Politics can be surreal. With democracy being its close but often upset ally, it can give you a glimpse of hope. When hope becomes all-consuming, there is little space for revelry. You become numb to the pain and joy of today in the hope of a better tomorrow. This year has been just that: the hope of elections, the hope of change and the hope in the power of our vote. Thus, the all-consuming hope overshadowed many of those we should and must celebrate. That, of course, is not the only hitch. Commemorating our heroes has been against our national rhetoric. It becomes even more needless when the heroes originate from religious or ethnic minorities. And it becomes almost pointless when they are not even our citizens. So is the least celebrated yet utterly inspirational story of the 95-year-old Major Geoffrey Langlands, a story that goes back to pre-partition and grows older alongside Pakistan, a story where a British man spent his entire life in doing what he thought was best for Pakistan. So who is Geoffrey Langlands? Well, for starters, no one that fits the criteria of being cherished in Pakistan! That said, thousands of students from Chitral, a small city in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, whose lives have been changed forever, thanks to one man’s mission, see him as a living legend. Born in 1917 in Britain, Langlands lost his father to influenza a year after his birth. At 10, his mother passed away from cancer. With no resources at hand, a group of people pooled in money to send him to an independent public school. Self-determined and ambitious, Langlands completed his schooling only to return the favour. He took up a teaching career at the age of 18, and started shaping young minds, something he seemed to have natural fervour for. Three years into his passion, in September 1939, the UK announced war with Germany and called on all its young men to join in. Soon, Langlands was put to coaching young recruits for the army while climbing the ranks alongside. He then went on to officers’ training school where he volunteered to be in the Indian army. In 1944, he moved to the Indian subcontinent only to witness the partition milestone in 1947. Shortly after Pakistan was born, the British government offered its army men the option to stay for one additional year on either side of the border. Just a few took up the offer and even fewer to move to Pakistan. Langlands was one of them. Instead of one, he ended up staying with Pakistan army for seven years. Ayub Khan, Pakistan’s army chief asked him to stay for another three years but the then government of Pakistan decided otherwise. For Langlands, this worked out well and he found himself a job at Aitchison College. The next 25 years were spent teaching the elite of Pakistan when in the year 1979, he decided to move to Pakistan’s less privileged parts, including North Waziristan, where he served for a decade at the Cadet College Razmak. After being kidnapped for ransom in the late 1980s by an angry warlord and later being pushed by General Ziaul Haq to leave Pakistan, Langlands, undeterred, moved to Chitral to live his dream. He took charge of a modest school, then known as Sayurj public school, which was to later become Langlands School and College. With 80 students on the roll, Langlands began a journey shaping the lives of many young men and women. Years passed by. Langlands continued silently. He would talk to the locals and to the leaders convincing them to educate the girls. There were ups and downs, highs and lows but his resolve to teach remained unchanged. Engulfed in major financial difficulties, the school took modest fees from students, many of whom would get an exemption due to their inability to pay. Langlands School and College, that stands today in the remote city of Pakistan has changed the lives of thousands of students mostly coming from surrounding areas. Today, the school, whose motto is, “There is always room for improvement”, has a student population of nearly 1,000 heads. Of these, one-third are girls. Many of the school’s alumni have gone on to study at the leading universities across the world and now include doctors, engineers, accountants, lawyers, army officers and businessmen. Some even returned to teach at the school. For two and a half decades, Langlands continued to build his dream. Through thick and thin, he went on giving quality education to young Pakistanis who otherwise could not have dreamt of such a luxury. In 2012, at the age of 94 and after 70 years of relentless service to education, almost all of it to Pakistan, he announced his retirement. His monthly paycheck before retirement was a meagre 30,000 rupees. All of his lifetime worth of collections and donations are in an endowment fund that helps in running the college but is hardly enough to keep it going. Amidst tears, emotional speeches, utmost gratitude, standing ovation and Chitrali folk dance, Langlands was given a warm farewell by his students. Standing next to him was the new principal, someone Langlands had been in search of for many years. Her name is Carey Schofield who has been reported as humbly admitting, “It is very hard to take over from the Major. He is quite literally irreplaceable.” The story of Geoffrey Langlands is nothing less than a fairy tale in what has remained of the world today. The selflessly devoted human species he represents is long extinct. His unquantifiable contribution to education in Pakistan is almost as old as Pakistan itself. His story may be less popular here but he has been written and spoken about back in the UK. In a recent interview to The Telegraph on the eve of his retirement from a 70-year long career, when asked about his final resting place, Langlands was quoted as saying: “Pakistan definitely! No one in England knows me. They are already choosing me a plot in the Christian cemetery in Lahore. I said that it must be near the main gate because some people would not like to walk through a Christian cemetery.” Geoffrey Langlands’ words are gratifying, painful and ironic all at the same time. Pakistan’s biggest debt is owed not to the IMF but to the likes of Major Langlands. The writer is a Chartered Accountant and a graduate of the London School of Economics. He can be reached at Sheharyar.malhi@gmail.com