| 15 August 2004 | Sunday | 28 Jamadi-us-Saani 1425 |
Independence Day reflections
Last Monday, we saw how the late Maulvi Muhammad Saeed left Delhi for Lahore on August 6, 1947, and how he joined The Pakistan Times and how he recalled those early days in his book, Lahore: A Memoir. Let us now pickup the narrative from where we had left off. Saeed continues:
Mian Iftikharuddin was a man of refined taste. He was an aristocrat, maintained a good house and a lavish table. Many will still remember the dinner he hosted soon after independence. Though the gloom owing to indiscriminate slaughter on both sides of the border was hard to left fall off, the Mian tried to make the occasion as cheerful as possible. A charming young girl (later, a renowned singer) sang a beautiful song.
Ustad Daman, a huge figure, rounded off the occasion with a Punjabi poem. The recital, though long, was characteristically vigorous enough to keep the audience attentive. Ustad Daman lived in Baghbanpura, Mian's ancestral township, near Shalimar. Besides, Daman's rustic bearing and powerful verse against the established social order had given him a constant place among the Mian's circle of friends.
Ustad Daman, though not formally much educated, had cultivated himself to inspire respect in high literary and social circles. He had an old fashioned house with a well inside the courtyard. People who knew him intimately told me that the well in those days of "no-refrigerators" served as the next best thing to keep his beer cool.
A bucketful of beer bottles was lowered down into the well to remain submerged till the brew recaptured the enervated kick. The bucket moved up and down as the cold bottles were emptied and new ones were replaced to be cooled. Meanwhile, the company sat round the parapet of the well, waiting for the bucket to come up again.
In May 1949, I left for Karachi to rejoin Dawn. Altaf Husain had made me an offer one evening as we strolled along the Mall. His son, with some chest trouble, was advised to avoid Karachi's humid climate. Altaf had selected Lahore as his temporary station. I accepted the offer despite Mian Sahib's advice to the contrary. The send-off was touching.
Of those who happened to form the earliest team on The Pakistan Times, five had their careers cut abruptly. Mehmud Husain of Rangpur (East Pakistan) was the first to leave us. He went to his native province to settle down in old age, for he could no longer 'break up the home' at one place and re-establish it at another. He did not live long to enjoy a settled life. Mian Iftikharuddin died not long after the take-over. He was an ailing man.
Too many drugs as a result of a heart attack had undermined his will to live. Amir Husain Shah (Kakoo Shah) who met me last at Mian Sahib's funeral in Baghbanpura along with Khurshid Ahmed (later a minister) too did not live long. Zuhair died in January, 1979, in a motor crash and Faiz, now looking like an aged man, died on November 20, 1984. My sorrow over these deaths was so profound that I could not keep it a private affair.
The last meeting with Faiz was highly interesting. We met at Dr Afzal Iqbal's house in Pindi's Satellite Town. I was the first to arrive that evening to dine there with Faiz as the chief guest. It was an informal occasion. Yet it was a neat and well ordered affair.
Faiz was in city to attend a Daira function in his honour and Dr Iqbal utilising the opportunity invited him to meet some of his old friends at dinner.
Faiz was a little late. His arrival immediately provided a focus for the discussion that had been rambling hitherto from one thing to another. The new topic was his latest literary activities, his next collection of poems; his huge productivity which had painfully slowed down to a trickle. Faiz, in his measured tone, answered each question in a mood that was a happy blend of evasion and jocularity.
Soon, in the midst of this fascinating conversation - the dominant share being Faiz's - Mrs Zarina Iqbal announced dinner. Though miserly with words - both spoken and written - she is generous with food and has a knack of keeping a good table. At the table, Faiz was seated opposite me. I was glad to notice that he enjoyed his dinner.
The general impression, that as a 'sickman' who had already abandoned both 'eating and drinking' the dinner-table might be a tiring exercise for him, proved happily unfounded. Like a man of taste, he was charmed by the display of the Iqbals' cuisine. He took little but tasted every item on the menu.
Somehow or the other, the table-talk turned into reminiscences of the early days of The Pakistan Times. Here, naturally, Dr Aftab Ahmed and I felt called upon to make the major contribution. Faiz was pleased with the old bewitchery recaptured. This incidentally, reminded me of a pleasant episode of a few years earlier. Z. A. Bokhari, Faiz and I, after attending the meeting of Radio's Central Advisory Committee in Peshawar, were on a round of the Cantonment bazar. Bokhari had to buy some medicines. During the drive I told Faiz that I was trying to write a memoir (whatever its worth). He was pleased to hear this and said: "Must do that. What fascinating days those were."
When dinner was over and the green tea had been duly sipped to round off the memorable evening, and the people had started moving out, I took leave of Faiz. For me this was virtually the 20th of November, for that was the last of the series of the off-and-on meetings with him which began on August 8, 1947, in Lahore.
With Faiz, I shared not only the district of our birth but the year also. And what was still more delightful to imagine was the sharing of common school environs in two villages just 20 miles apart. Passing through Murray College and the Lahore streets in our own respective orbits we were destined to meet in 1947 when Faiz had taken over as Editor of The Pakistan Times, after a teaching spell lasting a decade. We had been wandering over divergent fields - he for his talent and I for lack of it.
Faiz sent me an appointment letter when I was on the staff of Delhi Dawn. Before signing the letter he enquired from a common friend what kind of man I was. He told him that I wore home-spun cloth, sported a beard and observed fasts (and that was the month of fasting). Faiz smiled and said: "Looks like a dangerous man! Hope, he won't make us fast as well!" I joined The Pakistan Times on August 8, 1947. Faiz was new to the profession though by that time most of us had spent some time in journalism. His mastery of the language was an established fact.
His early writings though not strictly in the journalistic mien, were highly delightful. One day, when I was sitting with him, he received a letter from the Governor's House by a special courier. Governor Francis Mudie had praised the editorial of the day. Yet, he never allowed poetic self-indulgence to influence his prose, which was rarely without a touch of high penmanship.
Policy matters, of course, were not the concern of those in the newsroom. Nevertheless, sometimes strict adherence to a particular stance sounded jarring. At a staff meeting once, I could not help expressing our surprise - rather disgust - over the persistent running down of the provincial as well as the national leadership. "What kind of Messiah do you expect, Faiz Sahib, to rise and put the house in order?", I said a bit exasperatedly. "Well, we have laid down the general qualifications for the Messiah. It is now for him to fit himself into them," was his answer.
Faiz never lost his temper with the staff unlike most editors. Maulana Mohammed Ali was often heard shouting at the staff: "I don't want a paper like this. Close it down and go home." Altaf Husain frequently developed a nasty mood. Hasrat's sharp sarcasm added an extra edge when he was angry. When a sub-editor used the word Joban ras in the headline he threatened either to burn the printed copies or remove his name from the print-line. The word was obscene. Even Maulana Zafar Ali Khan was said to burst into English-speaking in a fit of bad temper. But Faiz had his own way of conveying his "displeasure".
Once he came to the newsroom and called me out and then, almost in a whisper, asked me: "Did such and such item not deserve to be displayed as a double-column?" I laughed and said: "Faiz Sahib you would have been perfectly within your right to reprimand me inside the newsroom."
Mr Jamil Ahmed would often say: "It is always embarrassing to face Faiz after committing an error. It is he who apologises for your error!"
The day Ghulam Mohammad as finance minister enhanced the tax on tobacco and the law prohibiting liquor in the Punjab was declared ultra vires by the Lahore High Court, Faiz came to the newsroom to enquire what the main story was. He laughed heartily when I replied: 'It was after a dogged fight that we got alcohol declared halal; and now Ghulam Mohammad has made tobacco haram.'
The atmosphere at The Pakistan Times was conducive to devoted work and we enjoyed our jobs despite the hardships that a pioneering effort entails. It was painful for me to tear myself away and revert to Dawn, whose pull, proved irresistible and I moved to Karachi. A few days later, while I was having my evening meal at a hotel near Dawn office, Faiz entered the room. The first question he put to me was: 'Hasn't your iddat ended? Come back to Lahore.' Faiz, didn't like Karachi - 'a city without the centre of gravity.'
Some time later, one day at a luncheon where most of the Karachi Press was present, I heard of the alleged conspiracy and Faiz's involvement in it. I was shocked to hear that a person as suave and soft-spoken as Faiz could have chosen such a path. I could not imagine that. We were a little relieved when we heard him say that the "thing that exists nowhere in the story has hurt them most!".
To be concluded
Independence Day reflections
The 57th Independence Day of Pakistan. How much happiness can you read into the fact that the national flags are fluttering all over the country, and the green and white flag can be seen on numerous buildings and vehicles in the Sindh capital too? What does the display of the national flag mean, when you look deeper into the phenomenon? Of course, there is something symbolic too in this enthusiasm for this flag?
What does all the Salaam-Pakistan branded programmes on the PTV, running short of ideas, imagination and revenue, mean in the context of yet another Independence Day? How communicative and convincing is the state-owned and managed TV when it comes down to ground reality? How real and authentic are the news reports aired on Radio and TV, despite the changes they claim to have made in their respective editorial policies.
Is the zeal and the fervour for the 14th of August is more than that of the last year? In a way, such national days, in the lives of young nations like ours are occasions to ask some questions. The questions that need to be asked and answered honestly, as it takes some courage to ask them and to answer too. Enough of official and, most of the time, empty rhetoric, which perhaps also explains why we are as we are! We remain vulnerable, in trouble.
As these lines will be read a day after the 14th of August, so its pertinent to ask how did most people in town spend the Independence Day? Did they think about Pakistan? Did they think the way it needs to be done? Did they think about the reason for the creation of Pakistan? Were they able to take the day more than just another public holiday, which provided them with an extended weekend this time? Just that? Our love of holidays and our ability to be extravagant with them is well known.
I am tempted to mention what my seven-year-old nephew Saleem said to me on Friday, while he was in bed, slightly sleepy. Was he thinking about something? I asked, which was followed by a short question-answer session, in which he wanted to know what day it was. I said Friday, and he asked me the month! "August," I said. He asked me the date. I said "13th!" He said nothing about the 14th of August, and quietly I wondered about his school.
This seven-year old was happy that there were another two weeks of summer holidays, that his school tutor was off for Friday and so was his "Maulvi Sahib." This was fun and he sounded relieved, and delighted. He was happy for getting more holidays and I thought about our love for holidays as a people.
I was already recalling the days when we used to go to school in Karachi in the fifties and early sixties, and the misty memories of such national holidays that we had when I spoke to my nephew. The emphasis was on holidays and that alone. Newspapers would bring out supplements even then on the significance of the day, and the Radio Pakistan was the only electronic medium to celebrate the day. I suppose there must have been seminars and symposia too, but I have no memories of that. I have no memories of any national holiday being spent focusing on the meaning and relevance of the day in my school days.
Of course, that was the first decade of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan, and as one says this thoughts inevitably and somewhat sadly take into account the way in which our 57 years of independence have melted into history. How can I reconcile with the fact that in just over three years after some of us finished our university education in this city, we lost half our country.
The sadder part of the Independence Day reflections is that today's younger generation (being fed by state-owned PTV and Radio) is almost unaware of how half of the country was lost. And even today political leaders and parties warn of the many dangers and threats faced by the country. There is, even now, frequent talk of the threats there are to the country from within. The fall of Dhaka, to be forgotten.
Not just because of the war against terrorism, that Pakistan is in post 9/11 period, but there are many other issues that both the federation and the provinces face, and difference of opinion exists on conflicting issues that should have been settled long ago.
There is an ongoing debate, for example, on the very concept of Pakistan; what were the real reasons for the creation of this ideological state? Was it meant to be a secular state? The question is now being asked. What was the vision of Quaid, and one often wonders what the younger generation feels was the reality of Jinnah's Pakistan.
More important is to ask, I think, what is being offered to the young men and women of today in the country? An educational system that has forever been questioned, and almost no issues appears to be settled.
Of course, the Independence Day is no occasion to really mourn. But it is a day to wonder and contemplate at the manner in which we have squandered time and opportunity, and how we have handled our resources, and what is the quality of the citizen that we have produced.
Look at the status of the Pakistani passport abroad, and the shabby almost disgraceful manner in which Pakistanis are treated abroad. The status of the Pakistani citizen in 2004 is a theme that is disturbing.
Another persisting issue is the state of insecurity that we have in this city of Karachi. Not just infrastructural inadequacies, or environmental neglect, but also law and order, crime, terrorism, and sectarian trouble are some serious challenges and destabilizing threats we are grappling with. In the last one year, things have deteriorated to such an extent that a colleague of mine remarked that not just "is there no light at the end of the tunnel, but perhaps there is no tunnel."
Of course there is sunshine, as one sees little boys and girls buying these national flags and the buoyance and innocence they reflect. But look at the fact that in this very city, during senseless lawlessness, the prestigious Quaid-i-Azam Academy was attacked this year.
It makes one wonder whether we as a nation have realized the worth and the value of the Quaid's message and the significance and substance of the freedom struggle. At this point in time there are at least three generations of Pakistanis who are still around. There are those who are older than Pakistan. Their memories of pre-1947 are different, and so is their nostalgia.
They are able to recall the days before the creation of Pakistan or India. They have seen the early days of Pakistan and they are a witness to the way in which the Quaid's dream has perished, the way in which leaders, decision makers and governments have forgotten the goals of the father of the nation.
Then there are people amidst us broadly speaking who are as old as Pakistan. I am one of them, having been born in 1947, I am very conscious of this fact and it saddens me to see that as I grow older, and possibly and understandably tired, I feel a sense of loss. I could never have thought I would see a day when the East Pakistan would be lost, and that our national image would be as "questionable" as it is today.
So many of the men and women of this generation feel this way, except perhaps those who have either migrated or made so much money in this country that the question of nation building do not trouble them. They do not share or perceive the agonies that exist around us.
Then there are the young and the very young, in a way unconnected by the deeper implications of the Pakistan Movement, the bilateral ties with India, the wars and the bloody breakaway of the East Pakistan. This generation is either studying or has just entered into the professional mainstream (that is if they have jobs, for unemployment is yet another cause and source of frustration in 57 year old Pakistan).
It is here that it is possible to read hope and read it clearly says one Karachiite who doesn't want to believe in the pessimism that he sees around. There are such people who contend that the glass is half full, not empty. And that there is a glass too.
Indeed another independence day in our lives has come and gone and one hopes that as Pakistanis we have done the soul searching that is called for on such national days and occasions. That behind all the noise and music, the rallies and the speechmaking, and all the colour that the PTV and other private channels came up with, there was a conscious effort made collectively as well as individually to wake up to the challenges that lie ahead, if we are to become a self-respecting dignified people among other nations of the world.