HeartSpeak

HeartSpeak

September 2023

Gone  in a  laugh 

Jyoti Marianne Bahri shares a bitter sweet story about a dear friend who laughed his way through life. And death too, leaving her with the mes 

sage of eternal life. I met Daljeet in the late seventies on my first  trip to Iran. I had never travelled to Asia  before and hardly knew anything about  

Iran. I followed my adventurous spirit and took  on the short-term assignment only because I  expected to stay with my friends, Nina and  

her husband, Ram. They had visited me the  previous year along with their baby in Germany. 

Marriane was chased down by a group of Iranian men on the streets of Tehran 

When I landed in Tehran, my friends were in  the process of shifting out of town. I was very  disappointed and scared. Finding a place to  stay in Tehran was challenging and unsafe,  especially for a single young woman. So Ram  and Nina helped me find another place to stay. 

Their close friends, three architects from India,  had rented a flat nearby. At that time, they had  gone on a month-long vacation, and the flat  was empty. It was a lovely four-bedroom apart ment with large windows and a spacious living  room big enough to play cricket. The friends  were all avid photographers and had converted  one of the rooms into a darkroom to print their  pictures. They had hung up large photographs  of themselves on the wall. Nina told me about  each one while showing me their photos. I liked  the place and was happy that I could stay there. 

Meeting Daljeet 

I moved in and settled down comfortably. The  doors of the bedrooms were usually left open  while I was there. But one morning, I woke up to  find all the doors shut tight. Surprised, I opened  the doors one by one, wondering who could have  come in. When I opened the third bedroom, I  was in for a shock. I saw a being with a black  beard sleeping, curled up in a mass of long black  hair. I almost shrieked, but I quickly recognised  the face from the photographs on the wall. 

Later, I discovered this hairy man was Dal jeet, a Sardar from India. He introduced him self and explained about his early return to  Tehran. I also learned about Sikhism and  that uncut hair was part of religious practice. 

In the evening, when I wanted to go for a stroll,  Daljeet insisted on my not going alone, but I  threw caution to the winds and set out in the  dusk. I had hardly reached the main road when  men stopped their cars beside me, trying to give  me a lift or take me out. I was bewildered. Ultimately, chased by two Iranian men, I had to run  for my life. I reached the flat totally exhausted. Sobbing, I told Daljeet about my encounter.  He listened attentively, and when I finished, he  burst into peals of roaring laughter. After catch ing his breath, he said. “Didn’t I tell you not to go  out? This is Iran, not Germany, where a woman  can loaf around alone at night. But you seem to  learn only the hard way!” Saying this, he carried  on laughing his head off. I was deeply offended  and considered this extremely rude, so I kept  my distance and withdrew to my room. This was  my introduction to Daljeet’s unique laughter. 

The unforgettable laughter 

The second memorable encoun ter with his laughter was much later af ter my return to Germany, when Parvez,  a common friend we met in Iran, invit ed several of his friends to his mill in Italy. 

One night, I was trying to sleep after an inten sive day. Daljeet and Parvez sat up deep into  the night. Their laughter kept waking me up.  Finally, around 2.30 a.m., I crept out of bed and  yelled at them to keep the noise down. “Noise!”  Daljeet exclaimed. “We are just laughing  and having a good time. If you really want to  sleep, you should simply sleep. But apparent ly, you are not tired enough, so better join us  and laugh along.” Annoyed, I went back to my  bed. I pulled the sheet over my head, bombard ed by their high-pitched laughter, which trav elled even up to the villagers on the hill above,  who complained about the noise the next day. 

My first encounters with Daljeet’s laughter  could have been more pleasant. In the years to  follow, I got to know Daljeet better, and we slow ly grew fond of each other, despite his different  sense of humour. Little did I know that he was  so close to the man I would marry. And that he  would play such an essential role in our lives.  Daljeet became my godbrother at our wedding,  my rakhi brother, my children’s loved uncle, and  my husband’s best friend through the decades. 

The last laugh 

Finally, many years later, Daljeet had come to  his winter domicile in Trivandrum with a sore  throat which had made him lose his voice. In vestigations indicated that it was not a throat  infection. It was the aneurysm he knew he  had most probably since birth and which had  flared up at his aortic arch and needed im mediate attention. A high-risk, complicated  open-heart surgery was mandatory, which was  supposed to take two days. No one was sure of  the outcome. I realised that only a part of the  procedure’s outcome was in the hands of the  surgeon, and the rest was grace. I prepared a  message for all the dear and near ones to join  in prayers during the operation to support him. 

In the years to follow, I got to know Daljeet better, and we  slowly grew fond of each other, despite his different sense  of humour. Little did I know that he was so close to the  man I would marry. And that he would play such an es sential role in our lives. Daljeet became my godbrother at  our wedding, my rakhi brother, my children’s loved uncle,  and my husband’s best friend through the decades.

Daljeet was admitted to the hospital, all the  tests were done, and the imported customised  graft was kept ready. His wife arrived early  morning from Germany, spent the day with  him, and prepared for the night at the hospital.  After dinner, Daljeet watched the World Cup  soccer match between Germany and Japan with  Ram, our dear friend from Iran, living now in  Kerala. When Germany scored their first goal,  Daljeet jumped up. As he started to laugh loud ly (as was his wont), the little balloon at his aor 

ta burst, and he collapsed and fell within sec onds, before he could complete his outbreath.  Just before he hit the ground, Ram jumped up,  and Daljeet landed in his arms, a lifeless body.  All that was left was the roaring sound hanging  in the air—that of his eternal laughter—and  filling the walls and the entire space with it. 

Laughing his way to immortality 

All of us were devastated on receiving the  news. I felt deep grief, losing a close friend,  a dear brother, and the source of inexpressi ble support through years of hardship. I felt  so lost and alone. Sobbing ceaselessly, I could  not sleep. Tears and memories flooded me. 

Suddenly, I heard him say amidst his roar ing laughter: “All is well. I am fine. Don’t  worry, nothing has happened; I am still  here; I only changed my form, and you can  still reach me. You are not crying for me  but for yourself. Let go of your tears, open  your heart, and find me in my new form.” Then I saw a blueish ring of light coming out  of the darkness, changing into indigo, and then  a turquoise-coloured circle moving inward. I  calmed down, turned on the lights, and told  my husband what I had experienced. He sat  up, laughed in his grief, and said, “Even other  friends messaged that they heard him laughing,  and we all rejoiced that not everyone has the  grace to leave this world in a burst of laughter.” 

Jyoti Marianne Bahri is a teacher, a survivor, and an explorer of the inner world. After a life-threatening accident, writing had become an essential healing tool as  well as her gift to the world. We welcome your comments and suggestions on this article.  

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