Pyaray Dost
I am in my twenties now, and this is the decade that I am seeing friends going away in an instant. Careers, relationships and marriages, political differences or, worst of all, a quiet drifting apart, are dismantling friendships I had once thought were unshakeable. But while it is the age of life that throws a curveball, I can not help but think of how in an increasingly connected world, disconnecting is easier than ever. Where you have all your friends in the palm of your hand, they can also vanish within seconds. The growing instantaneousness of human connection also causes growing impatience. The world as we know it is eroding the essence of what friendship is meant to be.
A few years after Covid, marred with social anxiety and thrown into a new routine, I found myself at a crossroads in all of my relationships. The lockdown brought more instability than joy. I could indulge in activities with a newfound liberty that I never had before – reading, writing, painting. But after some time, the disconnect from the outer world became suffocating. My best friends started college far away from me. Their world was expanding while mine felt suspended in a place I couldn’t wait to escape.
With the same kind of detachment that I had been engulfed with for some time, I absentmindedly began to flip through some books on my shelf. A piece of paper fell from one of the books. It was torn at the corners. At first glance, the entire script was in Urdu. It read:
‘29-11-2005
Dear Moti, Assalam-o-Alaikum’
The handwriting was beautiful. It resembled Nana Abu’s but it wasn’t his, since the letter was addressed to him, Moti (pearl), a nickname which only a few people knew.
‘Khair, tum toh mere bauhat pyaray dost ho, tum toh bauhat baray operation se guzray ho, Allah ka shukar hai isne tumhein nayi zindagi di. Khuda tumhari umar daraz karey. Ameen. Lekin dost ab apnay jism par ziyada kaam ka bojh mat do…’
Anyhow, you are a very lovely friend of mine, you have been through such a big operation. Thanks to God that he bestowed you with a new life. May he prolong your life. Amen. But friend, don’t burden your body with a lot of work now…
Pyaray, or lovely, made me pause for a second. It was Urdu, written in the softest, most delicate manner. The words held deep affection. The affection spilled out of the page. The words were accentuated with a particular Bihari accent that stayed in the background throughout the letter. Certain sentences held a rhythm and ended with a musical quality that I could almost hear. Nana Abu’s friend talked about the people who were supposed to bring this letter to him, and requested Nana Abu to go meet them if he got the chance to. He wrote, ‘agar mauqa mile toh zaroor milo ge’ instead of ‘agar mauqa mile toh zaroor milna’, which sounds more appropriate in Urdu. He wrote this letter exactly the way they both would have spoken. It read like a conversation in real time. This personal touch to the letter felt like a well-kept secret between the two. They knew how the words would sound if spoken, conveying a sense of familiarity and intimacy.
This was a letter written by Nana Abu’s friend from India and sent over to Pakistan through someone who was travelling to meet their relatives here. The letter also came with tabarruk from Ajmer Sharif. The piece of paper that I was holding was two decades old. Their friendship was much older, though I was unable to discover the origins of it.
I read further: ‘Moti dear, abhi abhi mere aik hindu dost, Surendar Mohan Sinha ne bari koshish sai aik Kabir Bani talaash karliya aur inhon ne israar kiya ke meri taraf se apne dost ko present kardo aur apni kalam se inhon ne chand Raheem ke dohe bhi likha hai. Hum samajhte hain Hind Pak dosti ke mausam main yeh bhi misaal hai…’
Moti dear, just right now a Hindu friend of mine, Surendar Mohan Sinha found Kabir Bani after a lot of efforts and then persuaded me to give it to you as a present from him. He also wrote a few couplets by Rahim from his own pen. I believe that in this weather of Hind Pak friendship, this is a great example…
The letter then followed a few couplets written with black ink in Hindi, a script I don’t understand. The paper wasn’t spacious enough so both the Urdu and Hindi scripts were squeezed in together. Urdu settled around Hindi. The two languages gradually bled into one another, bridging the geographical distance that stood between their friendship which now fit in the palms of my hands. This tangible letter defied space and time and existed as an entity on its own.
The letter struck me for its language, the flowy conversational tone, and the way it continued to challenge the borders. Of two countries, of time, of accessibility. Sending a letter to a friend from across the border may be impossible in the current tension-ridden dynamics, but I’m sure it must not have been easy back then either. Thus for two friends to challenge societal perceptions and innumerable boundaries makes it enduring.
Friendship was at the heart of the letter. Decades-long friendship of two people found me on a dull August evening. It didn’t affect my own lack-of-social connect but it did give me perspective. A warmth like the bearable Karachi sun on a winter morning had just sprung up between my ribs. Their friendship had transcended two generations. And so I thought, maybe all friendships should.
This is not to say that friendships are without troubles. On most days they will be routine. But one day in an argument you will have a point to prove and the thought of being right will be tempting. Some days it will require effort. In everything I know about love, one of my favourite memoirs on friendships, Dolly Alderton says, ‘little did I know how much work it takes to sustain that kind of intimacy with a friend as you grow older – it doesn’t just stick around coincidentally.’
The letter ended on a note that is a testament to this ‘work’ that goes in. The effort of keeping in touch and of staying persistently curious about your friends and their lives. Of always finding joy in it.
‘Apni begum muhatarma ko mera salam aur bachon ko dua, pyaar. Agar apni group family photograph bhej sako toh acha hoga.
Faqat tumhara dost, Shamim Ahmed. Hindustan.’
Say salam to your wife and give my love and wishes to your children. It would be great if you could send me a group family picture of yours.
From your friend, Shamim Ahmed. India
I folded the letter and put it back inside the book. My room suddenly felt a little more airy. I felt rescued by an enduring friendship. I knew then that my friendships should be able to do the same.
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– Duaa Amir is a writer based in Karachi. She is a South Asia Speaks 2022 fellow and her work has been published in Dawn Images, Geo Big Picture, and Poorvanchal and Palayan, a virtual storytelling project. Her work mainly revolves around food and culture surrounding migrant identity. Currently, she is a medical student and a passionate advocate for health equity.
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