Nawab Akbar Bugti as I knew him
By M.P. Bhandara
“At once insanely proud and filled with hatred, omniscient and doubting everything, cold and violently passionate, contemptuous and self abasing, tormented and detached, surrounded by devoted followers... wholly isolated, he is the most tragic of the great writers, a desperate old man, beyond human aid, wandering self blinded at Colonus.”
— Isaiah Berlin on the death of Count Leo Tolstoy
THE above word picture provides a near fit for the life, times and death of Nawab Akbar Khan Bugti. Tolstoy, who, towards end of his life, almost acquired the persona of a world redeemer or near prophet, died in tragic circumstances at a remote Russian railway station, Astopovo having fled his family and huge estate. Bugti died in a cave in the inaccessible Kohlu hills.
Like Tolstoy, Bugti too was insanely proud, violently passionate and contemptuous. Given an audience — particularly of politicians and journalists — his sarcasm could be like a rapier thrust between the ribs. When we visited him as a parliamentary group in March, last year, he made hurtful ethnic remarks to Senator Nisar Memon. He was also pleased to declare the entire Parliament as a bunch of eunuchs. When reminded that his own party members sat in parliament, he thought the same of them; it didn’t possibly strike him that over 20 per cent of Parliament consisted of lady members. These remarks were never to be taken seriously and as far as I was concerned, it provided more for amusement than umbrage. It was like a headmaster talking down to his students.
We are well aware of Bugti’s victims and cruelties which was the convex side of his multi-faceted personality; but there was also a concave side which was generous, very caring and affectionate towards people he liked, including his loyal followers.
I considered the Nawab an elder friend. The thing we had in common was books. He was a voracious reader, sitting cross-legged on a carpet, he often read till late in night. He was my ardent supporter at election time. I needed the Sikh vote of his area. He would snap his fingers and order one of his acolytes to ensure that each and every vote was delivered to me. Never did he ask me to join his party as a quid pro quo or demand anything in return.
I called on the Nawab during the general election of February 1997. It was a nice balmy evening and after the usual sumptuous Baloch dinner — I may add the Nawab was a vegetarian — he invited me to sit in the garden to talk books. Sometime earlier two of his grandsons had been killed by his political opponents. He was gaunt, but did not show his grief. Towards the end of our conversation — and by now it might be around 1 am — I had a glimpse of the vengeance in store. Somewhat innocently I asked him “Sir, if I give you a magic wand what would you desire?” He answered, “I would wish everyone dead, yes, each and everyone dead.” I said, “For that you don’t need a magic stick, two or three hydrogen bombs will do?” “Oh, no”, he replied, “With hydrogen bombs there will be escapees. I don’t want any escapees.”
After the murder of Sardar Domki’s sons — his grandsons — he rarely left Dera Bugti, an isolated hamlet in the middle of nowhere. Many people came from the four corners seeking his audience, which was readily granted. But by now in his grief and the rage that was swelling within him, he expelled all the Bugti sub-tribes which were inimical to him or not amenable to his command. Thousands were ordered to leave their homes to cross over to Punjab, as a punishment. I was told the women folk of those ordered to leave wailed outside the gates of his fort for days begging for mercy out to no avail.
Rage and revenge, I imagine must have occupied many hours of his days and nights. It is in this context that his political demands took final shape. Islamabad was yet another adversary that had to be taken care of. The extremism that was always within him now acquired a steel edge. Compromises were no more than shabby bits of paper. In this megalomania he decided to take on the state with heavy weapons allegedly supplied by our neighbours. His private army of between two and three thousand men was fanatically devoted to him.
In his last years he researched widely the pre-Islamic history of Balochistan ending with the Sassanian period (651 AD) which was part of the Zoroastrian Persian empire. In his own rugged area he claimed to have found Zoroastrian altars. In his quest to learn more about this religion, he asked me to send him books. I sent him an autographed copy of Prof. R.C. Zehner’s ‘Zurvan: a Zoroastrian Dilemma’, which I found unreadable because of its dry, heavy-reading content. When I recovered the book two or three years later and asked him if he had read it, he replied with relish that he had. An examination of the book revealed heavy pencil underlining. Among novelists one of his favourites was Salman Rushdie — he much enjoyed reading ‘The Moors’ Last Sigh’. He read voraciously poetry and biographies. Many years back I had sent him the poems of Sappho. As a free thinker, he enjoyed the mental space provided by like-minded writers.
It is curious that notwithstanding his intellectual and aesthetic fibre, he had a streak of ruthless cruelty. But if his punishments were severe, it has to be understood within the cultural moorings of his society.
Pakistan’s largest gas field Sui is located in his fiefdom. The Sui field has saved Pakistan billions of dollars. He believed over the years Islamabad had short-changed him and the Province on royalties. During our last meeting in Dera Bugti, our group asked him what increase in royalties was his demand, he replied, “You have entered my house and stolen my goods, now you want me to tell you what share I require from my looted goods?” Later in the meeting, for some reason or the other, he turned to me and said, “Some people say I am a separatist?” I replied, “Sir, I don’t think you are one”. And then came the last word, “I have no objection to being called a separatist.”
With this remark we stood on opposite sides. A citizen’s primary duty is loyalty to the state. I instinctively felt this was the denouement. Hope flickered for a moment when he said that he held Ch. Shujaat Hussain and Syed Mushahid Hussain in good esteem, a rare remark from the Nawab and playfully did he roll the word “Syed”.
Akbar Bugti was a charismatic figure, over six feet tall with a shock of white mane, a trim white beard and a Balochi drape to match. He would cut an imposing figure walking with a long staff in hand, looking every inch like Plato’s Philosopher — King.
Bugti’s vision was that of an autonomous Balochistan, something akin to Mujib’s six points; accommodating his demands could have been the subject of a political process but compromise was not his forte. The balance was tipped by acts of terrorism, particularly after the President Musharraf’s helicopter was fired at in Kohlu.
The army did show a great deal of forbearance and patience. This I say from personal experience when we visited Dera Bugti in March last year. Bugti had clearly over-reached himself. Hubris inevitably leads to nemesis. All stakeholders in this political brawl have come out the losers in the end. To die being crushed under a rock deep inside a cave must have been a horrible end, for Bugti and his followers, and the six army men who too were killed in the underground blast. Bugti was a grand feudal.
There will be other feudal grandees to follow in his footsteps, but the future does not belong to them. The Baloch insurgency will soon peter out as did the Sikh insurgency in Indian Punjab after the elimination of Bhindranwale.
In the end this proud, handsome Baloch chieftain appears as a tragic figure “a desperate old man totally isolated beyond human aid, wandering self-blinded at Colonus”.
The writer is an MNA.
murbr@isb.paknet.com.pk

