Yousuf’s each passing day seems to be his last. He has been on the threshold for more than a month now
OUR dear friend Yousuf, at times affectionately called Yousuf, is hospitalized in a precarious condition. He is in extreme pain and agony. As I pen this story, I feel besieged by the dreary thought that he would depart from this world before daybreak tonight.
Yousuf’s each passing day seems to be his last, and each passing night seems his last night with us. He has been on the threshold of crossing over into the mysterious world beyond this presumptive world for more than a month now. What kind of terrible suffering he continuously endures can only be gauged by a person who has undergone similar unbearable affliction, survived, and come out of it miraculously. It has been a nerve-wrecking experience to look at Yousuf, talk to him and then not to weep!
About an hour ago, I had looked at him through the observation window in the ICU. The doctors have put him on numerous machines. His drawn face was covered with an unusually elaborate oxygen mask, but still I could see his closed, sunken eyes. The monitor betrayed his weak and irregular pulse. I looked at up at Heaven, and said without uttering a word, “Have mercy on him.”
A few days ago, Yousuf had spoken to the doctors for the last time. In a faint voice he said, “I authorize you to put me to eternal sleep forever.”
I saw Dr Ahmed Jarwar and his associates shudder. As they emerged from the ICU, I asked, “Would you consider his request?”
“No.” Dr Ahmed Jarwar affectionately held me by my arm, and said, “That is against our ethics.”
“What are his chances of coming out of it?” I asked.
Dr Ahmed let go of my arm. As he left, he said, “Let us pray to Almighty Allah.”
I looked sideways to hide my tears. Sister Ratna, a senior nurse, tenderly asked, “How long have Yousuf and you been friends?”
I rubbed my eyes, and said, “Ever since Yousuf bowled at his fastest on the matting-covered pitches of Karachi, and I kept wickets.”
That was long ago, when Yousuf infused awe among batsmen and proverbially broke the stumps in pieces with his vicious in-swingers and unplayable yorkers. We practised at Nishtar Park. Yousuf’s only desire in life was to play for Pakistan.
We do not write our own destiny. Nishtar Park is in the proximity of Guru Mandir and Purani Numaish, favourite venues for political demonstrations. One day, the Police savagely baton-charged the demonstrators who were protesting against the Martial Law of General Ziaul Haq. The demonstrators ran towards Nishtar Park for shelter. Policemen chased the fleeing demonstrators, and severely baton-charged them in the streets, and in Nishtar Park. The players were trapped between the demonstrators and the baton-charging policemen. In the melee, Yousuf received a few baton blows on his head and collapsed.
Yousuf regained consciousness after five days, only to learn he had suffered from internal haemorrhage. A day before he was to undergo operation, Yousuf had said, “I do not want to die.” I had kissed him on his forehead, and said, “You are going to live, and to live for many years. Remember, someday we have to sit in the company of fasting Sadhus at the slopes of the Himalayas?”
Dr Juma Khan, the eminent neurosurgeon, removed the blood clots from his brain, and kept him under observation in the hospital for one month. While Yousuf recouped in the hospital, I was his regular visitor. In lonesome moments, Yousuf had once remarked, “I do not feel comfortable up here in my head.”
After leaving the hospital, Yousuf joined an Anglo-Indian shipping company in Keamari. We often sailed to Baba Bhit, an island, for our lunch consisting of fried shrimps and assorted fish stew. During this period, I could feel something awful was going on within him. At times, I saw him stagger. While eating, he very often shuddered. He began blinking and vigorously rubbed his eyes. He was losing his eyesight. What perturbed me and his friends was that Yousuf refused to see a doctor.
On the fateful day Yousuf collapsed in his office, we shifted him to the hospital. After a few hours, he regained consciousness. He held my hand and spoke in a broken voice, “I don’t want to die.”
“Oh come on, Yousuf!” I said, “You are not going to die.” The same day it was diagnosed that Yousuf had a malignant brain tumour that had to be removed. Yousuf, though shaken, took the news calmly. I stroked his hair, and said, “It’s going to be all right, Yousuf.”
He looked at me, and said, “I don’t want to die.”
Between his two desires, ‘not to die’ and ‘to die’, Yousuf has endured two agonizing years. He has undergone all sorts of treatment, including periodic chemotherapy, but to no avail. His condition worsened last month. We have shifted him to the hospital. Unbearable pain and agony have sapped out his energy. He talked to me for the last time a few days ago. He said, “Why don’t they let me die?”
As I write this story, I wonder if death is the ultimate deliverer of men from miserable existence!
