Sometimes loneliness can earn a creative person much more than what he may have bargained for
After six months Jaun Elia will die, pass away to a land from whose bourn no traveller returns. Right now, he squats on the marbled floor of a private hospital’s CCU. His respiratory system has ditched him, like a host of his friends, relatives and disciples. His bony face, half covered by a translucent oxygen mask, cuts a strange picture. He appears to be an unfunny, pitiable caricature penned by his Sadequain bhai. Jaun is heavily panting, as if he’s just stepped into Karachi from Amroha after being on foot for half a century.
Main aur is shehr ki taraf ata
Asp-i-wahshat ne bad rakaabi ki
He stretches his scrawny arm to a nurse and stammers out a few words. The nurse doesn’t understand. He feebly gestures to her to come closer. She does. He says: “Urdu ati hai?” She nods in the affirmative. “Pani.” She turns around, walks back to where the fridge is and fetches him a glass of water. He takes off the mask and lifts the glass to his mouth, but fails to grab it firmly. The water splashes all over his white, starched kurta.
He doesn’t ask for another fill, and stretches out on his bed. The nurse places the oxygen mask over his bony face again. Jaun looks at her rather fondly. Raises his right hand, stares at the nurse inquisitively and moves his fingers as if counting the sheep. She says, “29”. Jaun comes to know that she’s one short of three scores. He disapproves of her age shaking his head with whatever verve and vigour left in him. She walks back to her seat.
It’s day three. Except for a few regular visitors, no one has given a hoot about Jaun. He is still in bed. Imam Shamil, his young disciple and a poet, appears with another friend. It’s still a few minutes left before they could enter the CCU. They look at Jaun. He tilts his head and nods, acknowledging their presence. As he straightens his head, his eyes well up. But he doesn’t let any liquid trickle down his ossified cheeks.
Imam Shamil and his friend step into the CCU and stand to the right side of Jaun. He takes off the oxygen mask rather sluggishly and kisses the two visitors’ hands. They inquire about his health. He replies, struggling with words: Khush ho seeney ki in kharashon per/Phir tanaffus ke ye siley bhi kahan
They accompany him for a good half hour. And leave.
Jaun is alone again, heavily panting.
Once out of hospital — how he managed that, nobody has the faintest notion — Jaun Elia once again ties himself up with composing poetry. At dusk he rises like the morning sun, hands trembling, body shaking, as if struck by some inexplicable fear, grips his pen rather feebly and begins criss-crossing a copy that he’s made one of his pupils buy from a local stationary.
When the evening leaves him completely alone and the night begins to fall, a variety of men and women come to see him. These men and women, somehow, couldn’t make it to the CCU of that private hospital where he lay like a semi-edible vegetable. But he obliges them all, in equal manner. Especially girls.
When all of them leave, one by one, after enriching themselves with the nitty gritty of poetry and the tidbits of Arabic, Persian and Hebrew history, he pleads with one young poet to stay with him for a little long, and waits for everyone else to depart. As if confiding in that young poet, he gives air to a pent up wish. “Meri aik aur shadi kera de, kisi 25 saal ki larki se ... 18 ki bhi chaley gi.” The young poet looks at him rather vacuously and makes a hollow promise: “Ji bhai Jaun, kara doon ga.” Jaun looks into his eyes and gets the hint, and recites a taza ghazal.
The young poet decides to leave after showering praise on the great poet. Just as he bids farewell, Jaun says: “Ahd-i-rafaqat theek hai lekin mujh ko aisa lagta hai/Tum to merey saath raho gay main tanha rah jaon ga.”
Jaun is now alone, yet again. He is trying to come up with another ghazal. But he shuns the thought. He wants to compose a nazm a la N.M. Rashid. He believes he has churned out much better stuff than Rashid, but doesn’t have anyone to market it. He hates this word ‘market’. And can’t do anything about it. So Jaun composes a short nazm.
The next day, he gathers his countless ghazals and nazms and when the visitors come and pay a visit to him, he gives one of them, or perhaps two of them, or perhaps more, to ‘fair’ his stuff in order to make it more legible. They take the master’s verses with them.
Jaun is increasingly finding it difficult to breathe. When he was a young child, he loved hearing stories about people dying of tuberculosis. Hence, he is very fond of John Keats. He thinks tuberculosis is an eerily romantic disease. But his ailment is of a different kind. No one knows why Jaun struggles while breathing. Ostensibly, his mind is as alert as ever. His heart is as playful as ever. And his poetry is as poignant, as awe-inspiring as ever.
It’s Nov 8, 2002. Jaun is still at it — doodling, scribbling, composing verse. Words that he has breathed in and breathed out all his life. It’s been six months since he was admitted to the CCU of a private hospital. For some strange reason, he got off his takht quite early today. He is looking for the ghazals and nazms that he has composed in the span of a decade. He can’t find them. Then he recalls that some of his disciples had taken the original manuscript so that it could be made legible. He seems to be in a hurry. He is writing verse, or trying to, at a brisk clip. His hands are trembling. His body is shaking. And his pen seems to have run out of ink.
Sometimes loneliness can earn a creative person much more than what he may have bargained for 
