Karachi (HRNW)- Chaudhry Waris of the popular 80s drama “Waris” was actually the sole heir of a large landowner family. His real name was Mehboob Alam and his father’s name was Haji Lal Din. A small town in southern Sindh between Gulab Laghari and Tando Ghulam Ali was named “Haji Lal Din Goth” after his father. Perhaps it still is. There were 8 to 10 houses in this village. Like Haji Lal Din, another elder Chaudhry Ismail also lived in this village. His house was more beautiful and solid than Haji Lal Din’s. In those days, the construction of pucca houses was still in its early stages. Ninety-nine percent of the people’s houses were mud-brick, while the well-off people were identified by cleaning their houses and covering the walls with mud every year, which made their houses look unique and different in the village. We had very close family ties with Chaudhry Lal Din and Chaudhry Ismail and we used to call them uncles. The house of the late Mehboob Alam was mud-brick. It was built of mud and mud. In some places, during the construction of such houses, wooden frames were made in the walls and roofs and mud bricks or mud were filled in them, which made the strength of these houses in no way less than today’s RCC. The houses of that time lasted for 200 years, some of which are still present in different places today. Haji Lal Din and Chaudhry Ismail were old settlers who were brought from Punjab along with thousands of other Punjabis by the British during the completion of the Sukkur, Kotri and Guddu barrages and settled in Sindh. The aim was to settle the barren lands of Sindh, which were now eager to turn green due to the barrages. After my parents’ migration, I must have become friends with Haji Lal Din sometime during the early days of my residence in Gulab Laghari. In fact, Gulab Laghari was the only big village in the area, in which there were many shops selling household items, while the population also consisted of two and a half hundred people. There were small dhabas selling tea and food. There were two or three hotels in Gulab Laghari, so people from nearby villages used to visit Gulab Laghari to buy basic necessities. Perhaps it was on such an occasion that Haji Lal Din got acquainted with his father, which later turned into friendship, and since the two houses were related, it later became a family affair. Haji Lal Din had more than one horse for travel, on which he himself, his wife, and Mehboob Alam Gulab Laghari would come to buy groceries. In such a situation, it was necessary to have lunch at our house. In the summer, he would rest for some time in the afternoon and return as soon as the sun set. Haji Lal Din, with a black beard of a palm length, always wore a white kurta, a white dhoti, and a turban with jats on his head. He was a very attractive person. We two brothers would often go to their villages. Our only vehicle was a donkey, on which we would reach their villages on horseback or on foot. Mehboob Alam’s mother was a very kind, hospitable, and compassionate woman. We did not try to help them in any way. We were not competitive, but our financial status can be said to be equal to their peasants. But still, despite us being five or six years old children, whenever we went to their house, they would immediately ask their old maid to make fresh bread. In the villages and hamlets, there was a dal or vegetable parlor in almost every house, but in Haji Lal Din’s house, local chicken or goat meat was often cooked. This attraction to the food of poverty would take us to their village again and again. That good woman would sit near us and make us eat bread under her supervision. We still remember that we never returned from her house without eating. In their village, there was a boy named Bota, about our age, with a plump body, a chubby face, and a sallow complexion. It happened that whenever we entered Haji Lal Din’s hamlet, we would first encounter this poor fellow and he would also be happy to see us. But one bad habit he had was that he would always say, “Come on, you are under the door…” Then he himself clenched his fist and threw his arms around He would wave and say, “Oh, my father…” We both brothers would be embarrassed by his words because there was no habit of swearing or vulgar conversation in our homes, while he would talk nakedly to his parents. His constant sentences made us curious as to what he meant. Who was this poor Baba Tala? Mehboob Alam’s village was two or three kilometers away from Gulab Laghari, so we used to go to his village every day. Mehboob Alam was the only child of his parents, so special care was taken of his education, and Chaudhry Lal Din had him admitted to Tando Ghulam Ali from his early education. The British, with the help of the Mirs, had established an expensive school in which Mehboob Alam also studied and he also lived in the hostel of the same school. He would come home on one day off a week, so we met him very rarely. Even so, Chaudhry Wart had probably been ingrained in him from the very beginning, which must also be the pride of wealth and aristocracy, so he He kept his distance from us. We didn’t see anything wrong with it either because, firstly, we were always in front of him, and secondly, his father and mother loved and valued him so much that it was immoral for us to think like that. Thirdly, Bota, the son of one of his farmers, used to take us around all the time, so we never felt the absence of our beloved Alam. One day, we were having dinner at Chaudhry uncle’s house when Bota came running and whispered in my ear, “Come quickly, Baba, I have emptied the well.” In those days, there were no toilets in the houses. Men and women would go out in the fields early in the morning to get some rest.
While the old or sick were free from the prison of time, they also had to go into the forest. We also ignored our aunt’s scolding and ran away with her, leaving the bread unfinished. As soon as we left the village, there was a stream in front of us, which can also be called a small canal. On the bank of it, a 90/100-year-old man was sitting and urinating. He was wearing a white turban with a white dhoti and a white beard, moustache and a white turban. He had a stick that was the same height as his height. Perhaps he used it to walk. As soon as he saw it, Botah shouted loudly, “Look, baby, what’s under the tree?” Baba also heard his screams. He immediately grabbed a stick and started abusing Bute. Bute ran in the opposite direction. How could the poor elder chase this wicked boy? But the way Baba Tala showed his anger and threw clods of earth at him, it was clear that there was an old grudge between them. After that, whenever we saw Baba Tala in the village, we changed the street or turned back. Then, at the insistence of my father, I went to my uncle in Nawabshah, where my education was resumed. During that time, in 1972/73, my parents also said goodbye to Gulab Leghari and migrated to Sukkur for the second time. Then, years later, when I saw Mehboob Alam in a new guise as Chaudhry Waris in Waris Drama on PTV, I was captivated. Then, my elder brother informed us through a letter from Sukkur that Chaudhry Waris was actually Haji Lal Din’s son, Mehboob Alam. A few months before his death, I met him in a Karachi I met him at a function in which I was a reporter and he was a special guest along with other artists. After the function, I introduced myself to him and he stared at me for a long time in surprise. Then he started asking everyone how they were doing one by one, but neither he asked for their contact numbers nor did I give them. A few months later, I suddenly received the devastating news that Mehboob Alam had passed away. He was not old enough to die. The months and days that had passed in Haji Lal Din Goth started rolling before my eyes like a movie. The darling of his parents, the owner of the entire village, the owner of fame and wealth, the one who had become a slave at his feet, could not avoid his untimely death. I still remember very well when an episode of his drama was aired, the streets of the entire country, let alone neighboring countries, would be deserted. Such fame and public favor are bestowed upon very few artists, but death is inevitable and every soul has to taste it, Allahu Akbar.
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