Just a few days ago, my father and I attended an Aqeeqa Dawat (a celebratory feast held on the occasion of a newborn's birth) in Bhai Kot, a village on the outskirts of Lahore. I had to accompany him because he said, “The hosts mentioned your name several times and specifically asked me to bring you along.” Consequently, I took a break from my usual wanderings around the city and accompanied him.
Our hosts proudly identify themselves as Chaudrys of Bhai Kot, and let me tell you, they truly live up to the name. What demeanour, what respect, and what matchless hospitality!
A daughter has been born to Hakim Sahib's grandson after ten years of marriage. Hakim Sahib was an altruistic elder who passed away almost two years ago. Towards the end of his life, his faculties had gradually weakened, and he had become too frail to recognise people by their faces. My father visited him shortly before his death, but Hakim Sahib could not recognise him. “Main Khadim” (I am Khadim), my father said, and Hakim Sahib instantly recognised him. May Allah be kind to him! He was a very close friend of my grandfather, Malik Taliamand.
Like my grandfather, Hakim Sahib and his family had migrated to Lahore at the time of Partition. Three years ago, when Hakim Sahib was still alive, some of his Sikh relatives from across the border visited the Chaudrys. They sat together, recalled childhood memories, laughed, and cried in equal measure. Their conversations were full of questions about who was doing what, how many children particular individuals had, and what had become of the one who had wanted to go abroad.
In winter, there were days when visibility would drop to almost zero on account of dense fog, we would dress accordingly and make our way towards our destination on our bikes, with nothing but the warmth of the revving engines to protect us
Some things run in the blood of generations, and generosity is second nature to the Chaudrys. My father once told me that Hakim Sahib had sold some property and come to see him with a bag full of cash. My grandfather had passed away recently. My father did not need anything, but he fondly remembers Hakim Sahib's words:
“Puttar, main aik jagga waich ke aya wan aur ae changay pale paisay ne. Jinne rakhne ae, billa jhidhak rakhla. Tenu koi puche ga wi ni. Agar Taliamand tera Abba si, te mera para vi si o.”
(My son, I have sold a piece of land, and this is a considerable sum of money. Take as much as you need without any hesitation. No one will ever question you about it. If Taliamand was your father, he was my brother too.)
Schoolboy Bonds and Winter Fog
My personal attachment to the village dates back to 2014. I was the youngest matriculation student in our class, while the second youngest was Shahid, a few months older than me and a resident of Bhai Kot. Every morning, his father would drop him off at our school in Raiwind.
We had a group of four friends, of whom he was the only one living in the village. The other two were Hamza and Usama. In a group of four, we had two Usamas! Be it summer or winter, we had established a particular ritual for ourselves: respecting the whims and caprices of each 'invaluable' member and hanging out together as much as possible, often for no particular reason.
In winter, there were days when visibility would drop to almost zero on account of dense fog. If any one of us expressed a desire to have coffee or some other snack at a particular café, we would dress accordingly and make our way towards our destination on our bikes, with nothing but the warmth of the revving engines to protect us against the biting cold. On our days off, either the three of us would march off to Shahid's village and spend time there, or he would come to Raiwind.
Literary Echoes and Nostalgia
As students, we avoided studying all subjects other than English and kept the thought of appearing in examinations in the other subjects at bay. In his essay First Year at Harrow, Sir Winston Churchill recounts his struggle with and dislike for the classical languages, Latin and Greek. He much preferred English. His famous teacher, Mr Somervell, taught him the rudimentary rules of English grammar, and, over time, Churchill mastered the language. His peers, who were proficient in classical languages, had to learn English later in order to sustain themselves in their practical and professional lives.
Unlike Churchill, however, we had to endure the torture of sitting through examinations in all subjects. After completing my two-year bachelor's degree from the University of the Punjab, I immersed myself in the study of classical English literature and gradually developed a penchant for South Asian literature.
The other three are now busy with their respective lives. Usama is married, while the other two will be tying the knot in the near future. The sheets of fog (now smog) bring along layers of memories that otherwise lie slumbering in the chambers of the heart.
Nostalgia is a great privilege when your memories bear witness to a life well lived, a life filled with meaning and fulfilment!