A time to remember outstanding Pakistanis

This year, I will start with ZA Bokhari, writer, poet, broadcaster, musician & ex-director general of Radio Pakistan.

Whenever we are heading for the New Year, I get this irresistible urge to exhume and disinter the stories by which we remember some of the personalities that have enriched the folklore of Pakistan. This year, I will start with ZA Bokhari, writer, poet, broadcaster and musician and a former director general of Radio Pakistan. One morning, whilst ruffling through a sheaf of papers on his desk, he received a phone call from a highly agitated prime minister Khwaja Nazimuddin. “Bokhari Sahib, I just received an angry telephone call from Maulana Ehtishamul Haq Thanvi. He felt insulted because when he stepped into the car you had sent him, he discovered he had to share it with Ustad Bundo Khan. Can you please apologise so the matter can be brought to a successful conclusion?” The next day, Bokhari telephoned the prime minister and said “I have already offered my apologies”. Nazimuddin was pleased. “I hope the maulana sahib is pacified”. There was a pregnant pause at the other end and Bokhari said, “No no, I have apologised to Bundo Khan.” You see, religious leaders are born every six months, but it is only once in 50 years that the subcontinent can produces a virtuoso like Bundo Khan.

There are many stories about Ahmed Shah, ZA Bokhari’s elder brother, who was referred to as Patras. He was a former principal of Government College Lahore around the time of Partition. My favourite yarn is the one about the visit from a member of India’s elite administrative service. One morning while Patras was sitting at his desk, he heard a knock on the door. He beckoned the caller to enter and continued writing on the pad in front of him. The visitor entered, cleared his throat and introduced himself. “I am Shankar Das of the ICS.” Without looking up, the principal said, “Take a seat.” The ICS man felt that the protocol was right and that Bokhari had not quite taken in just who he was. So he repeated his introduction. Without looking up Bokhari said “Well, in that case take two seats.”

Then there were the Kureshi brothers, Satoo, Zabak, Abu and Omar, all sadly deceased, each quite unique in his own way. I miss Abu the most. He was married to Maki who, in my opinion, wrote the best English poetry in Pakistan. I can never forget that line from one of her poems “… like Persian glass that snares the light’s intrigue”. Abu had arguably the largest collection of books on the Soviet Union in this country. Whenever he heard that another volume on Lenin, Stalin or Trotsky had been published, he would salivate and couldn’t rest until he had gotten hold of a copy.

Satoo, engineer and pilot, whose real name was Safdar, was a squadron leader in the RAF and was awarded an MBE for services to king and country. Years later when he travelled to London, passersby at the immigration counter at Heathrow Airport subsequently reported that they had seen Satoo hopping mad and performing an Apache war dance. Satoo was furious. A senior immigration official emerged out of the woodwork and said, “Sir, the official only asked you how long you intended to stay in this country.” Satoo was quick with his answer. “Did we ever ask Clive how long he intended to stay in India?” The story goes that the official’s face dissolved into a broad grin. And when he saw the MBE after his name, he stamped the passport, said he could stay indefinitely and one witness reported that the official gave him the RAF salute.

Published in The Express Tribune, December 30^th, 2012.