“Have you come to meet me, or to read Newsweek?”

That’s what Nanabu (maternal grandfather) would have said to me if he was still here. In fact, had I stepped in wearing headphones, he would have been even more direct: “Aye ki kannan ich tootiyan laaiyan ne? Kudh enan nu.” (“What are these taps in your ears? Take them out.”) Taps, because in-ear headphones do look like taps sprouting from our ears. (Except, they’re not pouring out, but pouring in — more on that another time.) In Punjabi, because that’s the only language in which he was himself. “Take them out” because he always wanted you there, present.

Nanabu isn’t here anymore because he passed away two weeks ago. No, it wasn’t COVID. No, he wasn’t sick otherwise. No, there was no accident. He died from an ailment much more commonly experienced, but never acknowledged: loneliness.

He lived with Mamu (maternal uncle) since 2014. Mama (mother), his eldest, saw him thrice in those last six years. Khala (maternal aunt), his youngest, settled in London, lived on videos and pictures Mama sent her; she last saw him the year prior, when she came for Nanima’s (maternal grandmother) funeral.

He would have turned eighty-five this June; save these last few years, he lived what most would consider a ‘full life’.

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Nanabu was born on 8th June, 1936, in Kotli Loharan, a settlement in Sialkot, one of six children. Sialkot provides most of the world’s footballs, and that was the only sport Nanabu played in his youth; decades later, while I massaged his legs, he would proudly point out the crooked nails and scarred shins. His family did not migrate in 1947 but, being so close to the border, they saw enough bloodshed for him to become a lifelong believer in the cause. After his schooling in Sialkot, he went on to study at FC College, in Lahore, and then, like his father had in the 1920s, to University of Wales, in Cardiff, where he also specialized in civil engineering. Upon his return, Nanabu married Nanima, a distant relative, in 1962, moved to Dera Ghazi Khan for a bit (Mama was born there), then lived briefly in Lahore (Mama remembers hiding in a bunker near their house in Model Town during the 1965 war), and finally left Pakistan in 1966, family in tow, to build highways and bridges in Nigeria.

That’s where Mama went to school, and Mamu and Khala were born. They moved around the country with Nanabu’s postings, but spent most time in Kaduna. Every summer, Nanabu would get some time off, they would pack up their bags, and head to Pakistan. The trip always included a brief stopover in Kenya to see relatives, followed by exploring a new country — United Kingdom, Lebanon, France, Saudi Arabia (for Hajj) — before they landed in Lahore, and made their way to Kotli.

“On the other side of that door, was my world. On this side, was hers. What am I supposed to do now?”

By the end of his tenure in Nigeria, he was heading the Kaduna State Water Corporation, a position with considerable influence. Unfortunately, in 1982, with the start of the Ugandan Civil War, he feared worsening conditions in Nigeria, and decided it was time to leave. As the final gift to his family, he took them on a ‘world tour’ — Belgium, Netherlands, United States (Mama still remembers Hawaii), Singapore, Philippines, Japan — before landing back in Lahore, this time for good.

He had done well financially. In 1987, five years after returning to Lahore, Nanabu, Nanima, Mama, Mamu and Khala, moved into a new, custom-built, four-bedroom house in Defence, at the time, an army-run upstart neighbourhood. The many souvenirs collected on their travels adorned the walls and shelves. ‘2N’, as he called it, was where Abu’s (father) barat came later that year. The area was so deserted back then that, while the wedding proceedings occurred inside a tent pitched next to the house, someone stole the wheels of Abu’s uncle’s car parked right outside.

Right on cue, nine months later, I was born.

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I was Nanabu’s “first grandchild” and have no qualms claiming that even after Adil, my brother, was born, and Khala’s two children were born, and Mamu’s two children were born, I was still his favourite. I also had no other options; on Abu’s side, I was the sixteenth of what would become twenty-one grandchildren. 🤷🏻

It wasn’t just that.

I also spent a lot of my childhood at his house. My own house happened to be huge, built like a mansion, but it was not designed to accommodate three generations (a.k.a. joint family) at one time. The same room went from having one occupant, Abu, to two, Mama, to three, myself, and a few years later, to four, Adil. Of course, ‘Nanima Ghar’ (maternal grandmother’s house), as I called it, was a welcome escape for me, especially after Adil was born. Now and then, Nanabu would jokingly ask: “Why not ‘Nanabu’s’ house?”

Every so often, he would look up at Adil or myself, and try to initiate a conversation: “Hor bai?” (“What else?”)

All through primary and middle school, and even into high school and college, it was my second home. In summers, I took swimming lessons nearby in the morning, and played basketball across the road all evening. In between, Khala would help me with my summer homework. Friends from school still remember my ‘Nani ka ghar‘. It was also then that I picked up Nanabu’s reading habits: Newsweek, Reader’s Digest, and The News on Sunday. He remained a loyal Newsweek subscriber his entire adult life and was really disappointed after the Asia Pacific edition was replaced with Newsweek Pakistan. “Why should I pay so much to read local writers”, he lamented.

I was disappointed when he cancelled his subscription a year later because it broke my routine.

Whenever we went to Nanima Ghar, I would greet Nanabu, he would kiss my hand, I would go to his room, pick up the latest Newsweek from his nightstand, come back to the lounge, lean against the floor cushions near the TV, and dive in. He would look at me, smile, and complain: “Munun milan aaya ayein, ya Newsweek parhan?” (“Have you come to meet me, or to read Newsweek?”) I would look up, laugh, say “Donoan” (“Both”), and dive back in, desperate to read as much as I could before Nanima called for dinner.

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Nanabu was a creature of habit. Everyday, he went to work in a white shirt and grey pants, with black shoes (in winter) or black Peshawari chappals (in summer). He left for work at 730am, and was back home by 530pm, on the dot. Otherwise, he was always in a white Malmal (Muslin) kurta shalwar and black Bata slippers. Dinner at 8pm, and PTV Khabarnama (News) at 9pm. Even if Pakistan was playing India, it didn’t matter. With dinner, he always had a small bowl of yogurt topped with a finely chopped green chilli. On special occasions (or when he had gas), he would gulp down a bottle of Sprite in seconds. While he smoked, and he did, like a chimney, till a surgery in his 60s forced him to stop, it was always imported, crimson red packs of Dunhill, or imported tobacco in an impressive collection of pipes.

Like his habits, he was also unwavering in his beliefs.

First and foremost, all politicians were corrupt liars, and the army could do no wrong. I got an earful from him once, when he found out I got into an argument with an officer at a check-post. He also claimed to have been an intelligence operative at some point in his life.

Now and then, Nanabu would jokingly ask: “Why not ‘Nanabu’s’ house?”

His relationship with religion was also interesting; he believed in Islam, and in practicing the rituals and customs he had grown up with, but hated contemporary mullahs for confusing the hell out of it with their dos and dont’s. One of Mamu’s close friends was (and, probably, still is) under the influence of one such ‘life coach’ mullah, and Nanabu would not miss any chance of ridiculing him. He also questioned popular religious ‘virtue signalling’ acts for merely being Arab traditions that make no sense in Pakistan. For instance, Arabs pulled their pants above their ankles to keep them clean, they wore open toe shoes to keep sand out, and they kept beards because it was convenient. How was any of that ‘Islamic’?

Yet, while being a purist at heart, he was also a pragmatist, especially when it involved his children and grandchildren; he could swallow his pride and, if needed, look the other way, to keep the balance. In a way, that seems contrarian for someone who lived life, as they say, by the book. Such was Nanabu.

Here’s one example: There was a brief moment in my terrible teens when I stopped going to Nanima Ghar. Nanabu had expressly disapproved of me playing snooker at dingy neighbourhood clubs, even though they were a stone’s throw from his house. For some reason, he believed “all manners of bad things happen at these clubs” and refused to engage on the matter. Anyway, two weeks later, he came to Lawrence Road (what we call the house where I grew up), climbed two flights of stairs, waited for me in our living room, and apologized. At the time, I felt vindicated; now, I just feel stupid, and don’t even remember the last time I played snooker.

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My wedding in 2012 was the last time Nanabu’s entire family got together. He was overjoyed with the addition of the newest member to the family, my wife, whom he adored. He was also glad that Khala had come from London with Khalu (maternal aunt’s husband), and her two kids, who got along well with Mamu’s two kids, and enjoyed dancing at the wedding.

The happy days were numbered, though. Less than a year after my wedding, Nanima passed away.

After his retirement a few years prior (he worked into his 70s), unlike his peers, Nanabu refused to partake in any septuagenarian hobbies like playing golf or bridge at the Lahore Gymkhana; he became a member of the British-era club in the 1980s, but hated going there in later years because he couldn’t stand “nau-daulatiyay”, i.e., the “new monied”. Instead, he chose to stay home, which, given his temperament, meant that he would often get into arguments with Nanima over petty house matters. It made for a lot of drama, but also kept them alive. Now, with her gone, he couldn’t even do that.

He replied: “Bachay koi nai? Koi gal nai. Mein kar k ki kar leyay?” (“No kids? No worries. What have I achieved with them?”)

I wanted to go abroad for undergrad, but Nanabu had opposed the idea, suggesting instead that, like him, I can go for “post graduation”, i.e., graduate school. Eight years later, in 2014, I got admitted to a graduate program at UC Berkeley, and went to see him a few days before leaving for the United States.

He was happy I was “going abroad for studies”, but did wonder whether US education would be “as good as the UK”, fully embodying the post-colonial stereotype. He didn’t say much otherwise, and I couldn’t help but notice how he was on a downward slide himself. He was no longer clean-shaven, refused to wear his hearing aid, or go anywhere, and seemed rather distant, or, I should say, not present.

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Nanima’s death broke Nanabu; after she was taken away and laid to rest, he stood in the verandah, looking towards the gate, and remarked: “On the other side of that door, was my world. On this side, was hers. What am I supposed to do now?”

Ergo, it should not have come as a surprise to anyone in the family, when, only a few months after her first barsi (death anniversary), we found out that he had divided up his estate and gifted it to his children. The real surprise was, perhaps, that Mamu got the house; the house Nanabu had built; the house where he still lived. With the stroke of a pen, the perspective flipped: the house where Mamu had lived with him for forty or so years, he now lived with Mamu.

To do that while he was still alive, was a bold move. Perhaps, it was the final act of a pragmatist, long done being a purist, looking to live out the remainder of his life unencumbered, looking the other way, ready to depart.

I want to say he kissed my hand, but I’m not sure; it was all too much to remember.

But it wasn’t just what he did, per se, but the way it happened, that did not sit well with Mama and Khala. They were not involved in the process, and simply heard about it after the fact; this was atypical because he normally never differentiated between his daughters and his son. Of course, the real underlying worry was what his disengagement had already communicated, and what this act confirmed: he was giving up.

Suffice to say, not only did Nanabu’s final deed fissure his relationship with Mama and Khala, it also sealed the fate of their individual relationships with Mamu. Things could never be the same again.

I call home every weekend; every now and then after that, I would ask Mama if she spoke to Nanabu, and she would either avoid the subject, or say: “It doesn’t feel right”. On every trip to Pakistan, I would ask to meet him, and she would refuse. The last few years, she even had an excuse: “I don’t even know where they live. Mamu apparently sold the house and moved out.”

She did finally see him once in 2018, and once in 2019, when Mamu dropped him to a family friend’s place for a few days because he was going out of town. Nanabu was no longer able to move around himself, had a hard time recognizing people, and, in pictures Mama sent me, looked aloof with unkempt hair, beard and nails.

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On my last trip to Pakistan in January, I asked Mama again if I could see Nanabu, citing people losing elders to COVID, and she agreed. Apparently, her relations with Mamu had thawed a bit in prior months, and she had even been to his new house recently to see Nanabu.

The next evening, I drove there excitedly with Mama and Adil. Mamu opened the gate. Seeing me there took him by surprise. We shared an awkward embrace, pretending to be mindful of COVID, but also feeling the tension in the air. He guided us in, through the foyer, to a room in the back of the house.

Nanabu was lying in bed when I entered. As Mamu lifted him out and sat him on a couch, I looked around to acquaint myself.

… a body almost bereft of spirit, done being purist and pragmatist, on the homestretch.

I recognized the bed from the rectangular motif on the headboard; it was from Nanima Ghar; Nanima had given beds like that for Adil and I when we moved out of Lawrence Road. I recognized the desk in the corner; it used to be the only off-limits area in Nanabu’s room because that’s where he kept his documents, medicines and fancy drawing tools. I recognized the single seat couch, and wondered if it was the one he always sat on in the lounge, or the one adjacent, where Abu sat when we visited.

I could not recognize him.

He was frail, his skin looked pale, and his face had lost all character. When he looked up, you could tell his gaze was still strong, but he mostly looked down or kept his eyes shut. Mamu gave him something to eat, but he seemed disinterested, and even dropped the food a couple of times. According to Mamu, doctors said there was nothing wrong with him; yet, for some reason, he often resorted to misbehaving and cursing.

Mama sat close to him, patiently reminded him who she was, and who we were. It took him a few minutes, but he caught on.

Every so often, he would look up at Adil or myself, and try to initiate a conversation: “Hor bai?” (“What else?”) This wasn’t new; he always tried to engage us like that. We responded awkwardly, not sure what to say anymore. It was a lot to process, and I resorted to keeping quiet for the most part, just taking it all in. The gulf created by years of no contact seemed too deep to fill with such a shallow encounter.

Emotionally spent, we said our goodbyes a couple of hours later, and left. I want to say he kissed my hand, but I’m not sure; it was all too much to remember.

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Four months later, I was back in Toronto, sitting in Queen’s Park, enjoying the late afternoon sun, when I got the call. Nanabu was no more.

His condition had deteriorated dramatically in the past five days. Mama found out on the last day and rushed over. The video she sent me is still painful to watch; a body almost bereft of spirit, done being purist and pragmatist, on the homestretch.

As I look back on his life and relations, I can’t help but think about something he said to me in the last interaction. He asked me if I had kids, and I shook my head. He replied: “Bachay koi nai? Koi gal nai. Mein kar k ki kar ley-ay?” (“No kids? No worries. What have I achieved with them?”)

Thankfully, for his sake, he’s no longer lonely.