By Zafar Ullah Poshni

Courtesy| InpaperMagzine

Poshni and Didi. New Delhi. February 2011 Pic Vaibhav Raghunandan

It 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.

Email: Shumita Didi