If you had asked me thirty years ago when we were at college together to list Poppy’s personal qualities, I would have said that she was generous, charming, stylish and astute. It was only in the last three years as I watched her wage an epic battle against cancer that I realized I had underestimated her all along. Actually her defining qualities were courage and dignity.
We met when we were five. She lived in Karachi, I in Lahore. Our families knew each other. She, who remembered the meeting vividly, said that she had found me ‘difficult’. I don’t recall that first meeting. We met sporadically over the years, as children, as adolescents and as teenagers. We were cordial but didn’t really take to one other. I was shy and gauche, she outgoing, articulate and alarmingly poised. Truth to tell, I was in awe of her. Later, she told me that it was I who had been the scary one – unfriendly and standoffish. To argue over that early impression became a comedic ritual for us. Over the next three decades, every time we had a difference of opinion, without fail we dredged it up like adolescents. ‘I’m not the scary one, okay? You are!’
We became friends at university. She had already been at Cambridge for a year when I arrived. She took me under her wing, introducing me to her friends (later she would complain that I ‘stole’ her friends), her favourite restaurants and shops. I told her she was bossy, she told me to shut up. She had a small sturdy bike and would sail over from her halls of residence to mine. ‘Oho! Bus bhi karo, Mo,’ she’d announce, sweeping my books off my desk, ‘we’re going out.’ She had a passion for eating out. She knew where to get the tastiest dim sum, the thinnest pizza, the most sinful cake. Poppy had unerring taste. Whatever she bought, be it a painting or a frying pan, it was always stylish, sometimes extravagant and often quirky. She never scrimped on anything, it wasn’t her style. But neither did she hoard. She liked nice things but was not in thrall to them. I don’t think I ever heard her mourn ruined clothes, or a broken vase or a lost earring. Occasionally imperious in her manner, Poppy had a grandness about her that I loved. Even as a student, she was an inspired hostess and threw extraordinary parties. One in particular stands out in my mind: the theme was East of Suez. She decorated a medieval room in St John’s College with Chinese kites and paper lanterns and served devilish cocktails. Everyone dressed up as maharanis and mandarins and danced late into the night.
When she wed her high school sweetheart, Farrukh Abbas, she embarked on a married life that was to take her all over the country and then to Kuala Lumpur, Beirut, Dubai. I lost count of the number of times she moved but luckily she was an instinctive homemaker. No sooner had she arrived in a new place when the household would be up and running with seemingly minimum effort from her. Her home always had delicious food, comfy beds, deep sofas and laden bookshelves. But even more alluring than the physical comforts of her home was the spirit of generosity that suffused it. Poppy and Farrukh’s home was a magnet for their many friends. Almost every evening friends would gather for food, drink, and company.
She was living in Kuala Lumpur and, at 38, was the mother of two gorgeous little girls when the first breath of an ill wind chilled their home. Poppy was diagnosed with breast cancer. Stunned by the news, initially she went to pieces. But she soon gathered her formidable resources and fought back with everything she had. Two years later when she was declared cancer free she celebrated with a huge fortieth birthday party. I wasn’t there but friends who were remember her shocking pink jora, her incandescent smile and her joyous dancing. Some years later we were having a picnic in the park when she set down her glass of iced Diet Coke – her favourite drink – and said, ‘Guess what? I’ve passed my five year milestone. Cancer free for five years. Yay!’
Though happy with her marriage, her children, her home, she was unfulfilled in herself. Blessed with a keen intelligence and a lively sense of curiosity she longed for meaningful intellectual engagement. She tried her hand at journalism – she worked briefly at The Friday Times – and authored a book on Islamic history but because she seldom stayed in one place for long, she could not commit to anything. Once, while visiting me in London, she said, ‘I envy you your work. Ever since I got married I’ve trailed Farrukh wherever he’s been posted. I’ve not made anything of my own.’ I asked her what she wanted to do. ‘I don’t know yet, but I’ll think of something. Something good.’
Her confidence was not misplaced. On returning from Dubai, Poppy put together a glorious proposition – Kuch Khaas, a not-for-profit centre for arts and culture in Islamabad. She threw herself into making it a vibrant space, sparing neither her energy nor her wallet. Within two years it had become the beating heart of Islamabad’s cultural life. There were photography courses, dance performances, yoga classes, storytelling, music concerts, drumming sessions, mushairas, book launches, political discussions, a library and, of course, a restaurant. Poppy was in her element. Her political views were liberal. Her commitment to her religion was strong, but she understood that in order to prosper, Pakistan needed a progressive, pluralistic, tolerant society. She did her utmost to foster it. Her engagement with Kuch Khaas propelled her into activism. Always politically interested, now she walked the talk, emerging as an active and engaged member of civil society. She joined protests, planned civic campaigns, encouraged political discourse at Kuch Khaas and fearlessly expressed her liberal views on social media. She never shied away from a good political dust-up. Fully engaged, she was alight with excitement and purpose. It was too good to last.
This time when the cancer came back it was not as a chilly breath but a howling gale. She was in her late forties. The doctors gave her three months but they reckoned without Poppy’s resolve. Tearing herself away from her beloved Kuch Khaas, she moved to London for treatment. She missed Kuch Khaas sorely and spent much time thinking about how it could sustain itself without her. Embarking on a regimen of treatment, she fought so valiantly that sometimes I forgot she was ill. She never complained, never asked for pity. She talked candidly about her illness, hoping that she would have time but acknowledging that she may not. Meanwhile she was determined to live as fully as she could in the time allotted to her. She booked tickets for plays, concerts, art shows,talks, revues. I would receive regular texts from her: ‘Mo, got tickets for a concert. Coming?’ Fearing that I may not have much time with her, I seldom refused. Our relationship had matured. We talked freely, holding back little if anything. We still argued, of course. It was an integral part of our interaction. We shared a loathing of PTI’s right wing, regressive politics. But where I was prudent she was unstinting in her ridicule. She tweeted day and night, heaping scorn on dharnas. I advised caution: PTI trolls were vicious. ‘What’s the point of having cancer if I still can’t say what I want?’ she grinned, looking up from her laptop.
One year of her treatment turned into two. As the third year dawned I began to hope foolishly for a miracle. In the summer she threw another fabulous party for her elder daughter Bano’s graduation. Her flat heaved with friends and family of all ages and persuasions. There was laughter and good cheer. It was to be her last party. Her condition worsened steadily. The visits home to Islamabad came to an end as did the stolen holidays in Italy and the Maldives with her girls. There was a prolonged stretch in hospital. Twice she almost died but with a Herculean effort she pulled herself back from the abyss. During autumn she grew steadily weaker. But on good days she sprang out of bed and went out with her girls. On January 17th, we had gathered outside the Pakistan High Commission in London to mark the first month of the Peshawar school massacre. It was an icy cold evening. I stood on the pavement shivering, whining. Accompanied by Bano, Poppy seemed oblivious to the cold. A defiant figure in bright red lipstick and a yellow bobble hat, she yelled anti-Taliban slogans. That was the last time we went out together.
Poppy always described herself as a feminist. And she was. She insisted upon empowering herself, in exercising her agency to shape her life. She refused to be a victim and even when her body was ravaged by cancer, she didn’t relinquish her agency. Six days before she died she gathered her friends at her flat for dinner. Though she was weak and visibly in pain, she was cheerful, chatty. She spoke of her precious daughters, her hopes for their future. She reminisced about her late mother, her childhood home in Karachi, her old ayah. She spoke matter-of-factly of her illness. She knew she was nearing the end but she was determined to eke out whatever time she had left. She remained defiant, brave to the last.
We never did settle who was the more scary, she or I. But when it came to courage, there was no argument.
We met when we were five. She lived in Karachi, I in Lahore. Our families knew each other. She, who remembered the meeting vividly, said that she had found me ‘difficult’. I don’t recall that first meeting. We met sporadically over the years, as children, as adolescents and as teenagers. We were cordial but didn’t really take to one other. I was shy and gauche, she outgoing, articulate and alarmingly poised. Truth to tell, I was in awe of her. Later, she told me that it was I who had been the scary one – unfriendly and standoffish. To argue over that early impression became a comedic ritual for us. Over the next three decades, every time we had a difference of opinion, without fail we dredged it up like adolescents. ‘I’m not the scary one, okay? You are!’
We became friends at university. She had already been at Cambridge for a year when I arrived. She took me under her wing, introducing me to her friends (later she would complain that I ‘stole’ her friends), her favourite restaurants and shops. I told her she was bossy, she told me to shut up. She had a small sturdy bike and would sail over from her halls of residence to mine. ‘Oho! Bus bhi karo, Mo,’ she’d announce, sweeping my books off my desk, ‘we’re going out.’ She had a passion for eating out. She knew where to get the tastiest dim sum, the thinnest pizza, the most sinful cake. Poppy had unerring taste. Whatever she bought, be it a painting or a frying pan, it was always stylish, sometimes extravagant and often quirky. She never scrimped on anything, it wasn’t her style. But neither did she hoard. She liked nice things but was not in thrall to them. I don’t think I ever heard her mourn ruined clothes, or a broken vase or a lost earring. Occasionally imperious in her manner, Poppy had a grandness about her that I loved. Even as a student, she was an inspired hostess and threw extraordinary parties. One in particular stands out in my mind: the theme was East of Suez. She decorated a medieval room in St John’s College with Chinese kites and paper lanterns and served devilish cocktails. Everyone dressed up as maharanis and mandarins and danced late into the night.
When she wed her high school sweetheart, Farrukh Abbas, she embarked on a married life that was to take her all over the country and then to Kuala Lumpur, Beirut, Dubai. I lost count of the number of times she moved but luckily she was an instinctive homemaker. No sooner had she arrived in a new place when the household would be up and running with seemingly minimum effort from her. Her home always had delicious food, comfy beds, deep sofas and laden bookshelves. But even more alluring than the physical comforts of her home was the spirit of generosity that suffused it. Poppy and Farrukh’s home was a magnet for their many friends. Almost every evening friends would gather for food, drink, and company.
On returning from Dubai, Poppy put together a glorious proposition – Kuch Khaas, a not-for-profit centre for arts and culture in Islamabad. She threw herself into making it a vibrant space, sparing neither her energy nor her wallet. Within two years it had become the beating heart of Islamabad’s cultural life.
She was living in Kuala Lumpur and, at 38, was the mother of two gorgeous little girls when the first breath of an ill wind chilled their home. Poppy was diagnosed with breast cancer. Stunned by the news, initially she went to pieces. But she soon gathered her formidable resources and fought back with everything she had. Two years later when she was declared cancer free she celebrated with a huge fortieth birthday party. I wasn’t there but friends who were remember her shocking pink jora, her incandescent smile and her joyous dancing. Some years later we were having a picnic in the park when she set down her glass of iced Diet Coke – her favourite drink – and said, ‘Guess what? I’ve passed my five year milestone. Cancer free for five years. Yay!’
Though happy with her marriage, her children, her home, she was unfulfilled in herself. Blessed with a keen intelligence and a lively sense of curiosity she longed for meaningful intellectual engagement. She tried her hand at journalism – she worked briefly at The Friday Times – and authored a book on Islamic history but because she seldom stayed in one place for long, she could not commit to anything. Once, while visiting me in London, she said, ‘I envy you your work. Ever since I got married I’ve trailed Farrukh wherever he’s been posted. I’ve not made anything of my own.’ I asked her what she wanted to do. ‘I don’t know yet, but I’ll think of something. Something good.’
Her confidence was not misplaced. On returning from Dubai, Poppy put together a glorious proposition – Kuch Khaas, a not-for-profit centre for arts and culture in Islamabad. She threw herself into making it a vibrant space, sparing neither her energy nor her wallet. Within two years it had become the beating heart of Islamabad’s cultural life. There were photography courses, dance performances, yoga classes, storytelling, music concerts, drumming sessions, mushairas, book launches, political discussions, a library and, of course, a restaurant. Poppy was in her element. Her political views were liberal. Her commitment to her religion was strong, but she understood that in order to prosper, Pakistan needed a progressive, pluralistic, tolerant society. She did her utmost to foster it. Her engagement with Kuch Khaas propelled her into activism. Always politically interested, now she walked the talk, emerging as an active and engaged member of civil society. She joined protests, planned civic campaigns, encouraged political discourse at Kuch Khaas and fearlessly expressed her liberal views on social media. She never shied away from a good political dust-up. Fully engaged, she was alight with excitement and purpose. It was too good to last.
This time when the cancer came back it was not as a chilly breath but a howling gale. She was in her late forties. The doctors gave her three months but they reckoned without Poppy’s resolve. Tearing herself away from her beloved Kuch Khaas, she moved to London for treatment. She missed Kuch Khaas sorely and spent much time thinking about how it could sustain itself without her. Embarking on a regimen of treatment, she fought so valiantly that sometimes I forgot she was ill. She never complained, never asked for pity. She talked candidly about her illness, hoping that she would have time but acknowledging that she may not. Meanwhile she was determined to live as fully as she could in the time allotted to her. She booked tickets for plays, concerts, art shows,talks, revues. I would receive regular texts from her: ‘Mo, got tickets for a concert. Coming?’ Fearing that I may not have much time with her, I seldom refused. Our relationship had matured. We talked freely, holding back little if anything. We still argued, of course. It was an integral part of our interaction. We shared a loathing of PTI’s right wing, regressive politics. But where I was prudent she was unstinting in her ridicule. She tweeted day and night, heaping scorn on dharnas. I advised caution: PTI trolls were vicious. ‘What’s the point of having cancer if I still can’t say what I want?’ she grinned, looking up from her laptop.
One year of her treatment turned into two. As the third year dawned I began to hope foolishly for a miracle. In the summer she threw another fabulous party for her elder daughter Bano’s graduation. Her flat heaved with friends and family of all ages and persuasions. There was laughter and good cheer. It was to be her last party. Her condition worsened steadily. The visits home to Islamabad came to an end as did the stolen holidays in Italy and the Maldives with her girls. There was a prolonged stretch in hospital. Twice she almost died but with a Herculean effort she pulled herself back from the abyss. During autumn she grew steadily weaker. But on good days she sprang out of bed and went out with her girls. On January 17th, we had gathered outside the Pakistan High Commission in London to mark the first month of the Peshawar school massacre. It was an icy cold evening. I stood on the pavement shivering, whining. Accompanied by Bano, Poppy seemed oblivious to the cold. A defiant figure in bright red lipstick and a yellow bobble hat, she yelled anti-Taliban slogans. That was the last time we went out together.
Poppy always described herself as a feminist. And she was. She insisted upon empowering herself, in exercising her agency to shape her life. She refused to be a victim and even when her body was ravaged by cancer, she didn’t relinquish her agency. Six days before she died she gathered her friends at her flat for dinner. Though she was weak and visibly in pain, she was cheerful, chatty. She spoke of her precious daughters, her hopes for their future. She reminisced about her late mother, her childhood home in Karachi, her old ayah. She spoke matter-of-factly of her illness. She knew she was nearing the end but she was determined to eke out whatever time she had left. She remained defiant, brave to the last.
We never did settle who was the more scary, she or I. But when it came to courage, there was no argument.