When I was your son’s age, I too demonstrated my “go get ups” to Mehar or Qamar living our next doors. I cherished playing Romeo in shorts and torn and sloppy shirts, to a couple of Juliette’s in ghararas in our street. Why? I even fooled around as Othello, with blazing envy and avenging fervor for my “angel” Desdemona and ended up broken hearted.
Majnoon was my much-loved passionate hero.
I was infatuated with his seductive charisma and was very much resentful about his glamorous love for Layla. I played his role in my real life when I was hardly nine. My Layla was narrowly six and was in second standard, and we never knew what love was like and what was sex made of and where it would be accessible.
Those were the days when you had not heard a transistor singing Bade Ghulam Ali Khan “ka karoon sajani aye na balamu,” or Ghulam Ali Khan singing “chpke chuke rath din aansoon bahana yad hai.” Radios used to broadcasting blah-blahs to the privileged few homes of rich families only in far away settlements. You did not yet know anything about channels and the televisions.
Like the youngsters of today, you never sent msgs or sexted “you’re mine today, tomorrow and forever.” seductively to your fiancĂ© away in Chicago Tokyo or Damam.
Hardly did you know anything about selfies, morphing or cyber crimes. Had you ever heard about what hacking was all about? I am sure, no! Portals, online, and offline; sign on and sign off and log in were mysterious to you and to your dad.
Abbreviations like, "lol,” “ily”, "omg" “idk" and "mfb" were unknown, to you of course. Wordsworth, john Keats and Shelley or Charles Dickens and Bernard Shaw did not sweat writing “I was fu*** up." Much less the
"s** o* bi**" or at the least the "mo**** fu***** ba******."
We would go to Rainbow Theater on weekends putting on the best clothes. We used to lug a small box full of snacks to munch seeing the poignant climaxes or tragic flaw of the main role. During the intervals, you would have a strong tea or coffee.
In this backdrop of social milieu, I was stuck fast at some stage in my early teens. Romance and the accompanying chivalry were what ensnared me vastly more than everything did. My eighth class and ninth were absolutely ruined owing to this fascination.
There lived an extremely charismatic angel in our street. Fatima!
“Ilahi kaisee kaisee sooraten tu ne banai hain;
ki har soorath kaleeje se laga lene ke qabil hai.”
This charming cherub, Fatima, my very heartbeat, and soul, she was mine now and forever. Her breathtaking figure was always stuck to my mind, her placid sentences ever ringing in my ears, I used to be totally devoid of where and what I had been up to. I just lived in a sweet dream and the dream was all my reality.
Fatima was the eldest daughter of a footwear superstore owner in big bazaar street. She had two younger sisters, Aneesa and Aishah; no brothers. These girls along with some more used to gather in our house paddock ground for some sort of games of their choice.
Only after seeing this “gorgeousness” Fatima, I grew all aware and conscious about the spanking opposite sex and its sweet bang on my love life.
I started having an intense penchant for Fatima as she stood pretty poles apart from other common type.
She had been endowed with a couple of penetrating dreamy and searching eyes with which somehow or other Fatima fished out me wherever and whatever I would have been engaged in. “Inhi aankhon ke siva duniya me rakkha kya hai?” I had often soliloquized Very often; I would cheerfully make myself available for her sweet loving gaze. Most of the time.
Every morning Fatima would come home, (“lo! tum agaye ho, noor agaya hai,”) some books in hand, with the pretext of studying. Having come home, she would secretly make her way to where I would be, to take my love tokens. She would, in return, offer some sweats, snacks or some kind of things I loved. If she had not come one morning, I would be madly disenchanted and feel highly disappointed. Crazily upset, I would unfairly pick quarrels up with my sisters and brother.
Fatima would come home before her afternoon session, finishing her lunch. She would sneak in where I was accessible and would present me a memento, a keepsake, a love storybook, seductively pressing her silk soft bosom to my hungry face.
To make myself available to her loving sweet gazes eternally and to make those romantic moments alive forever, I sacrificed most of my school classes and that gave me immense joy of accomplishment. I never once felt for the loss of studies.
Word came around that Fatima would be given in nuptials to a boy much older than me who owned a similar leather shop in north Coimbatore. I grew profoundly spiteful about him, and heavily envious.
I started cutting my morning sessions of school and would go all the way by walk and run to north Coimbatore to see how his shop would look like and how much he was better than me in "personality" and social status.
Just for having a glimpse of my sweetie, I had several times left home, leaving important school homework or household work in lurch, with the only pretext that I had forgot to buy something in the shop near her house. To all my sly attempts to glimpse her, she also had not once disappointed or let me down.
We had never once met outside, much less having any physical contact.
When Majnoon was denied access to Layla a high-class girl of a clan's family, he became somewhat insane and his actions were very much unhinged
A story goes that a dirty dog used to pass through the streets of Layla’ palace. Seeing the dog passing through Layla’s s abode Majnoon became so much excited, as the dog, he thought, was a part of his lover, as it daily passed through her palace. He turned emotional and ran after dog and catching hold of it, he started hugging it and kissing enormously.
If that was, how Majnoon showed his love to
Layla, I deliberately sacrificed my studies in my blind insanity just in exchange for her lustful dreamy and penetrating eyes.
A hard luck, her mother died of consumption and then a series baddies started hounding our innocent love. Fatimas shifted to their own house away to a distant location. It turned out to be my routine to glimpse her at her school. She would look love-lost and desperate in tears. ‘A dil tum bin kahin lagta naheen ham kya Karen”. However, that was not all. She did not come to school thereafter. Her father stopped her schools to groom her for her nuptials.
She then struggled stealthily to get in touch with me, I was told, many a times, but all in vain. She attempted to send word through Aneesa for elopement. It also did not work out. Then I did not hear anything about Fatima for a long time. “Oh jab yad aye bahuth yad aye!” my heart cried.
My friend Ahmadani told me that he saw Fatima, a couple of days back, in a very poor situation in a private hospital. By the time I reached to see her in hospital, she was already discharged dead. Too late, I could not attend her funerals too.
Fatima! Fatima!! And Fatima!!! I could see nothing but her in everyone and everywhere. Her sweetness filled me and her image enveloped me. I hated everything on earth. Slowly I could hear Fatima say, “Dea! When will you come to see me?” both visual and auditory hallucinations possessed me gradually .I seldom went out, and loved isolated solitude. I had withdrawn from my friends and family members. Hardly ever did I take food. I was in trance and on bed. My family struggled to admit me in a hospital. I was diagnosed of typhoid then pneumonia at last depression.
When I was discharged after two months, I was a completely a new person totally emaciated and having lost 16 kgs. Much run down and fatigued. Fatima’s “Dea” was a limping, half-blind and deaf now. “Kabhi qud pe kabhi halath pe rona aya”
We were so much in love, kinda platonic love, sans physical links.
“Chupke chupke rath din aansoon bahana yad hai;
Hamko apni ashiqui ka who zamana yad hai.”
Love also triumphs in the teens. Certainly
