My School Days: Memoir 2

In 1970, on turning six, I was enrolled in  Government High School Darhal Gaggan.  My father had named me Naeem Ashraf, but my uncle, Muhammad Sadiq, who took me to school for admission along with his own son Mushtaq Ahmed, got me registered as Muhammad Naeem.  Perhaps this was because my uncle was a religious minded person. When Islam arrived in the Indian subcontinent, Indian culture also embraced Islam. On converting, the Muslims first began changing their names to Arabic names and then began giving their children Arabic names. In a sense, Muslims began to associate their identity not with the land of their birth but with the Arabian Peninsula. They not only started giving their children Arabic names but also began attaching names such as Muhammad, Ahmad, and Mahmood to them. If, for example, someone wished to name a child as Chaand—meaning moon—the name was transformed into Qamar, and the suffix ud-Din was added, producing Qamaruddin, “the moon of religion.” In this way, it seems to me, our children were gradually severed from their motherland and culturally linked to the Middle East. For next twenty-two years, I continued to be known as Muhammad Naeem. Hence my educational certificates bore that name. At the age of twenty-three, I added Ashraf to my name and restored the name my father had originally given me.

Our first-grade teacher was Mirza Muhammad Hussain, a strict and formidable man. Short in stature, Master Mirza was always impeccably dressed. He dyed his moustache and the hair on his head with henna. He oiled his hair and combed them in manner that they were parted  in two parts precisely from the middle. Master Mirza always carried a  mulberry stick in his hand and would strike on our palms whenever we failed to memorize our lessons. If we were caught misbehaving, he would make us squat like cocks and thrash our bums with the stick. From him we learned the elementary Urdu primer, the Urdu alphabet, and the art of writing with a mambo pen on the wooden tablet. He taught us how to hold the pen properly and write with balance and control. Beyond that, perhaps unconsciously, we also learned discipline and severity from Master Mirza. He lived in a secluded house adjoining the school and maintained strict veil for his family. He had two daughters, whom he taught himself at home. It was rumoured that he was so harsh with them that both eventually lost their mental balance. Master Mirza was also something of a hakim—a practitioner of traditional medicine—and treated minor ailments himself. Perhaps, we were in the seventh or eighth grade when Master Mirza died of consuming his own concoction.

In the second grade, two girls, Tanveer Akhtar and Shaheen Akhtar, studied with us. They were the nieces of our headmaster, Abdul Hamid Butt Sahib. He deliberately seated them between me and my cousin, Mushtaq Ahmad, because he might have considered us well-mannered and decent boys. Of the two, I was particularly fond of Shaheen Akhtar, and I remember that an innocent little friendship blossomed between us. I have no idea where those girls are today or what became of them. In the higher grades, my classmates Mushtaq Ahmad, Muhammad Ramzan, Muhammad Siddiq, Muhammad Azeem, Raja Parvez Akhtar, Ashiq Hussain, and Zafar Iqbal became my friends. In later years, Mushtaq Ahmad became a bank officer; Muhammad Ramzan became a professor of English; Muhammad Siddiq became a schoolteacher; Muhammad Azeem became an agriculturist; Raja Parvez Akhtar turned a transporter,  Ashiq Hussain went to Dubai to earn a living as a labourer and Zafar Iqbal eventually settled in  London. I was slightly above average in my studies. In most examinations, one of Mushtaq Ahmad, Muhammad Ramzan, or Muhammad Siddiq would secure first, second and third positions in the class. I do not remember ever gaining a first position. But occasionally secured  second or third positions. After completing the first and second grades in the village, I was in the third grade when my father took his family  to Kharian Cantonment. I completed my third grade there. I remember travelling to Army run school standing at the front of a military truck, though I have no memory of  our home in Kharian Cantonment.  The public school in Kharian was co-educational. Among the girls who studied with us, a few were exceptionally beautiful. I remember forming innocent friendships with them and experiencing the tender, harmless stirrings of childhood romance. I completed the fourth grade back in the village school. I remember clearly that, for securing second position in the fourth grade, I received an Eagle fountain pen as a prize. It was milky white in colour. In the fifth grade, my father once again took us again to Pakistan. This time it was Rawalpindi Cantonment. I therefore completed my fifth grade at Rawalpindi Cantonment. Our school was housed in military barracks. It too was a co-educational primary school. I became friends with a girl named Farukhanda Jabeen. She had a radiant face, thick, somewhat curly hair, and large, round eyes. Whenever she laughed, it seemed as though spring had suddenly descended upon the world.

There was a playground opposite to our house where we played football. Next to it stood a military unit. We used to go to its Recreation Room to watch a black and white television. This was the period of 1974–75, the country was ruled by Mr  Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto of the Pakistan Peoples Party. We watched Bhutto’s impassioned speeches on television with great enthusiasm. A little farther away, on a roadside, a military barrack had been converted into a mosque. Its imam was Abdullah Sahib. With his salt-and-pepper beard, Abdullah Sahib was a kind and gentle man. After the afternoon prayer, he taught the Quranic lessons. We also offered the Friday prayers and other prayers in that mosque. After completing the fifth grade, we returned once again to the village, where I completed grades six, seven, and eight. By then we were growing older, and our mischief was growing with us. Once, Mushtaq Ahmad and I set fire to a stack of maize. The villagers had great difficulty putting it out, throwing bucket after bucket of water onto the flames.

During Ramadan, the atmosphere was somewhat lively and spiritual. For us boys, the night prayers was a fun. One of our favourite tricks was to slip away and sit at the back, where we would laugh and fool around, only to join the congregation again just before the imam concluded the prayer. On the way to our school, Government High School, we passed through two small settlements. But short of that there was a covered spring on the brink of a small stream. Covered  springs produced cool fresh water in summers. Adjacent to the covered spring was a spacious round place amongst the clump of Shisham trees. The gapes vines had grown over on of the Shisham trees. The palace had thick shadow of trees , perfect for rest, refit and play.    We would covertly  the sweet-and-sour grapes and eat them. The place belonged to our neighbour, Taie (aunt) Sakeena. She did not mind our picking and eating the grapes, but if we plucked the unripe fruit, she would yell at us from her distant house and scold us. Yet there was a peculiar affection hidden within her scolding. Throughout rest of my life, I never received an affectionate like that of Taie Sakeena.

The next settlement on our route to school was Kalotran Gurha. There stood two huge twin mango trees. We would knock the mangoes down with stones, then gather and eat them. The trees belonged to Taya Nawab Din. Although Taya Nawab Din was a farmer, he was passionately fond of playing the drum. He was regularly invited to play the drum at weddings and other celebrations. Taya  was rather protective of his mango trees. But instead of shouting at us when he caught us stealing mangoes, he would begin beating his drum. That was our signal that he had discovered our mischief. When that happened, we would content ourselves with the fallen mangoes lying on the ground. We carried small knives in our schoolbags to sharpen our pencils, and with those same knives we would cut the unripe mangoes open and eat them with salt. The next settlement along the way was Nikka. There, too, by coincidence, stood two or three mango trees growing together. They belonged to Shadi Khan, known as Chacha Shadia.

Whenever Chacha Shadia saw a group of schoolchildren approaching, he would begin swearing at us in anticipation of what we might do. We enjoyed his abuse and would deliberately throw a stone or two at the trees just to tease him as we passed. Taya Nawab Din and Chacha Shadia are no longer in this world. Yet their faces still pass before my eyes as vividly as if they were standing before me. One day, when we hurled stones at the trees, one of the stones struck a beehive that was hidden among the branches. And then all the hell broke loose. The bees began swarming around us. We covered our heads and ran, but the bees refused to give up the chase. They hovered over the heads of Mushtaq Ahmad, Muhammad Ramzan, Ashiq Hussain, Zafar Iqbal, and me, stinging us whenever they found an opportunity. We came running to the school, but the old watchman, Baba Painda Khan, who was standing at the gate, greeted us with a long and complicated abuse and refused to let us enter the school. However, to get rid of the flies, Painda Khan suggested that we should go the nearest stream and dive into the water. And so, we spent a considerable amount of time repeatedly diving into the water. Only then did we manage to escape the bees. But, thanks to this unexpected excuse, we spent a long-time swimming in the great mountain stream and reached home shortly before school was due to end. Unfortunately, however, our absence from school had already been reported to our uncle, Muhammad Sadiq. When we arrived, home we were thoroughly scolded. I spent the rest of that day crying. My mother tried every remedy she knew to reduce the swelling on my face and relieve the pain in my head. But that evening, my uncle invited me to his home where we offered me to eat with him the dinner that consisted of greens and corn bread.

Throughout the meal, he never mentioned our mischief. Instead, he told me the stories of his own childhood mischiefs. My uncle owned a small guava orchard whose fruit was red from inside. My uncle offered me to pluck the fruit to my heart-fill. Today, neither my uncle nor that orchard exists. But his love remains impossible to forget. While writing this I penned this short poem:

“ Take me back,  O! the cycle of time

Let’s go back to see the same mornings

And the same evenings of my childhood

Take me back, O! the cycle of the time