Babajan

VI.

My mother was as good as her word. After a couple of days, she accompanied me to Babajan’s in the morning before leaving for the hospital. I had not gone over in the intermittent time so I was relieved to see him well and as alert as his usual self.

We were led to him as he sat at the breakfast table, a newspaper messily spread out in front of him, one corner dipping into the butter dish. He glowered at us from over his horn-rimmed reading glasses before recognising me and breaking into a smile.

“Well, well, if it isn’t our young adventurer. It has been a while.” He looked up at my mother and added solemnly, “Well, beti[24], I gather you’re his mother? I’m glad he brought you to the front door and not through the hedge.”

I grinned in embarrassment. My bewildered mother’s polite smile faltered for a second before she greeted him and apologised for disturbing him at breakfast.

“Not at all, not at all, come join me. I rarely have company over for breakfast.” He twinkled kindly at my mother. “It is good you have come. I had intended to pay you a visit, what with Danial coming over so often. I have been a little unwell in the last few days so unfortunately I could not manage it. He says you have recently moved to Abbottabad.”

My mother and him chatted for a while. I listened for a bit before Babajan sent me to Gul Bibi to ask her to make more tea.

My mother was decidedly more cheerful when we departed.

“Do you like him, Ammi?” I asked as we walked back home.

“He seems to be a very nice gentleman.”

“Can I go over again then?”

“We’ll see.”

She continued after a long pause. “He’s quite old, Danial, and not well. Why don’t you like playing with the other children on our street?”

“I don’t know.” I thought for a moment.”I wouldn’t mind, but I like Babajan more. He tells stories and he knows about the solar system and different types of trees and animals and birds.”

“Hmm.”

Later one night I overheard her speaking on the telephone with someone.

“Yes, the doctors at the hospital all know him quite well. And can you believe it, he was at medical college with Tayajee[25] too! Such a small world! Really? Tutors medical students? I don’t think he does that anymore, no, his health doesn’t appear to permit it. Yes, poor man. Yes, he mentioned that he used to go stay with his children for months at a time before his wife died but he hasn’t left Abbottabad in over a year now. I know, it’s terribly sad.”

We reached a compromise.

Salim was to accompany me to and from Babajan’s house. I could stay for a couple of hours but not much longer. Babajan had told my mother he would help me with science and geography for school. My mother, despite knowing it was a little advanced for a third-grader, agreed nonetheless, thinking that it would keep me out of mischief. I overheard my mother tell Farhat Phupo about him, who made sceptical noises deep in her throat but stayed quiet. She did not relish her caretaking responsibilities, despite that being the primary reason for her staying with us, so any relief was welcome.

VII.

The summer seemed to stretch endlessly ahead. It felt like I had always known Babajan when in reality it had been just a month since my fateful tumble out of that hedge. I, of course, could not be happier. The future seemed full of possibilities. I told Babajan about how I wanted to be a pilot or an astronaut. He would listen patiently, always with a twinkle in his eyes, as if he were aware of something I was not.

The children in my street had also warmed up to me somewhat and would occasionally include me in a game or sport, especially if it needed a certain number of team members. I met Adil and Umar again a few times, the former begrudgingly admitting that my bowling had improved

Most of them knew of Babajan. Evidently he gave money or small presents to all the neighbourhood children on occasions like Eid[26]. There was hardly a household in the close-knit community that was not acquainted with Babajan. He was like those fabled tribal chiefs, an elder that people respected and thought highly of. His was an old family, well-rooted in the area. Other army families may come and go. Babajan had been always there.

My visits to him only became infrequent as time went on because of the sudden dip in his health. There were often days when I would go over and Gul Bibi would tell me in hushed tones that Babajan was in bed, not feeling very well.

“What’s wrong?” I would ask each time.

“He just has a headache,” was the usual reply.

I made him a get well card each time, tracing out cartoon characters from the colouring books my mother had sent me in Murree.

I did not witness another episode of confusion as I had done that day when he had fallen on the window seat and referred to me as his grandson. But sometimes he would repeat what he said in a conversation. Sometimes he would stay quiet and not respond to my incessant chatter and questions. Many a time, he would forget what he was talking about or who he was talking to.

“Gul Bibi,” I ventured to ask her when we were by ourselves. “Why does Babajan forget things more now?”

“Well, well, if it isn’t our young adventurer. It has been a while.” He looked up at my mother and added solemnly, “Well, beti, I gather you’re his mother? I’m glad he brought you to the front door and not through the hedge.”

“He is simply old, bachay. It is not his fault.”

I nodded, feeling that I understood.

“He doesn’t get angry when I come, does he?” I hesitantly asked.

“Of course not. It does him a lot of good. He misses his grandchildren a lot.”

“Why don’t they come visit, Gul Bibi?”

Her face darkened. “Waisay he, they don’t have the time. They’re too busy. They don’t like visiting Pakistan.”

“Why not?” I was genuinely surprised.

“Some people just don’t. Ever since Khan Sahib stopped going to them, Chota Sahib has only visited once. Khan Sahib’s daughter, Palwasha Bibi, calls every other week, but it’s been a long time since she visited as well. Maybe six months.”

“Why doesn’t Babajan go live with them?”

Gul Bibi let out a short laugh. “This is his home,” she said simply.

Of course it was. I could not imagine Babajan living anywhere else. Just like I could not imagine my grandmother living anywhere but her current home. They fit in their homes. They could not belong anywhere else.

One evening my mother returned home with a buoyant spring in her step.

“Danial! Danial! Do you know what the doctor said today? Abba is doing so much better and he might be able to come back home in a couple of weeks!” She embraced me tightly.

I asked eagerly, “Can I go see him?”

“Yes, yes, in a couple of days! I’ll take you myself. Oh, I can’t thank God enough.”

She was laughing and crying and I danced around her, shouting happily. We both ignored Farhat Phupo’s scandalised reprimands from inside the house. I sped to Babajan’s the next day, excited to tell him the big news.

He was not sitting on the veranda as was custom. The doors were all closed. I ran to the side door leading into the kitchen and called to Gul Bibi. There was no response. A great deal of clamour sounded from the servants’ quarters. Gul Bibi appeared to be scolding her daughters, whose high-pitched shrieks pierced the air.

I let myself in and cautiously called out, “Babajan?”

“Ho! Kaun hai[27]?” came the answer.

“Babajan, it’s Danial.”

“Kaun hai?”

“Mein hoon[28].”

Babajan was sitting next to the French window in his chosen arm-chair. He looked as if he had just finished his late afternoon prayers, a prayer cap casing his silver hair, rosary beads in hand.

“Aajao[29], Ahmed beta.”

I stopped short. He didn’t recognise me but the indiscernible look on his face gave me pause in correcting him.

“Jee[30], Babajan.”

“Beta, what kept you? I’ve been waiting all day.”

“Sorry, Babajan.”

He looked as if he had been crying. I impulsively flung my arms around him, not knowing how to comfort this alien sorrow that seemed to hold him in its grip.

He let out a hoarse, happy chuckle.

“You are back for good, Ahmed, aren’t you?” his voice was almost pleading; it was uncharacteristically frail, cracking beneath the weight of an emotion that his mind could no longer reason out.

“Jee Babajan,I’m here, your grandson.” I grinned broadly at him.

He beamed at me, the late afternoon glow from the window enshrouding him in a halo.

By Maria Niazi