Maah-e-Kunaan

There was something about Zille Huma’s smile that would always lift my spirits. It made me feel good, happy and hopeful. Life, I would think, could never be bad as long as a smile this perfect existed. Really.

It was a radiant smile, both reassuring and heartening. Simultaneously pure and flirtatious, it never failed to enchant. And it will always exist in my imagination. Sadly, Huma Ji left us today. I have been thinking about her all day and every image that has come to my mind has been one of her smiling. I was aware of her protracted illness, and the brave fight that she put up with her many ailments, but can never imagine her ill, or in a hospital, and without a smile on her face. Happy, assured and charming; this is how I will always remember her.

I first met Huma Ji in the eighties. This was at her mother’s home near Lahore’s Liberty market, very late one night. It was a lively night at Madam Ji’s residence, with a lot going on. Huma Ji’s sister Tina was planning a shopping trip to Peshawar’s famous baara market. Huma Ji, who was not accompanying her on the trip, was making sure that she got her fair share of clothes from baara. She gave Tina a list of the fabrics she wanted for herself. It was a long list, very specific and detailed. Huma Ji knew what she wanted and she wanted a lot of it. She kept asking a gentleman in the room to give Tina money for her shopping. I think it was her ex-husband, Aqeel Butt. He started by giving Tina a strap of hundred rupee bills but ten thousand - a lot of money at the time - was not going to do it for Huma Ji. She told him, in lilting Punjabi, “Ki ho gaya ai tuhanu? Aini kanjoosi! (what is wrong with you? such miserliness!) and turned on her smile. The poor man had no choice but to succumb and added four more straps to the total. I think that was all the money he was carrying in his small Bally Suisse clutch bag.

[quote]She gave me a hug and started crying[/quote]

I did not see Huma Ji for a very long time after our first meeting and met her at my home some thirty years later. It was at the qul prayer for my father who had passed away three days ago. She was appropriately dressed in white, wearing a few diamonds and little make up. She did not need much. Time had been very kind to her. Still intensely beautiful, glowing and attractive, she gave me a hug and started crying. What a warm person she was! If anyone knew how to offer condolences and comfort those in mourning, it was Huma Ji. There were many other good-looking ladies - models, actors, nautch girls and socialites - present at the qul (my father, an indefatigable lover of women, would have been proud of the guest list) but no one was able to dazzle the way Zille Huma did. I remember talking to journalist Jugnu Mohsin about her beauty at the qul and we both agreed that Huma Ji made every other woman at the event look plain and largely invisible!

I once saw Huma Ji offer the maghrib namaaz and pray for a long time afterwards. That was a moving sight. She held her earlobes in her hands, signifying tauba, and looked towards the sky, with tears in her eyes, as she made supplications. I remember thinking that God had to answer her prayers. It couldn’t be often that He was asked for something with such intensity, earnestness and humility. I wish that all prayer was that beautiful.

[quote]She knew what would make someone happy [/quote]

“Aap ki begum bauhat samjhdaar hain (your wife is very wise)”, she told me after meeting my wife at a dinner party and added that I was a very fortunate man to have a particularly lovely family. Her remarks made me very happy. This was her way. She could make anyone feel good by saying just a few but choice words. She knew what would make someone happy and used the knowledge judiciously and honestly. She liked to make people feel good about themselves. But she wasn’t always kind. The daughter of Noor Jehan could be nasty and caustic when needed. Thank God for that.

[quote]All our efforts to contain their miserable behaviour failed[/quote]

Last July, we held a musical evening in her honor at my home in Lahore. Singer Akbar Ali and tabla player Haroon Samuel were the performers at the soiree. Things were going very well until two politicians arrived and disrupted the performance. I do not remember their names but they were particularly unattractive, short and overweight. They wore heavily starched white shalwar kurtas. The two kept interrupting the music performance by talking incessantly, insisting that only songs of their choice be sung, and moving around the room needlessly. These were very uncultured people and all our efforts to contain their miserable behaviour failed. The ever-vigilant and helpful Zille Huma decided to step in. “Tussi aj kal kanjaraan ich rehnday o?” (Do you move amongst pimps these days?) she asked them. The men were dumbfounded and could only respond by saying no. “Jo harkataan kar rahay o, unaan to tay aihi lag da ae (the way you are behaving makes it seem that you are),” she told them. They did not say a word after that, and the evening continued peacefully.

[quote]She was not sure if I would like her singing but certain I would fall in love with her cooking[/quote]

Zille Huma loved to cook. She used to say that Butt Saab (this is how she referred to her ex-husband) had forced her to learn how to cook well. The man could tolerate many things, she would often say, but not bad food. She once told me that she was not sure if I would like her singing but certain that I would fall in love with her cooking. The same evening she sent over khagga fish curry that she had cooked herself. She was right. I fell in love with her cooking. She had gone to the market to pick the fish herself and cooked it fresh without ever putting it in a refrigerator.

Huma Ji’s cooking was special. I don’t think that I have had better chicken qorma than the one cooked by her in my entire life. She did not like farm-bred chicken and would only cook naturally raised desi chicken. “Jehri murghi pyaar de baghayr hi duniya ich aa jaye, ohday ich ki swaad hona ae (chicken that comes into being without love is never going to taste good), she would say, showing her disdain for chicken produced at farms through artificial impregnation.

Huma Ji often sent food that she had cooked over to our home in Lahore. The food came in large quantities, enough to feed a few families and not just my mother for whom it was ostensibly sent. Zille Huma was a generous woman. She never came to our home without a gift and never left without tipping each one of the servants. She picked gifts carefully; they were always expensive, appropriate, and in very good taste. She invested time and thought, not just money, into picking gifts for those she loved. Her gifts, the food she sent over regularly, and her company brought a lot of happiness into my mother’s life. I will always be grateful to Huma Ji for that.

She was not in very good health when I saw her for the last time. Yet she looked lovely in a light pink dress. It was at a small party at our home. As always, she had come accompanied by a retinue of cousins, friends and maids. Huma Ji did not like to come to parties alone, and never without her trusted servant, Ruby. The darling little girl was her confidante and friend, responsible for giving medicines, administering injections, and for taking care of Huma Ji in every possible way. Unlike the begums of Lahore, Huma Ji treated her maid servant like a daughter. She would never leave a party until Ruby had eaten, make sure that she was dressed well and always addressed her with love. And, of course, with a smile on her face.

Smiling is how I will always remember Huma Ji. I was keenly aware of her protracted illness, her grueling last year and her many ailments but somehow can never imagine her ill and looking anything but beautiful. Her memories will always be radiant, positive and  joyful. They will always bring a smile to my face. I am thankful for that.

Good bye, Huma Ji.