ALL THAT NOW REMAINS...

Standing in waist deep waters of the grey and soapy Ganga, I blinked. The sun was strong and the water shimmered in the light. A priest chanted while I repeated words I did not understand. In my outstretched hands I held a small earthen urn that contained the ashes of Bawdo (big) Mama (uncle), my eldest maternal uncle and at that moment it seemed incredible that all that remained of that adorable man was what I held in my hand.

Two days ago, I’d rushed into the ICU of a Noida hospital to see him. I had taken his swollen palms in my hands, carefully, not wanting to disturb the network of tubes and pipes that carried fluids to and from his 86-year-old body, and prayed that he’d pull through. I watched as his shoulders rose and fell with his laboured breath and I tried to will more life, and more will, into him. The doctor in attendance pointed at his watch. Visiting hours were over. I let go of his hands and they withdrew with a certain heaviness. He was unconscious, but I wanted to believe I’d reached out to him, wanted to believe that he and God had heard me. I believed he would pull through. A few hours later, I got a phone call… Bawdo Mama had taken a bow.

Pangs of guilt have ravaged my waking hours ever since that phone call. Bawdo Mama had lived a good life. A man of his times, he lived by the book. Decent in school, he found a decent job, and a daughter from a decent household to call his wife, and this pursuit of decency (and being the eldest, also the need to set examples) ensured that he stayed away from the ‘evils’ of his time and so he never drank or smoked. His one ‘out there’ obsession was his passion for gymnastics and weight training. In an otherwise staid life, he did look back on one day as the day that defined him, not as son or sibling, but just him, and that was the day when he went on stage for a bodybuilding stage show and in front of a cheering audience, flexed and preened before bending a steel rod with his neck. The memories of that day held him get through years of dreary and dusty files, for no matter how dull the day, he could always relive that moment with a silent cup of evening tea and every new conversation.

He must have had his moments of pettiness and ill humour but I don’t remember them… I was perhaps too young to notice. I just remember him as this broad shouldered man who would blow into the house like a gust of joy and mirth and regale us with stories, eat mountains of rice with our rich home-cooked Bengali fare and carry on with his stories after dinner with a paan stuffed in his mouth. He was a happy man to be around…

About ten years ago, he had what he referred to as his “thyroid problem”. That problem robbed him of some of his brain cells and as a consequence he’d often forget things in his immediate environment, especially mundane stuff. For instance he might forget that he’d just given his clothes for washing and keep looking for them. Then the stories dried up. He now only remembered his favourites and would repeat the same ones every evening.

Since he was widowed and retired now, he lived with his daughter’s family. But almost every year in the last decade, he made it a point to come over and stay with us for a couple of months. Bawdo Mama was an irrepressible character and in spite of his forgetfulness he would light up our house with his joie de vivre. I guess because he was the eldest in the family, he was used to having the last word. So even in his later years, though strait-jacketed by his handicap, he would try his utmost to not let it show even when he was caught on the wrong foot. For instance, just days before his demise, while he was in hospital and the doctors asked him his name to see if he had his bearings, he forgot he had one. But without batting an eyelid he looked the doctor in the eye and said, “I think you will know that better…” and then laughed a big belly laugh. The doctor just shook his head and smiled.

There’s something about old people that makes them so adorable. They have the wisdom of years and all that love to give, and yet they have the sensitivity and vulnerability of a child. And best of all, they are not bothered by the stresses and demands of the real world that on days might pull our parents down a bit.

Bawdo Mama lived a relatively long life; a happy healthy one too. Other than that “thyroid problem”, he remained exceptionally fit, always on his feet and looked no older than a man in his late 60s. Then why the pangs of regret, you ask? I’ll tell you why… Two years ago, when he had last come over to stay with us, he saw me working out and reminisced about his old days. So we took out a camera, encouraged him to pose like he had all those years ago on stage, and like a bashful child enjoying the attention, he played along. He’d looked so full of life that day, and yet a part of me would’ve known that there wasn’t much time... maybe I just didn’t pay attention. Soon after, he went back to his house. Days rolled into weeks and weeks into months. We loved his company and he did come over for a festival or two but didn’t stay for long. Either he had some stuff he wanted to attend to, or we got too busy, but we always thought we had time.

Recently, I had started visiting our Noida office twice a week, a stone’s throw from his house. And I’d tell myself, “I’ll visit them tomorrow”. But tomorrow never did come. A week back we heard of him being taken to hospital. “He is fine”, my cousin told us over the phone. “He just has some problem with motor skills. Nothing major, perhaps a drip and some medicines and he should be okay. The reports are fine. In fact in the hospital he was singing bhajans and the ward boys surrounded him and joined in…” we all laughed and told each other that he’ll be back home soon. And my mother reminded us that we should bring him home after he recovers. I also promised to visit him on my way back from office one of these days. But each time I would either miss visiting hours or get a little too late at work. Well, the honest truth is it wasn’t a priority for me. I loved him but I was too busy to see him. It shames me to even write that, but I’m sure I’m not the only one who does that. Perhaps if you and I, dear reader, sit back and think, there are surely more than one loved one in our lives who perhaps sit and wait for us and we know it, but are too busy to do anything about it. One day, they’ll get tired of waiting and just die, and that day we’ll have to make time, no matter how busy we might be. I just wish I’d taken out time while Bawdo Mama had the time. That day when I held his hand in the hospital, I promised to come see him every day but he didn’t listen… This time, he was the one who got too busy.

After his death, my niece (his granddaughter) told me how he’d often forgot their names, people he’s been living with for the last decade. He’d forgotten who his daughter has been married to or if he ever had a wife but he never forgot about me and the times he spent with the four of us… the dinners, the movies, the singing bouts with my parents, even the chats with my father-in-law… for someone who might forget if he’s just had dinner, or like he once famously asked his son-in-law’s father at his grand daughter’s birthday when he was considering getting his son married, this was astonishing. My niece even said that Bawdo Mama told her that he was proud of me since I was the only one carrying forward his legacy of “physical culture” in the family. Everyone concluded that he remembered these moments because he really enjoyed spending time doing those things with us. And the knowledge that my presence could bring him such joy only made it worse. If only I could’ve spent some more time with him… if only I could’ve brought him home, given him some more joy… if only I had one more day, to see him laugh and sing… one more day, to tell him I was proud of him too… But I didn’t have that one day… All I had now were the ashes. I opened the urn and emptied its contents into the Ganga… now even those were gone… the marigold from the urn bobbed on the currents for a while and then that too was gone…

THE PARADOX OF THE CODE

The ochre hills are dry and bare. Swirling gusts of wind and dust chase each other around, like carefree urchins playing tag. Neither house nor tree as far as the eye can see, and a lonely road that stretches from horizon to horizon. And on that roadlurches and loiters a beat up Toyota Sedan, both diffident and determined in the same burst of combustion. And perhaps with good reason, for this car was passing through the Khyber, a region that has come to be known as the most dangerous place on the planet, between the lawless Federally Administered Tribal Areas (FATA) in Western Pakistan, and Afghanistan, a region at the forefront of the war of and on terror, a red-zone if there ever was one.

Inside, next to the driver sat a man whose modest salwar-kameez belied his aristocratic bearing. He turned oft en to speak to a man in a skull cap sitting at the back. Next to him sat a boy who was trying hard to look like a man. The one in the skull cap seemed nervous, constantly pulling his right sleeve, trying his best to cover the kada (a bracelet worn by Sikhs) on his wrist. The next moment, the image went off the screen and was replaced by a commercial… I was watching an episode of ‘Jailed Abroad’, a programme on National Geographic. And though I usually restrict myself to recounting first hand experiences on this page, what I saw last night was a story worth telling, and those of you who might have missed it, missed out an important lesson about the paradoxes and prejudices of our times.

In the May of 2002, Amardeep Bassey, a British Sikh of Indian origin, investigations editor with The Sunday Mercury, wanted to make his way into Afghanistan for a story about the common Afghan’s life after the war. He met a Pakistani human rights activist in Peshawar who asked him to meet a certain Naushad Afridi, son of a tribal chieftain from the Khyber. Bassey left Peshawar and reached FATA. The Pakistan administration had little control over the tribes and warlords operating in the region. Bassey was on his own. He reached a dilapidated building where he was told he’d find Naushad. He was asked to wait. While he waited, he must’ve been a very nervous man. Daniel Pearl had been murdered mere months ago. Western journalists were aware how dangerous missions to these regions crawling with al-Qaeda loyalists and sympathisers could be. This was as good a time as any for militants to get their hands on a western journalist, truss him up before a camera, make some demands and finally behead the poor chap like a sacrificial lamb. Bassey knew that even one wrong move could well be his last.

While Bassey waited, he thought of his friends and family back home and wondered if he would be able to see them again. Just then, a tall slim chap walked in with a group of people. Though dressed like the others, he stood out because of his demeanour. He looked like a man who knew his way around. “Salaam walaikum! I’m Naushad. What can I do for you?” said the man as he extended his hand. Bassey greeted him, gave him his references and asked if he could helphim get to Kabul and back for his story. After some deliberation, Naushad said, “You are a brave man to have come this far. I’ll be your guide.” While they were shaking hands, Naushad happened to see Bassey’s kada and warned him, “People here have been conditioned to believe that any one who isn’t a Muslim is actually an enemy. So be careful.” Naushad asked him to replace his western attire with a salwar-kameez and a skull cap. And to keep his kada hidden all the time. They partied a bit in the evening with a local sugarcane brew and next morning, the two of them, along with the much younger Khitab Shah headed off for the border. On the bus, grim thoughts accosted Bassey and he kept wondering how real the dangers of this mission might be. He turned to Naushad and shared his concerns. “We’ll see what happens,” said Naushad, “but whatever happens to you will happen to me first. We’ve had fun together, so when trouble comes, we’ll face it together”. Though it sounded like rhetoric, Bassey felt at ease.

There was a big crowd at the border gate. Incidentally, the Pashtun tribals who inhabit both sides of the Afghan-Pak border do not require a visa to cross the border. But unlike his guides, Bassey was no tribal and was feeling rather apprehensive since he only had a single entry visa for Pakistan. However he’d been told that they’d return through a different route used by opium smugglers, and that wouldn’t require ‘papers’. So he just “went with the flow”. Soon they were in a cab that was heading towards Kabul which is where the commercials interrupted the story.

In Kabul, Bassey interviewed everyday people about their life after the war while Naushad acted as interpreter. Next day, with his interviews done and notes in place, Bassey joined Naushad and Khitab in a taxi that was to take them to the Pakistan border. Halfway through the journey, Naushad and the driver had an altercation… apparently the Americans were scrutinising the check posts on the route used by the opium smugglers, anticipating the movement of a large number of jehadis. So they had no choice but to go back the way they’d come. Bassey was worried. He knew he would be in trouble if the authorities check his visa but Naushad told him that they didn’t have a choice and he would definitely know someone at the border who could get them through.

At the border though, Bassey’s British passport drew unnecessary attention and the duty officer at the border took him across to the Military Intelligence office. There, the officer-in-charge, after being apprised of his visa issues, lookedat Bassey’s name and his watch which also happened to have a camera, and concluded that he was an Indian spy. Bassey protested in vain. The officer was sending Bassey to jail. Then the officer turned towards the two Pathans and said they were free to go. Naushad stood up and said, “We’re not going anywhere. This man is our guest and is under our tribe’s protection. If he goes to jail, we go with him”.

Naushad had met Bassey less than 48 hours ago and knew practically nothing about him. As far as he knew, he could well have been an Indian spy. The maximum punishment for espionage in Pakistan is death. Naushad and Khitab knew what the consequences could be, and they knew little about the man they were standing by. And yet, without batting an eyelid, they went to jail for Bassey. Amardeep Bassey spent 28 days in jail, some of them in solitary confinement and others in squalid concrete cages packed with hardened jehadis and bandits. A Westerner and a non-Muslim, Bassey felt like a lamb trapped between a pack of wolves. Inside the cell, tall gaunt men with long fl owing beards and piercing eyes looked down their hawkish noses at Bassey. One look at them and you knew these men had known war, death and desperation, and they hadn’t tired of it yet. He was even asked to convert by an al-Qaeda operative who was a gang leader of sorts in one of the jails, but Bassey respectfully but firmly refused. His courage surprised both of them, but Bassey knew his strength stemmed from the presence of Naushad. The Pathan, son of a tribal leader, was suffering the ignominy and uncertainty of incarceration for the sake of Bassey, his guest. And he was doing that because of a centuries old, pre-Islamic code of honour – Pashtunwali, the code of the Pathans – which amongst other things, states that every Pathan should offer help and protection to those in need and especially to strangers and guests, and even die for them if need be.

Twenty eight days later Bassey, thanks to diplomatic maneuvers, was finally released and deported but the two Pathans were still in jail. “Turning my back on them is the hardest thing I ever did,” said Bassey. But he wasn’t given a choice. The two of them were released a week later.

Bassey and Naushad met again in 2008 and embraced each other like brothers. Today, the two, a Pakistani Pathan and British-Indian Sikh, share a friendship that runs deeper and further than the Ganges. As the programme drew to a close I realised how recent lore has demonized these brave people from ‘the most dangerous place in the world.’ Perhaps it is the same code of honour that prevents a Pathan from giving up on another guest, even if did blow up a tower or two.

While drones rain down on their homes and their children toy with automatic rifles, the paradox of the proud Pathan chained to his code of honour lives and grows amidst the din of battle. Perhaps it is up to people like Bassey and Naushad to talk to their worlds and help them understand and appreciate the other and dispel the fears and prejudices that stoke the fires of hate on both sides of the divide.