The Eyes of Jacob

He was giving us the details of his arrival. But I was not much interested as to which airline he would travel by; which class he would travel in; or which route he would adopt. The thirsty earth does not care whether the cloud comes from the East or the West; it only wants rain. For me the best airline was the one, which would bring him home, as soon as possible, in this busy season. Although we did hear his voice every seventh or eighth day but we had not seen him for seven or eight hundred days – eight hundred melancholy days and unending nights; days of sad longing and nights of unendurable thirst! The contact by voice might be a good substitute for meeting but love wants physical touch. I remember that when his phone calls used to come in the beginning his mother would start crying when she talked to him. I would say ‘You should be happy’, but she would reply ‘I can only listen to his voice but can I see him too?’ When I mentioned this to him once he said this too would be taken care of. We would be able to see him through the Internet – but would this be enough for us?
I was happy to hear that he was coming but not too much because it also meant another separation for a year or two. I prefer waiting for him – letting the crow announce his expected arrival on the walls of my heart! Or else he should come not to go back. Had it been up to me I would never have allowed him to go so far away. After the permanent parting of my father from us I calculated that he lived for exactly fifty years after my birth. But, for the sake of education and employment, I left him in the village and came to the city. And out of my life of fifty years or so, my father (Abba) got at the most fifteen. This calculation really hurt me. Abba was alive, lived in this very world, but I lived away from him for thirty-five years. And in his lifetime I never even missed him. Now that my own son had left me, I had started understanding a little of Abba’s feelings and emotions. He used to visit us every second or third month and for as long as he stayed he wanted me to be on leave from my office so that I could keep talking to him. Nevertheless, I visited the village only once in a year or two. And then too I could hardly stay there for more than a night or two. The attractions of the city, the resplendent and luminous attractions, and my own interests – all called me back. At times I would leave in the evening. He would say that dusk was the time to come back home not to leave it. I would pretend to have urgent business. How could I tell him that my home was elsewhere?
I remember how sad and anxious he was once when I was setting out in the evening. Everybody was trying to prevent me from leaving at such an inopportune time but he was silent. When saying goodbye he could no longer control himself and asked me if this is what I would do if my mother were alive. However, I did not relent, made excuse and went away. That night and several other such nights Abba must have passed in what agony – that I can guess now.
I remember that during my boyhood my father liked the story of Joseph and his deceptive brothers who left him for dead in a well. After my departure to the city he would read this story aloud at night. My mother told me that he would read out the part in which Jacob, missing his lost son, cried his eyes out. Or else he would read out the part when Joseph’s monger, Bashir the messenger, brings his shirt to Jacob and given him the happy news that his son was not only alive but was also the ruler of Egypt. When the prophet Jacob put the shirt to his eyes his blind eyes gained their sight. Mother would tell me that Abba’s voice would tremble at this point and he would make some excuse to stop reading. In his last years when he would no longer read he would keep repeating the couplets about parting while lying in his bed.
Next day he (Amir) rang again to tell us that he was not getting a seat and would try his luck in New York and then inform us about his arrival. If he failed to ring us from there he would ring when he reached Karachi or Lahore. In any case we were not to worry. He knew the way and would reach himself.
In two or three days he would be among us and we would be able to see him and touch him. This pleasant thought made a strong thrill run into my being. My eyes started seeing his face again and again.
His mother insisted that he should reach at least a day or two before Eid (holy festival of Muslims). He had reassured her that he would start the Eid with vermicelli cooked in milk as she alone could cook for him. After that the telephonic connection ended and we started waiting for his next call. When anyone engaged the phone she started growling like an enraged lioness. However, the whole day passed by us like blank sheets out of an out-of-order Photostatting machine and the long night of vigil came again. Today he should have reached according to the program and his promise but even the news of his departure had not come through till then. I would pick up the phone from the cradle to ascertain that it had not gone out of order. During this period many calls came but all seemed useless. We spoke to everyone very coldly and briefly. Most calls were of relatives and their inquiries as to whether we had any further news or not made us even more depressed and worried.
His mother had started cooking his favorite dishes and preserving them in the refrigerator. Mothers have this great adventure for expressing their love. It keeps them busy and enables them to express their maternal love. Women have another advantage that they can express their feeling by crying on all occasions. For that matter some men also do not have any inhibition about shedding tears but rustic men like me, coming from villages, feel that their manhood is in danger. I remember that when I was leaving home for the first time for studies all the women of the family bid me farewell with tear-filled eyes. However, Abba merely confined himself to stroking me on the head but - what did it mean? : His complaints of having caught a cold and the repeated wiping of the nose?
While opening and shutting the lid of the pressure cooker, stirring the pot with the wooden ladle, making mixed meat finer by crushing it between stones she could shed a few tears and become normal. But the pressure cooker within me would keep simmering on low heat – such low heat that neither the weight on it moved nor did it whistle. In fact I too had kept his preferences in mind while shopping for Eid and bought a number of delicacies only for him. But to keep up appearances I had not mentioned this openly. In any case the department of food and eating was reserved for ladies. Even if I had revealed what I had done the credit would have gone to her. My mother would also do the same. She would cook the dishes of my choice the day I was expected. Sweetmeats from the village confectioner would be ordered and no costermonger selling delicacies or the seasonal fruit could go by our house without finding custom. Abba used to say that she would be dead for five days but on Saturday, she would become a machine. That day my mother would hum Maulvi Abdul Sattar’s verses while going in and out of the room; while stirring the pot; while changing the bed sheets and pillow covers.
And if even after all this work she found time she would take her colored spinning wheel to the roof and, facing the path which came from the city, she started spinning the delectable yarns of vigil. The wheels of my bicycle and mother’s spinning wheels whirled together. The journey back home was always easy and pleasant. Even if the wind was against me, it seemed as if an unbreakable thread pulled me in! Abba too forgot all the work he had outside the house. He found some excuse to be busy inside the house - hewing wood, repairing broken beds or pulling up their suspension cords to make them taut once again. But Abba would never reveal as to why all this work, procrastinated for the whole week, was to be completed only today. I, however, have many means to keep me busy and pass time. If books cease to interest me, there are the audio, videocassettes, and CD’s. In addition, whenever I want I only have to turn a few knobs to watch interesting programs from all over the world through the dish antenna. I could practice typing on the computer, play chess or open the encyclopedia and remain busy for hours.
She kept cooking her dishes and I kept on watching the T.V and listening the music but still it seemed to us as if we had crossed the ocean of the night splashing and kicking our tired hands and feet – swimming wearily on without a foot. Even though we got up to have our sehri (food taken before dawn for fasting during the holy month of Ramadan), nobody ate his or her fill. Several times we thought the phone had rung but it was quiet.
It was now Thursday. But this last day of fasting also went empty as dry sugarcane through the juicer does. Like the telephone we too were mostly silent though we did keep exchanging questioning glances. There was only one question but nobody had reply to it.
My mother often quoted idioms to the effect that foreign lands were ominous. But, like all fathers, Abba was more realistic and considered traveling a means of worldly advancement. He would read out stories of princes and merchant’s sons who would travel for new adventures and for trade to far off lands – enchanted mountains and fairylands! They fought with giants and genies and one day, with dromedaries laden with treasures of gold and gems and the rarities of exotic lands, they returned home triumphant in the company of a beautiful maiden or a lovely fairy. I started thinking that the new age had its own enchanted mountains. Allama Iqbal’s hope that: ‘Capitalism has run away; after the show the circus man has disappeared,’ had not proved correct. The progress in science, technology and industry had strengthened the capitalist system so much and made it so attractive that all other systems of thought had proved to be erroneous before it. It had dominated the most intelligent minds in economics, politics and mundane matters in the whole world. Young men from the developing countries who dreamt about these magic mountains yearned and endeavored for their TOEFL, G – MATT and visa documents.
Now we waited not for news of his departure but of his arrival in one of our own cities – Karachi, Lahore or Islamabad. The car had been filled with petrol and polished and parked to take off for the airport immediately. We had restricted its trips except in utmost necessity so that we could reach the airport at once. But the telephone was silent and the shadows of anxieties, neurotic doubts and fears, kept advancing. Both of us kept up our acting of being perfectly composed for each other’s benefit. All our senses had concentrated themselves into that of hearing. If the phone rang even in the T.V play we both leapt up and rushed towards it.
Then people on the roofs of the neighboring houses started looking for the crescent of the new moon. They looked at the sky in the direction from where our auspicious moon would rise. But the phone either did not ring at all or even if it did that tedious dialogue started:
‘Any news?’
‘No’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t know’
‘Maybe he got a seat on chance right in the end and got no opportunity to ring’.
‘Maybe’
‘Must be on the way’
‘Please God!’
I brought details of information from many airlines but P.I.A had diverted some of its flights because of the rush so that it was not possible to determine where and by which flight he could reach.
During Iftari (food and cold drinks taken to break the fast), her deep down feelings became audible.
‘I hope to God the moon is not sighted today’
‘We will have to fast one more day!’
‘Doesn’t matter – he will reach by tomorrow’
‘And if no news comes by tomorrow?’
‘Don’t say that. It frightens me’!
But the moon was sighted and other people had Eid.
Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan was singing in a voice, which seemed to soothe the injured heart: ‘For me better than a hundred thousand Eids is the sight of the Beloved!’
She was sitting in the Kitchen, cooking sweet vermicelli while weeping bitter tears. I was not doing anything in particular. The telephone bell rang but the call did not come through. This happened several times. We guessed that he was trying from abroad but could not get through on account of the rush. This satisfied us that he was all right but it made us sadder to feel that he was far from home – but where? This we could not find because after that the phone fell silent like before and remained so all night.
After that the same kitchen for her and the same remote control device for me. However, today, with a palpitating heart, I listened to the headlines of the BBC and the CNN and prayed for the safety of all buses, trains, airplanes and all other vehicles. In addition, though her enthusiasm for cooking had been considerably dumped but these women have many chores and errands at celebrations. She came up at about 2.30 or 3-o’clock in the morning, wept for a while, became peaceful and went to sleep.
When I got up on the Eid morning without having slept all night she had gone down and depression was spread all over the room. I remembered that he would get ready to go to the mosque before anybody else and then kept calling me again and again. He knew I always got late and we got a place only in the last row. But today I was ready very early because I used to be late earlier because of having overslept.
In the way to the mosque the owner of a kiosk had put on the tape recorder at full volume. Abida Parveen was singing; ‘O saint you give sons to mothers; you give brothers to sisters’. I thought of the saints of the modern world and my mind parodied the song ‘O Foe - you separate mothers from sons; you separate sisters from brothers’.
While saying the Eid prayer I imagined for some time that he was standing by my side in the company of his brothers. Then I blessed those on the right; blessed those on my left. My prayers became longer than others – to the right, left, up and down blessing on all who are traveling and all who are not. What else should I ask the creator but only that they should be safe?
I came home in the expectation that some news would have arrived but there she was like a beggar woman on the main gate – ‘One good news in the name of God!’ All day she kept entertaining guests and saving delicacies for him. This is his favorite. This is his share. He will enjoy eating this ever so much. And I do not know where I was. Did I even exist or not. And once again came the long night of separation and eternal waiting. I went to my room pretending illness and lay in bed putting on the sheet of his sweet memories. A few years ago when I had a complicated major surgical operation of my stomach I had to remain in the hospital for weeks. He rang every day and bothered the doctors and nurses by insisting to know how I was. Every time he would also insist that I should talk to him. Since the wound was fresh and painful and I was bound in bandages and all stitched up, I could not go up to the reception where the telephone was placed. The phone could not be brought into my room either. But he insisted every day. Relatives and friends tried to reassure him that I was getting better but all he kept insisting upon was that he wanted to speak to me. It seemed as if he was doubtful as to whether I was dead or alive. I think an incident, which had happened to one of his colleagues, called Rizwan, had affected him profoundly. Rizwan’s father had passed away after having remained in coma for several weeks but he had been constantly told that he (the father) had been prevented from getting up or speaking to anybody. Then, one day he reached home anyway. And it was then that he learned that they were preparing for the customary rituals of the fortieth day of his death.
I too wanted to hear his voice and to assure him that I was still alive. Finally, one day I resolved to speak to him and at night when he called at the time he had given earlier helpers to the reception brought me. This distance of fifty or sixty feet was so long and painful that it seemed as if all the stitches would burst open and fresh blood would ooze out of the wounds. But the urge to talk to him pulled my feet to the reception. I felt I was walking across the hospital–sized map of the world. Each step was of thousands of miles – Islamabad, Karachi, Frankfort, New York and just one more step: Chicago.
‘Abbu, is it you?’
‘Why is your voice so different?’
‘Are you in great pain?’
‘You will be perfectly fine soon’
‘Abbu, shall I come at once?’
Sobs suppressed since many days had taken the form of questions. I remember that I was in great pain that night which had further increased because of this waywardness. Only the few minutes of hearing the tranquillizer of his voice has passed in ease. But I kept control on myself during this condition of weakness, pain and emotional crises and did not let my manhood be slurred.
I do not know why I was reminded of my father along with him. Probably because he too was very friendly with him. Indeed, he loved him more than all his other maternal and paternal grandsons. Several times, during the holidays, he took him to the village. My father had a she-donkey to carry fodder. The donkey had a colt too. He asked my son to ride on the donkey and he asked:
‘Grandfather! Where is its handle?’
He was much amused and handing him its rope said: ‘This is the handle’
After some time when my father came to our house in the city, he asked him about the well being of the she-donkey. He said the animal, along with its colt, had fallen ill and died. He was very sorry to hear this and went all around the locality spreading the news that all his grandfathers’ donkeys had died. Neighboring women came to his mother to condole with her and thought it necessary to inquire whether we came from a family of potters – because only potters kept so many donkeys! Everybody up raided him for this.
Then, when he was studying in the college, he went to the village and became bored and depressed soon. One day he told his grandfather
‘I want to go back home’
‘But this too is your own home’
‘I am getting bored here’
‘What is that?’
Abba used to tell us that until then he did not know what it was to get bored nor had he ever got bored. But after this he too started getting bored. And whenever he got very bored he would take the fare and come to meet us in the city.
After his departure for America, I found a twenty-year-old diary. On the first page was an important note. I remembered that I had told him a fictitious tale about a singing black partridge, which would repeat a song when asked. He loved the story and immediately started demanding a black partridge as a pet at ten o’ clock at night. To evade him I told him that black partridges immigrate to warm lands during the winter. When they came back in the summer I would get one for him.
He said; ‘Abbu you will forget your promise’! I assured him that I would not, but his apprehensions would not be removed. Then, in order to reassure him I took out the diary and wrote on it.
‘Important Note: During the summer a black partridge must he brought home for Amir’
He insisted that I should also add that this is not to be forgotten. So I also wrote: ‘Categorically Not To Be Forgotten’! Only after this he was satisfied and he went to sleep with the confidence that as soon as the summer arrived father would have to bring a black partridge for him. Since this had been written in his diary. But by the time the summer arrived not only I but even he himself had forgotten. But the writing remained – what an inexorable fact is this writing! Even when man forgets or disappears it remains. And how heartless and fast is time. It seems only yesterday that he walked clutching at my finger and now he sends me advices and directions. He who would be satisfied with petty trifles now brings home expensive gifts for me. I too would take home new clothes, wooden pullover and woolen sheets for my father and imagine that his entire problem had been solved. But can these things, these gifts, actually heal the wounds of separation.
The last phase of the night had started but the phone was still quiet. I wanted to sleep for some time lest I should fall ill. But I was not feeling sleepy. Who knew at that time what waters was his airplane flying over? The room was full of his memories.
When he was very small I used to call him by whistling his nickname. He recognized the whistle. Whenever he was at home he would come running to me like a pet animal when he heard it. My habit of calling him in this way grew up with him and when he went to take admission in the Medical College at Bahawalpur I used to express my sadness, when I was missing him, by whistling like this. However, when I realized that his mother and sister had come to know that I was not merely whistling but actually missing him, I stopped this kind of whistling. These women should not find out how weak I am from inside.
I remember that the day his visa was stamped on his passport he was as happy as we were sad. His mother had cried a lot. I too had wept through her eyes while my own stayed dry so that I could send him off with courage and fortitude. I was sure that if my eyes had become wet he would have lost courage and cancelled his trip. While parting he was most enthusiastic. In his eyes there was the gleam of new destinations and dreams – she alone was crying for both of us.
A few months ago I had resolved to try to pressured him to come back when he rang. But when he did ring the rate of the dollar had doubled because of the nuclear explosion so I kept quiet – ‘O Foe - you separate mothers from sons; you separate sisters from brothers’.
She was sleeping oblivious to apprehensions, anxieties, fears, and memories. I got up, took a sleeping pill and went back to toss and turn in the bed. Once again, I started chewing the cud of memories. I remembered that when he was very small he used to sleep between us and he would always put his hand on the cheek of his mother or myself. If the hand were removed, he would get up or put it back in sleep. Perhaps the touch gave him a sense of security. Gradually we too got used to his hand. Now when returned after a year on two for a few days we could not embrace him or kiss him repeatedly nor could we sleep with his hand on our cheeks. That he should sit near and talk; and this was enough for us. But where was he lost? Why did he not ring? Did his Eid pass in running around or in traveling? How grieved he would be at not having reached home on Eid. Lost in these thoughts I do not know when I went to sleep – either slept or watched a waking dream! I saw that he was lying by my side and his little hand was on my cheek. I put my hand on his. Then I want to catch hold of his little soft hand and kiss it but it gets bigger and harder. I am startled. His mother was not in the room. The noise of animated talking came up from below and he was sitting near my pillow. I embraced him and breaking all the bonds of caution my tears started flowing from my eyes.

 
Translated from Urdu by :Dr.Tariq Rahman

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