by Aneela Z. Babar
Dear Child,
Three
days into the month had me waking up one night in tears. A long time
believer in signs and dreams I spent some time calling up your father
cautioning him to be careful in the coming days. I was still not restful
and woke you up a couple of times in the night as I paced about the
room, praying for mercy. In my selfishness I feared the Purvey of the
Horrors To Come to visit only my boys. I never imagined that my sister
of the heart who as a child would finish that offensive mug of milk for
me would now put her lips to the poisoned cup of pain for us as well. I
am glad we were here in Pakistan for this my son, and that at some level
you too absorbed some semblance of what service to the nation beyond the call of duty means.
That you could register the different colours of love, of valor, of
courage, of facing pain with dignity. You were in the presence of a very
brave woman that was generous with her compassion and patience. At a
time when I raged and ranted (the tears were yet to come) it was only
the touch of her cool hand in mine that reminded me how very blessed I
am to have her and hers in my life. In the years to come you will hear
many stories of a very brave man who smiled his ways into all our lives.
He was our hero, now he will be yours. His story is not over, he was a most unusual person for our times and our world, I wait to see how the next chapter unfolds.
Sarfaroshi ki tamanna ab hamaare dil mein hai.
Dekhna hai zor kitna baazuay qaatil mein hai
Karta nahin kyun doosra kuch baat cheet,
Dekhta hun main jise voh chup teri mehfil mein hai
Aye shaheed-e-mulk-o-millat main tere oopar nisaar,
Ab teri himmat ka charcha ghair ki mehfil mein hai
Sarfaroshi ki tamanna ab hamaare dil mein hai.
The desire for sacrifice is now in our hearts
We shall now see what strength there is in the boughs of the enemy.
O country, Why does no other speak?
Whoever I see, is gathered quiet in your party...
O martyr of country, of nation, I submit myself to thee
For yet even the unacquainted speaks of thy courage
The desire for struggle is in our hearts
We shall now see what strength there is in the boughs of the enemies.
When the time comes, we shall show thee, O heaven
For why should we tell thee now, what lurks in our hearts?
Though I could have also played around with another famous dialogue from the film
Safwat Ghayur ke dushman ka sirf ek hi kasoor hai ......ki woh Safwat ka dushman hai! ...
You can charge Safwat's enemy of but one crime...that he is Safwat's enemy
but you get the gist:
 |
| (July 14, 1959 – August 4, 2010) |
But
going back to the enigmatic Mr Ghayur. Yes, I don’t think his fan group
was remiss in placing him on a pedestal, not for him the human vices of
sloth, pride, vulgarity, boorish behaviour or pettiness and laziness as
someone who was born to such good fortune as him could have succumbed
to—somehow this suave French speaking, globetrotting, head strong,
incorruptible law enforcer reminded you of the heroes from popular
cinema who would battle baddies, dodge bullets, with not a crease in
their well stitched suit – and here I am leaning towards a certain
Secret Service Agent and not the Jat, for our hero preferred to deliver
his killer lines at a lower decibel.
Interesting aside: Mr Ghayur has
been to the local cinemas, well at least for one Pushto movie when he
chaperoned a visiting friend. The said friend was pretty scandalized
with our domestic fare and declared it made French erotica seem like a
training manual by the Taleban for virtuous behaviour (or words to that
effect). But I guess this excursion of his, gives us just cause to add
the line “he was a patron of the local arts” to his resume, lest he
sounds too pucca saheb for you.
Yes, yes nothing got to our debonair man in uniform, not battling the thugs, nor sweating out in the thanas, and
the various encounters he found himself in--- or made sure that he made
a detour to “find" himself in. Yes, not even the most hair raising
adventure of all --that has people tearing out their hair , running out
of the house in their pyjamas. Raising two under-twos!! Yup, he did
that too. Unfazed, and as quite the dapper gentleman.
I first encountered this gentleman as the paramapada of
an elaborate game of snakes and ladders a very charming young woman
outlined on the dining table for her elder sister. That the young woman
went on to marry the hero of our tale is- well -another story. She is a
bit vague with the details, but how fortuitous for someone who answered
a "police officer" (when asked what she wanted to be when she grew up),
to marry one when she ended up in medical school instead.
But the same person who introduced us to Hotel California, played Everyone Loves Kung fu Fighting in a band in Bangkok. He had
friends who set up restaurants in Islamabad THAT WERE OPEN AT 9 pm
(which was really cool for a city where you walked on the wild side if
you spoke to someone in a different BPS grade than you), who drove off with his new bride in a car come rukhsati time,
and a very nice car I should add! ALONE! gasp!(with no sisters,
cousins, and the ubiquitous five year old niece who will tug at the
bride’s veil for the entire journey) in the process scandalizing all the
old aunts and well the not so old amongst us as well.
He was also the
good son who abandoned a really good first job offer (yes teaching
karate is a pretty fine job) to accompany his family back to Pakistan,
who might have dreamed of joining the foreign service (and would have
been very good at it ) but chose instead the police so he could be
around when his family needed him –and in turn took care of a family far
far larger than his own. Ok, fine! maybe, we should go ahead and call
him the desi hero after all!
I
don’t think I am the stage in my life when I can find meaning in the
things that happen to our heroes—but I do find comfort and a lot of
laughter in the image of the foolish young man who goes up there
believing himself to be a martyr with all the 70 houris and rivers of
milk and honey it brings and encounters Safwat Ghayur instead.
Yes, perhaps there is some divine justice after all...
Aneela Z. Babar (Pindi/Delhi/Melbourne). When she is not busy being the bane of her three year old's existence, Babar works on gender, culture, religion and militarism (with a heady dose of Bollywood trivia).
ed note: some months ago, a man was stopped by the police at a crossing in Peshawar. ' Why can't I pass?' Sorry Sir he replied his boss was passing, his boss you see was a brave man you see and the target of the Taliban. 'A brave man? You only had one brave boss his name was Safwat Ghayur and he is dead!'
RIP Safwat Ghayur and all those who have fought the good fight
1 comment:
Very well written indeed. But who said Martyrs are dead, they are alive but we would not understand it.
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