February 6, 2005

During the last two or three years in Karachi, it was always a little unsettling to watch M. H. Askari, nearing his 80s, zestfully going from seminar to seminar, preparing papers, writing his weekly Dawn column, appearing on radio and television talk shows — unsettling, because you could only envy his energy. It didn’t seem that he would suddenly disappear from our midst

THIS is not about M.H. Askari the writer and columnist who died in Karachi late last month following a brief illness. It is really about Askari the man, the times in which he lived and some of the friends who filled his life.

It was in the Karachi of late ’50s that one really got to know Askari. He was then posted as the Inter-Services Public Relations officer with Naval Headquarters in Napier Barracks. The place still serves as a PN establishment, but the naval headquarters have since been moved to sea-less Islamabad. ISPR in those days was a relaxed organization manned by former journalists and had not become the crusty set-up it is today. The ISPR crowd moved easily with journalists, and there was much excitement all round at the setting up of the Karachi Press Club. Younger journalists were rounded up by seniors like Askari, I.H. Burney and S.R. Ghauri. Because of Askari, you got a chance to sit with journalists like Anwar Hussain, the doyen of sports reporters, Khaleeq Naziri, Tufail Jamali, Sultan Ahmad, the dapper Ashir Sahib with his bow ties, Zamiruddin Ahmad and so many others who now in retrospect seem like giants.

Within ISPR, Askari formed a lively foursome with Ibnul Hasan, Abdur Rahman Siddiqi and Tafazzul Siddiqui. Once all four somehow were in Rawalpindi together, and on a Sunday a jeep was commandeered for an excursion to Murree. It began drizzling on the way and Askari, Ibnul Hasan (Ibban) and Abdur Rahman broke out in a song — “Lathey di chadar, Uthey salaiti rang mahiya”, a folk ditty popular in those days. That was the great thing about Askari and the group of journalists in those days: they were thorough professionals, proud of their work, involved with what they were doing, but retaining, at the same time, their humanity, their love of life, their sense of humour. Karachi was still the federal capital, and there was always a merry round of diplomatic cocktail parties, where everyone mixed easily and there weren’t any looming security concerns. The military hadn’t yet intervened, and ISPR types were readily welcomed among journalists as friends. Even after Ayub’s coup, this pattern of friendliness continued for some time.

There were drives to Speedbird House at the airport for steak and kidney pudding, and it seemed the easiest thing to drive down Drigh Road and not the nightmare that travelling on Sharae Faisal has now become. There were picnic trips to Malir, which was still a sylvan retreat, and Askari, in another of those old cars that he bought and changed with regular frequency, often had to cope with a flat tyre or a loose bonnet. It was fun to be alive, to be a journalist, to feel wanted.

Memories also well up of the days when Zelin’s Corner in the Al Markaz building on Victoria Road had become a sort of a rendezvous for lunch among writers and journalists. Askari was a regular at these gatherings, with Omar Kureishi, Abu Kureishi, Qurutulain Hyder, her colleague in the department of films and publications, Massarut Taimuri, as frequent participants. The offices of British Information Services were located in the same building, and its then gregarious director, McSamples, would also drop in for a plate of cutlets. You sat and listened and learned as political and literary discussions waxed and waned. Askari was something of a scholar, alone in the family who carried on the tradition of academic and literary pursuits of his father and uncles. He was a voracious buyer and reader of books, and while his taste was catholic, in his later years he had turned more and more to political works dealing with South Asian and regional affairs.

There was also at that time the beginnings of the Pakistan Writers’ Guild in which Askari was an enthusiastic participant. Jamiluddin Aali had obtained a room at then Excelsior Hotel for the Guild’s offices, and there was always quite a group of writers present there, day and night. Abbas Ahmad Abbasi would drop in some times and was sure to fill the bath tub with steaming water and lie luxuriantly in it, with a glass of beer resting on the sill and keeping the door open so that he could listen to what Askari and the rest were talking about.

The scene in the late ’60s moves to Lahore, where Askari worked for a time with the Agricultural Development Corporation of Pakistan and made at least one documentary for which he persuaded Feroze Nizami to provide the music. Lahore too was an exciting place, with plays at Al Hamra and the Open-air Theatre. Courtesy Askari, the swimming pool of the Services Club was often requisitioned for moonlight get-togethers, with the bats swooping down eerily the only nuisance. Perhaps even the bats have vanished from Lahore, like the butterflies and the glowworms. The social and cultural scene became even more interesting with the arrival of television in 1964, with the studios in a makeshift shed in the compound of Radio Pakistan. The Pakistan Times was always a centre that drew people, and Askari soon became an integral part of the PT crowd, which shared a healthy dislike of humbug and veered naturally towards left politics.

During the last two or three years in Karachi, it was always a little unsettling to watch Askari, nearing his 80s, zestfully going from seminar to seminar, preparing papers, writing his weekly Dawn column, appearing on radio and television talk shows — unsettling, because you could only envy his energy. It didn’t seem that he would suddenly disappear from our midst. The Irish have a tradition of not mourning the death of a friend or a relative, but of celebrating his or her life. That’s how Askari would have liked it to be — celebrating his life.—T.M.

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