ZOE means Son became Zoay oh Zoay what have you Done,

‘Ahmad Zoay’ by Fauzia Rafique
JULY 27, 2014 / 4 COMMENTS
Zoay passed away on July 10/2014 at his home in Lahore. Death was caused by dehydration. No doctor was called. He was buried without participation of any of his friends, peers or fans. His estranged daughters came to know of it four days later.
I do not recall where and when i met Zoay, but he was a constant part of my environment from early 70s when i was studying Journalism at the University of the Punjab, working for Mothly Dhanak, and writing for Pakistan Television. At any of those places, Zoay would appear with a big enthusiastic smile, and give me something like a wild flower or a stone or a piece of wood. Often, he would not say anything, and sometimes just a word or two, like: ‘Ye dekho, Didi’ (look at this, Didi), and then another enthusiastic smile, and Zoay is gone.

Zoay was in the ‘NCA Crowd’, meaning a student, teacher or graduate of the National College of Arts. My recollection of his earliest paintings is that of a sparse canvas and a neutral pallet projecting rather sedated female and male shapes. By mid-Seventies, in Zulfikar Ali Bhutto’s time, his art work began to show a lot more colour and detail. That’s also the time when Zoay lost his umpteenth job as a paid artist with another of Pakistan’s cultural institutes, and this time for creating an invitation card with so much detail that no one from the whole line of officials could catch all the vulgar insults and abuses that were intricately woven into his artful design.

In those days, Zoay, without doubt, was the most refreshing, beautiful and pleasant person i knew. I’m not sure why he began calling me ‘Didi’, a Hindi word for older sister, but i liked it. To me, he was the ‘flower-child’ with his shoulder-length hair and that happy smile. Some common friends told me that Zoay had a real mean streak, but i had never experienced it. I knew, he could be angry, and that his anger could find expression in violence. One time, he became upset, and within a few minutes, he cut open with a kitchen knife over half a dozen of his most recent paintings. In those situations, it was impossible to talk to Zoay or to deter him from doing what he had decided to do. It was as if a part of him knew no language, only instinct could access him.

Actually, i don’t recall ever having a discussion with Zoay on anything. His political positions, consistent and clear, were expressed in his art and in his actions, and in all the ways that he lived his life. If he felt appalled by the imposition of Muslim Arab culture over indigenous cultures and languages of Indus Valley then it would be reflected in most things that he would do, symbols and motifs he would choose. Zoay had no ‘social self’, and he could easily see where others had propped up theirs. As well, he had no illusions in political ideologies or in the capabilities of the functionaries of the art world. None of it could take away his smile.

But Zoay’s seemingly innocent happy smile could easily turn mischievous, enough to cause some real havoc. One time, i was at Lahore Television station when Zoay arrived, and said:
‘Didi, ye dekho’, he had on his palm a brown little seed-like thing.
‘Ye kia hai?’ What is it, i asked.
‘Tum dekhna chahti ho sabz ghaas per kheltay hoye sfaid khargosh?’ You want to see green grass and white rabbits playing over it, he asked.
‘Sabz ghaas pe sfaid khargosh?’ I could actually see white fluffy rabbits tumbling on fresh green grass under the golden sheen of an early morning sun. ‘Haan’. Yes, i said, for sure.
‘Tau ye lo’, he offered me that brown seed with his most generous smile.
‘Ye hai kia?’ But what is it, i asked, taking it.
‘Aala cheez hai’, it’s a good thing, he assured me.
‘Pakki baat?’ Are you sure?
‘Buss nigl lo’, just swallow it, he said.
‘No, not without water’, i said, stalling for time.
Zoay instantly got up, and went away.
I looked at the brown plasticky thing, and decided that it’s probably a new tranquillizer, various brands were available over the counter at that time.
He returned with a glass of water, and offered it to me in an obedient manner.
I downed it.
He sat there for a few minutes, and watched me like a concerned and proud mother whose young daughter was about to give birth to her first baby. Then he got up, and said:
‘Didi, aik tau chhutt pe mut jana, koi chakoo nazar aye tau uss ko na uthana, aur yaad rakhna ke cheezain itni qareeb nahin jitni nazar aati hain’, don’t go on the roof, if you see a knife don’t pick it up, and remember that things are not as close as they seem.
And before i could say anything, he was gone.
Minutes later, when i got up from my seat, things began to change and shift. Shapes were melting into other shapes, colours became sharp and intense, voices were either drowning whispers or screeching noises. That was a spectacular beginning of an unstoppable 22-hour death-trip caused by a single drop of acid. Too intense …

Likes: 0

Viewed:

source