“A letter from Pakistan” announced the Watchman, looking at me strangely while handing over the envelope, as if it had a time bomb in it. Instantly, I knew it was from Naaz. Long since I heard from her. I was anxious to know how she was. I tore open the envelope rather clumsily only to find a B’day Greeting Card. It was a couple of days late. I was delighted to find a note too.

 

“Hope you get this in time. How are you? About me, getting along. Occasionally I still do the brooding act! Realize there are so many questions to which we’ve no answers!

---I should have been a pair of ragged claws

    scuttling across the floors of silent seas (who else but T.S.Eliot) .

Something in Urdu also comes to me now. If only you tried to learn Urdu…the same old Naaz, you say? Have a good year and all the best!"

 

I put the Card and note back into the envelope. I wished she had been less abrupt, said something more about her life now. In any case, I was sure that she’ll never be the same old Naaz.

 

Naazneen Siddiqui. All of us called her Naaz. How do I describe her ? In fact, I thought of her just the other day. Because the Creative Director of our Ad agency was “briefing” the trainee Copywriter on ads for a Beauty Parlour. “You see there’s a big difference between Beauty and Charm. Charm is the beauty within the person, somethings in the person which make her look beautiful. Renu’s Parlour can’t give you that! “ All so hurriedly put by the typical adman! But I gave it a thought and eventually thought of Naaz. She had both charm and beauty in the way the Ad man explained.

 

We did our graduation and post graduation together. With English Literature as our main subject. But Naaz was a thorough bred Hyderabadi at heart and her first love was Urdu. It was she who introduced me to the beautiful world of Urdu literature. However, I found it difficult to grasp the script and soon gave up.Another reason could have been that I had Naaz readily reading it for me. From Ghalib to Faiz.. the couplets sounded more meaningful, more beautiful in her lovely voice. She read with the knowledge of chaste Urdu and a rare intensity that recognized the nuance of those rich writings. When I occasionally showed her a translated version, she would soon fish out the original, and proudly declare “ you see, Urdu is Urdu. You can’t really translate it!”

 

After graduation, the splendid sheltered Durbar Hall of the Women’s College was no longer our “adda” . We were now part of a larger group _ co-eductional and cosmopolitan. And the inevitable happened. Naaz fell in love with Alok. Tall, handsome, intelligent (majoring in Physics) very amiable and very genuine. And yes. He loved Urdu. An amateur photographer, soon his focus shifted from landscapes, flora and fauna to Naaz. He’s immortalized Naaz’s youth in some lovely moments in time. Naaz passed on many of those beautiful photographs to me for fear of her father.

 

A father she adored.

 

Circumstances, marriage ..brought me to Mumbai and away from the city of my youth. Naaz and I exchanged letters. Frequently , and later , occasionally, as it invariably happens.

 

That year, she had written quite a few poems. I read them in some of our reputed magazines and I was happy and proud of her. I congratulated her but taunted her about why with all that passion for Urdu she resorted to English. “It’s no use” she confided ever so genuinely. “You wouldn’t believe it. However much I struggled to drag my thoughts on to the paper, they wouldn’t come off in Urdu. I now realize, that I don’t think in Urdu.”

 

In the following year, we hardly communicated. My sickness, a trip abroad , various other activities occupied my list of priorities and things from the past seemed less significant.. I thought of Naaz again, when I received her Wedding Invitation, at the end of the year. She was not marrying Alok! I went into that night unhappy and with a whole lot of questions. They entangled a few more days and nights. Nothing was clear though I presumed and guessed a whole lot of situations.

 

Until I met Alok one evening at Hyderabad.

 

He explained the events, as a matter of fact, over tea at our favourite joint on Abid Road. Old man Azeez stopped the fast number to play Mehdi Hassan. He knew all our favourite ghazals. “You know her so well. She could never fight.” Alok was saying “There are times when I think, she could never have been happy if she disobeyed her father. So, you see, it was not to be”

The worst must have been over for Alok. He now seemed so calm, so collected and very rational in his talk.

“And how’s the husband? Ever met him?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. Adnaan Hyder. Her cousin. She’s hardly known him. Seldom speaks Urdu. Her westernized aunt’s son.”

 

“Naaz!” I said with a sigh. Both of us were able to laugh at that.

 

Then we carried on …our conversation from Naaz to the rest of our group. Who’s doing what where.

 

“What about you …when are you getting married ?”I could never have thought of asking Alok that but for my impression of him, on that day.

 

“I will, soon. In fact, something’s up at home.” I wasn’t surprised at the answer.

 

As the crowd cleared from our adjacent table the mellifluous Mehdi Hassan was irrepressibly audible.

 

“Remember good old Azeez” Alok asked me as Azeez came helping at the table.

 

“Of course…Just met him there”, I replied .Then gathering my bags, added “Must get going Alok…my children”

He rose and held out his hand. “Thanks a lot…it’s been therapeutic, in a way, you know” he  added thoughtfully.

 

As we came down the stairs I wondered what Naaz would think if she heard this Mehdi Hassan out there in Pak. Will she smile and just say “That’s Mehdi Hassan”

 

Time is such a powerful tool. Almost magnetic. And when that runs out, over you, nothing can hurt. You brood occasionally, seek and search for those elusive answers at times. Then just move on.

 

At the exit, I noticed how older,  Azeez now looked . He stooped in his customary style to say “khuda hafeez”.