Shadow of the Day
All time is borrowed time
It’s a funeral. Someone has died. It’s the father of one of my friends from university. We’ve arrived at their house in the village after an hour long drive from Islamabad. I have with me three other friends from back in the day. I kill the engine and we step out of the car.
They’ve set up a canopy for the visitors in a grass field beside the house. There’s a cool breeze blowing but it’s still hot and humid. We can see people sitting under the canopy, people moving about — in and out of the house. We’re standing there awkwardly, trying to figure out whether to go take our seats or wait for our friend to appear and console him first.
He comes stumbling out of the house; he’s in his pajamas. His eyes are red and swollen and he’s crying hard. We all hug him one at a time. I hug him and I don’t know what to say to him or how to say it. Neither do any of the other guys. We move towards the canopy to take our seats. No one says a word.
I sit there allowing my emotions to take over me. But nothing takes over, except a sense of helplessness.
At the farther end of the canopy are a couple of charpais, accommodating some men who are smoking their cigarettes and talking politics. They’re all talking in very hush, hush tones and I’m trying to make out what they’re going on about. But a little girl catches my eye — she’s laughing and having the time of her life just watching the water come out of the tap as she moves the cooler’s lever from side to side. She must be wondering why is everyone here gloomy looking. Or maybe not. I smile to myself watching her play.
I realize that my friend whose father just passed away is sitting just one seat left of me. I try to put myself in his shoes. I try to imagine what he must be feeling like right then and there. That’s all I could do — imagine. But I don’t think I did a very good job at that either. His shoes were too big for me.
After the funeral, as they were proceeding towards the burial, I heard a grown man crying out loud, “By God I loved that man! By God I loved him!”. If Waseem Kashfi, or as people usually called him, Kashfi sahab, a professor of Urdu, has left such an impression on his students in this day and age, is he really gone?
As we’re walking back towards the car, I realize that all time is borrowed time. If life means living and breathing, then death is the absence of life, right? What if it’s the other way around? The absence of death, is life. And if you think about that, life is really smaller than death in terms of time.
So chop chop fellas! Carpe diem.
