PART TWO
Personalities
A Thousand Apologies, H. S.
I HATE anniversary columns, but if you remember a friend who was also your teacher, there's no harm in reminiscing. Hamid Sheikh was an editor, teacher and friend. And above all, he was in love with Lahore. No one has written on the city more intimately, before Hamid Sheikh or since. And it is Hamid Sheikh that I want to remember today.
Enlightened as editor, erudite and understanding as teacher, and generous to a fault as a friend. He died on May 28, 1971 . Went out like a light. And he wasn't terribly old, either. But I don't want this piece to be a tearjerker. I want to recall the man as he was: Laughing, talking, entertaining, and at times bewitchingly deceitful. He could take you home when you were at odds with yourself or with the world and ask Mrs. Sheikh (Auntie Pip to the rest) to do something about it. And, more often than not, auntie Pip would do something about it, and when you left the Nicholson Road residence of the Sheikhs and hour or two later, you didn't feel the world was half as bad as you thought it was at 6.30.
I have known the Sheikh family for three generations, but real friendship started when I joined The Pakistan Times in 1962. He was then editor of the Civil and Military Gazette . Soon afterwards he was obliged to leave. He then became a columnist for my paper. He will be remembered more for his Lahore column than for his stint as Editor, Civil and Military Gazette . About this column, "Zeno," a colleague, was to write this a few days after his death:
"Hamid Sheikh's knowledge of Lahore, with all its variety of characters, occupations, and patterns was stupendous. He encompassed Lahore in the loving embrace of his all-sympathising mind all his life. Now Lahore's earth encompasses his restless body. His spirit will for long haunt the streets of this city he loved above all."
Never have I read anything time has proved more comprehensively wrong than this. Hamid Sheikh's spirit haunts the streets of Lahore no more, because this is not the city in which he lived. This is not the city he loved. Lahore has undergone a character change so complete that H. S. (he wrote under his initials) wouldn't recognise it were he to come back to life today. I will prove this as we go along, but a few stories first.
A grave error
H. S. would write his Lahore columns in highly illegible longhand, give the manuscript to me, and then dash off the wherever fancy took him. It was my duty to have the column typed and sent to the Press. It was my duty also to do the proofreading. One day, I let a grave error go, and when I read the column the next day, I was aghast. I went to office that day, determined to avoid H.S. like the devil. At around 11 a.m. the dreaded message arrived. H. S. wanted to see me. That's it, I said to myself. You'll get the sack, baby, and you deserve it.
I went to the H. S. office, fearing the worst. He was reading a paper. He took off his glasses and rang for his peon. Let's have some tea and biscuits, he said. Tea and biscuits duly arrived. He talked of everything except the dreadful howler that had appeared in his column because of me. Suddenly, it was time to take leave. As I was about to cross his threshold out into the open courtyard, he recalled me.
"By the way, I have a small gift for you."
Here it comes, I thought.
He opened his drawer, took out a book, and gave it to me without looking at me. You Have a Point There , read the title. I opened it: "To such and such in the hope that he will make extensive use of it-H. S." read that familiar long hand, but extremely legible for once.
It was worse than a letter of dismissal. For the next thirty days I read and re-read that book on punctuation. It didn't do me any good, so H. S. gave me his manuscript.
Another day, another memory. I had read the editorial that day, a thing I normally don't do, and I found myself in violent disagreement with it. Since I couldn't dare go to the editor to protest, I went to H. S. Before I could take a seat, he said: "You don't have to tell me. I can see that you have read the editorial this morning.''
I was taken aback. "How did you know, Sir?" I asked, completely amazed.
"I know a thing or two, son, and moreover, there's more to life than editorials. Have some tea and take it easy."
It was many years later when I was required to write myself that I came to know that there really was much more to life than editorials.
Another day, another memory. This time it was an article that had bothered me. Those were the days of Ayub Khan, and the newspapers were under a great deal of pressure. The article had built a fanciful premise on a total travesty of facts. It was a brutal assault on truth. H. S. did not advise me to take it easy that day, because he shared my concern. "What are we coming to?" He asked.
"You see, the Government has asked us not to tell the truth to the people. It has not ordered us to start telling lies. This, some of us are beginning to do on their own," said H. S. And he didn't offer me tea or biscuits that day.
Engagement ring
Another day, another memory. I went to H. S. to borrow some money. Flat refusal. I persisted. He relented. "Why do you want so much money?" he asked.
I wanted to buy an engagement ring for the girl who had agreed to marry me.
H. S. was sceptical. He thought I wanted the money for the happy hours. I swore this wasn't the case. Finally, agreement was reached: I would get money, but show him the receipt from the jewellers. I came back to office with the ring and the receipt. As I entered his room. H. S. said: "I don't want the receipt. I've already talked to the jewellers. You just show me the ring." He was delighted at my choice. So delighted that he gave me more money-this time for the happy hours. He could be very innocent at time.
Another day, another memory. H. S. made friends with John Arlott in 1946, when India visited England under the late Nawab of Pataudi. Arlott wrote a book, Indian Summer , which has a passage about H. S. I want to share with you. Says Arlott:
We came back from Scarborough in the train. Only my colleague, Abdul Hamid Sheikh and myself were in the carriage. He was the radio commentator in Hindustani on the cricket tour and, in some ways; this is his book as well. It was possible to live cheerfully in Hamid's company for four travel-strained months in hotels where austerity was sometimes taken to mean parsimony and depression, and through a rain-rotten summer.
Always there was Hamid, sitting in monumental resignation in his mesh of complication. He thought three times before he spoke and then spoke very shrewdly if at all. "Well it's over," I said pathetically. "Yes," said Hamid uttering his first pointless words for four months. "It's over." We ate our apples and waited for London. I said I thought of writing a book about the tour "Yes?" He answered. Then we went to sleep.
Another day, another memory. A few days before he was to die, H. S. gave me a manuscript. These were his Lahore columns published by The Pakistan Times over the years. "I want you to keep them. It's very difficult finding a publisher for them right now. But in a few years it may be possible." I don't know why he entrusted the manuscript to me. But I still have it, and I still haven't been able to find a publisher for H.S., or perhaps I haven't tried hard enough. It has been more than thirteen years I promised H. S. I would find a publisher for him. And I am going to do that if it's the last thing I do.
But wait. I still haven't told you why H. S. wouldn't recognise Lahore, were he to return to life today. On second thoughts, I think I'll wait until next week.
In the meantime, a very happy Eid to you and yours, but don't please let the Finance Minister know I wished you.
