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 8th), 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 15th 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 12th Rabi al-Awwal; providing Sabil of water for
passersby on 10th 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 40th
day’s gathering; visiting saint’s mausoleums
either locally or abroad; celebrating
the remembrance day on 11th 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.
