Faraz
Hira Chaudhry
The round of tea is over. The subject of the conversation is the dying economy of the country, the dying love for the country and the dying loyalty of the politicians. The students around Faraz are now yawning and making feeble attempts to keep up the conversation, for his sake. Surely they aren’t interested in the topic. Rarely do they ever argue with him or discuss how they can improve the present or future of the country. For them, Pakistan is like a duck who knows that in a jungle it can never rule or live like a lion or a wolf. Faraz can never make an impact no matter how hard he tries to motivate them. It’s not the bright future he talks about; he tells them beautiful stories of the past, of how everyone would stick together, how everyone was driven to contributing to the progress and development of the country. They weren’t mere fragments, they didn’t do it only for themselves, their families and clans; rather, they tried to unite the whole country. For Faraz the past is still worth talking about. He belongs to a generation that was infected at birth with a germ called ‘patriotism.’ They like to think about their past. They still want to anticipate and harbour expectations. For them, Pakistan is still a dream which will come true one day. Aside from his obsession with the country, his students still love him. When it comes to his own subject, ‘the dying literature of Urdu,’ nobody in the whole town has as much knowledge as Faraz. His lectures are always intense and informative, and as he delivers them, no one can let their mind swim in the air. Faraz’s love for Urdu literature was also borne out of his love for Pakistan. It matured during the time he had spent with his friend Bukhari in Punjab University while they were doing their Masters in Urdu. Bukhari is a character (or let’s say a person) whom Faraz never fails to introduce to his students or colleagues. For years he has shared the same stories with every batch. For Faraz, Bukhari is a role model for the youngsters; his love and loyalty for the country remain exemplary. Today, again, Faraz doesn’t forget to mention Bukhari to his young students. He takes out his last cigarette from a flimsy red paper packet and lights it with a small matchbox, which has a miniature of the Quaid’s tomb cheaply printed on it. “During the 1-to-4-a.m. Urdu ghazal programme, lying on the wet grass of the garden outside the Lahore station of Radio Pakistan, Bukhari and I made several plans for how the channel could be improved. If Bukhari had stayed in Pakistan, he would have loved to see how Radio Pakistan can now be heard in twenty six countries.” He pauses for a moment then continues, “I have heard that when people go to America, they soon become Americans. So, they no longer wish to come back to Pakistan.” He looks up at the moving wings of the pedestal fan and slowly extinguishes his half-finished cigarette. “While walking on the roads of Washington, I just hope Bukhari thinks back to those beautiful days and always keeps them a part of his memories.” After completing his sentence, Faraz closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. The neighbour’s dog, which is barking Prose
13