The rusty and creaking iron gate of 26-Westridge I, Rawalpindi is the last chapter of a heartbreaking tragedy, which closed forever after the death of its last young and impulsively intelligent occupant.
There lived once upon a time, a most famous and most loved humorist and fiction writer of the subcontinent; at times a General, a Rear Admiral but to his millions of admirers simply, Shafiqur Rehman along with his three tall and handsome sons, Atique, Khalique and Amin and his wife, one of the most stately and beautiful woman of her times.
Amongst them only Atiqur Rehman survives, presently serving with a mutli-national bank in London, may God grant him a long life. The rest of them are no more.
Aminur Rehman lost his vision due to a gunshot wound. Thereafter he lived all alone in that haunted house at Westridge. And then, one day, came the news that he too had died under mysterious circumstances. His death moved me deeply and the memories of Shafiqur Rehman, a person who despite the age difference allowed me to become a close friend overwhelmed me.
Like most of the youngsters of late-fifties Shafiqur Rehman’s writings mesmerized me. His Neeli Jheel and Barsati were the stuff of our dreams. We lived with his memorable characters of Shaitan, Hakumat Apa, Maqsood Ghora etc. I wrote him a fan letter after visiting some of the places he had mentioned in Barsati and I was pleasantly surprised when my landlady in London handed me a blue envelope saying, “Mr. Chaudhry, I think you have a love letter. The lady has a beautiful handwriting I must say.” It was from Shafique sahib, he always used blue stationery and his handwriting was so delicate.
That was the beginning of our ‘friendship’ that lasted for more than forty-six years. Then I wrote my first travelogue in 1970 and sent him some of its chapters for his comments. He was very supportive and complimentary, and approved its title Nikley Tri Talash Main. I must admit that Barsati was the mother of my first travelogue.
Although we were in correspondence for many a years, but somehow or the other, we never met in person. Then some literary organization arranged a launching ceremony of my Punjabi novel Pukheru in Rawalpindi. Shafique sahib and Col. Mohammad Khan of Bajang Aamad fame, invited me for a cup of tea at the Pindi Club. Shafique sahib in a meticulous three-piece suit, was all smiles but with a touch of shyness. Whereas the Colonel, dressed in a blue-blazer was a picture of grace. Both of them were tall, handsome and full of colonial mannerism. Naturally I was thrilled to meet these greats who along with Mohammad Khalid Akhtar had influenced my writings vastly. And what a strange coincidence. This troika of great humorists and fiction writers were very intimate friends. Khalid sahib was a school fellow of Shafique sahib from Bahawalpur, where another great Ahmad Nadim Qasimi was also around.
When I used to visit him, he used to be exercising in his porch along with his elder son Khalique. Upstairs in a small room was his treasure chest and he would open it with the eagerness of a child and show me old manuscripts, photos of days gone-by, picture postcards and various mementos. He would excitedly point out his famous characters from the decaying photographs. He would go, this is Juli of Barsati, who placed a duck on my head during the convocation in Glasgow; this thin fellow is the inspiration of Shaitan and this is the Italian lady of Rome etc. At times, I would stay on for lunch that was always a sumptuous affair because he was a connoisseur and loved food, always consuming a small homemade kunda of curd during lunch.
Then came 1981 and the black sword of death struck for the first time. Shafique sahib’s smiling world went into mourning. His eldest son Khalique was found dead on a railway track.
I did not have the heart to attend his funeral, neither the courage to condole his death. What could you say to a father whose handsome young son dies a violent death? Instead, I wrote him a letter. He was a brave man; he came out of his shattered state and immediately wrote back.
“Mohibee, I am grateful for your extremely kind letter. My son, my dear son Khaliqur Rehman was in his twentieth year, preparing for his first annual examination of medical college. He was a very simple soul, saintly in habits. Perhaps it was due to his well-portioned and strong body that he was nicknamed “Joe”. Whenever my elder brother mentioned him in his letters, he always referred to him as “Saintly Joe”.
“Last year he grew moustache, which were of chestnut shade. He used to be my exercise companion before joining the medical college. We used to go on long walks. We would race each other in the stadium and swim together in the pool of Islamabad Club. He has gone.
“At times I remember that Scottish song which I had heard during the Second World War on the destroyers of Royal Navy. When a ship steamed off from the port, the other stationery ship’s band would play these lines—-
Will ye no, come back again?
Will ye no, come back again?
Better loved you canna be
Will ye no, come back again?
Shafiqur Rehman.
Latter on, when I met him I did not ... I dared not mention the death of Khalique. And Shafique sahib kept on smiling as usual, although his smile and his face had shrunk, only once pointing to his family photograph in his room in which a young Shafique sahib and his beaming and beautiful wife were holding their first born. He said “That was the boy who has gone.”
As far as I know Shafique sahib had only one close friend, Col. Mohammad Khan, besides Mohammad Khalid Akhtar who had shifted to Karachi. I was told that a particular evening of the week was entirely reserved for the Colonel. Shafique sahib would dress meticulously, well perfumed as he used to go on a date in the years gone by and would head for the Colonel’s residence. They would have their pre-dinner refreshments and at times forgot about their dinner sharing jokes and tragedies and remembering the days when both of them were soldiers during WWII. Then Col. Mohammad Khan also died. Thereon, Shafique sahib seldom stepped out of the house.
His equally charming wife, as if the loss of a son was not enough, was terminally ill; she had trekked the Northern Areas in her youth and whenever she was admitted to a hospital, which was very frequent, she would request me to send her my latest trekking travelogue so that she could ‘dream again lying on a hospital bed’.
Although I had absolutely no inkling that I am meeting Shafique sahib for the last time, as he was haggard but looked perfectly healthy, prior to my departure to China I presented myself and asked for some advice as regards China.
“During the War, I flew into China with a British pilot. Upon our arrival, we were served some sort of pulao that was rather delicious. Afterwards, we were told that it was Loomar Pulao — rice with fox meat. So, do avoid this Loomar Pulao and he laughed heartily. That was the last laugh.
Shafique sahib joined his beloved son, the ‘Saintly Joe’ soon afterwards. Mohammad Khalid Akhtar mourned our mutual friend and wrote to me, “Mustansar, every morning when I wake up I suddenly realize that my friend is no more, he is dead. And every night I dream that he is standing on the other bank of thunderous river of no return, in a Khaki trouser and joggers. In the background there is a lush green hillock and a winding path is rising towards the top. The sky above is bathed with the colours of a rainbow. And Shafique is calling me, ‘jump into this river Khalid and join me’.” Khalid sahib also finally decided to jump in that river to reach his friend.
Soon afterwards Begum Shafique also died and only blind Aminur Rehman roamed in his world of darkness, all alone in the deserted house at 26 Westridge. A few weeks back, he sent me a copy of his stories Sehra Ka Safar and then telephoned me, “Uncle Tarar, I know abba loved you very much so you must guide me and tell me what you think of my book, I am in hurry so please tell me soon.”
He was in a hurry, to join his father, mother and elder brother. Atiqur Rehman came from London buried his brother beside the three existing graves, locked the house at 26 Westridge and went back perhaps for ever.
I remember Shafiqur Rehman like he remembered his Saintly Joe son.
The rusty and creaking iron gate of 26-Westridge I, Rawalpindi is the last chapter of a heartbreaking tragedy, which closed forever after the death of its last young and impulsively intelligent occupant.
