Meeting Basir Sultan

MY FRIEND, the retired educationist and literary personality, Dr Agha Suhail, rang up and asked me over. “I have invited Basir Sultan who is here from Britain. You know he is the son of Nasir Kazmi. “It was a Sunday morning, and despite my inability to walk without aid, I made it to his residence. There I was confronted with several others who had been invited to meet the visitor. At the far end of the spacious sitting room I could see the typical ladies corner with Azra Asghar, her daughter Sheba Taraz and Shahnaz Muzammil. Others assembled there were the former instructor at the Administrative Staff College, Prof Waqar and the poets Asghar Mehdi, Shahid Wasti and some strangers. But first about the guest of the day.

Basir Sultan’s only qualification is not that he happens to be the son of Nasir Kazmi. Basir Sultan is also a poet but has many other qualities which make him stand out.

Born in 1955, he received his early education in Lahore, winning a scholarship in his matriculation examination. Joining the Government College, Lahore, he went on to do his master’s in English. During that period he was elected the general secretary of the students union. He also held offices in the Majlis-i-Iqbal and the Sondhi Translation Society and even edited the college magazine, The Ravi.

Opting for a teaching career, he joined his alma mater as a lecturer. Always interested in the theatre, he was soon teaching drama and criticism to the post-graduate classes. Appointed vice-president of the dramatic club of the college, he produced such plays as Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest. He also took part in mushairas all over Pakistan and frequently appeared on radio and TV.

Married to a distant cousin, the family moved to England in 1990 after Basir secured a British Council scholarship to study for an MEd degree at the University of Manchester.

At the same time, his wife, qualified in dentistry, went on to obtain a PhD in the subject.

Basir’s first book, Bisaat, was published in Lahore in 1987. Being a play in four acts, it had symbolic and oblique references to the political atmosphere in the country. It was in 1992 that Basir himself translated Bisaat into English and gave it the title The Chess Board. It is the first long Urdu play to appear in an English translation. He also received an award for it from an Asian literary society of Manchester.

Living in that city, Basir made friends with a Bengali lady. Married to a Briton, she was totally devoted to literature. Known as Debjani Chatter jee, she has over half a dozen published books of her poetry and several more which she has edited or translated. Fascinated by the poetry of Basir and his father, she has rendered several of their ghazals into English and published them under the title, Generations of Ghazals. See how beautifully she translates Nasir’s verse:

Yoon kis tarah katey ga kari dhoop ka safar

Sar par khayal-i-yaar ki chadar hi ley chalen

This is how Debjani puts it:

In such scorching heat, how may the journey end?

Let me shade my head with the thought of my friend

Basir would be returning to England this week. He is busy working for a PhD with reference to literacy in Pakistan.

That day at Agha Sahib’s, it was essential to have a round of poetic recitations. After all, there were so many poets around. While Shahnaz Muzammil, Sheba Faraz, Asghar Mehdi and Shaid Wasti had all been heard by me earlier as well, the poet who impressed me that morning was one who is almost unknown. Muhammad Zaheer, who happens to be a lawyer, was there as a friend of Shahid Wasti. His verse astounded me:

Khawahish-i-tameer karna bam-o-dar ka sochna

Baithna reig-i-ravan par aur ghar ka sochna

Dastgeeri heh yehi beemarpursi heh yehi

Dam nikaltey dekhna aur charagar ka sochna

Kheil ultey khelna aur kanpna anjam se

Dosti qatil se rakhna aur sar ka sochna ita

This poet was simply superb. But, in the end a verse of Basir’s:

Dil laga leitey hein ahl-i-dil watan koi bhi ho

Phool ko khilney sey matlab he chaman koi bhi ho

JUST after this function came the second Monday of the month, the day when members of the Adab Serai assemble at the residence of its chairperson, Shahnaz Muzammil. As such, I made my way there only to find that many more had decided to do the same. The sitting room was overcrowded and Shahnaz had hastily to lay a chair for me. Apart from Raza Abbas Raza who had made his appearance after a long absence, and also surprised me with a beard on his face, there were many first timers that evening. The most prominent of them was the tall and graceful, Parvin Sajjal, who had come perched behind the scooter of Aijaz Feroz Aijaz, which has the word POLICE displayed prominently on its number plate.

However, I was surprised to see the bureaucrat and prominent short story writer, Waheed Raza Bhatti, among the audience. But I learnt later he was there as a friend of Basir Sultan, who had been enticed by Shahnaz to participate in the meeting at her place. She also recited some beautiful verses that evening. Here is one:

Voh intiha-i-zoam mein peechey murey nahin

Ham intiha-i-shauq mein aagey nikal gaey

— ASHFAQUE NAQVI

In a state of mourning

KARACHI: A week ago, the froth of the waves turned grey, a day or two later it turned darker. Now it’s pitch black. The sea seems to be in a state of mourning. The fury of the monsoon sea is still there but it’s no longer a sight to watch. No longer do you see people taking their early morning walk on the Beach Avenue in front of Seaview Township and Darakhshan Villas. People who used to exchange greetings in the early morning have not seen each other for quite a few days. In the evening the situation is worse. On Wednesday evening the Rangers and the police, wearing masks, didn’t let the holiday crowd go on to the Beach Avenue. But on Thursday only motorcycles and cars could go to the double-lane road, which remained out of bound for buses.

People were simply curious. They could see the ship half sunk. Fortunately, it wasn’t on the main channel otherwise our trade by sea would have come to a grinding halt. People looked at the dark sea with concern. The stench of crude oil was far more effective than the Rangers and the policemen in driving the crowd away. I could see a papadwala and a couple of madaris returning from the Beach Avenue with long faces. On weekends and public holidays they make far more money than on working days. No one could have braved the stench to buy papads or watch a tamasha. Not just the restaurants on the seaside but even those a kilometre or two away are losing business.

Those living in apartments and houses close to the sea are suffering. People with respiratory problems are worse off, their condition has aggravated. Some people have burning sensation in the eye. A few families have shifted to other localities. On Friday morning one could feel that the stench had become somewhat less intense than it was on Wednesday. One hopes it will taper off, but the poor camel drivers who offer rides on the beach will stay away for a few months, at least. We shall also not see the small fishing boats which operate between mid-September and mid-May for many years. The marine life is dead.

The bright street lights on Beach Avenue will hopefully be switched on in a week or so, but the searchlights will continue to be off for months and the beach, will remain in a state of mourning. — Asif Noorani

56 years of disillusionment

What has changed in Pakistan since August 14, 1947? “Not much”, says Arbab Fateh Mohammad Khan, a former chairman of the department of history at the University of Peshawar.

The term horse-trading might be new to our political lexicon but the practice dates back to the time when the majority government of Chief Minister Khan Sahib was unceremoniously removed and replaced by Khan Abdul Qayyum Khan. The Pakistan Muslim League leader headed a minority government, an uphill task considering the influence of the red-shirt movement in those days.

A true politician, Qayyum Khan resorted to what is now known as horse-trading. Carrots and sticks, he used both. But unlike now, when tamed and timid bureaucrats toe the line, one man stood the ground, Ahmad Ali Jan Arbab, the deputy commissioner of Peshawar.

He refused to show any leniency to a group of parliamentarians, wooed by chief minister over the issue of non- payment of Malia nor was he willing to take confiscated arms back to them when ordered. The result: Arbab, the first deputy commissioner of Peshawar at the time of the partition, was removed in June 1948, only 10 months after the birth of Pakistan.

Fifty-six years later, the story has not changed. Bureaucrats, who try to follow rules, are shown the door. Recently, the provincial additional chief secretary, the secretary planning and the senior member board of revenue, all made OSDs while attempting to enforce the rule of law.

Fateh recalls his father, Late Ahmad Ali Jan, narrating the speech delivered by Quaid-i-Azam Muhammad Ali Jinnah to civil officers in Peshawar. “The Quaid said”, Arbab told his son, “politicians come and go but civil officers remain. Stick to your guns and follow the rules.” That statement had brought cynical smiles to many a face amongst those in attendance.

There is disillusionment. The older generation, who have seen Pakistan evolving since its birth, still recall the days when the British chief commissioner of Peshawar Mr. Kepal would trot Badabher on horseback, accompanied only by a guard.

Compare this with the long columns of cars accompanying and escorting those, who are supposed to protect the hapless citizens of Pakistan. A single shot fired in those days triggered a panic button in a police station as there was responsibility accompanied by accountability. Now, no one stirs when trigger-happy Pathans empty their Kalashnikovs on sighting the Shaban moon, making the whole city of Peshawar look like a city on war.

But then there were officers like Ahmad Ali Jan Arbab. When the people went on a rampage in Peshawar looting the property of fleeing Hindus and abducting their women. He recovered the women and personally escorted about 2,000 of them to Attock.

When reforms were introduced in the NWFP, he was made the election officer. He prepared the first electoral rolls and drafted the first municipality rules. The Times of India wrote a piece praising him for his performance. In 1936, he was made His Majesty’s Consul in Jalalabad, Afghanistan, where he remained until 1942.

When Late President Sardar Ibrahim asked for a man to streamline administration in the Azad Jammu Kashmir in 1950, Khan Qayyum, weary of Arbab, was too happy to see him go to become the commissioner there. Later, Arbab became a member of the Constitutional Commission of Pakistan (1960-1963).

When he died in July 1976, Daily Khyber Mail very aptly summed up his eventful life in the following words. The daily wrote: “Impartial, scrupulously honest, kind to the weak, innocent and needy but never sparing in the matters of evil- doers, he had personified those reformist public men of whom there always is the dire need but who are becoming, alas, a rare species.”