Ghulam Akbar
I have never felt so shocked and depressed all my life as I feel now.
The summer sun sets late. And it is the first week of September. I had been born just more than twentyfour years back—not many weeks before the first shots that heralded the World War II had been fired.
It is quite dark now.
I am walking back from the adjacent hall in which the sheet-fed printing machines of Daily Kohistan are installed. Throughout the day till about 2 p.m the machines had been running—printing non-stop the day’s issue. It had never been so before. By 5 a.m the machines always went silent. But on this particular day the machines had kept running till after lunch. The print order had kept mounting each hour on telephone calls from all over the area of Daily Kohistan’s reach. The final figure stood at 164000 copies. Then at 2 p.m the machines had been brought to an abrupt halt.
There had been sudden appearance of the Police at the main entrance of the building. They had the orders to ensure that no copies of Daily Kohistan would be taken out after that moment. And these orders had been served to our General Manager Malik Rafique, in my presence.
An hour later, had come the orders from the DC’s office that Daily Kohistan had been banned for two months for inciting people to insurgency.
The decision to ban Kohistan had been taken in a high-level meeting presided by Governor Amir Mohammad Khan of Kalabagh himself. The lead story of the newspaper that day, had sent the authoritative governor into rage. There had been fierce clashes the previous day between the police and the agitating students, and as per the eye-witness account of our Chief Reporter Habib ur Rahman (Chapta), two students had been shot dead and scores injured and arrested.
The official handout had been blank on the killings.
But I as Executive Editor of the newspaper had chosen to go by Habib ur Rahman’s report who had on oath told me that he had seen with his own eyes, the dead bodies being carried away.
At about 8:30 p.m I had gone to the press for carrying out an inspection. I had learnt that the Printing Press would be sealed.
As I enter my office after having inspected the Press, I look at my watch. It is 9:15 p.m.
The whole building is giving an impression of total desolation. The day time staff has left. And the night staff hasn’t come. There is going to be no issue tomorrow.
In the office at that time with me are the Circulation Manager Mohammad Iqbal, a couple of junior functionaries and the attendants.
As I slump into my chair I feel so sad, so dejected, so desolate and so guilty that I drop my face into my hands in an effort not to cry.
Then I sense someone has entered the room. I look up. It is the grim face of otherwise ever-smiling Rana Jahangir—our General Public Relations Manager.
“Policemen have arrived to seal the press,” he tells me. “and the SHO wants to see you.”
“Let him in, “I say in a low voice.
He goes out and returns in the SHO’s company.
As we shake hands, he says: “I am personally sorry Mr. Ghulam Akbar. But we have to do our duty. We have orders to carryout.”
“Thanks for civility. What are yours orders?” I ask.
“We have come to arrest Nasim Hijazi. We have warrants.”
The words hit me with the force of the clap of thunder. I virtually jump from my chair.
“What the hell has he to do with this all? You should mention his name with respect. He is after all Nasim Hijazi.”
“I know Mr Akbar. It is unfortunate. But we have to arrest him,” he says.
I instantly overcome my emotions.
“He is not here. He is in Rawalpindi,” I say after a pause.
“We know,” he says. “But we have to do our duty. Please write here what you have stated and sign.”
I do the needful.
“Am I too to be arrested?” I ask after a while.
“No,” he says with a grim look. “Your name does not appear in the print line. Those already arrested are Sheikh Hamid Mahmood your Managing Editor and Mr Aali Rizvi your Editor.”
This news is no relief to me. I feel more guilty and more desolate. I am the one who is responsible for all this. I had paid no heed to Aali Rizvi’s telephone call the previous night. He had asked me to exercise caution. I had lent deaf ear to the advice of both Amin Rahat Chughtai the News Editor, and Mahboob Ali Khan the Deputy News Editor.
I had listened only to my inner voice. And invested my trust in Habib ur Rahman’s oath on Quran that he had himself seen the dead bodies.
After the SHO and the Police have left, I discuss the whole situation with Rana Jahangir with whom I have developed quite a cordial relationship within weeks.
“I am sure Akbar Sahib, Nasim Sahib too has been arrested by now,” Rana Jahangir says.
“How can they do it to a man of his stature? He is not in anyway involved in it. It was my judgment— my decision.” I say.
“And you trusted Habib ur Rahman Chapta,” Rana Jahangir says. “There are rumours regarding this.”
“Rumours! What rumours?” I ask.
“According to one view the story was planted by the management of Daily Mashriq. The objective is to have Khoistan out of the way for a while and to let Mashriq avail the opportunity to fill the void,” says Rana Jagangir staring into my eyes.
“I can’t believe that,” I say emphatically. “Mashriq management means Enayatullah Sahib. And I can never expect such a below-the- belt punch from him.”
“But you shouldn’t be unaware of the fact that the birth of Mashriq is outcome of some sort of a vendetta. Nothing will please Enayat Sahib more than the fall of Kohistan and the aseendance of Mashirq”, says Rana Jahangir.
“I don’t agree with you,” say I, “Is there some other view too?”
“Some knowledgeable persons firmly believe that Habib ur Rahman Chapta is still on the payroll of Mir Khalil ur Rahman. Has always been. He was planted in Daily Kohistan with a specific mission. To sow the seeds of division and mistrust among the key figures of Daily Kohistan and to ensure its breakup. In that mission he had already succeeded. Last night he performed his final act. He is gone. He has disappeared. You will not find him anytime soon.”
As Rana Jahangir ends his statement, I feel a surge of anguish in my heart and head.
He fooled me!
It is then that the telephone rings. I pick up the receiver. On the other side is the GM Rawalpindi. He tells me: “Nasim Sahib has been taken into custody and he is on his way to Lahore in company of some police officers.”
My heart sinks. The worst has happened.
A couple of hours later I am in my bed. Trying hard to overcome the shock of the events of the day.
My wife is disturbed at my state of mind.
My first-born Inam Akbar is barely some weeks old.
I close my eyes and try to sleep but I can’t bring calm to my mind. I am thinking of my past. How has a school boy from Ghotki and Shikarpur Sindh arrived here in this seat at such a young age? Kohistan is the country’s second largest circulated daily. And I am its powerful Executive Editor. In my first major journalistic test I have failed. Or have I ? If those two students were really killed, I had done justice to my seat. But had they been?
My mind goes back—back in time.
