Ghulam Akbar
I am not writing here the history of my times. Nor of Pakistan of my younger days. I am writing here the story of my mind— of what was transpiring in my thoughts in my formative days. I am not consulting any books—or any reference material. I am not concerned with who was Pakistan’s Prime Minister in which month and year. I have certain names in my mind.
Chaudhry Mohammad Ali, I.I Chundrigar, Hussain Shaheed Suharawardy, Feroze Khan Noon and prior to them Mohammad Ali Bogra, Khwaja Nazimnddin, Ghulam Mohammad, Iskandar Mirza, Dr Khan and of course Nawabzada Liaqat Ali Khan.
I am writing from memory. Also from the state of mind I was in. During those years I had grown so completely disenchanted with the politicians and the rulers of Pakistan that I really had stopped reading local newspapers. I was interested only in what was happening around my beloved homeland which had been seized and besieged by hoardes of soldiers of fortune acting under the identity of politicians and leaders.
I was interested in the U.S, France, Germany the UK, the Soviet Union, China and the Middle East. But not in the corridors of power here in my own country.
I was also interested in Cricket. And in our history. Here I can’t help writing about Spain—one word that had started digging deep into my consciousness ever since my early boyhood.
That was Franco era in Spain, and the realization always cut through my heart and soul that we had ruled Spain for eight centuries—and the flag of Islam had flown high in the skies of the Western Europe for generations and generations.
What had gone wrong after all those centuries, in some of which Spain was regarded by the rest of Europe as the Capital of Learning?
Quite obviously the names like Musa bin Nusair, Tariq bin Ziad, Abdul Aziz bin Musa and subsequent rulers and ruling families including Abdul Rahman were ingrained in my mind. Also Yousuf bin Tashfeen and Abu Abdullah the last Muslim ruler on the soil of Spain.
About both the last-named my uncle Nasim Hijazi had written such moving novels as Yousuf bin Tashfeen and Shaheen. The first named was a North African Muslim Conqueror who had saved Spain from falling to the Christian onslaught led by Alphanso of Castile in the thirteenth century. Twenty-three decades later, Granada and Alhamra, the last monuments of Muslim Power in Spain fell to King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella’s combined armies. It was in 1492 when Columbus had sailed in the direction of the New World, that when he heard about the fall of Alhamra, he sent an express messenger to Ferdinand. “Thank you King for liberating our land from the evil of Islam.”
The tombs of Ferdinand and Isabella in Castille, carry an inscription reading:
“Here lie the great souls of the Cross who drove away the Curse of Mohammad from our homeland.”
Naoozbillah.
All these facts of history had made my mind a seething inferno.
I am trying to explain here the state of mind that shaped my early youth and the reason I’ve chosen this title for my memoirs—In Quest of A Dream.
Here it will only be befitting if I make a passing reference to the Battle Of Tours that was to shape the history of mankind in the year 732— exactly a century after the passing away of the Holy Prophet (PBUH).
Under the command of Abdul Rahman, the Muslim army had overrun an enormous territory between Paris of today and the frontiers of Spain.
At Tours, a place about 100 kilometers away from Paris the Muslim army had clashed with the Frankish armies led by Karl Martel the grandfather of Charlemagne.
Till before the sunset that day the Muslim army was in control of the battle-field. Then an arrow found the chest of Abdul Rahman who fell from his horse, and a great hue and my over the death of the all-conquering Muslim commander filled the skies over the battle ground. And no time a certain victory turned into a terrible retreat. Paris was saved from falling to ‘Muslim Infidels’. Karl Martel became the hero of a great European folklore.
The Battle of Tours was a turning point in history. Muslims never entered France again. Both the civilizations—Muslim as well as Christian—- have named this battle as the BATTLE OF THE PAVEMENT OF MARTYRS.
I have always loved to dream. I was a dreamer before I could understand the meaning of my dreams. But by the time I entered the second year of my college life I could trace the roots of my dreams back into the history of Islam— to the Battle of Tours and before that to the Scourge of God that Chengis Khan had been —- and ever farther back into the battles for AlQuds. In my mind I had started living in the company of Salahuddin Ayubi, Sulatn Bayburs, Yousuf Bin Tashfeen and other game-changers in our history. I was also living in the modern era and had my inspirational heroes in the Quaid, Ata Turk, Hitler, Lenin, Mao and Nasser for very different reasons.
My promotion from FSc to I.Sc was a disaster. I had not visited Chemistry and Physics Laboratories the whole year. Opened some books only a week or so before the exams. It was a miracle that I could still secure 39% marks, and mange not to fail.
I have already mentioned how angry at me our Principal Gillani was I didn’t get a seat in the hostel and had to shift to a rented place close to the Hyderabad old Fort. During those years I had three friends. Syed Roshan Zamir Rizvi had been my friend from Shikarpur. Mohammad Tariq Khan nephew of Maulana Abdul Razzak Malihabadi entered my life in 1956. Zafar Masood too had come from Shikarpur.
The last-named now lives in Paris. Syed Roshan Zamir a top ex-bureaucrat in the U.S, and Tariq Khan in Toronto.
We all had different mindsets but boyhood friendships happen to be the ones that have the power to beat the ravages of time.
In 1958 I made sure that I didn’t have to suffer the humiliation of my FSc. I appeared in both the I.Sc and the Inter Arts exams.
Predictably I couldn’t clear my Inter Science, as I had again not set my feet in the practical labs. But passed my Inter Arts in First Division. I later learnt from a notice board in the University that I had won scholarship too. There was a comic relief for me in it.
1958 was a year of major events. On the 14th of July, General Qasim overthrew Prime Minister Nuri ul Saeed’s government in Baghdad. Also was thrown out the king.
As per my perception at that point of time, it was a revolutionary change.
I remember we had celebrated it befittingly—me, and my above-mentioned three friends.
Three months later President Iskandar Mirza promulagated Martial Law, and appointed Defense Minister General Ayub Khan (who was also Commander-in-Chief of the Army) as Chief Martial Law Administrator. The coup occurred on the night of the 7th of October 1958. In the morning we woke up to the news that Prime Minister Feroze Khan was gone, and the era of the directionless, incompetent and corrupt politicians was over.
The celebrations were unbelievable. People had got so sick of the politicians and their errant ways that the arrival of General Ayub Khan on the political scene was greeted by and large with an overwhelming joy.
It is said that second marriag is triumph of hope over experience. General Ayub Khan’s appearance on the horizons of Power was the Nation’s second marriage. It was widely recognized that Pakistan needed a new order.
On the 27th of October 1958, General Ayub Khan threw out Iskandar Mirza too and became President himself.
In the cabinet that had been formed on the 7th of October 1958 was a young man from Larkana who was little known at that time. Even in the knowledgeable circles, he was regarded no more than Iskandar Mirza’s blue-eyed boy whose wife Nusrat had friendly relations with Iskandar Mirza’s wife Naheed. That was in a way Iranian shia grid.
We at that time had not thought even in our wildest dreams that Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto alias Zulfi, of all the persons would be playing a game-changer’s role in the decade to follow.
The ouster of Iskhadar Mirza from the political scene on the 27th of October 1958 did not have any adverse effects on the fortunes of Z.A. Bhutto. His brilliance and opportunistic skills and instincts combined to ensure that he would become General Ayub Khan’s darling too.
The early military courts set up by the Martial Law Administration had quite a positive effect on the society. It was assumed that the process of accountability unleashed with great ferocity would lead soon to a corruption-free Pakistan.
I had joined University of Sindh’s English Department. I remember my interview with Mrs Amina Khamisani, the Head of the Department.
“You have a science background Mr Akbar”, she said. “Why do you want to do Honours in English Literature? We don’t give admission to any undeserving.”
“I am not born for Science Madam,” I replied calmly.
“Are you born for English Literature?” She asked with a cynical smile.
“No,” was my prompt reply. “I hate everything English. But literature is universal.”
“You hate English, yet you want to pick English even as your optional language?” She sneered
“I don’t need to study Urdu,” I replied. “I want it to be easy.”
“Okay, I will admit you if you appear in an Essay test tomorrow. The test is intended primarily to select President and Secretary General of the Literary Society as well as the Editor of the Society’s magazine. M.A Students too will be participating. Are you prepared?” She asked. “Why not?” I replied.
She was taken aback by my confidence.
I participated in the Essay competition. Among other participants in the competition was “Sir” Ali Mohammad who had taught me English in Matric. He had applied for admission in the M.A classes.
“I am so happy you are here Akbar,” he said with an affectionate simile.
The subject of Essay was announced on spot.
“Is there room for poetry in the modern world?”
When I start writing, I keep writing. I wrote whatever came into my mind at that moment.
The result was announced three days later by Mrs Khamisani.
She announced five positions beginning from the fifth. It was not me.
Then the fourth position was announced. It was not me.
Then the third and the second positions. Not me.
My heart was sinking when Mrs Khamisani’s excited voice struck my ears.
“The first position has been secured by a boy I had least expected. Mr Ghulam Akbar. Stand up Mr Akbar. I am proud of you.”
It was such a moving moment for me. My legs were shaking when I got up. There were tears in my eyes.
“I want everyone to have look at you Mr Akbar. But you are too young to be the Society’s President. You will be the Editor of Skylark.”
