The clergy in Pakistan has been a power to reckon with since its creation in 1947. They gained popularity among the illiterate population, economically drained by the English Raj and the loss of power after the demise of the Mughal (1526-1857 CE ) Empire, and they have never looked back. In fact, they have been instrumental in shaping the psyche of the Muslim nation, which was to become Pakistan when the British left. When they found a brand new country, Pakistan, they started to exert pressure on the ruling intelligentsia through their pressure tactics and emotional blackmail, that the government be ruled according to their plans, wishes, and whims, and preferably by them alone. Later, Pakistan became a sad saga of its disfigurement of the entire social fabric.

In the 19th and 20th centuries, the various sects of Islam sprouted in the subcontinent and became popular rapidly, each one claiming to be the only true representative of Islam. That was the beginning of modern-day chaos in the name of religion. Those sects prevailed. When the struggle for independence was started by the All India Muslim League in 1906, the clergy saw it as a threat to their own filthy rich empires, which were providing them with lavish incomes through their rich uneducated but influential and powerful followers. The national poet of the Muslims of India, Dr. Sir Mohammad Iqbal (1877-1938 CE)

took notice of their ulterior motives and became very vocal in his poetry about the hypocrisy of these mullahs (religious/clergy guys) who were illiterate, drowned in centuries of old version of a decadence, and refused to keep up with liberalization of the society and democratic thought processes. Not only that, they infused in the masses the fear of change from being dominated by the feudal lords (of which they were mostly the paid employees) to the educated, thinking human beings. Through his poetry in Urdu and Persian, he emphasized that these mullahs are like Jews who amass wealth and change the meanings of the holy book to suit their needs. The educated middle class of undivided India loved this loud rebuttal of centuries-old voices of the mullah. Iqbal rapidly gained popularity among the Muslims of India. He warned that a mullah (the so-called religious leader) is not a true follower of their religion and has distorted and abducted the religion for his own riches and benefits. They enjoyed a unique above-the-law status in the society which safeguarded their illicit wealth. His poetry still reminds us of the hatred he had towards this class of people who did nothing but were instrumental in making Muslims believe that acquiring education was tantamount to being a heretic and that education is a sin linked directly to blasphemy. Sir Syed Ahmad Khan was one of the very few educated people who made Indian Muslims realize and believe that education is no sin, doesn’t snatch religion from Muslims and it’s not a monopoly of the English.

He started Aligarh University and trained a whole class of liberated, enlightened Muslims. But the masses living in rural areas were oblivious to all these changes. They were under the feudal rule and the local mosques were ruled by the imams who were in turn paid by the landlords of the area. He declared his employer as the second of god on earth and made him stand on a pedestal far higher and unreachable for the rest of the common folk. The imam was not only paid by the feudal lord, but his family was also taken care of by the rich and influential class of society called Zamindars (land owners). It is pathetic to note that all his religious knowledge was confined to some old books and treatises written in the era of the Abbasid caliphate (750-1258 CE) in Baghdad.
During the independence movement, the most prominent religious leaders of that period (1935-1947) like Hussain Ahmad Madni, Abul Kalam Azad, Mufti Mehmood, etc. vehemently opposed the creation of Pakistan. Among them Mr. Modudee of Jamaat-e-Islami became one of the controversial figures in post-independence Pakistan as he took a U-turn and declared himself and his party as the saviors of the newly born country against the influence of Western ideologies. This u turn was the defining characteristic of almost all the anti Partition religious parties in Pakistan who suddenly became the custodians of the faith of Pakistani ms. This dilemma of cleansing a whole country of about 160 million people has continued unabated since those times and has, in the course of time, given rise to an ugly, and intolerant social structure.

The followers of Mr. Modudee (JI) became avid supporters of Gen. Yahya Khan

who was given the responsibility to rule the country by the out- going field-Marshal, Gen. Ayub Khan, the latter took matters of the newly born country, Pakistan, in his hands as early as 1958, when he declared the first Martial law and laid the foundation of the subsequent lawlessness by deviating from the guiding principles of democracy and the constitution. The army had found a leisure job in Pakistan and they were not to be deterred from reaping its benefits. Ayub ruthlessly destroyed all the democratic institutions and political leadership of the country during his absolute dictatorship from 1958 to 1969. He was the first army chief to declare martial law only 11 years after the creation of a republic. Jamaat-e-Islami joined hands with the autocratic ruler, Gen. Yahya Khan and the dream of purging the country of “unIslamic” elements began in earnest. The armed wing of this Jamaat, the IJT (Islami Jammiate e tulaba) took the matters of education and administration into their hands and with the backing of martial law and its generals succeeded in sowing an atmosphere of terror throughout the country. Learning started to have a downhill course and was replaced gradually by the get-degree-to-earn-a-living phenomenon. This change in the mindset of students of colleges and universities was to have far-reaching deleterious effects on the national psyche of the middle class. There was not enough vision or political will left in the country to combat such venomous onslaught on the minds and thinking of people.

Gen. Yahya Khan was widely known as an alcohol loving guy and had a very bad moral reputation but in their hatred of liberal, left-wing politicians and reformists, modernist liberal groups, the Jamaat-e-Islami leadership was convinced that by joining ranks with the general, they could advance their cause of purification of the unclean masses of Pakistan. The country had its first general election in 1970 and the Pakistan People’s Party, headed by deposed foreign minister, Mr. Zulfikar Ali Bhutto won the majority vote for the national assembly in the then West Pakistan. During that time the country had an eastern wing, East Pakistan. The popular leftist leader, Sheikh Mujib ur Rehman of Awami League (People’s Party) was the only winner in East Pakistan.

The dispute arose as to who would be the next chief executive of Pakistan, as both Mr. Z. A. Bhutto and Mr. Mujib ur Rehman had their positions of strength in West and East Pakistan, respectively. The clergy were badly defeated in the general elections, and it was a clear indicator that the masses don’t approve of them and don’t envisage their leadership as being capable of running a state.

It was hard for the right-wing extremists to accept this fact. While the political dialogue was in progress, General Yahya supported a militant group of Jamaat e Islami in the Eastern wing and they formed “Albadar” and “Al Shmas”, paramilitary forces backed by the military government.  Their objective was to eliminate and curb the separatist movement in East Pakistan. While the political dialogue continued, President Gen. Yahya Khan declared that he would deal with the situation with a heavy hand and would not allow any separatist movement to succeed. He clearly indicated Sh. Mujib ur Rehman and his famous ‘six points’ agenda, asking for more provincial autonomy. Martial law was once again declared, and the politicians were blamed for a deadlock. Fuel was added to the insignificant fires of separatism, and soon it engulfed the whole Eastern wing. The commander of the Eastern Front, General Amir Abdullah Khan Niazi (Gen. A A K Niazi) proudly proclaimed that the army had saved the country from a disaster. But the real disaster struck on December 16, 1971, when the same general surrendered in the Pulton Maidan (platoon grounds) in Dhaka in a ceremony attended by the victorious Indian army, headed at that front by Gen. Jagjit Singh Aurora. East Pakistan vanished from the world map, and a new sovereign state of Bangladesh was born. Sheikh Mujib ur Rehman was elected as the first head of state. Ironically, ever since that humiliating defeat in which more than 90,000 officers and soldiers of the Pakistan army were taken prisoners of war by India, it was once again a civilian, liberal, left-wing leader, Mr. Z. A. Bhutto who managed to win their freedom with his bilateral talk with the then Indian prime minister, Mrs. Indira Gandhi. The clergy in East Pakistan reportedly were blamed for the macabre scenes of massacre, torture, arson, and rape.

Pakistan continues to suffer from the dictates of Mullah (extremist clergy):

In 1971, Mr. Bhutto was given the task of healing the wounds of the worst defeat in many centuries by a Muslim army, he took up the most difficult responsibility of governing the broken and broken-hearted country. Within a few years, the country was on the road to democracy and social reforms. Mullahs and religious leaders fumed with hatred, as theirs have been the fate of the defeated. The public had rejected them in the 1970s general elections, but they had delusional ideas of being the saviors of the country and on their shoulders, they thought they had the enormous responsibility to cleanse the nation of the liberal, educated leadership and democratic thought process. This particular thought process was alien to their beliefs, which were not even remotely Islamic. These beliefs were totally in line with the dictates of the feudal lords and petty businessmen who resented the large-scale reforms of Bhutto’s regime. They did not have to wait long, and in 1977, they had their turn to plunge the country once again into the abysmal depths of myopic vision and autocratic rule, where no liberal thought process or visionary leadership could prosper.

لاہور کی مشہور تاریخی عمارت، چوبرجی کی قریبی آبادی کا نام شام نگرہے۔ چوبرجی سے تھوڑا سا آگے جا کر ایک راستہ بائیں جانب مڑ جاتا ہے، یہ سارا علاقہ شام نگر کہلاتا ہے۔ یہی سڑک آگے جا کر راج گڑھ کی آبادی سے مل جاتی ہے۔ شام نگر کی ایک مشہور گلی سہگل سٹریٹ کہلاتی ہے۔ میرے ننھیال کے گھر کا پتہ ۳-سہگل سٹریٹ ، شام نگر تھا۔ 1947 ء میں یہاں بیشتر آبادی ہندؤوں کی تھی جو قیامِ پاکستان کے بعد رفتہ رفتہ ہندوستان منتقل ہو گئے۔ میری ننھیال تقسیم سے پہلے امرتسر میں رہتی تھی ۔میرے نانا غازی فیروز ابراہیم ریلوے میں ملازم تھے۔ میری ام٘ی جان انکی سب سے بڑی بیٹی تھیں جو تقسیم کے وقت اسلامیہ کالج کُوپر روڈ سے بی اے کر رہی تھیں۔ یہ سارا خاندان امرتسر سے ہجرت کرکے لاہور آگیا۔ میرے نانا نے کوئی لمبا چوڑا کلیم داخل نہ کیا اور حکومت نےخود ہی سہگل سٹریٹ والا یہ گھر جو خالی پڑا تھا ، انہیں الاٹ کر دیا۔ نانا جی میری پیدائش سے قبل ہی اللہ کو پیارے ہو چکے تھے۔ انکی قبر میانی صاحب کے قبرستان میں ہے جہاں رفتہ رفتہ نانی امی ،ماموں اویس ابراہیم ، اور حال ہی میں ان کی اہلیہ ممانی شہناز بھی مدفون ہوئے۔

میں بہت اوائل بچپن میں نانی امی سے، اپنی خالاؤں اور ماموں حضرات سے ملا۔ وہ سب کے سب مجھے بہت پیار کرتے تھے۔ امی کیوں کہ سب سے بڑی تھیں اس لئے میں تمام ننھیال میں پہلا اور سب سے بڑا نواسا، اور سب سے بڑا خالہ زاد/ ماموں زاد/پھو پھی زاد تھا۔

نانی امی ( جن کااصل نام خیر النساء تھا) نے سب بیٹے بیٹیوں کی شادیاں کیں مگر شادی کے بعد کسی سے کبھی کوئی تقاضہ نہ کیا۔ ہمیشہ اپنے گھر میں رہیں جہاں وہ فجر سے لیکر رات گئے تک ہمیشہ لچھ نہ کچھ کرتی رہتی تھیں۔ انکا شاید ہی کوئی ذاتی کام ہوتا تھا۔ ہمہ وقت پہلے بچوں کی پرورش کرتی رہیں اور پھر نواسوں/ نواسیوں اور پوتوں / پوتیوں پر اپنا پیار نچھاور کرتی رہیں۔ میں نے ساری زندگی انہیں کبھی کسی سے کچھ مانگتے نہیں دیکھا۔ انکا واحد ساتھی ایک حقہ تھا جسکی چلم بھی وہ خود ہی بھرتی تھیں۔ انہیں کبھی کسی نے اُونچی آواز میں بات کرتے نہیں سُنا تھا-میں نے ہوش سنبھالا تو کئی کئی روز شام نگر میں رہتا تھا۔ گرمیوں کی چھٹیوں کا بیشتر حصہ بھی وہیں گذرتا تھا۔ نانی امی یا تو باورچی خانے میں سب کے لئے کھانا پکاتی تھیں یا کبھی کبھار سستانے کے لئے اپنی چارپائی پر بیٹھ کر چند کش حقے کے لیتی تھیں۔ بہت پہلے میں نے اُنہیں صحن کے ایک کونے میں دری بچھا کر چرخہ کاتتے ہوئے بھی دیکھا تھا۔چرخے کے گھومنے کی آواز مجھے مسحور کر دیا کرتی تھی اور میں ان کے گھٹنے سے لگ کے انہیں محویت سے اپنا کام کرتے دیکھا کرتا تھا۔ روئی کے اُن گالوں اور دھاگے کے ان گولوں کی نرمی آج بھی ذہن میں محفوظ ہے۔ کس طرح کپاس (روئی) کے نرم و ملائم گالے دھاگے میں تبدیل ہو جاتے تھے جس سے کپڑا بنتا تھا۔ بعد میں ہینڈ لُوم اور پاور لُوم نے دھاگہ تیار کرنے والی اس گھریلو صنعت کا نام و نشان بھی مٹا دیا۔ چرخے کی مدھر آواز کو “کُوک” کہتے تھے۔ اب تو خیر اسکی جگہ ہمارے ہاں انجنوں کی غراہٹ سُنائی دیتی ہے۔ کُوک اس زمانے کا لفظ ہے جب ماحول میں نرم روی، تہذیب اور ادب آداب ہوا کرتے تھے۔

انکی سب سے چھوٹی بیٹی مجھ سے تقریباً ۸-سال بڑی تھی۔ انہیں میں ہمیشہ باجی گُڈی کہہ کر بلایا کرتا تھا۔ انکی کم عمری کی وجہ سے ان سے ایک طرح کی دوستی تھی اور ہم دونوں ملکر شرارتیں کرتے تھے۔ وہ مجھے طرح طرح کے پکوان بنا کر کھلاتی تھیں۔ اُن سے بڑی بہنیں خالہ بشارت، خالہ فراست (لالی) صباحت منیر (آپی)، ماموں جاوید اور ماموں اویس ابراہیم تھے۔

سہگل سٹریٹ کے اس گھر سے بے شمار یادیں وابستہ ہیں اور ساری کی ساری بے حد خوشگوار۔ ام٘ی سے چھوٹی بہن خالہ بشارت تھیں۔ ان کے ماشا اللہ چار پانچ بچے تھے اور سب سے میری دوستی تھی۔ وہ جلد ہی خالو سراج کے ہمراہ لندن جا کر بس گئیں اور چند برس پہلے وہیں پر انتقال کر گئیں۔ سراج خالو پہلے ہی اللہ کو پیارے ہو چکے تھے۔ وہ دو ایک مرتبہ پاکستاں آئی تھیں اور سارا وقت محبت بانٹتی تھیں۔ نانی امی کے تین بیٹے تھے۔ سب سے بڑے، ماموں فاروق کا انتقال میری پیدائش سے پہلے ہی ہوچکا تھا۔ امی کو اپنے اس بھائی سے بہت پیار تھا۔ وہ عین جوانی میں ہی مختصر علالت کے بعد وفات پا گئے تھے۔ امی نے آخری دم تک انکی ایک البم اپنے پاس رکھی جس میں انکی چند تصاویر اور تحریر کے نمونے تھے۔ ان کے بعد ماموں جاوید اور سب سے چھوٹے ماموں اویس تھے۔ جیجی ماموں بھی جلد ہی لندن روانہ ہو گئے اور پھر وہیں کے ہو رہے۔ ایک بار میرے اوائل بچپن میں وہ اپنی شادی کروانے آئے اور ممانی شگفتہ کو ساتھ لے کر پھر پردیس سدھار گئے۔ جب میں بڑا ہوا تو ان سے اکثر خطوط میں اورانٹرنیٹ پر بات ہوتی تھی اور ہم مختلف النوع کی بحث مباحث میں شریک ہوتے تھے۔ چند سال پہلے وہ بھی اللہ کو پیارے ہو گئے اور لندن ہی میں مدفون ہیں۔

اُن سے چھوٹے ماموں اویس ابراہیم تھے جو دوستوں کی طرح میرا خیال رکھتے تھے اورانہوں نے یہ تعلق ساری زندگی نبھایا۔ میں سکول میں تھا جب وہ گورنمنٹ کالج لاہور کے طالبعلم تھے۔ وہ مجھے ساتھ لے جاتے اور کالج کے ماحول سے آشنا کرواتے ۔تقریبات میں خصوصاً ہمراہ لے کر جاتے۔ ایسی ہی ایک تقریب میں انہوں نے اپنے ہمجماعت خالد عباس ڈار سے ملاقات کروائی اور ڈار صاحب نے سٹیج پر جا کر ساری تقریب کی جان ہونے کا ثبوت دیا۔

جاوید ماموں اور خالہ بشارت کے بعد خالہ فراست بھی ولایت چلی گئیں۔ پاکستان میں ماموں اویس اکیلے تھے۔ گڈی کی شادی کے بعد گھر میں نانی امی اور ممانی شہناز تھے۔ ان کے بچے ہوئے تو گویا نانی امی کے دل کی کلی کھِل گئی۔ ان کی معصوم حرکات و سکنات ان کا سب سے بڑا سرمایہ تھا۔ وہ جس والہانہ پن سے بچوں کے کام کرتیں، وہ اب معاشرے سے عنقا ہی ہو گیا ہے۔

نانی ام٘ی کو میں نے ہمیشہ اپنے پوپلے منہ سے آہستگی سے بات کرتے دیکھا۔شاید انہیں غصہ آتا ہی نہیں تھا۔ سارا گھر مصروف ہوتا تھا تو وہ چپکے سے اپنی چادر کے پلو کو سنبھالتی ہوئی بازار چلی جاتی تھیں۔ یہ میرا استحقاق تھا کہ میں اپنی مرضی سے انکے ساتھ چلا جایا کرتا تھا۔ کریانے کی اور سبزی کی دکانیں ساتھ ساتھ تھیں۔ مسکرا کر مجھ سے دریافت کرتیں کہ “میرا پُتر اج کیہہ لوے گا؟” اگر میں کسی چیز کا تقاضہ کرتا تو فوراً خرید کر دے دیتی تھیں۔ عموماً میں ایک چھوٹی پتنگ اور اسے اڑانے کے لئے تھوڑی سی ڈور کا تقاضا کیا کرتا تھا جو وہ مجھے فوراً خرید دیتی تھیں۔

وہ مٹی کے چولہے میں لکڑیاں یا گوبر کے اُپلے جلا کر کھانا پکاتی تھیں۔ مجھے لھانا پکانے کا یہ سارا عمل بے حد پسند تھا اور اسے بغور دیکھنے کے لئےمیں ان کے پاس باورچی خانے میں بیٹھ جاتا تھا۔ پیاز اور مصالحے بھُونتے وقت جو خوشبو سارے باورچی خانے میں پھیل جاتی تھی ، میرے حواس کو ایک بے نام لذت کے شکنجے میں جکڑ لیتی تھی۔ وہ کبھی کوئی شکایت زبان پر لائے اور جھنجلائے بغیر آگ جلاتی تھیں اور مٹی کی ہنڈیا میں لکڑی کے چمچ سے کھانا پکاتی تھیں (پنجابی نام ڈوئی ) ،سالن تیار ہو جاتا تو فوراً میری تام چینی کی پلیٹ میں ڈال کر مسکراتے ہوئے پھُلکے ڈالنا شروع کر دیتی تھیں۔ چولہے کے پاس تین چار پیڑھیاں رکھی رہتی تھیں۔ ایک منقش گول پیتل کی میز تھی جسے وہ ہر وقت اپنی چادر سے صاف رکھتی تھیں۔ توے پر روٹی ڈال کر سینکنا شروع کرتیں تو پھلکا پھول کر کپا ہو جاتا تھا۔ فوراً مجھے احساس دلاتی تھیں کہ “ویکھ لے! ایہہ جِنا موٹا ہوئے گا میرے پتر نوں اونی بہتی بھُکھ لگی ہووے گی”۔

نانی امی کا پہناوا بے حد سادہ تھا۔ مجھے وہ ہمیشہ ایک ہی لباس میں ملبوس نظر آتی تھیں۔ وہی سادہ، معمولی کپڑے کی شلوار قمیض اور سر پہ موٹے کپڑے کی چادر۔ بے حد معمولی ہونے کے باوجود وہ لباس ہمیشہ صاف ستھراہوتا تھا۔ اُن سے دیسی صابن اور مصالحوں کی بھینی بھینی خوشبو آیا کرتی تھی۔ ایک مکمل گھریلو عورت! سراپا بے لوث محبت اور خدمت کی علاوہ انہیں نہ کچھ آتا تھا اور نہ انہوں نے زمانہ سازی سیکھنے میں وقت ضائع کیا۔ رات کو اوپروالے صحن میں سونے کے لئے چارپائیاں ماموں اویس اور شادی کے بعد ممانی شہنازاور وہ ملکر بچھاتے تھے۔ نانی امی سب سے آخر میں یہ تسلی کرنے کے بعد کہ ہر بچہ اور بڑا اپنے بستر پر دراز ہو گیا ہے، سب سے آخری، ٹوٹے ہوئے بان والی چارپائی پہ سونے سے پہلے حقے کے چند کش لیتی تھیں اور پھر لیٹ جاتی تھیں۔

ایک مرتبہ بات بات میں میں نےامی سے نانی امی کے بارے میں پوچھا تو پتا چلا کہ وہ ضلع امرتسر کی تحصیل ترن تارن میں پیدا ہوئیں۔ اکثر یہ خیال آتا کہ نجانے ان کا بچپن کیسا گذرا ہوگا، کیسے کیسے خواب دیکھے ہوں گے، کیا کیا تمنائیں ہوں گی، اُس سارے سفر سے گذر کر انہیں زندگی خاوند کی تابعداری اور ڈھیر سارے بچے پالنے میں صرف کرنا پڑی۔ وہ اسی میں مگن تھیں۔ ہو سکتا ہے اُن وقتوں میں کامیاب ازدواجی زندگی اسی سب کا نام ہو۔ تعلیمِ نسواں سو سال قبل بھلا کہاں اتنی عام ہوئی تھی۔ شام نگر کی منسلکہ آبادی راج گڑھ میں نانی امی کے بھائی کا گھر تھا۔ وہ اپنی بیگم، سراج ابراہیم کے ساتھ ایک چھوٹے سے گھر میں پُر سکون زندگی گذارتے تھے۔ دونوں کے بچوں کے بارے میں مجھے کوئی علم نہیں۔ ابراہیم صاحب ریٹائرمنٹ سے قبل ریلوے میں اعلی عہدے پر فائز تھے۔ دونوں میاں بیوی انتہائی منکسرالمزاج، سادہ اور دھیما بولنے والے لوگ تھے۔ ان کی مصاحبت میں کئی کئی گھنٹے گذرتے تھے مگر مجال ہے کوئی اونچی آواز آئے۔ کئی مرتبہ ایسا ہوا کہ نانی امی کو اپنے بھائی کے گھر آتے جاتے دیکھا۔ ملے، مختصر سی چند باتیں کیں اور واپس اپنے گھر کو اپنے روزمرہ کام کاج میں مصروف۔ یہ سادہ دل لوگ بوریت کے لفظ سے تو گویا آشنا ہی نہیں تھے۔ ان کا کام انہیں وہ فراغت ہی نہیں دیتا تھا کہ بوریت جیسی عیاشی کے متحمل ہوتے۔

نانی امی تعلیمیافتہ نہیں تھیں لیکن پانچ بیٹیاں اور دو بیٹے جوان کر کے انکی شادی کی اور سب نے انتہائی پُر مسرت زندگی گذاری اور خود بھی کامیاب والدین بنے۔ یہ نانی امی کی زندگی اور مسلسل محنت اور لگن کو خراجِ تحسین ہے! وہ اور اُن جیسےانسان دین اور دُنیا میں یقیناً کامیاب متصور ہوتے ہیں کہ وہ سب ذاتی غرض و غایت سے بالا ہو کر وہ کام پورا کرنے میں زندگی بسر کرتے ہیں جو اللہ تعالی نے ان کے ذمے لگایا تھا۔

When I was admitted for higher secondary education in Islamia College Railway Road, Lahore, I tried to study hard and was determined to excel, as Abba Ji (my father) and Ammi Ji (my mother) had encouraged me to make my dreams of becoming a doctor come true. I was supposed to study for grades 11 and 12 and then appear in the fate-deciding FSc exam held after two years of study.

The prerequisite for admission to the prestigious King Edward Medical College was getting very high marks to pass the basic admission criteria of that institute. According to an old habit, I made sure that I got to the lecture rooms before time to occupy a seat in the front row. Friends were made during and after the classes. Some of them were not eager for hard work and at that age, I didn’t realize that students joined college for fun as well. They had family farms or hereditary industries to go back to. They were few but exerted pressure on me to enjoy being a backbencher once or twice a week. In my enthusiasm for a fresh experience, I agreed to join them from time to time.

The English teacher was Prof Shafiq who took daily classes and was so pleasant that I never felt like leaving his lecture. Similarly, Urdu was taught by Prof Sardar Jamil who always asked me to read and explain the language in his class. Being naughty with him was out of the question. Prof Aftab of Zoology and Prof Maqsood of Botany taught the subjects I loved so I couldn’t afford to go to the back benches in their classes either. Physics was a tough subject for me and I had to concentrate on every word Prof Zafar taught us. He always guided me in my extra reading and gave me books for this purpose. I am indebted to all the teachers and scholars who guided me during those two years of study. That left Prof Ashraf Khan of Chemistry. He was middle-aged with a potbelly and came to the lecture shabbily dressed. To me, he was not a sharp and smart teacher, and the lectures he gave in the first month never made me understand what this science is. His speech was a loud version of slurred sentences and I frankly talked about it when in the company of my classmates. A group instantly reacted and invited me to sit on the back benches in the next chemistry lecture. I keenly accepted the invitation. In my mind, I had evil plans of throwing paper airplanes and pieces of chalk and making weird voices during the lecture. Deep inside I was happy to do all this stuff in Prof Ashraf’s class. He taught us every other day. There was yet one more day of waiting for me. After another day it was time for his lecture. I eagerly entered the classroom and instinctively went for the front row but was reminded of my plans and headed for the last bench which was full of some familiar smiling faces who welcomed me warmly. The teacher came and started his lecture. It was about atoms losing or gaining electrons. I had no idea at that time why the electrons leave their place in an atom or why more electrons jump into another atom. This added to my anger. I tore a page from my notebook, made an airplane, and threw it with full force towards Prod Ashraf when he was writing something on the blackboard. He glanced at the class for a few seconds and without getting angry started to write on the board. It infuriated me. My fellow students kept smiling and encouraged me. In the middle of the lecture, I suddenly realized I had not understood a single word of the Chemistry lecture. It dampened my evil spirits and I didn’t fly airplanes after that. Next Tuesday when there was a chemistry test, I hardly passed it. In the evening my father asked me about my progress in college and I replied that chemistry is too hard for me and I have not been able to really understand what it was all about.

Dad sat near me, put his hand on my shoulder and asked me did I miss the lectures? I answered negative and his next question was, “Do you respect your chemistry teacher enough?” I was speechless. Lowered my head and meekly replied I have not respected him at all. “So how about starting to do it from tomorrow?” I was now confused. I asked Dad, what respect have to do with my understanding of a subject? “Everything, “he smiled and that ended the discussion.

I sat on the first bench in the next chemistry lecture. Prof Ashraf smiled at me while taking roll call. I was super attentive to every word he uttered and there was a profound respect for him in my heart. I didn’t even notice him shabbily dressed or his disheveled scant hair. For me, it was a divine experience. Chemistry was never this easy. I jotted down every word he uttered as if it were a new divine revelation. At the end of the lecture, the teacher saw me standing up in respect before he left the room. He came near me and patted me on the head. “I know you are a brilliant student but if you still have any questions, do come to my office anytime. It’s near the admin block.” I was knocked out by my teacher and I was proud of it. Weeks passed by. Every other day I attended a chemistry lecture and found out I was not trying to understand one of the most important science subjects, my newfound respect for the teacher had instantly transformed me from a chemistry hater. Later, in medical college chemistry and chemical reactions and pharmaceutical sciences were my favorite subjects, and to this day I jump on chemistry and allied news on Twitter or Google News. The lesson of my father carried a lifelong impact on me. After his advice, I have always respected all my teachers to this day and it has proved to be a vital aspect in learning anything at all.

At 2-3 years of age, I remember from my grandmother’s home in Shamnnagar, my father used to let me climb on his shoulders and soon reach the main street. At the bifurcation of the main Sehgal street, he would let me glance through and absorb the outside world and then ask me, “Left or right?” It was entirely my choice which way to make my father go and it would make me so happy at that age and so in command. He used to walk a long distance either way and kept talking to me, making me laugh and giggle while on his shoulders, enjoying the view, and absorbing the little pieces of information he used to tell me. I used to ask him a million questions about everything I saw and noticed on both sides of the street. I was interested in the colors of the houses, the colors of billboards, names of vegetables and fruits sold by vendors, birds and butterflies and everything which used to catch my fancy.

Abba ji (my father Prof Mushtaq Ahmad Qureshi with the author in his lap ~1961-62).

When Abba ji got transferred from Government College, Rahimyarkhan we came to Lahore and settled here. The 1st floor single room in my grandparents’ house in Mohammad Nagar was allotted to us. In the evening Abba ji would go to the market two streets away for bread, milk, eggs, and vegetables. I always went with him and loved being carried in his arms. He told me stories of various people who carved their names on the canvas of world history and became famous. I loved listening to my father tell these stories. There was magic in the way he narrated the lives of renowned men and women. I was then 4-6 years old and preferred to put my arms around him while he did his shopping. It was the age when I also played in the street with other boys and explored new streets in the neighborhood. It seemed so amazing to find new connections and interwoven but very narrow streets in our neighborhood. Once I found a shortcut to the shopping area and the next time Abba Ji took me in his arms and came out of the home, I immediately and proudly pointed out that I had discovered a shortcut to the shopping area. Abba Ji smiled and stood still for a few seconds. He then started to walk again and softly suggested how good it was to explore the alleyways and then asked me how many turns we would have to take if we adopted your shortcut? I recalled that there were two left, one right, again one left, and two rights before we were in front of the shops. I explained this rigmarole to Abba Ji, he smiled and told me they are very dirty and dimly lit narrow alleys and the street we were walking on has only one left turn and we reach those shops in clean, broad streets. I remembered that the alleys I was referring to were filled with overflowing sewerage and smelled horrible. Abba Ji then told me never to adopt a shortcut in life because a straight clean path is always the best path. Later in life, I realized that in Pakistan finding and using a shortcut has become a norm so I suffered because of this ‘straight path’ mindset but never regretted once that I followed my father’s lessons for life. His lesson helped me always to take the road less traveled but with no shades of remorse or guilt of undue favors.

More time passed. I was admitted to the Muslim League High School at Empress Road, Lahore. I was in Grade 8 when the English teacher asked the entire class to write an application in English asking the headteacher for a leave for two days. Keeping in mind the colonial culture, no wonder we all were told to write the application by adding “I beg to say” and similar pleading and pleasing sentences. In the evening I showed it to Abba Ji and he immediately struck these sentences and told me to write “I have to state” instead and told me we are a free nation and nobody rules over us so there was no point in being so slave like in our writing, thoughts or conversation. The next day my teacher held my notebook and smiled, “It must have been corrected by Professor sahib”. He made the entire class to cross out the “I beg you” sentence and changed it to “I have to state”. I realized how far-reaching my father’s mind was, and I am indebted to him till this day.

In Grade 9 and 10 myself and my school fellows were smitten by English movies. The scenes with a kiss used to be the most interesting and important event (the censorship in Pakistan used to be very strict in those days for film and TV) and we friends talked about the details of those scenes complete with the minimum clothing of the actress and how her body moved and swayed with the passionate touch of lips. This discussion used to be continued during the entire free time. We were amazed at this erotic narrative and it was a different but pleasurable experience of finding our youth hormones. One day a few school friends were planning to see an English movie in the evening. I immediately joined them. The big hurdle was how to get money from my father. About seeing an English movie I decided not to tell dad about it. In the afternoon he came back from his college, I served him lunch instaed of Mom and brought him cold water from the ghara (pitcher). He smiled at my unusual efficiency and asked me was there something I wanted? I was so surprised how he came to know my secret plans but I didn’t ask him for anything. After lunch he asked me to lie beside him which was his own way of fatherhood, he used to extend his right arm and asked me to lie down and place my head on his arm. He would then hold me tight and run the fingers of his left hand in my hair which was a routine for me and dad. His warmth and a subtle fragrance of his aftershave still surrounds me. He always listened to every detail of my day, always told me that I was the best son in the world. I dozed off thinking how to ask him for the money for the movie. When I woke up he was reading a book with one hand stroking my hair. I blurted Abba Ji I need 10 Rupees. It was already 4:30 pm and the film started at 6:30. I added that I would need his bicycle and will come around 9:00 pm. He kept stroking my hair, smiled and asked me if I planned to go to a movie? I was shocked. How could he read my mind and plans. Even though he always called me with love and terms of endearment (never with disrespect and contempt like most of Pakistani fathers), I couldn’t deny him and meekly admitted my plans for a movie. To this day I have not been able to solve the puzzle that he took me along on his bicycle and swiftly rode to Gulistan Cinema on the Abbot Road, Lahore (then considered the only cinema rich road of city). The large billboard showed the name of the movie “The Green Berets”. I couldn’t believe it. Abba Ji himself had brought me to watch an English movie! While raising my son, Hamza, on almost every occasion I successfully read his mind trying to hide something unpleasant from me but I couldn’t ever reach the level of Abbaji’s understanding of his son’s mind. Seeing that movie liberated me from the craze and obsession of watching English/Blue/X-rated movies for the rest of my life. I was like “Oh I have seen it all and am not interested” when friends/colleagues suggested me some ‘hot stuff’.

Abba Ji was a very handsome man who remained a lean person all his life. He had immaculate taste of dress and social etiquettes. We were not rich but his dress when going to college has always been spotless. Before daybreak, he would get a small tumbler from Mom and walk almost all at a mile to a milkmen dwelling in our area. His sole purpose was to fetch pure, unadulterated fresh buffalo milk from his milkman friend, Mehnga (the rare/treasured guy).

He took all this daily trouble for us three brothers. By the time he came back, Ammi Ji had washed all the pots and kitchen stuff, and the moment he entered the door she would fill a pot and place it on the kerosene stove (it was before natural gas was discovered in Pakistan). She would boil it for a few minutes and its aroma would fill our small room and my nose. I would jump from the charpoy (wooden bed) and look at Abba Ji who by then had the morning newspaper in his hands. He stopped reading and brought the milk to my charpoy and sat with me. He would then tell me the important news of the day. From that early age, my interests were multidimensional. My classmates never talked about any of those topics but I gradually kept enhancing my knowledge of the world around me. Abba Ji kept me updated daily and we freely talked about the death of JF Kennedy and the Cuban missiles. News interests me even today when it feels there is nothing new happening. After making sure I had my milk he would take out his bicycle, dust the seat, and paddle to his college. He never had the desire to own a better ride. I asked him many times but his answer has always been the same that he doesn’t need a motorcycle as he was comfortable riding a bicycle. When he was appointed Principal of a College he kept and used his bicycle happily. He however bought me a brand new Eagle brand bicycle when I was in Grade 8 and at that time I was on cloud nine as the owner of a new cycle. Once I offered him to use it and let me ride his old cycle but he told that his son deserved the new things in life. He was an epitome of selfishness. When I was studying at Islamia College, Lahore, my Grade 12 results were expected, I got up and went to the compound where Abba Ji was already squatting with a thick heap of that day’s newspapers. The result of Higher secondary School were announced and he was eagerly finding mine. When he saw me, he spread his arms and hugged me for a long time. When I asked about the outcome, he whispered yar (friend, buddy) you have secured second top position. It was unbelievable and I told him that. He smiled and informed me I had sleepless nights while studying and he kept on feeding me milk and snacks during those nights. He proudly and with sparkling eyes showed me the newspapers with my photograph. I was selected as a National Talent Scholar and was awarded a silver medal. Although he never boasted or even mentioned about his achievements as a writer, historian, short story writer and author of hugely appreciated text book on history for BA degree course (All this info Ammi Ji gave me), the parting of wisdom and knowledge and selfless love were woven in his personality. After a nap when I woke up I always found him writing on sheets of paper. Later Ammi ji would show me his new book and it made me immensely proud of my father and infused in me a legacy of love for literature and books.

Abba Ji was extremely patient and soft spoken man. In the brief 20 years I was with him I never once saw him angry or screaming. If Mom was not feeling well he would quietly make his meal in the kitchen. He never raised his voice and never scolded. We three brothers were all his friends. He called us as yar (buddy, friend).

On June 7th, at 2:50 a.m., he took his last and final breath in my lap—so quietly, yet it tore through my soul with a violence no words can hold. Ammi and my two brothers were far away in Raj Garh (Sham Nagar), at Mamu Ibrahim’s house, unaware of the storm breaking in my arms. At exactly 3:00 a.m., I closed his eyes for the last time, and in that moment, I wished for time to stop or shatter—wished for the night to remain endless, for the dawn to lose its way and never come. But life is cruel in its indifference. My silent bargains, my screams inside my chest, meant nothing. Morning still came, spilling its pitiless light over a darkness that had already claimed me. That one night transformed me from a jolly boy of 20 and a second-year student of King Edward Medical College, to a very old man and soul under the crushing burden of taking care of my widowed mother and two younger brothers for times to come.

That day I broke. Comprehensively. All these decades I have been carrying life and it’s hardships with a broken inner child who failed to find his father’s like love, friendship, heaven and support.

Post Script:

Abba Ji authored many books. I could save only a few of them whose cover pictures are given here. First is his handwriting sample. He wrote in English and Urdu like an artist and calligrapher. I tried to reach that mark of perfection in my life but failed bitterly.

His writing:

His Urdu books (titles):

Rahimyar Khan was then a small and serene town halfway between Lahore and Karachi. The main railway line going south from Lahore had a small station in this city, and it was about 400 miles from Lahore. My father, Professor Mushtaq Ahmad Qureshi, was appointed a lecturer in the History Department at the new Government College. This was his first government employment as a gazetted officer. My parents rented a small two-room house on the second floor of a middle class neighbourhood. I was born in that house and I was a precious child. Later in life, Ammi (mother) told me that she had two abortions before my birth.

We lived in Rahimyar Khan for some years and then shifted to the provincial capital, Lahore (at that time, in early 1960s there were two provinces of Pakistan; West Pakistan and East Pakistan. In 1971 East Pakistan got separated and Bangladesh came into being).

I was too young at that time but I vividly remember the overwhelming love by my parents. Our landlord had a daughter, Salma, who was my friend. I would run to Ammi at any time and demand “I want Salma to come”! She would immediately go downstairs and plead with Salma’s mom to send her upstairs. After a while when I got bored and I used to declare “Send Salma back”! Ammi would make that happen and go with Salma to hand her over to her mother. This climbing and descending the stairs went on all day but Ammi would never once remind me that it’s not possible to keep a child to climb and descend several stairs so many times a day. We lived on the second floor of that house and there was no concept of a maid or servant in early 1960s. Housewives did all the house work themselves. They prepared breakfast, washed the pots, cleaned the kerosene oil stove and after cleaning and mopping the floors, started to prepare the lunch. My father used to come back from the college around 2 pm when we all had lunch sitting in the kitchen on tiny stools and a low lying table. Ammi’s cutlery always shone bright and her crockery spoke volumes about her class and taste of exquisite china for her family. She loved inculcating every fine habit in her sons.

I was never alone for the earliest seven years of life. Then my younger brother, Akhlaq was born in Lahore, and the youngest, Waqas was born five years after him. Before and after these two births I remained the most loved and cherished kid for Ammi. She never left me alone. It was as if she saw the world through my eyes and being. I used to go with her into the kitchen several times a day. She used to tell me about different fruits and vegetables, their names and about lentils and meat. I must have been four years old when I demanded one day that I will only eat “qeema gosht” (minced meat cooked with lamb meat) and otherwise I will not eat anything. Gosh! It was like a calamity for Ammi. In 1960’s telephone was not at all common in Pakistan. We didn’t have one at home. Ammi took me in her lap and walked quite a distance to a neighbour’s house where they had a phone. She called Abbi Ji at college. She was visibly shaken and her voice broke many times while talking to my father. The lady whose house we were in was in a state of shock when she heard Ammi telling my father that Afaq insists he would eat qeema-gosht today. We didn’t have a fridge at home. Meat and groceries were to be bought daily. Abba ji promised Ammi that he will come early and bring home minced meat and lamb meat. Ammi took me into a warm hug and whispered in my ear “you are my soul Faqu. I will do everything for you and always, you can always count on me”. She stood by that commitment for next 4-5 decades and with unmatched dedication and immense love she made me grow into a totally self sufficient and very confident young man. While in college and then in KE medical college nobody ever believed that qeema-gosht could be cooked in any Pakistani family. Everyone always told me you were very very lucky to have a super dedicated and loving mother like Ammi Ji.

When we shifted to Lahore, Ammi took me to John McDonald High School near Choburji. It was the beginning of my academic career. I was already homeschooled and trained by Ammi Ji at home, so after the initial test the school let me start grade I instead of spending two years in playgroup and KG. My father in the meantime was posted in a far away government college. Ammi refused to send us brothers to a rural area with hardly any good schools. She stayed alone in Lahore and made us play, work and study good. She always encouraged me to think freely and have questions. She herself was an ocean of knowledge. She never asked me to follow any rituals without learning its meaning and relationship with human spirit. During the day till I slept she was always there for me. For a school lesson or telling me about stars and flowers and how God created Adam and Eve and why they were sent to Earth and our duties to God and to our fellow humans. She always hugged me tightly even when all I did was a very small thing like memorising a nursery rhyme. I could always smell Lavender from her. For me it took the shape of my love for Lavender for the rest of my life.

Born on 7th March, 1935, she belonged to an honest, hardworking, educated, and literary family from Amritsar, India. It was a dark age for Muslims in the subcontinent. They had lost almost 1,000 years of rule, authority, and influence in all spheres of life, including education and the judiciary, and were reduced to insignificance by the majority Hindus and British rulers. Mom’s family migrated to Pakistan in 1947 and settled in Lahore. My grandfather got his job back in the railway department. He had five daughters and three sons. Mom, the eldest, was the most loved and respected by all her siblings. After my grandfather’s demise, she chose to work even harder and joined the Civil Defence Academy in Lahore, where she became an instructor. This training and subsequent work experience must have instilled in her discipline, keen observation, dedication, commitment, and a profound sense of duty and decorum, which became integral to her personality. Her siblings, my loving aunts and uncles, affectionately called her ‘Apa Sarwat’ which meant “elder sister Sarwat.” She remained a commanding figure, deserving of respect, until her demise.

Unlike most Pakistani mothers, she never yelled at me for showing “bad manners”; instead, she imperceptibly taught me every possible exemplary manner and etiquette by setting an example of the best behaviour herself. In our household, I always observed a distinct difference from all other homes I happened to visit. While kids were often asked to leave the room in “go and play outside” command when guests were expected, mom would dress me up, have me sit in a custom-made chair, and then welcome the guests into the same room. I learned from her immaculate manners and, without being explicitly taught, adopted them. Later in life, as a senior officer and researcher working in various countries, mom’s lessons gave me the the decency, refined behavioural etiquettes, a very strong ethical code, thoughtfulness, grace, confidence and comfortable ease to navigate every possible situation. One of the most valuable things I subconsciously learned from her was holding and realising the truth, self-esteem, righteousness and confidence.

Her hallmark was finesse in everything she did. When I look back I can’t count the uncountable times and details where she left an eternal mark on the family by doing everything with subtlety and perfection. Mom was a Punjabi like my father. She spoke flawless Punjabi with him and within the family but she never asked me to use any particular language. When I started to write on my own, she proudly showed it to my father and told me to excel in all the languages I wish to learn. She taught me to respect a printed word no matter which language. She would give the example of the Quran that the first revelation to the prophet was “Read!”. She had great respect for printed material. If she saw a torn page or newspaper while walking, she always picked it up, kissed it, touched it with her eyes and placed it at a higher and safe place. My father’s uncle, Yousaf Qureshi was a prominent educationist in the town of Wazirabad. His command on English, Arabic and Persian was superb. Whenever he came to Lahore Mom will keep standing in respect and request him to let me be with him for as long as he was in Lahore, to which he always happily agreed. Mom would warn me to be extra careful in his presence and respect him more than my father. I learned many useful things from his loving and kind company. I also succeeded in learning and polishing my languages including some basic Persian. Later I always realised how important it was for my learning that Mom made me share time with Yousaf Qureshi.

We lived in small one room apartments to a reasonable two or three room houses and wherever we went she always did the housework herself. I never saw her complaining. We were certainly not rich but she had no problem with guests coming to us or while visiting their homes. She had great taste. I knew she had hardly spare money for her clothes but she always carried herself with elegance and grace.

There were no vacuum cleaners, dishwashers, washing machines or electric ovens, every small chore was to be done manually and mom did it always with a smile on her face. It was as if a divine body was in the house and seen always in every corner. Like other housework she was perfect in stitching, sewing and knitting. She made super cool clothes and sweaters and cardigans for us brothers. There were hardly any readymade garments shops in early 1960s to 1970s in Lahore. Moms did all this work and were at ease doing this stuff for their families. Mom had two brothers and four sisters. My father had 4 brothers and three sisters. That made a lots of cousins and relatives for me within reach of each other. Most of my aunts and uncles were well off people. Some with their own automobiles even. They came to visit us in our modest one room house and sometimes we went to attend some function at their residences. Mom always prepared and presented me as the most important kid in the family and all my cousins (who were incidentally younger than me) always respected this pedestal. I was a very finicky child. Extremely choosy about my food (this habit has survived till now). Mom never gave up and kept me healthy and eating my food. She went to the extent of hiring a “tanga” to take us to the famous Anarkali bazar of Lahore just because I agreed to eat if we were going to Anarkali (this bazar is still a main attraction for Lahorites). Tanga (horse carriage) was a common mean of conveyance in old Lahore and is still seen in most of the rural areas. It can accommodate upto six passengers but Ammi ji always hired the whole tanga for just two of us for my convenience even though it was six times more costly than a shared one.

She loved vegetables but since I disapproved of a number of them, she never made a dish with those veggies like they were out of bounds for her. I certainly took Mom for granted and to this day I have regrets that I never thanked her enough. I was so loved by everyone in the family specially my maternal relatives. My grandmother (nani ammi) always showered me with lots of love and care. When I went to Japan for higher studies I placed a weekly call to home. Mom talked to me and as always advised me to take care of myself and eat properly and stop being awake till late for my studies. She never asked anything for herself. It was as if she was immune to needs. She only had one mission in life and that was to see us brothers happy and well settled and respected. After she gave the phone to Waqas, he told me that our grandmother (nani ammi) had passed away that morning. I was shocked and grief stricken at the news. I asked my brother to give back the phone to Mom. I was sobbing and all I could say was “you didn’t tell me nani ammi is no more”, I was too numb to ask anything else. Deep inside me I knew that I would not be able to see that loving face again and it consumed me with heavy grief. Mom simply told me “how could I break this news to you when you are so far away”. In that hour of a very painful parting Mom’s only concern was that I should not be worried for something beyond my control. Pakistani mothers usually are too attached to their mothers and siblings but Mom was different. Her only concern was to ensure her son was not upset and grieving while sitting in a far away land where she was not able to hug and reassure him of her enormous, unconditional and never ending love and that she would make everything fine once again and she loved me more than anything else in this world.

When I started working as a medical officer, a bookseller approached me with an offer: 23 volumes of the World Book encyclopedia, available on monthly instalment. One instalment was almost a third of my take-home salary, but I opted for the deal. The next day, I had the complete set in the boot of my small car. Upon reaching home, I proudly showed the first six volumes to Mom. Her eyes gleamed and sparkled, and with her signature divine smile, she hugged me, kissed my forehead, and said, “I always called you my Prince Charles! This is the stuff that makes your kingdom.” That moment significantly shaped my future, prompting me to focus on books and learning. To this day, I’m grateful to Mom for saving me from the complexities of South Asian relatives’ convoluted conversations and fights and instilled in me a liberated and focused outlook with keen observation and avoidance of slyness at all costs.

I now have a great collection of wonderful books and spend my time reading history, literature, poetry, ancient Greek wisdom, and world religions. Mom shielded me from countless arguments over trivial details. With her around, life’s challenges seemed manageable, as she was always there to offer guidance, unconditional love, and support.

My parents gave me a unique direction, one that’s rare in our toxic, extremist, fundamentalist and zealous culture, where differing opinions can lead to brutal reactions including murder. Mom reminded me to stay content and thankful for what I have, warning me against obsession with wealth. This advice helped me for all times to come, allowing me to avoid those who prioritize accumulating wealth over living an enriching and fulfilling life.

Mom taught me that religion is strictly a personal matter between individual and God. We have no right to interfere in someone’s life if they don’t conform to our ideas of worship. In a society where violence and murder are often considered the norm, this has been my guiding principle and I thank Mom for her tireless efforts in making me realize that we don’t need a lot of money for inner peace and it’s not anyone’s right to interfere in other’s affairs.

Mom lived for 20 years after my father’s death. I was the eldest son but not once in her life she demanded anything from me even after I was employed in a reputable organisation. She hesitated when I bought an ordinary shawl from a street vendor and offered it to her. “Don’t waste your hard earned money, stay away from excess spending” was the only answer and with that she prayed for me and blessed me, “may God always keep your wallet filled”. To this day I have always marvelled at her prophetic blessing which actually never let me have an empty wallet. There is no explanation for this miracle as I happen to be a spendthrift. For Mom having a set of humane values was far more important than a vault full of currency.

On the evening of December 31, 1995, Mom experienced chest pain and abdominal discomfort, prompting me to take her to Race-view Clinic at Jail Road, Lahore. The clinic was owned by Dr. Sohail Zafar, a very able and decent colleague and I found gem of a guy, Professor Aizaz Mand there. We received expert medical help, and laboratory tests were conducted quickly. By nightfall, we had the results: Mom had suffered a mild heart attack. Dr. Sohail discussed every possible treatment option with me in his office.

My younger brother, Gul (Akhlaq), was posted in Islamabad at the time, while Waqas, Hamza, my wife, and I were at the clinic. As Dr. Sohail’s friend, we received special protocol and treatment facilities. However, at 9:00 pm, Waqas informed us that the main roads were blocked due to New Year’s festivities, and no ambulance was willing to transfer Mom to Mayo Hospital, Lahore, which had an established cardiac unit. Dr. Sohail suggested that I take Mom’s reports and ECG to a senior cardiologist at Mayo Hospital. I met with the cardiologist, who prescribed medication and assured me that there was no need to transfer Mom.

It reminded me of another December night a few years ago when I was taking my final exams for my medical degree. Next morning was Surgery’s written exam and surgery was my Waterloo. Around 8 pm I told Mom that I can’t simply grasp this subject and can’t revise the whole book in just one night. Mom didn’t panic. She just smiled reassuringly and told me that it’s perfectly okay if I don’t like surgery. She told me to get some rest and when I lied down she placed the prayer mat at the side of the bed and started to recite prayers in hushed voice which was like a lullaby for me as I was asleep before I panicked. Every hour or so when I opened my eyes I saw Mom procrastinating and offering prayers for my success. Whenever she saw me awake she smiled, put her hand on my back and told me to get some more sleep. Next morning I had no idea how I performed in the written exam but when final results were declared I got very good marks in all subjects. I knew it was Mom’s prayers which always helped me in every situation.

By 1:00 am, Dr. Sohail had shifted Mom to a specialised ICU room with oxygen supply, continuous ECG monitoring, and other necessary equipment. A senior nursing staff and two resident doctors were on standby in the adjacent room. Mom was talking to us in her normal voice, showing no signs of pain or distress. Her breathing was normal, and laboratory tests indicated no further myocardial injury. We agreed that we would return home by mid-morning and continue her medication there. Hamza and Waqas sat with me on the bedside bench, while my wife was in another room. Around 3:30 am, I dozed off, with Hamza asleep in my lap. Later, I suddenly woke up and checked the ECG monitor. The regular cardiac rhythm had changed to a flat green line. I panicked, checked the oxygen supply, and failed to locate Mom’s pulse. I rushed to the adjacent room, where the resident doctors were studying, and informed them of the situation. They immediately rushed to Mom’s side, used a defibrillator in an attempt to revive her. However, the ECG reading remained unchanged. Time seemed to freeze as I glanced at the wall clock, it showed 5:02 am.

انیس سو اسی کی دہائی کا آغاز ہوا تو ہم گڑھی شاہو محمد نگر سے گلبرگ والے گھر میں منتقل ہوچکے تھے-

یونس ہارون سے میرا تعارف شاہد اعجاز المعروف بہ کُکّو کی وساطت سے ہوا۔ کُکو محمد نگر میں میرا ہمسایہ تھا اور میرا بہت عزیز، بہت نیک، بہت سادہ اور پیارا دوست تھا۔ میں کنگ ایڈورڈ میڈیکال کالج میں سال دوئم کا طالبعلم تھا۔ ککو کا داخلہ نیشنل کالج آف آرٹس NCA میں ہوا تو اس سے ملنے وہاں چلا گیا۔ وہاں اس نے غیور بیگ اور یونس ہارون سے ملوایا۔ یہ ان دونوں سے دوستی کا آغاز تھا۔ یہ تینوں گرافک ڈیزائن کی تعلیم حاصل کر رہے تھے۔ یہ ان دنوں کی بات ہے جب این سی اے چوٹی کے ماہرین فن کی آماجگاہ تھی۔ ظہور الاخلاق, نیر علی دادا، احمد خان اور ان کے ساتھیوں کے فن سے نوجوان سیکھتے اور نکھرتے تھے۔ جہاں تک مجھے یاد ہے غیور بیگ اور پھر یونس ہارون نے این سی اے میں طلائی تمغے بھی حاصل کئے تھے۔ انکے تھیسز کا موضوع غالباً “جنگ نہ کرو” تھا۔ تھیسز میں رکھی جانے والی ایک پینٹگ یونس ہارون نے مجھے بعد میں تحفہ میں دے دی تھی جس پر بڑے خوبصورت انداز میں Feel Good لکھا ہوا تھا۔ وہ فریم آج بھی میرے پاس موجود ہے۔

کُکو یونس اور میں ایک روز این سی اے کی سیڑھیوں پر بیٹھے باری باری سگریٹ کے کش لگا رہے تھے کہ ککو نے مجھے بتایا کہ اکیلا میں ہوں جو یونس کو یونس ہارون کہہ کر بلاتا ہوں کیونکہ باقی سب تو اسے میکڈونلڈ McDonald کہتے ہیں۔ بعد میں مکمل نام تو نظر انداز ہو گیا اور یونس ہارون صرف مَیک Mac بن کر رہ گیا۔

میکڈونلڈ نہایت پرخلوص، سادہ مزاج ، نیک اور باتونی لڑکا تھا۔ اس کا گاؤں غالباً ضلع خوشاب میں واقع تھا جس کے بارے میں وہ کبھی کوئی بات نہیں کرتا تھا لیکن کبھی کبھار جب چار پانچ روز کے لئے غائب ہو جاتا تو پتا چلتا کہ وہ گاؤں گیا ہؤا ہے۔ بس ایک بات ہمیشہ بتاتا تھا کہ ان کے علاقے میں چنے کی فصل بہت عمدہ ہوتی ہے۔ لاہور میں وہ سمن آباد کی مین روڈ پر واقع نسیم منزل میں پانچ چھ اور لڑکوں کے ساتھ رہتا تھا– نسیم منزل ایک بوائز ہاسٹل کی مانند تھی۔ دو یا تئن کمرے تھے اور ایک باورچی خانہ اور سامنے ایک اینٹوں سے بنا ہوا فرش جو صحن کا کام کرتا تھا اور وہاں کے مکین گرمیوں میں وہیں چارپائیاں بچھا کر سوتے تھے۔ وہ ائیر کنڈیشنر کا زمانہ نہیں تھا۔ لاہور میں ابھی ائیر کُولر بھی دریافت نہیں ہوئے تھے۔ زندگی سادہ تھی مگر مشکل بھی تھی۔ میں صبح کالج جانے کے لئے ذرا جلد نکل آتا اور راستے میں نسیم منزل رک جاتا۔ وہاں میک شیو بنا رہا ہوتا تھا۔ آفٹر شیو کا نام تو بعد میں سُنااسوقت تو گیلی پھٹکڑی ہی آفٹر شیو کا کام بہت عمدگی سے کیا کرتی تھی اور میک اسے رگڑ رگڑ کر شیو کے بعد اپنے چہرے پر ملتا تھا۔ اُس کے کمرے میں کھڑکی کے ساتھ ہی ایک ٹوٹا پھوٹا ٹیپ ریکارڈر رکھا رہتا تھا۔ اسکی ایک ہی کیسیٹ تھی جس پر بیجو باورا اور چند اور پرانی فلموں کے گانے بھرے ہوئے تھے۔ میرے قدم اندر رکھتے ہی میک اپنے مخصوص اور بلند آہنگ میں مجھے ویلکم ویلکم مائی ڈیر ڈاکٹر کہتا اور گلے لگا لیتا۔ ککو نے جب مجھے میک کے بارے میں بتایا تھا تو ساتھ ہی یہ بھی بتا دیا تھا کہ اسے بچپن سے انگریزی زبان پرعبور حاصل کرنا اور اسی لہجے میں روزمرہ بات چیت کرنا بے حد مرغوب ہے۔ میک کو اس سے کوئی غرض نہیں ہوتی تھی کہ کوئی اردو بول رہا ہے یا پنجابی۔ وہ اپنے میں مگن ہمیشہ مافی الضمیر ادا کرنے کے لئے انگریزی بولتا اور وہ بھی بآوازِ بلند۔ مجھے اس کا برطانوی تلفظ ہمیشہ یاد رہتا ہے۔

ہم دونوں چند گانے روزانہ سنتے تھے اورسر دُھنتے تھے۔ فلم بیجو باورا اور برسات کے گانےخاص طور پر تُو گنگا کی موج میں جمنا کا دھارا، بچپن کی محبت کو، او دنیا کے رکھوالے وغیرہ ہم دونوں کو بے حد پسند تھے۔ اب پتا نہیں کس فلم کا گانا تھا لیکن ہم دونوں واہ واہ کرتے ہوئے یہ والا گانا بھی سنتے تھے، گنگا مٌیا میں جب تک کہ پانی رہے، میرے سجنا تری زندگانی رہے– ککو کے سامنے ذکر کرتے تو وہ لاحول پڑھتا کہ یہ تو ہندو تہذیب کا گانا ہے۔ ہم دونوں ڈٹ جاتے کہ بجائے یہ محسوس کرنے کے کہ گائیکہ کس خوبصورتی سے اپنے محبوب کی لمبی زندگی کی دعا مانگتی ہے اسے اس میں مذہب پرستی دکھائی دیتا ہے۔ ویسے یہ حقیقت ہے کہ میک ایک باعمل اور نیک سیرت مسلمان تھا۔ صوم و صلوة میں میری جانب سے اکثر اونچ نیچ ہو جاتی تھی لیکن میک ان سب اشعار پر مکمل عبور رکھتا تھا اور پابندی اختیار کرتا تھا۔ وہ فارغ ہوتا تو منہ میں کچھ بڑبڑاتا رہتا۔ بہت بعد میں اس نے انکشاف کیا تھا کہ وہ درود پاک کا ورد کرتا رہتا ہے۔ ہم سب دوست ابھی زیرِِ تعلیم تھے اس لئے کسی کو ابھی تک عشق کا عارضہ لاحق نہیں ہؤا تھا۔ ککو کا بیاہ اسکی پھپھو کی بیٹی سے ہونا طے پا چکا تھا اسلئے وہ ان معاملات میں ہمیشہ الگ تھلگ رہتا تھا۔ اس کے والد اعجاز صاحب چند سال پہلے وفات پا چکے تھے اور اسکا بڑا بھائی انجینیرنگ کی تعلیم کے بعد مستقل کینیڈا میں جا کر بس گیا تھا۔ اب گھر میں ککو ہی سب سے بڑا تھا۔ دو بھائی اور دو بہنیں اور ان کا مسقبل اسکی زندگی کا سب سے بڑا مقصد تھا اور وہ کسی گِلے شکوے کےبغیرانکی پرورش میں اپنی والدہ کا ہاتھ بٹاتا رہتا تھا۔ میں بھی زیرِ تعلیم تھا اور مَیک تو سناٹے کا پہاڑ تھا۔ مجال ہے کبھی کسی لڑکی کو توجہ سے دیکھا ہو یا کسی کے بارے میں بات کی ہو حالانکہ این سی اے میں بڑی طرحدار لڑکیاں اسکی ہم جماعت تھیں۔ بہت بعد میں اسکی شادی غالباً کسی عم زاد سے ہو گئی تھی اور اس نے مجال ہے مجھے یا کسی اور کو اس امر کی اطلاع دی ہو۔ ایسا تھا میرا دوست!

جب ابا جی کا انتقال ہؤا تو مَیک کئی روز تک کچھ کہے سنے بغیر ہر لمحہ میرے ساتھ ساتھ رہا۔ ایک ثانئےکو بھی مجھے اکیلا نہیں چھوڑتا تھا۔ اباجی کے فراق کا دکھ تو میں آج تک اپنے اندر رکھتا ہوں مگر ان بے حد ظالم اور بے درد اور تلخ ایام میں اگر میک نہ ہوتا تو کیا پتا کیا کچھ اور ہو جاتا۔ اس کا یہ احسان بھلا کیسے فراموش کیا جا سکتا ہے۔

زندگی اپنی روش کے مطابق معمول پر آ گئی تو ایک روز میں نے یونس سے بات کی کہ میری خواہش ہے کہ اباجی کی قبر پکی ہو۔ وہ بی بی پاکدامن کے قبرستان میں دادا جی کی قبر کے نزدیک ہی محوِ خواب تھے۔ میں نے گورکن سے بات کی اور اس دوران میَک میرے کاندھوں پہ ہاتھ رکھے چپ چاپ کھڑا رہا۔ بڑا ستم ظریف اور نہایت مشکل وقت تھا میرے لئے اور مَیک نے اس عرصے میں مجھے ڈگمگانے نہیں دیا۔ جزاک اللہ دوست! آج اتنے عرصے بعد تمہارا شکریہ ادا کر رہا ہوں۔

ککو پہلے ہی باپ کا سایہء شفقت کھو چکا تھا۔ اب مجھے بھی سمجھ نہیں آ رہی تھی کہ آمدنی کی عدم موجودگی میں تعلیم پوری کیسے ہوگی؟ دونوں چھوٹے بھائی اور امی سب میری طرف دیکھ رہے تھے۔ یہ تو امی جی کا وجود اور عزم تھا جس نے ہمیں کبھی کسی موقع پر بھی کسی کمی کا شکار نہیں ہونے دیا۔ انکی واحد خواہش یہ تھی کہ انکے بچے تعلیمیافتہ ہوں اور سر اٹھا کر زندگی گذاریں۔ انہی ایام میں میں نے مختلف اخبارات اور جرائد میں باقاعدگی سے لکھنا شروع کر دیا تھا اور اپنا جیب خرچ اور موٹر سائیکل کے پٹرول کا تھوڑا بہت خرچ نکال لیتا تھا۔

اباجی کی قبر پکی ہو رہی تھی اور میرے ذہن پر لوحِ مزار اٹکا ہوا تھا۔ کیسے بنواؤں گا، کہاں سے بنواؤں گا، حوصلہ کہاں سے لاؤں گا کہ دوست سے بڑھ کر مشفق والد کے نام کے آگے تاریخِ وفات لکھواؤں۔ میرے حواس مختل ہو جاتے تھے۔ ایک روز مَیک نے مجھے اسی کشمکش میں دیکھا تو میز سے ایک کاغذ اُٹھا لایا اور مجھے کہا کہ فیض احمد فیض کا کونسا شعر تم لوح پر لکھوانا چاہتے ہو۔ میں نے بتا دیا۔

ہم سہل طلب کون سے فرہاد تھے لیکن

اب شہر میں تیرے کوئی ہم سا بھی کہاں ہے

کچھ دیر باتیں کرنے کے بعد مَیک اُٹھ کر چلا گیا۔ تیسرے دن شام کے وقت آیا اور کہنے لگا مغرب ہماری محلے کی مسجد میں پڑھنے کا پروگرام ہے۔ ہم قبل از وقت ہی سوئے مسجد روانہ ہو گئے۔ مسجد کی داہنی طرف قبرستان تھا۔ میں اور وہ فاتحہ خوانی کے لئے وہاں چلے گئے۔ قبر پر پہنچے تو دیکھا کہ سنگِ مرمر کے مکمل لوحِ مزار لگ چکی تھی۔ میں نے اشکبار نگاہوں سے یونس ہارون کی طرف دیکھا تو اس نے گلے سے لگا لیا اور کہا یار ڈاکٹر تمہارے لئے یہ سب کرنا ممکن نہیں تھا۔ ہم دیر تک روتے رہے۔ اذان کی آواز آئی تو مسجد چلے گئے اور وہاں جا کر سسکیوں میں نماز ادا کی۔

مَیک ایک باکمال فنکار تھا۔ اللہ پاک نے اُسے ذہنِ رسا دیا تھا۔ اپنے ہاتھوں سے گویا جادو کر دیتا تھا۔ نسیم منزل میں اس نے اپنی چارپائی کے سرہانے کسبِ کمال کُن کہ عزیزِ جہاں شوی انتہائی خوبصرت تحریر میں لکھ رکھا تھا۔ ایک بار ملاقات ہوئی تو اس نے بتایا کہ وہ جامعہ پنجاب میں شعبہ برائے جنوبی ایشیا میں ملازمت کر رہا ہے۔ وہ خوش تھا کہ اسے سترہ گریڈ کا عہدہ مل گیا ہے۔ اب تو اس نے ستر سی سی کی ایک موٹر سائیکل بھی خرید لی تھی اور مطمئن تھا۔ اس بات کو تو اب تیس برس ہو چکے ہیں۔ ایک دن میں ہسپتال میں مریض دیکھ رہا تھا کہ اچانک یونس آ گیا۔ تھوڑی سی باتیں کیں تو اُٹھ کھڑا ہؤا۔ میں نے حیرانی سے گھور کر دیکھا تو کہنے لگا یار میرا کینیڈا کا ویزہ لگ گیا ہے اورہم اگلے منگل کو پرواز کر جائیں گے۔ میں ہکا بکا رہ گیا اور ابھی کچھ کہا بھی نہیں تھا کہ تیز تیز قدم اٹھاتا ہوا دفتر سے باہر نکل گیا۔ موبائل فون کا اس وقت تک رواج نہیں تھا۔ اس کے دفتر فون کیا مگر کسی نے فون ہی نہیں اٹھایا۔ اب اس بات کو پچیس برس یا زائد ہو گئے ہیں۔ اسے بہت تلاش کیا، اتا پتا معلوم کرنے کی کوشش کی مگر ناکام رہا۔ معاشی مجبوریاں وقت ہی کہاں دیتی ہیں۔ کچھ عرصے سے انٹر نیٹ پر اسے ڈھونڈ رہا ہوں مگر اسکا کوئی اتا پتا نہیں ملتا۔ پتا نہیں میرا یونس ہارون کہاں اور کس دنیا میں ہے۔ اگر وہ یہ سطور پڑھے تو خدارا مجھ سے رابطہ کرے، میرا رابطہ نمبر نیچے درج ہے۔ یونس ہارون یا اسکا کوئی جاننے والا ہو تو ان سے بھی درخواست ہے اس نمبر پر رابطہ کریں:

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ڈاکٹر آفاق احمد قریشی۔ لاہور۔

خطاطی کا فن خوبصورت اور پرکشش الفاظ اور حروف تخلیق کرتا ہے اور اسکے نمونے دنیا کی بیشتر زبانوں میں پائے جاتے ہیں جیسے لاطینی، جاپانی، چِینی، بنگلہ، انگریزی وغیرہ۔ برصغیر پاک و ہند میں مسلمانوں کی آمد اور خطاطی کی تاریخ یکساں پرانی ہے۔ یاد رکھنا چاہئیے کہ اسلامی خطاطی کی ابتدا مدینہ منورہ سے ہوئی اور اس کی ترویج تعمیمِ قرأت اور تبلیغ و اشاعتِ قرآن کے مقدس اور پاکیزہ جذبہ کی بنا پر ہوئی جو ایران اور توران کے بعد مسلمانوں کے ساتھ برصغیر پاک و ہند میں پہنچی تو یہاں پر بھی اس کی ابتداء و ترویج کے پیچھے یہی جذبہ کار فرما رہا۔

برصغیر میں اسلامی حکومت کا قیام محمد بن قاسم کی فتح سندھ(93ھ) سے شروع ہوا اور یہ سلسلہ بہادر شاہ ظفر آخری مغل تاجدار کی معطلی 1857ء کے ساتھ منقطع ہو گیا۔ اس طویل عرصے میں اسلامی خطاطی نے عروج و زوال کے کئی ادواردیکھے۔ اس فن کے چھٹے عہد کا آغاز ہم پاکستانی خوش نویسی سے کر سکتے ہیں جس کے دوران ہمارے فنکاروں نے اس فن کوعروج بخشا۔ پاکستان میں خوش نویسی نے ایک ایسی روایت اور تہذیب کو جنم دیا جسے مثالی قرار دیا جا سکتا ہے۔ یہ شعبہ کتاب سے لے کر اخبار تک ہر شے پر محیط رہا اور ہمارے خوش نویسوں نے اس فن میں وہ کماللات حاصل کئے کہ انسان بے اختیار کہہ اُٹھتا ہے کہ:

معجزہءِ فن کی ہے خونِ جگر سے نمود!

اپنے دو ہاتھوں اور اُنگلیوں اور ذہنِ رسا کے طفیل ایسی ایسی خطاطی کے نمونے تخلیق کئے گئے جو آج بھی ہمیں انگشت بدنداں کر دیتے ہیں اگرچہ اب روایتی کتابت تیزی سے معدوم ہوتی چلی جارہی ہے اور اسکی جگہ کمپیوٹر سافٹ وئیر پر مبنی کتابت کا دور مستحکم ہو گیا ہے- یوسف نگینہ صاحب اُن چند معدودے اصحاب میں شامل ہیں جنہیں ہم بآسانی اِس فن میں یدِ طولی کے حامل فنکاروں میں شامل کرتے ہیں۔ اُنہیں اس شعبہ میں کمال حاصل کرنے کی وجہ سے 1984 میں پی ایف یو جے کی جانب سے پاکستان کے کسی بھی شعبے کا اعلی ترین اعزاز تمغہ برائے حُسنِ کارکردگی سے نوازا گیا۔

اس سے قبل کہ میں آپ کو اِس رجلِ رشید سے متعارف کرواؤں ذرا اُن کی خطاطی کے چند نمونے ملاحظہ کریں- (اگر آپ ذرا غور سے دیکھیں تو بیشتر نمونوں میں زیرِ سطور آپ کو اُن کا نام یوں نظر آ جائے گا “کتبہ نگینہ”)-

خطاطی کی کوئی صنف ہو، نستعلیق یا نسخ، ثلث یا دِیوانی، محقق یا کُوفی، یوسف نگینہ نے ہر ایک پر محنتِ شاقہ سے یکساں عبور حاصل کیا اور اپنا لوہا منوایا۔

میں اُن دنوں روزنامہ “امروز” میں عزیز اثری کے مرتب کردہ صفحات میں لکھا کرتا تھا۔ ایکدن ان کے پاس ماہنامہ “اطفال” دیکھا تو اگلے ہی روز پنجاب ٹیکسٹ بک بورڈ کے دفترواقع گلبرگ جا پہنچا- وہاں ضیا کھوکر، افسر امام، راجا رشید محمود اور یوسف نگینہ سے ملاقات ہو گئی۔ ستر کے عشرے کا وسط تھا۔ آج تک ان سب نے دوستی نبھائی اور سچی بات تو یہ ہے کہ کیا خوب نبھائی۔ ضیاء کھوکر بعد میں پیپلز پارٹی کو پیارا ہو گیا اور اسلام آباد جا بسا۔ افسر امام نے اپنے معروف والد ڈاکٹر اختر حسین، چونا منڈی والے کا ہومیوپیتھی کا کلینک سنبھالا اور بڑی کامیاب پریکٹس کا سکہ جمایا۔ اب اسکی صاحبزادی جوہر ٹاؤن میں اپنا کلینک چلاتی ہے اور کامیاب متصورہوتئ ہے۔ ہم چاروں سوٹڈ بوٹد تھے سوائے نگینہ صاحب کے۔ اُنہیں جب بھی دیکھا ایک سفید براق شلوار قمیص میں ملبوس دیکھا۔ خوشی یا غمی ہو یا کوئی تہوار یا دوستوں کے ساتھ گھومنا پھرنا، نگینہ صاحب نے اپنی سفید پوشی کو سدا برقرار رکھا۔

یوسف نگینہ 22 مارچ 1944ء کے دن قرول باغ، دہلی میں پیدا ہوئے اور جب پاکستان مرضِ وجود میں آیا تو انکے والدین ہجرت کر کے لائل پور آ بسے اور اس طفل نے اپنی تعلیم کا آغاز بھی موجودہ فیصل آباد میں کیا۔ دسویں کا امتحان پاس کیا ہی تھا کہ ایک خوفناک اور المناک صدمے نے گھیر لیا۔ سنہ 1960 میں اُن کے والد کا اچانک انتقال ہو گیا اور بہن بھائیوں میں سب سے بڑے ہونے کی وجہ سے اُنہیں اب یتیمی کا صدمہ بھی جھیلنا تھا اور تمام گھر کے نان و نفقہ کا انتظام بھی کرنا تھا۔ وہ ابھی سکول میں ہی تھے کہ اپنے والد کے ایک دوست کے کہنے پر کتابت کا فن بھی سیکھنے لگے تھے اور خط چونکہ پہلے سے ہی بے حد نفیس تھا، جلد ہی ایک ماہر خوش نویس کے طور پر مشہور ہو گئے۔ تعلیم منقطع ہوئی تو نگینہ صاحب نے لائل پور کے اخبار روزنامہ “سعادت” میں ملازمت اختیار کر لی۔ بعد میں لائل پور ہی کے روزنامہ عوام میں کام کا آغاز کیا۔ ان کے اُستاد سید اصغر علی ہاشمی اپنا سکہ منوا چکے تھے اور یہ ملازمت بھی انہی کی وساطت سے ملی تھی۔ ابھی زیادہ وقت نہیں گذرا تھا کہ کسی کام کے سلسلے میں لاہور آنا ہوا۔ ان دنوں روزنامہ نوائے وقت میں ایک دوست کام کرتے تھے۔ اُن سے ملنے گئے تو انہوں نے روزنامے کے شعبہ کتابت کے انچارج، رشید وارثی صاحب سے ملوایا اور پر زور سفارش کی کہ یوسف لاہل پور کا بہترین خوشنویس ہے، اسے آپ نوائے وقت میں کام دے دیں۔ جب وارثی صاحب کو بتایا گیا کہ یوسف لائل پور کا صفِ اول کا خوشنویس ہے تو کہنے لگے، کیوں مذاق کرتے ہو؟ یہ تو ابھی کتابت سیکھ رہا ہوگا۔ جب نگینہ صاحب کے دوست نے اصرار کیا تو کہنے لگے کہ اچھا بھئی کچھ لکھ کر دکھاؤ۔ یوسف نے فوراً چند سطور جلی حروف میں لکھ دیں۔ وارثی صاحب عبارت پڑھ کر ششدر رہ گئے اور فوراً ہی ملازمت دینے کی حامی بھر لی مگر یوسف صاحب نے کہا کہ جی اپنے استاد سے پوچھ کر ہی شروع کر سکتا ہوں۔

لائل پور (موجودہ فیصل آباد) میں 1961 میں پنجاب ٹیچرز یونین کے صدر مولانا عبد الغفور غفاری صاحب تھے جو ایک ہفتہ وار جریدہ “بانگِ درا” نکالا کرتے تھے۔ اسکی کتابت یوسف صاحب نے اپنے ذمہ لی ہوئی تھی۔ غفاری صاحب نے اصرار کیا کہ یوسف اس جریدے کی پیشانی پر لکھے جلی حروف کے نیچے اپنے نام کے ساتھ “نگینہ” بھی لکھے۔ وہ دِن اور آج کا دن، یوسف صاحب محمد یوسف نگینہ قرار پائے اور انہوں نےاس ودیعت کردہ صفت کو کیا خوب نبھایا – لائلپور میں ہی اصغر علی ہاشمی نگینہ صاحب کے اولین استاد تھے۔ ان کے ایک اُستاد بھائی چودھری محمد صدیق بھی تھے۔ جب نوائے وقت کی ملازمت کا غلغلہ اٹھا تو ہاشمی صاحب نے یوسف نگینہ کو اپنے رفیق، صدیق صاحب کے حوالے کر دیا اور کہا کہ یہ لڑکا نو عمر ہے، لاہور میں رہ کر کام کرے گا تو اس کے پاس ڈھیروں پیسے بھی ہوں گے، کہیں یہ بگڑ نہ جائے۔ صدیق صاحب نے آمنا و صدقنا کہا اور یوسف کو قرار واقعی ایک پاکیزہ دُرِ نایاب بنا دیا۔ یوں سنہ 1962 میں یوسف نگینہ نے روذنامہ نوائے وقت میں ملازمت کا باقاعدہ آغاز کر دیا۔ رشید وارثی ان کے کام کے اسقدر معترف تھے کہ انہیں شروع سے ہی سینئر گریڈ دلوا دیا جس نے یوسف کی مالی پریشانیوں میں خاطر خواہ کمی کر دی اور وہ مزید دلجوئی سے کتابت میں مشغول ہو گئے۔ اسی دوران انہوں نے کچھ عرصہ روزنامہ کوھستان میں بھی کام کیا اور ہر حلقے سے داد پائی۔ وہ نوائے وقت اور کوھستان میں صفحہء اول پر شائع ہونے والی شہ سرخی یا لِیڈ کی خطاطی پر معمور تھے۔

فیصل آباد میں نگینہ صاحب وسیع حلقہء احباب رکھتے تھے۔ ان کی پاکباز اور ماہرِ فن شخصیت ہر دل عزیز تھی۔ وہاں امام بخش ناسخ سیفی، خلیق قریشی (مدیر روزنامہ عوام)، مولانا مجاہد حسینی، مولانا عبد الغفور غفاری، اعجاز بٹالوی، مولانا محمد امین، محمد صدیق اور منظر رقم سے ان کے گہرے روابط استوار رہے۔ لاہور میں انکا حلقہء احباب مزید وسیع ہو گیا۔ شورش کاشمیری، ابو الاثر حفیظ جالندھری، حیرت جلالپوری، مرزا محمد منور، چودھری عبد الحمید (مکتبہ کارواں)، چوہدری محمد بشیر (ادارہ ترجمان القرآن)، حافظ محمد افضل فقیر، حافظ لدھیانوی، حفیظ تائب، راجا رشید محمود، ضیا کھوکھر کے علاوہ فنِ کتابت کے اور درخشاں ستارے بھی ان سے گہرے مراسم کے حامل تھے۔ ان میں حافظ یوسف سدیدی، سید انور حسین نفیس رقم، خورشید عالم خورشید رقم، عبدالواحد نادر القلم سب سے نگینہ صاحب کی گہری دوستی تھی۔ دوستی اور تعلقات نبھانے کےاس فن کو تو گویا قدرت نے یوسف نگینہ کے رگ و پے میں بسایا ہؤا ہے۔ وہ سراپا عجز و انکسار ہیں اور ہمہ وقت دیکھتے رہتے ہیں کہ ان کے ارد گرد کسی کو کسی شے کی ضرورت ہو تو یہ حضرت اپنے سارے وسائل بروئے کار لا کر دوست کی مدد کریں گے اور کمال یہ ہے کہ پھر اُس مدد کو فراموش کر دیں گے جیسے انکی وہاں موجودگی کی وجہ ہی یہ تھی کہ نگینہ صاحب آگے بڑھ کر اس کا ہاتھ تھام لیں اور بس اللہ اللہ خیر صلا۔ میں ذاتی طور پر اس حقیقت کا گواہ ہوں کہ یوسف نگینہ نہ صرف ایک باکمال فنکار ہے بلکہ دل کا بے حد اُجلا انسان ہے۔ وہ مذہبی شعائر کی مکمل ہاسداری کرتا ہے اور نہ صرف ظاہری بلکہ باطنی عظمت کا حامل بھی ہے۔

نگینہ صاحب کمپیوٹر کی کتابت آنے کے بعد بھی دوست احباب کی فرمائشیں پوری کرنے میں مگن رہے لیکن اب ایک عرصے سے صاحب فراش ہیں۔ نہایت اعلی پائے کے اس فنکار کو کسی حکومتی یا غیر حکومتی ادارے نے آج تک نہیں پوچھا کہ میاں طبیعت کیسی ہے اور اخراجات کی کیا صورتحال ہے لیکن مجال ہے نگینہ صاحب نے کبھی زیرِ لب بھی کوئی شکوہ یا گلہ کیا ہو۔ میں یہاں پر انکے گھر کا پتا اور فون نمبر درج کر رہا ہوں تاکہ کوئی صاحب ان سے ملاقات کرنا چاہیں تو آسانی ہو-

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گلی نمبر 8, سکیم نمبر 2- دھرمپورہ۔ لاہور۔

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When I was in school, one of my favorite morning routines was waking up early and observing my father closely as he shaved. It became a sort of morning ritual for me. He would always sit on the side of my “charpoy” (cot) and place a small table in front of him, upon which he meticulously arranged a bowl of warm water, shaving cream, a shaving brush, and a small mirror. A clean white face towel would rest on his lap. After completing his shave, he would apply an aftershave lotion by rubbing a piece of “phatkari” (Alum) that had been dipped in water. In those days, it was perhaps the only affordable yet highly effective aftershave lotion available. Even today, it is still considered the only accessible antiseptic lotion in almost every rural area of Pakistan.

After the completion of shaving I always took his towel and inhaled his aroma for a long time before mom used to make me get up with a warm smile and a golden paratha plate. That used to be the signal that I have to get ready for school.

When I began shaving, my father was there to guide me through each step. He purchased a pack of Treet blades (shown in the picture above) and a new razor for me. After a few times of shaving under his watchful eye, I expressed to him that I could now handle it on my own. He hugged me, patted my shoulders, and flashed a broad, encouraging smile while giving me a thumbs up sign. That smile has stayed with me all these years even though he left us for eternity many decades ago.

During those days, my father held the position of a professor and was the head of the History department at Government College, Sheikhupura. At that time, Sheikhupura was a small town about 40 kilometers away from Lahore. Every morning, Abba ji (dad in Urdu) would leave for the railway station on his bicycle. He would park his bicycle at the station and board the “Rachna Express” train, which was usually punctual and would arrive from Lahore to Sheikhupura before his classes began.

There were three friends who commuted together on this train. One of them was Professor Murtaza Khan, who taught Urdu in the same college. The third friend was a cheerful and carefree dentist, whose name I have unfortunately forgotten. Three to four times a week, I would accompany my dad on my own bicycle, which was relatively new compared to his. In the evening, I would pedal him back home after his train arrived in Lahore.

In the mornings, since my father left early, I would sit in the train compartment until both of his friends joined him. I always wanted to avoid hearing the whistle or hoot of the departing locomotive. It is perhaps unique in Pakistan and India. It sent shivers down my spine piercing the heart. It made my heart swell, and filled me with a deep sense of sorrow, sadness, and emptiness. It was a feeling of parting and goodbye that I cannot fully explain, even after all these years. To escape this feeling, I would quickly bid farewell to my Abba ji and his friends, and pedal away as fast as I could to avoid hearing that fateful parting train whistle. For me, it symbolized the departure of my incredibly loving father, and I couldn’t bear this thought sinking deep within me. (I still cannot go to airports, railway or bus stations to say farewell to relatives or friends).

As time went by, I successfully passed my 10th grade exam and gained admission to Islamia College, Railway Road in Lahore. I continued my studies there and eventually completed my 12th grade as a national talent scholar. This achievement brought immense joy to my parents, who were proud of my accomplishments. Now, I was prepared to embark on the next chapter of my educational journey – entering the highly esteemed King Edward Medical College (now university) in Lahore, which is considered one of the most prestigious medical colleges in the country. I was 19 years old and a second-year student at this college when on the morning of June 7th at 3:00 am Abba ji breathed his last in my lap. Time has stood still since then. He was only 50 years of age at that time. It seemed that a huge mountain of grief had suddenly crushed me and I froze in that moment. That pain and hurt has never left me since then. Except for Ammi ji there was nobody and nothing in the world for me. I also didn’t know what horrible things happen to an orphan and a widow in our society. Time has stood still since then. Abba ji was like a selfless loving tree for me which never let me realise the bitterness which was to be my fate since then.

After sometime of that fateful June day I found the shaving pouch of Abba ji. I held it silently for a long time while Ammi ji (mother) came looking for me. She found me crying. I handed her that shaving kit but couldn’t raise my tearful eyes. She took it from me and as if unable to stand there, immediately sat down on a nearby chair. Some guests came and we all got busy but at sunset Ammi called me and gave me a very pretty and strong leather pouch. “Keep this shaving brush inside this pouch, maybe you would like to use it one day”.

Decades passed.

Last month when I was looking for an electric three pin plug, my eyes got fixed on that brown leather pouch. My heart must have skipped a beat or two. I suddenly realised that Abba ji was spared of using the modern bonded razors and gels & foams which take all the romance out of shaving and smiling with a job well done every morning. I lovingly took out the shaving brush and caressed my face with it for a long time. It was as if Abba ji himself was standing behind me, trying to console me of all the past heartaches. I broke into tears. Next morning I handed my shaving foam to my son and ordered online shaving cream and settled in for a truly luxurious and romantic shave. The experience also told me that a regular lather shave with a brush and cream can never be replaced with an instant, hurried exercise in shaving. There is a romance of shaving associated with a slow shave including proper seating, positioning of a mirror and a clean face towel in your lap. Now I smile at the end of my shave and knowing that there will be nobody behind me but somewhere inside me I look back, hold my tears and whisper, “Thank you dad”.

Dr. Afaq Ahmad Qureshi. Lahore.

What do you want to become when you will grow up? It’s a common question from guests or relatives visiting a family. Kids in the Western world usually answer it with some conviction that they want to become a firefighter, a blacksmith, a cobbler, a forest ranger, a teacher, a doctor, a dentist or a lawyer. In Pakistan children almost invariably shy away from such questions. They hide behind their nearest parent to avoid answering simply because they have never been raised to have their own opinion, and have never been given the privilege of may spend their lives according to their heart’s desire and ambitions.

Yes, ours is a very conservative society but no one ever thinks about how the vast majority of us spend our childhoods because the major cause of being very unhappy throughout the life is a lack of self esteem which creeps into our blood streams from early life and becomes part of our personality. There may be arguments against this hypothesis but this has been going on for centuries and nothing has changed even as the world has moved into the 21st century.

There is no harm if a child follows the footsteps of his father and adopts his profession or line of work accordingly but in Pakistan certain ‘lowly’ works (which has been converted to lower castes by influential gods of the earth), are a destined fate of the children of ‘lohar’ (blacksmith), ‘tarkhan’ (carpenter), ‘marasi’ (comedian/entertainer) or ‘jolaha’ (weaver) families. They are the so called ‘lower castes’ and in a typical rural oriented society these families still may not share the same high chair of the feudal lord/zamindar or a ‘peer’ (religious leader), for example, if the choudry (landlord) is sitting on a huge cot these and others like them can’t dare to sit on that cot but will sit on the floor.

When children in Pakistan grow up they see nothing but bigotry, lies, perjury, violence, intolerance, unkept promises, nepotism, wicked and ruthless fathers who frequently beat their mothers and mothers who complain of many children, lack of money and spend their time in gossiping and bad-mouthing about relatives. Inside their hearts they decide to earn a lot of money as they see poverty being the common denominator of their lowly places in the society and the major factor in the extreme unhappiness prevalent within their households. So they all grow up to earn a lot no matter if there is zero job and work satisfaction. This incidentally is a major reason we see millions of Pakistanis working in Europe, Canada, the Middle East and the USA. Here they can earn with respect for their hard work and they can also support many family members back home who literally have no other source of income.

Here in Pakistan, they simply are not aware of the fact that there is this happiness other people derive from a relatively low-paid job but have a very satisfied heart. One reason Pakistani adults are the ones who are almost invariably hateful and hence negligent of their line of work.

The pursuit of wealth has given rise to a plethora of businesses like private hospitals run by healers (read quacks) everywhere in the country. Take any urban or rural neighbourhood and in every street you will find a ‘hakim’(herb doctor) or doctor whose only qualification would be that after passing Grade 8 examination they became the assistant/helper of a qualified GP with a legal degree in medicine. This is just an example of how lucrative the healthcare system is and why so many take it as their line of work. Similarly education being an extensive business, people with a lot of money and influence open schools/colleges/universities and tuition centres for the big buck as this industry has no rules and regulations and we all live in a lawless society, anyway. This lawlessness and daily experiences of rich and influential people getting away with literally everything (it includes taking up wives of other people and not letting them protest even), has made others believe that being filthy rich and influential is the only way of survival and hence happiness in this country.

(Please remember this opinion is about a patriarchal society hence unless specific mention is made about women where needed, read it as the roots of Pakistani male population).

Bitter experiences in the formative years of a child create an emptiness which can only be filled with extreme unhappiness in adulthood as if they are taking revenge from the surrounding people.

From the lowest rank (janitors, sweepers, peons etc to the uppermost in-charge persons, everyone at work will almost always have a dreadful, un welcoming, angry facial expression. Visit any reception and you will hardly ever get a smile or a welcome phrase. The entire purpose of working is to please one’s superiors at every level and hence get the salaries and the pension in the end which is a huge security in this land full of insecurity. The dilemma of the caste system has made its way into urban life also and a lower-class employee cannot think of entering a superior’s office and sitting to explain a problem to him. The superiors are arrogant at best and are hardly happy despite hefty salaries and perks. Another factor inducing this anger is rampant lawlessness in everyday life and the resultant frustration and anger of the average person. It’s common to watch a legislature assembly member to break laws and get away with it. The only visible law enforcement agency an average person encounters is a police officer. An employee of the Police department possesses unlimited powers but when the public sees a member of the provincial assembly, Balochistan, over-speeding his luxury 4×4 and killing a police constable on a crossing, and then no court of law convicting him, they are frustrated and offended which in turn which makes them very bitter in their hearts and minds. The employees of a government office, doctors, lawyers, property dealers, teachers, shopkeepers, businessmen etc. all have their mafia groups. It’s not uncommon to see them playing above-the-law and in such cases they can even resort to violence and arson if their demands are not met to free an alleged criminal from police custody.

All these factors are woven into a complex fabric of social injustice and traditional tribal lifestyle which leads to anger and hatred in the society of Pakistan.

ڈاکٹر آفاق احمد قریشی۔ لاہور۔

یہ احوال بنیادی طور پر ہمارے دیہی معاشرے کا ہے کیونکہ ہماری بیشتر آبادی اب بھی یا تو دیہات / گوٹھ میں بستی ہے یا وہ لوگ نقل مکانی کر کے بہتر معاش کے لئے شہروں میں رہنا شروع کر دیتے ہیں۔ اس سارے معاشرتی اور سماجی عمل میں ہماری ذہنی ساخت دیہی ہی رہتی ہےاور اس معاشرتی زندگی کا تانا بانا مجموعی پاکستانی سوچ کا آئینہ دار بن جاتا ہے۔

آغاز سے ہی پاکستانی معاشرہ نام کی کسی چیز کا وجود کہیں نہ تھا۔ یہ صرف پنجابی، سندھی، پٹھان اور بلوچی معاشروں کو ملا کر ایک ملک بنا دیا گیا تھا۔ زبان تو قطعی ایک نہ تھی۔ ہر صوبے اور ہر گوٹھ یا گاؤں میں ملک/چوہدری/پیر/وڈیرہ/زمیندار وغیرہ خدا کا درجہ رکھتا تھا (اور ہے اور رہے گا)-

باقی کے اہل صنعت و حرفت کمی کمین تھے جو صرف بڑی ذاتوں کی خدمت کرنے کے لئے پیدا ہوتے اور مرتے تھے اور مرتے رہیں گے۔ انسانیت، اخلاقیات، انصاف پسندی کا نام بہت لیا گیا ، اسلام کی ذات پات سے پاک خصوصیات کے ذکر سے وعظ، دروس اور ٹی وی پروگرام بھی ہوتے رہے مگر عملی طور پر ہم غاروں کے زمانے کے باسی تھے اور ہیں۔ جہالت اور مکمل جہالت واحد قدرِ مشترکہ ہے اور رہے گی۔ ذاتوں، قبائل، اور زمینی خداؤں اور انکے پیدائشی نوکروں کو یہاں کیڑوں سے بھی کمتر رکھا اور سمجھا گیا اور وہ اب بھی جاری و ساری ہے۔ اس بات پر کبھی کوئی بحث ممکن نہیں۔ نہ جامعات میں نہ اسمبلیوں میں، جس کا نتیجہ یہ نکلا کہ انہی پیروں اور وڈیروں نے قانون ساز اداروں پر قبضہ کر لیا اور ہم جیسے ہما شما کی بجائے اپنی اور اپنی آنے والی نسلوں کے لئے حکومت، بے بہا دولت اور حکمرانی کے ٹوہر کو پکا کر دیا۔ بعد میں اسی ڈرامے کو جمہوریت کا نام دے دیا گیا اور اس کے نام پر وہ طوفاِنِ بدتمیزی برپا ہوا اور ہے کہ اللہ کی پناہ!۔

کسی دہقان کا بچہ پڑھ گیا تو وہ جان اور خاندان بچانے کے لئے بیرون ملک بھاگ گیا یا لاہور، کراچی وغیرہ کسی بڑے شہرمیں رہنے لگا۔ علم بیرون ملک نوکریوں اور شادیوں کے کام آیا تو مصنوعی خوشحالی بھی در آئی لیکن افراد اور معاشرے ذہنی طور پر وڈیرے، پیر، یا مولوی کے غلام ہی رہے اور رہیں گے۔ تعلیم یافتہ والدین کی ایک بھاری اکثریت اس امر کو زندگی کا مقصد بنا بیٹھی کہ انکی اولاد کو آسٹریلیا یا یورپ کی شہریت مل جائے۔ بلند آواز میں بات کرنے کو برتری سمجھنے والے، مذہبی شدت پسندی اور انتہا پسندی، جہالت، عسکریت پرستی، شہوت میں لتھڑے ہوئے اذہان ،اختلافِ رائے کا عدم برداشت اور مرنے مارنے پر تُلے ہونے کا یہ ذہنی سسٹم ہمارے خطے کی شناخت بن گئی ہے اور ہم اس پر نازاں ہیں۔

یہاں نفاست کہاں ملے گی؟

(جاری ہے)