The Blogs: Chithi

Meeting at a Crossroads

I met Masud at a crossroads in 1968 at the Engineering University at Lahore, then West Pakistan.

During our final year of undergraduate engineering while I was working on a petroleum engineering oil field development study, Masud’s project was far more complex: to build a prototype solid-fueled rocket. After long, hard months of work, his rocket was finally ready for its first test in June 1972.

Unfortunately, that was the way things turned out to be. On 13 June 1972 – a hot summer’s day – one moment Masud was full of life and the next moment he was gone for ever. During the very first rocket test something went horribly wrong. The blast took away his life.

After the burial I waited at his grave to be alone with him. In the midst of the outer calmness, an inner commotion stormed my soul:

Here is the man, my friend, the light of my life, who rests buried beneath the ground. His flesh will soon rot and the bones will decay in time. Maybe it is a blessing that he no longer suffers the unbearable earthly pains. But what about his mother? What is a mother’s pain in losing her child in a distant land and never to see him again?

Standing alone by his grave I wept, not for my friend, but for the grieving mother more than a thousand miles away in Bangladesh from her buried son.

Thirty-eight Years Later

6 October 2010

Dear Jishan,

I am not sure if you remember me, but you must have heard about me from your grandmother, just as you have heard of your boro mama, Masood, whom you never met.

As fellow students, your boro mama and I got to know each other back in 1968 at the Lahore Engineering University. In those days I knew no one in his family, but I got in touch with them (they were then living in Dhaka) after he left us for ever one hot, summer’s day in June 1972.

I have been writing to your nanu since she lost her son. I know from her letters that she raised you as her seventh child since your parents moved overseas for work.

Now that she has departed, her absence has created a vacuum in our lives. In her loss, you and I now have a common emotional base and that, more than anything else, ties us together.

Yours affectionately,

Kabir

October 8, 2010

Dear Kabir mama,

Salaam.

I have not only heard volumes about you from my grandmother, but I have wonderful memories of you and your family visiting us in Dhaka.

Nanu was a woman of few words. She believed more in teaching by example. And yet every lazy afternoon throughout my childhood there were stories from the past, questions answered, and memories shared. A large part of those memories was of her lost son and the eighth child—you. During my twenty-six years with her, she shared with me more about these two sons than I suspect she has ever shared with anyone else.

I remember the ritual that would follow every time I opened the mailbox and found your letter. “Kabir mamar chithi”, I would announce and then sprint all the way up to the third floor to hand the letter to nanu like a trophy. She would never open it right away. She would take it with a smile and put it away safely.

She would finish her work, take her afternoon shower, put on a fresh sari, eat lunch, and make sure that nothing else was going to pull her away. Then she would sit on her bed, massage Ponds cream (the cold cream with the green lid) on her face and comb her hair. I would watch this ritual—it was the same every time—as if she were preparing herself for a meeting with her son. She would then put on her glasses and pull out the envelope from underneath her pillow. She would examine the stamps—which varied depending on where you all were living at the time, touch your writing and then turn to me, every time, and say, “My son. He never forgets. He never forgets me”. She would then open the envelope like it was a relished, coveted treat she had waited for, and of which she could never get enough.

When we moved to America, Nanu and I continued to stay together, but she traveled a lot to see her kids. On her return, though, she would always have your most recent letter to share with me. She visited me often during the years I was away at college, and she would always bring your letters with her. When I got married and moved across the country, she would still bring your letters to share with me. And every time she shared your letter her expression would change entirely—the glow, the expression of joy, but shown in her own personal, clandestine way. I have seen her with that expression on only two other occasions: my wedding and as I handed her my newborn daughter.

The common emotional base that you speak of reaches so much deeper for me than anybody else. Over the years you and your family have become a significant part of my life than you probably realize. I am honored that you have reached out to me and, with your approval, I wish to write you again.

Your loving,

Jishan

9 October 2010

Dear Jishan,

Wa salaam.

I am moved by your account. It made my eyes swell and heart weep.

I knew she loved me, but was unaware of the depth; I knew she awaited my letters, but did not know how it touched her heart; I knew I was a part of her life, but had no clue how much space I occupied. I now regret that I did not write to her enough. I should have written to her more frequently, probably every week.

In a few lines, you have opened something vast and beautiful, something touching and moving, and yet I was unaware of it all these years. A great treasure lay bare in my backyard, yet I missed it. I am grateful to you for sharing with me one of the most profound human emotions and, somehow, I was part of it.

I had even less clue of how close I am to you. I thought you would have heard of me in passing and probably did not remember our visits to Dhaka – that you were too young.

You caught me off guard, completely unprepared for this revelation, but I am happy, truly happy, happier than ever.

The loss of my second mother was painful enough. It was also painful to think that I would not be receiving her letters anymore, nor would I be writing to her again. One of the precious chapters of my life had suddenly come to an end. But now, lo and behold, you have brought everything back to life – the closed chapter reopens as a new one. She now lives in you. She has passed all her treasured possessions to you – only to you, and no one else.

Always,

Kabir mama