Rashad, my father

How do you write about a person who remained an integral part of your life for over 60 years? Someone who guided and helped you at every turn of your life and never expected anything in return. That was Muhammad Rashad Mahmood, my father, who peacefully passed away on June 27, 2024 in Karachi, just 10 days shy of turning 92.

Eulogizing fathers is an old practice; most, if not all, sons sooner or later realize that the man they at times hated was perhaps the only man in this world who unconditionally felt proud of their achievements. But no eulogy can actually pay back what my father did for me, and, of course, for my siblings.

As I write these lines a week after his departure, sitting in his room, staring at the space where he spent the last 33 years of his life, I can feel his towering presence around me; can hear his voice urging me to read this or that article or book.

When he turned 90 in July 2022, I wrote a series of columns about him titled ‘Ninety years of a full life’, detailing his journey of life from Bombay (now Mumbai) to Karachi, which anyone can access online, so I am not going to repeat that. Here I share some personal recollections and his impressions on me.

In 1970, I was six, and he was 38. I distinctly remember him installing the first TV in our home in Liaquatabad, Karachi where he was actively participating in the election campaign of the National Awami Party (NAP-Wali).

From his teenage years -- when he lost both his parents -- he became involved in left-wing and progressive politics. He could not complete even school education but luckily had the opportunity to attend literary meetings of the Progressive Writers Association (PWA) in Mumbai (then Bombay). Progressive writers such as Ali Sardar Jafri and Kaifi Azmi took this teenager under their wings and gave him books that changed his life.

This teenager became an avid reader who hardly spent a day without reading. Having read nearly all major writers of world literature, he moved on to reading history, philosophy, psychology, and other branches of social sciences.

All this shaped him as a person who could see through the nationalistic, religious, and sectarian bigotry prevailing in society. After moving to Pakistan in 1954, he found activists on the left of the spectrum under duress. Still, there were leaders such as Bacha Khan, Dr Aizaz Nazeer, Mian Iftikharuddin, Suhrawardy, Bhashani, Hassan Nasir, and others who inspired him. In 1971, his discussions with his comrades about the pitfalls of military action in East Pakistan were my first introduction to politics. My father was inherently against dictatorships and strongly believed in the power of the ballot.

When I was a teenager in the 1970s, he made sure to purchase second-hand books for me ranging from history to literature. He made us work with him at our shop after college or school hours; an ability to earn a livelihood was essential for him from a young age. At times, we did not like it because most of our friends were doing nothing after attending classes, but that was unacceptable to my father. He believed that by the age of 19, everyone should be able to earn for themselves and not be dependent on their parents.

His political sagacity was exemplary on various occasions. For example, he decided to side with ZA Bhutto rather than the NDP or the PNA which most leftists had joined to oppose Bhutto. My father’s observation was simple, “Yes, Bhutto may not be that good, but if I have a choice between Bhutto and some leftists siding with mullahs, I would rather err on Bhutto’s side.”

While running a small shop and simultaneously indulging in political activities, he took us to various literary gatherings, from Karachi Press Club and Arts Council to the PMA House and Bazm-e-Ilmo Daanish, which held regular sessions. In the 1980s, when I got involved in students’ politics, he cautioned me of all possible consequences. When I went to India in 1984, some of his old comrades were still around and embraced me with open arms -- especially Anees Jalali, Chacha Niaz Haider, Muqeem Farooqi, Raj Bahadur Gaur, Rajeshwar Rao, and many others remembered him fondly.

hen I landed in Moscow, comrades such as Masood Ali Khan, Shanti Roy, and most of all Munish Narayan Saxena and his family accepted me as one of their own. Then I realized that the respect he commanded and the impressions he left were indelible. From our school days, he encouraged us to read more than one newspaper daily. This habit helped me in Moscow when I was learning Russian, and ‘Pravda’ became a daily staple and a source of information about what was happening in the Soviet Union. When I came back to Pakistan in the late 1980s, the dream of revolution had gone sour.

My father remained a staunch Marxist throughout his life, and when he found in me a changed person who no longer believed in a socialist revolution, he was disappointed; we agreed to disagree. Living in Karachi, most of our close and distant relatives –- all of my uncles, first and second cousins -- joined the MQM, but my father could foresee the dangers of myopic politics on the basis of ethnicity, nationalism, and religion. Altaf Hussain was an anathema to him, and so was Imran Khan a couple of decades later.

His reading habits continued throughout his life, and he kept asking me for more books. He read at least four newspapers a day and loved to discuss what columnists had written. After current affairs and national and international politics, his favourite reading was poetry. From our school days, he started reciting poetry to us, explaining couplets from Mir and Ghalib to Jaun Alia and Iftikhar Arif. His command of the Urdu language was impeccable though his mother tongue was Turkish and his father’s was Gujarati. The way he unpacked metaphors was something to cherish and remember.

But there are certain lapses that he could have avoided. I consider them a lesson for other older people. At the age of 63, he had married off all his children, who were independent and earning their living. My father had great potential to write, but he was always reluctant to do so. Dr Jafar Ahmed managed to conduct a series of long interviews with him and got them transcribed and published by the name of ‘Nigah-e-Aina Saaz Mein’. My father also wrote a series of articles that comrade Ayub Malik compiled and published as ‘Marxism aur Aaj ki Dunya’.

My father refused to hold any stick for support even when he was 92; the lesson for others is not to be overconfident and hold a stick. In February 2024, he fell while walking and broke his hip joint, triggering a chain of quick complications that took him away from us. He had no underlying condition or comorbidity, but his condition deteriorated rapidly as he stopped eating. My suggestion to all older people is that please utilize your time judiciously, don’t just read but also write. Pen your detailed memoirs, write stories and novels, compose poems or do research.

After 60, time flies -- rather evaporates -- make wise use of it and leave something for posterity in writing as much as you can. My father lived a harsh life from childhood and never learned to spend money on personal joys even when he could afford all luxuries as his sons and grandsons were well settled and wanted the old man to indulge in the simple joys of life, but for him it was all a waste of money.

He always remained secular and imparted to us his love for books and desire for democracy; taught us how to keep away from ethnic politics, narrow nationalism, and religious bigotry. Abba, you lived an active and long life, and we can never thank you enough for all that you did for us.

The writer holds a PhD from the University of Birmingham, UK. He tweets/posts @NaazirMahmood and can be reached at: mnazir1964@yahoo.co.uk