new friend in me, once while sitting on a bench he demonstrated a not so known kung fu hand and I found myself hitting dirt. Well, that was his kung fu expertise talk for days which I half heartily bore.

Somehow who ever met Shariq ended up calling him Shariq Bhai, probably the way he communicated and certainly his rock solid reputation of a bank able man, young but mature. So we had fiftish plus dudes calling him bhai.

The term “impossible”, was not literally coined for Shariq but for weak mortals like me. Shariq could get any job done, so was the rumor. Any thing legal, in right pretext and content. He was more of a social man, believing in a helpful hand, interest free.

Those days guys in Allahabad really looked forward for the new years eve, so did we. Allahabad being a conservative town then had the typical system of “might is right”, which exists even very much today. Well, to cut the story short, we got ourselves into a street fight and I ended up breaking the hand bone, just an hour before 1994 welcomed us. The hand healed fast and cemented my relationship with Shariq much firmly. We were men, tested now, confident enough to challenge even the Greek Gods. Youth gives the power and recklessness to risk it all, without considering the outcomes. I get chills recollecting the impossible adventures, but that was then. Drunk in the wine of youth. Good looks and strong fist, what else a guy could ask for.

Nasir had also joined the club sometime earlier, late night movies, philosophical discussions, little gym, so much was going on. Shariq got married early but nothing changed, we did hanged out as usual. Winter is the best time to meet Shariq, always dressed in customized hand made Jackets.

We differed greatly in ideas and view on as how the life should be. You can’t expect friends to think evenly, that’s the essence of being friends. I always wanted enough air to breathe and couldn’t stomach the idea of bearing unwanted responsiblities, Shariq could hold the world and its worries in his great heart. The idea of getting tied into worldly chaos would take my breath away. The pleasure and urge to rebel against the man made principles, haunted and encouraged me to forge a new path.

Shariq has been very much around, fighting, advising, bullying. He’s a tall guy, standing six feet against gravity. Big eyes, genuine big smile. He’s a father of two great kids. There is much to write about the man, but we leave some thoughts for future too.

If you are ever in Allahabad, do look for Shariq, he’s the man.

Death of MALKHAN

Asif bhai died, a broken man, both in spirit and body. Last I saw him was day of Eid. He laid there looking at me with sad empty eyes, paralysis struck him badly, unable to move his skeleton frame or talk.

Its sad to see people helpless, specially if you knew them and are bound by blood. Even though if you were not close or had spent quality time together.

I have vivid images of Malkhan, as his friends would lovingly call him. I remember him smoking bidis and much tea, reading hindi novels while eating, and asking me to get him water. And truly, I hated this job of getting water, it seemed he had a dry well within, which could absorb any amount of fluid.

He was a loner, with limited friends, not the regular refined circle, very average student. What I know is that he didn’t studied much.

The family business was booming and he got absorbed in the trap of many false promises, promises made by so called smart and pseudo cousins. His earning was good, first money is always good. He was absorbed within the vicious family circle, shackled by unseen chain, for the best time of his life called ” youth”.

He was the toughest of men I have met, would pour petrol over his wounds to heal, got stabbed once, but managed to pin down the guy single handed, with a knife sticking on his back. Fear and Malkhan didn’t get together well. I admired his guts, would hear of his macho action packed thrillers, definitely not from him. People talked and I would take the liberty of stumbling on these precious conversations. Malkhan certainly didn’t needed people to watch his back, his reputation of fearlessness would freeze the “wanna be”, criminals. Come what may, malkhan never got beaten, bullets, knives or a gang, malkhan’s fist did the talking.

As ever, time passed and I would hear less of him, rarely meeting, with conversation not exceeding the courteous SALAM. I don’t even know if I ever had his respects, what I know is that tough guys don’t judge you academically or financially, but with the pure daring and power of fist. And truly I had nothing to match with the iconic and brave Malkhan.

Looking into his big empty, sad eyes, remembering the Malkhan I knew as a kid, not a perfect hero, but almost hero like, dare devil to the core, I could not help the sudden flush of tears, holding his thin hands. Malkhan looked at me as if trying to see the sanity of my soul. His white Kurta, Pajama. Hollow cheeks and faint smile,at last he uttered ” Saifu, don’t worry, even this will pass”.

That was the last time I saw him after a break of 5 plus years. Next week, the call came that Malkhan passed away. Do Heros die or they just become Legends. With me gone one day, the story of Malkhan will be lost forever. Or renarrated by many admirers like me. A hero who could have been a financial success, but they say that nothing can tie a free soul, no commitments or promises, free souls are like fresh breeze, not staying for long, moving and leaving the memory behind. Probably, that’s why he never got married.

I did mourned him. Regretting not knowing him much, not helping him, either financially or emotionally. Probably never understood that tough guys dont ask for help, even in dire needs.

Remembering, Obaid

Obaid was a distant relative, since child hood I had been meeting him on and off, on occasions, be it birthdays, marriages or just family get togethers. He had always been on the quieter side, didn’t talked much and kept aloof. But some how I managed to get on his approval list. He would share with me his picture collections and comics. We had one thing in common; we almost looked alike, same height, same skin texture and style of walking; only he was better looking. With beautiful big eyes, so clear if u looked deeper u could have seen his soul. Obaid was right out from a beautiful novel, a character so clean and clear, almost angel like. And you wonder at the creation of Almighty.

 

At the age of 6, diabetes was detected in Obaid’s system, and was there to stay forever. After some years at school he quit, though education continued at home. He grew taller and better looking, would try new style of moustache or just hair cut, and mostly wore faded denim and colorful shirts. What ever he did, he looked cool. Sometimes he would give me deep and long stare, probably figuring out my depth, and if I said “what’, would broke his stare with a big smile. I never became his best friend, maybe I just didn’t had enough guts to come into reality with his pain. Pain was a term permanent “in house”, with Obaid; my heart sank, when I first saw him taking injection, by himself. “Get use to this”, he would tell me later.

 

He opened a small business; I was in college and would pass by, watching him work, counting money, and ordering tea, always unsweetened for him.” Let’s change our meal for a week’, he would say laughingly. He would discuss his dreams, what he could have done, had he been free of “sugar’, his idea of a woman, probably wife, getting married, having kids, eating lots of sweets and life free of medication. And more years passed with on/off contact with him, no matter after what ever period we met, he was same, the same old Obaid.

 

I had been thousands of miles away from home, pursuing my dreams, and the call came, Obaid Ullah Khan, passed away, 23 years old, at time of his death. For a moment I felt a strong punch crashing on my chest, I couldn’t breathe, taking the support of a bench I sat down, our complete lives flashed in some moments. His face encircling me, his smile and ocasionally, the sad eyes. It was only when I visited his grave, the tears flowed, and I bid my friend a silent farewell. At last he made his peace with life.

 

I repeated again and again “Truly to Allah we belong, and truly to him we return”.

Being, Sarosh Ali Ahmad

Sarosh Ali Ahmad, if u ever see him in a crowd it wont be difficult to figure out this ruthlessly handsome mughal, big almond eyes, bigger eye lashes, strongly built, broad shouldered, gentle smile and a pure heart. That’s how I saw him and that’s how he will remain forever in memory.

 

As a child I remember “bhai’, chasing me to give a good beating, 2 years older and taller, bhai was the bully I hated to be left alone with. A pure narcissist of me, myself and I. We went to school on same “rickshaw’, same “hafiz ji’, and very same “master sahib’ at home, so running away from bhai was almost an impossible dream. I made my peace with him and followed his instructions, dreading the repercussions of saying “no’ to him. I loved walking with him at school, showing off my older brother to class mates, indirectly, telling them “beware’. At school he was probably nicer than home. Since very early he would sit with paper and colors and draw for hours, he had the rare gift to paint and draw, later he would compete in competitions and win, mostly. That’s one thing which really impressed me from very beginning.

 

bhai was 11 when our father passed away, I saw him crying silently, suddenly there was an emptiness in our life and things would change with faster pace than we would grow, either taller or emotional. Suddenly, bhai became 11 yrs old man, not knowing where to start or assuring “ammi’, that all will be well. Days became slower, something within all of us died. Bhai ensured that we went to school on time, after school he would supervise the small business which he inherited from father and would spend hours making it work. He became aggressive since then, collecting money from firm, being fooled by partners, the scars of that period never healed inside him. He refused help from out; suddenly he was a new man, not the bully I knew. He became much gentler and caring, I was never involved into work or family tensions, I never cared to know from where the money came or from where we got the school fees, Sarosh took care of every thing. Be it meeting my teachers at school or buying new school books, completing the assignments, bhai did all and never complained. During, some dark days, when hope seemed far, he would tell me “dont u give up on me saifu, we are in for the long run, we will survive”, again and again he would remind, not to let go, the faith was all we had. I remember, when he wanted to do his room and we bought superman stickers, also a Bruce Lee’s one. I dont remember when, but he gave up his first love “painting’, probably he got to busy fighting bad colors of life.As a teenager he became very choosy with friends. Somehow he managed a huge fan following, Sarosh was loved by women, be it school girls of his age or college going, he was the man. God knows how many free chocolates I ate cause of him.

 

And so the years passed and we grew, together, the bond becoming not of brothers but almost father and son. Later, he would work hard to keep my temper in check. Either with threats or coaxing, I would be reigned in. Sometimes I thought he quietly enjoyed the rebel in me. A luxury he could not afford to indulge in with so much of responsibilities.

He had a dream to leave the town, earn lots of money, travel the world and be cool. So after completing the education, he started working. Sending me clothes, watches and deo’s. The pace of life became faster, he followed his heart, traveled, worked and earned, and supporting me all the way, the first motorbike, extra expenses, and he ensured I was covered. I mostly banked on bhai, till my first serious job, We both live in different worlds now, and its been some time that I last saw him, we chat sometimes on net or phone, I keep his picture in my wallet and im sure he does the same.

 

Since beginning, he instilled positive thoughts in my head, helped me when i needed him most, stood by my side n never lost faith.Reprimanded me when i was wrong.He will remain one of most honest and principled man i have met and known. Dedicated, responsible, someone u can bank on with your life, chivalrous, fiery eyes . Sarosh Ali Ahmad remains and will forever be my only HERO and idol. However hard I try to be like him, he will remain the legend, who will forever walk in the alleys of my legend book.

Shamsul Khan, lost friend

I had been observing him since at least 3 yrs, probably I was in class 5^th  and my school “rikshaw’, would pass by the same street everyday, that’s where “Shamsul Khan’ ran the bangle store, “wholesale business’, he would tell me later with much confidence. Once I had my BSA mach1 bike, I was free to peddle, all the way to school, home and play. Amazing stamina of kids, who go on peddling all day along, and suddenly the whole town was new to me, alleys, streets, jamuna river, akbars fort, company garden, all was but few peddles away, life never had been so beautiful before.

 

I would stop by Shamsul’s store sometimes, and discuss latest Phantom comics, and exchange too. Later these discussions would switch to girls, movies and bodybuilding. But, we didn’t become too much pally, just got to know, like any other neighbor. Years passed and we grew, Shamsul, remained at his store and me at school. It was only by 9th standard, with more freedom from home, and exemption from much restriction, we actually became friends. He would pass the store to younger brother and we would fly to Civil lines, on his old yet loyal scooter, Civil Lines, then was a haven, a young man’s dream place, with pretty girls and Hot Stuff, probably the only place in town where we could sit, drink coffee for 11rs a cup and talk. And, Shmasul knew some talking; the man was good that anyone would fall into his talk trap.

 

What really impressed me about Shamsul, that he never talked at anyone’s back, no matter, may hell broke lose, but Shmasul never criticize or humiliated anyone publicly, I don’t remember if I ever saw him serious or gloomy, he was forever fresh, with tons of smile and loads of enthusiasm. With devastatingly good looks and physique as carved by some Greek hands, Shamsul was the wonder boy. The only person he could not impress was Reba. Anyway, very fast Shamsul got introduced to all my friends and we would hang out forever. Be it the “Bonny Moses’, insane, new years party or “Rehan Shah’s’ fashion show, he was every where.

 

Sometimes we would sit and talk of future, it wasn’t the present but future which always haunted me, his encouragement and positive morale boost were much needed. He would inspire and inspire, though he never read Vincent Peale, but knew exactly what to say, the only dream he had was to be in university, the best he went was High School, he would tell me that I have to get out, become something and make a name out of myself.

 

One day he told me that he was leaving the town for good and go back to his native place, so he left, we stayed in touch, then one day he called, saying he was getting married, so a big gang left for almost 12 hrs train journey to attend his marriage. With so many amazing guys around during Shamsuls marriage that those few days will forever be forged in my memory. Short trips from there to
Agra, seeing Taj Mahal, getting lost, eating “petha’, getting stuck with the unrivalled majesty of Taj, will remain moments to cherish. Shamasul started a new life and somehow I felt that he has grown up, I was19 then, him being few years older.

 

Came back with many memories, slowly got busy with life and there were no calls between us, years passed and I left the town, only memories stayed in mind and heart. Now, I realize it’s been 13 years that I last saw or called him, I wonder sometimes, what he will be doing now, or just his health, kids and wife. His kind eyes and gentle smile, in end nothing remains but memories, either good or bad. After Shamsul I had many friends but none could take his place, it was reserved and sealed. Sometimes im asked a very simple question “who is your best friend’, I always smile, keeping quite and say loudly within “SHAMSUL”.

Mrs. Tripathi

Mrs. Tripathi taught us English back in 92, preparing for ICSE exams, Tough and Stern, that’s how we used to see her, Sari clad beautiful, dimpled cheeks, with lots of “sindoor’, she was an Anglo-Indian, married to Mr. Tripathi, becoming Mrs. Tripathi, I never got her first and real name.

 

Come English class period, she would enter with much dignity and grace, reprimand some social culprits like me and gang, probably worst students she had ever seen in her career, “as per her’. Like every day she will go on with Julius Caesar, poetry and short stories, personally I loved literature and hated language, which I regret today, and she hated me for hating language.

 

What she didn’t knew, that her teaching had a magical effect on me, how could ever I forget her explanation of “ lake isles of innisfree’ or “ the slaves dream’, or Brutus plunging his dagger into Caesars heart, and Caesar exclaiming “ et tu brute, then fall Caesar’, her explanations, which followed did magical effects, and I would linger on to the ancient ruins some where on roman “palatine hills’, or in scorching heat of desert seeing the slaves heart coming to still, with a drop of tear from still eyes.

 

Later, however hard I tried I never became her blue eyed boy; probably he was a topper, some genius of my class who easily surpassed me in exams. I never took studies seriously and always believed that education is a mean and not end, however hard any one would try, my thick headed skull with limited medulla oblongata was stubborn.

 

After clearing school, college and university, Mrs. Tripathi’s shadow would not leave me, in any poem book, I would desperately look for the poems she taught. Years would pass and I so clearly remember the opening passage of Julius Caesar, her explanation and hush silence of class. Her soft, yet deep and resounding voice. Now, I realize that it wasn’t my love of literature but her efforts to make the subject so easy and enjoyable to us, how many late nights she would have spend, preparing for next day, just to make it easy for us. Today I feel so humble and small to her great persona. A woman so much dedicated to what she did best, “teaching English’.

Over years I have managed to build a small size book collection for myself, imposing a thought on self or others, indirectly, to be a scholar. But, for once, just once, a recitation and explanation of poem from Mrs. Tripathi, I am willing to give it all away.

Reba Ayaz, unplugged

Meeting Reba Ayaz in some ways, was the turning point of my life, Reba happened to be a friend of my elder brother “Sarosh”, while leaving town Sarosh introduced me to few, Reba and Sheba Ayaz were one i was going to know for years to come.

When i met Reba, both his parents had passed away, though he never talked of the emptiness and pain, i could easily make-out the missing links. Slowly, our friend ship developed and evolved, Reba more like a brother than friend, had plenty of advices, on what and what not, just like a good disciple, hungry for learning, i smiled and followed, I was introduced to circle unknown to me, which existed only in imagination. Reba had it all, from Sufism, literature to cult rock music, and plenty of “Gold Flake cigarette’s, with uninterrupted flow of tea. Me being youngest had to prepare tea, sometimes 2 at night, but it was worth all pains.

Slowly, i found myself changing, learning and having own opinion, Sufism and rock was not my share, but certainly literature was. Reba had an old “yezdi, which u pump before kick starting, very different from “Royal Enfield. Anyway, i loved riding that bike and tried impressing all girls on way, somehow i thought, the faster the bike, the bigger impression. After some crashes i realised, it wasn’t true. God has blessed Reba with a beautiful soul and fine personality, fast he was getting loads of new disciples, love doomed, career crashers, confused boys, even rich and powerful started showing up at his place. He, genuinely listened and advised, mostly worked. Reba enjoyed good life and was a thorough spender. Compromise on money was not on his agenda. To me he was a man of communication, and that’s what he wanted for career, to be a media man. We would talk for hours, on media, advertising and mass communication. His ideas and theories as what was missing and how he will fill in the blanks.

Years passed n Reba moved, switching between Bombay n Delhi, following his dreams, I stayed back, doing what i had to do. Had my own share of adventures and finally moved out of town, now in search of my destiny, it was in 1999, day of Eid, Reba was in town, we didn’t talked much, years passed and i would meet him sometimes in Delhi or Bombay, to him i still was the young disciple, though he knew that i have made my transition.

Sometimes, sitting alone and reflecting, i see Reba, his long hair, smart glares, same jeans and rolled shirt, confident stride and impeccible speech. I wonder, no matter how much we mature or grow old, confident, more certain, but people like Reba Ayaz would not stop putting a smile on face. The good glorious old days, where raw strenght of arm wresling, taking unwanted risks and many tea cups with Reba Ayaz will nevercome back.