My Memoirs: Early Days of My Life, Part 1

 My Memoirs: Early Days of My Life, Part 1

Since my birth in November 1942, in the princely state of Malairkotla (India) till my matriculation (the end of secondary school) in 1957, I had the prints of my future life due to the way I was brought up in a family with seven siblings; one sister and six brothers. I was the third after my sister and my elder brother Shuaib. My brother Shuaib and I advanced in education together sharing the same class and almost the same subjects (except for the last two years of secondary school) but I was the one who was destined to follow my father’s aspiration and his profession as a teacher of Oriental Studies and as a preacher of the true teachings of Islam. Incidentally, this is the very same period which has totally been devoted, by my father, to the Jamaat Islami which was established by Maulana Mawdoodi in 1941 and which my father joined right after its inception. His presence in Malairkotla, the state where my mother’s family has settled since long, was due to his full time teaching job on behalf of Jamaat. No exaggeration if I say that I have been brought up in the lap of Jamaat.

I recollect dim memories of my childhood in the state till our migration to Lahore in 1948, just after the partition of India into Bharat and Pakistan. I remember attending Madrasa in the Mosque where I learnt the Urdu alphabet. My hand-writing, the basis for my interest in calligraphy, was deep rooted in those pens made by sharpening the end of wooden sticks. I remember getting the applause from my first Madrasa teacher when I was able to write the letter ‘Jeem’ better than any other child in the class. By the time we left Malairkotla for good, I had become fond of reading short stories wherever I could get hold of them. The trains to Lahore via Amritsar, the seat of Sikh religiosity, had witnessed in those early days of partition, baths of bloodshed on the hands of the hostile Sikh. Some trains reached Lahore with corpses drenched in blood only.

On a hot day in May 1948, we were fortunate enough to have a safe passage through Amritsar station by midnight. It witnessed an ambush where plundering and looting took place in the rear carriages of the train but we, with the grace of Allah, were not affected. The family of six, the father, mother and four children arrived safe and sound at Lahore. My father’s affiliation to Jamaat kept him moving from one place to the other, during the next nine years.

We spent three months in a two-storey small house in the very famous old city of Rawalpindi with narrow alleys and unhealthy sanitation. In the small reception room on the ground floor, my eyes cast a glance at a wooden cabinet, the shelves of which were seen through the glass, bundled with books and magazines. With lust in my eyes for catching hold of some story books, it was curtailed by the father who said, “These have been left by the Hindu owner of the house who, like us, has migrated to India. We have no right to touch things that belonged to someone else.”

Our family moved back to Lahore to stay in the locality of Ichra, the headquarters of Jamaat at that time. For the next four years, before I was ten, our studies were done at home. We started receiving a children’s magazine entitled “Phool” (A flower) with an entirely Islamic blend. I was fascinated in reading whatever material I could lay my hands on. My happiness knew no bounds when a short story written by me marked the page of this children’s bi-monthly magazine.

My father was so  engrossed in jamaat activities that he seldom had time to teach us. Mother took the major role in teaching us the Qur’an and Urdu reading and writing.

The first time I entered a proper school building was in Sialkot, a border town in Punjab, where my father was transferred in 1952 as an activist of Jamaat. He took both of us, me and my elder brother to Pakistan Modern High School (previously known as Khalsa School run by Sikhs) and handed us over to Master Muhammad Hussain, the headmaster and an activist of Jamaat as well. I remember myself crying to find myself in a multitude of boys all around us. We both were admitted to sixth class (the first of three years middle stage in those days).

As migrants speaking Urdu in a predominantly Punjabi gathering, we both were given a new title by the classmates: “Bhayya” i.e. little brother. No one called us by our real names. For the rest of the following three years, we were none but “Bhayya”.  For the first time, we had a set curriculum to follow. Apart from Urdu, we had to read English, Diniyat (Islamic studies), history, geography, mathematics, and arts (drawing only). Our school day used to start with the general assembly of all school children who sang with a collective voice the famous poem of Allama Iqbal: “lab pe ati hay dua ban ke tamanna meri”. While in the classroom, we would sometimes recite, “twinkle twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are”. I have been fascinated with both, though later in life, Arabic had left no room for mastering Urdu poetry or English classes.

Hockey became a passion for me. Our first group of school mates started playing, not with hockey sticks, because they could not afford to buy them, but with hard twigs of tree branches which had a bend at the end. The only person to bring his own hockey stick was our goal-keeper, who remained throughout his career a shining star of the children’s team. We bought our own hockey sticks sometime later. A scar on my chin, covered up by my beard later, was a result of a strong blow by a player’s stick, and always reminds me of my folly, being on the wrong side of my fellow player. Though this passion lasted only three years of my middle classes (6, 7, and 8^th), I have never been as fond of any other game as hockey itself. I loved watching hockey matches, no matter if I cannot play in the field. I remember sarcastic remarks of a Sikh, long after my days of education, when I started my career as an Arabic and Islamic studies teacher in Nairobi, Kenya. I could not resist paying a visit to watch a hockey match between Pakistan and Kenya. The ground was alive with Asian Muslims in support of Pakistan, and hosts of Sikhs to back the Kenyan team, which used to have a number of Sikh players. The remarks made by one of their spectators was “oh look at them (i.e. Muslims); their Molvis are here as well!”

Let me come back to the school. I remember Ashiq, a classmate whose story introduced us to some strange realities of life. One day he was found guilty of neglecting his homework completely. The teacher became so angry that he asked him to stand up and face lashings on his hand. The teacher hit him hard three times on this hand. The boy, with red hot eyes, stretched out both of his hands, inviting for more. The teacher did not resist continuing with more and more strikes while the boy did not show any sign of weakness, and did not, even for a single moment, withdrew his hands. The boys in the classroom shouted “teacher! This boy is possessed”. As soon as the teacher heard this cry, he was the first one to leave the classroom followed by the frightened boys who hurled towards the door while Ashiq was standing still at his desk with his eyes aghast and red. Our teacher for Dinyat (Quran studies) was called upon to handle the boy. He came and asked a few of our classmates to hold him tightly. The teacher read a number of the verses of the Quran and addressed the boy saying “who are you and why are you here?” Of course he was addressing the Jinn who had possessed the boy. “I am not going to leave him!” a trembling voice, much more different from his normal voice, resounded in the room. The teacher commanded more beating of the boy until the Jinn yielded to his demand. That poor child who normally did not have the strength to win a dual, turned into a real wrestler who could barely be controlled by the host of boys who caught hold of him. After he received a lot of blows, the Jinn finally decided to leave. Our teacher took from him a solemn oath not to possess him while he was in the class. As soon as he left, the boy fell on the floor, totally exhausted and unconscious. A charpoy, a bed with woven ropes and wooden frame and legs, was brought which worked as a stretcher for him to be taken back home by four boys. He must have been ill for many days because he did not return to the class. The only other time we felt a visitation by that Jinn was the day when the teachers asked him on the last day of fee collection to pay the fee or get expelled. Ashiq asked to leave to fetch the money. In no time, he came back with the sum in his palm. “How could you get this money so quickly?” the teacher asked. “Oh! That was my old friend who, because of his promise, did not enter the class room, but gave me the amount of fee at once. He said to me that he wanted to take me on a Hajj journey as well”. After this incident, I have never doubted the presence of Jinn, an invisible creature of Allah, who are around us but they hardly interfere with us except in very rare cases as that of Ashiq. Contrary to his name, which means “a lover”, Ashiq became the subject of “ishq”, love.

The other most pressing memory of my school life was the day when our whole house witnessed a lot of sadness and gloom. That was the day when the papers brought the news of the hanging of a great scholar, an Islamic activist, Abdul Qadir Audah, a leader of the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt. He was hanged with two other activists, by Jamal Nasir’s dictatorial regime. I remember that famous poem, penned by Naim Siddiqi, which covered the whole front page of Jamat’s magazine “Tasnim” with this opening line: “Ye Kaun Tha, Kis ka Khun Baha?” “Who was he whose blood has been spilled”. Our house, as a beacon of Jamat, used to have the first-hand knowledge of all such world movements with which Jamat shared their thoughts and ideologies. My father, in his beliefs, was a strict follower of the Ahl-e-Hadith school of thought. But he used to have good and friendly relations with other faith groups like Deobandis. This is why sometimes he would take us for Taraweeh prayers at Madrasa Shahabiya, an Islamic institution run by a famous Deobandi scholar Maulana Muhammad Ali Kandhalwi. Though we used to leave after offering 8 Rakaat in line with Ahl-e-Hadith view.

As a strict adherent to Ahl-e-Hadith theology, we were never  familiar with such innovative practices in our house like Shab-e-Bara’at (The night of 15^th Sha’ban when people adorn the roofs of their houses with candles or small eastern lamps); celebration of the birthday of the Prophet (SAW) on 12^th Rabi al-Awwal; providing Sabil of water for passersby on 10^th Muharram, the day of martyrdom of Imam Hussain (RA);  holding a gathering of friends and relatives to complete the reading of Al-Qur’an, a practice known as Khatam, especially on the third day of the death of a person, followed by the 40^th day’s gathering;  visiting saint’s mausoleums either locally or abroad;  celebrating the remembrance day on 11^th day of the lunar month in the name of Sheikh Abdul Qadir Jilani, and many more such innovations that are found to be prevalent among many Muslim houses. What we used to witness in our house were either circles attended by ladies to learn the Qur’an or feasts of some delicious food on Eid Day. My mother would hold such circles at home or would go to someone’s house for such a Qur’anic lesson. In Sialkot, Hamida Begum was such a talented woman who would hold weekly circles. In our house there was no such thing as radio, playing music, cards or any similar means of entertainment. Our whole enjoyment was reading the story books and magazines with Islamic flavours like ‘Phool’ (flower), Talim-o-Tarbiyat, Al-Hasanat and Nur (both published on behalf of jamaat in Rampur, India).

Our first residence was in a first floor apartment in Mubarak Pura which faced the railway line. From the windows, we used to have full sight of the trains, coming and going, with the loud cracking sounds of the iron wheels and startling cries of its whistles. My fascination with trains developed there long before I could have access to “The Railway Children.”

Sometimes, I had to accompany my mother, walking besides the rails to visit another famous lady worker of Jamaat who lived in the locality of ‘water works’ before reaching Sialkot station. My biggest attraction to her house was to be allowed to take hold of a monthly illustrated child magazine, ‘Khilona’ (a toy) by name, which her daughter used to receive from Delhi, India. The lady was a prolific writer in Jamaat papers and magazines. Her daughter later excelled her in story writing. In the company of children’s magazines, I could not resist copying that model myself. I started a hand-written small size magazine by the title of Chand (moon) which was decorated in colours by my brother Shuaib. This magazine showed my skill at hand-writing, storytelling and copying the material from the papers at hand. It was just a childish play which lasted a couple of months, an amusement for the visitors, an enjoyment for both of us after school hours. Encouraged by a small sum, a rupee or a half by the parents, we would be able to buy more sheets of blank papers and ink. I wish I had retained some copies of that child play to show to my grandchildren. I hope some of them are still in possession of my elder sister in Karachi.

Two other memories of the school days:

The school was on the other side of Nala Aik (a rivulet) which used to have such shallow water that we could cross it by foot. When it flooded, it turned into a stormy river. Then we had to follow the road, up to the bridge and straight to the school. Once I was holding a football in my hand, with my school bag in the other hand when a naughty village lad snatched the ball from my hand and ran fast to disappear in the mud houses beside Nala Aik. We ran after him, entered one of the open doors of a house. The old lady in the house must have known the vicious nature of her child. So she did not object to us stepping on the staircase to the roof. There he was, trying to hide himself in a heap of hay. We took our ball and headed back to the home. Once, after crossing the water, we passed by a crowd of people who encircled a village house. We could see the gloom, the anxiety, a feeling of awe on their faces. Led by curiosity we entered the courtyard where, on a wooden charpoy, two babies were resting; resting forever. Somebody had strangled them to death. A sight of death, marked in a young boy’s mind to last forever.

I remember that night when my father was delivering his speech in a public lecture arranged by Jamaat in the famous Ram Talai ground, with the shape of an amphitheatre. I was sitting near my mother among the women in a two storey building nearby. I could not resist leaving her to join one of the boys who tempted me to ascend to the roof and play ‘hide and seek’. It was dark. The roof had no boundary wall at all. I ran after him, only to fall from the top of the roof on to the ground below. With pain and anguish, I made my way to my mother and fell unconsciously in her lap. It was an arduous journey back home. I had to be confined to a dark room in the house for home-made treatment which included massage, oiling the legs and complete rest for a number of weeks. Was not I a naughty boy as well!!

How much trouble I had created for the whole family. I could feel the pain and suffering, so vivid in the eyes of my mother who cared for me during days and nights. May Allah shower His blessings and mercy on both graves (my mother and father) in the evergreen cemetery of Islamabad.

The year 1952 witnessed a great turmoil following the blood-stained movement of Khatm-e-Nubuwwat; a movement to support the finality of the Prophethood of our Prophet Muhammad (SAW) against the ongoing rebellious blasphemy of a claim of Mirza Ghulam Ahmad to be a Prophet as well. The famous treatise of Maulana Maudoodi, entitled ‘Qadiani Mas’ala’ attracted a death sentence to him by the High Court, which was later changed to a life sentence. My father Sheikh Abdul Ghaffar Hasan, along with the top leadership of Jamaat, were arrested and put behind bars. I remember accompanying my mother to Sialkot railway station where we had a glimpse of him. He was handcuffed and could hardly show his face from a window in a train packed with the prisoners and bound for Multan.

The streets of Sialkot had been surrounded with slogans of Takbir and Risalat, especially when the blood stained bodies of young men, killed by police brutality, were carried on shoulders. From the windows of our house in Kashmiri Kumahran we could see the processions with tumultuous roaring and shouting. At the age of ten, I had no idea of the issue except that a feeling of awe and fear had filled the air. My mother, with five children at that time, managed to cope with the situation with the help of local Jamaat.

During my father’s long absence, eleven months in total, we travelled once to Sukkhar, a very famous town known to have hot weather in Sindh province to attend the wedding of the daughter of Uncle Ubaidullah Ubaidi, one of my father’s best friends. This had been the longest train journey we enjoyed. Nearing Sukkhar, we had a full sight of the mighty river Indus. The bride had been very close to us as she visited us in Sialkot and then stayed at our home for a couple of days.

In 1951(I was still 9 at that time), the year we moved to Sialkot, Jamaat decided to participate in the provincial elections. That was the first time Jamaat tested its political strength. It was an outright failure. People were still not ready to choose a candidate on the basis of his honesty, trustworthiness and piety. Prejudice for clan and tribes affiliation to cast and race and obedience to landlords and masters were the keys to win the election. None of these qualities was enjoyed by the Jamaat. I remember the three “Ds” boldly marked and displayed in Jamaat’s elections’ camps: Na Dhaunce, Na Dhandly, Na Dhoka (i.e. No dictation by force, no malpractice, no deception). The failure in this election led the Jamaat leadership to discuss and debate the most important issue: “could an Islamic State be established through ballots or through a campaign to reform the whole society according to Islamic norms?”  My father always believed in the latter in line with the early writings of Maulana Maudoodi on this issue particularly. He always used to quote his saying: “The quality of the cream depends upon the milk itself; how good and unspoiled it is.” So let the society be reformed and it would spill the best out of it. It took my father six more years when the issue, along with the famous debate in Jamaat’s very volatile session in Matchi Goth in 1957, on the report of the survey committee, to which my father was a member, to tender finally his resignation from Jamaat.

In school summer holidays, we had been given a lot of school work which occupied most of our time. One evening, as I came out of the local mosque after Asr prayers, a man with a turban approached me. With a gentle tap on my shoulder, he asked me:

“Lad! Will you do me a favour?”

“What favour?” I asked.

“Sit here in front of me and let me see your thumb.”

He put a little oil on my thumb, on the nail itself. Then he asked:

“Lad! Can you see anything on your nail?”

“No! I cannot see anything.”

The people were now around us and were looking at us with surprise. He rubbed my nail once again and said:

“Can you see a man cleaning the ground and showering water upon it?”

Then, he kept on asking:

“Can you see a horse rider appearing at the sight?”

He could have asked many questions but I was a bit agitated and frightened. So with shouting “No, no”, I withdrew my hand and ran home.

In Punjab, you would see jugglers and soothsayers, story tellers, presenters of street-side shows with a monkey or a bear, drum beaters and lots of others. That man was among those who tried to discover stolen goods or a lost person by using ‘an innocent lad’ whose thumb would reveal the truth i.e. the location of the lost material.

By the grace of Allah, that was my first and last experience of such an exercise except for a very late event in London which involved a sitting to contact the souls which had already departed from this world. It was just an experiment which showed me how futile this exercise was. I will mention this event at a later stage. It will be a long way until I reach, during my life journey, to the British Isles and narrate that phase of my life.

Now let me narrate two events showing how we were disciplined in those days. During a school recess, I was confronted by a boy for no reason. I do not remember what he did to me but I remember calling him a “dog” out of contempt. The deputy headmaster, a very stern old man, happened to pass by the moment I uttered that word. He took out his lashing stick and gave me a hard blow on my palm which caused me a lot of pain for the rest of the day. The master was known for his violence to the boys. Thus he attracted a sarcastic nickname, “Majha Thus” (fat buffalo). Some naughty devils among the school boys had a nasty plan to offend him. One day, they stood in hiding looking for him to come out from his office. As soon as he appeared in the corridor, the boys jumped upon him with a ‘bori’ (a big bag of woven ropes) covering his head and face. Then they pounded him with fists and blows and then ran away as fast as they could. I do not remember what happened to them later.

Once we (both brothers) came to know about a screen show in Jinnah Park, an open play ground a mile away from our house. It was a public show of a documentary film by an advertising company. They used to attract the crowd showing such films through projectors. We got permission from our mother and slipped away to enjoy our first exposure to a very new world of moving pictures. The show ended and we took our way back home. Our father was waiting for us a few yards away from the house. We had never seen him to be so furious as he was that evening. It was just a heavy slap on our cheeks which deterred us from repeating this adventure for at least the rest of our “single” lives. Apart from that, we did enjoy our new hockey sticks to play between Asr and Maghrib.  

Once we were taken to a shoe shop where the size of our shoes was measured by the shoe maker. In a few days time, the shoes were ready for us to leave them for wear and tear. These were the only times when we were given this privilege, otherwise I had always my shoes readymade and straight from the shelves.

I still have to go through the events of 1956-1957 of my life. My father had to leave Sialkot in 1955, the year we (both brothers) had completed our middle school and we settled once again in Lahore. This time we were housed in a two room small house in Rahman Pura, very near to Jamaat main headquarters in Ichra. My father was given the task to organise for the members of Jamaat, a system of spiritual training (Tarbiya). To meet this purpose, he compiled a collection of Ahadith, all speaking about the character building of a true Muslim. This collection, known as Intikhab-e-Hadith, became  a major source of inspiration for the members of Jamaat. Now I am pleased to see its English translation by my son Usama Hasan after half a century had passed on its first publication.