Those were the days of sullen, stupefying silence and despair for the Left, the apocalyptical signs of the Soviet Union’s meltdown were evident. Dizzy heads, bruised hearts, sorrow-scorched bosoms, and unfathomable grief ailed the Marxists. Struggles of decades and sacrifices of millions looked meaningless, and dreams of a better and just world were killed, hope was slain. It was the holocaust of time. Borrowing an expression from Faiz, “the hour was the moment of mourning”. On that sombre evening, a public gathering was held in the City Council hall, graced by Mr IA Rehman and Mr Nisar Osmani, two giants of the era. When the curtain on the meeting was almost drawn, a young man’s itch unsettled him. He sought permission to be on the stage to pay homage to the glory of the workers’ state in death throes. Silence prevailed, finding the sages in two minds, he went up the stage. His English poem or whatever hammered Gorbachev and his Perestroika. Once he finished the hall erupted in applause, the message went across. The reaction from the stage was mixed. Mr Osmani condemned the critic as reactionary for being unable to appreciate the important structural changes needed for the uplift of the Soviet economy. Mr Rehman’s reaction was cordial and sublime. Coming out of musing he pronounced the catharsis a cry of a bleeding heart. The critic was this scribe, and it was his first meeting with Mr Rehman, the Plekhanov of Pakistani Marxism. After the publication of my book entitled “Che Guevara”, my relations with Mr Rehman were cemented. On its unveiling ceremony, several high-profile critics expressed their opinions, and some jilted lovers of Marxism rejected the effort as an attempt to exhume an ideological cadaver. Mr Rehman, in his soft but resolute tone, applauded the effort as unique and the first of its kind in Urdu and reminded that hopeless conditions necessitated hope and the book was the first shimmer in the dark melancholic despair. “A book”, he said, “is always the personification of the author, it is what he willed to change but could not.” After the publication of my book “Che Guevara”, my relations with Rehman Sb were cemented. At its launch ceremony, some jilted lovers of Marxism rejected the effort as an attempt to exhume an ideological cadaver. Mr Rehman thoughtfully replied: “A book is always the personification of the author, it is what he willed to change but could not From that moment on, I became Gramsci’s proverbial ‘’coach-man fly’’ that sucked the honey of Mr Rehman’s wisdom. A man respected by all, and loved and adored by the oppressed, he was a symbol of resilience against the totalitarian state and its auxiliaries. He was remarkably tolerant, but his tolerance was partial and dialectical, for he was uncompromisingly intolerant to the oppressive policies of the established reality. He was an embodied Marxist and no wonder that he, like Marx, wanted to construct the world according to the laws of beauty, for beauty is subversive but simultaneously non-violent and non-domineering. After the Soviet Union’s demise, many left-wingers joined institutions such as the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan (HRCP) to raise voices for the voiceless victims of capitalism. Life under the exchange society, an inherently repressive order boasting freedom, denies liberation. Marx knew it. While conceding that “men make history”, he hurriedly added that “they do not make it under self-selected circumstances, but under circumstances existing already.” HRCP was thought to be an offshoot of western hegemonic apparatus but once the Left in Pakistan took over its reins, its repressive imperialist character if it had one, was transformed, humane and authentic refuge for the vulnerable of every hue. The subjective force turned the institution upside down by putting it back on its feet, and Mr Rehman played an instrumental role in reshaping it. Faiz’s “Rubba-Sacheya” was Rehman Sb’s favourite poem, he read it on several occasions and told me once that the poem was an attempt by Faiz to convey a subversive message to the common folk in his language. After one such function, I drove Rehman Sb to the Nairang Art Gallery. Familiar with my obsession, he asked me to take Gramsci’s theory as my next writing project. Pakistani political situation, he said, mimicked the Italian situation of the 1920s. Gramsci’s work reflected our conditions. If I was prepared to take up the task, he promised to provide the necessary material to write a book. Incidentally, my book “Foundation of Monotheistic Religions”, despite being dedicated to him had failed to receive his nod, a laudable gesture of a Marxist for whom religion was merely a part of the superstructure, an inverted consciousness emanating from social relations with its base resting in economy. I gleefully accepted his offer and two years later presented him with a new book “Capitalism: Civilisation of Clashes’’, containing a major part of Gramsci’s thesis in Urdu. The book flashed a smile, a beam of happiness on his face refuting Adorno’s claim of happiness becoming obsolete. The smile of a rebel is his defiance and Rehman Sb not only could smile but made people, as Brecht suggests, sing even in the dark times about the dark times. His smile gave me the full value of my protracted effort though the profit went to the publisher. My English novel owed its existence entirely to the motivation of Mr Rehman. Before its publication, he not only read it but wrote an encouraging and forceful preface too. My obsession with Marxist thought, fascination with Freudian primal father, and Frankfurtian pessimism was not conducive for a beautiful expression necessary for a novel but despite my shortcomings, Rehman Sahib backed me, thinking in Adorno’s vein he believed that “the writer ought not to acknowledge any distinction between beautiful and adequate expression… neither suppose such a distinction in the solicitous mind of the critic nor tolerate it in his own. If he succeeds in saying entirely what he means, it is beautiful’’. I am fortunate that my Urdu novel went through his eyes before its publication. When in Lahore I always craved for his wisdom and when my mother was admitted in a bourgeois slaughterhouse, a private hospital, with bowel cancer, I called him. It amazed me that within an hour, he was there wishing health to my mother – how could one not love such a generous and gentle soul? He missed my only son’s wedding, and to compensate for the dismay his absence might have caused us he visited our house with a present. The inanimate vase he brought is with us, but Rehman Sb has left planting the flowers of his memory blossoming in our heart. Once in a fit of pessimism, I wrote something utterly stupid, his reply went straight in the treasure house of my heart to be secured forever. “Something has hurt you deeply. You have been consistently fighting for whatever you believe in….. you have sustained a debate on Marxism in a country that had given up this tradition. In addition, you have introduced to Pakistani readers the essential ideas of Gramsci. To what extent our society has been able to benefit from your labour is a matter that should not concern you alone. You must not torture yourself by indicting yourself… We expect a lot from you…”. On being assaulted by the invisible power, his was the single authentic voice that condemned the attackers unequivocally. He was unwell, but in his last message he was concerned about my health, how loving and selfless one can be. The news of his eclipse was the revisiting of the shock we endured at the time of the fall of the Soviet Union. “The bomb has fallen”, I thought, “and we are the mutations”. His loss is irreplaceable, but his resolute voice is whispering Brecht’s message “because the things are the way they are, the things will not stay the way they are”. Farewell Rehman Sb, thy thoughts and thy love will continue to quicken our spirits. The writer, an academic has authored books on socialism and history. He can be reached at saulatnagi @hotmail.com