ow does one start writing about a person who taught them to write?

I had first met Dr Kazi at the old Mass Communication building of the University of Karachi. Her room had only basic furniture. There were books all around her. There were many stickers on the cupboard with funny quotes on them. This was the fad those days with the youngsters, but had I never seen a teacher display those in their room. I don’t know if she had put it there herself or some student had but she certainly enjoyed those. She enjoyed everything new and welcomed everything interesting.

Her infectious smile would welcome every student who visited. The room was frequented by many including people who had graduated from the university.

We would sit there listening to drawn out debates on life, politics, philosophy, religion, etc, immersed in a whirlwind of ideas and opinions.

I did not realise it then but the biggest lesson I learnt there was being tolerant of views and opinions one did not agree with. The discussions went on late into the afternoon. Sometimes, she would invite everybody to her place. Some of us would then go to her apartment and indulge in more animated conversations.

In her classroom, irrespective of what she was teaching, the expectation was that all the students will participate.

Once, while teaching our class, she got very upset at our blank expressions and left the class saying, “I don’t want to teach where no one participates.”

For most of us, this was something new. We had come from an education culture where teachers came into the classroom, gave their lectures, rhetorically asked “any questions?” and left. We sat and listened, took notes, did some doodling and never asked any questions.

When she left angrily, we were shocked. We looked at one another, not knowing what to do. After some deliberation, a delegation went to her room to assure her that we would start talking in her class. We discovered later that the scene had been repeated with almost every batch of students she taught.

She was the kindest soul around. With unwavering courage, she supported anyone who was in need of it. She was not a mere teacher to successive generations of students but also a mentor, supporter and guide.

Her philosophy of life was rooted in simplicity. She would often suggest simple solutions to seemingly complex situations, especially female faculty. When they felt bogged down with professional and personal responsibilities, she would say, “if some task cannot be done today, so be it. Tomorrow there will be another opportunity to do it.”

Those who have no expectations do not plan for the long term. They also have few regrets about the decisions they made in the past. Madam Shahida was one such person. She was a practicing Sufi, believing in karma and vibes, taking in all kinds of expressions in her stride, unwavering in her walk. I now realise that she went through life like a dancer, moving with grace; like a dervish whirling in ecstasy.

She was the kindest soul around. With unwavering courage, she supported all those in need. She was not a mere teacher to successive generations of students but also a mentor, supporter and guide.

Her routine every day for the past one year included a walk every evening on the busy road near her residence. While going back after dropping off my daughter every evening, I would see her strolling, amusedly observing the madness around her.

I asked her once how it was that the traffic, heat, dust and honking horns did not bother her. Also why would she not go to the nearby park instead? She replied, “that’s too boring. I like the frenzy. I enjoy it.”

She had a keen interest in the politics and history of the world, especially Pakistan. She left us with thought-provoking ideas about our country’s history.

Her unique talent for unbiased analysis from a liberal standpoint allowed her to connect the dots and always see a clear picture. It was probably this that prompted her to write a book on Pakistan’s history, setting the record straight. She called a spade a spade.

Many people felt insecure around her because of her opinions. However, no one dared challenge her because she had a logical explanation for everything she said.

She always said that all the students must be taught critical thinking skills and ethics as a mandatory part of their syllabus. Never once would she hesitate to admit a mistake. “Haan yeh maen nay nahin socha tha” (Yes, I missed that) she would say.

When I decided to marry and settle down in a conventional lifestyle, I expected her to be critical of my choice. That was not the case ever. She met my fiancée and told him with glee, “Beware, you are marrying a terrorist.” She came to my wedding ceremony and wished me in earnest. When my first daughter was born, she sent me a card with a message, “Congratulations on your baby gal. It is a bigger achievement than your degree.”

A few months later, she got hold of me and asked me to apply for a teaching position at the department. As I hesitated, she called my father and asked him to persuade me. With encouragement and support, she singlehandedly steered so many of us into paths that were either unknown to us or scared us.

With every student who came contact in with her, there was a similar story. Many thought that they were her favourite student.

She came from a very well known and influential family that had made a mark in many a field. However, she chose the least travelled path, deciding to study and pursue journalism. Here was a brilliant girl who could have become a bureaucrat, a judge or a doctor but decided to become a writer and, by sheer chance, found out about the newly founded journalism department at the University of Karachi.

As she wrote in her book, “This was the game changer”. She was only female student in that batch. She secured the first position in the finals.

It was then that she realised that life was much more than her elite, protective circle. From then onwards she took charge of her life, making diverse friendships and associations at the university.

Her relationship with her students over several decades was the sum of her life. She found sons and daughters who to this day called her amma and are in deep mourning, for there is a vacuum left in their lives after her passing.

The writer is an assistant professor at the Department of Mass Communication, University of Karachi. She can be reached at sadiasachedina@hotmail.com