was on my way to see her after a long time — more than two decades. My cousin was driving intently; I chose to stay quiet.

Silence has its own language; unsaid, unheard — it expresses beautifully what sometimes words fail to do. However, it’s visceral, so not everyone can understand it. Perhaps, that’s why many prefer a cacophony of words over silence as the latter, for them, is almost always deafening.

Roads in Lahore Cantt weren’t quite busy for a Saturday evening, and the traffic was moving sluggishly — glistening streetlights were trying hard to dispel the winter despondency. There is something melancholic about winters; fall, with bare trees and chilly mornings, announces its arrival; the days are shorter and nights become much longer; nature becomes frugal with sunshine, temperatures plummet. The planet seems devoid of happiness and warmth. Smog over the last few years hasn’t helped the situation either.

Some may argue that they prefer this weather over the scorching summer or the sultry monsoon, but I would gladly trade darkness for light; frosty nights for balmy days; and frigid air for warm breeze.

The Cantonment looked like a monolithic, sleepy giant preparing for the night slumber. Its vast roads, palatial houses, polo ground and military offices always remind me of MM Kaye’s magnificent novels (The Far Pavilions and Shadow of the Moon) that I had read as a teenager. Kaye writes passionately about sun-baked, picturesque, epic cities and garrisons of British India. Once, an article in The Guardian paying tribute to her said that no romance in her could equal her love for the subcontinent.

Just when I was planning to dive deeper into the realms of English literature to compare her work with similar books published around the same time as The Raj Quartet, for instance, my cousin had parked the car in front of a big black gate off Shami Road and duly announced that we had reached our destination.

My mamoon and mumani alighted the other car, opened the gate, then the main door with a spare key, and we let ourselves in. Fresh flowers arranged neatly in a vase welcomed us. The huge lounge was dimly-lit and tastefully decorated. We waited there whilst she offered her prayers in the bedroom.

A pale, thin, almost gaunt figure appeared in the door 10 minutes later. It took me a few seconds to recognise one of my mum’s favourite cousins. Although looking at her one could tell that she was a pretty woman, she was far from my jovial, fashionista khala of yesteryears who would laugh out loud at the smallest of jokes with friends and family; sang and danced like there was no tomorrow; was the life and soul of the parties/ weddings; and was willing to help everyone.

Pleasantries were exchanged, everyone trying to pretend that everything was fine. We started with small talk about weather and life in various cities of Pakistan. Despite her poise, one could tell that her beloved husband’s protracted illness and demise had taken its toll on her.

Stoicism, a relatively alien concept for a younger generation, to me is an admirable quality. However, sometimes it can be hard to communicate with stoic people for they may come across as guarded and make you wonder where to penetrate. The situation reminded me of Ernest Hemingway’s famous words: “We all are broken… that’s how the light gets in.”

I was visiting to pay my respects to my uncle — her dear husband, who was also her first cousin, an Oxford graduate, an ardent reader, a banker by profession who reached the pinnacle of his career in a decade or so after starting work; a refined, good-looking Kashmiri gentleman, but above all a generous soul, genuinely kind to everyone. My mum would tell me about their fairytale wedding and how my khala jaan made a chic, elegant bride.

The conversation took a turn and we started talking about my uncle, how he had battled cancer and remained optimistic till the end. And there it was — a flicker of emotion, some moisture behind the closed curtains of her eyes. She said that although there would be a void in her life, a vacuum that could never be filled, she had accepted Allah’s will and had been busy reading and trying to understand the Holy Quran. She also reminisced about her happy married life; about nursing her husband during his ailment; and how she had taken refuge in learning and teaching Quran.

Speaking passionately about reading tafseer and how it had a massive impact on her thought process, she said that one of the major reasons for coming into this world is to spread the light of knowledge/ educate people, help the needy and the poor. She talked about how we are privileged but keep complaining about small things; we mustn’t do that. Everyone has their own journey to travel — although our trajectories are different, interspersed with happy and sad times, the destination is the same. Remembering this could give us a lot of strength and make our sojourn in this world beautiful.

She broke down, which was kind of relief for me as I could not hold my tears any longer. The entire experience was quite cathartic.

The air was thick and heavy with emotions. She was genuinely not interested in this world.

Sitting there I found the holy grail of ishq (I’ve never been able to find a satisfactory translation in English; love or amour does not do justice to the depth and philosophy of ishq; perhaps, love is the first stage of ishq). Both ishq-i-haqiqi and ishq-i-majazi. To love someone unconditionally, without expecting anything in return is ishq-i-majazi which eventually elevates humans to the level where they want to do good for everyone, harm no one and bow in front of the deity. Here lies the entrance to the magnificent edifice of ishq-i-haqiqi. This level (of ishq) produces saints, dervishes, imams; mere mortals become immortal.

A friend of mine had recently asked if true love still existed. They said that we were living in a busy, fickle, materialistic world, and love had no place in these times of cutthroat competition, artificial intelligence and net worth. This simple encounter was a reminder for me that love exists even in this day and age. It is the finest human emotion that can move mountains and binds us together and to our Lord. It teaches us to give and forgive.

On our way back, it was pitch dark. However, I could see a stunning rainbow. Perhaps, due to the plethora of sentiments, just like rain and sunshine at the same time. To my great surprise it was not an overwhelming experience — in fact, I felt content, very content to have rediscovered the magic of centuries-old potion of love which heals and treats everything. I was reminded of Vincent Van Gogh’s beautiful words: “I feel that there is nothing more truly artistic than to love people.”

The writer is an associate professor at the Health Services Academy,