The author with Abdul Subhan.
Salman told me he had read my piece on Dawn.com out to Subhan. “Woh bohat roye” [he cried a lot]. I was not surprised — we were that close. My friend could not speak, but 50 years later, he still remembered. What more can a helpless man do but cry?
But the worse was still to come. Salman sent me a picture and a short video. It was difficult to recognise my old friend, who had once been so full of life, always forthcoming and ready to help. Instead, I saw an unshaven disheveled Subhan on a bed, looking utterly lost.
My wife and I then spoke to Subhan’s wife in Karachi over the telephone. The gracious lady invited us to Karachi. I was hoping to plan a visit, and was even prepared to fight for the rejected visa, but now I am uncertain if I am brave enough to make that attempt.
Why didn’t I contact my friend earlier? To say that I was disappointed with myself would be trivialising it. I felt helpless. These things happen to others, not to your friends. I had traced my friend down, only to learn that we could not even have a simple reunion conversation.
All I could say was: Bohat takleef hui. Sometimes, I feel I should not have made this effort at all.
Now, old memories keep tumbling out. Our studies together; our journeys together — whenever we travelled, we always shared the hotel room. Our adventures from Czechoslovakia to East Germany to the Soviet Union; the stories we stayed up exchanging long into the quiet nights...Subhan and I...all of these memories, always together.
An invitation to Jalandhar
Its important for me to mention here that when my family left Lahore during partition, we settled in Jalandhar. Our house, which belonged to a certain Justice Haq, is a huge sprawling bungalow with its mardana and zanana, and a beautiful lawn signatory of historical abodes.
In the courtyard, my grandchildren run around huge mango and jamun trees that still struggle to give us fruit. There was also a well, a murgikhana and a kabristan, but all three of these were sold.
Somewhere in the early 1950s, my father remembered seeing a gentleman standing in front of our house. He revealed himself to be Justice Haq, and made his way inside what was once his home. When he was leaving, my father asked him to come visit again, but Justice Haq replied honestly: “Even though I want to, my sons don’t.”
As I did with Subhan, I don't want to wait too long to say this. If anyone from the Haq family is reading this, I would like to tell them they are welcome to visit their old house. We have kept the essential features as they are— except of course, the graveyard.
Read: Home away from home — My South Asian family in Paris
My last article on Subhan touched a lot of chords among Indians and Pakistanis alike, but I also learned that my story wasn’t the only one.
Many families have similar experiences to share, where outside the subcontinent, Indians and Pakistanis are the best of friends, but it is only here, in our own homes, that the atmosphere is vitiated.
In my previous article, a commentator Kamal Pasha expressed his wish for a pre-partition subcontinent. I would like to tell my dear Pasha, this is not going to be. The trajectory of both the countries has been so different that they cannot now coalesce.
But, what we can do is learn to live like good neighbours. So that in the future, it does not take 50 years for someone to contact a dear friend just across the border.