I do not remember who introduced me to Wahab Jaffer—perhaps Latif Kapadia, at an event at Indus Gallery. Latif was famous for pulling the legs of his friends in a way, and with words, that the recipient loved to hear from him:
“Meet one of the great industrialists turned painter of the Islamic Republic!”
“What are you doing here, Sir? You do not look like an industrialist,” I instinctively blurted out.
Wahab Jaffer’s modest smile and firm handshake made it seem as though the proverbial chemistry was instantly set in motion between us. This was back in the 1970s. Our friendship endured for more than half a century, until the cold hand of death snatched him away from our midst.
Years continue to slip away from our grasp, but who can stop memories that remain etched on the tablet of the mind—or rather, the heart? Yet I am tired of writing obituaries for my friends. Every time I lose one, I feel strangely uncomfortable, as though it is not they but I who have let them down by failing to keep them company.
Wahab chose to bid farewell to his family’s business and fortune. Perhaps he felt he was not cut out for business and that his talent and love for art were enough to sustain a fulfilling life—playing with colours and collecting the treasures we call antiques. And what an extraordinary collection he amassed! Wherever he travelled, his eye was drawn to beautiful objects carved in ivory, stone, wood and metal, or painted on canvas. He acquired them not so much for their monetary value as for the joy they brought him.
Painters and collectors hate to part with their treasures. They seldom give away their work, though some occasionally do so in moments of high spirits. Wahab’s generosity, however, knew no such conditions. It is difficult to say how many of his paintings and drawings, never carrying a price tag, adorn the homes of friends and acquaintances around the world.
In my own case, I have no hesitation in disclosing that he gifted several paintings to me and to my daughter, Aisha, in Chicago.
“Choose the one you like,” he would say.
When I told him there was no painting of his at the SIUT Gallery in Karachi, he personally accompanied me there and presented one of his beautiful works to Prof. Adib Rizvi.
He also supported journalist friends and writers on art by purchasing their books and gifting them to others.
Wahab knew the art of living a happy social life. The Sindh Club was where he played billiards and entertained friends, while his home was a place where he regularly hosted dinners for painters, poets, writers and journalists. In all these gracious pursuits, his beautiful wife, Shireen, was always a true partner by his side.
But, all said and done, Providence has its own way of charting our lives. Wahab underwent three open-heart surgeries, the first while he was still quite young. When he required a fourth in his final years, the doctors had to decline.
His beloved life partner remained his companion even in death. Shireen battled cancer and returned to her Creator. Wahab, ever the fighter, eventually laid down his arms and joined her soon afterwards. He took a different flight, but they arrived almost together—not in Toronto this time, but at their final destination. May they now pick up the thread where they left it.
I pray for their eternal peace in Heaven, free from all the cares of this uncertain world.
We, the friends of this remarkable couple, sincerely hope that their home in DHA, Karachi, will one day be declared the Wahab Jaffer Museum. The priceless collection he has left behind is already meticulously organised and preserved in exquisite condition. 
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