Memories of my father Mohammed Farooq

My father, the late Mohammed Farooq, left us on November 17, 1982, far too early and suddenly for all of us.  He was only 57 when he got lung complications from heart surgery at Cornell Medical Center, Upper East Side, New York City.  It was a tough time for all of us.  My mother lost a whole chunk of hair on one side of her head from the shock.  I was not myself for several years, even though I had 2 young kids, Mona and Reza, who were 4 and 5 then.  But as our faith commands us, we learn to accept and move on, and as time heals we choose to remember what the departed taught us by their words and action.  Like all memories, they are scattered and mixed up as we are not sure what we heard or what we saw, but we certainly remember what we felt.  My father had this wonderful habit of coming home, usually very late from Manhattan and the various UN meetings for Pakistan Mission, but still taking the time to knock on our doors, smile and ask how the day went, especially our studies. And if something didn’t go right, he would say “keep your chin up”, very British style I must say.  He loved entertaining people, socializing at parties, participating and leading conversations – he was so eloquent, and such an avid reader, and at the same time, he loved adventure. In Turkey, I cannot remember one city that we did not go and see as kids.  Every weekend was picnic time, bridge party time or driving to Beirut, the Paris of the Middle East time and an assortment of beautiful places across all of Anatolia.  We even drove from Germany to Pakistan in 1961.  As Chachajan tells me that was an economic decision, which allowed Abu and Chachajan to save money coming back to Paksitan on our tickets, and provide for all the younger siblings and their retired parents too.  For us, it was adventure time.  I remember I used to read books in the back of the Opel station wagon, and then complain about headaches, and everyone would laugh and say that if you sit backwards to the car’s direction, what else do you expect?  When we left Turkey in 1966, we again drove back through Iran.  I remember times when the driving got dangerous.  In Iran, a sandstorm had covered the road, and we didn’t know where we were going in the desert! In Bulgaria, Communism was taking over, and we had to keep driving without stopping.  I remember the car getting flooded once, and we all had to empty and dry it the next day.  In Iran, I remember a  young boy running a mile into town to get us some fruit, which was not available at the musafirkhana or travelers’ hostel.  We got trained early on in life in appreciating cultures, practices and learning to love nature and landscapes of all kinds, whether forest or desert, mountains or steppe.  And that’s his legacy that I treasure the most, the adventurous spirit with a passion for learning, with an optimistic spirit that was always seeing what is possible.  He did have his dark side, and that was his worries. He worried a lot about many things, and I remember when he listened to sad Saigal songs, my grandmother would chide him. I remember getting up at night one time, and he was sitting with his head in his hands just thinking…that was after he had found out about his heart problem and was waiting for the Pakistani govt to clear his funds for surgery.  But he did that a lot before then too.

That did not mean that he didn’t listen to other music- we had a Grunding in our house which he got from Germany, and his tape collection ranged from Elvis, to Beethoven to Saigal to Scottish music and beyond. And that’s why I love world music, which didn’t even begin to fuse and blend in so many interesting ways as it does now.  At the dinner table, conversations revolved around world politics and art and poetry, especially Urdu poetry.  He insisted we not learn Punjabi, a dialect, but the real Urdu, the language of poetry and of the Mughals.  Nobody would know he was from Punjab, as he spoke beautiful Urdu and was such a lover of that dying language (although I am so grateful that younger generations such as my husband’s niece’s husband Parvaiz Munir is moderating an Urdu Forum!).  I learned at an early age about Ghalib, Zauq and Iqbal, and so many renowned Urdu poets (wish I could remember their names!)He would be horrified that women in Islam is still a conversation in today’s times – he used to say daughters and sons should be educated highly and equally, and he ensured that for all of us.  And he always predicted that unless Pakistan cures corruption, it would not succeed and sadly his premonition came true. It started early in the country’s life, and there is no excuse for it – colonial legacy or not.  He would be even more horrified at the fact that minorities in Pakistan are being attacked – Sir Zafrullah Khan came over to dinner several times to our apt in Queens, and he was a renowned leader, amongst so many others that my father was friends with.  He would not be horrified about all the unjust wars going on though, as he had bitter memories of colonialism in India, and saw it in another guise in the later part of the 20th century, as I do.

I am grateful for his legacy, and I am grateful that I still have Chachajan, my father’s brother (next in line) – both of them were so close like twins.  And to this day we share many lovely memories of my Abuji, as I also do with my siblings, especially Sabah.

What I want my kids and grandkids to know is that Mohammed Farooq was a Punjabi Arain from Julunder, a refugee alongwith many other refugees who escaped to Pakistan and who made himself all by sheer hard work and determination. He studied law at night, while working as a clerk at the Foreign Office. He then rose through the ranks to be assigned to Pakistan Embassy in Germany, CENTO in Turkey, Pakistan Mission in UN and then finally Pakistan Embassy in Brasilia,Brasil.  He had an artistic side and loved to read, and write poetry.  A few years before he died, he had started to write an autobiographic novel.  So much about him inspires me every day.  Thank you God.