January 06, 2008

‘In the company of friends, death is a feast’
— attributed to Zahiruddin Babar, founder of the Mughal Empire

IT was during the early 1990s when amidst a horrid ethnic cleansing in Bosnia and the rising tide of Islamophobia, I attended an interfaith meeting in a Central London hotel where Haris Silajzic, the Bosnian historian-politician, was the main speaker. During the discussion, a debonair man stood up to raise some thematic issues, though I may not remember his exact formulation but he sounded more like a persuasive dissenter speaking with a natural fluency and confidence. Subsequently, triggered by curiosity, I encountered him over a cup of tea assuming that this Pharaonic figure might have some solution to the Ummah’s problems as both his balding head and scholarly glasses gave him a donnish look though his attire was certainly not of the tweedy crowd.

To my surprise, Ayyub Malik was not an Egyptian but a fellow Pakistani though born before Partition, and not a don either. He was an architect who dabbled in arts often contributing reviews for some journals besides flagging his scepticism of the so-called received wisdom and consensus on matters Islamic. His scepticism bordered between disillusionment and the usual expatriate dilemma of being lost on no-man’s land. That wet evening initiated a friendship of enduring nature which increased by each passing season until Ayyub began to spend his Eid and Christmas holidays with us in Oxford and was heralded with the title of ‘favourite uncle’ by the Malik clan.

Ayyub was a keen public figure who cherished socialisation and, within a short span of time, would uncannily ease himself on the centre stage without overburdening or threatening anyone around. His charming manners, interspersed with jokes and witty compliments, were often followed by a serious critique of politics and what he called ‘a long-time lack of creativity’ among Muslims. Comfortably anglicised and a loyal Londoner, deep down in his heart Ayyub valued the steadiness of his Muslim friends. He knew that despite our collective rot and miseries we still had some good left in us though he desired a quick recovery from a collective quagmire. Initially, his criticism appeared one-sided, but given a few more sessions especially of personal kind, one could happily discern a warm, traditional and kindly Ayyub beyond a firm exterior.

Here was a man born in a village in south-western Punjab in 1935; brought up in a traditional family as the eldest son under the watchful eyes of a disciplinarian father of strong opinions, whose motto was success through education. One would not fail to see his late father’s personality reflected in his physique and lifestyle. Committed to utmost order and tidiness in life, Ayyub disliked walking as well as cycling though he relished tennis until his joints refused to persist. Longer coffee sessions, painting, sculpture and then ceramics took over while the rest of his leisure time began to be devoted to bridge sessions.

Ayyub enjoyed his work with Chapman-Taylor where for decades he designed numerous buildings including some for the royal family and relished his work and interaction with colleagues. He never talked much about his personal life, illness and North London Polytechnic (now Metropolitan University), though often reminisced about the National College of Arts in Lahore where he had spent fruitful years after leaving his native town and before moving on to Karachi. Ayyub’s own career superseded the search for a life partner though he enjoyed female company but such steady relationships never matured into a marital bond. Once asked by our son, Farooq, his reason for not getting married, the eternal bachelor laughed it off with a quip, ‘All the lovely women are already married to my friends and none are left for me!’

As an energetic and engaging coversationalist, Ayyub was always the hub of a party and felt no hesitation in socialising with people of various ethnic or age groups. Women adored and responded to his naughty nuances whereas men just listened attentively to his animated views on everything on earth varying from plants to politics.

Ayyub’s bachelor lifestyle and fastidiousness about preserving his own privacy and orderliness might have been a bit intimidating for his friends, especially when he had redesigned his apartment to create an unhindered space for himself by removing corridors, doors and even some walls. His residence, always full of books and lately suffused with his ceramics, afforded a convenient view of the Thames and Kew Gardens though Heathrow-bound planes were constant company until the midnight curfew, when the River took over. The younger people would find the rows of planes enticing while older visitors would soon forget the noise amidst an energised discussion on politics, music, travels, arts and religion. Ayyub might occasionally appear competitive to men, but for women and younger people he was a joyous, attentive and ever-supportive companion.

With the latter groups he would steer clear of dwelling on dreary subjects and instead would focus on fashion, travel, painters and exhibitions. Here, Ayyub — the art critic — would be at his best and while sitting cross-legged and holding his cup of tea, the lone architect would come around as an immensely affectionate elder. Our daughter, Sidra, would receive special cards with encouraging messages, short quotes and information about the exhibits in London which she welcomed with a pronounced sense of pride and special attention that the favourite uncle bestowed upon her.

In the same vein, her friends and cousins received special messages and gifts on their birthdays. It is no wonder that for his funeral in Oxford, many of these young people had taken a day off to wish him their heartfelt farewell. Sidra and Madiha composed moving poetry celebrating his generosity and affection. Despite having no family of his own, Ayyub’s family was the wider world as he transcended ethnic and religious boundaries to claim an ever-increasing tribe of friends and younger people.

Ayyub never disclosed his illness to his friends and fought the encroaching cancer with an indomitable will. Proximity with him over the closing weeks of his life afforded a glimpse of an unlimited determination to live and fight off the disease though gradually one became aware of an accentuating decline. One desired for his complete recovery yet the reality was pointing to the contrary and we all wished for a peaceful passing for him. He was certainly saved from a prolonged agony when on November 26, 2007 he passed away peacefully while asleep.

Ayyub’s final journey to the Central Mosque in Oxford was followed by funeral prayers attended by hundreds of worshippers and friends of various persuasions. The other leg of the journey led to the Botley Cemetery as a long row of friends with tearful eyes bade him a final good-bye. In addition, numerous emails and phone messages offered condolences for a noble soul, untiring human being and an accomplished architect. Our final send-off for Ayyub at Wolfson College allowed us to share memories of a departed friend, warm-hearted colleague and fellow citizen who confidently traversed across diverse cultures without any inhibitions or preconceived notions.

Ayyub is gone but the memories of him as a Pharaonic figure and an affectionate mentor will stay with us forever. It is on a sad occasion like this that one is reminded of a verse by Sheikh Saadi, the famous 13th-century Persian intellectual from Shiraz, who noted in his own inimitable style: ‘You may not remember your birth when everybody around was happy except for yourself since you were crying. Lead such a noble life that while taking you on your final journey, all are tearful yet you depart as a happy soul’.