The Golden Jubilee of Progressive Writers’ Association in 1985 was being celebrated and Dastak, the literal “Knock” had knocked down the city of Karachi. It was a house full for the play The Life of Galileo at the Rio auditorium in Karachi. Everybody who mattered in the intellectual circles of Karachi was there. Brecht’s lines echoed and struck chords with the audience. I would go everyday to watch the performance. It had to be the second or third performance as the play was halfway through when I saw young Aireb coming towards my seat. He whispered in my ear. “Dad wants you,” he said. I asked him where and he told me, “backstage”. I left my seat as the play progressed. As I went inside, Aslam spotted me and said, “Murtaza” in his theatrical voice. “The guy to play a minor role has not showed up tonight so you have to do the role,” he said. As I acknowledged Aslam, he said, “Take off these clothes and put those on,” as he pointed towards a pair of rickety blue jeans and a worn out shirt. Before I could overcome my shock, he told me what I was supposed to do. “Stay here, grab these slaughtered ducks and as you hear this cue, enter the stage, say this line, hand me over the ducks and off you go back.” “How can I do this Aslam? I have never acted,” I said. “You will do it now,” he said. This is how he made an actor out of me in no time. He was a factory churning out talent all his life.
Come 1986, we gathered again at Mansoor Saeed’s house to select the play for the centenary celebration of May Day. St. Joan of the Stockyards by Brecht was selected. “Murtaza will play the leading role of Pierpont Mauler, the Chicago meatpacking tycoon,” Aslam declared. From the accidental ducks debut in Galileo to the lead role — quite a promotion. But everybody agreed as we all trusted his ability to direct.
Aslam was a born leader who could decide in a matter of moments and lead. During our May Day centenary celebration play, he picked a locked out factory as the backdrop in the Sher Shah site area of Karachi. Hundreds of workers gathered to watch our play that hot summer evening. The makeshift stage was in the centre and we had to improvise our moves to perform in a way so that we could address our audience on all four sides. In the middle of the play the lights went out. For a moment we all panicked. Aslam, who had the great talent to project his voice clearly without a public address system, came on stage and announced that we should not worry, as the play would resume. He pulled his car to face the stage and turned the headlights of his beetle Volkswagen on. The play was back on.
It was 1984 when I first saw Aslam Azhar at Mansoor Saeed’s home on Tariq road. Mansoor was with his wife Abida, son Ahmar and Sania, a little schoolgirl, who would be one of the finest actresses later. He was with his wife Nasreen Azhar and two sons Usama and Arieb and, of course, the daughter Umaima. Later, I met his mother, a Christian woman who kept her faith to the last day she breathed. I met them all one by one but for sure Aslam was the centre of this family. Everybody revolved around him or so it seemed. Yes, I was an undeclared member of his family. This is how I called Nasreen Mamma just like his other children and will continue to do so till I die.
Vibrant, vivacious, dynamic and full of vigour and vitality, that would be Aslam most of his life.
Those were the tough days of Zia’s regime, which Aslam would call ‘Ziaulyakh’. I vividly remember the energy Aslam radiated. His house was no less than a campaign headquarters. People would converge from all over the country. If there were anybody devoted to harnessing the power of culture for the empowerment of working people, it was he.
I still remember the warmth of the people’s passion on the streets of Karachi after the 1988 elections giving a clear lead to the PPP, the party led by young Benazir Bhutto. People were celebrating, chanting slogans and singing on the streets of Karachi. As usual, we were busy doing our plays. After every performance we would converge at Aslam’s house for the drinks, the nihari, warm conversations and the cracking of jokes. We were all high with our passion to make a difference.
It was on one of these nights when we all sat in Aslam’s house that the phone rang. It was Prime Minister (PM) Benazir’s military secretary on the line. A brief phonecall and Aslam hung up the phone and announced, “PM Benazir wants me to head radio and television.” We all wondered how Aslam had answered. Before we could ask he said he had told him that he would consult his family and get back to the PM. “You are my family and I am consulting you,” he announced. We all told him to accept the offer. It was a great opportunity after 11 years of military rule and who could be a better person than Aslam, the Marconi of Pakistan Television? We all missed Aslam in Karachi but were happy to see him make a difference, and difference he did make.
Despite the important positions he would assume now and then, a true humanist and humble man he remained all his life. I still remember calling him from Karachi as he was the chairman of both the PTV and Radio Pakistan. I told him that I wanted to visit Islamabad. “What flight are you coming on?” is all he asked. As I came out of the airport door, lo and behold, Aslam stood there. To my shock, when I asked him why he came, his answer was, “I would never ever forget. I do not send my drivers to pick up my friends. I do it myself.”
My heart aches today that we as a state did not appreciate what he did for this country during his life. I still feel the pain when I think about when, as the general director of Radio Pakistan I persuaded President Zardari to give him the highest civil award for his great contribution. He obliged but the baboos of the ministry of information screwed it up and downgraded it to the equivalent of an award he had already gotten way back in 1968. The proud man declined it and stayed put.
Honesty, integrity, creativity and standing by the wretched of the earth literally defined him. He revealed to us the secret of happiness through his life. He practiced what he preached. Standing by the poor, marginalised and weak made him rich and strong.
With Aslam gone, we all mourn his loss. At a personal level I feel orphaned and do miss my mentor, my teacher, my friend and my comrade, all rolled into one. Goodbye comrade
The writer was the general director of Radio Pakistan