Omar Khayyam, in one of his most famous stanzas, offers a timeless reminder:
“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, moves on; Not all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.”
These words have echoed in my mind since my early days, both unsettling and captivating, a reminder of the inexorable passage of time. They also bring to mind several memories. Let us consider the poignant memoirs of Colonel Ilahi Bakhsh, the physician to Pakistan’s Founder Governor General Mohammad Ali Jinnah, whose reflections I often contemplate.
In his memoirs, Colonel Bakhsh recounts a poignant moment, just thirteen days before Mr. Jinnah’s death, when the latter remarked that although he had once wished to live when the physician first arrived in Ziarat, now it no longer mattered whether he lived or died. On August 29, 1948, Jinnah’s eyes – cold and resolute – betrayed an inexplicable sorrow. That was the only time Colonel Bakhsh ever saw tears in his eyes, realizing with a heavy heart that he was losing his revered patient, as he had lost the will to survive. When probed further, the Governor-General evaded the question, leaving the source of his despair shrouded in mystery.
Fate nurtures them for centuries; accidents don’t occur in an instant.
Then came the fateful evening of September 11. After a harrowing ordeal involving an ambulance that arrived without adequate fuel, Jinnah was finally returned from the airbase to his official residence in two hours. Colonel Bakhsh administered an injection, praying for a miracle while assuring the Governor-General that, God willing, he would survive. Yet Jinnah, calm and composed, spoke with finality: “No, I am not.” Moments later, he passed away. A nation lost its guiding light, but the question lingered: what was the cause of that silent resignation?
In my own life, I met another man whose quiet simplicity concealed a depth of wisdom that left a lasting impression. Kamal Zahoor Ahmed Piparwala, a humble man of extraordinary spirit, became a good friend of mine from 1984 until 1994, when I was transferred. Kamal would often visit me in my office at what is now the Dr Ruth KM Pfau Civil Hospital in Karachi. Despite the years that lined his face, he always seemed to carry an aura of inner peace and grace.
Kamal was an astrologer and palmist who maintained a low profile, yet his reputation, earned in the early days of Pakistan, made him a sought-after confidante for those in power. Prime Ministers, Chief Ministers, and other VIPs frequently sought his counsel, perhaps driven by the same insecurities that often accompany those who wield power. Incidentally, a late uncle of mine – a psychiatrist of considerable repute – once confided to me that every head of state or government in Pakistan had, at some point, sought his professional advice for mental health issues until the 1980s. This insecurity is the hidden price of ambition.
Kamal once recounted a story that has stayed with me. During the pre-1958 martial law days, the provincial assembly prepared to vote on a no-confidence motion against Sindh’s Premier Mohammad Ayub Khuhro. Surrounded by MPAs swearing loyalty on the Holy Koran, Khuhro appeared confident. Kamal, observing from the sidelines, remained unshaken. When the others left, he confidently predicted, “Tomorrow, they will all vote against you.” And, true to his word, the following day, Mr. Khuhro lost his high office when those very same MPAs turned against him.
This story brought to mind another solemn oath taken by General Ziaul Haq, pledging loyalty to Prime Minister Zulfikar Ali Bhutto on the Holy Koran in the library of the Punjab Governor’s House in late 1975. Less than two years later, Zia would personally order and monitor every step leading to the execution of his mentor on April 4, 1979. Such are the ironies and compulsions of power.
In his later years, Kamal Zahoor shared another tale involving Zulfikar Ali Bhutto. In 1977, as Bhutto’s government faced mounting opposition and engaged in talks with Pakistan National Alliance leaders, he sought Kamal’s counsel. But before Kamal could offer his insight, Bhutto left for a Middle Eastern tour. Upon his return, an intermediary relayed Kamal’s message: “Now it’s too late, Sir – no matter what you do, they will get you.” Years later, after Bhutto’s downfall, incarceration, and eventual martyrdom, astrologers who studied his palm print concluded that Bhutto had missed a narrow but critical window of opportunity that might possibly have changed the course of his fate.
Senior journalist Ghazi Salahuddin, in a reflective 2018 column, captured the collective trauma of Pakistan during General Ziaul Haq’s Martial Law, especially after Mr. Bhutto’s unjust execution. His words became a requiem for the fallen leader, interweaving the legacy of Martin Luther King Jr., whose assassination on the same date as Bhutto’s death seemed no coincidence. King and Bhutto, both Capricorns, shared a cosmic connection.
Ghazi Salahuddin recalled a conversation he had with Aziz Ahmad, Bhutto’s Minister for Foreign Affairs, who asked his ex-Prime Minister why he had left for his June 1977 tour without signing the critical PPP-PNA accord. Bhutto’s enigmatic response was “I went to say goodbye to my friends!”
As I reflect on these moments, I am reminded of a verse that encapsulates the profound mysteries of destiny:
Fate nurtures them for centuries;
Accidents don’t occur in an instant.
In the grand theater of history, where destinies intertwine with the forces of time, these stories remain eternal, forever written in the ink of the Moving Finger.
The writer is a global health and public policy specialist of Pakistan