One drab morning in early October, an obscure wave of restlessness had filled the environs of the university. The sun was hanging over lazily as if forced to leave for the west. No bird as such could be seen chirping and rustling in the lawns and the pigeons on the minarets of Jamia Masjid had probably forgot to ablute. Students start asking each other over whispers and murmurs but nobody had any clue.
“May God make the opposite of what we just heard”, one of the student with hands entwined at the back of his head was heard saying.
“Don’t worry, it is just a rumor”, his friend replied to him as they ambled towards the library and disappeared through its reading rooms with hands of the later on the shoulders of the former like two friends walking on the Buleward Road and enjoying the gusts of breeze from the Dal despite of the scorching heat.
In the afternoon when the conformation came that the Doctor’s blood has been spilled in the bosom of the Himalayas, everybody was shell-shocked and the whole university came to halt. Murmurs and whispers changed into moans and cries. Bravest of the brave student broke down and everybody gathered for condolence.
The streams of tears were clearly visible from their gloomy cheeks as they incepted from the eyes and disappeared into the beard. Students were seen wiping the tears of each other. The image Doctor had among the students made everyone bring the tears at least to the corner of eyes. Just a blink would have flooded the face by the warm tears from the eyes which were eager to see nothing but the last glimpse of the Doctor.
Exactly one year ago in a one storied white hostel of the varsity, Dar was enjoying the late monsoon rain. His wet hair and drenched shirt were indicating that he had just came from the department. He wiped his face, dried the hair and spread the towel on the rope tied between two pillars outside the hostel room. In the park outside, few flowers had bloomed and swaying in the gusty shower. A sweet whiff of the dust has filled the atmosphere.
“Here one doesn’t know which season is it. All seasons look alike as it is greenery every time. Unlike home where we have blooming springs, gushing summers, crimson autumns and snowy winters”, Dar said dusting his trousers as he made his way towards the hostel room.
“Anyways, we have to cook for one more person today”, he added.
“Why, who is coming”? Wata inquired.
“Doctor is coming to have dinner with us.” Dar said while combing his hair.
“So we have to cook for four people”, Wata muttered and left the room with a vessel, half filled with rice and a glass in it.
In the evening, half an hour after the muazzin yelled the call for the evening prayer, the door was knocked and interrupted the study of Dar, while Wata had just finished the cooking and was busy with his mobile phone with an acute smile on his face.
“Get in”, blurted both of them and looked towards each other over a chuckle.
The door opened and entered an elegantly burly person donned in camouflage fatigue trousers with a black long boot under it. He was wearing a black shirt over it with its sleeves folded. He had a beautiful short beard with long ginger hair resting on his shoulders. He was holding a book in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
“Here is your book.” Doctor threw the book towards Dar which he failed to clutch. He then threw his torso on the bed and start dragging long puffs of cigarette.
The dinner was eaten over a long discussion on politics where mostly Doctor spoke and the others listened. He used to speak loudly like a confident political and historic lore having the cognizance of almost every political movement from Middle East to South Asia though he doesn’t belong to this discipline.
He was a humble person with immense knowledge which was reflected at the time when he used to discuss things with the fellow students. Perceiving the amount of knowledge and personality, nobody would have wished what he chose. But when you have knowledge, confidence and the cognizance of the things going around you, they dominate the notions on which peoples ideas rest.
Then in the ensuing winter, he left the varsity towards the hills and didn’t came back, He left for home where he never reached. He roamed in the valleys day and night like the saint all the way from Baghdad to teach people. He was hardly seen by anyone but everybody was concerned about him. Nobody knows what unique was in him to allure the masses as there were many others claiming the same. The affinity and love among the people would never have let him go. But he was the falcon of Iqbal who was supposed to fly over the hills. He was the saint who learned, taught and then slowly and stealthily disappeared into the snow clad mountains he often claimed to have come from.
The Author can be reached at pala.abid@gmail.com
