The era of my parent’s family has come to an end. It wasn’t the passing of my father, my mother, my aunt, or my grandparents. It was the death of our housekeeper. Aurangzeb was not born into our family, but he was as much as part of our family as any of us.
Aurangzeb came into our household in 1966 as Daddy’s driver. Daddy was a Lieutenant Colonel in the Pakistan army and as the Commanding Officer, was entitled to a driver. It didn’t take long for mummy’s keen eye to detect Aurangzeb’s character, commitment, intelligence, and diligence. She knew how to cultivate talent and nurture loyalty, and Aurangzeb stood up to the mark. Tall and slim, he had a quiet demeanor and was so light-footed that when he’d walk into a room, you wouldn’t hear him coming until he spoke up in a barely audible voice. During the day he would drive Daddy to the office, bring the car back home and take care of household chores. He voluntarily took on more and more responsibilities, like taking my little brother Salman out to the playground, fixing equipment, making repairs, grocery shopping, until our family of five became totally dependent on him. In the evenings, he would prepare Daddy’s uniform, polishing the buttons, and shining his shoes. Mummy taught him how to set up a table with china and silverware, Downton Abbey style. She had to tell him only once. He was the driver, butler, waiter, shopper, nanny, handyman, and chief-problem-anticipating-officer. He could sense a problem before it surfaced, nip it in the bud, and never mention it. In a few years, he was supervising the domestic staff in the house and handling payroll. We were spoilt.
In a few months after Aurangzeb’s arrival, I went off to college for four years, and during every college break when I returned, he made sure that my room was ready for me. There was more to him than his industriousness. He was discreet. He witnessed our joys and pains, family dynamics, and everything else that family life is made of, and kept his opinions to himself.
His family lived in the village a few hours’ drive away. A couple times a year he would go visit his parents, later his wife, then his wife and three little girls. Mummy and Daddy would visit his family on special occasions, to show their respect for Aurangzeb.
After I got married and Khalid came into the family, even though Aurangzeb said nothing, I knew that he approved. Each time Khalid and I returned for a visit, the permanent fixture in my parent’s house, other than my siblings, was Aurangzeb. And he would take over as if I had never left, seeing to all my needs. Khalid admired him, and I know the feeling was mutual. At each visit, our sons had grown just a little taller and Aurangzeb would look at them with affection and pride, looking after their every tiny need. He was there when my siblings got married, when my grandmother was buried. When our sons decided to spend a year in Pakistan after college, it was Aurangzeb who drove them to work, chatting in Urdu and bonding.
Once someone tried to hire Aurangzeb away. He turned it down sayings, “Even if you offered me twice as much, I would stay with them. And if the Colonel pays me half as much, I will stay with them.” How did we know this? The person who tried to lure him away, told Daddy, saying, “I wanted you to know how much Aurangzeb values you.” Aurangzeb stayed with my parents for over 45 years, leaving only when they passed away. When Daddy died, he and my brother prepared his body for burial. When Mummy died, he held her coffin and cried the hardest. He spent the last years of his life with his family in his village. Daddy had left a pension and a handsome settlement for him.
Khalid and I would call him every now and then, but he had become hard of hearing.
Yesterday morning I woke up to a WhatsApp message from my brother Salman. Aurangzeb had died. He must have been close to 90. Salman, who is so careful about social distancing, was on his way to the funeral. “He practically raised me,” he texted. My sister Neena and niece Mahvish called me, Mahvish crying inconsolably. “He gave the adhan in my ear when I was born. He was like a grandpa to me.” I wept with her.
WhatsApp messages started beaming from across the oceans, from Pakistan to Qatar to USA.
“He taught me to drive,” my cousin texted.
“He had an awesome laugh.”
“Such a loyal and humble man.”
Condolence calls were coming to Neena from family, friends, neighbors, colleagues. Everyone knew Aurangzeb, knew how much he meant to us.
Another text from my brother: “Only when I stood at his gravesite did I realize what a devastating loss this is for me. Even though Daddy was gone, I felt a lot of comfort as long as Aurangzeb was around.” Later another text: “When I met him for the last time, he made a request of me that being the head of the household I should take care of his funeral arrangements. I have done it. It was his last wish.”
Against travel advice, Neena and Mahvish decided to drive to his village the next day and offer their condolences. “It will be quieter the day after the funeral and I will take all COVID precautions. He gave up his family life for our us. I owe it to his wife and daughters,” Neena said.
Our son called me. “Mom, it feels like the end of the era of grandpa’s family. It’s like the scene in a movie when the last member of the household has died, the family house is standing, and the last of the shutters has closed.”
Rest in Peace, Aurangzeb.
PS: Check out my blog: My Downton Abbey in Pakistan. Click here
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