Dr Shafiq-ur-Rehman,
Illustrious Raconteur
By Dr Zeba Hasan Hafeez
Dr Shafiq-ur-Rehman was one of
Pakistan’s most illustrious writers and his
extraordinary humor has given enduring pleasure
to his readers. The similarity between him and Mushtaq
Ahmed Yusufi is striking in the context of literary
humor and satire. Both did justice to their careers,
serving in the armed forces and banking respectively,
and both also reached the heights of literary excellence.
Early in his career as a writer, Shafiq-ur-Rehman
became a household name. I recall the words of Akhtar
Mahmud Faruqui, former Assistant Editor of Dawn
and current Editor of Pakistan Link, USA,
“My father wanted me to become an engineer,
but I used to spend most of my time reading Shafiq-ur-Rehman
and learning his afsanas by heart.”
Dr Shafiq-ur-Rehman was born on November 9, 1920,
in Haroonabad, Bahawalnagar District. He began writing
humorous stories during his school days. They were
published in a monthly literary magazine called
the Khayyam. His work Kirneyn,
completed before he joined medical college, was
published in 1938 while he was still a medical student.
This was followed by Shagoofay, Lehrain, Maddojazar,
Parvaaz, Himaqatain, Mazeed Himaqatain, Dajla
(a travelogue), Insaani Tamasha (a translation
of “A Human Comedy”) and lastly Dareechay.
Memorable characters include Razia, Shaitaan,
Hukoomat Aapa, Maqsood Ghora, Buddy, Nannha
and others. His works added a new dimension to humor
in Urdu literature. The doctor created for his readers
a tangible world fraught with joy, pain and anguish.
It was an affirmation of life and of human values:
empathy, compassion and respect. Even the seemingly
frivolous situations spoke of hidden meanings that
probed deep into the human psyche. His language
was simple, spontaneous and expressive. PG Wodehouse
and Stephen Leacock were among his favorite writers.
I had the rare pleasure of being close to him, as
his niece, and he was always my hero. I found everything
about him extraordinary; his literary genius, his
conversation, his stature, his handsomeness, his
handwriting.
I don’t think I ever saw anyone more becoming
in a military uniform. My aunt, his wife, had met
Dr Rehman through her brother, Shaukat Hasan. The
two young men were classmates at King Edward Medical
College, Lahore, which was the beginning of a lifelong
friendship. In Barsaati, the “friend”
accompanying the author in Spain, is Dr Hasan. The
two friends lovingly addressed one another as “Doolha”
(bridegroom). I remember Dr Rehman’s words
on the occasion of General Shaukat Hasan’s
daughter’s wedding. They had embraced, and
he had said, “Doolha, doolha mubarak ho.”
Dr Shafiq-ur-Rehman had many nieces and nephews.
He had committed to memory some act or conversation
of each child in the family. Whenever he met me
after an interval, he would say that years ago,
I had asked him to wear a suit for an occasion,
and he had found my suggestion so appropriate that
he had quickly gone in and changed. I had always
felt important when he mentioned this incident.
Our families had the opportunity of spending quality
time together in Karachi, from 1972 to 1975 when
he was posted as Naval Director of Medical Services
in the rank of commodore, and later rear admiral.
When he returned to the army, he was made Major
General. My aunt took extended leave from her post
as professor of English at the Government College,
Rawalpindi to join him. He adored his sons and spent
a great deal of time with them, playing cricket,
swimming and other activities. Dr Rehman was very
much an outdoors person. He was tall, athletic and
slim; strenuous exercise being a daily ritual for
him. Every Sunday, he would wear his hat and go
for a long walk to the bazaar to browse second-hand
books. He’d return with an interesting assortment
and give each of us a book to read.
Whenever we went to the doctor’s house, we
knew that depending on the time, he would either
be at work, outdoors for his daily exercise or in
his study. At meal times, we would have the memorable
opportunity to enjoy his company. I always felt
honored to sit at the dining table with him. He
spoke most of the time and we listened, mesmerized.
Dr Rehman had an amazing memory and his conversation
would mostly be about books, poetry and jokes. His
jokes were endless and he never repeated a single
one. He had a special way of telling a joke, which
threw us all into fits of laughter while he sat
with a straight face. Later, I found out that most
people who had met him shared this impression. It
was an unwritten law in the house that meal times
were a reunion of the family and that anything unpleasant,
including illness, was not to be discussed.
Every time I visited the family in Rawalpindi, my
aunt and I took turns reading out passages from
his books. I always made it a point to go through
all their old picture albums. Dr Rehman was very
fond of photography. My aunt had a story to tell
about each picture. They seemed to open vistas to
a lost, romantic youth – offering a glimpse
of life as he had lived it and as it inspired him.
Yet, his room was quite bare, and he was an extraordinarily
simple and private person. I sometimes caught a
glimpse of him while he worked. There was a newspaper
stand in his room where he stood for hours, barefoot,
reading. He even wrote while standing. His library
comprised thousands of books, all neatly stacked
in locked steel trunks. He seemed to have a working
catalogue in his mind and knew where each book was
stacked, every pile and row down to the last detail.
There used to be an ancient timepiece on the sideboard
in the dining room that only he was able to adjust.
When I met my aunt in Rawalpindi, after his passing
away, she sadly mentioned that there was no one
to fix it any more. Dr Rehman had given me an autographed
set of his books, but somehow Mazeed Himaqatain
was missing from the collection. I requested my
aunt to autograph a copy for me. She wrote: “Barey
shauq say sun raha tha zamana. Hameey so gayey dastaan
sunaatey sunaatey.” ("The world
was listening raptly, only I fell asleep as I told
my tale".
My aunt always spoke of her husband fondly, more
so during the last days she spent at a hospital
in Rawalpindi. She would often recall a day long
ago in England, when he had stood by the fireplace
and read out aloud from Nadir Shah, as she and Dr
Shaukat Hasan listened. She said that had loved
the name ‘Shafiq-ur-Rehman’ long before
she had even met him. However, their association
of almost sixty years had finally come to an end.
The ten books that he had written were permanently
placed by her bedside and she took joy in having
selected excerpts read out to her.
I have tried to translate a few lines from Barsaati
that have always moved me. “Alhambra seems
like the home of fairies. Each pillar, arch, wall
and its beautiful engraving, each inch seems magical.
In this solitude, the only sign of life seems to
emerge from the sound of these fountains. These
springs have never been silent. They have been flowing
since the era of the Arabs. The limitations of human
life, the vicissitudes of time, philosophy, creation
and destruction; all seem to have become absorbed
into the sound of these fountains.”
After retiring from the army, General Shafiq-ur-Rehman
served as Chairman of the Academy of Letters from
1980 to 1985. During his tenure, the Academy assumed
a new stature as a prominent literary institution
of Pakistan. He continued to write till his death
in March 2000, and was the only Major General to
be awarded the Hilal-e-Imtiaz for his military
and civilian services. He was bestowed the honor
after his death and his son, Attiq-ur-Rehman, received
it on his behalf on March 23, 2001.
Dr Rehman is a legend in Urdu literature and lives
on in our hearts. His books have been read and appreciated
so widely that had he belonged to any other country,
he would have been a millionaire. However, he never
asked for any royalties and never made any kind
of monetary agreement with his publishers.
Dr Rehman’s lifestyle was always simple. On
an occasion, a thief tried to break into their house
and in the process damaged a door the repair of
which caused the family considerable inconvenience.
I recall him saying that a sign should be posted
outside for thieves, “The door is open; you
don’t have to break it.”
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