Our mother virtually left no stone unturned in our ideal upbringing. But my elder brothers married and settled separately in different parts of the city
IN the life of each one of us there always comes a time when we no more feel young, we no more feel old. We sink our head in our mother’s lap, and give a damn to what opinion the world would form about us.
My ailing mother ran her fingers through my hair, and caressed me tenderly as if I was a toddler. She asked, “What do you want?”
“Nothing, nothing.” My guilt complex tortured me. I almost cried, and said, “Nothing that I want from you.”
I had rushed back from Kolkata to see my old and indisposed mother in Karachi. I am her fourth son, youngest among the four children. We were in school when my father met with an accident, and died on the spot. He was Assistant Professor in Government College, Karachi. My mother then was a teacher in the Madr-i-Millat Secondary School. She was young and an extremely pretty woman in her own right. A crop of suitors cropped up. My maternal grandparents, apprehending a lonely and a dreary life ahead for their daughter, tried to persuade her for a second marriage only to hear a firm “no” from her. We, her four sons, were dearer to her than anything else in her life.
My mother virtually left no stone unturned in our ideal upbringing. She enriched our lives with quality education. Each one of us acquired a suitable job. My elder brothers married women of their choice and settled separately in different parts of the city.
Farhan, my eldest brother, is a surgeon. He lives with his wife and a son and a daughter in a luxurious house in Pakistan Employees’ Cooperative Housing Society, Karachi. He visits mom every third month, and stays with her for 15 minutes. His wife and two kids do not accompany Dr Farhan when he takes time out from his busy schedule after three months to see his mother. Dr Farhan’s wife, Panah Farhan, holds an important assignment in the Pakistan chapter of an international organization that strives for the rights of women in Pakistan.
Rehan is a computer engineer. He works with a foreign firm on lucrative emoluments. He lives in an elaborate villa in DHA Phase V along with his wife and three children. He visits mom on the last day of every second month, and laments inflation and his insufficient salary to make both ends meet. He occasionally brings along his vivacious wife, Sundari, who owns a parlour in Clifton. MPAs, TV actresses, models and glamorous girls are her permanent customers. She strives for peace between India and Pakistan, and war against AIDS.
Imran is elder to me by two years. He has acquired a Masters degree in Business Administration. He holds a senior slot in a multinational bank in Karachi. He is married to his five times divorcee colleague, Sitara Firdousi. She hates children, therefore she doesn’t have any. She is a member of three elite clubs in Clifton and DHA, and spends evenings there in the company of civil and military bureaucrats. I think Imran last saw mom two years ago, when she was admitted in the hospital with a fractured ankle. She had a nasty fall in the bathroom.
I am Furqan, the youngest brother of Farhan, Rehan and Imran. I am a graduate from NCA, National College of Arts, Lahore. I specialize in portraits. I have earned a fortune from the portraits I have painted for presidents, prime ministers, ministers, visiting dignitaries, bureaucrats, VIPS, and businessmen. I have a roving gallery. I keep moving from country to country. But, when in Karachi, I live with my old and exhausted mother.
To tell you the truth, it is not from the apprehension that a wife proves instrumental in the separation of a son from his mother that I have not married. It is because I have yet to come across a roving woman who would like to roam around the earth with me for the rest of her life.
I was in Kolkata last month. During my visit to the Leprosy Centre there, I met a 90-year-old woman, Yashoda, not a leper. She was a disciple of Mother Teresa. The attendants revealed that Yashoda had devoted her life for lepers. I was fascinated by her wrinkled but attractive face. When I approached her for a portrait, she agreed to be my subject for an hour daily. I have done hundreds of portraits, but never before had I come across such an astonishing model. As I began painting her portrait, she, with each passing day, reminded me of my mother. On the 15th day, I gave the finishing touches to Yashoda’s portrait, and thanked her. The leading Indian newspapers gave front-page coverage to the portrait, and showered me with generous praise.
Deepak Mansukhani, a young industrial tycoon from Delhi, offered me a staggering price for Yashoda’s portrait. Deepak has, in his fabulous collection, a few of my paintings that he bought from me during my previous visits to India. I sold Yashoda’s portrait to Deepak Mansukhani, and prepared to leave for my next destination: Singapore.
As I packed my paraphernalia, I suddenly felt a tingling sensation all over my existence. A tearing thought wrought havoc within me. I sank into a sofa and touched my ears, nose, lips, and then I looked at my hands. I had turned into a leper. What appeared next was more dreadful. I saw three lepers sitting by my side. They were my brothers, Farhan, Rehan and Imran. Before I could overcome my horror, I saw Yashoda enter the room. As she tenderly collected us, I realized she was not Yashoda. She was our mother.
