Dear Masood Uncle,
As I write this, I can hear your voice on the radio. Hearing it made me burst into tears again. They’re paying homage to you, as they should. I can’t believe that voice is gone forever now.
On Friday there was a horrible rumour going around that you had passed away. I had known you had been unwell and the past year, especially, was very difficult for you. It was obvious to all those who met you. The lung infection you were battling was taking over rapidly. You ran out of breath, had to pause between words and let out a cough that sounded like it was rattling your rib cage.
You had become so thin, so weak, a skeleton of the man I once knew. It was hard to look at you without feeling some pain. The last time we met, I hugged you and when I said khuda hafiz, I wondered if it would be my last goodbye to you. Sadly, it was.
I came to see you on Sunday, the shell of you that was left behind at least. I couldn’t stay for your funeral. The atmosphere was eerily similar to the kind of funeral you had described in your column three months ago.
“The absence of any sanctity is lost on most assembled mourners. As they arrive, the jolly and robust greetings exchanged could easily fool you that they were there for a sad occasion. Warm handshakes follow. Much clasping and hugging takes place. The new arrivals take their place and are pretty soon part of the spirited discussion that was already taking place.”
(From his column this March http://www.thenews.com.pk/Todays-News-9-235816-The-funeral-pantomime)
[quote]You in a shroud isn't a sight I ever wanted to see[/quote]
When I saw you, I burst into tears. You in a shroud isn’t a sight I ever wanted to see, not yet at least. You were only 72. People, these days, are supposed to live much longer than that.
There shouldn’t have been a dry eye in sight, but that’s Lahoris for you I suppose, turning everything into a social event. Though I found people sitting around laughing distasteful then, in retrospect there is a certain twisted aptness to it. They were, after all, attending the funeral of a man of your wit.
All those who knew you had known it was only a matter of time. On Friday, you had been revived but you had lost all consciousness. I know this because I came to the hospital to say goodbye. Your family had signed the DNR forms which would allow you to pass without being forcibly kept alive on any machines. You wouldn’t have wanted that.
I know I had told you how I much valued and appreciated you many times, but now, it still doesn’t seem enough. You are one of the main reasons why I am a writer today. Had you not encouraged me, I would not have applied for a degree in writing. I wasn’t sure I was good enough, but you reassured me I was.
“What if I don’t get in anywhere Masood uncle?” I remember saying to you in your office. I had come in to ask if I could retrieve some write up I had done for you during my temporary stints at Publicis. You could tell my confidence was low, I suppose.
“Relax, have yet another cup of coffee. Your tenth today?” you joked. “Just apply. You’ll get in everywhere. I promise.”
And I did. I got in everywhere and when I went off to Sussex, you told me you were very proud of me. I thanked you then too. You had given me a job when I needed a break from teaching. Instead of copywriting, you had assigned me full length articles and reports. Most were heavily research-based. I’m convinced you did this deliberately to prepare me for my masters degree.
You never spared me any criticism but you also continuously positively reinforced me, pushed me to make myself a better writer and more so, a better thinker.
There were days I would be too depressed to think clearly, unable to do much else other than cry. “Just come sit with me here in my office. You’ll be fine,” you would say and offer me multiple cups of coffee. On the days when I felt the world was conspiring to break me, you offered me refuge away from my triggers. There was no judgement, just love and kindness. You would cheer me up by cracking an endless amount of jokes and telling me hilarious stories. I am a much better person for it.
You touched my life in ways I am unable to explain now. You became a mentor, a friend and a father figure. I was able to talk to you about anything and anyone and say absolutely what I felt. I was always heard and understood. My radical views were not dismissed, but given an audience that could turn them on their head and mock them.
There was always laughter, so much laughter. There were times my cheeks would hurt from laughing too hard and too long because you were often unstoppable.
Thank you Masood uncle for allowing me to be a part of your life, for being a friend, for everything you ever did for me. You offered me a job more than once when I needed it. You accommodated my eccentricities and my mood swings even though you didn’t need to.
Thank you for teaching me how to laugh at everything, including myself, and for helping me find humour in places where I never thought it belonged. Thank you for pointing out the absurd in everything and for teaching me how to look for it. Thank you for just being you, for being a person who was authentic and honest. They don’t make them like you anymore, sir.
I can only hope I see you again someday, in another world, imagined by a friend who tweeted “”where “Louis Armstrong is blowing that trumpet louder than ever, welcoming Masood Hasan to the fold.”
(https://twitter.com/asadmkh/status/473058046348775425)
All my love,
One of the many mourning your loss
As I write this, I can hear your voice on the radio. Hearing it made me burst into tears again. They’re paying homage to you, as they should. I can’t believe that voice is gone forever now.
On Friday there was a horrible rumour going around that you had passed away. I had known you had been unwell and the past year, especially, was very difficult for you. It was obvious to all those who met you. The lung infection you were battling was taking over rapidly. You ran out of breath, had to pause between words and let out a cough that sounded like it was rattling your rib cage.
You had become so thin, so weak, a skeleton of the man I once knew. It was hard to look at you without feeling some pain. The last time we met, I hugged you and when I said khuda hafiz, I wondered if it would be my last goodbye to you. Sadly, it was.
I came to see you on Sunday, the shell of you that was left behind at least. I couldn’t stay for your funeral. The atmosphere was eerily similar to the kind of funeral you had described in your column three months ago.
“The absence of any sanctity is lost on most assembled mourners. As they arrive, the jolly and robust greetings exchanged could easily fool you that they were there for a sad occasion. Warm handshakes follow. Much clasping and hugging takes place. The new arrivals take their place and are pretty soon part of the spirited discussion that was already taking place.”
(From his column this March http://www.thenews.com.pk/Todays-News-9-235816-The-funeral-pantomime)
[quote]You in a shroud isn't a sight I ever wanted to see[/quote]
When I saw you, I burst into tears. You in a shroud isn’t a sight I ever wanted to see, not yet at least. You were only 72. People, these days, are supposed to live much longer than that.
There shouldn’t have been a dry eye in sight, but that’s Lahoris for you I suppose, turning everything into a social event. Though I found people sitting around laughing distasteful then, in retrospect there is a certain twisted aptness to it. They were, after all, attending the funeral of a man of your wit.
All those who knew you had known it was only a matter of time. On Friday, you had been revived but you had lost all consciousness. I know this because I came to the hospital to say goodbye. Your family had signed the DNR forms which would allow you to pass without being forcibly kept alive on any machines. You wouldn’t have wanted that.
I know I had told you how I much valued and appreciated you many times, but now, it still doesn’t seem enough. You are one of the main reasons why I am a writer today. Had you not encouraged me, I would not have applied for a degree in writing. I wasn’t sure I was good enough, but you reassured me I was.
“What if I don’t get in anywhere Masood uncle?” I remember saying to you in your office. I had come in to ask if I could retrieve some write up I had done for you during my temporary stints at Publicis. You could tell my confidence was low, I suppose.
“Relax, have yet another cup of coffee. Your tenth today?” you joked. “Just apply. You’ll get in everywhere. I promise.”
And I did. I got in everywhere and when I went off to Sussex, you told me you were very proud of me. I thanked you then too. You had given me a job when I needed a break from teaching. Instead of copywriting, you had assigned me full length articles and reports. Most were heavily research-based. I’m convinced you did this deliberately to prepare me for my masters degree.
You never spared me any criticism but you also continuously positively reinforced me, pushed me to make myself a better writer and more so, a better thinker.
There were days I would be too depressed to think clearly, unable to do much else other than cry. “Just come sit with me here in my office. You’ll be fine,” you would say and offer me multiple cups of coffee. On the days when I felt the world was conspiring to break me, you offered me refuge away from my triggers. There was no judgement, just love and kindness. You would cheer me up by cracking an endless amount of jokes and telling me hilarious stories. I am a much better person for it.
You touched my life in ways I am unable to explain now. You became a mentor, a friend and a father figure. I was able to talk to you about anything and anyone and say absolutely what I felt. I was always heard and understood. My radical views were not dismissed, but given an audience that could turn them on their head and mock them.
There was always laughter, so much laughter. There were times my cheeks would hurt from laughing too hard and too long because you were often unstoppable.
Thank you Masood uncle for allowing me to be a part of your life, for being a friend, for everything you ever did for me. You offered me a job more than once when I needed it. You accommodated my eccentricities and my mood swings even though you didn’t need to.
Thank you for teaching me how to laugh at everything, including myself, and for helping me find humour in places where I never thought it belonged. Thank you for pointing out the absurd in everything and for teaching me how to look for it. Thank you for just being you, for being a person who was authentic and honest. They don’t make them like you anymore, sir.
I can only hope I see you again someday, in another world, imagined by a friend who tweeted “”where “Louis Armstrong is blowing that trumpet louder than ever, welcoming Masood Hasan to the fold.”
(https://twitter.com/asadmkh/status/473058046348775425)
All my love,
One of the many mourning your loss