Early morning every day I would go for tuition through a maze of streets. Up the street on the right corner, a window will open with a thud (loud sound) every time I pass. For the first two months, I just heard the sound of opening the window and then caught a shadow of long hair and a glimpse of a face. The tuition started becoming interesting, and I enthusiastically rose early every morning. Earlier, I did not even wash my face properly. Now I started a proper grooming routine before leaving for tuition. The glimpses now changed into clear viewing, and exchanging smiles became routine. The exchange will last a few seconds, but the whole day will be spent in flashbacks and thoughts. Nights will bring sweet dreams and plenty of them, and then the reality of morning.
One day, the morning Didar (sight, glimpse) was accompanied by a gesture, a finger pointing to the foundation of the opposite house which had a stone missing. I went near it and saw a folded paper. I looked around, right and left, and ‘stole’ the letter like it was a piece of treasure. As I crossed the corner, I tried to reach my pheran pocket (traditional Kashmiri cloak) when a friend called from behind. One of my classmates who took tuition with me was calling me. I cursed him for being there at the wrong time and not letting me end the mystery of my first love letter.
I then waited for him, and the two of us strolled towards the tuition centre. He was talking to me continuously, but I was not hearing anything. It seemed fire was coming out of my red cheeks on a cold winter morning. I wanted to open the paper there and then, read it, rehearse it, and sing it. It was the first love letter of my life. Alas! It did not happen. It seemed the tuition lecture lasted till eternity, and when it finished, my friends insisted we go for Chole Puri at Amar Sweets. I could not say no. We had Chole Puri at Amar Sweets. There was humour and jokes, laughs and smiles all through the party, but all I could do was force my facial muscles to stretch a bit. All I wanted to do was read my first love letter.
On my way back I got a chance. I was alone. I sat in the midst of the playing field with snow all around, my heart pounding. I read the first line, "Meray Pyarey" (My Beloved). She didn't know who I was, and she wrote me a love letter. The letter had details of my hair and the colour of my pheran, both of which were clearly visible from the window, but it also had a lot to say about my heart and soul. My Urdu was at most times a scrawl and illegible at best. I was an English medium guy, proficient in Hindi, but Urdu was my weakest link. I barely ever passed any of the class exams in Urdu; however, my superlative performance in other subjects overawed my Urdu teachers to help me pass it.
That night I stayed awake. I scripted every word as an expert calligrapher. I also got hold of my mother's Urdu poetry books, copy-pasted some verses from Ahmad Faraz, and Faiz (prominent Urdu poets) and even Iqbal and did manage to write a decent letter my Urdu teachers would have been proud of. I started with "Meri Shabroz" (My Shabroz). The name just came up. And I wrote it. I ended it with my name in English. For another few months, it became a regular feature, reading and writing, re-reading and rewriting, but only love letters.
The Entrance exam to Medical College was just around the corner, and political turmoil was peaking. Walking the streets up and down was fraught with dangers unimaginable in present times.
Time passed fast and quickly, I joined Medical College, and on every return on weekends, I would go up the street. I would look up, but the window would not open. I would look at nothingness again and again, and the void in my heart would create vacuous emptiness.
I would still go persistently every weekend, anticipate a glimpse, and return heartbroken. The only solace back home were letters and lots of them. I read them and re-read them, but that thirst for having a look didn't quench.
In the mid-nineties, one day after coming back from my Gynaecology posting, I boarded a minibus near Jehangir Chowk towards the medical college hostel at Bemina. As my minibus was crossing the junction, and the bus conductor was frantically calling "Bemina Bemina," another minibus passed left towards Iqbal Park. I intuitively looked left, and I had a glimpse of Shabroz in that minibus. She looked at me, and both of us got up instantly, as if tied by an unbreakable knot. The matador I had boarded was moving at a slow pace. I jumped down like a man possessed. Her matador stopped at a distance, and my heart stopped for a moment and then raced. I was watching Shabroz alighting from the minibus, and the mere thought of meeting and talking was overwhelming; the flashback button was on, and a moment later, her petite left foot touched the ground, there was the sound of a thud, which all of us presumed as the sound of a blast. And everyone ran helter-skelter. The conductor pulled Shabroz back onto the minibus and started speeding. I was dumbstruck at one place. The next moment I realized the minibus was gone, possibly forever. On the ground, people started to rise from their crawling positions, shop shutters started being lifted, street vendors started returning from their hiding places, and everything seemed fine. But not my world. This loud thud was just a tyre burst and not a grenade blast. Everyone heaved a sigh of relief, and life started again. But not for me. How could fate be so cruel? I stood frozen at one corner of the road and kept looking towards the left, hoping for a miracle. Her minibus was gone, and with it, the hope of ever meeting Shabroz again.
In early 2000, I was invited to a marriage ceremony. I was asked to help with hand washing in the female tent, where they sat in groups of four in rows and columns, eagerly waiting for Wazwan to be served. Traditionally, young men will help with the hand washing of female guests with Tasht (bowl) and Nari (jug). While water is poured from the Nari held firmly by the standing man, females will extend their hand and place it over the Tasht as water is being poured. As I moved around with the Tasht and Nari and reached the midst of a row, a hand stretched out, and a face looked up. The water kept pouring, and we kept looking. It was Shabroz with a small kid in her lap. All I could afford was a wry smile. She smiled back. I gently tapped the head of the child and walked away.
