Twenty years back I went to Srilanka.
After my Mom’s utmost struggle, she was able to get a seat for me in the newly established private medical college of Srilanka, which was North Colombo Medical College. Forty miles away, from the posh city of Colombo, there was small, undeveloped village called Ragama, where on a little hill my medical college was located. I stayed and studied there for two years, from 1986 to 1988. In 1988 when we were about to appear for our first professionals, our exams were postponed, college was closed for indefinite period. All foreign students packed their bags and sadly returned home.
The reason for the closure of that private medical college was not just one but two. Firstly, the country was facing political unrest. Those were the earlier days of intrusion of IPKF (Indian Peace keeping Force). The guerrilla fights were at its peak in North East provinces of Srilanka. The other major reason was the agitation from the students of Colombo faculty (the state medical college of Colombo) against us. The students of Colombo faculty argued, that our college and its students had lesser merits compared to them; but we managed to acquire the admission in medical college because of our wealth/influence. They feared for unnecessary, unfair, high competition in future in context of seeking state jobs. For two years our Board of Governors fought for the affiliation with Colombo faculty; for two years we the students of NCMC waited and waited but in vain. In the mean time we visited twice there. Whenever we were informed of reopening through the letters of our friends who chose to stay, to wait and prepare for exams. Finally, many of us successfully secured places in medical college of Pakistan, mostly in Punjab. Some of my friends went abroad and left the insane pursuit of medical degree; they opt for other equally prestigious degree courses like business administration, chemical engineering etc.
The memories of those days are my treasure.
That was my first travel ever, my first flight...It was horrible. It was small Fokker plane filled with smell of coconut all over. My mother was with me on this trip to help me get settle there as it was my first time far away from home, all alone. My sister and one of my cousins also joined us in order to tour SriLanka. It was not just my first air journey but of my sister and cousin too. All three of us suffered motion sickness, but I vomited through out and even after I reached my boarding place. After that experience my mother never forgot to put pack of ‘Marzine tablets’ in my hand bag whenever I traveled.
I found Sri Lanka beautiful in every way. The thick tropical forest was so widely spread that hardly any patch of land was visible when seen from airplane window. I used to make conscience effort while landing to find any reddish brown patches in midst of green and blue colors stretched far and wide below. Every thing was unique, strange, but charming to me. It was like my dream place; filled with natural exquisiteness. The tall palm, coconut and jackfruit trees, the jungle all around us, the well at the backyard which not only served as a water reservoir but a gossip corner for neighborhood ladies; there we had occasional encounters with snakes and witnessed how-to-catch-them. And that lovely rain which always enhanced the splendor of environment, are etched in my mind for good. The only thing I did not like about it was its food which usually carried coconut smell.
Ragama was a village. My Srilankan colleagues and friends used to tell me that Ragama was nothing in terms of natural beauty as compared to the rest of the country… but It was great for me. I remember I used to feel the sense of exhilaration just by taking a walk up and down the road in front of my boarding place, sometimes with my friend and sometimes alone.
The houses were made in old European style more in country fashion, which I gathered later on, were the reminiscence of Portuguese and Dutch occupation. There were no ceilings and hence no ceiling fans instead the high roofs were made of wood planks to keep the living space airy. Although we paid our landlord to provide ceiling and ceiling fans in our rooms but truly in hot weather of May, June also, unlike Karachi I never felt unbearable heat suffocation there. Every house had red cement floors that I had only seen in ‘Amol Palekhar’s movies or heard from my Mom/ Phoopi (paternal aunt), when they told tales of their home towns in India. The other best thing with which I instantly fell in love were the picket fences and low gates of each house which we Karachiites could never even fancy. Ragama was a peaceful, safe village.
I lived in the house of Christian family Mr. and Mrs. Joe Michael D’Silva ), as a paying guest along with another girl from Karachi (who soon became my best friend). Mr. Joe Michael had three kids. Their eldest daughter was of our age Manjoola. She was our interpreter and guide of the place. My friend and I shared the boarding place but not the rooms. Both of us wanted our privacy as we were ‘same, same but different’ (lol). We both loved poetry, singing, old Indian and Pakistani filmy songs/movies, nature, and rain. We loved to drench ourselves in rain for hours. Whenever there was rain (which was quite frequent), we just couldn’t resist and go out, if we weren’t at college or studying. Our best past time was to take a walk on that undulating road in front of our boarding place, far and away. Sometimes we visit our other friends, also boarding at Kadawatha road or just wander around in forests, explore new ‘PAGDANDEES’, cute houses and just get friendly by sending flirtatious smile to old Uncles, Aunties and kids.
The village was not modern but roads were built in such a way (by courtesy of Dutch or Portuguese) that rain water never accumulated to form dirty muddy puddles. Therefore rain showers always used to add freshness, sparkling hues in natural plants and delightful aroma to sand.
It was all so beautiful. Every phase of nature was in its purest, complete form. The days were bright and shining with radiant yellowish orange sun that brushed the sky with series of red and yellow when about to set; the nights were dark and shadowy with sweet blue moonlight. I remember I was bewildered when I saw the sky on our first full-moon (Poya Day, they call it) night-walk. The ground adjacent to Kadawatha road bathed with moonlight that day, so my friend and I ceased studying, informed our land-lady and decided to go in the ground. I remember standing in the middle of that ground mesmerized by the mysterious beauty around us when my friend Shirmeen pointed at sky, “Look, look above!” There were thousands and thousands of blue shining dots, twinkling on the sky with a big white circle in the center. It seemed as if thousands of tiny azure sapphires were spread on black satin sheet, with glaring ball in the center. It was not as if I had seen it for the first time but never had such a clear view.... It was picture perfect. The moon was so close I felt, that I could pluck it from the sky with a jump. We later pondered that the reason of not witnessing so many shining stars was because of the Karachi’s artificial neon lights on ground. I had always loved and fantasized moon because my father used to take us (me and my siblings) on walk in moonlights. He made us see ‘old lady with her spindle’ in the moon and recited us “Chanda Mama duur ke” during those fabulous walks.
I studied in Srilanka for two years and waited for two more years for the reopening of college, thus wasted four years of my academic years. I lost quite a lot in terms of time, youth years and money, but what I gained, certainly was of enormous value.
The most precious of all, was the relationship of my friends. I was blessed by the sincerest friends by the grace of Allah since my childhood days till to date. Although, the time I spent in each company was short, but the love I gained was tremendous. Among my Srilankan friends I have Buddhist, Hindu, Christian and Muslim friends. I learned a lot from them about their religion and respect, tolerance towards others believes.
As it was Zia’s regime in Pakistan, ‘Hudood Ordinance’ was the burning issue of those days. Women activist were protesting, debating about Islamic laws. We were Bhutto lover and hated Zia for that matter. I remember I had a heated discussion with one of my Srilankan Muslim friend Reza Mansoor. I was agnostic at that time. He urged me to read Quran by translation then only one could make right from wrong. It was because of him that for the first time I really got interested in reading and understanding of Quran.
All my friends were special but there was one guy who was unique in every way. His name was Bahawan. I used to despise him in the beginning. He was Tamil, Hindu, strict vegetarian, dark and stout man. He had jet black curly hairs, acne scarred face, stub nose, muscular body, broad hands and fingers and weird gait. A chain smoker he was, loved to drink but had good reputation among ladies. Like a child he played jokes but never saw him disrespecting any girl. He was sinner and saint at the same time.
Sometimes his persona scared me; sometimes his mocking over my weight used to hurt me. I was used to all these similar insults since childhood, but I was able to move on because of love, admiration, and support from my friends, teachers, and family. There I was alone far from home, new country, new language, naïve, vulnerable soul.
Our anatomy Professor had divided our whole batch in many groups in order to perform dissections. Each human body had eight students at a time, four on each side. I prayed real hard to have my Pakistani friends in my group but instead, I got the group where I was the only Pakistani girl. And for my harassment (I thought at that time) or was that a revenge I couldn’t comprehend, they put ‘Bahawan’ in my group. Therefore no chatting was to be in Urdu, more ridicule and no help. I totally felt like a fish out of water…lonely and depressed.
But I was way wrong…
As the days passed and studies became tougher, I saw frenzied students in cutthroat competition, transforming into greedy hawks to acquire Colombo faculty notes/good grades. The studies were very tough for us, the Pakistani students. The exams pattern was totally novel. It was the first time we had heard of the term MCQ’s, negative markings. Moreover, parents’ expectations were added burden on us. Here I must acknowledge the superb standard of education of Srilanka. The local students were head and shoulder above us. They studied Glucose cycle’ the ‘Kerb’s cycle’, human biology during their ‘A’ levels when we crammed our brain with frog, cockroach, rabbit and earthworm knowledge.
Bahawan was friend of friends. All the students from different body groups used to take his help in studies. He was genius, intelligent, top student of the class. His knowledge of literature, his philosophical mind, his casualness and kind-of-, indifference towards his own unmatched smartness, his detrainment from competitions and his unconditional undemanding supporting hand to all, had amazed me. But what really dawned on me as a pleasant shock was his deep understanding of Iqbal’s ‘Khudee’ philosophy. I felt utter fool in front of him as he expected more from me on the subject coz I was a Pakistani.
The relationship I acquired with Bahawan was exceptional. We never met anywhere outside than college, no dates, no parties, no cinema, never sat side by side during college parties or lecture room, no physical contact, not even had hand shake. But I remember whenever there were fewer crowds in library or in basement/dissection hall… we talked. He could talk for hours and I had always been a good listener. His perspective towards religion, world, life, and love were enlightening, refreshing for me, (intellectual discussions always attracts me…stimulates my mind and stirs my soul).
When I came back to Pakistan and finally left NCMC, Bahawan and I remained in touch for one or two years through letter writing, then, that ended too. I have not heard from him since then.
I have a habit of keeping letters, greeting cards, pictures even torn pages where some nice verse, notes were scribbled for me from my precious friends; It is my treasure.
Although each letter has special place in my heart but Bahawan’s letters! They were extraordinary in many ways; his vocabulary, high-class form of expressions, even his formation of letters, and his feelings in between the lines were very profound and quite unfound.
Following is the excerpt from one of his letter…A singular gem from my treasure that I share with you.
“How is life over there? In SriLanka there were dramatic changes in the recent past. The IPKF left the country and after a brief period of three months of peace, the war broke out in the North east sector last month. My home town was the most affected, close to about 1500-1600 people, army guerillas have died since then. This time is severe than ever before. There is an uneasy calmness prevailing in the rest of the country. The simmering tensions can boil over at any time…which means disaster.
These days I am a bit confused and confounded. I feel a stranger in many ways; an alien in a framework of time, place and society. If you have come across William Wordsworth’s “Lonely Cloud” you’d get what I mean. If not, read it! Incidentally I am remained Pasternak*, who wrote during the turbulent days of October revolution, “What a summer, what a summer, how unsought and undeserved!” In short it’s all tragic, realistic and revealing; the profound ignorance of man despite centuries of refinement and restoration. I agree with the idea of “Shangiri La”… Let all varieties of flowers of civilization be crushed and trampled without mercy by the ruthless heels of time and in that wasteland will blossom the bright flowers of compassion!
One of my friends saw the letter you wrote me. He started fooling me. I told him that in the negation of everything there remains one thing positive and that’s love…eternal, nonspecific and non possessive. I hope you’d agree with my definition! At least it’s nice to throw away everything at least for a moment or so and to experience the bliss of total abandon… that’s obscure, exhilarating and shares the nature of infinity! Let Love make the heart tender towards all and tenderness yields that priceless treasure called friendship. They say that the soul has consented once more to be encased in bone and skin, just to taste love once again!”
Bahawan wherever you are now I just want you to know that I agree with your definition of love.
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