MAY 11, POLLING STATION, MY ALMA MATER AND NEVER ENDING MEMORIES!

A DIARY OF A VAGABOND

MAHTAB BASHIR

mahtabbashir@gmail.com

ISLAMABAD

Many moons ago in mid 90’s I was successfully passed out from my Alma meter i-e Federal Government School No 18 located in sector F-6/4 of federal capital, (now Islamabad Model School, F-6/4). With the humming of a song from one of my all time favorite band BoyZone ‘This is where I belong’ I was more rejoiced internally that I was standing still inside the lush green lawn of that school than being here as a voter.

Here I stand in the northern rain

And I can't believe I'm home again

And I can't believe how nothing's changed

I'm finding my way

Old park bench where I carved my name

But now it doesn't stand alone

Cause now the trees have over grown

Many a road that I've travelled

That's led me a stray

Here's where my heart's gonna stay

Today after a couple of decades I am here again. As soon as I entered into a polling booth I met with a presiding officer (PO) Malik Sher Awan who happened to be my class teacher not in this primary school but in a little higher level FG Model School, G-6/4, Embassy Road, Islamabad. I was surprised as how quickly he recognized me asking, “Oye tum media may kab se ho.” I told him since 2007 and started the conversation slowly… “Polling is sleazy here but good to see prevailing calmness,” I said. He shook his head and said smilingly yes, you are right, but people will pile up as the day progressed. I handed over him my CNIC card for casting vote. He promptly voiced a young man ordering him to go through the list and search my name while I was busy with peeping through the whole procedure and also cudgeling my brain to memorize his name. I sat on a couch and asked that Youngman what’s the name of this PO, he whispered Malik Sher Awan. He was my

class teacher who taught me Pakistan Studies and other subjects. I came back to him and started asking about Maroof sb (who used to be a biggest fan of my hand writing and used to write ‘GOOD’ on full page of my note books on daily basis), Farooq sb, who was my English teacher and known as a strict on discipline), Zamir Ijaz sb, and few others name I could count. Farooq sb is no more, he surprised me. I stood up in shock as he was perhaps the first person after my dad who taught me ‘present indefinite tense’. How and when, I asked. “His health was dwindling, you know,” he wrapped up the conversation marking on voters’ list.

Here I met few of many old classmates, street mates, and colleagues. After casting my vote, I had a quick view of interior of my first educational institution. “It looks stretched now, at that time it was hard to hit a six playing in this ground, but now it looks as equal to 20 meter circle,” I shared with one of my old classmate. He laughed out loudly saying “us wakt to ‘assembly ka rukh doosri taraf hota tha, ab change ho gia hay, or ye slides aor swing bhi nahi thay, sir aik jhoola hota tha jisko permanent basis pe zanjeer wala lock laga dia gia tha,” do you remember, he asked me. And I said yes very much fresh in my head and heart.

As my home was in back street and all it took were merely few seconds to enter into classroom. Now if I recap memories Madam Safia(class teacher in 4-5), Razia (known for preparing chaat in ‘recess’), Fouzia (who actually for the first time taught me English) and few names I could never erase out of my brain cells. While studying here, I availed the opportunity of being a student appearing in ‘Fifth Grade Scholarship’ conducted by FDE. My Centre for appearing in this examinations was G-6/2, and I was ordered by class teacher Madam Safia (who expired in a car accident) to meet her and share details as what I have done in each examination. After each ‘Scholarship Examination’, I met her in exciting mode and in response of her every question--- I used to tell her “Bohat acha hua hay paper, Is sawal ka jawab to pooray ka poora theek hay, ye to ap nay bhi bataya tha islye iski achi tayri kit hi, or is sawal ko to maine subha achi tarah tayar kia tha, etc.” ..and after a couple of months, when result of that examinations announced Madam Safia called me in her room and started …. “Us wakt to kehtaythay bohat acha paper hua, sab sawal theek hain, is mein to pooray marks aien ge…….” and I left her room as if I would never up lift my eye lashes!    

  

This is where I belong

This is where I come from

No need to shed my tears

Or face my fears anymore

So I won't walk alone

Taking things on my own

All of the lands I've roamed

Memories of my home

They keep beating strong

Cause this is where I belong!

AN EVENTFUL DAY OF MY LIFE

MAHTAB BASHIR
mahtabbashir@gmail.com

03335363248
ISLAMABAD

 

With an old saying of a sage “The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain, it's the loneliness of it. So memories need to be shared,” in my head and heart, I am planning to share an eventful day of 23rd April, 2011, when I thought I was on the right track, yet everything seemed hitting me back.

Being nostalgic, I am going down the memory lane focusing on that particular day, but, all is fragmented. My memory is distorted. I’ve quit my first love in journalism-‘Daily Times’- its working environment, also missing its friendly and chirpy colleagues and last but surely not the least the experience of Saeed Minhas- who at that time was the Resident Editor of the organization and whose every single word has something professionally meaningful, for me. 

Back to the point, it was a sunny Saturday morning of April 23, 2011. I was on my bike moving towards office. “Hello. Mr Mahtab, I just want to inform you to kindly collect your passport from Indonesian Embassy located inside Diplomatic Enclave by the mid of this day because you will have to be there at the Airport at 6:00 pm,” the voice of an Indonesian embassy official whispered in my ear", “OK, sure, thank you for your call, I’m on road, I’ll meet you in a while. Thank you for the intimation,” was my prompt reply.

I was on my bike and with the further thoughts piling up in my brain as how could I manage to finish my reporting assignments of the day, all family members are in Lahore except father, how could I pack my clothes and other essential stuff, if I go back home and found main gate locked? I have just 800 Rs in my pocket, to whom should I borrow money, if my passport’s one page is not blank? How could I get permission for going abroad and asking for two weeks leave from my Boss and how could I face the ire of him for not informing him in time? What about the roaming charges? I asked these questions to myself while covering the distance to Diplomatic Enclave.

“I don’t believe in planning, because in the past I have faced my life as it comes my way. So I will better go towards the solution one by one but must end up all before 4:pm,” was my self-discourse.

I stopped my bike adjacent to Embassy’s main gate and entered in a well furnished room with few of airplane models on each corner. I stood against the window, gave my brief introduction. The next moment a female's hand popped out of window pane passing on my passport. With the formal thanks I hurriedly started flipping pages - I found what I wanted to. Now I asked the lady about my air ticket? She said in English but her native accent, “you'll have to wait for twenty minutes”, I asked … two minutes? She said with a smile… no, no, “too..en..tee”, I said OK, sure and sat on the couch. After a while I collected the air ticket and came out of the embassy premises.

As I made my exit from the embassy gate, I started thinking how to get rid of all the entangled stuff one by one.The first step I took on spot was calling my boss- the Resident Editor. I called him with an intention to borrow some money and meanwhile to inform him about my maiden foreign visit. It is pertinent to mention here on the previous night he gave me an Urdu Press Release to translate into English and file it later. That particular page I put on my desk was found lost during a brief load shedding phase. I tried hard to find all around the office, but failed. So I went home after finishing my work.

Back to morning time, now, I call my boss (Editor) and told him “Sir, I've got the visa of Indonesia and want to seek financial help from you. I will return money as soon as I return,” instead of listening my words he asked in anger- “Tenu raat nu aik press release ditti si, … o file kio nahi keeti tu, ….,” I in a low voice tried to narrate the whole episode as how I lost the page and tried to find but unable to do so.” Editor in his vociferous voice said to immediately go office and file that story, no matter what, and dropped the call.

Let me take a pause here, dear readers. Allow me to say few words about my boss Saeed Minhas. He is a gem of a person. What I’ve found him was nothing but a thorough professional. His each word or a given clue, meant a lot to me for building my career. And whatever I am, I’ve no qualm in saying that it’s because of him. Last but indeed not the least, I being a youngest member in the reporting team (of DT), his love and affection to me was explainable.

Back to the day! It was 12:30pm and after that call and response and passport and return ticket in my hand, I was in dilemma whether should I go abroad or quit! Because opening was not upto my expectation...!!!

After a deep breath or two, I went to office at F-8 and engaged myself searching that paper. Failing to find, I started filing fresh stories on the day. I was too much busy in making stories as when I look at the clock it was 4:00pm. Now, I started thinking again how to meet editor to clarify my stance regarding ‘missed’ or ‘lost story’, how to inform him my flight is at 8:00pm this night?

With all these mingled thoughts in my mind, I shared the whole episode to one of my colleague Ikram Junaidi (now working for Dawn Newspaper).

He understood my "miseries" and said smilingly, “Mahtab sb, ap befikar ho jain, ghar ja ke packing karain, magar us se pehlay Saeed Minhas sb se mil kar jain”, story kisi se pata kar k mangwa lete hain. (You better be relax, go home and pack your stuff but meet Saeed Minhas sab before going home).

I said sure. Now I went to editor’s room, there was a lady sitting next to him. I peeped through but did not muster courage even to enter the room. I wanted to wait for that lady to leave the room before I go inside... so that ‘my insult’ could remain ‘confined’ between two of us.

I waited long but she did not leave the room and time was flying. Meanwhile, Junaid sb kept me asking, “G Mahtab sb, mulaqat kar li”, and kept replying, No. After half an hour wait, I gathered enough courage to enter in boss’s room in presence of that lady. After shaking hand to him, I told him about my visit. As expected in response I found Minhas sb in anger. He asked me just one question and directed a single order, i-e I hope, you did not found that paper (PR), and OK… Go ahead but before leaving this office, meet all colleagues "for the last time."

This last line aggravated my agony manifold and I went again to Junaidi sb, he smiled as he always does and again advised me to be calm, and go home, time is too short. I put my documents in a folder and left the office.

Knowing well that my all family members are in Lahore to attend a wedding ceremony, soon after touching the ground floor, I called father and asked him, “Are you at home”? Yes, came the answer, which gave me a little comfort.

I told him I am coming home within 20 minutes and have to leave for airport by 6:00pm. So be at home till I reach there. He felt happy and said "OK, come early, I'm waiting for my friend but will wait for you".

All the way from office to home, I was a little relieved that one by one things are shaping well. As I reach home, I hurriedly, put few of my clothes in a bag, took shower a
nd went to father again who was waiting his friend to come and for me to go. I asked him for some money with the promise to give him back after my return. He said “I have given you Rs 80,000, I hope I have not taken back all the money, go upstairs, take as much as you need out of that”.

But the fact was, the money father had deposited me had already been spent during the last 7 months because of backlog (delay) in salary at Daily Times.

I, however, went up in my room, spent a minute or two, and came downstairs with bag on my shoulder. “Han puttar, rakh lain ny paisy’, father asked I replied yes. “How much”, he asked again. I said Rs 20,000. “Yar hor rakh lay, othay zaroorat py sakdi ay. Wapis a ke rakh dain” (You better get more (money) as much of your need and later put it back. No problem), he said only as a father could say. I replied, no, no, it’s OK, 20,000 are enough, hugged him and said goodbye.

Kashif, my neighbor was standing outside my gate, he opened the door of his car and off we went towards airport. Meanwhile, I asked Kashif to have a stay at I-10 Markaz, where I used my ATM card and got Rs. 5534 (the only money I had). Upon reaching Airport, I straight went to a money changer outlet and exchanged that money into US$ that further reduced the quantity of currency notes I had in my wallet.

With the boarding card, and passport in my hands, before making “Check-in”, I thanked Kashif for his logistic support that too at a short notice. While saying him goodbye he said… Mahtab Bhai... “Mere liye chocolate lete ana” and I….., with stretching steps, said in high voice, sure, sure and ... in low voice … itne paise to honge mere pass (I have that much money to buy that chocolates).  

Dear readers, as I am putting down my random thoughts in black and white, memories are warming me up from the inside but tearing me apart as well. I do not want to repeat my innocence but do not want the pleasure of losing it as well.

Without knowing the mobile phone roaming charges, credit card and how to interact on phone calls from there, I was checked in. Collecting boarding card, few of officials came closer to me asking “where and why to going abroad’? I told them briefly and handed over a paper (of an invite) written in Indonesian language. One of them prompted “Yar koi Urdu, Punjabi which letter dikha- Tu pata nahi keri zuban da letter lay aya ain.” I smiled back and when they came to know I’m a journalist- they requested me to have my business card. One of them said, “Menu wi day day yar, tuwady naal kadi wi kam pay sakda ay”. Before leaving them, they all prayed for my safe travel saying it was pleasure talking to you.

I kicked off my journey with Thai Airways via Bangkok to Jakarta. It was raining when the plane after 4:30 hours touched the runway of Suvarnabhumi Airport (aka Bangkok). Suvarnabhumi Airport covers an area of 3,240 ha (32.4 km2; 8,000 acres), making it one of the biggest international airports in Southeast Asia and a regional hub for aviation.

Suvarnabhumi means ‘land of gold’. The name was chosen by the late King Bhumibol Adulyadej whose name includes Bhūmi, referring to the Buddhist golden kingdom, thought to have been to the east of the Ganges, possibly somewhere in Southeast Asia. Suvarnabhumi is the 17^th busiest airport in the world, eleventh busiest airport in Asia, and the busiest in the country, having handled 60 million passengers in a year. On social networks, Suvarnabhumi was the world's most popular site for taking Instagram photographs in 2012.

As I entered in the lobby of airport, both of my cell phones stopped working. I have a four hours stay there before making headway to Soekarno Hatta Airport (Jakarta). Suvarnabhumi Airport indeed was massive. I roamed around every nook and corner of the internal part. Had a lot of window shopping, met people of various ethnicity for a while and then fall on the couch. With a fear not to have a deep sleep (to drop the connecting flight), I stood up again and entered into a number of cologne shops- where I kept on disturbing the smiling girls of the outlets to have all the ‘testers’. Finally, I planned to use internet but the allocated space was jam-packed. I waited for a while before I asked a lady for the respective terminal who replied pointing “This way, 1.5 kilometers”. And I continued my walk.

After 2:30 hours journey, I reached to Soekarno Hatta Airport (Jakarta). It was a bright Sunday and I thought someone from Pakistani embassy or officials from host would be waiting for me at Airport holding placard of my name (as seen in James Bond movies) but nothing happened. After repeatedly failed calls to Pakistani embassy (from a nearby booth) and curiously waiting for any officials to meet me, I sit idle in perspiration. All passengers on board had already made their exit. I was not panic but was observing things closely (that’s what I could do). 

Good times followed me as soon as I saw a walking young Indonesian lady who was coming my way for the exit. I kept on ogling (read watching) her. As soon as she crossed the way I was sitting on couch, I talked to myself “this is the last option for me, if she disappeared, I would be here till night.” I hurriedly chased her and made her stop to tell my story. She recognized me saying “Oh, you are the one from Islamabad. I’ve already met you there.” This one-liner was like a lifeline for me and I took the biggest breath of my life. She took me to a nearby fast-food outlet and made quick calls to embassy officials and informed me “two persons are coming to carry you to the hotels.” We were sitting on a same table to have a quick refreshment. She, however, vanished with her relatives making me alone again. But this time, I was more composed. After a while, two persons came inside, put my luggage in a vehicle and carried me along to a Hotel Borobudur situated in the down town Jakarta.

I went straight to a hotel room, took a shower and called at reception “what is the local time”, and adjust the local time on one of my mobile. At evening, I got the call to be there at hotel lobby. I went there, had a little chit chat with all people from India, Sri Lanka, Indonesia, and Central Asian States. And, soon, I became one of the popular character among the one group (of South Asians), People from Central Asian States, however, remained introvert but on and off, I kept on teasing (talking) them.  Later, we had a formal introduction followed by a dinner. This was the beginning of this memorable tour.

Wrapping up this piece of writing, in addition to April 23-24, 2011, let me jump to the final day, May 2, 2011- a day of my return to Pakistan. 

I woke up early on Monday (May 2), had a shower, took my breakfast, packing up stuff, said adieu to all mates from various countries and off to Soekarno Hatta Airport. With the happy feelings in mind going back home after a two-week excursion, I started chit chat with the staff (driver) and his mate. Mid way through, the driver tuned-in the radio where President Obama was addressing a breaking speech of killing of Osama bin Ladin- terming it a biggest success in war against terror. "... Killed in Abbottabad, a garrison city of Pakistan, what's going on Mr. Mahtab," asked both of them one by one. Let me take a breath, I said. How long, they asked. Till we reach the Airport, I promptly replied. Since then, I'm in search of "what actually happened this day (of 2nd May) and I believe it was actually a “May Day Call” on the sovereignty of Pakistanis? 

Don’t think too deep, read my complete travelogue, meanwhile! Thank you all. 

http://mahtabbashir.blogspot.com/2012/02/indonesia-land-of-limitless-beauty.html

PS: Upon my return, I came to know that it was only my editor Saeed Minhas who kept asking from all colleagues on daily basis to ask "yar munday da pata karo, kis haal wich ay, pehla tour ay ohda, haal chaal pucho ohda". And family members remarked,"tu tay ais tarha gia ty ais tarha wapis aya ain, jis tarha Lahore jai da ay."  

DIARY OF A SOCIAL BUTTERFLY

Bhai I've tau always said that India is my Most Flavoured Nation. Now guvments on both side have also copied me and opened up trade roots between us and them. So thanks God we can all become rich now. Talking of rich, many Indian richies came to Lahore for this seminal called Aman ki Asha. Janoo went to listen to their speeches but I went to see Prameshwar Godrej. She's just like us - Punjabi, tall, good-looking, wheatish complexion. I pointed her out to Mulloo, who'd gone with me to the seminal. "There she is! I know Prameshwar Godrej", I said. Mulloo snapped back, "but does she know you?" Uffff! Some people, vaisay, are too much!

They say from India, we can have non-stop bijli. Suna hai that in return for our cement ki boris and lawn ka joras, India is going to give us lots of lovely bijli and other nice nice things like Shahrukh Khan and Paan Bahar and kanji worm saris and cars kay parts and so much of steel, so much of steel kay poocho hi na.

Apparently they are crazy for our foods across the boarder. I told Janoo that please put all your onions and mangoes and wheat-sheet and whatever else you grow into a truck and send it to Amrit Sir today only. He said mangoes are not ready yet. I said, who cares baba? Don't you remember that song Kulchoo used to sing when he was a doddler, "Ready or Not Here I Come..." Vaisay between you and me and the four walls you know the problem with Janoo, na? All his get up and go has got up and gone. If it wasn't for me, sachee, he tau would be a total non identity.

Also visa constrictions are going to be relaxed. So instead of going bar bar to bore Delhi I can book myself into one of their super luxurious ashrams (but with 24 hour servants) in a romantic sa quite type village with palm trees and air conditioned huts. You know the type of place where they give you daily enemas till you feel like the world has fallen out of your bottom? And they do massages till your yatras are talking to your chakras and your agni is in tune with your jugni and you are doing ahimsa morning noon and night. And they make you eat little Your Vedic pills and portions made from herbal cow pats and crushed snail shells and so on and so fourth. And they make you sit across legged on a rush ka mat and close your eyes and chant, "Om Shanti Om" till your feel like slapping someone. And at the end of it all you come out totally retoxed and your inner light is shining like a hello gen bulb and you're looking like Ashwariya (before baby, but).

Courtesy TFT

MY DAD, 12th RABI-UL-AWWAL & CELEBRATIONS

A PAGE OF MY DIARY

MY DAD, 12^th RABI-UL-AWWAL & IT'S CELEBRATIONS  

Mahtab Bashir

Islamabad

03335363248

They often say only ghosts haunt in men but to me- memories do to. The revered day of 12^th Rabi-ul-Awal till the year 2012 had been celebrated in our house overwhelmingly led by my beloved father Bashir Hussain Nazim from dawn to dusk.

This day’s celebrations could have been started with special prayers for the propagation of harmony, compassion and unity for all. As I recall my memories, being a stanch lover of the holy prophet (peace & blessings upon Him), father started this day bringing something to cook (usually a sweet dish) and in couple of hours, he distributed himself nearby houses. Then he went to attend the annual ‘Seerat-un-Nabi Conference’ organized by Ministry of Religious Affairs. Interestingly my dad was among those three judges who scrutinized the Naatia poetry books and thesis- of which the recipients received prizes from chief guest (either PM or President of the country). Many a times, father himself conducted the proceedings of the conference (being a stage secretary).

The birthday of Holy Prophet (pbuh) also falls on Friday this year- a day for which father had been contributed his research-based article on weekly basis in one of the leading Urdu national newspaper (Nawa-e-Waqt) religious page since three decades. I’m sure, had my father been alive this day, his produced article on the day could have been worth reading than many writers and where over 99% religious scholars (writers) wrote رحمت ا للعا لمےن   instead of رحمت للعالمےن terming those Mullah illiterate who never read this word in Quran and Hadith (father was of the view this word has no ALIF in it). I remember once I used Alif while writing Rahmatallil Aalameen with adding Alif and he promptly scolded me saying, “You are also writing like an illiterate Maulvi, erase the Alif”, and I did accordingly. My father was the one who always emphasized to write Quranic words as it is used in the Holy Quran.

This day would have been a more blessed one if my dad was around. Being a literati of Urdu, English, Arabic and Persian, he wasted no time to correct the wrongly pronounced words whenever a poet, intellectual or an author made a mistake. Throughout his life, he bitterly complained … “Education is becoming rife but knowledge is not so”. People are getting away of books that is a primary source of knowledge.

On this particular day (12^th Rabi-ul-Awal) father remained busy as he was among the judges penal who ascertained the Naatia Poetry Books and thesis of which the recipients received cash prizes, certificates and other distinctions at National Seerat-un-Nabi Conference. He was also among the judged of All Pakistan Naatia Contest at Radio Pakistan and Pakistan Television and at night we all family members got together and used to watch father sitting among Iftikhar Arif and other leading Naatia poets at Pakistan Television (PTV) and other private channels at various Naatia Mushairas to wrap up this auspicious day of 12^th Rabi-ul-Awwal.

This Friday, he was also missing from newly recorded PTV Naatia Mushaira. As soon as Iftikhar Arif (the last poet of Mushaira) finished off, I hurriedly texted one of the participants of this Naatia Mushaira Noreen Talat Uruba saying “Good to see you reciting Naat but I am desperately missing my dad who is no more a part of this holy gathering, and she replied, “For you, Bashir Hussain Nazim was just a father, but – I have deprived of a legend Naatia poet, a great teacher, and a flawless scholar. He was undoubtedly an institution. May his soul rest in eternal peace.”       

SILSILA NAAT KA KYA KHOOB CHALA MERE BAAD

QABR PARHTI HY MERI- SALLE ALAA MERE BAAD.