A friend called Farooque! (A true life story originally written in Malayalam by Somarajan Panicker) It was after being wounded by many exams in Kerala that the idea of going to Mumbai dawned in my mind. On hearing this, my mom exploded at once: Now you have to go there and bring shame to Vijayan ( my elder brother who was a very bright student ) also - my son, give me some peace. From my dad it was not only anger, but also ridicule. ‘Someone who could not do well here is going to do well in Bombay! Have you nothing better to do, boy? To my good luck, my older brother relented. The letter he sent me, offering to give me a bed in his place and agreeing to help me learn computing appeared like the last chance God was giving me to do well. With such an older and kind brother to help, God had merely to look on. My dad refused several times to finance the purchase of the train ticket to Bombay. I finally managed that by begging from my mother. My plan was to board the mid night train Malabar Express to Mangalore and take a bus from there to Bombay. Even on the day of my travel, there was no glow on my moms face. Dad could never talk to me without getting angry. When I said goodbye, the only one who wept was my aunt. My dear son, you go and do well.. saying this, she hugged me tight and kissed me on my cheeks - even now, as I think about it, tears well up in my eyes. Even as my mom was packing chips and pickles for my brother, she gave me tons of good advice. Even though the train was not due to arrive at Chengannur until midnight, I left home at eight in the evening. No one came to see me off. I somehow managed to get on the last compartment where passengers without reservation traveled and luckily found a seat and placed my box under it. In my mind many dreams about the great city where I was going, my dads angry words, moms tears and my brothers letter flashed by. The eyes of moms mischievous boy also filled with tears. Finding by information the bus station from where buses from Mangalore to Mumbai plied, I managed to purchase a ticket and continued to wait. After traveling a day and half, I arrived at the great city of Bombay, now known as Mumbai. It was a stroke of fate that I, who had come to study computer programming, was accepted in Watumull Engineering College in Worli. The same fate intervened to help with my college fees, when my brother got a job in Saudi. I moved into the college hostel in Bandra. The day I moved into the hostel, I met my roommate Farooque and his parents. He was from Sholapur. His parents were primary school teachers. Although Farooque spoke better English than I did, his parents could only converse in Hindi or Urdu. Despite this, I sensed they were talking with such pride about their only son Farooque. Farooque has an older sister who was married and three younger sisters. Farooque Mohammad Beg, that small slim boy, was the prayer and hope of that big family! I suddenly recalled one of the hundreds of advices my mother had given. She used to remind every so often that whenever I met teachers, I should touch their feet respectfully. In honour of that advice, I touched the feet of Farooque’s parents. Farooques dad (Abba) hugged me and said: My son Farooque is a young innocent lad. I am entrusting him to you, his good friend. He is new to this big city. Keep an eye on him. At least on Fridays remind him to go and pray at the mosque. If that too is not possible, ask him to go Sunday afternoon. What nice boys you are - if you tell him he will obey. Otherwise give him a slap, have no hesitation. If he ever needs any financial assistance, my student Silaver is here. He works for BSNL and he will take care of everything. I watched Farooques parents walking away; when I turned I was shocked to see Farooque sobbing and shedding tears. The great realization that parting from parents could be so traumatic, I learned from Farooque. Those parents who bestowed all their hope on him and walked away with tears in their eyes shed a silver light of goodness in my life. Farooque and Shiva Bhatia, who shared room 207 in the second floor with us, became close friends within few days. Three people from differing backgrounds who got together in this room in Mumbai to weave their dreams. Shiva has only a dim recollection of his dad. He is the youngest son of a Punjabi Hindu family who fled Lahore during partition, first to Delhi, then to Dehradun and finally Nagpur. Shiva who used to sleep in his moms bed with her until recently, who lost his father very young but the same darling boy became a star of the hostel. Farooque was a dear friend to me in every way. He never spoke ill of anyone, sang well and though he was born in an economically backward conservative family with many difficulties, his educated parents, despite the hardship educated all their children. Even though it was expensive, they sent Farooque to an English medium boarding school. Their solace and hope were that if Farooque managed to do well, he would look after the education and marriage of his younger siblings. Farooque was a docile friend with all the good qualities. We needed six hundred rupees a month to meet our expenses. I received that amount in my bank account, sent by my brother through my dad. Farooque got three hundred rupees from his home; his relative Yusuf gave the balance three hundred to him in cash. It was given as an advance; on the understanding Farooque will repay it when he secured a job. Farooque would be very concerned and agitated when his marks in an exam were lower. Seeing this, I who left Areekkara(my village) with no worries and a few complaints from my mother, was touched. To give his three younger sisters a better education and life, Farooque had to study well and get a job. I have seen him weep many times, after reading the letters he received from home. Considering that all hopes of that family of five were placed on the shoulders of that young man and contrasting it with me, who left for Mumbai without giving any hope to anyone, I felt embarrassed. Farooque was not only a good student, but he was also a good singer who could sing many of Mohammad Rafi songs. When this skill came to be known, our room became the stage for singers and those who enjoyed hearing songs. Our evenings never ended without at least one song from Farooque. We came to appreciate the beauty of Urdu language, through the many poems Farooque sang and recited for us. In these gatherings I who had no Hindi, Urdu or songs held on only because of my skills in mimicry. Not being able to cope with not seeing Farooque for many days, most months his father or sometimes his father and mother together would come to visit. They always brought snacks and halva for all three of us. On every visit Farooque would hug them and cry, he would do the same just before they left. In truth, it was Farooque who taught me to cry when going away from dear ones. When a father sees his son, when the son sees his father, when a mother sees her son, when the son sees his mother - I have not seen earlier tears shed on such occasions. It was not only Farooque that they hugged and kissed on the head or cheeks. They never left without hugging and kissing Shiva and me. The only difference is that we did not cry like Farooque. When Farooque sang on college stage with accompanying orchestra, we were amazed. How beautifully another Mohammed - Farooque Mohammed Beg, sang the sweet melodies of Mohammed Rafi. It was later that we learned Farooque used to perform on several stages in Sholapur for the small income he made from singing. Farooque had the gift of a good voice given to him by God - sometimes he could render a Rafi song almost like the original. When the college closed for summer holidays, I made my first trip home. When the long distance Jayanthi Janatha Train reached Sholapur Junction, the entire Farooque family was on the platform. They had brought two separate packages of Biriyani for my two meals. When I touched the feet of that father and mother, both of them hugged me. When they said How good it feels to see my dear son Som , I too knew the value of a father and mothers love. Farooques younger sisters - Yasmin, Jahanara and Gohar - hung on my hands playfully shouting Brother Som is here. It was evident from their expression of affection that Farooque was their hero and the friends of that hero were valuable like their own brother. Even when the green flag was waved, those little hands did not cease waving goodbye. I have enjoyed many times their love; Biriyani and the affectionate tug of those little hands. Every time the Jayanthi/Janathi Train arrived with me at Sholapur, this meeting would repeat. It continued until my train journey came to an end and Farooque got a job. How many packs of Biriyani have they given me, as if it were for their own son, for my train journey? Despite their repeated requests that I should break my journey at Sholapur and stay with them for a day at least, I could not make it happen. After studies and songs and with friendship we left college and hostel. Farooque got a job as System Engineer in the famous Times of India. Farooques parents reduced their visits to Mumbai. It was roughly a month after I got a job with Toshiba that I had occasion to go to Sholapur. As the company had arranged hotel accommodation for my stay in Sholapur, I found time to visit Farooques home. Farooques father came to the hotel to take me home. Ours is a small house. It has limited facilities. We struggled to put Farooque through college. But this is enough - now he will take care of everything. Not to worry, Uncle. I just want to see the house of that great singer that is all. Remember, I too come from a little village called Areekkara , Uncle. When the auto stopped and we walked through the narrow lane, I was frightened. It was like an array of small houses. Small houses made out of bricks and tiled roof . In Kerala we would call these very small houses; those a little bigger would probably be called shacks. From a little house made out of Bricks and wood, Farooques little sisters came running and taking hold of my hands lead me inside their house. It was then I fully realized that it was from that little house Farooque came to Mumbai with such big dreams. I dont recall how long Farooques mother stood hugging and kissing me. Even in that dim light, I saw the rivulet of tears running down from her eyes. In those five years, I had acquired enough of Hindi and Urdu to converse freely with Farooques parents. I was surprised to see the little girls competing to put the various items of the feast on the table. They find such joy in their limited facilities. That mother has noted well my love for food in general and for some items in particular. They shared with me their many dreams like booking a flat, sending the girls for higher education, etc. from the monthly remittance that Farooque sent. I was with them until very late in the evening. When I reached my hotel, I felt contempt for myself. In Areekkara even though we had spacious grounds and a house with many rooms, what lot of complaints I had? I neither understood my mothers tears or my fathers anger. Even though there was not even a good chair in Farooks house, from that little house what big dreams were those parents weaving. With the capital of his ability to study and God given sweet voice, how hard Farooque is working to be the sole hope of that big family. Farooque, it is my good fortune to have become your good friend. The wheel of time rolled on. As Farooque climbed up the steps of his career, his parents bought a flat in Sholapur and the girls all became graduates. He bought an apartment in Mumbai. Married Tabsum, who was a college lecturer. His wedding was at Sholapur. We, five of his close friends, joined the bridegrooms party and following the custom danced into the wedding hall. Wearing a crown and his face hidden by the strings of jasmine blooms, Farooque came on horseback to wed Tabsum, the pretty electronic engineer in accordance with tradition . Those little sisters are now beautiful grown women, but they still tug at my hands. The difference is that they now have more brothers. Farooque is now in charge of Times of Indias system engineering. He still sings and has not forgotten how to tease. Twenty-five years of uninterrupted friendship. Recently I saw Farooques parents - Abba Jan and Ammi Jan. As I touched their feet and they stood hugging me like another son, I remembered my mother who had shed a lot of tears over me! Farooque, It is my big fortune that I can call you my dear friend! (Translated from Malayalam by Variath Variath Madhavan Kutty, Vancouver, Canada.) This is a rare honour for me , as most respected Kuttiyettan could find some extra time for me to translate this story at the request of Farooque and hundreds of his friends and colleagues who can not read Malayalam. I pay my respect to Kuttiyettan and Jayashree Thotekat for their time, interest and guidance to make this true life story with an English version . Today I felt very blessed !
Posted on: Thu, 18 Dec 2014 06:26:43 +0000
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