Long ago, Tasveer was left spellbound when Mohammed Ibraheem rendered the verses of Shah Latif in his inimitable style
IT was the second night of the annual Urs (anniversary) of Sufi poet Shah Abdul Latif Bhittai. Renowned singers rendered his mystic verse in soothing compositions till late in the night. It was one of the memorable nights, when one finds his soul immersed in unexplained ecstasy.
By the time I switched off the AV paraphernalia and collected the recorded cassettes and CDs, the vast open auditorium that had accommodated more than 200,000 devotees of Shah Latif wore a deserted look. Except for a solitary figure of a graceful woman, everyone had departed from the auditorium. Clad in an unusually loose saffron outfit, she remained seated like a revered image. What surprised me most was the aura of divinity around her face.
I alighted from the stage, and slowly walked towards her. She appeared to be in her late 40s. The more I beheld her melancholic but otherwise radiant face, the more I felt pulled towards her. She did not take notice of my presence, and remained absorbed in her meditation. I overcame the irresistible desire to talk to her, and thought it prudent to leave her alone. As I stepped away, I heard her call out, “Do you think Ibraheem will perform tomorrow?”
I turned around and exclaimed, “Ibraheem, who?”
She said, “Mohammad Ibraheem.”
I felt surprised, and asked, “The radio singer?”
“He is more than a radio singer.” She calmly said, “Ibraheem is a legend in his own lifetime.”
Puzzled, I looked at her minutely. I couldn’t notice a trace of abnormality in her appearance. She remained seated, calm and well composed. She startled me again with her query, “Will Ibraheem perform tomorrow?”
I bent down and said, “I don’t think Ibraheem will perform tomorrow.”
“Why?” She appeared dismayed, and asked, “Why won’t he perform? Doesn’t he know I have specially flown in to listen to him?”
I felt sorry for her. Mohammed Ibraheem is no more alive. He passed away many years ago.
She rose to her feet and proceeded towards the exit. After taking a few steps, she stopped, turned around and asked me again, “Is it possible to calculate the duration of a moment?”
“I don’t think a moment is calculable in terms of time.”
“I endure each moment of an agonizing year to return to Bhitshah and listen to Ibraheem.” She sounded sad, and said, “But, you say Ibraheem won’t turn up to perform tomorrow!”
“Yes ma’am, Ibraheem won’t perform tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes ma’am, I am.” She lowered her head, and moved away from the auditorium.
After switching off the lights, I along with my engineering staff returned to the guest house. I did not feel like going back to my room. Instead, I went to the kitchen. Ali Murad, the old cook, was busy winding up in the kitchen. He smiled and said, “I know what brings you to the kitchen.”
Ali put a tea bag in a cup and poured boiling water over it. He handed me the cup and said, “You look in pensive mood.”
“Not exactly,” I thanked him and left the kitchen.
I settled in one of the old-fashioned reclining chairs spread all along the veranda and sipped my cup of tea. The entire area within the premises of the guest house was dominated by huge mango trees. Nothing was clearly visible in the contrasting light and shadows. The shrine of Shah Latif in the proximity was immersed in beaming lights. Suddenly, I caught sight of the woman in saffron sitting alone on the elaborate lawns in front of the guest house. I went back to the kitchen and brought back Ali Murad. I showed him the mysterious woman and asked, “Who is she?”
“She is Tasveer.” Ali said, “Almost every year she comes from Canada to attend the annual Urs of Shah Latif.”
“Is she mentally well?”
“Why do you ask?”
I narrated to him my conversation with her earlier in the open auditorium, and asked, “Why does she think Mohammed Ibraheem is alive?”
Ali Murad then revealed a story of unfulfilled love. Long ago, as a teenage girl, Tasveer had come to Bhitshah with her father, the then Inspector General of Sindh Police. Tasveer is bestowed with a Sufi soul. She sat spellbound in the concerts for three nights. It was an unusual experience for a girl of her age. When Mohammed Ibraheem rendered verses of Shah Latif in his inimitable style, Tasveer submerged in mystic trance. She was engrossed by a person at least thrice her age.
Thereafter, she took to Sufi singing, and time and again expressed desire to her parents for taking lessons in mystic music from Ibraheem. Her shrewd father knew exactly what was going on in his daughter’s mind. She was promptly married to her cousin who worked in a senior position in the Pakistan Embassy in Canada. Incidentally, Tasveer’s husband had aversion for mystic muse. One day, the furious husband smashed her Ek-tara, threw away the Chapris (handheld wooden mini planks for creating rhythm), and destroyed her entire collection of Sufi music. Thereafter, her marriage did not last long.
After seeking divorce, Tasveer did not return to Pakistan. She took up a teaching assignment in Canada. Finally, when Tasveer returned to Pakistan after many years, she was shocked to learn that Mohammed Ibraheem had passed away. Dismayed, Tasveer refused to accept the truth. She firmly believes Mohammed Ibraheem is alive and someday he would perform for her.
