The Governor General and the numbered abuses

"It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt."

This dry observation, often attributed to Mark Twain, captures with incisive sharpness the inherent danger of the unfiltered tongue in high office. It serves as a stark reminder that language, once let loose, often acquires a life of its own, revealing the man behind the title. In recent years, one cannot help noticing, sometimes with concern and sometimes with amusement, the steady decline in the tone of public speech. The example of Donald Trump shows quite clearly that holding high office does not always bring restraint in language. In fact, in some cases, it seems to encourage the opposite. His remarks, often direct and unfiltered, reach the public without any need for interpretation or dilution. They come off the cuff and straight from the horse's mouth. There is no aide to soften them, no pause to reconsider. What is said is heard exactly as intended.

It would be wrong, however, to assume that such a style is entirely new. Historically, many American Presidents indulged in this trait within their close circle but never brought their temper to the podium. Whatever taped archives are available of Trump's predecessors are those which were recorded incidentally as the erring Presidents were unaware that the microphone was still on. These profane indiscretions were never intended for the ears of the media or public.

The purpose of this article is not to revisit those unsavoury remarks but to revive an interesting ruler from our own corridor of power in a lighter vein.

Those familiar with the early history of Pakistan and the brief era of the fledgling government soon after the partition in August 1947 should remember that initially, power was grabbed by a few civil servants following the assassination of Liaquat Ali Khan, the first Prime Minister. One such head of the state was Malik Ghulam Muhammad, an Indian Audit and Accounts Service officer. He was made the first Finance Minister owing to his reputation as a wizard in finance, but he somehow maneuvered to become the third Governor General (October 1951 to August 1955). He is best remembered in history for dissolving the Constituent Assembly with the judicial but dubious support of Chief Justice Munir.

The two other civil servants whose ambitious characters raised them to phenomenal heights were Iskander Mirza (IPS), the fourth Governor General as well as the first President, and Chaudhri Muhammad Ali (Indian Audit & Accounts Service) as the fourth Prime Minister, though a short stint of some thirteen months or so. It is worth mentioning that Chaudhri Muhammad Ali earlier served as the "unrivaled boss of the bureaucracy" because the position of Secretary General was created specifically for him by our founding fathers. He was only a Joint Secretary on the eve of Partition and suddenly became the top gun, presiding over a lot of his seniors, including senior British ICS officers who opted to serve as Secretaries to the Government of Pakistan.

Malik Ghulam Muhammad's tenure provides a most interesting, and at times rather amusing, study of authority. He was known to be a restless and vitriolic ruler. He had little patience for negotiating with political expediency and did not believe in using soft words where he felt strong ones were required. Many officers found him intimidating. His language, when displeased, could be quite harsh, and he did not hesitate in expressing himself with a mouthful of choicest desi-expletives.

Then came a turning point. He suffered a serious stroke which affected his ability to speak properly. For most people, such a condition would have meant a withdrawal from active work. But Ghulam Muhammad was not one to give up control. Instead, he came up with a method that was as unusual as it was effective. He prepared a list of his favourite Urdu abuses and assigned a number to each one. This list was kept by a close junior secretarial aide (not to be confused with his Principal Secretary, Qudratullah Shahab) who knew exactly what each number stood for. Whenever an official came to meet him and he felt annoyed, he would simply say a number. The Secretary would then immediately translate that number into the full sentence and convey it to the visitor.

The scene must have been quite something. A senior officer stands before the Governor General. After hearing him out, Ghulam Muhammad calmly says, "Number 5." The Secretary, without hesitation, delivers the corresponding remark in clear language. The message was received, and there was no scope for misunderstanding. There was, in this arrangement, a strange mix of authority and comedy. Anger had been reduced to numbers, yet its impact was not reduced in the least.

The story of the Secretary adds a final twist. While his bedridden master was in power, he acted as a loyal mouthpiece. However, when Ghulam Muhammad was replaced by Iskander Mirza, the situation changed. Those who had been on the receiving end of these "numbered messages" were no longer willing to forget them. It is said that the Secretary, fearing trouble from those he had insulted by proxy, quietly left the country. It was a clear case of how speaking on behalf of power can sometimes be risky. Authority does not easily become silent; if it cannot speak directly, it finds other ways to express its unmistakable style. One just has to remember Mirza Ghalib's response to deal with obscene slurs with civility. He simply asked: "If a donkey kicks you, do you kick it back?"