MR Kamal Azfar’s autobiography, The Waters of Lahore, is, as he tells us, “a political autobiography.” But he hastily reminds us that this political autobiography has been written in a modern literary technique. “A political autobiography,” he explains, “written in the third person, loosely using the literary technique known as stream of consciousness, popularised by novelists such as James Joyce, Virginia Woolf and William Faulkner. The style of writing gives the author the freedom to talk about issues and events as they occur to him, flitting from one place to another and from time past to time present and to time future.”

This precious information provided by the author awakens hope in us that the book will carry with it a literary flavour reminding us of Joyce and Woolf. But Azfar’s deep involvement in politics does not allow him to keep this promise.

The earlier chapters of the book appeared to me more pleasant. For instance, while depicting Lucknow and then Lahore, factors other than politics attract the author’s attention. Talking about Lucknow he first of all is reminded of Umrao Jan Ada and then he starts talking about the Chowk, the famous street of the city where Umrao Jan is supposed to have grown up. And then he informs us that “not far from the Chowk is situated Farangi Mahal, the institute of the highest repute,” and adds that “it is not uncommon for conflicting institutions to co-exist as they do in the environs of the Badshahi Masjid in Lahore.”

“The ulema of Farangi Mahal,” he says, “introduced a new curriculum in the rationalist tradition, thus challenging the belief that Islam is irreconcilable with modernity.” He adds, “when Kamal once presumed to enquire of Jamal Mian, his murshid and neighbour, whether the Farangi Mahlis were Deobandis or Barelvis, he was gently rebuked in a Luckhnavi manner that ‘we are older than both’.”

As for Lahore, Azfar is all praise for this city, which “became a citadel of education and culture and came to be known as the Paris of the East.” And then he starts talking about his alma mater, Government College, nostalgically remembering his fellow students one by one and recalling teachers who had been kind to him.

From Lahore’s Government College he takes a long jump and is seen landing in Oxford. Azfar came back to Pakistan in 1963, a year coinciding with the high noon of Ayub Khan’s decade. He briefly talks about the dictator, and his comments about the man betray his growing interest in the politics of Pakistan. Then comes a time when he joins the PPP. Soon he wins the confidence of Z.A. Bhutto, and Azfar has much to say about him. Though he is all praise for Bhutto he also goes on to point out his weaknesses.

In fact, from the start in this account of his life, Azfar is seen involved in politics. But the way he writes gives the impression that he is writing a book on Pakistani politics, even though one expects from an autobiographer to write what he has seen and what is based on his experiences. It is here, while in the service of Bhutto, that Azfar records what he keenly observed. None of those who have been at the service of Bhutto have escaped his observation and consequent scathing remarks.

He tells us that Bhutto was nearly killed in an attack by Hurs. Mr Rasool Bukhsh Talpur with Bhutto sitting by his side addressed a press conference: “‘We know,’ he said, ‘how to face Pir Pagara and we knew his father too.’ ‘There is a Hur sitting in the front row,’ Bhutto whispered to this fearless man. ‘Yes,’ recanted Mir Rasool Bukhsh, ‘we treat the present Pir Pagara Shah Mardan Shah with respect just as we respected his father’.”

According to Azfar, Bhutto “had a ready wit and unmatched gift of repartee. It is rumoured that Kennedy told Bhutto, ‘Had you been an American I would have appointed you Secretary of State,’ to which he responded, ‘Mr President, had I been an American I would be sitting in your chair in the Oval Office of the White House’.”

“At one meeting,” writes Azfar, Bhutto said, only half in jest, “‘why don’t we wrap this up and establish a one-party state like Nasser’s Egypt. After all, the people of Pakistan are behind me, and so is the army.’ Dr Mubashar Hasan, the secretary general, vehemently opposed the concept of a civilian coup d’etat and Bhutto took back his words.”

At one such meeting in Karachi the hapless director general of statistics was corrected by governor State Bank A.G.N. Kazi. “What is the matter with you Kazi,” Bhutto asked when the head of the State Bank raised his hand. “These statistics are not correct. I myself bought potatoes at one rupee more this morning at Empress Market.”

When Kamal, as governor of Sindh, went in 1996 to pay his respect to the dying justice Dorab Patel, he indicated that he held Yahya Bakhtiar responsible for Bhutto’s death.

But how? Kamal explains: “The Bench was split down the middle, Dorab told Kamal, and the death sentence requires confirmation by a majority. One of the acquitting judges, Justice Waheeduddin, had suffered a stroke towards the end of the hearing of the appeal. I asked Yahya to conclude his arguments, which would have enabled Waheeduddin to concur with the acquitting judges but Yahya Bakhtiar arrogantly spurned the proposal giving the hanging judges a majority.”