Back hunched under the weight of a rucksack. Fit to burst with books. Kitted out in an old polo shirt, tracksuit bottoms, and scuffed trainers. A uniform of sorts. After all, as the song goes: the good guys dressed in black. And this time they had it right.
That was my first glimpse of Khaled Ahmed. At the old Daily Times newsroom. Before it became overrun with rodents of a different kind. When a fly swatter on the news editor’s desk posed as a scepter. Everyone and their cat warned against approaching Khaled Sahib. For never a gruffer fellow would one meet.
But a cat can still look at a king. At least when fresh off the boat from England’s green and, at times, pleasant land. Arriving in Lahore in 2003, I was woefully unaware of Khaled Sb’s intellectual stature. In those days — before chronic salary delays left the fourth estate emaciated and delivering just the bare minimum — the rivalry between the newsroom and editorial staff was palpable. With one side huffing and puffing about how the other reckoned itself; too high-brow for its big boots.
Indeed, by his admission, Khaled Sb had a pathological fear of subeditors messing up a copy. During the days of the cursed annual supplement, our Paddington Bear editor Najam Sethi reminded me not to tinker with a single word. After formatting the piece and extracting a couple of blurbs I emailed it back to Khaled Sb. Within a few minutes he pinged over an irate response; reprimanding me for twisting the meaning of the entire article. Armed with a printout of the original, I trundled over to his office with my receipts. Recognising that nothing was amiss, he sheepishly explained that his fingers had been burned one too many times by the newsroom. An absolute relief. For never did I want Khaled Sb to think badly of me. Even though once or twice I committed the very mistakes he worried about.
We went to and fro for some time. And then he delivered a sucker punch. My continuing down this path would empower the mullahs. The upshot was that I would no longer be able to wear jeans! His tone was utterly serious but offset by a smile
Despite being assigned to the foreign desk as a rubber — I would arrive early and pour over the editorial pages while guzzling a cup of tea or three. I soon became familiar with Khaled Sb’s byline; speculating which of the editorials he might have penned. Those that piqued my interest the most confronted the War on Terror and Pakistan’s role as the browbeaten subaltern.
The first time I pussyfooted into his office, it was on the pretext of tracking down his colleague - the two shared the room. By then, I had started writing columns for the paper, though I had not yet dared to tackle national politics. Upon only finding Khaled Sb there, I hesitated briefly before blurting out whether I could pick his brains about the latest domestic development. I fully expected to be shooed away. Yet, imagine my delight when he looked up and nodded. After that, I would occasionally barge in to discuss that day’s editorial. From the (later redacted) Newsweek International story on Quran desecrations at Guantanamo Bay to the London bombings.
Once, when he was watching the cricket, Khaled Sb simply gave an exasperated sigh and muted the small television set. That might have been the occasion when he chastised me. Not for my uninvited intrusions that the news editor took as a betrayal of class warfare of his own making. But, rather, for crucifying Blair over poodle-ing along after Dubya to quagmire Iraq. The way Khaled Sb saw it: Pakistan needed the West to counter the religious right at home that was quite literally dying to see General Musharraf go. We went to and fro for some time. And then he delivered a sucker punch. My continuing down this path would empower the mullahs. The upshot was that I would no longer be able to wear jeans! His tone was utterly serious but offset by a smile. My response was unabashedly cheeky as I pointed out that Teflon Tony was my Prime Minister and remained answerable to me: the electorate. For that was the way the cookie crumbled in democracies. At which Khaled Sb rightly guffawed at the irony. We then had a cigarette together to show no hard feelings on either side. I left his office feeling utterly tickled pink. He was reading my articles!
Had I been au courant with Khaled Sb’s vast body of work and print media prowess at that time — I might never have mustered the gumption to waltz into his office. Fortunately, I did. Those interactions really were the cat’s meow.