Love Across Borders by Naheed Hassan, Sabahat Muhammad Page A
Authors: Naheed Hassan, Sabahat Muhammad
Tags: Cultural
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she spoke, the voice was unmistakably
hers.
“How are you, Suresh?” she asked in Sindhi.
It was Kavita. I was so taken aback that for a
few moments I could only stare at her. She was still beautiful, her
eyes still shone, but her hair was short now. The lustrous curls
were gone. We sat in silence for some time and just looked at each
other. And then we started reminiscing, talking and remembering our
days together at the university.
I asked her about her life after leaving
Karachi. She said that her family first went to Shimla and then
they moved to Mumbai where she completed her graduate studies. She
went to the US, to obtain a masters degree in Sociology, and then
worked at first with the Indian Government, then with UNESCO in Sri
Lanka as an advisor, before retiring in Mumbai.
While Kavita was talking, I noticed that her
tone, manner of speaking, and the way she moved her hands were
exactly the same as I remembered.
“How about you and your family?” she asked.
I told her how I had moved to the UK to study
and then raise a family, that I had one son, and that my wife
passed away a few years ago.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She was quiet.
“Did you ever get married?”
“No.” She stood up suddenly and started to look
at the photographs in my room. Reliving our memories seemed to have
made her happy and sad at the same time. The room was emotionally
charged. She tried to change the atmosphere by telling me that she
knew all about me through Ratu. She complained that in all these
years I had never attempted to find her.
“Has Ratu told you that I became friends with
him on Facebook?” She probed.
“Yes, he has…” And I went on to tell her that my
overactive brain had cooked up a story that Ratu and her
granddaughter, who uses the Karachi University logo, like each
other.
She laughed, and said bluntly, “You still have
your old habits of student politics—‘always speculate, and
speculate wrongly’.”
I joined in her laughter, looking at her face,
seeing again the two dimples on her cheeks that appeared when she
laughed.
Sadly I said, “I failed to be your Rano .”
She just looked at me.
Just then, Ratu came in and brought a tray of chai and sweets for us. As he turned to leave, Kavita
stopped him. “Did you not tell Suresh about me?”
“No, I didn’t,” Ratu replied. He turned to me
now and told me that Kavita was my mysterious Facebook friend, and
that after she was sure that she had found me, she had reached out
to Ratu and told him about us. He smiled and then left us
alone.
I looked at Kavita. “You are still very
dramatic; why didn’t you just tell me who you were?”
“And you still jump to conclusions,” she
responded.
I smiled and handed her a cup of tea.
As she sipped her steaming chai , Kavita
whispered, “I have borne the time we have been separated as a Banwas .”
I took off my glasses, and dried my eyes. I got
up and went to my reading table, and from one of its drawers took
out a worn scrap of paper and gave it to her.
“This is what kept me going in Banwas ,” I
said. And then I reached for her hand. “Like Momal and Rano, our
story got interrupted Kavita, but unlike them, we have the chance
to begin again.”
She held my hand tightly and nodded.
Later Lela and Ratu came in and joined us.
Kavita invited us to visit her in Mumbai. Since then I spend time
in Mumbai, a city which reminds both of us of Karachi across the
border—where our story started so many decades ago.
∞
ABOUT ZAFFAR JUNEJO
Zaffar Junejo is an author, translator,
editor and publisher. He did his masters in science [computer
technology] from the University of Sindh, Jamshoro/Hyderabad but
left to pursue a career in the volunteer sector. He has translated
25 books into Sindhi for young readers. Along with his wife, he
manages ‘Phoenix Books’ a publication house for children.
Occasionally, he also writes for Newsline—a Karachi based monthly
magazine. His contributions
hers.
“How are you, Suresh?” she asked in Sindhi.
It was Kavita. I was so taken aback that for a
few moments I could only stare at her. She was still beautiful, her
eyes still shone, but her hair was short now. The lustrous curls
were gone. We sat in silence for some time and just looked at each
other. And then we started reminiscing, talking and remembering our
days together at the university.
I asked her about her life after leaving
Karachi. She said that her family first went to Shimla and then
they moved to Mumbai where she completed her graduate studies. She
went to the US, to obtain a masters degree in Sociology, and then
worked at first with the Indian Government, then with UNESCO in Sri
Lanka as an advisor, before retiring in Mumbai.
While Kavita was talking, I noticed that her
tone, manner of speaking, and the way she moved her hands were
exactly the same as I remembered.
“How about you and your family?” she asked.
I told her how I had moved to the UK to study
and then raise a family, that I had one son, and that my wife
passed away a few years ago.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She was quiet.
“Did you ever get married?”
“No.” She stood up suddenly and started to look
at the photographs in my room. Reliving our memories seemed to have
made her happy and sad at the same time. The room was emotionally
charged. She tried to change the atmosphere by telling me that she
knew all about me through Ratu. She complained that in all these
years I had never attempted to find her.
“Has Ratu told you that I became friends with
him on Facebook?” She probed.
“Yes, he has…” And I went on to tell her that my
overactive brain had cooked up a story that Ratu and her
granddaughter, who uses the Karachi University logo, like each
other.
She laughed, and said bluntly, “You still have
your old habits of student politics—‘always speculate, and
speculate wrongly’.”
I joined in her laughter, looking at her face,
seeing again the two dimples on her cheeks that appeared when she
laughed.
Sadly I said, “I failed to be your Rano .”
She just looked at me.
Just then, Ratu came in and brought a tray of chai and sweets for us. As he turned to leave, Kavita
stopped him. “Did you not tell Suresh about me?”
“No, I didn’t,” Ratu replied. He turned to me
now and told me that Kavita was my mysterious Facebook friend, and
that after she was sure that she had found me, she had reached out
to Ratu and told him about us. He smiled and then left us
alone.
I looked at Kavita. “You are still very
dramatic; why didn’t you just tell me who you were?”
“And you still jump to conclusions,” she
responded.
I smiled and handed her a cup of tea.
As she sipped her steaming chai , Kavita
whispered, “I have borne the time we have been separated as a Banwas .”
I took off my glasses, and dried my eyes. I got
up and went to my reading table, and from one of its drawers took
out a worn scrap of paper and gave it to her.
“This is what kept me going in Banwas ,” I
said. And then I reached for her hand. “Like Momal and Rano, our
story got interrupted Kavita, but unlike them, we have the chance
to begin again.”
She held my hand tightly and nodded.
Later Lela and Ratu came in and joined us.
Kavita invited us to visit her in Mumbai. Since then I spend time
in Mumbai, a city which reminds both of us of Karachi across the
border—where our story started so many decades ago.
∞
ABOUT ZAFFAR JUNEJO
Zaffar Junejo is an author, translator,
editor and publisher. He did his masters in science [computer
technology] from the University of Sindh, Jamshoro/Hyderabad but
left to pursue a career in the volunteer sector. He has translated
25 books into Sindhi for young readers. Along with his wife, he
manages ‘Phoenix Books’ a publication house for children.
Occasionally, he also writes for Newsline—a Karachi based monthly
magazine. His contributions