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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