Asim Alavi
A couple of weeks ago, my WhatsApp buzzed, announcing a caller who addressed me with the words, “Hello, younger brother Asim.”. He told me he was Nifal and the last time he heard my voice was somewhere in 1974. I couldn’t recognise him, neither by name nor by voice. Yet, I pretended as if his name didn’t fade away from my memory.like a sparkling star’s light, reaching us across billions of years, unblemished. Unfortunately, the conversation abruptly ended due to a signal failure – as we live thousands of kilometres away from each other. It’s not because of the distance, but when one’s purse is lighter in the heaviness of dried breadcrumbs, one uses cheaper internet packages thriftily.
I was at an absolute loss for Nifal’s positive behaviour that pierces through all kinds of formalities, self-pride and reluctance. He took the boldest step to pester others to get hold of my number and call me, addressing “younger brother Asim” in perfect freshness and enthusiasm as if our last conversation was held only a few days ago. In truth, logic dictated that he should have been searching for my contact details or attempting to reconnect since our paths had diverged nearly half a century ago. His gratitude and determination to bridge the gap were truly remarkable. Inspired by his demeanour, I mustered the courage to reach out to him four days later.
As my old memories churned up, I could recollect Nifal as an energetic young boy who would not dare to bother about the fatigue arising from walking to places several kilometres distance. Now I gained the courage to talk about things of the past, such as walking to his father’s shop carrying a lunch basket. He immediately shot back, “Asim! You used to chew your lower lip always when you were bored, don’t you…!?”. Since my picture appeared in my WhatsApp profile, he could compare the boy in his mind against a man drawing closer to six decades of life. Alas! I am still groping in the memory of a Nifal who is of medium body weight and walks in hurried gaits. I realised he didn’t use a smartphone but called me from a borrowed one. I asked him to send me his picture, but he has not responded. His wife, Dina, was beside him while we talked, wanting to speak to me.
This is where the sombre part of the story begins.
Dina’s presence unearthed a rush of nostalgia, her name dancing back into memory as she recounted our shared childhood antics. She told me she still vividly remembers my life in their midst, expressing her utmost joy for the opportunity to talk to me after several decades. Dina admitted she was miserably lost for words to express her joy about our miraculous second interaction. She is now 57, and the last time I saw her was when she was a 3rd grader in school. I asked her about her close buddy, Suha. I told her I was keen to speak with Suha or at least hear her voice. The joyous atmosphere suddenly turned sombre, and Dina’s voice was reduced to a brittle one.
Suha was a 3rd grader, too, when I stayed in her house in a village in the Kandy district during my early school years. I was like her elder brother, and for her parents, we both were like two eyes, as she was the only child they were blessed with. Their love was totally unconditional for both of us. Suha possessed a distinct charm – a fair complexion and naturally blonde, tousled hair that cascaded down her head. Her sharp, brown eyes added a mesmerising twinkle to her face. Her naturally protruding canine teeth became evident when she smiled, and her heart-shaped lips stretched into a broad, perfect grin. She was of an inquiring mind and used to torment her father with an awful lot of critical questions at dinner times. Questions were childish yet insightful; all of them were answered without the slightest slackness. I still remember her smiley face that talked volumes about the extraordinary innocence and tenderness of her heart.
As Dina couldn’t continue talking, Nifal intervened and asked me in a totally bewildered tone,
“Don’t you know what happened to Suha?! She passed away two years ago!!”.
Dina, still struggling to recover from sudden grief that arose from my query, interrupted,
“Suha was 55 when she left us, but her life will never fade away from our memory”. And she sobbed abundantly.
Suha had lost her life battling agonisingly against a killer cancer. Nifal described Suha’s loyalty and dedication as a wife, her unwavering commitment to her husband’s well-being. Four sons were left behind, all bearing her beauty and smile. I held onto the hope of one day crossing paths with them, wondering if they’d ever heard stories of me from their mother.
As her parents had already departed this fleeting realm, they were not around to mourn the demise of their beautiful little girl. Still, I believe, without a shred of doubt, that their souls would have met in the Alam Al Barzakh (Intermediate realm). After I moved out of Suha’s home in pursuit of better education, life with them never returned to where it was.
For about the past four decades, her uniquely rhythmic voice has remained beyond my hearing. All that remains in my mind is the image of a 3rd-grade girl in a frock. Yet, should Nifal assist me in acquiring a photograph of her, I could undoubtedly compare it with the memory of the young Suha I last saw when I left her home on a brighter school-day morning*.
*True names are withheld to protect privacy.
