The way it was: Adrift in India with Sohail Iftikhar Mian Ijaz Ul Hassan
Gwalior seemed to be an interesting place, but we couldn’t learn much about
it. Sohail needed to recuperate from his long journey. I couldn’t even argue
because he had indeed made a marathon effort to be with us
It was the first car allowed into India three years after the 1965 war, courtesy
Mian Iftikhar-ud-Din family’s pre-Partition relations with the Nehrus. It was
an air-conditioned 1968 Toyota Corona with a 1600cc engine, which Sohail
Iftikhar had acquired for Rs 18000, the price of a desi bakra today.
I remember it was a pleasant summer morning when we drove across the sad Sutlej
Bridge at Kote Ganda Singhwala towards the Indian town of Ferozepur from where
we accelerated to Delhi. At Delhi, Sohail moved in at the Intercontinental with
his mother who had flown in a few days earlier. Musarrat, my wife, and I checked
in at the old Palace Hotel, probably of the same age as Faletti’s of Lahore,
which was not far away from the Tinti Tonti, as Sohail liked to call the
Intercon.
I do not recall the architectural features of the Intercontinental Hotel except
that it was slick and tall. But I do vividly recollect Sateesh Gujral’s terra
cota mural, glazed with the most radiant colours. Sateesh, one of India’s
leading artists today, was born and raised in Jhelum and migrated to India in
the early fifties. The elder Gujral, his brother and former prime minister of
India, was the information and culture minister at the time. I did not know
Sateesh then, but made his acquaintance two decades later. Krishen Khanna was
kind enough to take me to his house. Krishen Khanna is an old Ravian and also
one of India’s frontline painters. This is not the occasion, but if the names
of artists, actors, musicians and intellectuals who migrated to India after
Partition were to be counted, it would make a long list. Om Saran, whose family
owned a building on the Mall in Lahore, before they migrated to Delhi, said to
me ‘Delhi mein tha hi kya, hum nay isay aa kar abaad kiya’ (There was
nothing in Delhi. We made it into a city).
Sohail was never short of reasons for causing delays and postponing things. At
Lahore he was the indisputable leader of a group, which tongue-in-cheek, surely
— referred to itself as ‘Company Bahadur’. Most of them were Aitchisonians
or had been to Cambridge or Oxford. The common denominator was their pursuit of
leisure, a gift for idle conversation on learned matters ranging from the latest
issue of Tatler to politics. It was a motley crowd that espoused different
passions. They were a petulant and argumentative crowd, inseparable, but loved
their indolence above all.
We stayed in Delhi more than we should have, doing nothing. Sohail insisted that
we should relax, not get ourselves worked up. He also pleaded that we should
bear his small failings. In the first place, he got up late and would order
breakfast when his friends would be building up an appetite for lunch. At lunch
he would, without exaggeration, sit for at least two to three hours, pushing and
prodding the food on his plate, carefully investigating each morsel he picked,
while pondering over existential issues vital to human race. Among his friends
opinion was divided on whether Mian Sahib ate well or ate leisurely.
It was an uneasy pleasure to be with Sohail. Coming back to our journey,
constant delays finally wore out my patience. Musarrat and I drove off in a huff
to Agra, where we created a little problem for ourselves and the local police
for checking into a hotel which was situated within the precincts of the
cantonment. From Agra we drove to Gwalior. Sohail finally joined us there by
train. We went to receive him at the railway station. Soon the train roared on
to the platform. I peered into each moving window, hoping to catch his glimpse.
There he was, as the train glided towards us, standing in an open door; firmly
holding on to its two long handles, with his wind swept hair tangled with dust.
‘Look what sacrifices I make for you, Mian Sahib’, he said to me cheerfully,
while stepping down from the carriage onto the platform.
Gwalior seemed to be an interesting place, but we couldn’t learn much about
it. Sohail needed to recuperate from his long journey. I couldn’t even argue
because he had indeed made a marathon effort to be with us. The Gwalior fort is
built on a flat hill, almost vertically rising above the town. It seemed
unassailable. In the fort above the Sas Bahu Temples and the Teli Ka Mandar with
its deeply carved panels on either side of the entrance are magnificent examples
of the continuation of Gupta craftsmanship. The ancient temples echoing the
shrieks of peacocks hanging around the dark battlements lent a wild aspect to
the whole setting. On another day we visited Taan Sen’s tomb. It is customary
for aspiring musicians to pluck a leaf off the tree leaning on his grave and eat
it. This is supposed to help firm up the voice. Since we had no such ambitions,
we just prayed for the great man’s soul, who we are confident must have by now
found an appreciative audience at his ethereal abode.
From Gwalior we proceeded to Bhopal. We had been warned that the road to Bhopal
was fraught with great dangers. Only a week earlier, a small convoy had been
ambushed by bandits, depriving the guards of their weapons and the grain they
were transporting. Then there were the tigers lurking in the jungle. Rippu,
whose mother was the Princess of Bhopal, and who was married to a friend in
Lahore, had strictly warned us against traveling after sunset.
Sohail was accordingly informed and sternly told to be up early which he
promised to do. He kept his promise and knocked at our door early the next
morning and was naturally asked to come in. He had made his point of being up
early. Rest of the morning he spent ordering breakfast and having endless pots
of tea, making long distance telephone calls, having clothes pressed, packing,
then unpacking to locate a trivial toiletry item, which had been inadvertently
packed, packing again only to find that it had not been done the right way.
Finally, when everything was ready, we still had to decide whether lunch should
be taken at Gwalior or en route. Since no one could confirm that there was a
catering facility on the way, it was considered wise to eat before leaving.
Since precious time was to be saved we had to decide quickly whether we should
order food at the hotel or look for some place more interesting in town.
As expected we got a bit lost in finding the straight route to the restaurant in
the middle of the town. Fortunately there were no further delays and we were
through lunch by four, but no one had realised that the fuel tank was empty,
which meant locating the nearest petrol station, having the car filled, the oil,
water and the tire pressure checked. Finally, when the luggage had been picked
from the hotel and packed in the boot it was past five. Wouldn’t you say it
was a good time for a cup of tea? Thanks to Sohail, we finally set off on our
journey just when the sky had begun to darken after the sun had set. To the
tiger’s good luck, none crossed our path. We arrived at the Royal Sabre Hotel
in Bhopal in the early hours of the morning, with sore eyes, which had not
winced once on the way watching for prowling predators.
Prof Ijaz-ul-Hassan is Pakistan’s leading painter. He is a teacher, art critic
and political activist. He was awarded the “President’s Pride of
Performance” in 1992. He is currently the president of the PPP Punjab’s
Policy Planning Committee and Chairman of the party’s Manifesto Committee