Lyari - unchanging season?

The conversation over lunch after focusing on rising land prices in Gulistan-i-Jauhar generalized about the state of real estate in the Sindh capital, at which point I told the three colleagues that it would be interesting to know what was the market situation in Lyari. There was a pause and this young chartered accountant asked me in a somewhat abrupt manner whether I was serious. I was dead serious; he missed the point. I wanted to see once again whether we, as a city, are conscious of places like Lyari amidst us. No one talks of Lyari, neither do I.

What followed in our discourse is not quite the point. Lyari, and other such localities areas do not really matter to us, it seems. Someone else will take care of those backward areas of the city. Or the people living there will manage it themselves. We seem to assume that Lyari is another city, in another time.

As I write, I realise that after having lived in this city all my life, over 50 years, while Karachi has expanded, and is more than a mini-Pakistan, it has shrunk in a way. Are there little towns in the Sindh capital, determined largely if not entirely on a socio-economic basis, and quite unconnected or at least disinterested in each other, unless it is for reasons unavoidable?

Unlike some of our suburbs, Lyari is not far away. Neither is Lines Area, adds a citizen. But how many Karachiites would want to know what is the quality of life (and security) in such places, much less consider the possibility of visiting someone there. It is too risky, cautions a scared voice within. Is that the real position, or is that a perception? Is the gang war in Lyari, symptomatic or larger ills, and which we choose to ignore?

A letter to the editor of this daily published sometime ago was captioned thus 'Gang war in Lyari Town' and began thus "Social crimes in Lyari Town have increased manifold, and reached an extent where many families have been forced to leave the area. There is no rule of law, and the town has become divided into small pockets, under the sway of local thugs.'' The letter said "the Sindh chief minister and governor should take notice of this situation, and personally intervene in the matter. A clean up operation should be conducted and not by the local police as at present, but by the Rangers or army.''

It is said that the living conditions in Lyari are 'subhuman', and a Dawn report only last week said that the "causes of Lyari gang-war no secret". One could add to this the point that what is happening in Lyari, where over 100 people have lost their lives as well, is no secret. How the people there live is no secret, how the area has remained amongst the backward localities of Karachi is no secret. Bear in mind that official figures indicate that over 600,000 people live there today.

It is revealed that there is an ongoing gang-war. Two 'notorious mafia groups' are involved. Authorities have failed to apprehend the criminals, responsible for gruesome murders, and spreading panic that has descended over the area for months now, said the Dawn report. The people living there have other grievances that relate to employment opportunities, basic amenities, fundamental rights, availability of narcotics, child labour, insanitation, water, encroachments, etc. The list appears long, and an environmental profile that mirrors the apathy and the nonchalance of society. And this is no recent happening. It goes back into time, making one wonder about what the local, provincial and national leaders of that area have been able to achieve for the community, in actual substantive terms.

Keeping in mind that Karachi is a city of uncomfortable and ugly contrasts, on could contend that Lyari presents the unattended, unfinished agenda that Karachi has, and in plenty. A citizen I talked to about the restlessness in Lyari referred to the extensive development work that is being undertaken in many parts of the city. Bridges, flyovers, roads, parks, housing schemes, commercial areas, and many other things.

When a Karachiite reads a news story which highlights the fact: 'contaminated water supply in Lyari', he is invariably going to respond with the attitude that there is nothing new about this for Karachi. That this is happening elsewhere too. But there is a difference. There is no gang-war that is on. Similarly, when there is a focus on 'garbage poses threat to Lyariites' health', citizen may question: So what is new?

Let me tell you what is new. Now just the gang-war, but also that yet another generation - children and young people - is coming up. Yet another generation of Lyariites. That is new. It is relevant in a way to mention here the Unicef annual report launched in London the other day which says that "one billion children suffer from poverty, war, AIDS.'' And Unicef seeks to work towards the Millennium Development Goals set by the United Nations.

What are the Millennium Development Goals of the Lyari people? Or those for the next 10 years? Or the next five years? Anyone listening? Can we lobby for welfare of Lyari and turn that place around to prove to ourselves that we can do something for the less-fortunate amidst us.

Let me confess here that I have not visited Lyari for years now. I have a sense of guilt that in my own small way I have also contributed to the absence of adequate development activity in that part of Karachi. Says a voice within: "Have the poor become poorer, and the rich, richer?

And the price of land, and the price of gold, and the price of cars, are affordable for the affluent. For our poor, atta is dearer still, dear reader.

A veteran journalist

Khalid Latif is a veteran journalist who has been living in Canada since quite some years. Although he has said goodbye to his old profession, he maintains his affiliation with the pen and keeps writing books and articles. I understand he is writing a book about the relations America is currently maintaining with the Muslims of the world.

Khalid Latif divides his time between Pakistan and his adopted country. I met him the other day at a dinner. Mashkur Husain Yad also happened to be there. Besides being an educationist, a poet, a literary critic and author of several books, he is also a reputed humorist. He has only recently come up with a collection of ghazals and given it the intriguing title, Bardasht. Asked how, and why, he had chosen it, he blandly said his verses were something which had to be tolerated as they happened to be 'something difficult to digest'. He presented me with a copy and I have gone through it only to find his verses smooth as ever. In fact, I am all praise for them. Who can fail to appreciate:

Kal apney hathon mein jab mein nein uskey hath liye

Tarah tarah ki shikayat thi uskey hathon mein

Mashkur Husain Yad gave me another of his books as well. It is a collection of his devotional poetry under the title, Illa-hu. All poems in this collection are in praise of the Almighty. It is what is known as 'hamdia' poetry. The noteworthy thing about them is that each 'hamd' is based on an epithet about Him as endorsed by the Holy Quran. It is not unusual to portray Allah in a manner which strikes terror in the minds of the reader, but Mashkur Husain Yad has made sure to portray Him both as worthy of being feared and also as One who is merciful and munificent.

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I have written about the quarterly Navadir earlier as well. It is a publication devoted to the memory of the noted educationist and writer, Nazeer Hasnain Zaidi and is published by his son, Mustafa, ably assisted by his talented wife, Shaheen. I have now received its combined 9th and 10th issue which covers the period from April to September.

As usual, the issue carries a variety of well researched articles. The first to be commended is the detailed one by Mohammad Hanif Shahid covering the journalistic career of Maulana Mohammad Ali Johar. Another article which attracted my attention was the one written by Dr Mukhtaruddin Ahmad about one of the poetic collections of Basir Kazmi. Now introducing Basir as the son of the renowned poet, Nasir Kazmi, would be an affront to him, as he has his own standing in the field of poetry. However, the writer has brought out all finer points of Basir's creative work.

Another article worth reading is about the roots of Urdu in the Punjab. Written by Shahnaz Kausar, it has been based on the treatise of Hafiz Mahmood Sahirani on the subject. Navadir, indeed, caters for those looking for serious reading material.

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The monthlies, Adab-i-Latif and Takhleeq have also been published. Unfortunately the issue of Adab-i-Latif has been totally ruined by the copy paster. The only worth reading piece in it was the account of Kazy Javed's visit to India, but it has gone haywire.

The Takhleeq has a lot of good reading material this time and so far I have only managed to scan it. However, the running account of Tasneem Kausar about her visit to India in connection with the Punjabi conference has been written in a most gripping manner. I knew her as a poet, but now I have to express my appreciation of her prose as well.

The moderate saint called Mian Wadda

Just a mile to the south of the Shalamar Gardens, midway from the Lahore Canal, a small road turns inside westwards and curves to a large opening in the centre of which is a massive and ancient banyan tree. On one side is an old gateway, the gateway to the 'Dars' of Mian Wadda, an important saint of Lahore.

The 'Dars', or 'darsgah', call it a school, of Mian Wadda - the elder - is a monument built in the age of Akbar the Great. Its construction took three years and was completed in the year 1008 Hijra. It has for the last 400 years been a leading madrassah in Lahore teaching students the Quran and Fiqah. During the days of Aurangzeb it faced difficulties, as also in the days after the death of Maharaja Ranjit Singh when the compound was the centre of a major battle among the Sikhs. But over time and through days good and bad, mostly bad, it has stuck to its tradition of open debate.

Once you enter the gateway, you will notice a number of buildings, all of the Akbar-era. In the gardens that once existed around the Dars, graves have filled the green spaces. The main building still has a row of 'hujras', in which scholars, locally called 'dervishes', lived and studied and taught their students. In the once lush gardens, these 'dervishes' and their pupils debated the finer points of Islamic law and its practices.

To one side is a beautiful little mosque, while on the opposite side is a small animal-driven flour mill, those old grinding stones can still be seen intact. So the two aspects of life, the godly and the earthly, are represented by these beautiful structures. In its hey days, it would have been a very peaceful place, surrounded by huge banyan trees.

To the centre is a small building that has the grave of Shaikh Mohammad Ismail, the man known as Mian Wadda, and the person who founded this exquisite school of Quranic learning. To one side is the grave of Shaikh Jan Mohammad, on the other are two more graves, that of Shaikh Noor Mohammad and Hafiz Mohammad Saleh.

These were the three pupils of Shaikh Ismail, who originally belonged to Targraan in the Potohar plateau. By caste he was a Khokhar, and they were tillers of the sandy lands to which his ancestors belonged. One account tells us that his father's name was Fatehullah, son of Abdullah, son of Sarfraz Khan. It is said that Fatehullah, his father, learnt the Quran at a very early age and studied Fiqah.

Another account narrates that Fatehullah was a 'hafiz' of the Quran and spent long hours in deep meditation. It is said that he had a huge following at his village Chabba on the banks of the river Chenab. On his death, he was buried in his village. During his life time he made sure that his son Ismail, who was born in the year 995 Hijra, was educated in every aspect of life. He was a 'hafiz' at the age of five and recited the Quran in a most melodious tone. He was made a pupil of Makhdoom Abdul Karim of Langar Makhdoom on the Chenab.

He lived in his madressah and learned Fiqah. Being of the Suharwardy school of thought in Islamic jurisprudence, he went on to reach the highest levels of Islamic learning available in his environment. It was then that his teacher informed him that he should go to Lahore and pray at the 'darbar' of Ali Hajweri and Allah will show him his way forward, for he predicted that he was to reach even greater pinnacles of learning.

So it was that Shaikh Hafiz Mohammad Ismail came to Lahore and settled in a small village Telpura, a little distance from where the famous Shalamar Gardens was to be built, and from where he could see the outer walls of the city. It was here that he set up his Dars, and within no time it grew in to a huge school.

People of every religion flocked to him, for it is said that he performed many a miracle. He died in 1095 Hijra at the ripe age of 100 years. It is said that he had once mentioned that in a dream he was informed that he will die exactly at the age of 100, not a minute before or after, and so it seems his dream came true.

Many a miracle is ascribed to Shaikh Mohammad Ismail, who in his old age was known more by the name of Mian Wadday - the revered elder. This name stuck to his Dars, and even today it is known by this name. Just as he had performed 'miracles', so people of all faiths believed that by making a promise to the saint, their promises would be fulfilled if they fed the blind and the poor at his grave every Thursday. Ironically, the Sikh community of Lahore was great admirer of Mian Wadday, and during the reign of Maharaja Ranjit Singh, his Dars was well looked after and provided for.

But when the infighting between the Sikh broke out after the death of Maharaja Ranjit Singh, the raja of Jammu, Raja Sujeet Singh, battled it out with the forces of the darbar. Canons were fired at his forces camped in the Dars, and the Kashmiri attacker was killed in battle here. Along with his forces, hundreds of 'dervish' scholars of the Quran also perished in the battle.

When the British took over, the famous Mohammad Sultan, the contractor, brought a lot of land for the upkeep of the Dars. He restored the buildings in the shape that we see today. However, when he was asked by a dervish to return all stolen bricks from the various destroyed mosques of Lahore, he refused and a curse is said to have followed. We all know that he died a pauper, for in his desperation he also sold off the land.

So with time the Dars of Mian Wadday flourishes. People still come to make their promises. The blind are fed every Thursday. Graves have filled up the garden. Portions of which have been encroached upon by the land mafia. But the teaching goes on. The message of moderation survives. The blind of Lahore still go there to become a 'hafiz'. The banyan tree is said to be over 400 years old. In their own wisdom, people still make their secret wishes. Such is the power of a wish.