A different kind of love story
I was fortunate enough to spend Thursday evening at an Elif Shafak talk. She was discussing her 2010 novel, The Forty Rules of Love. One of my favourite things about the novel is how beautifully it presents the relationship between Rumi and Shams of Tabriz. We are so used to depictions of romantic love that we often forget love’s multitudes. These two men — one water and the other fire — take shelter from the world’s judgmental gaze under a cloak of love. Their friendship is not of this world — unbreakable by distance, time or dimension.
I made a mental note of it to discuss later with my beloved Malishka. But as life would have it, that ‘later’ would extend itself beyond distance and time, and park itself comfortably in another dimension.
We would talk about things like the multitudes of love for hours. “Iss rishtay ko mein kya naam doon?” What name do I give this relationship? she would ask. “Mein tumhe dost kahoon, beti kahoon, ya saathi? Asal mein mujhe lagta hai ke tum meri liye yeh sab ho.” Should I call you friend, daughter or companion? In reality, I think you’re all three for me.
“I don’t know the term in Urdu,” I’d respond. “But in English, we say: ‘kindred spirits’.”
“Kin-drid spir-rit.” She’d let the words roll around on her tongue. “Haan, yeh theek hai.”
Nusrat Rehman was a wife, mother, grandmother, friend, confidant, habitual cackler and all-round powerhouse. We met at my sister’s best friend’s wedding, eleven years ago. Wedding week was in its Pakistani, glorious swing when we hosted one of the dholki functions at our house. A teen expert at illegal music downloads, I was always the DJ. Relishing in my musical responsibilities, I skipped frantically between songs. My sister came running over. “Put that song on again!” A voice from the crowd bellowed: “No, don’t!” My sister insisted: “They’re worried about Pyaari Khala — she’s had multiple bypasses but she loves that song and wants to dance. Go on — put it on. Let her dance.”
And dance she did. It was no wonder they called her Pyaari Khala — lovely aunt — with her smooth, porcelain skin; cropped, silver hair; mischievous grin; and sharp, twinkling eyes.
Once the wedding was over, she returned home to Chicago. We’d already become inseparable and I’d promised to call often. And I wasn’t about to break that promise to a fierce, unrelenting woman in her 70s who had left me with a stern warning: “Agar phone na kiya, toh mein jaan se maar doun gi!” If you don’t call, I’ll squeeze the life out of you. After the first week of unanswered calls, I began to worry. Some digging confirmed the worst: Pyaari Khala had contracted pneumonia and her condition had worsened on the plane home. She had spent the week in ICU, and the outlook was less than favourable.
Heartbroken, I retreated to my room and proceeded to sob. How unfair life was, I thought. There was so much I still had to learn about her. Why had the universe conspired to bring us together, only to take her away? I did something uncharacteristic that night. I took out my prayer mat and begged for some more time.
I was fortunate enough to receive it. Once out of the ICU, she had a long road to recovery ahead of her. But like her Leo kindred spirit, she was stubborn. She wouldn’t eat, loathed taking her medicine and her mood would dictate her tolerance of those around her. But that didn’t apply to me, her husband would point out. “Speak to her — tell her how important it is that she eat what they give her.” I wasn’t naive enough to think I wielded such influence but I tried. A curt response: “Meri fikr na karo. Tum haftay mein sirf aik dafa phone karti ho — dawaa ko golee maaro!” Don’t worry about me. You only call once a week — to heck with talking about medicine! Needless to say, weekly calls became daily.
We’d talk about her life, her children, grandchildren, what it meant to be a Pakistani woman then, and what it means now, our hopes and aspirations, our love of literature and music. Not a stone lay unturned. Ten birthdays; three years of university; another three spent in my first job as an adult and a further two job changes; multiple illnesses on her part; the death of her much beloved and only son; familial and personal dramas — our phone calls saw us through it all.
Early on, I’d dial her Chicago number using my calling card and she’d answer with a distracted: “Haan? Yes? …Hell…oh?” “What’s distracting you?” I’d ask in Urdu. “Woh aaye hai.” She’s here. She was referring to the protagonist of one of her favourite dramas. For the hour duration of that show, everything and everyone was dead to her, bar ‘Malishka’. So it was only fitting, then, that I attributed that name to her. “Ma-lish-kaaaa,” I’d sing as she answered the phone. “Malishka ki jaan,” Malishka’s life she’d reply.
“Mein tumhari liye har achi cheez chahte houn.” I want every good thing for you. To the extent that if the FedEx guy delivering the CD she’d asked me to mix for her was brown and remotely attractive, she’d roll her sleeves up. “Maan ja — FedEx walla barra hi handsome hain.” Go on, let me chat up the FedEx guy for you — he’s very handsome. “Malishka! ‘FedEx’ and ‘handsome’ are English words!” I’d yell in embarrassment, only to hear her glorious cackle flood the phone line.
If annoyed or irritated with her husband, she’d take the cordless phone and make her way to the top floor of her building. “Why do you do that? Suppose you slip on the way up. I don’t want you to get hurt.” A clicking of her teeth to signal disapproval. “Sumjha kar. Ghusay mein houn toh thora sa dramatic banna parta hai!” Try to understand — I’m angry with him, so I need to be a little dramatic for the effect.
Kindred spirits.
Love, encouragement, wisdom, silence — she gave it all to me, unselfishly, whenever it was needed. “Tum meri se nahin banni, laikin pata nahin kyoun aisa lagta hai ke tum meri hi ho.” I didn’t create you, but I don’t know why it feels like you belong to me.
I’m told she passed away rather peacefully in her sleep on Friday morning. Sat on my sofa, paper piled around me, I sobbed — the pain in my chest catching me off guard. I heard her voice in my ear: “Pakoray-jaisa naak banna ke chayn aagaya hai?” Are you satisfied now that you’ve swollen your nose up like a pakora? She liked my “pretty little nose”.
So I tried not to dwell. I wished her a safe journey to her next stop and whispered into my hands: “I love you. Thank you for being my friend, Malishka”. I heard her respond: Malishka ki jaan.
