THE WAY IT WAS: Far away and long ago
Mian Ijaz Ul Hassan
I recall in the early sixties sighting a pair of partridges scramming across the
dusty road on right bank of the canal. They took to the air only when they felt
their space was being too rudely invaded. They flew off towards the mustard
fields adjacent to Mian Mir. In those days, how so ever diffidently, we were
willing to share space with other creatures
It doesn’t really matter when I was born. Mother tells me that it was after
midnight on a cold November night in 1938. Like everyone else, I grew up and had
to contend with several schools till I was put in the boarding at Aitchison. The
first school I joined was in Bahawalpur. The next school I went was at Kot
Kapura, a rather clean and well laid out mandi town in the Farid Kot State. The
school not only had spacious well-ventilated classrooms, but several
well-maintained lawns and playgrounds.
The third school I remember joining was a primary school in Kasur, where we were
required to squat on jute matting. My mother would give me two annas every day,
which were theoretically equal to five paisas of today. A student could purchase
a number of exciting things to eat in the break and yet there was always money
to spare. I remember on one occasion when my grandmother, whom I loved dearly,
was visiting us, I bought a terracotta “chilam” for Beybeyjee who had taken
to smoking a hookah in her old age. A hooka was regarded a friendly companion
and also considered good for the digestive system.
We did not remain in Kasur for long. Once again the furniture and other
household goods were carefully crated and this time we were off to Raiwind —
the railway junction where one line branches off towards Ferozepur and the other
goes on straight on to Karachi.
At Raiwind I used to be cycled to a Mission school. It was here in this school
that I for the first time overheard someone converse in English. It gave me
goose pimples realising that I was not privy to what was being said and because
of the fear of being addressed in “Angrezi”. Later at Aitchison it took me a
while before I could come out of my shyness and become willing to engage others
in English. Making an error in spoken English was a social disaster, while not
knowing how to speak Urdu correctly was considered cute. Speaking Punjabi was
out of question and we were reprimanded if anyone ever lapsed into the native
tongue. I greatly resented the time when the Pathan boys got away with speaking
Pushto and no action was taken against them. I learnt later that it was because
the college believed that since these boys hailed from the outlandish frontier
regions, they needed to be dealt more kindly. I must however confess that while
most of these Pathan boys rather soon and easily learnt to speak Punjabi, none
of us Punjabi boys got beyond making fun of their language.
Today when I look back beyond the Partition, I confess that I did not care much
for any of the schools that I attended except perhaps for the one at Kot Kapura.
Kot Kapura never ceases to revive many memories and feelings, ranging from its
tidy green school campus to its tuck shop that served the most savoury
“Pouri” and “Chana Bhaji” in the world and to learning the Gurmukhi
alphabet. I feel ashamed not to be able to recall at the moment the name of the
art master who introduced me to painting for the first time. I started employing
the brush later.
I remember the great joy when he walked me into the school art room where my
eyes literally got glued to the paintings plastered on the four walls. He was
himself an accomplished painter and could work in many styles. A teacher has no
business to impose himself and smother the vision of his students. This art
teacher besides being an artist was a strong sturdy person who could kick the
soccer ball high up in the sky and out of the ground whenever he wanted. There
are many other small events, which I cannot recall at moment notice. However I
remember accompanying my father for a hunt which his friend Mian Shafi, who was
in the transport business, had arranged for the sake of my Uncle Malik Rasheed,
who was visiting us from Lahore. We drove off in Uncle Shafi’s truck, which
had been relieved from its tiring transport duties to carry us to the state game
reserve.
I have never in my life seen such a big herd of deer appear from nowhere and run
across the entire range of my vision, before disappearing into the dwarf thorny
trees on the left. My uncle, who was supposed to be great shot, fired and then
fired again, but couldn’t even get one deer. When politely interrogated later
he replied that he was only after the black buck leading the herd. I felt
personally let down, but you must admit that he was a sportsman and not a
killer. I am aware that there are better fields of sport where a person can
excel without having to kill but going for a shoot has its own virtues. For one
it provides an opportunity to get away from the mundane every day life. I was
never much of a shot, but loved venturing into a territory away from trite,
ambiguous city existence.
This was a time that Lahore lived at ease on the Ravi, the time when Ravi also
lived. Lahore was surrounded by pastoral surroundings, which are today being
carved into ugly housing colonies. At that time, in Lahore, nature and wild life
casually intermingled. My Uncle Rasheed, the shikari, had game for supper each
day. Just as some gentlemen drive off to play golf, he would daily, without even
a dog to walk with him, stride off towards the river. The Ravi flowed at a
pleasant distance from Sanda Kalan, his ancestral village. He would usually
return at about “Maghreb” with a pair of teals, a mallard, one or a pair of
partridges, a dozen or six starling, locally called tilliers.
In those days the rural countryside penetrated into the City from all
directions. Most of it comprised of fodder, rows of vegetables and patches of
yellow mustard. The Ravi because of its close proximity to its watershed would
in the Monsoons without warning overflow and deluge parts of the city. Sanda
Kalan, located on its bank was the first to be transformed into an island. The
junkyards at Misri Shah would cause considerable amusement because the
floodwaters would make their jerry cans and drums float about the vicinity. When
the Ravi got angrier every second or third year then it would invariably flow
into Laxmi Chawk converting it into a small lake where children loved to
navigate its waters in small tubs.
The Ravi flood was an annual feature, which the Lahoris accepted with fortitude
and their usual sense of fun. In the sixties an embankment was built to protect
the city. Today the tables have turned and it is the Ravi that needs protection.
The city has jumped across the “band” and invaded the river reducing it to a
drain. The river, which over the centuries provided a rare species of fish, the
best to be had with boiled rice, has been dead in it for decades. If a foolish
angler were to cast a line today, instead of Khagga — the Ravi Rooster for
which the river was famous –, he would hook a plastic bag, which now thrive in
its waters.
My maternal Uncle Malik Rasheed has been dead for many years now. How
courageously he died without ever complaining about his old age ailments will
remain fixed in my memory forever. Today there is no one who saunters towards
the Ravi to spot migratory teals, mallards or other water birds. The land
speculators have taken over the territory that rightfully belonged to other
creatures, which God had created in his wisdom for our benefit and
companionship. But who cares.
I recall in the early sixties sighting a pair of partridges scramming across the
dusty road on right bank of the canal. They took to the air only when they felt
their space was being too rudely invaded. They flew off towards the mustard
fields adjacent to Mian Mir. In those days, how so ever diffidently, we were
willing to share space with other creatures. Would you believe that once while
playing soccer at Aitchison, I kicked the ball, which rolled towards the hedge,
and as soon as the ball struck the hedge it caused a hare to leap out and dash
across the field? I cannot describe the joy, which it gave us all. It would be
nice if humans and other creatures accepted each other with respect.
Prof Ijaz-ul-Hassan is Pakistan’s leading painter. He is a teacher, art
critic and political activist. He was awarded the “President’s Pride of
Performance” in 1992. He is currently the president of the PPP Punjab’s
Policy Planning Committee and Chairman of the party’s Manifesto Committee