On the night between October 25 and 26, around 2 AM, when I learnt on thephone that Sahir was no more, the night mingled with the night exactly 20 yearsback. I was in Bulgaria then and the doctors had warned me of possibleheart-attacks. Then, that night, 20 years back, I had written the poem thatwent, "aj aapne dil dariyaa de vitch maiN aapne phul parvaahe [today Ioffered my own ashes to the ocean of my heart]'. I looked at my hands. Withthose hands I had offered my own bones to the ocean of my heart, then how hadthe bones changed? Did death make a mistake or did these hands?
Along with that came memories of the time when the first Asian WritersConference had taken place in Delhi. Poets and writers were given name-tagswhich they had affixed on the lapels of their jackets. Sahir had taken off histag and put it on my jacket; he had taken my nametag and put it on his. Someonenoticed it and said that we had put on the wrong nametags. Sahir had laughed andsaid someone must have made a mistake. We neither fixed the 'mistake' nor did wewish to. Now, years later, when I heard the news at 2 o'clock at nightthat Sahir was no more, it seemed as if death had made its decision on the basisof that nametag - it had my name, but was affixed on Sahir's jacket.
My friendship with Sahir had never had to employ words. It was a wonderfulrelationship of silences. When I was awarded the Akadami award for the verses Ihad written for Sahir, the press-reporter had wished that I pose as if Iwere writing something on paper. When the press people went away after clickingthe photographs, I saw that I had only written one word again and again: Sahir,Sahir, Sahir...
After this madness, I was apprehensive that the morning paper would have mypicture and the name on the paper would be clearly visible. What would happenthen? But nothing happened. The photograph was published, but that paper seemedblank.
It is a different matter altogether that later I wished to God that the paperwhich seemed blank were not so...
The dignity of that blank paper is still the same. The story of my love isrecorded in Rasidi Ticket. Sahir read it, but despite that, in none ofour subsequent meetings, did he or I ever mention it again.
I remember, in a mushaira people were taking his autographs. Everyonehad gone, and I alone was left with him, so I laughingly opened my palm out tohim, like a blank paper. And he had signed his name on my palm and said it was ablank cheque that he was signing - I could fill in any amount and cash itwhenever I felt like it. Although that paper was a palm made of flesh, but ittoo had the fate of a blank paper, so no letters could be written on it...
Even today, I have no letters, no words. Whatever is there is RasidiTicket, and today this as well, is the story of this blank paper..
The beginning of this story was silent, and the end too, all through theage, has remained silent. Forty years back, when Sahir used to visit me inLahore, he would come and quietly smoke cigarettes. When the ashtray was filledto the brim with cigarette-stubs, he would go away. After he had gone, I wouldlight and smoke those cigarettes alone. The smoke from me and his cigaretteswould mingle in the air, the breaths too mingled in the air, and words frompoems as well, in the air...
I think the air can travel any distance. Even earlier, it used to cover thedistance between cities, now it would certainly cover the distance between thisand the other world.
(From a later edition of Rasidi Ticket, titled 'Kora Kagaz' -'Blank Paper - dated November 2, 1980, hurriedly translated by Sundeep Dougal)
