My old friend, Meekal Ahmed’s letter from USA published in one of the English dailies this Thursday has brought back many memories, some related to his great father, Mr Aziz Ahmed and some to men of similar disposition and character who were found in this land called Pakistan — once upon a long time ago. That they would have been thorough misfits in these jaded times where corruption is not just a way of life but the essence of our faith and reason to be, is not at all in doubt. Just as well that these men of principles have left this planet hopefully for climes keeping in line with their philosophy of life and the duties of public office.
Not inappropriately, the newspaper carries yet another damning report on the good kidney doctor, DNA aka Dr Nasim Ashraf, the president’s buddy and his NCHD where an audit has revealed irregularities of Rs1.28bn largely caused by unauthorised use (misuse please?) of funds, unaccounted for expenditures, illegal utilisation of endowment funds, unreliable accounting records, non-retrieval of costly assets from various NGOs, irregular payments of salaries and allowances to officers working (ha, ha, ha) in the NCHD and a happy absence of any fiscal controls in the same organisation whose track record remains a matter of great mystery and whose ‘contribution’ to alleviation of the poor could make Ripley’s Believe It or Not read like the gospel.
This audit carried out by the auditor general of Pakistan’s report for 2005-2006 — wonder what the latest figure is — has been around for a while but when you sup with the best in the land where Pakistan is always first and its people always the last, all sins are condoned and dismissed as mere media frenzy and personal score settling against a man whose heart has always been in the right place — they are still looking for it. But why sully these balmy spring days with such unholy goings on? The good doctor will survive and thrive and one day, like Ex-PM Shauka, vaporise into the golden sunset, safe, secure, happy and rich.
Meekal — my eldest son is named after him, became a friend when he was still in Islamabad and we shared a passion for Mini Coopers — he had brought back one chocolate beauty from UK where he was studying and we used to look at it, with me drooling and Meekal grinning. I would often stay at his house in Islamabad off School Road if I remember rightly and it was a modest and quiet house, filled more with books than gold-trimmed cheap furniture and heavily brocade sofas with tassels which now adorn the drawing rooms of all those who were then eating berries off trees and hoofing it wherever they had to go.
Meekal recounts that in 1959 his father then posted to the US as ambassador insisted the entire family travel economy class. When Mr Ahmed passed away, Meekal says he counted four suits in his closet — all stitched by his tailor in Karachi as indeed the shirts and six neckties of which Meekal noticed three were the ones he had gifted his dad. This is amazing because I know that Mr Ahmed was always meticulously turned out — well not in the same league as our beloved president and recent prime minister who will not be seen in anything but the world’s classiest brands. People in Islamabad say that were Shaukat Aziz merely to sell all the suits he owns, Pakistan could well clear the $43bn debt it owes to the world. It is believed that anything less than a genuine Armani causes Mr Aziz to break out in the severest of rashes.
Mr Ahmed travelling by economy class is just the kind of tradition that the new leadership simply cannot fathom. Compared to that we have Airbuses, Lear Jets, Citations, C-130s, Boeing aircraft and helicopters to ferry the high and mighty wherever they might fancy it. An airbus gifted by Qatar lies waiting for spares and all these luxury-fitted aircraft must cost millions to simply maintain but while they remain at the whims of the country’s great leaders, we, the common fodder must fork out Rs17,000 and more just to sit behind Economy Plus on PIA’s Lahore-Karachi short flight of an hour and twenty minutes. But worry not, because in case you have forgotten, Pakistan First is the Boy Scout’s motto. Mr Ahmed stayed in a single room, shunning the suite reserved for him but such things do not matter now because unless the heads of state are most comfortably lodged — say a few thousand pounds a day hotel suites in London, how can they carry on with enlightened moderation? And what about the flunkies who are to be found in the same quantities and possessed by the same earnestness as flies exhibit with open jars of honey? They are part of every delegation, cost us billions annually and achieve zero on every count. They can neither argue our case, present our point of view with any conviction nor defend our position with passion and reason, yet the same jokers travel each time, promoting Pakistan’s image. This while the country’s considerably talented musicians, young and old, classical and popular, its artists, its writers, painters, dancers, genuine business representatives, fashion icons cool their heels currying favours from closed-mind bureaucrats who blow millions and make us look like regular village idiots in the world.
No the times of Mr Ahmed are long fled and he was among the few decent men we had. Justice Cornelius was another — lying under a noisy ceiling fan, on a plain bed with a coarse cotton cover, yet unmistakably content and at peace, knowing he had done the right thing and stood up for his principles. Or Chief Justice Rashid who led a Spartan life, was faithfully dressed at 5pm for his round of bridge with his loyal brother in tow, day in and day out and in whose book if you made an appointment, you kept it because that was the done thing, nothing more, nothing less — what about people like him who held public office and showed us the way? Or Mr Liaquat Ali Khan who died for Pakistan (Pakistan First?) with darned socks an not a penny to his blessed name, or my late brother in law and first cousin, K H Khurshid who held on to Mr Jinnah’s dream of Kashmir and never flinched, choosing public transport over luxury limos and who died tragically on a rainy March night near slushy Gujranwala, who returned a six kanal plot on Margalla Road to President Ayub Khan (having paid a few instalments) because his conscience got in the way, who in his first winter in Lahore asked a friend of mine to accompany him to Landa Bazaar to buy a few woollies for his kids — what about people like him?
Yes there were men like them — all Pakistanis and all from similar moulds? But that was another time and the yobs were not breaking the gates of civilisation down. There were no puny men or women to disgrace this country and loot it without mercy and in the name of the people, who remain much the same as they always were. Today as civilian rule returns — sorry Mr. President, would it be very foolish and stupid to hope that perhaps, p-e-r-h- a-p-s, things might, just might begin to change, that rulers will stay, travel and live modestly and set an example of truly good governance, not the one from Mr Mushahid Hussain’s cabbage patch, but one that all public servants are committed to follow in the larger interest of the people who place them in positions of honour? I fear not and hear the Lear Jets beginning to whine.
The writer is a Lahore-based columnist. Email: masoodhasan0@gmail.com
Courtesy: the News, 23/3/2008
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