In memory

There are few people who have left me with memories that I will always recall fondly. Deep within these are hidden blessings and valuable life lessons delivered with exquisite humour. For these I thank you now. Although I shall never be able to tell you this in person, I need to put this down in writing for myself.

Memory, 7 years old, Lahore.

I’m fascinated with a large golden key in our drawing room. It lies amongst all the usual decorations but it strikes out because of its size. Abbu and Ajji Chachu are sitting on the sofas chatting and I am constantly interrupting them because I want to know what the key is for. In my seven year old universe all keys have locks to go with them. It’s a law of nature. Yet I can’t figure out what this particular key unlocks.
Abbu and Ajji Chachu look at me solemnly and I know that they know. I know that if I pester enough I will get it out of them.
And I do.
“This key,” I am told by Ajji Chachu, “is for your mother.”
“I use it on her every morning,” Abbu reveals to me, “without it she won’t start.”
I believe them and guard the key. I can’t imagine a world where my mother won’t start. I become almost paranoid about the key, checking to see if it’s in its place numerous times a day.
I was convinced my mother had a secret lock in her back which was needed to start her.
Of course, months later, when I finally reveal to her that I know the secret of the key, she laughs at me.
I have been fooled.

Memory, 8 years old, Kuala Lumpur.

Ajji Chachu’s new name for me is kukar phaar. I can’t stop eating chicken. I practically live on KFC, refusing to eat anything else that is offered to me.
Abbu and Ajji Chachu are in one of their moods. They’re my real life Laurel and Hardy. And I am usually the best victim because of my gullibility.
I wonder aloud how people grow. I can’t figure out why I’m always being cajoled into eating horrible green things, and why I am made to drink milk, which I hate even more than salad. How can they make me grow?
“You see child, you’re not normal,” Ajji Chachu tells me with a straight face.
I am informed by Laurel and Hardy that I require extra help to grow. Every night as I sleep they take me outside and hang me on the washing line. And then stretch me. That is the reason for my growth. If it wasn’t for them, I would never have grown. I would have remained baby sized.
I am thoroughly bewildered and remain convinced that they are right. That they are the reason why I grow at all. Later when I tell my mother what I have found out she laughs at me again. I fell for it again.

Memory, 17 years old, Lahore.

I have just finished my O’ levels and am on my way to UWC in Wales. I’m terribly excited. Never in a million years did I think I would end up with a scholarship to college. Abbu and Ajji Chachu are in sitting in the drawing room and I am informed that my presence is required.
When I walk in both Abbu and Ajji Chachu look solemn. I am asked to take a seat. I am confused at their behaviour and the formal atmosphere that permeates the place.
“Nabiha Meher,” (pronounced Nabiya Mer in true Punjabi fashion) says Ajji Chachu, “we’re getting you married. You’re not going to Wales.”
My father agrees with him and I stare at them in shock wondering what came over the only two Pakistani men who I know that support feminism. I’m on the verge of tears. I know they’re joking but they look so serious. I ask them to stop messing with me but Ajji Chachu calmly tells me that it’s not a joke. He continues to tell me over and over again that I have to get married and that they’ve already consented on my behalf. The wedding is to take place in December.
I really lose it now. I’m screaming. But Ajji Chachu calmly persists. I have to get married.
I am convinced they’ve lost their minds. I am about to run crying to my mother when they crack and start laughing hysterically.
Again.

Memory, 20 years old, Lahore.

Ajji Chachu comes over for dinner the night before I leave for Islamabad for two days.
“Why don’t you go in one of my trucks. You can ride with the rest of the animals!” he kindly offers.
You see, Ajji Chachu is doing something brilliant. He’s left his job at ICI and is now working with a Chinese company. They’re reusing the old silk route for trade. I am fascinated. I am in awe of my uncle for taking such a risk and for using a historically important trade line.
Months later Ammi calls me up in Toronto and tells me Ajji Chachu has been promoted to head of his company. I am excited but sad because he told me he would be moving to Beijing.
I express myself to mother who pisses herself laughing on the phone.
“CHINA,” she screams, “why on earth do you think he’s moving to China?”
“Because of the new Chinese company…”
“What new Chinese company?”
“The one he left his ICI job for.”
“Nabiha,” my mother is saying slowly as if talking to an idiot, “Ajji works for ICI.”
I insist that he doesn’t. I inform her he told me about the silk route etc.
She pauses to let it sink in before saying, “he never left ICI. He was just pulling your leg as usual.”
I am twenty years old and yet I believe anything Ajji Chachu says to me because he says it with a straight face.

It’s hard to believe that he’s gone. I know I won’t realise it fully until I go back to Pakistan and notice a large gaping hole in my universe. Ajji Chachu knew me from the minute I took my first breath. He was one of the first people to welcome me into this world in his large open arms. A silent promise to love and protect me was made. His love as the most fun man in the whole big world increased with each passing year. With the doll bigger than me given to me on my first birthday. With bear hugs and words of encouragement when I was unsure of myself. With support and kindness that reassured me of humanity, and lead me to believe that in myself and those around me. He put up with my temper tantrums, usually encouraging them so I let them all out. And he pulled my leg over and over again to cheer me up and make us all have a good laugh.

Now I see emptiness and all I am left with is a lifetime of memories to help me in my journey. Now I see darkness at the end of the tunnel instead of the light that emulated from Ajji Chachu. Now I wonder why. Now I question God again. Now I lose faith. Now I need him more than ever.

But he is gone.

I often lay awake at night and wonder about death. I’m grieving in a foreign land, like I have done before. Yet, never before have I felt a loss so deep, a loss so profound that it sucks life out of me as I howl with confusion over his death. Why! I remember screaming to my empty apartment when my mother’s calm voice declared “Ajji Chachu has died.” Why! I screamed over and over again while staring at the ceiling as if imploring God. How could you take him? I never had the chance to say goodbye. I never had the chance to tell you I love you. I never had the chance to tell you how much you mean to me, and how much I need someone like you around for the sake of my sanity.

Ajji Chachu is in China with a golden key holding a piece of KFC while interviewing my future husband.

I want him to knock on my door and tell me it was all a bad joke. I want to wake up from this nightmare and find him sitting next to me to comfort me.

I hold a purple amethyst bracelet made of gold. It’s the one Ajji Chachu and Lubna Khala sent me when I graduated from college in Wales. All of a sudden it has more power, more meaning, and more memory. All of a sudden it’s the only thing I have that reminds me of him materially. All of a sudden all I can think of is him.

Grieving in a foreign land that doesn’t acknowledge death and loss. Grieving in Toronto on Sentinel and Finch hoping that writing will ease my pain. Grieving away from everyone else. Crying alone desperately wanting a hug. Crying while hugging a stuffed cat.

I’m pickling my memories in foreign land. I’m placing them in a jar in my head, allowing them to change and gain more flavour with time.

Never will the death of any biological uncle affect me as much. Obligation and duty to family never touched my soul as much as Ajji Chachu’s love did. No “real” uncle ever believed in me. No real uncle ever took me seriously. No real uncles cares as much as Ajji Chachu did and I believe still does.

I can imagine the pain everyone else who knew him feels. He touched everyone just by his presence. Those of us who knew him love him unconditionally and we always will. From now until I see you again I know I will miss you and nothing will ever replace the hole in my heart. If I die tomorrow I hope you, Dada and Dado are there to welcome me. I hope you’re all stretching out your arms and leading me through the next life. You were all there when I was born. I know you will all be there when I die.

From now on… everything is in memory… Azhar Malik 1951-2003. On 11th June the world truly lost a great man.

I honour you and your life. I hope I can make you proud.

Love,
Nabiha Meher