Babajan

It was the summer my father was in the hospital. The year was 1993. I was eight years old, excited to be reunited with my parents after my father had been posted from Sahiwal to the more developed Abbottabad.

There was a sense of familiarity in Abbottabad, after having attended boarding school in Murree. Both hill-stations, with a colonial influence still evident in the houses in grey stone so common to army cantonments in northern Pakistan from the time of British rule. The smell of pine needles in the air, the stars out in stark abundance at night, the coal-roasted challiyaan[1], and the soft drizzle of the rain that I had become accustomed to and missed whenever I travelled southwards in the holidays to be with family.

As I mentioned, my father was in the hospital. I was not sure exactly why. My mother only said he was sick, too sick to see me. She would leave to tend to him at eleven in the morning and return at seven every night.

“When will Abbu[2] be home, Ammi[3]?” I kept asking her.

“Soon,” she would respond, giving me a tight smile and a tight, short hug.

I eventually gave up asking her, accepting with a child’s philosophical approach to life that, in the meantime, other pursuits must be found.

While fond of him, I was not too close to my father on account of his being so occupied with his duties as an army officer, and my own enrolment at boarding school. While I was certainly in awe of him, particularly his uniform and imposing moustache, our father-son bond had not yet had much opportunity to strengthen. Apart from the odd game of cricket that he would play with me during the holidays I had been with him, I had few memories of time spent together. It was my mother whose presence I missed most, whose comforting warmth I had been looking forward to before I came back to her. I soon accepted her absence in those couple of months of my father’s convalescence, however, since I had been used to being without her at school, after all.

I had been used to being without many friends as well, for that matter. While swinging on our creaky, weathered front gate in the evening, waiting for my mother to return, I would often catch sight of other children chasing each other or playing various games in the street, their laughter mingling with the rustle of pine trees. Many a time they would go off in a group, presumably to a nearby park, always with someone’s officially appointed batman[4] accompanying them. They caught me observing them a few times, but did not venture to include me in their games. On my part, I felt too shy to initiate any introductions.

I was more or less a solitary child, albeit an active one. There was no corner or hedge of the pretty little sun-dappled lane we lived on that I did not explore that first summer; no stray dog that I hadn’t tried to play with and which, misunderstanding my intentions, would run away with a woebegone tail between its spindly legs; no climbable tree that I had not conquered.

My designated caretaker was my father’s batman, Salim, from whom an unpleasant odour and an even more unpleasant vibe emanated, who would do no more than dawdle in the kitchen and lounge about in his room with the radio blaring most of the time.

I was left largely to my own devices. This meant that I could indulge in the kind of pursuits I revelled in: making mud pies and climbing the apple tree in our backyard, stacking pinecones for bonfires that I never lit, trying to catch frogs and putting salt on unsuspecting slugs to see whether they would really turn to foam or not.

My mother would return to grass-stained knees, scraped elbows and a horde of questions and stories every night.

“Ammi, if I jumped from our wall on to the roof, would that make me like Superman?”

“Ammi, today I turned over a rock and a scop…no, a scor…scorpion came out from underneath and it had lots of little babies too! I tried to put the rock back but they almost ran up my arm!”

“Ammi, what does this word mean?” I let out an expletive, my mother’s jaw dropping in horror. “I heard the next-door batman call Salim that.”

A few days of this caused my appalled mother to promptly turn to other potential chaperones.

My designated caretaker was my father’s batman, Salim, from whom an unpleasant odour and an even more unpleasant vibe emanated, who would do no more than dawdle in the kitchen and lounge about in his room with the radio blaring most of the time.

II.

The first was my father’s batch-mate and his family, who lived in the lane next to ours.

“Danial, beta[5],” my mother informed me one morning. “I’m going to leave you with Nasreen Aunty every day before going to the hospital, and pick you on the way back. It’s just for a week or so, before Farhat Phupo[6] comes to stay and help. Now you have to be a good boy, it’ll be just fine. Nasreen Aunty’s children seem very nice. You’ll have good friends.”

My mother’s prediction was undone on my first day at Nasreen Aunty’s. Nasreen Aunty, while very kind to me, more or less left my entertainment up to her three children.

Adil, Nasreen Aunty’s oldest son, looked at me with disbelief and all the superiority of an eleven-year-old surveying someone much younger than himself.

“You can’t do a headstand?”

“I can do cartwheels,” I replied defiantly.

“Any baby can do cartwheels! Even Fatima can do those.”

Fatima, the bug-eyed youngest sibling of Nasreen Aunty’s brood, stared at me unsmilingly. She was six years old. I was slightly disconcerted but not deterred.

“I can do fast bowling.”

“All right then, let’s see you do it.”

I was tossed a tennis ball covered in red duct tape. Adil’s younger brother, Umar, sauntered over to the other end of the lawn and angled his cricket bat in expectation.

I ran. I swung my right arm with all my might. Thwack! The ball flew over the roof of the house and into the lawn next door. Adil and Umar collapsed with helpless laughter. For the rest of the day I was condemned to sit on the side, permitted only to watch the boys play.

The next time Adil and Umar ventured off to play baraf paani[7] and cricket with their friends in the neighbourhood, I found myself unceremoniously left behind. I had no company except Fatima, who would take out the same plastic tea-set in pink every day and repeat the same tea-party with her favourite doll with the blond curls and lazy left eye in an unnervingly solemn manner.

This happened the next day as well. And the next.

On the fourth repetition of this routine, I slipped out behind Adil and Umar, taking good care not to be seen. I felt unbearably homesick. Being alone was infinitely preferable to sitting through another performance of Fatima’s innovatively-named doll Gurya[8] having tea and cake.

Clutching my small, wooden bat and tennis ball, I turned onto the now well-known road leading to my street. My house was barely a five minute walk away.

My mother, frantic with worry, hurried up to our house in the evening along with Nasreen Aunty’s husband, where she found me swinging on the front gate. She choked on a sharp reprimand the minute she saw my tear-stained face.

---

[1]Challi = corn on the cob

[2] ‘Father’ in Urdu.

[3] ‘Mother’ in Urdu.

[4] An orderly or personal attendant appointed to serving army officers. The term ‘batman’ in the Pakistan Army is a remnant from the time of British colonial rule in the subcontinent, when it was employed for orderlies in the British Indian Army. (Definition adapted from Wikipedia)

[5] Urdu word meaning child or son or daughter, and used to address someone accordingly.

[6] Paternal aunt or great-aunt (father’s or grandfather’s sister)

[7]The name of a Pakistani children’s game, literally translated as ‘snow water’.

[8] Urdu for ‘doll’.

III.

Farhat Phupo arrived in Abbottabad next, purportedly to supervise me and help my mother.

I stood half-hidden behind my mother as she welcomed Farhat Phupo. I surveyed this large lady, wrapped in a lurid fuchsia duppatta[9] that did not flatter her sombre, sallow face, who was to stay indefinitely with us.

“Phupo, I can’t thank you enough…” my mother’s voice trailed off as she squeezed Farhat Phupo’s arm, which, I was interested to note, was even larger than Salim’s waist.

“Now, now, Amna, there is nothing to worry about. You go tend to my poor, dear nephew. I can only be glad that his parents aren’t alive to see him in this state.”

My mother tilted her head warningly at me. Farhat Phupo smoothly steered the conversation into more pleasant waters. “Oh don’t you worry about Danial. My brother’s grandson will be in good hands. He reminds me of Ali, you know, my eldest nawasa[10]. We will get along just fine.” She turned to me, planting a wet kiss on my forehead and ruffling my hair. “Haina, Danial[11]?”

Repulsed, I drew back, staring at her warily and then looking at my mother, whose face seemed more relaxed than I had seen since I had come here.

The first couple of days with Farhat Phupo made me long for Nasreen Aunty’s house. Farhat Phupo was the worst of great-aunts. She did not coddle. She did not indulge. Her idea of expressing affection was to roughly pinch my already thin cheeks, and then lament how skinny I was.

She sat on the large rocking chair that was my favourite, because it was the only one that could accommodate her bulging flesh, and made me sit opposite her, while she moralised for what seemed to be hours on end. She made me fetch her water, fetch her reading glasses, no, her other glasses, “Beta, duur ki nazar walay chashmay[12]”, fetch this book and that newspaper. She interrogated me about school and studies. She boasted about how her grandson Ali had recently topped his class. She rarely let me out of her sight.

“Danial, if you must play, do so in the back lawn where I can see you.”

“Danial, I can’t believe the state of your hands! Do you even wash them? Just look at the dirt under your nails. Now, Ali never has dirty fingernails.”

“Danial, go call Salim. This chicken is too bland, again.”

I watched, transfixed, as she picked the bones clean from what appeared to be the fifth chicken piece she had consumed at lunchtime. She let out a hearty belch.

“Bad manners,” I spoke without thinking.

She scowled. “What? What did you say to me?”

“I…I… Sir Zahid always said that burping out loud were bad manners.”

“And who is this Sir Zahid?”

The first couple of days with Farhat Phupo made me long for Nasreen Aunty’s house. Farhat Phupo was the worst of great-aunts. She did not coddle. She did not indulge. Her idea of expressing affection was to roughly pinch my already thin cheeks, and then lament how skinny I was.

“The Principal at my old school,” I mumbled, immediately afraid of the glint in Farhat Phupo’s beady black eyes.

She grunted. “What would he know? All these principals and teachers nowadays, they’re just upstarts.” She sat back and yawned suddenly.

“What’s an upstart, Phupo?”

“Hmm, what?”

“That word you said, upstart. Does it mean being good at something? Sir Zahid had five trophies in his office, you know.”

There was a snore in response. I had discovered that Farhat Phupo was prone to falling asleep in the blink of an eye. One moment, she would be extolling the virtues of her grandchildren, and the next she would be in a state of repose, snoring liberally.

She also took blessedly long naps in the afternoons. I learnt to time these, waiting for my digital wrist-watch to show that it was almost half past three in the afternoon. I would then sneak out of the house under cover of the sounds of Farhat Phupo’s snores and Salim’s bawdy songs playing on his radio.

The three hours that followed were a blessed respite from the confines of Farhat Phupo’s disapproving eyes. I never dared to venture too far, but usually found something that engaged my interest and made the day more exciting.

On one of my explorations, I caught sight of newborn kittens sheltered under the metal sheet covering the roof of the empty house at the end of the lane. There was a ladder propped up next to the roof that I would use to spy on them. I smuggled bits of chicken fat and bread to give to the mother cat and hurried there in anticipation every day for a week.

One afternoon, to my dismay, there were no kittens in sight. I climbed down the ladder and searched around, calling out to them. I heard a faint mewling from behind the double hedge that enclosed our lane and served as a boundary to the sprawling lawn of the house adjoining the one where I was hunting for the kittens. Afraid that the kitten was hurt, I desperately sought a way to the other side. There was a space dug out in one part of the ground alongside the hedge, as if done by a dog. I was thin enough to squeeze through.

“Kitty, kitty,” I called out lovingly, my voice almost as high-pitched as the mewling that answered.

“Oye, hey!” came a yell from the direction of the house.

The setting sun was blazing straight into my eyes as I squinted to see who had called out. I heard more loud voices and made a cautious retreat back to the gap in the hedge. I saw an ample female figure approach me against the glare of the sun, her head covering forming a menacing hood. I could not see her face and in my panic to get away, got stuck in the hedge.

I gasped when she drew close and I saw that she was smiling reassuringly. “It’s all right, bachay[13]. Just come inside. Khan Sahib wants to see you.”

It was so that I met Babajan.

---

[9] A length of material worn around the neck and also used as a head-covering or veil by women from South Asia, as part of their native dress.

[10] Daughter’s son.

[11] “Right, Danial?”

[12] Glasses for nearsightedness

[13]A term denoting the word “child”.

IV.

He was almost lion-like in appearance. Silver hair swept back off a high forehead like a mane, covering the nape of his neck. Huge, shaggy eyebrows left little need for any other kind of facial hair. Stubble peppered his angular chin. There was a faint shadow of a moustache on his upper lip, almost like an imprint of a former, uniform moustache kept and maintained for years. A Roman nose hung over the spacious gap between nose and upper lip. He looked like the picture of a Pashtun tribal chiefin one of my father’spictorial history booksbut in modern garb.

He was Babajan.

Babajan was neither my father, nor my grandfather. At one of our subsequent meetings, he suggested I call him that. I had refrained from calling him anything, really. Gul Bibi, his housekeeper and the woman who had found me struggling in the hedge, called him Khan Sahib[14]. Her husband, who served as the driver, guard and odd-job man, called him Barra Khan[15].

“Uncle,” I hesitantly ventured once, “What is your name?”

There was a rumble as he gravely answered, “Abdur Rehman Durrani.” Uncle Abdur Rehman. What a mouthful! I thought I saw him wink surreptitiously at me.

Gul Bibi’s four-year-old twin daughters, rosy-cheeked with impish smiles that continued into their hazel eyes, ran around, stumbling in their voluminous, multi-coloured shalwar kameez[16]. They kept up a steady stream of chatter in Pashto[17], punctuated by chants of “Babajan!” as they grinned beguilingly up at him.

He in turn gave them gruff replies in Pashto, leading to peals of laughter and the girls hiding their faces in their dupattas in delight. They looked at me in expectation as well, not knowing that I could not understand a word they had said. Disappointed in me as an audience, they treated me only as an occasional playmate.

It was then that this giant of a man, like a remnant from the days of kings and emperors, turned to me and said, “Call me Babajan.”

“Why?” I asked, always curious.

“In my house, I am Babajan. All the children call me that.” He paused. “My children and grandchildren call me that.”

Baffled, I pointed at the twins giggling in the distance, at one end of the lawn. “Them?”

“No, no,” he said, smiling companionably at me from between his broad but stooping shoulders, a twinkle in his eye. “My grandchildren are not here. They live quite far away. Not in Pakistan. Very far away.”

“Africa?”

“No, no,” he chortled in answer. “America.”

“North America? We learnt about the continents this year.”

“Yes, North America.” He looked amused. “You know geography?”

“I learnt that in Social Studies class.”

“Social studies! Is that what they call it now? Never mind.” He turned half-way in his armchair. “Gul Bibi.,take the child to the library.” Turning back to me, he explained. “There is a World Atlas on the desk. You’ll know which one. It has a blue cover, with a picture of the Earth on it. Bring it.”

This became a common occurrence. I would ask questions. He would make me fetch a book – an encyclopaedia, an atlas, a history book, anything –and help me look up the answer. There was an entire world of questions and answers, I discovered, and not just confined to books. I would barely stay a couple of hours before running back home just before Farhat Phupo woke up. I had not had a chance to tell my mother about my new friend as yet and I did not intend to tell her in front of Farhat Phupo, who was around all the time. A sixth sense prevented me from trusting Farhat Phupo. I simply knew she would not approve.

Babajan became the well of knowledge I kept returning to, wanting to learn about things that I did not even know of until he told me. He tried to teach me chess, using a decrepit but beautiful old wooden model.

Babajan had of course heard all about my family by now. The day I met him, he made Gul Bibi escort me back home, telling me to be careful in the future. The kittens I had been searching for had found a new home in a ramshackle shed at one end of Babajan’s sprawling lawns, and I was eager to keep an eye on them.

“Can I come see the kittens again?” I asked him, uncertain of this new adult with the ominous eyebrows.

“Of course, but there’s no need to keep tumbling out of hedges,” he twinkled back at me. “Use the side-gate.”

My visits were soon motivated by more than just the kittens. Babajan let me prowl about the grounds as he sat outside in his veranda, having tea. Gul Bibi would usually be nearby, laughingly warning me away from snake holes and beehives.

Sher Muhammad, Gul Bibi’s husband, fashioned a handmade slingshot, using an appropriately cut branch and a narrow strip of flexible leather. Babajan pointed out targets for me to practise on: pieces of an old clay flower pot that Sher Muhammad placed at different distances from the boundary wall.

When I successfully hit the piece placed furthest from where I stood, Babajan let out a roar of approval.

“Wah! Yeh sher hai, sher![18]”

I learnt how to ride a bicycle. I already knew how to roller skate but the pleasure of cycling had been denied me. It had been a promised gift from my parents since last year and there were still three months to my birthday.

“Take out Ahmed Khan’s old bike, Sher Muhammad,” ordered Babajan. “My grandson,” he added gruffly, by way of explanation to me.The bicycle was a little rusty and had one training wheel but it did not matter. I only went around a few times in the large lawn.

Babajan became the well of knowledge I kept returning to, wanting to learn about things that I did not even know of until he told me. He tried to teach me chess, using a decrepit but beautiful old wooden model. I was hardly any good at it, so we began with checkers instead.

It seemed to me that there was not a single thing that he did not know. There was never a question he did not answer. Except once.

“How many grandchildren do you have, Babajan?”

“Five. Three girls, two boys.”

“How old are they?”

“Older than you, bachay. Much older.”

“When will your grandchildren visit, Babajan?”

He did not answer. I repeated the question. A glower suddenly appeared on his face and he did not look at me.

“Gul Bibi!” He called out and then added something in Pashto. Gul Bibi promptly appeared with a walking cane. He took it, got up and disappeared into the house.

---

[14] A courteous or polite form of address, such as ‘Mr.’, used for men. Commonly used by employees for their employers.

[15] Literally meaning ‘bigger’ or ‘older’; used with the name to imply respect or show a comparatively high rank.

[16] Native dress worn in South Asia particularly India and Pakistan. ‘Shalwar’: loose pants. ‘Kameez’: a loose shirt.

[17] South-Central Asian language of the Pashtuns and the majority speaking language of the province of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, where Abbottabad is situated.

[18] “He’s a lion!” – the word ‘lion’ in certain communities such as the Pashtun community denotes greatness.

V.

It was after a few days of clandestine visits that my mother found out about Babajan.

It had been a slow day in general. Maybe it was the June heat. Maybe it was because Babajan was unusually quiet and nonresponsive. I had found the wings of a rather large butterfly fallen beside a flower bed; unusual wings, a dusky purple and brown, with marks that looked like eyes. I placed them carefully on a page torn from a notebook and went up excitedly to Babajan, who was indoors, sitting next to a French window overlooking the back lawn.

“Look! Look! Look what I found!”

There was quiet contemplation on Babajan’s face as he gazed outside and I had to repeat his name twice before he noticed I was there. He nodded and smiled with a brief twinkle in his eyes, before turning back to the lawn.

“I’ve never seen such wings before.What kind of butterfly is this, Babajan?”

Babajan looked down at his hands and fiddled with his watch. He didn’t appear to hear me.

“Babajan?”

He turned towards me and chuckled, “Haan haan…” [19]He nodded again. It was hardly a satisfactory reply. I had expected him to tell me to drag out a hefty nature encyclopaedia and see if any such butterfly had been mentioned in it. Before I could ask him whether I could fetch it, he turned away again and muttered, gesturing outside, “See, the problem is that those two apple trees have gone rotten.”

I looked at where he was pointing, a small clump of pine trees.

“Which apple trees, Babajan?”

“That’s right, that’s right, those ones.” He was silent for a minute as I earnestly went up to the window and tried to find the apple trees he was speaking of.

He spoke up again. “They’ll need to be cut. Call Sher Muhammad.”

“Sher Muhammad has gone to get the car fixed, Babajan. He said you have to visit the doctor later.”

“What! No, no, call him.”

“But,”

“Call him, call him. He’ll know what to do. See, the problem is that those two apple trees have gone rotten.”

I looked at Babajan in utter confusion. He was looking around for something. “Where is it?”

“What, Babajan?”

“Beta, my walking stick!” He looked upset. He yelled for Gul Bibi, followed by a stream of Pashto.

“I’ll get her,” I mumbled and ran off to find Gul Bibi, who was sitting in the kitchen, a wet cloth wrapped around her auburn head to fend off the heat.

She looked tired and then perplexed as a jumble of words spilled out of my mouth. “He wants his walking stick and Sher Muhammad to cut the trees and I don’t know Pashto.”

There was a louder yell from the other room, as Gul Bibi immediately leapt up and ran. Babajan sat awkwardly on the window seat, a few feet away from the armchair where he had been sitting. He was crumpled up against the window, a look of distress and pain on his face, his mane-like hair dishevelled. He had evidently attempted to walk without any support and had not been successful. I tried to grab his arm to help him up but he brushed me away, his face pale.

GulBibi gently instructed me to move away and give her some space. She helped him sit up straight, saying something in Pashto. I ran to get water for Babajan, recalling a time when I had done the same for a boy at school who had sprained his ankle. Everyone had kept shouting at people to get water.

“Here’s some water,” I gasped as Babajan turned wide, almost feral eyes towards me, ignoring my outstretched arm holding the glass. He looked at me with a strange kind of desperation.

“Where is your father?” his voice was hoarse with pain and fear. “Ahmed, call your father!”

I had had no intention of lying to my mother or keeping anything from her, but now that she knew, I felt afraid.

It took me a second to realise that it was me he was addressing. I took an involuntary step backwards and looked at Gul Bibi in alarm.

“Ahmed!” he shouted. “Call him! Call Kamran!”

I jumped, sloshing water all over myself, fearfully watching this sudden stranger. Gul Bibi softly said something to Babajan that I could not catch, and then to me, “Danial, go see if Sher Muhammad is back.”

Babajan groaned and closed his eyes.

I obediently retreated out of the room and almost got trampled by Sher Muhammad. I stood in a corner, watching as Gul Bibi and Sher Muhammad calmed Babajan down, unable to comprehend what had just taken place. By the time Babajan had been moved to his room and settled in, it was almost sunset.

“Bachay, go home,” Gul Bibi exclaimed as she noticed the sky getting darker outside. “Your mother will worry.”

“Is he fine?” I asked instead.

“Yes, bachat ho gaee[20]. He’s not hurt, thankfully. He could have been but he was lucky he fell onto the seat and not the floor.”

“Gul Bibi, who is Kamran?”

There was a pause. “His son. His grandson Ahmed’s father.”

“Why did he think I was Ahmed?”

There was a sorrowful look on Gul Bibi’s face as she simply said. “Because he misses him.”

Sher Muhammad hung up the telephone from which he had been placing a mysterious call. “The doctor will come here instead,” he announced to his wife, who looked somewhat relieved.

“Nothing serious happened. Shukar hai[21]. Chota Khan[22] wouldn’t have been pleased,” muttered Sher Muhammad.

“Then Chota Khan should be here himself to look after his father,” Gul Bibi’s plump, pleasant face hardened. She then shooed me out of the house before I could ask her further questions.

I reached home to find my mother interrogating a sulky Salim about my whereabouts. I was grateful to note that Farhat Phupo’s snores had not ceased, which meant that she at least had been unaware of my absence.

“Ammi!”

“Danial! What do you think you’re doing, worrying me half to death?” My mother was the most angry I had ever seen her. “Where have you been?”

“With Babajan.”

“Who?!”

“He lives in the big house behind our lane.”

My mother gaped at me when Salim interjected, “Oh he means Dr. Durrani Sahib.”

“Who is that?”

“Very respectable old doctor. He has lived here most of his life. Wife died a couple of years back, children moved away years ago, lives alone. Laikin thoray se pagal hain[23].”

I glared angrily at Salim, “No, he’s not!”

Salim shrugged. “People say so.”

Without looking at him, my mother bit out, “Enough, Salim. It would have been better had you been less knowledgeable about the neighbours and more alert about the people who live in this house!”

Ignoring the look of affront on Salim’s face and the insolent whistle that followed, my mother led me to her bedroom and made me tell her everything about Babajan and my visits to him.

I had had no intention of lying to my mother or keeping anything from her, but now that she knew, I felt afraid. Afraid of worrying her, afraid of what my father would do if he found out and afraid of the fear that shadowed her face.

“Danial, be honest, don’t keep anything from me.”

“Haan Ammi, I’ve told you everything!”

“You can’t go there again.”

“But, no! I have to! You go with me!”

“I say that you won’t go there again and that’s final!”

“NO!” I raised my voice and she clamped her hand across my mouth.

“Don’t let Farhat Phupo hear you! Tamasha na banao!”

My eyes stung but I blinked fiercely, a lump in my throat, and nodded as she removed her hand. At the thought of Farhat Phupo, something else appeared to occur to my mother. Maybe the realisation that my great-aunt too was an inadequate chaperone. She looked at me thoughtfully. I opened my mouth to plead with her to reconsider but I couldn’t muster my voice. I gulped instead and tried to look steadily and manfully back at her, my traitorous lower lip trembling and betraying the tumult inside my chest.

“All right,” she finally said in a low voice. “I’ll go meet Dr. Durrani with you.”

---

[19] “Yes, yes”

[20] An Urdu phrase meaning that a danger or something bad had been averted.

[21] An Urdu phrase meaning ‘Thankfully’, or expressing gratitude.

[22] Small or young; here referring to the ‘Younger Khan’.

[23] “But he is a little crazy.”

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.

---

[24] Daughter

[25] Paternal uncle

[26] An Islamic festival.

[27] “Who is it?”

[28] “It’s me.”

[29] “Come.”

[30] Urdu for the word ‘Yes’, denoting respect.

 

By Maria Niazi