Dearest Ainie Khala

Dearest Ainie Khala,

My apologies for almost missing your funeral. There was some problem with the damn credit card and I had to wait for the bank to open to withdraw money and book my flight to Delhi. In a way it was ironical. I almost missed your janaaza because of a technological malfunction. You were never comfortable with modern technology. Even though you admired the advances made by mankind in the field of science and technology, modern gadgets always confounded you. I still remember your state of “awe and shock” when a simple PCO booth operator faxed your message to Pakistan. “Arre, yeh FAX Urdu mein likha hai, pahunch jayega Pakistan?” (This FAX is written in Urdu, how will it reach Pakistan?) I guess you were under the impression that the fax machine would translate your message into English. When the operator said that the message would be delivered in exactly the way it was written, you trilled happily, like a child. Another refrain used o be: “Yeh, Internet kya cheez hai”? (What is this Internet?)

That was you. Absolutely uncomplicated, childlike, not at all worldly wise, generous, self-effacing and full of the ability to laugh at yourself. You couldn’t tolerate fools. And you couldn’t tolerate charlatans. About a fellow writer, you used to say: “She is a fraud. She claims that words float in the air before descending on her paper. I have been writing for many decades, nothing of this sort has EVER happened to me.” Writing was not a surreal activity for you. It was a matter of conviction. Writing was something you loved, it came naturally to you and you did it. Period. You never took yourself seriously. And that explains why you could love Amar Akbar Anthony and the mad capers of the Manmohan Desai-Amitabh Bachchan combo despite being who you were. I distinctly remember how much you enjoyed the Rishi Kapoor comedy Rafoo Chakkar. “Dekho, badi mazedaar film hai” (Watch it, it’s a great comedy).

Everyone worth his salt has waxed eloquent about your greatness as a writer and the loss literature has suffered. Point taken. But for us, Ainie Khala, the loss has been tremendous. My mother has lost her mother, second time round; my father – your “financial wizard” – now has a lot of time to spare; my brother Sohaib, my wife Sadia and I no longer have to walk the additional fifty odd yards to your house whenever we are in Noida next.

Ainie Khala, on your funeral, I particularly missed your old typist Ram Singh. My heart went out to your Lady-Friday Rehana, your driver Haldar, your nurse Mary and your maid Ameena. What’s going to happen to them? Haldar, I believe has already found a new job, Rehana and the rest too shall get along in life. Haldar drove me back to the airport. We hugged real hard, fully conscious that when I am back in Noida next, he too may not be around.
No denying the fact that the next few days are going to be extremely difficult, especially for Ammi and Abbu.

Lots of love

Saif