here are surely, people better-equipped to eulogize the great Zia Mohyeddin, whose mere presence was not just intimidating, but seemed to be designed to put the intellectually inferior right in their place. One cannot say whether that was design, nature, or indeed, our own inadequacies living themselves out in full color; but when Zia sahib walked past you, focused on his destination, spoke reassuringly to his actors before a performance, or posed for a photograph, he was the picture of dignified elegance, and you, the punk in her high-tops and end-of-the-day smudged kajal, felt duly chastised by his cool composure.

What hasn’t been said by now about Zia Mohyeddin? He’s the star of his own documentary, the writer of a couple of books, the receiver of a national honour, and has acted in, and directed countless theater performances. In the last week, his friends and fans, his peers and mentees have spoken about him with depth and passion. These were the people who had spent time with him, had the pleasure of conversing with him, and learnt about the man behind the legend.

What one does know of him is through his work. What one does owe to Zia sahib, is an education that nothing except for the exposure to literature and consequently, language and philosophy that only theater can bring.

The National Academy of Performing Arts (NAPA), in its 18 years of existence, has routinely performed plays based off classic texts. The classics are taught as part of the theater course as well, and both facts have always invited criticism.

Who, the critics would ask, has the patience to sit through at least 90 minutes of runtime featuring the thoughts and musings of Shakespeare or Chekhov or Beckett or Miller? Furthermore, not only are we being tortured in the name of entertainment by these classical plays, they have also been adapted into the most faseeh form of Urdu possible, they would say. To the detractors, one would like to say: get over it.

As someone whose taste in fiction – both text and film – are decidedly on the contemporary side, with some favorites being rather lowbrow, the kind of work NAPA, under the direction of Zia Mohyeddin, produced, is what acquainted one with higher literature. Zia sahib, who himself was a trained actor, his portfolio spanning across roles and media, knew exactly what he was doing when he pulled NAPA together.

It was no ragtag bunch of nobodies who helmed the Theater and Music Departments at NAPA. Rahat Kazmi, himself an accomplished actor and an absolute man of letter, headed the Theater Department and the NAPA Repertory Theater (NRT) for several years. Renowned composer and musician Arshad Mehmood headed Music. Actors Talat Hussain and Khaled Ahmed, the latter of whom has pulled literal rabbits out of his hat of words when translating various works into Urdu, were part of the faculty, that along with its students, wove magic on stage.

Magic, is what Zia Mohyeddin believed theater needed to create, regardless of genre and presentation. In his collection of academic essays Theatrics, he introduces the concept of theater as such. The slim volume touches upon the essence of every cog that turns into the theatrical machine, and recounts a very colloquial history of theater and playwrights.

In the same introduction, he states that innovation in the industry doesn’t bother him, and should be embraced, as long as the requisite magic is preserved. He may have liked his classics, but he did understand that every generation of actors, director, writers, technicians raised, would inform their trade with their vision, education and preferences.

As with most artists, or with human beings in general,
Zia Mohyeddin wanted to create something that would last.
Rahat Kazmi, while trying to explain the importance of literature to a classful of young adults had once said: “behind every great work of art or literature is the compulsion – the obsession of, ‘I want to live forever,’ and so the artist creates, and the writer writes, and in that way they become immortal.”

A day after he passed, Zia Mohyeddin’s students – which we believe would include the NAPA faculty to some extent too – gathered at the Zia Mohyeddin Theatre on campus to share their personal, favorite memories of their mentor.

The picture that emerges here is somewhat different. Zia sahib, the teacher, is just as demanding and unforgiving as one would think. But he also is kind, affectionate, and poker-faced. His students recall, over and over, how he would deadpan a comment and then break into a smile. How he would (perhaps) feign ignorance of regular things like Lay’s Chips and spiked summer fruit. How he would, intuitively, or because he had so much more life experience, try to steer his students towards choices that might leave them with fewer regrets.

NAPA alumnus, actor Ali Rizvi remembered that he studied acting because of his mother. “She found the institute, and with names such as Zia sahib’s, Talat Hussain’s and Rahat Kazmi’s, felt this was the right place for me to be.

“Throughout my time at NAPA, I never once invited my mother to watch one of my performances, saving the first time for when I acted in the NRT (NAPA Repertory Theater) as a professional. Zia sahib noticed this, and advised me to invite her out to watch me perform nonetheless.”

Rizvi’s story takes a turn, his mother passed away just when he was finally ready to make it to the stage, as a professional actor. Despite his grief, Rizvi turned up for the performance. Zia Mohyeddin offered him a single experience as his code as an actor: when he himself was about to go on stage to perform Hamlet, he received the news of his father’s death.

“He said – gesturing with his arm – ‘I walked on and went onstage,’” Rizvi shared. “And then he swept his arm to indicate that I should do the same.”

As with most artists, or with human beings in general, Zia Mohyeddin wanted to create something that would last. Rahat Kazmi, while trying to explain the importance of literature to a classful of young adults had once said: “behind every great work of art or literature is the compulsion – the obsession of, ‘I want to live forever,’ and so the artist creates, and the writer writes, and in that way they become immortal.”

One of Zia Mohyeddin’s younger students unwittingly revealed that the same compulsion drove the actor. One day, Zia sahib’s students asked him to skip the academic part of the class and to just talk with them. The question that weighed on this student’s mind was: “why do you still work so hard, after accomplishing so much?”

The response though not unexpected, is still startling.

“I want to leave something behind that is great,” replied Zia Mohyeddin. “I want to create a work that is great, that I can be proud of, but after all this time, I still haven’t done the greatest work of my life.”

Paras Masroor, another one of Zia sahib’s students admired how his mentor had the instinct to pick up good actors despite their apparently shoddy performances, and helped to draw them out, and how he stood firmly behind the institution whenever there was the merest threat of it being shut down. Masroor tears up as he speaks of his “rohani ustaad’, and in the moment, there is no consolation to be offered to him, his peers and teachers, and the future classes of NAPA.

His last direction, to actor Akbar Islam, before he was hospitalized was clear. “NAPA must go on,” Zia sahib told Islam. “You have to make sure it does.”

– Photos by Nadir T at Nadir Toosy Photography