He’s buried with his father and son, but the author refuses to visit the grave—because accepting his friend is dead means losing him twice, and once was already unbearable.
This is something I once wrote about one of my dearest friends, whom I lost. It is a deeply moving personal narrative about an extraordinary friendship between a young man and an older mentor separated by three decades, but connected by warmth, wisdom, and unconditional acceptance.
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The last time we met, he told me that it was our last meeting. No words were spoken. No gestures were made. It was just a silent communication, initiated by him and acknowledged by me.
‘But why leave now?’ I silently pleaded.
‘I am tired. My frail heart cannot keep up with my spirit. The spirit needs to be free. I need to be free. He explained with a kind and sad smile.
‘But what about your friends? What about those who love you? What about me?’ I asked him with a strange desperation.
‘Oh, but I will always be there in your heart. Each time you need the advice of an old man. Each time you need a blessing. And each time you need a friend.’ His eyes were two grey, misty pools. ‘Remember, son, memory is what keeps us alive.’
‘I am going to miss you so much. I will miss the warm aroma of your pipe tobacco. I am going to miss your throaty chuckles. And I am going to miss your kindness.’ My heart was heavy with the sorrow of farewell.
‘Yes, I know that.’ He bowed his head silently. ‘But you have to let me go.’
‘Farewell, old friend.’ I whispered in silence.
‘Farewell, son.’ His eyes smiled back at me, kindly.
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It was the last time I saw him alive. He was already buried the next time I visited his place. The city was sad as if it knew a part of its fond memories had left. His house was filled with people, yet empty. The halls were alive with muted conversations, yet silent. His room still smelt of him, yet bland.
It has been incredibly difficult to let him go, and I have tried my best. But as time passes, the realization of loss grows stronger.
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He was a human magnet who attracted everybody. First, I thought it was his charisma and style. But later I realized, it was his warmth and his utter refusal to judge anybody, which made him the favorite of all.
He always had a warm smile and kind words for everybody. No one felt small or neglected in his presence. In fact, he always reminded me of an old, shady Banyan tree. There was ample space under its shade for everyone.
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There was a gap of three odd decades between us. But he constructed a bridge of kindness, affection, and warmth, and I willingly crossed over. He was a tower of strength and charisma, and I was just a boy, still trying to come to terms with the harshness of life. He opened the doors of understanding, and I willingly entered.
We had been familiar with each other for a long time. I was often playing in the street when he used to pass by in his military jeep, dressed in uniform. I always waved at him, and he always waved back. The smiling but silent exchange of greetings continued for some more time. Time passed, and I joined the military service too. Then my brother married his daughter, and fate and my good fortune brought us closer.
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He was a busy man. His job with a multinational kept him busy. But he always had time for me. I always called in advance seeking permission to go over, and he always said, ‘You don’t need permission. Just come over.’
With the passage of time, our long discussions over a few cups of tea and biscuits became a ritual. I have never been fond of rituals, but I got addicted to this one. He shifted from one topic to another, and I just listened - charmed, intrigued, and fascinated. History, politics, religion, economics, and sociology - nothing was left out. He had an anecdote for everything we discussed, and it was always a funny one.
Reflecting on those wonderful evening discussions, I now identify them as therapy sessions. He cleansed my soul and broadened my horizon. He taught me how to enjoy life and how to love unconditionally. He also taught me how not to despise and judge others. I always left his company not only more knowledgeable but also as a better person.
Sometimes, his wife joined us too for a few moments, mainly to ensure that I was doing justice to the tea trolley. She used to sit there smiling, while silently enjoying the exchange between two generations, and also, most probably, trying to understand that strange bond of friendship. She was not alone. My wife and mother were also confused, at least initially. But time passed, the friendship grew stronger and deeper, and everyone understood.
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When I think of our countless meetings, I always find smiles and love. There never was a single bitter moment despite my many stupidities and naivetés. And like all old men, he had his share of idiosyncrasies. Refusing to put on a hearing aid was one of these. A time came when I literally had to shout to make him understand what I was saying. But he never agreed to use a hearing aid. It irritated me a little in the beginning, but then I adjusted. I was always hoarse after a meeting with him, but who cared as long as I was happy.
There were other oddities, too. He had a bad knee due to an old injury, but refused to get the knee replaced. He had a bad heart condition, but he refused to admit there was anything wrong. This surprised me at first, as he always loved life. But then I understood.
He was in love with life but wanted to live life on his own terms. I learnt to respect that. This was typical of him. He never gave any logical reason for his actions. It was up to those who loved him to make an effort to understand the reasons behind his actions.
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He was the best of my friends, and he is no more. He is buried in an old graveyard along with his father and son. But I have neither visited his grave nor do I ever plan to. I cannot imagine him being dead. I would always like to imagine him sitting in his room, smoking his pipe and waiting for a lively evening session. This way, he remains alive. He wanted me to let him go, but I cannot. This is one farewell I am not ready to accept.
Shehryar khawar 