Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Quetta 1952 to 1954

SANDEMAN HIGH SCHOOL, QUETTA-1951-1952

A few days after arrival in Quetta Nana took me to Government Sandeman High school, in the vicinity. It was a far cry from the posh school I had left in India. The building was good enough but the students looked like denizens of a reformatory. The teachers put me through a test. It was de ja vu except that this time around I was adjudged good only in English. I had been used to a, b, c, and d. I had later got used to Hindi alphabets aa, ba etc. I could not get the hang of doing sums, geometry and algebra using Urdu alphabet-alif, be and te. But the teacher assigned for the test was an English teacher; I still remember his name-Ishtiaq Husain. He recommended that I be accepted in the tenth grade even though the abrupt and clandestine nature of our flight from Jhansi had not allowed me to get a school leaving certificate from there. The head master agreed to take me in with obvious reluctance. Times were chaotic, he had a lot on his hands. I am sure under normal circumstances he would have relegated me to the ninth grade.
It was a rough school. One of my classmates had the dubious distinction of making the most wanted list with his pictures- posters adorning the drab walls of every police station. He was wanted for murder, but had a powerful gang and connections, so managed to stay at large. While he graced the classroom with his presence, one of his minions would be on guard duty at the gate. The head master was very uneasy at the prospect of his arrest from the school premises. But teachers were still highly respected. We were still following the norms of British schools where head master was the king of his domain. No body, except for teachers and students, could enter the school compound with his express permission. Police did send word from time to time that they suspected the presence of some one they had arrest warrants for. My classmate, forewarned in good time, would make himself scarce. Not used to the rough and ready customs of frontier towns, it took me a while to take in the import of his sudden disappearances. The class teachers would look the other way. Many others among my classmates were not far behind. Gang fights, with at times grievous injuries, were not uncommon. Fortunately the engagements were arranged out side school premises.
Most of the students were Punjabi speaking, who though physically well endowed were no match in ferocity to Baluchi, Pathan or Hazara students. Hazara is a Shia-Pathan tribe originally from Afghanistan, where they still live in the north. They have Mongol features and initially I had taken them for Nepalese Gorkhas . Hazaras who lived in the south of the Afghanistan bordering Baluchistan and Frontier provinces of Pakistan had fled the atrocities, (now known as crime against humanity), to Quetta in late nineteenth and early twentieth century. Sunni Muslims discriminate them against. Wahabis deem them to be apostates . For some reason unknown to me and to other residents of the town, Hazaras monopolized the fire fighter service in Quetta. They had great tribal cohesion. If a one of them got into a fight with a non Hazara, another Hazara would not ask for the reason of the fight or try the to separate the combatants. He would join in to help his tribal comrade. I made good friends with one of them. He was tall and very well built and protected me from bullies.
The milieu was medieval. Even the most hardened criminal would bow his head before his teacher. I remember my Urdu teacher mercilessly caning a ferocious student in my class twice his size. All my classmate would say was that you are like my father. Do what you like. The same young man, a while later in the year, beat up a shopkeeper and threatened to burn the place down because the man had been rude to the self same teacher. In India caning stopped in the six or seventh grade! Students were respectful of teachers there too but were not slavish. The teachers were uniformly kind except for one, Aizad Baksh-favor of God, he was any thing but-was rather crude and malicious. I had been called to the office of the Head Master to answer some questions relating to a need based scholarship I had applied for. This teacher happened to among those present. He snidely remarked that I had come for “Khairat-Charity. The Head Master lashed out at him. He practically shouted at the teacher and I quote “ are you not ashamed of yourself, humiliating a student like that. You are supposed to be like a parent to them”. Ishtiaq Sahib was there too. He pacified the Head Master.
As noted earlier medium of instruction was Urdu . I had never been any good at it. In the half yearly examinations held shortly after I joined the school in Quetta, I failed in all the subjects except English. I did miserably in geography and history, which I had got rid of in India. The worst cut of “fate”, I scored a duck (zero), in mathematics. Mathematics had been my pride and joy. I had been completely non-plussed by the Urdu alphabet. In the Urdu test, I remember, they wanted plural of certain words. One was “Dukan”, meaning a shop. I answered “Dakakein” the colloquial plural of the word. But the “correct response” was “Dakakein” an Arabic version not in common use .
I don’t believe I have ever been so shell-shocked since, or had been before. I still shudder at the recollection. The malicious teacher, he taught Arithmetic, asked the headmaster to demote me to the ninth grade but my Nana -god bless his soul, he loved me more than he did his own children, except for my mother- pleaded with the teachers, promising to make me study day and night. The English teacher Ishtiaq Sahib also stood by me. The Head Master reluctantly agreed to keep me in the grade. But, he insisted, if I did not do reasonably well in the send up test in December he will make me do the year again.
I had felt acutely uncomfortable in the school. I was a sickly boy. That didn’t matter so much in India. Nearly all my fellow students were puny. Here physical build was on the premium. I was amidst tall and robust, Pathans, Baluchis and Punjabis. But I had been able to console myself that I was their intellectual superior. Now this crutch had been taken away. I had no close friends who would commiserate with me. I was actually at the verge of depression. At this juncture the top student of the class Shah Baz Khan, whom I had out scored in English, as I had beaten every one of some hundred and fifty students in the grade, came to my rescue. He was from a very poor family and lived in a shantytown out side the city limits and used to be shabbily dressed like me. He told me that the fact that my English was so good proved beyond doubt that I was very bright and even offered to help me in Urdu usage. I was very grateful, but the logistics were in the way. I was staying very near the school. He had a long trek home. At least that aspect was remedied soon. My Khaloo got a house allotted to him in The Post and Telegraph (P&T) colony. It was half way to my new friend’s home. We would discuss and recapitulate the day’s lessons and go over the next day’s plans. He was always ahead of the class and was to top the provincial list of successful candidates in the matriculation examination in March 1952. He qualified the army commission examination. I never heard from or of him again. If he had survived all the “Jihads”, the blessed country had been indulging in, he would have risen to a general’s rank and I would have heard of him during my stay in Pakistan in the eighties.
I do not know how I survived the year. My mother, of course never lost faith in me, neither did my Nana. I do not think my father was so sure. He was not around when I had done so well in schools in India. At any rate, I used to wake up at three in the morning, study till seven when I left for school. I came back home about 4:00 PM, take an hours nap, study again till 8:00 PM, eat, pore over books till 10 and go to bed. I still retain and cherish the habit of the afternoon siesta. I finally felt fairly confident of the send up test. In December 1951, it was the school’s turn to be stunned. I outscored the whole class in Mathematics and English, and did credibly well in other subjects as well. My mother, Nana and I were so relieved, we cried on each other’s shoulders. My father informed of the glad tidings on his return from office simply exhorted me to work harder. I must say he had the knack of deflating me.
I passed the tenth grade examination (called High School in the subcontinent) with distinction marks in Science, mathematics and high first class in English. Distinction meant a score of 75% or above, and was deemed a very high attainment in those, pre-multiple choice tests days. First class was over 60%, and was a rather rare in languages, in which high second class was the norm for good students. It was a very gratifying result for some one who only a few months ago had been written off by all except his mother and Nana, who would naturally be biased, and the English teacher Mr. Ishtiaq Husain, God bless his soul. I had been riding high in India, had crashed in Pakistan and my recovery had been nearly miraculous. I wonder how many like me did not recover and had to wallow indefinitely in a swamp of despondency!
We had our roots in India; our ancestors had lived there for centuries. We left for a mirage, and as it turned out a particularly ephemeral mirage. We fantasized for an ideal, of an egalitarian society, of brother hood, of belief in equality, of being one nation- members of Muslim Ummah if you will. Our illusions were to be shattered soon. We who spent our formative years in Pakistan suffered the most. Our elders hugged their illusions and took them to their early graves. Younger ones never saw India. For them, bigotry, ethnic conflicts, provincialism and supremacy of feudals was the norm. Political chicanery was acceptable, charlatans the usual fare in public life. They had not seen Jinnah, Gandhi, Nehru, Azad, Suhrawardy and Liaquat. Whatever their other failings, they were men of integrity and unimpeachable honesty.
High School graduates who had an opportunity to go to a college had three choices. They could opt for A) Arts group with a view to 1) competing for superior services examinations, 2) pursue a career in Law or teaching or apply for a commission in the armed forces. B) Take science group. The choice here was pre-engineering or pre-medical. C) Commerce group, which would allow you to make a career in accounting, business and finance. Arts were not a viable option for me. We were not aware that with a Baluchistan domicile , it would be comparatively easy for me to get into superior services. (Central government services were assigned on a quota roughly based on population. Baluchistan had a very low literacy rate. Its residents stood a better chance of selection in government services. We did not have connections or money, essential ingredients in the East, for a successful law career. Teachers did not get good pay. My physique was so poor; the armed forces would disband rather than consider some one like me. We did not have commerce group in our college.
Science group was the only viable option. I wanted to opt for pre-engineering group for obvious reasons. I was good in Mathematics, and poor in Biology. Another equally important factor was our parlous financial state. It took four years to get an engineering degree after which you could get a good job and make a career in whatever department of Government you chose. (It was a buyers market. Engineering graduates were few and in great demand). With hard work, perseverance and a bit of luck you could hope to rise to the very top rank. The other alternative was medicine. That, on the other hand, took five years to get the basic degree, and if you wanted to rise high in the profession, you had to go to England and get a post-graduate qualification. (USA was not a practical, feasible or even the choice destination at the time). It could take any where from four to six years on the average in England. So it was four years for engineering against nine years in medicine .We could not afford to waste any time, and wait for the extra years till I could supplement the family income. I wanted my mother to have some comforts in life.
But my father insisted that I take pre-medical subjects. He had this quaint notion that all Doctors were honest. In actual fact, he was right for the time. Doctors, with rare exceptions, were honest women and men of high integrity, and had social conscience. Nearly all of them treated the poor free, and did not charge families of other Doctors or those of Medical students. Un-necessary surgery was unheard of. One could get fairly decent treatment in Government Hospitals. Charging general ward patients was unknown. There were very few private hospitals. Well-heeled patients were admitted in private rooms in government hospitals. They did not get treated any better than the patients on free general wards did. In some ways general ward patients got a better deal. A doctor in training would see them any time of day and night, and would consult with a senior on phone if he could not deal with the problem himself. Paying ward patients had, on the other hand, to wait for the next morning for the big chief to arrive. Residents assigned to private wards dare not prescribe them any thing more than an aspirin, and that too with a great deal of trepidation, lest the Professor dress him down the next day for taking the liberty. Unless it was a dire emergency, a paying ward Resident doctor would rarely if ever have the courage to call the consulting Doctor at home. My medical college teachers would refuse to see our relatives in Government Hospitals. They would ask us to bring them to their private clinics- offices in America- and give free consultations. Any Doctor crossing the line, and there was the rare one, would be despised by public and colleagues alike. But my father could not know that in his own lifetime Doctors would stoop to charging general ward patients, ask for fees from colleagues, and be known for indulging in un-necessary surgery.
I knew that medicine was not an appropriate field for me. I would have liked to defy my father, but was too young. My Nana while agreeing with me, did not feel it was his place to get between my father and I. My last resort, my mother, advised me to listen to and comply with my father’s wishes. She was, perhaps tired of a life long struggle. She may not have wanted to rock the family boat so soon after it had set sail again. It was still in choppy waters. I know she did not agree with my father’s decision. I never asked her why she wanted me to do his bidding.

Government College Quetta
1952-1954


I signed up for Pre-med subjects, Biology, chemistry and Physics. English was compulsory. The first mentioned Biology was my nemesis. It was subdivided into Botany and Zoology; the first mentioned is a study of plants and the second is related to animals. I spent half my study time on Biology and the other half on the other three subjects. But I still got poor marks in the subject! I could not get the hang of where a blood vessel went and why. Further my drawing skills were poor, and great store was laid on the ability to draw muscles and inside of the stems of flowers. I studied hard. I had no choice. Our financial state remained precarious. We could not look back. It was too depressing.
We had companions in adversity. All in our extended family were going through the same misery. They had lived a life of genteel poverty in India. But they had their own house and were not objects of derision. When I recall those days I, however, do not get an image of destitution, though we had to go without bare essentials of life. Quetta had bitter winters. Temperature stayed below freezing for weeks. One or two policemen on beat froze to death every winter . I spent three winters with out a jacket. A flourishing market of used winter outerwear offered cheap but serviceable woolies. But I could not bring myself to wear them. My Nani offered me her jacket. It looked, very feminine. I would look more ridiculous than I already did. But we had high hopes. We were imbued with an ideal. Disillusion was still in the future.
I continued to spend most of my time on my studies. I had not yet developed a habit of general extra-curricular reading, which would be the consuming passion of my later life. I would occasionally glance at a newspaper or a glossy magazine in the college library. In my family, only my Nana was an avid reader. He would pore over religious-Sufi texts, tell me stories of past Muslim glory and at times recite devotional Urdu and Farsi poetry. My younger Chacha was also very keen on literature, politics and philosophy, but he lived in a different town and I was yet to get close to him.
I had by now acclimated myself to my new milieu. I could speak a few words of Punjabi, the prevalent lingo of the schools, offices and the market place. Most of the students and teachers in the college hailed from the Punjab. Urdu speakers were a close second. Pathans were the next in numbers. They constituted about forty percent of the province’s population. Baluchis who were the majority racial group in the region could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Roughly the same proportion held in Government jobs and businesses. The same two Punjabi and Urdu communities occupied better parts of the town and houses. Locals, as the Pathans and Baluchies were called, lived in mud huts out of town. They had just started resenting the new “colonization”. A few of them openly said that they had not got rid of Hindus and Sikhs to see all amenities taken over by Punjabis .
Even in 1951, four years after independence, at least half the houses in Quetta retained obvious signs of arson. Some were totally devastated, others half- burnt. Nearly every house had the characteristic Hindu cult sign-phonetically called “OM”-which looks like inverted Swastika of Nazis. (In fact, the two signs claim a common Aryan heritage). In pre-partition days, Non-Muslims lived in towns, Muslims in shantytowns out side municipal limits. I was to make the same discovery in all major cities of the Punjab, Sindh and The NWFP.
In the Punjab local Muslims had captured most of the property of fleeing Non-Muslims. The rest had fallen in the hands of Muslim refugees from Indian Punjab who were ethnically and linguistically the same as the locals. Punjabis were the great beneficiaries in Baluchistan as well. In the NWFP, the local Pathans initially looted, and subsequently took over all the evacuee property as the homes and businesses of Non-Muslims who had fled to India were called. In Sindh Urdu speaking immigrants grabbed the lion’s share. Local Sindhis were left high and dry, harboring resentment , which is very much alive to this day.
Pathans and Baluchis left each other largely alone, but the former had frequent inter-tribal flare-ups. The latter, who live in Pakistani and Iranian provinces of the same name, have always been under the firm control of the tribal chiefs and were initially not so militant. Their resentment over exploitation of the natural resources of the province incited largely by tribal chiefs who were unhappy because “Punjabis” ruled over their region developed into a latent insurgency, which erupted into a violent form every few years. Ayub took mild punitive measures against them. Bhutto initially gave them considerable leeway, but resorted to coercive measures soon after. It is widely believed he suppressed the consequent uprising brutally, killing 30,000 Baluchis and losing 3,000 soldiers, at the behest of the Shah of Iran, who was apprehensive that his own restive Baluchis would join hands with their Pakistani brethren. Zia followed suit with his own atrocities. It was relatively quiet during the quasi-democratic dispensation between Zia and Musharraf dictatorships. The latter emulated Bhutto in the ferocity of his assault on the unfortunate province.
From the perspective of native population, Quetta had another draw back. It was a cantonment town . Army was always at hand, If the natives tried to assert themselves, the army was close at hand “to put them in place” as the bureaucratic expression went. Non-locals served as willing fifth column and in later years came to be despised.
In college I had two friends, one Punjabi named Shafquat and the other Moazzam, an Urdu speaker. Shafquat was the first one. He was a very gentle and cultured soul, and sophisticated compared to me. He took me in hand; we used to go for walks nearly every day. I was much the better student and helped him with studies. He guided me through the intricate local customs and etiquette.
I was still terribly conscious of my puny physique. My newly found friend advised me to participate in games and athletics. I took to running around the college track. He was a good field Hockey player and introduced me to the Captain. The man looked at me and asked me to observe the game first. It was a terrible let down. But I persisted. The captain took pity on me or more likely my friend prevailed upon him to let me play in practice games. Once before a match, he was short of a player and put me in as substitute. During the game I found myself in possession of the ball with an empty net in front me. The goalkeeper had been enticed out of reach by another player. I lost my nerve and missed the goal. The captain was mad. He used vulgar epithets. I lost my temper too and responded in kind. He would have beaten me to pulp, but my fried intervened. That was the end of hockey for me .I did continue to run on the track and tried my hand at cricket, with the same predictably dismal results.
I was to lose track of this friend too but in rather different, and to me in a bewilderingly sad way. After we passed the twelfth grade examination, I with high marks and he with low ones, I went on to a university, and he joined the Department of Forestry. His father had died early leaving him in the care of an elder brother who was a teacher in a local school. I have a feeling the brother did not encourage him to pursue further studies. Or he may have persuaded himself that he would not do well in a professional college or a university. Money may have been a problem too. If you had good grades you could get a state scholarship.
In any case, I came across this friend a few times during the next summer vacations. He promised every time that he would come to my house in the evening. He never did. I waited. He still lived with his brother. I knew the house, so walked there one evening. My friend apologized .He had got caught up in some family tangle but would surely visit me the next evening. He failed to appear again. I made several attempts to see him. Finally, it came to his mind that I was not taking the hint. One day when I called at his home, I could over hear him telling his nephew to tell me that he was out of town. I still get a twinge of sorrow when I think of him and still think of him as a friend. He was thoughtful, considerate and kind. For the life of me, I cannot quite understand why he behaved the way he did or may be I cannot accept that he was inordinately jealous.
My other friend was an intellectual; his English was very good, though he was a poor in Science subjects. At the time nearly all parents pushed their offspring into science subjects regardless of inclination or desire of the child. My own sister and several cousins wasted many years in pursuit of medical and engineering careers. Only three out of some twenty in my extended family met a measure of success. This friend was also sophisticated, and better still, given to reading. I had this terrible desire or should I say longing to be popular, looked up to and be a highly respected citizen. My only choice was to shine in college debates. Public speaking was highly regarded among the intellectually inclined. This could be well with in my reach. But I was terribly shy, and spoke very fast, almost unintelligibly. When exited or nervous I stuttered too. This friend, bless him, held my hand, encouraged me and exhorted me not to rehearse my speech for the next debate and gladly sat through what must have been an ordeal.
My first experience of public speaking, though over five decades ago, is still fresh in my mind. It was an unmitigated disaster. During a debate my name was called out. I walked to the dais, put my hands on the rostrum and started my peroration. After a minute or two, the speech which I had memorized and rehearsed innumerable times, went clean out my mind. I started stuttering. My trembling hands, with which I held on to the rostrum for dear life, caused it to shudder on the dais. Both were both made of wood, and produced a sound like early thunder. I was myself not conscious of the noise at the time. I heard of it later from my friends. The audience became hysterical. They had never witnessed a scene like that before. The presiding officer officer tried to calm them down. One of my professors came on the dais and sternly told them that it was the first time for me and that I should be encouraged, not harassed. It was all to no avail. I got off the dais, mercifully on my own. I was mortified. I don’t think even Napoleon was more disgusted with himself at Waterloo. My friend told me the details afterwards, how every one had enjoyed the spectacle. A part of the audience was actually none too happy, because the debater who was to follow me was their favorite. He was very good at the art, but in the exuberant mood that I had left the student body in, he was given a short shrift too. They hooted him mercilessly. The poor man could not quite get into stride or settle in his usual oratorical flow and did not get his usual first place.
I was distraught, and ready to give up. If I could not hold my own even in an intellectual field I was a lost cause. My friend was a tower of strength. He spent hours consoling me. After the initial shock was over, he told me bluntly that if I was inclined to throw in the towel at the first setback, I was not the man he had taken me for. He told me the story of Cicero who was a born stutterer and used to take to hills and rehearse his speeches there. I still had the spark in me, though it had dimmed somewhat. I decided to put myself through more trials of public speaking.
But a sage once said that you cannot produce a melodious voice out of a harsh one however much you practiced. I did not have to go through the agony of the first stage fright, but never could master the art. I did not have the gift .
Unlike the other one, I did not lose track of this friend and would have occasions to mention him later in the narrative.
My intense desire to be “famous” led me into another direction of which I am not inordinately proud now. I started attending meetings of the student wing of a fundamentalist organization called Jamaat-e- Islami (JI). It was founded by and led at the time by an outstanding scholar and prolific writer, Maulana Maududi. Maulana Sahib had a small, but an intensely loyal following in Pakistan. He was respected even more in the Middle East and counted the Saudi Royal family among his admirers . Like all good Muslims Maulana Sahib believed that Muslim women cannot lead prayers, much less aspire to lead a country.”
When Miss Jinnah contested against Ayub for the office of the President of Pakistan, Maududi gave a Fatwa that a woman in ordinary course of events would not be entitled to the office of head of the state. But Pakistan was in the grip of an unlawful junta and therefore in a state of Emergency. A woman could, under the circumstances, aspire to the office. He glossed over the fact that at the time only this woman had a chance to unseat the dictator. But for a conforming Muslim scholar to regard suppression of democracy, in itself of dubious standing in the religion, and to call the dictator a usurper, is astounding.
But I must say Jamiat meetings gave me the first inkling of political affairs. Pakistan had not become the most allied of the allies of the USA-that was to come later, and had actually recognized the communist government in China . Pakistan did not condemn Chinese take over of Tibet either. I heard of the recognition and lack of condemnation in the meetings. The reaction of the party leaders was, I was to think later, strangely muted. The clerics were vociferous in castigation of the infidel USSR and China should have condemned Pakistan government actions unequivocally. They were similarly subdued in their reaction to the Korean War, which was actually a great economic boon to Pakistan in that its exports got a good market. Nasser’s take over of Egypt in 1951 presented a dilemma to conservative cadres. We discussed it in many meetings. While they could not openly condemn it till Nasser came down heavily on Akhwan ul Muslimoon, they were already uneasy with his nationalist, anti-imperialist stance. I now think that Maulana Sahib must have told them to curb their hostility. He had the habit, unusual in a religious scholar of balancing different aspects of an issue. I must however add that his incitement of anti-Qadiani movement in Punjab in 1953 and support of Urdu as the only official-national language of Pakistan are in my opinion negative marks against him .
I come from a religious family. But we are tolerant of other beliefs and faiths. We have strong inclination to Sufism and put all the major Muslim saints on a high pedestal. We even have a local saint in our ancestral village. I have described the village elsewhere. Falling in with Maududi’s followers was an aberration for me. He did not preach tolerance, love, understanding or non-compulsion in matters of faith. His was a militant interpretation of the religion. He only presented it in a coherent form, eschewing the self destructive and repulsive rigidity and paranoia of Wahabis. He kept the party from participating in the electoral process deeming it un-Islamic. The student wing also refrained from active participation in student union politics. But both the senior and junior wings, I think were biding their time, till the founder passed on.
I passed the premed twelfth grade examination with high marks and stood second in the province. I was a few marks short of First class. My father, rather insensitively remarked that I should have been a few marks above the thresh hold rather than below it. I was very put out by his un-necessarily callous attitude. An affectionate parent would normally try to soothe an offspring who had not done well in a test. Coming from a family of low achievers on both maternal and paternal sides, with the sole exception of my Nana, I expected my rank to be made much of. I ran to my mother. She implored me not to create a scene. I forbore to tell my father that if I had been allowed to take Mathematics instead of Biology, I would have scored marks high enough for a position in the University. As it was I had scored distinction marks in Physics and Chemistry and high first class in English. In Biology I had a barely passing grade. If I had opted for Mathematics instead of biology, it would have helped me in Physics and Physical Chemistry as well. The subjects require good grounding in mathematics. I would also have been able to devote the extra time I spent in Biology to the subjects I had aptitude for.