Wine we all brew

“Memories, sweetened through the ages just like wine/Quiet thoughts come floating down/ And settle softly to the ground/Like golden autumn leaves around my feet/ I touched them and they burst apart with sweet memories”

Memories sweeten through the ages just like wine, Elvis sang in his inimitable drawl. Always happy to take a trip down nostalgia lane, I spent countless evenings driving on the roads of Lahore imbibing these soulful lyrics. The song never failed to summon fond moments lost in the dust of time. Another year passes by. They always do. One digit changes from five to six and our smartphones, indifferent and unmoved, silently abandon 2015. People, though, aren’t smart and can’t let go of their sunny afternoons and amber evenings. We hoard memories and cherish our vaults. Memories rarely knock and have a knack for barging in, drowning us in a haze of longing, regret and affection. It could be a fragrant whisper, a meaningful glance, the setting sun, a sun-kissed winter afternoon or a song of Sinatra and we are swept off our feet by the deluge from the past. Strangers in the Night by Frank always did the trick for me.

The seasons of Lahore indulge and brew the sweetest of memories. Lahore wears red in the summers and the sky spews fire. Yet there is something indescribable about the warm June afternoons when even the squeaking fan sounds like a sweet lullaby. Winters are charmingly seductive serving ice cream on a warm plate. As Dickens so beautifully put it, “When there is winter in the shade and summer in the light.” Monsoon rains wash Lahore to pristine green releasing an intoxicating aroma, a heave of relief as water splashes love onto the parched earth. Spring is a riot of colours, nature at its colourful and verdant best; autumn a harbinger of gloom, a saffron bride leaving melancholy and promise of renewal in its wake. The seasons are amorous and flirt with the sensitive mind. I respond happily. When I am awakened by the call of azan floating on the morning breeze, when I hear the faint whistle of a train, when the raindrops make love to the leaves, when I sit by the fireplace as the wood crackles and the flames leap, memories come flooding. And I remember.

I remember the lazy summer afternoons when the chime of the school bell sounded better than anything else in the world. It would liberate us from the clutches of frightening geometry and sombre Urdu poetry. I could buy a sandwich at the canteen for two rupees and dig into it with the abandon of a man untouched by the worries of the world. I remember the carefree loitering with a friend and sharing of insights on how best to arouse the affections of the nymphs. When Harold Robbins and Hustler excited more than Dickens and the study of human anatomy seemed faintly erotic. Times were simple, so was happiness. While most dreamt about hitching a ride with Dorothy to the Emerald city, I lived in a world painted by the genius, Ibn Safi. A world of underground bars and cabarets, inhabited by his supremely endearing characters, Imran and Fareedi. How I would see myself as Captain Hameed vicariously experiencing his fetishes and how we all wished in our hearts to miraculously acquire Fareedi’s stoic machismo. Imran’s wit and laidback almost dismissive demeanour towards life was no less fascinating.

I remember my first date and the quivering anticipation. Having a girlfriend filled me with pride and others with none seemed condemned to a wretched, lonely existence. The pleasure of late night calls till dawn broke, of aimless driving on the lonely roads, of the unwitting body contact and of the heartfelt vows, only a man blessed with the company of a nymph would know. I remember my time at the University of Warwick. How my room overlooked a little lake with a wooden bridge and how the bridge curved lovingly over the shimmering water. I always kept the window of my room open. It was my way of beckoning serenity, of letting the surreal quiet seduce me into a state of sublime peace. I remember the long, winding walks through the meadows under clouds pregnant with poise or under a brilliant sun shining on a gleaming landscape, the water puddles laden with green moss, the proud old trees standing tall having seen it all and the evening silhouettes of people wallowing in the fragrant air. I remember the weekend pilgrimage to the university pub when ‘a pint a pound’ would lift me to heaven to take on all that is profound. The smoke wafting from a friend’s cigarette driven by her breath towards us, the aroma of the brew and perfume filling the space between us. Burning tobacco, beer and perfume made for the perfect menage a trois

I remember Government College Lahore at the break of dawn. The majestic red building, the dazzlingly green sprawl kneeling at its feet and the tower rising above the mundane, affectionately watching over it all. I remember the veranda at Lahore Gymkhana overlooking the golf course and its worn-out cane sofas. Sipping coffee on a winter afternoon when the warm and cold jostle to embrace the body, the green expanse seemed to stretch into infinity. Getting old has one thing good about it. How years make the burden of memories heavier and sweeter. What a pleasure to quaff flutes of this lovely wine.

Published in The Express Tribune, January 3^rd, 2016.

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