Adieu Abol Hasan

 

In the early hours of December 8th, Pakistan time, our most famous classmate Javed Iqbal (Javaid Bhai) gave us the terrible news.

Abol Hasan had left the world for a better place. His soul finally rests in peace. 

I felt I lost a part of me. 

At one time we were sworn enemies. But that was a long time back.

He was the face of Jamiat in our class. I was one of the leading faces of its nemesis Liberals; or at least I thought like that.

In early 1979, we entered Nishtar Medical College Multan (now University) as freshmen. Coming out of a strict regimented boarding house, it was a completely different environment for me. It was a largely residential institution, mostly from the Central or Southern Punjab.  We were young adults, aged 18-19. It was a professional institution but the life experience was comparable to the undergrad college in the West: new found independence, coming of age, new influences, age of experimentation etc. I never felt liberated like that ever in my life. 

It was the peak of Martial Law and Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto was just hanged. I gravitated to Liberals, the left leaning student group with strong sympathies to Bhutto's  Peoples Party. The rival group was Islami Jamiat Talaba, IJT, the student wing of Pro Zia Jamaat Islami. 

In those days and times, lines got drawn pretty quickly, often on ethnic, political and linguistic lines.

He was tall, well built and a handsome guy. He was from Jhang, hailing from an Urdu speaking family which migrated from Panipat after Partition. His father was a federal minister in Zia's Cabinet. He was well spoken and personable. He attracted attention. Soon he became popular and had a group of friends and followers around him. Most of them subscribed to a conservative approach and a religiously inspired political bent. 

I belonged to a group of students with liberal ideas and an anti military stance. The student politics in those days was more than the issues facing them as students of their institution. National politics was a part and parcel of it. The alignment was clear, simple and binary: either you are in the pro government camp, or against it. 

The stakes were high, and cut throat. Both groups aspired to be in the lead in every issue, in and out of the classroom. We were coerced by our seniors not to given any quarters and not to let any unattached student swirl in the opposite direction. Minor arguments could easily escalate to physical tussles. 

It was in that environment that we all including  Abol Hasan and I interacted. In such an acrimonious atmosphere he always stood out as someone who would speak softly, have a smiling face and have a capacity to reach across the aisle and  communicate.

Good sense prevailed soon. Our group of friends and foes realized we should not allow ourselves to be consumed by the escalated tensions around us. We developed an understanding between us not to have the political differences amongst us create further rifts. This lasted for a while and then usual political forces took over again. 

And then a fateful event happened at the end of our second year. A personal feud and scuffle between two groups of the rival student parties escalated to an armed fight. We both got injured in separate incidents not involving the other. Adding to Liberals bad luck, on that day a representative of Zia's government, Afifa Mamdot, was visiting the campus. Martial Law authorities were made to believe it was a militant protest  by Liberals and the pro-government Jamiat tried to stop them and thus the fight ensued. 

Whatever was the fallout of the incident, it was a personal loss for both Abol Hasan and me. We had to leave Nishtar. I left for Rawalpindi and he moved on to King Edward in Lahore. I personally never recovered from that loss. I knew Abol Hasan always thought of himself as a Nishtarian at heart.

 

Personal grudges long past, our relationship became cordial,. Being in different cities we saw each other much less. After graduation we moved to different countries; I left for the States and he went to UK. 

In 1989  my mother was terminally ill in Rawalpindi. I was back from the USA and he was back from the UK around the same time. We accidentally met in CMH Rawalpindi and reconnected. He was very gracious. 

I kept on hearing about him his passions pulling him in different directions, medical practice, farming and political ambitions. Eventually he went where his heart took him. After being in other political parties and running for office with mixed success, he finally joined Imran Khan's PTI and remained loyal to his last day despite being relegated  to the non electable party core group track. That is where he perhaps gave his best to his party, working away from the limelight: a solid constitution and organizational structure. 

Around ten years back, when our class, N28, had its Silver Jubilee celebrations, I reconnected with him and since then had been in rather regular contact with him through telephone, class emails and social media chat groups. I had met with him multiple times in Pakistan and in the USA when he visited. Last time I met him in July 2021 in Rawalpindi when our classmate  Azhar Raza arranged a small get together of our classmates, I had brought the newly released book by Delcan Walsh on Pakistan, 'The Nine Lives of Pakistan" for him. He is holding that book in the picture below. At the end he dropped me to my sister's place where I was staying. A gentle soul behind the rugged persona, he could open up and share his personal concerns and dilemmas. 

Like most of the class chartgroups of our age we had heated arguments on social and political issues. Almost always he and I were on the opposite side. He remained a core-to-the-heart conservative, Imran loyalist and chauvinistically nationalist, like most of our classmates. On the other hand, like always, I was (and am) in the opposite minority group, which is becoming slimmer as we speak.

But all that is for the sake of record. The fact remains that he was the most cordial, most loving and popular of our class, even as he had left the class in the early years. He had the quality of making everyone feel he had their back. Now I hear stories of how he had gone the extra mile for so many. 

He was from a very privileged background. He never let anyone feel like that. 

My last interaction with him was a tense one when we were debating the commercialism of the religious leaders benefitting from their media popularity. I jokingly told him to let go of the anger as finally he and his conservative lot have 'won' the mind game in Pakistan. He remained cordial in his response and wanted to assure that while he would vehemently oppose any 'Liberal' intrusions and invasions of Pakistani culture he had no personal grudges. 

I lost the opportunity to reply in kind.

I join many in offering condolences to his wife, children and the larger family. He had touched many lives and made a difference. 

I will sure miss him.

I end the post with the feeling I think I had about him; a competitor for the beloved, a Raqeeb. Here the beloved can be anything one is passionate about: a person, a place, an idea. That is most true for the place we all call home. 

Having different approaches we take each other as rivals, we share something very visceral. Nothing can explain that better than Faiz's "Raqeeb Se"

آ کہ وابستہ ہیں اس حسن کی یادیں تجھ سے

جس نے اس دل کو پری خانہ بنا رکھا تھا

جس کی الفت میں بھلا رکھی تھی دنیا ہم نے

دہر کو دہر کا افسانہ بنا رکھا تھا

آشنا ہیں ترے قدموں سے وہ راہیں جن پر

اس کی مدہوش جوانی نے عنایت کی ہے

کارواں گزرے ہیں جن سے اسی رعنائی کے

جس کی ان آنکھوں نے بے سود عبادت کی ہے

تجھ سے کھیلی ہیں وہ محبوب ہوائیں جن میں

اس کے ملبوس کی افسردہ مہک باقی ہے

تجھ پہ برسا ہے اسی بام سے مہتاب کا نور

جس میں بیتی ہوئی راتوں کی کسک باقی ہے

تو نے دیکھی ہے وہ پیشانی وہ رخسار وہ ہونٹ

زندگی جن کے تصور میں لٹا دی ہم نے

تجھ پہ اٹھی ہیں وہ کھوئی ہوئی ساحر آنکھیں

تجھ کو معلوم ہے کیوں عمر گنوا دی ہم نے

ہم پہ مشترکہ ہیں احسان غم الفت کے

اتنے احسان کہ گنواؤں تو گنوا نہ سکوں

ہم نے اس عشق میں کیا کھویا ہے کیا سیکھا ہے

جز ترے اور کو سمجھاؤں تو سمجھا نہ سکوں

عاجزی سیکھی غریبوں کی حمایت سیکھی

یاس و حرمان کے دکھ درد کے معنی سیکھے

زیر دستوں کے مصائب کو سمجھنا سیکھا

سرد آہوں کے رخ زرد کے معنی سیکھے

جب کہیں بیٹھ کے روتے ہیں وہ بیکس جن کے

اشک آنکھوں میں بلکتے ہوئے سو جاتے ہیں

نا توانوں کے نوالوں پہ جھپٹتے ہیں عقاب

بازو تولے ہوئے منڈلاتے ہوئے آتے ہیں

جب کبھی بکتا ہے بازار میں مزدور کا گوشت

شاہراہوں پہ غریبوں کا لہو بہتا ہے

آگ سی سینے میں رہ رہ کے ابلتی ہے نہ پوچھ

اپنے دل پر مجھے قابو ہی نہیں رہتا ہے