Reunion:
Stranger than fiction
By Zafar Ullah Poshni
Courtesy| InpaperMagzine
Poshni and Didi. New Delhi. February 2011
Pic Vaibhav Raghunandan
|
I |
t was the year 1956. A year earlier I had been released from prison after
over four years of detention in connection with the Rawalpindi
Conspiracy case. I had
joined the University Law College, Lahore and lived with my elder
sister at Masson Road.
One evening while visiting the Mirs, our relatives, who
lived near Temple Road, we met an Indian girl named Sheila and her
brother Desh Bandhu Sharma. They had come from the UK, where they
had befriended one of the Mir boys, Anwar Mir, who had invited
them to stay at their house if they ever visited Lahore. So while
on their way to India they had driven from Karachi to Lahore and
had arrived at the Mirs house a short while ago. (In those days
travel between India and Pakistan was not such a hassle as it
became after the 1965 war).
Mirs’ house was old and decrepit and had no facility to
accommodate guests, even with a modicum of comfort. Anwar probably
never expected, when he invited Sheila and Desh Bandhu Sharma,
that they would take him at his word and actually arrive at his
doorstep, and looked sheepish, forlorn and under great stress.
There was no decent room in his ancient house fit for this smart
Indian girl and her brother.
Noticing this predicament I suggested to my sister that we
should invite Sheila and her brother to stay with us. My sister
agreed and extended the invitation to them which they readily
accepted.
Sheila was then in her late twenties and she was pretty and
vivacious and exuberant. She was also an intellectually aware
person, with strong Marxist leanings and an ability to converse
freely and project her views light heartedly. They requested me to
show them the historical places of Lahore. So, the next day we
went to see the Shahi Mosque, the Lahore Fort and Jehangir’s
tomb. The day after that we went to the Moghalpura side and had a
great time in the Shalimar gardens and some other places. I spent
two or three very enjoyable days in the company of Sheila and her
brother; it was with a touch of sadness that we parted as they
drove away to India.
That was 1956 and I was 30 years old at that time. Now fast forward to
2011 and I am 85 years old; 55 years have passed and I had
forgotten Sheila and the delightful days spent in her company.
In February this year I was attending, along with a group
of Pakistani writers, poets and intellectuals, the 100th birthday
of Faiz Ahmed Faiz being celebrated in New Delhi. The centenary
celebrations were inaugurated by the President of India, Shirimati
Pratibha Patil, who also presented souvenirs to various Indians
and Pakistanis, including me. I was also one of the speakers.
During lunch, I suddenly felt a light touch on my arm and saw a
plumpish woman in her 40s trying to talk to me.
“You are Mr Zafar Ullah Poshni,” she said. It was more
a statement than a question.
“Yes, that’s who I am,” I replied.
“Do you remember a girl and a boy from India who stayed
at your house and whom you took around Lahore, more than half a
century ago!” she asked.
Sheila. circa 1956
“Yes, I do remember, an Indian brother and sister, but
frankly I have forgotten their names,” I ventured.
“That girl was my mother and she has not forgotten you. I
have heard your name mentioned so many times by her, that when I
listened to the announcement here today that Mr Zafar Ullah Poshni
will now speak, I was thrilled,” she said as she almost hugged
me.
“But you were not even born at that time,” I protested.
“You were probably born ten years later!”
“My mother never forgot your kindness, hospitality and
affection and used to narrate to us all about her Lahore
experience, as we grew up. I remember your name because she
mentioned it so many times. And when I tell her that I’ve met
you she will be overjoyed, she will be over the moon.”
“This is amazing,” I exclaimed. “I mean I can
understand your mom remembering her visit to Lahore, but I am
overwhelmed that she passed on this information to her children
and that you remember even my name. How old is your mother now?”
“She is now 82. She was 27 years old when she visited
Lahore and you were 30 at that time.”
“Now, how do you know that?” I was getting flustered at
this woman’s knowledge about me.
“Mom told me that you were three years older than her,”
she replied.
“God, you are both amazing people. What’s your name and
sorry to ask this but what’s your mother’s name?” I was
ashamed of my poor memory.
“I am Shumita. My mother’s name is Sheila.”
Suddenly I recollected. Yes, Sheila, that was the name of
the jaunty, saucy, vibrant, charming young lady of 27 who had been
my guest in Lahore. I wondered what she looked like now at 82.
“Shumita, when can I meet your mother?” I asked.“I
will bring her to the Seminar tomorrow. You will be there, of
course,” said Shumita.
The next morning I was a little late and when I reached the auditorium
Shumita and her mother were already seated. I noticed that Sheila
looked good for an 82-year-old, except that she needed support for
walking. Anyway, it was a joyous meeting and I was pleased to see
that she could walk quite briskly with the aid of her two support
sticks.
Sheila’s husband [Madan Lal Didi, Punjabi poet and
communist trade union leader. - Ed] had died a few years ago and the daughter and mother lived
together in New Delhi; Shumita’s siblings were in Chandigarh and
other places.
For the next three or four days that I spent in New Delhi, apart from the
official engagements, I enjoyed the hospitality of Sheila and
Shumita. I went to their house for lunch and dinner and Shumita
took me to the Qutab Minar and other places.
I was to return to Pakistan via Amritsar and Wagah
(crossing the border on foot) with a Pakistani delegate named
Sabuha Khan. Shumita made it a point to take us to the New Delhi
railway station and to seat us in the train to Amritsar, before
she took her leave. Earlier that last day I had taken lunch with
Sheila at her home and we parted with mixed emotions of joy at
having met again after 55 years and a fringe of sadness that we
may not meet again, considering the situation between the two
countries.
But let no one ever dare to tell Sheila Didi that
Pakistanis are evil, obnoxious people and let no one tell me that
Indians are ungrateful and mean wretches.
A three-day seminar in connection with the Faiz Centennial
Celebrations was held
in New Delhi. Picture shows Zafar Ullah Poshni, a jail mate
of Faiz, receiving a trophy
for his contribution to Arts & Culture from Pratibha
Patel, the President of India.
Poshni was leading a delegation of the Progressive Writers
Association of Pakistan.
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Email: Shumita Didi