This piece in a way is a preamble to Jogi and his notebook. I am under oath not to disclose his identity, not even his family name. Years ago Jogi distanced himself from his family, adopted a symbolic name and opted to live alone in isolation. I won’t tell you what he does and where does he live except that he lives in Karachi.
He has been living in Karachi from the edgy era when the British were gradually losing hold over India. The Second World War had broken their back. Jogi is witness to the final phase of the British rule, and their subsequent departure from the Subcontinent. He saw the partitioning of India, and the horrendous riots that shook the entire world.
Gifted with tremendous sense of wit and humour, Jogi often smiles and says, “I have three nationalities. I was born a British Indian, thus I am a British and an Indian by birth. After partition of India I acquired a third nationality and became a Pakistani.”
Jogi is witness to the disintegration of India and coming into being of Pakistan. He saw exodus of the wounded migrants and advent of the injured immigrants. He grew up in the city that bore the brunt of cultural change, and rapidly lost its innate beauty, peace, harmony and tranquillity.
Jogi wrote in his notebook: “When citizenry of Karachi was heterogeneous and was made up of Muslims, Hindus, Christians, Parsis, Zoroastrians, Sikhs, Bahais, and numerous minor communities, human blood had not flowed in the streets of Karachi. They did not violate the sanctity of each other’s place of worship. They did not disrupt one another’s religious festivities and congregations. Rather, they all, at times collectively, participated in the celebrations of one another without bothering who belonged to what faith. Karachi then was a city of pantheism. Now, after the creation of Pakistan when the population of Karachi is almost homogeneous, overwhelmingly Muslim, hardly a day passes when the roads of this city are not stained with blood.”
Once you have mustered up the courage to remain alone, you begin to fall in love with your loneliness
His notebooks are repository of the observations of a sensitive person who personally experienced the blowing of the winds of change in the castle of straws. He maintains a notebook from the age of six when his teacher, Mr Ahuja in N J V High School, taught him how to write a simple sentence in English. Since then he has recorded in the notebook his observations on the events that bore tremendous impact on the lives of people. He is beholder of the happenings that corrupted the social, cultural, ethical, moral, economic and political behaviour in the country. He has minutely observed the manipulation of the agents of change for their ulterior motives.
Now in his ripe age, Jogi lives in seclusion. Neighbours respect his privacy. They do not disturb him. He doesn’t entertain strangers, for that matter not even his friends, except me. He has his personal collection of books that he has procured over the years. He often quotes the saying of one of his favourite teachers Mr H M Khoja, who had once told the students, “There always comes a time in the life of a person when he has money, but he doesn’t have time to read a book. Therefore, he doesn’t purchase books. Then befalls a time when the same person has all the time in the world, but doesn’t have money to buy books. Therefore, keep buying books. You can’t have more faithful friend than a book, especially in the old age.”
Jogi doesn’t entertain friends except me, and remains reclusive. He enjoys his solitude. He believes, “Once you have mustered up the courage to remain alone, you begin to fall in love with your loneliness. It is then that nature converses with you.”
Jogi reads books, and spends time with the pigeons he feeds in the backyard of his humble abode. He, without being noticed, leaves his abode and walks for hours in the streets, bazaars, and the parks, occasionally interacting with odd and eccentric persons. On his return to the abode, he jots down his observations in the notebook. It is a routine he has followed for decades. To my question, what keeps him going so late in life, Jogi had replied, “I am living a life of flickering flame of a candle on the verge of extinction.”
In the era of images and profiles, Jogi maintains no profile. He doesn’t want to be known or seen. He doesn’t like it and abhors the very idea of it. He turns down the offers from the television channels to appear on the screen and talk about the contemporary history of the subcontinent. He had once told me, “My personal freedom is dearer to me than anything else.”
When I told him what he said was beyond my comprehension, Jogi smiled, and explained, “Being known (famous) robs you of your freedom.” He maintains, “There can’t be anything more precious than your personal freedom”.
I am Jogi’s privileged friend. I have access to the chest of drawers in which he keeps his notebooks. After fair amount of persuasion, he has allowed me to base new series of my columns on his notebooks that I intend to write for the sister magazine of this newspaper.
