Zubaida Tariq – beautiful inside and out

tribute

Youngest of ten siblings, Zubaida or ‘Jubbi’ as she was endearingly called, grew up in a household of learned people. Her maternal grandfather, Nawab Nisar Yar Jung, a courtier of Nizam of Hyderabad, had maintained a house that welcomed literary giants of the time. The halls resounded with ‘qawaalis’ to celebrate lunar cycles, and ‘mushairas’ to commemorate events. Horse-drawn carriages and expensive cars filled the driveway, while a platoon of servants and maids helped her mother, Pasha, who managed a sprawling world that she owned as the only daughter of Nawab Saheb, and beloved wife of the stellar graduate of Aligarh University, Qamar Maqsood.

Jubbi had five older sisters, Fatima Suriya, Fatima Sughra, Fatima Sara, Fatima Zehra, and Fatima Asma - each a champion in her own right, three older brothers, Ahmed, Anwar, and Omer, who were getting ready to make their mark, and one younger, an almost twin, Amir, who often hid behind her to escape the narrowed eye of Pasha. This was a bustling, harmonised, fairy-tale like perfect household for Jubbi to have been born into. Her great grandmother, Aapa Jaan, however, maintained a strict check and ensured no one got carried away with the sprinkling magic of blessings – and that she ensured all right.

1947 started eroding at the seams of this dreamlike principality, the music turned red, Muslims started fleeing, for suddenly, they were being told that they were a minority, and that ‘Nizamdom fell’. Hyderabad Deccan, one of the richest states became victim to the Orwellian rhapsody of freedom fight. The family of Nisar Jung left their crystal rooms, Persian carpets, silverware and artworks, set and glistening in the fading sunlight – a home that was their ship to steer life’s waters – to board a dingy bogie of a tarnished metal train destined for Bombay (Mumbai) shores to catch their lifeboat – a ship full of migrants to Pakistan.

The train did not escape violence, and bodies were cut and blood splattered all across. Fortunately, they were saved as their bogie was guarded by the very loyal Hindu guards of Nizam.

Navigating the noisy, wet, bustling Kemari docks, holding on to Pasha’s pallu, and dragging little Amir along, Jubbi found this new world unsettling. The gracious uniformed help was nowhere to be seen, the rattling carriages and donkey carts had replaced the imported cars and horse-drawn velvet ensconced carriages - lying beyond the immediate horizon, an unknown city awaited her family of fourteen people. But knowing the person that Jubbi became, I can say with certainty, that she was cheering Amir, with implicit faith in Pasha and Achay Bhai (her father), Aapa Jaan and Abba Jaan, to recreate her home all over again. After all how can you just not have a home overnight?

Camps, and then PIB Quarters – the palaces had been replaced but not the academic spark that lit these souls from within. The little house had an ever-increasing population of plants for Pasha was a born botanist and landscape artist. And with continuous inflow of literary and family guests, and food on the ‘takht’ albeit a simple ‘daal chawal’, it would have poppadum’s, chutneys, fresh crunchy onions, lemon pickle to fill the table. Life saw the family moving to may be bigger concrete structures, but absolutely larger than life personas.

Fatima Suriya took on the Bajia mantle, Fatima Sughra became the doll maker turned bridal couture diva, Mrs Kazmi, Sara’s, course charted through Radio Pakistan to VOA, and BBC; Fatima Zehra became the illustrious Zehra Nigah; Fatima Asma dove into writing fiction for monthly digests; Ahmed became the renowned CSP and Bureaucrat Ahmed Maqsood Hamidi; Anwar flitting between media and finance, chose to make satire his spoken word as Anwar Maqsood; Omer stayed content with his wizardry with Chess and absolutely nonsensical fetish for collecting radios; leaving Jubbi to grapple the ropes of life as a housewife, daughter-in-law, mother, and a mentor. (Zubaida aka Jubbi married her first cousin Tariq Maqsood in 1966). She tagged herself and Amir, as ‘Nazar ka battu’, the talismans to keep her fabulous family safe from the evil eye.

She had found her contentment in experimenting with recipes. With a vegetarian husband, carnivore son, and in-laws who had various food preferences, her menus were always comprehensive. Our kitchen was always the busiest area of the house. We had non-stop guests. People hankered after Ammi’s food, much to our surprise, for we thought that all homes must have good food. Abbu worked with a multinational and Ammi ensured that any dinner engagement, whether for five or hundred people, was catered to at home. She would cook seventeen to twenty dishes for such fiestas, leaving people spellbound with her speed and aplomb. People from the UK’s office would visit often and specifically ask for Tariq to invite them for Zubaida’s food.

Leaving for Middle East, I had taken a diary of Ammi’s recipes with me to start my kitchen. I am neither fond of cooking nor a foodie, but the ease and magic of her recipes made it so easy for me to become a kind of expert – a status I immediately crushed, once back in Pakistan. Here I had Ammi.

Ammi was exactly 50 when a colleague of Abbu mentioned the upcoming Dalda Advisory (then with Unilever Pakistan) and how it would be able to benefit from Ammi’s expertise and passion for cooking. The second floor in the R-Lintas building on Shahra-e-Faisal, Karachi, became a start to a twenty-three-year long career that saw her rise from a consultant behind an analogue phone to the global celebrity across all electronic, digital, and print, platforms. She became a household name, recognised for her magic that sprinkled on recipes, tips, and in-depth conversation that shone with empathy, affection, and care. Her style of saris, bangles, and local jewellery made her an icon for millions.

She taught people to look good in kitchen, disregarding the heat of the stove, she combated it with humour, and sizzling fun of cooking for family or guests. The stalwarts for siblings, now looked at her as one magnificent jewel that God had blessed them with. Ammi’s penchant for saris and strings was kind of a take-off from Pasha’s love for plants. Ammi believed that ‘simple stays beautiful’ and her homemaking skills made her highly revered. People consulted her for placement of furniture – she knew no feng shui but could beat experts hands down. She hadn’t trained as a chef but the best of them called her for advice, the world made her their Aapa (a title she gained on FM 107) and that stayed with her, making her the world’s Zubaida Aapa.

People call her the Martha Stewart of Pakistan. I think Martha can take a few lessons from Ammi too. It was not her grip on the work alone, but her heart that made it happen. She loved unconditionally and it flavoured her cuisine, it strengthened her advice, and it made her travel length and breadth of Pakistan to connect with her tribe, pick up calls past midnight, and make efforts to help and resolve issues wherever she could. Her accounts had no savings – all gone back to her people.

Ammi is still here in our hearts, for me, my siblings, and our children. We want her more than ever because the world is a chaotic place, very much like the Kemari port that she saw as a child. We wish we had optimism and faith like her. She used to believe in a world where love stands to make a difference. She often used to say, “Invest your heart and lace your work with love - rise is inevitable.”

The author is an educationist, writer and corporate host. She can be reached at

shahatariq67@gmail.com