A Freelance Life: My friend Orooj Ahmed Ali

We write eloquent obituaries and pay tributes after the death of a loved one. I want to break this tradition and write about a living friend before either of us departs for the eternal abode. Orooj Ahmed Ali is my class fellow. We were part of a batch of 63 pre-teen boys who joined a boarding institution named Pakistan Air Force Public School, Sargodha on 6th September 1965 in class seven. We were barely twelve and a half years old and were to spend the next five years together; residing in four living houses and studying in three educational sections. I was assigned the Sabre and he the Attacker Houses. I was in section A and he in section B. I stayed in the College till September 1971 to complete my F. Sc. while he left the college a year earlier of his own volition. I went on to join the Pakistan Air Force to pursue a full professional career, while he lived a free lance life, pursuing his passions, whatever they were at any given time. I feel grateful to my prestigious alma mater for having made my life, and providing me with the freedom to pursue my interests in life. He resents that ‘good for nothing’ school for having destroyed his life and depriving him of his freedom to pursue his interests. I excelled in studies and literary activities while he enjoyed sports, representing swimming, hockey and cricket teams. I was connected with him in a different way too. Perhaps alone among my school mates, I had read the novel titled 'Twilight in Delhi', much before I knew Orooj or that he was a son of its eminent author, Professor. Ahmed Ali. Therefore, before I encapsulate the life and personality of the idiosyncratic son, let me give a brief account of his illustrious father. Ahmed Ali led a purposeful life and worked to his capacity with many accomplishments in various fields. He was a top student, fiction writer, poetry translator, editor, literary organizer, multilingual, Quran translator, diplomat, industrialist and university professor. He followed the call of his heart in pursuit of what appealed to him at any given time in his rich, a trait that has been picked by his son. Soon after completing his studies, the professor, true to his revolutionary zeal, announced the formation of Progressive Writers’ Association in 1933, in response to banning of the book ‘Angaaray’ that he co-authored. The members of this Association over the years would form ‘who is who’ of Urdu and Hindi literature. After partition of India, Ahmed Ali migrated to Pakistan and was appointed the first envoy to China. He later served as a visiting professor to many universities in the US. One of his landmark literary achievements is the English translation of Quran. His children must have found his shoes too big to fill and his legacy too large to carry. Orooj, to date, is in awe of his father and is keen to keep his name alive and relevant. During my school days, I could recognize in my classmate a restless streak, a boundless reservoir of energy and a keen intellect; but, strangely, all this without any concrete aim or purpose ahead of him. In many ways I and Orooj are different. I am self disciplined, he is rebellious. I am seriously studious, he is assiduously carefree. I respect caution, he throws it to the wind. I can be very patient, he is normally impatient. I am always well behaved, he can be quite curt. I plan for the future, he lives by the day. That contrast may be the reason that we have remained friends over the last five decades. We may not be the best of friends –no one can be very close to him- but friends enough to be frank, open, laughing, back slapping and affectionate whenever we find occasion to be together. Most of my old friends in Karachi have a complaint to make after their casual or short meeting with him because of his eccentricity. When I meet him for a whole day, I come back invigorated and exhilarated. I was commissioned in the PAF in January 1974 and was posted to an airbase in Karachi. There were other class fellows of ours also posted to the same base at that time. Orooj would visit us and we would be amused at his new demeanour. With his long flowing hair, wild beard, bead strings around his neck, wearing long Kurtas and sandals, he cut a contrasting figure to the trim, appropriately attired Air Force officers. His overweight bearing coupled with his roaring laughter was imposing and mesmerizing. No wonder his social life was a source of envy to us. He told me that a woman with two kids is the best. I didn’t ask him in what way he was drawing his categorization. One day, he insisted that we have our drinks not in the lawn but in the bar, though he was not properly attired for the place. Despite our protestations, he walked in to the barroom with us sheepishly in the tow. To cap the moment, he set himself heavily amongst the senior officers, roaring his trademark thundering laughter. One of those senior officers took us subalterns out for an impromptu dressing down. We thought he was having hell of a time, while we were just toiling away our life as an extension of our boarding school days. I still think the same. One day, I and Saeed Akhtar Shah, one of our class fellows, decided to visit Orooj at his home in Faran Society near the Hill Park. It was a fabulous house located at a high ground, with numerous rooms and vast lawns. They even had a zoo where I recall seeing a deer, peacocks and parrots of many varieties. We met his younger brother and his much younger sister, and his very accomplished mother, Bilqees Jehan Begam, who was busy doing a painting. We spent the night at his house and came back the next day. It was a day well spent, though a stream of mosquitoes didn’t let us sleep well. Thereafter, having spent the next decade and a half between Cherat Hills, Sargodha, Dhahran (Saudi Arabia), Kohat and Peshawar, I came across Orooj only occasionally. In late seventies, Orooj developed passion for deep sea fishing and angling. He would spend days on end in the open sea, casting his lines and pulling in the haul. I think he found it liberating to be away from the noise and complexities of civilization and the metropolis. I have seen some of his photographs of that time in which he appears to be at ease with himself and his surroundings at sea. He must have been feeling master of his domain, savouring the sight of his conquests; the huge black, blue and stripped marlins, hanging lifeless beside him. In the pictures that I have seen in his fishing gear, he seems like a character out of a Hemingway novel. He made quite a name for himself, winning many of the angling competitions. PIA printed his exploits in their in-flight magazine to attract tourism. Probably, he never applied himself to anything the away he pursued this sport. In early 1973, when he had become popular and successful in the debating circles, he, along with some friends, organized a group of young English poets by the name of 'Verse Creators'. The group arrayed poetry recitals under the auspicious of Pakistan American Cultural Centre (PACC) and Pakistan Arts Council. PACC also collected these poems and published it in a book form eponymously titled as 'The Verse Creators'. I reproduce two poems by Orooj from this collection. 'Labyrinths' Travelers In the desert land Sharing moments Of cultivated agony Turning vague thoughts Into psychedelic images Unable to decipher The meaning of Time Searching mysteriously The intricate paths Of illusion Zig zagging Into the labyrinths Of hopeful existence. 'Contemplation' A quiet afternoon Under the shade of a tree Time seems to stop. Except for the cooing of a dove Echoing in the distance No melody harmonizes With the resonant silence. A kite circles overhead Floating from cloud to cloud The stillness extends Beyond the blue horizon And images vaporize In contemplation. During this time, he organized a music band by the name of 'The Rockers' that gave a few concerts at 'The Coconut Grove' situated within the Arts Council premises during 1973-74. However, true to his wandering self, he gave up poetry and music to move on to his other passions. About six years ago I contacted him to inquire if he knew a bookstore where I could buy his father’s book, ‘Twilight in Delhi’. I could not find it in any of the bookstores in Islamabad for my daughter to read. He said that it was out of print. I also learnt that his father and mother had left for the heavenly abodes and that he had gotten married. In September last year our class fellows arranged celebrations for the Golden Jubilee of our joining PAF College. The old boys came from across the globe; from US, Canada, UK, Germany, Bangladesh, Dubai and all over Pakistan. I travelled from Australia where I had gone for a long stay. I expected Orooj to be there too but, unfortunately, he could not come to Sargodha due to his ill health. He posted some of his old photos in which I could recognize the Orooj that I remembered so well from my college and Karachi days. I resolved then that I will see him during my coming visit to Karachi. After the Golden Jubilee, I arrived in Karachi along with other some of our class fellows. I met Orooj, at two successive dinners hosted by Saeed Akhtar and Munawwar Alam in honour of their class fellows. During these evenings our class fellow Azhar Khan, now residing in California, also recalled meeting him in Lahore wearing his Kurta and beads and claiming to be ‘searching for the Truth’. This must have been about the time when I met him during my Karachi days. Orooj also happily recalled his strange interview for selection to PAF College but that interesting tale needs to be told separately. The pleasant evenings lasted till late in the night. During my stay, I decided to see Orooj exclusively for a longer duration to catch up on the lost time. On Friday, 11th September, I went to his house located in DHA and was immediately delighted for having made the visit. I had planned to spend two hours with him but that stretched on to six hours, with I wanting to stay on for more time. He also gifted me signed copies of a complete set of his father’s books, including the ‘Twilight in Delhi’ and the ‘Quran’. I cherish the gift. Orooj’s house is a veritable art gallery, a plant nursery as well as an aviary; all three in one. I state this without any exaggeration or hyperbole. As I entered the main gate, I found myself amid a myriad collection of ornamental plants and birds. There were trees in the lawn, decorative shrubs on the side, creepers along the walls, flowers in the beds and potted plants hanging with strings, all well watered, trimmed and pruned. Then there were rows of cage over cage, up to three deep, with various kinds of birds from all continents. There were colourful winged inhabitants of Brazil, Malaysia, Indonesia, Australia and God knows from where else. All birds were well looked after, healthy, in clean cages and with dedicated keepers with each getting a separate dish of food, like in a well run hotel. It was a pleasant feeling. Orooj said that he planned to make a bigger aviary in his lawn where he wanted to release the non-competing birds so that they can have a wider, better, healthier and more natural habitat to live in. I spent quite a bit of time looking at the birds, feeling the leaves, smelling the flowers. If I had not gone inside the house, I would have come back impressed but entering the house gave me a feeling of being in a Florentine Renaissance villa. On entering the house, one gets the fore-taste of delights to come. The entrance is full of paintings, row on row going up to the ceiling. All paintings are well framed, dusted and neatly aligned. I was wondering why he has put the art work here and not in the living or the drawing room but as I progressed inside, I found that, like a stubborn and vigorous creeper, the frames have crept over the walls of all the rooms and corridors inside the house and have over flowed to the foyer. I can’t recall all the names but I saw works by Gulgee, Anna Molka, Jamini Roy, Zainul Abedin, Saeed Akhtar, Hajra Masroor, Iqbal Hussain and many others. There was even a portrait of a young Orooj by none other than Sadequain. To view and appreciate all the paintings in the house, a whole day would be required and still leave the viewer hungry for more time. He told me that he is dealing in art and is doing well. In fact, he said that this is the first vocation that has made him decent money. The multitude of servants around him, the general feel of his home and the fact that he could afford very expensive birds and maintain them well made it evident that he was doing well. I felt happy for that. He told me that, while living with his father in their home, there was a time when he didn’t have a penny in his pocket and had to sell flowers from the jasmine plants of his home for a hundred rupees. Compared with those trying times, he is living enviably well. He publishes his father’s works and successfully represents him as his international literary agent. The sale of his father’s books earns him a tidy amount annually. I noticed that he smoked a lot, probably 40 cigarettes a day. “You didn’t smoke when I saw you last,” I enquired. “I started when I gave up drinking,” he added with a smile, “You have to do something.” I couldn’t agree more. I had the pleasure of meeting his charming wife, who was a perfect host. They don’t have an issue, which, gladly and true to his nature, is hardly an issue with Orooj. I was served coffee and my favorite dish of prawns in the morning and again for lunch. I bade him farewell at about four o’clock, with a resolve to come back when I was in town the next time. He gave me an unforgettable present; a complete set of books authored by his father, including his superb English translation of the Quran. He hand wrote a note for me in every book. I will forever remain grateful for this. The Quran now lies in Australia with my daughter for her non-Urdu reading daughters to study. I happened to be in Karachi again this year in August. I met him for a whole day in his home and came back pleased for having done so. Except for the rearrangements of the cages, everything was as it was last year. After lunch, that he prepared himself, he opened a wooden box -that he said he had not opened in a decade- and showed me old photographs and documents. Some related to his debating cum fishing days and others to his father’s career. He was also reviewing a draft of his father’s ‘The Golden Tradition’ –an English translation of Urdu poets from Vali Dakhni to Mirza Daag- that is to be reprinted soon. He gave me a long ride in his bright yellow 600 cc turbo engine coupe car. He sat in the driving seat with a grey checkered ivy cap on his head, a pipe on his lips and scented tobacco between his teeth. We drove around the empty roads of Phase VIII peninsula for about an hour. I could see that he was enjoying every bit of it. I could sense how he must be feeling as he rode in his fishing boats in the days gone past. In many ways, Orooj set himself apart from us, the ordinary normal boys. There are many of us who idolize him and desire in their deep inner self to be like him but know that it cannot be because we couldn’t have made the personal sacrifices of comfort, career and convenience that he had the courage to forgo. Those who follow the calling of their heart and those who act according to rational calculations cannot live their lives in the same dimension. Their paths rarely cross. They can only observe each other in some fleeting moments of time, like two vehicles crossing each other in different directions on a multi-tiered road interchange. Always, and without failing, it is the latter that are envious of the former and never the other way. That is how we saw Orooj in college and in later life, an embodiment of Iqbal's verse, ‘Subh a Azal mujh sey kaha Jibreel ney, Jo aqal Ka ghulam ho wo dil na kar qabool’ ‘On the day of creation, Gabriel advised me Do not accept a calculating heart’ But then people like Orooj also have a self centric view of life. They challenge authority and expect the world to revolve around them. They are impulsive and at times loners; and their complete refusal to listen to reason can be frustrating. On a higher scale, one can admire Habib Jalib, Saghar Siddiqui, Meera Ji, Saadat Manto, Nasir Kazmi, Che Guevara, or others of the kind, but imagine what kind of life would it be, living with them day in and day out. At the same time what would this world be without them? I found that Orooj has mellowed, as everyone does with age. We are all born with a sense of self importance but nearing the wrong side of sixties cures one of many fantasies. Orooj had much potential as a liberal leftist voice. He had a heritage to support this. He was a natural speaker and debater. He could speak his mind, indulge in unconventional thinking, withstand adversity, hoot down opposition and face any person without being intimidated. These are rare characteristics. The only thing required was a sense of purpose, perseverance and the art of compromise. With his natural behavior and temperament, Orooj could have ended up in a political jail but would have emerged on the national scene with a definite presence. His personality and character held that promise. There are now only occasional hints of the firebrand and the rebel that he once was but the fires have extinguished, leaving a few embers here and there. In the words of our Principal Mr. Rahman Qureshi -who later served as principal of Aitchison College- in his annual report on Orooj, 'The boy has potential but prefers to keep it dormant'. Orooj seems to have abided by this prophecy, but then who knows, he may yet surprise us all. I wish him health, happiness and prosperity. Notes. 1. Opinions expressed are mine and mine alone, based on my five decades of interactions with the object of this write up. 2. I have made some comparisons here that may appear out of place but to me they are very apt. This article appeared in the weekly The Friday Times on 20th Oct 2016 Parvez Mahmood retired as a Group Captain from PAF and is now a software engineer. He lives in Islamabad and writes on social and historical issues. He can be reached at parvezmahmood53@gmail.com