“A plague on both your houses,” spat the dying Tybalt in Shakespeare’s quintessential romance. The state of Pakistan is not dying but it might as well be. Body assailed by multiple stab wounds, vultures stand ready to tear at it while resuscitators transformed into mere voyeurs view the carnage from the vantage point of both houses: the national and provincial assemblies.
Neros, posing as the people’s representatives, fiddle away while the killing fields of Balochistan and urban Sindh continue to expand at breakneck speed; dailies scream headlines of more targeted killings; the horrific murder of innocent people continues unabated; and the misery of common men and women peaks again with the inflationary fallout from yet another escalation in petroleum prices.
It was not always like this. One cannot put one’s arms around a memory but my adolescence was warmed by the actions of a father who would recuse himself from hearing cases involving strangers whom he recognised by face only from his early morning walks. As member of the Bengal Boundary Commission, the late Justice S A Rahman worked closely for a short time with the Quaid-e-Azam; as Custodian, Evacuee Property. He established the country’s first arts council, the ‘Alhamra’; on the property that had housed Master Tara Singh’s Dance School and helped launch the careers of legendary Pakistani painters, dramatists and actors. This was the man who served selflessly on the boards of institutions dedicated to a study of Iqbal and the development of Urdu. The man who helped the late Hakeem Saeed institute the Sham-Hamdard forum for literature and discourse. The man who served the Punjab University variously as member Syndicate and Vice Chancellor and much, much more.
But most importantly, Justice Rahman was the man who turned down the opportunity to become the Chief Justice of Pakistan by superseding a Christian judge despite the fact that his refusal would result in his own tenure lasting only a few months. Poet, scholar and gentleman; affectionately known by all as ‘the laughing judge’, a loving husband, father, brother; I saw him weep only at the death of his beloved twin brother, the day the state declared Ahmedis as non Muslims, and at the fall of Dhaka. A deeply religious man, he believed fiercely in Jinnah’s vision of a Pakistan where minorities lived peacefully with their Muslim neighbours, a country at peace with itself despite obvious challenges.
The household Justice Rahman headed welcomed all. Hindu, Christian, Shia, Sunni, Ahmedi — religious denominations never formed the basis of discourse during post-dinner exchanges. A man’s religious beliefs were his own and it was the country that was the top priority. The list of guests at his table ranged from a who’s who of the arts, music and literary world, a dignified reclusive judiciary and an extended family. Orphaned at four, he rose from poverty to one of the highest offices in the land, never forgetting school friends from Sharaqpur and Wazirabad, who were welcomed with the same warmth with which he greeted his more notable friends.
While his literary guru remained Iqbal; he was a man consumed with the desire for research and learning. Persian, Arabic, Urdu, Punjabi, and of course, English, with a smattering of French thrown in for good measure; texts were ‘dissected’, literary opinions sought openly and without reservation — even to the extent of allowing me to help him ‘read’ some English literary texts! His monumental The Punishment for Apostasy in Islam remains a pioneering work opposing the death penalty for the apostate. Based on painstaking research, the book posits a more humane view allowing the prodigal a chance to return to the fold rather than death.
Present day Pakistan would have saddened him beyond belief. He would have been appalled at how a triumphant, reinstated judiciary could allow the principles of justice to fade in the face of self-interest. He would have been horrified at the sight of his son and grandson brutally beaten by so-called ‘custodians’ of the law when their only crime was to try and assist a poor rickshaw-wala who had been injured in a road accident caused by someone else. The plight of minorities and misuse of the blasphemy law would have pained him beyond belief for he was a man whose ‘like we will not see again’.
There is no street named after him. No institution bears his name. When his children pass on, he will become a distant, warm but fuzzy memory among those of his grandchildren who had the privilege of knowing him. It is far, far better this way, for this is neither the Pakistan he dreamed of nor the nation he believed he was a part of.
The writer is Academic Advisor Lahore Grammar School and can be reached at [email protected]