(Recap — In the previous part of this anecdote, my neighbor, gentleman ‘B’ had begun with the narration of an incidence. In continuation to that and in his words …)
Gentleman ‘B’ took a pause, remained silent for a little, as if, collecting the scattered threads of the story, he had encountered about thirty three years ago. He begun,” We initiated our loitering visit to the market of old Lahore city by conjuring an image that we were on a foreign land and we might find some new things to observe. But, it all was akin to our India’s old Delhi market. I am talking of era around the year of 1977. In all, it was familiar to our old Delhi. Even, we didn’t have a feeling that we were in Pakistan. A noticeable difference was merely of dress code.
Majority of them attired in Muslim costumes. The numbers of women in the market were comparatively lesser and mostly burka clad. Otherwise, the same cacophony intermingled with different voices of Punjabi, Sindhi and Urdu created a din over there. Yes, our costume telltaled our being exotic to some extent. Though we attired in civilian clothing, but as a member of force, we used to stride with measured steps. This movement of ours was creating a suspicion in the eyes of local people. But it was also possible, they were presumed to take us personnel from Pakistan’s Force in civil dress.
As I told earlier, I was walking along with my Garhwali friend and it often happens, when two Garhwalis are in a company they are given to converse only and only in their mother tongue. In our that entire perambulation we had our conversation in our preferred dialect. Besides, we were assured, thousand km away from our Garhwali region, at this distant place, no possibility was of some one to understand our dialect. This was a great language barrier that made us confident that no Pakistani could have understand our language. This was akin to the example when two Chinese persons happen to converse in Mandarin language before us, we were unable to comprehend.
We kept on loitering in the market for hours. We visited various shops, road side vendors’ wheel barrows and so on. After a long while, we felt that a lanky, middle height man clad in Pathan suit was trailing us continuously. We were not bothered so much about him. Firstly, we were not talking about the Pakistani’s establishment. Our topic of discussion was, ” dear! there lies no difference across the border on both sides. Secondly, we had had our proper credentials with us. And on the top, our mother tongue was impassable to understand by some one here ( in our eyes.)
The long hours of loitering felt us tire and we decided to have a cup of tea at some restaurant. We needed some space and peace of mind, hence we chose an ordinary ” tea shop” that had no customer inside at that time. By finding the enough room, we occupied a corner table and placed the order for two cups of tea. Meanwhile, we caught the presence of the same person, we suspected trailing us. He entered the shop and occupied the table next to us. Once a suspicion arose in our mind but we evaded that, when we were right on our part then why to bother about him.
At that time, only we three were as occupant and the vendor was preparing the tea at a distance on the furnace of the counter. Suddenly, that stranger rose to his feet and occupied the side chair in front of me, beside my friend. He set there silently. I intently scrutinized him. He seemed a man beaten by hard weathers with a broken heart and mind. His face bore the expressions of a man who saw the thousand defeats in life. The vestiges of defeat were familiar to a man, who was struggling the battle of life, knowing deep down in his heart that he was doomed to be defeated. His eyes had fathomless blankness.
The stranger forced a smile on his face, bent towards me and asked in impeccable pronunciation with Garhwali intonation, using our dialect ” brother, you seem to belong from Garhwal region?” His voice was meek and fumbled. Both we friends froze to our seats. Really say, it felt to us that Pakistani secret service was far ahead than our expectation and too had recruited Garhwali speaking agents in her service. But I managed to control myself and responded in the same Garhwali language, ” yes both we belong to Garhwal region.” On that, he asked with a voice saturated with emotions, ” from which part of the Garhwal, brother?”
In fact, he was speaking in a very low tone, so the conversation might not be heard beyond our table. His this query rose a curiosity in us. I answered,” My this friend comes from district Chamoli Garhwal and I basically come from Lance Down Pauri Garhwal district.” No sooner, I said Lance Down, I noticed a moist in his eyes. He spoke with a choked voice, ” I am also from the same Lance Down brother!” His reply stunned me. He was an aged person, about ten years older than I. To quash my curiosity, I asked, ” are you a Hindu?”
” No. I am a Muslim. I was born and reared there in Lance Down. I obtained my basic primary schooling there as well. We owned a house and a little shop there.”
By being a permanent local resident of Lance Down, I knew, some Muslim families had been settled there from the time of British period and still many of them were settled there. I asked him, ” where did you happen to stay in Lance down?” He replied in tearful voice, ” I am son of Gaazee cobbler of Lance Down, brother!”
The name of “Gaazee cobbler” at once startled me. He was the “only” cobbler of Lance Down of his time. At that period of time in hill side, cobbler hardly could be found and it was taken as a virtue of the god if some locality had a cobbler there. Every one in near and far knew the name of Gaazee cobbler. All people used to visit his small shop either to get repair the broken shoes or get stitches in slippers. He also prepared shoes on demand. Truly say, I didn’t remember his face but his name remained afloat. I was an infant when he died. After him, it was heard, his son had taken over ancestral vocation. His son’s name was Aabid.
But on one day, in the year of 1963, his son Aabid disappeared from the scene along with his family, leaving behind his shop and house locked. Lance Down is a small place and such kind of incidences at once spread out in shape of gossip. To confirm the same, I asked him, ” what your name is?”
“Aabid.” He curtly relied.
We both set there stunned. My friend amazed by all this, at one moment looking at me and on the other moment at Aabid. I spoke, ” I was a teen age boy when you suddenly disappeared from there. How and why?” He begun in wet voice,” after the demise of my father I took over the charge of the shop. At the same time my one relative from district Bijnour visited my place. He already been shifted to Pakistan. At this time, he was here to pick his family along with. He related so many fanciful and fascinating stories about Pakistan, as if, only paradise in earth existed in Pakistan only. Those conspiratorial stories impelled me to move to the Pakistan
My that relative said to me, ” why you are wasting your time in serving Kafirs (Non-Muslims) here. There in Pakistan, in some days, you would own your own boot show room. All the amenities of life are available there.” I got misled by greed. I left my Indian citizenship and migrated here. In the first year only, reality revealed to me that I had been cheated. I planned to migrate back to the India. But I wasted extra time in planning to move back. At the same time, Indo- Pak war of 1965 broke out, then next war came of 1971 and everything got shattered. Now, a downtrodden cobbler like me under no circumstances could obtain a permission to move back to India. Situation has worsened now.”
After that he became silent. But his desire, longing all rolled out in shape of streaks of tears down to his cheeks incessantly. After some times, he took control of himself and asked , ” whether our old shop and house still exist there!” I nodded in assent. In my annual leave, I regularly used to visit my home town. I replied, ” Yes! Still, that is there. Locked in the same way as you left it, but it’s crumbling down.” This was the description of the year of 1976, the previous year when I happened to visit my home town. Otherwise also, in high land, people were sincere and honest and they were not in habit to encroach or transgress other’s property.
I said to him, ” you know, still people talk about your shop. By pointing your shop, people use to call that shop as shop of Gaazee cobbler.” This revelation moved him down to the core of the heart. Then he asked about the Basic Primary School of the Lance Down, where he had had his basic schooling. I told him, ” still school is properly being run.” Then, he asked about other locations like Jay Harikhal and Ghum khal. I gave him a detailed answer. After that he queried about other Muslim families of the vicinity. As much as I was acquainted poorly with information, all I told him.
Then he stood on his trembling feet like a heavily tired man who just had climbed a steep and spoke in a quivering voice, ” You are younger than me in age. But to come across to you was like a god’s spectacle to me. Today I am feeling lucky enough to meet with a Garhwali brother and that too from my birth place “Lance Down.” This is happening after thirteen years. Everything became vivid to me. I know, never again I will be able to visit my that motherland, but Lance Down will ever throb in every beat of my heart, till I breath last.”
After saying this, he silently moved out of the tea shop with straggling gait, without looking behind. Today, many decades have elapsed encountering that stranger. The stranger who was not a stranger in fact. Whenever, I retrospect my life and chapter of my posting to Pakistan visit my memories, the ” son of Gaazee cobbler” named Aabid always reels before my eyes.” Saying this , the gentleman ‘B’ fell silent, but the anguish of Aabid I could read on his face. ( End of the Anecdote.) Penned by — Vinay Pharasi —–
