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Yousaf was a famous
figure in Middle Eastern religious mythology known to Christians as Joseph, through the
Bible story of Joseph and the Coat of Many Colours. His
brothers, jealous of Yousaf, threw him into a well to die. His grief-stricken father, the
prophet Jacob, wept so much that he went blind. Meanwhile, Yousaf was rescued by a passing
caravan and taken to Egypt. Yousaf was so charming and handsome that the mayor's wife
Zulaikha fell in love with him and tried to seduce him. Yousaf was accused of having an
affair with her and was sent to prison. In the prison he became popular for his ability to
interpret his fellow prisoners' dreams. Eventually the King sent for Yousaf to interpret
his dreams and offered him a high position in his court.
She
would sit in the sun on the roof of her house, and daydream the whole day long. Her dreams
were like buds which had withered before they had the chance to bloom. The extensive
daydreaming had weakened her eyesight, and she feared that she, like Jacob, would lose her
eyesight one day, waiting for her son to return; if her son did one day return to her,
then she would only be able to recognize him with her touch, and not her eyes.
Along
with the fading of her sight, she was also losing her physical strength; the silver in her
hair and the aching in her joints only succeeded in gaining momentum. Her diet, like her
dreams, was becoming flavourless and insipid: she
dare not enjoy the taste of salt for fear of her blood pressure rising, and she was
forbidden to savour the sweetness of desserts due to her diabetes.
When she
dared to share her fears with her husband, he would resort to giving advice instead of
listening; he counselled her to assist him with spreading the news of Allah and advised
her to pay homage to Him. He responded, "Children are entrusted to us by Allah. He
gives when He pleases, and He takes away when He so wishes. We must not put so much hope
and expectation into our children."
She had
stopped meeting with her friends and relatives. No longer did she attend the celebrations
held for birthdays and marriages, or the ceremonies for births and deaths. She passed her
days feeling alone and abandoned, silently shedding her tears. The wounds she suffered
from the last gathering had not yet healed completely. She had heard so many unkind words
passed that evening:
- Look at
her, she has grown old before her time!
- Just
how many women are there in the Third World who lose their vivacity at such an early age!
- Her
physical ailments have turned her head completely
grey!
- She and
her husband share the same house, and yet it is as
if they live in two separate worlds!
- The
loss of her son has devoured her!
She
remembered leaving the party early, feeling as if she must, and all the way home, she
dried her tears with her stole. "If my son were here beside me now, he would surely
put balm on my painful wounds", she thought to herself. Then she wondered a moment
and said, "Even when he was here, he never had the time. He never took the time away
from his poetry and short stories to listen to the call of my heart. He preferred his
friends to his own family. I remember that in his absence one of his poet friends had come
to visit."
He asked,
"Aunty, how are you feeling? Is there anything I can do for you while I am
here?"
"My
dear boy, I see you more than I see my own son. How lucky your mother is to have a son
like you! Why does my son not live with his family the way that you do with yours?"
"Aunty,
I am an ordinary poet, and I am to look after my family. Your son is an extraordinary man.
He has made all mankind his family. You should speak in praise of your son in the same way
that his friends are proud of him!"
"Child,
my son and I do not know how to talk to each other any more. Before he was even able to
speak as a child, it was I that knew all that he wanted to say, but now it is so
different. We are worlds apart. Ever since he has started to compose poetry, wide creeks
have come between us."
"Aunty,
my mother and every other mother of a poet will say the same thing."
"But,
my son, surely I shall perish in his absence!"
For a
moment she stood there silently and thought of her son. She then remembered his poem He
Would Never Return and a crushing wave of pain rose in her heart.
Each
Thursday she went to the tomb of Data Sahib* and gave alms, and once a year she would
offer a black lamb as pilgrimage so that her son, the poet, her Yousaf, would be protected
against the evil eye.
"Why
don't you just get him married off?" so many of her friends would ask.
"He
does not wish to get married," she would reply, briefly, and then change the subject.
He was a
handsome man. Even since his youth he has been chased by more wayward ladies, the
Zulaikhas from his town. So many mothers have wished to have him as their son-in-law; but,
those who knew him well would say that he did not believe in traditional relationships,
and he wanted no part in marriage.
Both his
love affairs and his poetry gained fame since his College days. In his first published
poem Dedication To An Unacquainted Sweetheart, he smashed the idols of
patriotism, religion, colour and creed. His story A Kiss had created a
scandal in the whole university. He tried to pave a new path for male and female
relationships through his creative works. He had grown tired of the shadows, of the ghosts
which had ruled human liberation. He wanted the walls of hypocrisy and extortion to come
tumbling down. He wanted the night of union to be cherished and the night of separation to
be banned forever. In his student days, the books by Faiz, Minto, and Faraz were his
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The shrine of a Muslim saint buried in Lahore, Pakistan.
companions.
Those who were more perceptive said that he was born in the wrong country, and that
someday his abilities would become public knowledge, and his name would be known far and
wide - either as a well-known writer or as a notorious poet.
"Son,
you must keep away from women; protect yourself, for they will put a spell on you!"
his mother warned.
In the
meantime, his father, who was an admirer of Iqbal, murmured: "India's poets,
sculptors and short story writers. The minds of these are ridden by women."
And he
would reply in Minto's words that if male pigeons sing when they see their doves, and
stallions neigh when they see their mares, then what could be wrong with a man who
composes poetry or writes short stories when he sees a woman?
One day,
Yousaf packed his books, a few articles of clothing, and left his home as he felt
suffocated in that atmosphere.
"Mother,
I am going to wander into the world and search now for myself."
"When
will you return, son?"
"Dear
mother, the paths that we choose to follow in life are only one-way streets. One cannot
make a U-turn once you are on a highway."
Twenty
years passed, and for Yousaf's mother, every day seemed like a year and every night seemed
as if a century of time had elapsed. She had not slept peacefully for even one night
during these two decades; often she would be awakened abruptly from her sleep, reminiscing
of her lost son.
From time
to time one of her son's friends would drop by and she would ask the friend, "Have
you heard from my son? What kind of a job does he have?"
"He
is a student of psychology. He interprets the meaning of dreams for the people he
meets," the friend would reply.
"Yes,
but in the meantime, his own mother's golden dreams are turning into nightmares," she
would respond forlornly.
"Aunty
dear, do not worry. One day your son will be famous - a renowned poet!"
"No
son, no one really appreciates a poet. In this world there is no value given to poetry and
to dreams. Ghalib was an esteemed poet but a man to be scorned; he spent the better part
of his life drinking alcohol which was procured by borrowed money."
Close by,
Yousaf's father sat on his prayer rug writing to his poet son, "My boy, as well as
the words of different poets, sometimes you should also read the words of Allah."
More time
passed, and then one day Yousaf's friend presented both parents with fifteen one-thousand
rupee bills and said, "Aunty, the publisher has sent this money for you. He says that
your son's books have started to sell."
"Many,
many thanks to you son. Come and share our joy. Have something sweet. Eat these luddoos*
and take these dried dates with you. I have been saving them for quite some time. They
have been blessed with the holy words from the Quran."
Yousaf's
mother bought two black lambs at the market for one-thousand rupees and presented them as
an offer, at the Shrine of Data Sahib. With the remaining fourteen-thousand rupees, she
made arrangements for the addition of two new rooms to their home. When the first room was
complete she hung her son's picture on the wall on one side of the room.
"Why
don't you put the picture in the middle of the room?", one of her friends asked.
"I
have left room for his wife's photograph; it will hang on the other side of the
wall," she replied.
"But
he does not want to get married."
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A Pakistani sweet, often eaten at happy occasions
"He
will one day, when the phantom of poetry finally abandons him."
One
night, Yousaf's mother woke up with a fright. She called to her husband for comfort.
"I've had a nightmare."
"What
is it?"
"I
saw a vision of my son. He was drenched in blood."
"For
heavens sake woman! Go back to sleep! It is midnight."
"No,"
she cried. "No!"
The
following morning she went to the telegram office with her husband. They tried to place a
telephone call, but there was no response so they sent a telegram.
The next
evening, the son's friend came to the door with the bad news.
"Your
son has had a car accident. He is in the hospital."
On
hearing the news, Yousaf's mother sank to the floor on her knees; within the next few
hours she seemed to age several more years.
The
police had gone to the scene of the accident and examined Yousaf's car. It had collided
with a truck and was now completely wrecked. Only the licence plate, LUVING, remained
undamaged.
All the
relatives gathered at the family home. The next telegram that arrived reported that Yousaf
had died.
His
mother made arrangements for his grave. Yousaf had always been close to his maternal
grandmother, and so it was agreed upon to bury him beside his grandmother.
Yousaf's
mother cried for two long days and two very long nights; her husband, in the meantime,
recited the Quran and tried to console his wife with words from the Holy Scriptures. That
gave her no solace.
A third
telegram arrived the next day that said her son's corpse would not be returned to their
village. When the police investigated the accident they found his driver's licence, on
which he had written a testimony that said he agreed to donate his body to the students of
medicine when he died; his eyes and his heart specifically, were to be a gift to women.
Once the
relatives had left the house and gone back to their own homes, Yousaf's mother woke up in
the middle of the night and went to the cemetery. She stood beside her son's grave for a
very long time, gazing at the emptiness below. After quite some time she descended into
the grave.
In the
grave she slept peacefully for the first night in twenty years, perhaps because she was
lying beside her own mother, or because she had now accepted that her son would never
return; or maybe it was because she was completely and utterly exhausted.
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