It was in 1987 when on my way to college in NY—during a layover in London— that I lost my traveller’s cheques. My father immediately called his first cousin, a senior London-based banker to request replacements. Off I was to Ledenhall Street, my first exposure to a plush office in London. I was greeted by a debonaire and striking individual in a dove-grey double-breasted suit who handed me the new traveller’s cheques which he took out from the inner pocket of his bespoke tailored jacket. He then asked with a courteous smile “Shall we have a cup of tea together?”
That encounter started a 36-year relationship with Nazy Chacha, from the biannual letters he would write in royal blue fountain pen ink sent in lighter blue London Aerograms addressed to “K M Anwar ESQ” to meals at the Royal Automobile Club (where he insisted I become a member to advance my career). To be driven in his “motorcar” in which he would play Bach or Beethoven to sit-down dinners hosted at home with such flair and class that they could put most British aristocrats to shame. And who can forget his concoction of cardamom green tea served with crystallized ginger on the side or the melba toast with fruit yogurt for dessert after a casual desi lunch prepared by the faithful Sakina bibi.
Courteous, classy, princely, chivalrous, witty, handsome, sincere, and attentive, Nazy Cha Cha was the uncle I showed off about and, everyone wanted a piece of this unabashed, last stronghold of old world charm and values. He was a slightly built man with the presence of a giant. That stature was his kind and gentle manner and the genuine attention he gave to people. He loved them and they loved him back more. And he went all out for his family and friends to welcome them into his home and his palatial heart. He was the first person in London my wife-to-be Ayesha was introduced to and he was the first person to greet us in London when we arrived married six months later. It was Nazy Cha Cha who guided me about London living when I first moved here and it was he I turned to when I missed home—bonding over his favored cup of tea available at 4.30 pm daily, right before his swim at the RAC at 6.00 pm.
We had a special bond that was spontaneous yet respectful, fun but not frivolous, affectionate but dignified, and that fine and beautiful balance between formality and informality. That composite bond of an elder, a paternal figure, a close friend, a confidante, and a guide. Someone I could speak my heart out to without being judged and someone who always shared his time and attention abundantly.
Nazy Chacha left us this morning. How do I even articulate the sense of loss I am feeling? My closest relative in London of my father’s generation, the eternal presence in our lives and our home, the first to meet my kids when they were born, the first to drive my new car in the inner circle of Regents Park gleefully exclaiming “oh boy”. I was very lucky and honored to spend his final hours by his side. Even in that state, he said in a fading whisper “Have some tea”.
Sleep well Nazy Chacha and thank you for this treasure trove of memories you have left me. I will miss you dearly in the big events of life to come but more so, in the touch of significance you added to the small events of life.
