Most of his semi-biographical stories are framed in his youth and take place between the great world wars. Besides the humor, his works Pashtaway and Dajla show the serious side of the author.
Shafiq sahib was a meticulous person. For his writing, he took his time and worked on his drafts several times before even sharing them with his friends for initial review. All the characters and most incidents in his books were preserved in his trunks in 26 West ridge I , Rawalpindi - his address which was well-known to fans, for his letters always had it handwritten on top. There was no name-plate outside the home and we always went around a few times, missing the premises, before finally making it there. On a summer lunch visit, he opened for us many of his old literary relics. Thus, Shaitan, Maqsood Ghora, Baby, Hakoomat appa and other characters from his books all came to life that day in black and white.
He had retired as a three-star General and became Chairman of the Academy of Letters
My first encounter with him was a visit to his office in Islamabad in 1981. He had recently retired as a three-star General and became Chairman of ghe Academy of Letters. He invited my father, and I tagged along. A six-feet tall, blue-eyed, lanky, dashing gentleman in his summer bush shirt – he cut quite the striking figure. He was certainly the man who as a child had sat on the shores of Neeli Jheel - a short story about young group of friends learning about the realities of growing up from a family cook and their visits to a lake - or dreaming about the beautiful world across the shores of that blue lake in his book Hamaqatain, or the young officer who won Julie’s heart in a desolate hill-town British Army cantonment in the same book.
He gave us a ride in his official Honda with automatic windows, which was a novelty in those days. Sitting in the front, I found it hard to resist playing with the buttons. He looked at me and started playing like a child. Never at a loss to find the lighter side of life, he told us to be mindful of new push-button technology because the other day he was watching TV and the accidental touch of a remote control resulted in moving the screens from a Madhuri Dixit dance to a sermon!
A book lover, going to Sadr Sunday Book Bazaar in Rawalpindi was a very regular activity for him. He bought books for himself and sent bundles to his friends. We were beneficiaries of his Sunday routine. When my brother Sumair expressed an interest in drawing, he sent endless books on drawing skills including some of his personal books from his own college days. My sister, Annie was his favorite. He sent his complete autographed set of books to her. And when she got into King Edward College, Shafiq sahib’s alma mater, he sent his medical textbooks which had been kept in his library all those years. Annie was special to him - he gifted her the first Enid Blyton set that she owned and always gave her chocolates when we visited him.
Back in those days, letter writing was the main communication tool. He was in regular contact by this means. His letters were distinct - a small blue-colored envelope, bluish-black ink, slanting small script - and the envelope carried a small blue-colored paper. His letters were never long: hardly a page-and-a-half, rarely two pages. He knew of our family’s fondness for him and his writings, which he always affectionately responded to. Whenever my father mentioned that his son or daughter had finished a certain book, within days, post haste, would arrive another.
Legend had it that the great Urdu novelist Qurratulain Hyder was once in love with him
Shafiq sahib was a generous host and connoisseur. Homemade yogurt in a ‘kunda’ was a familiar sight on his dining table. On a visit of ours, he had just returned after his evening walk - wearing white shorts with an open-buttoned polo neck and untied joggers laces - he was definitely the one Najla had fallen for in his short story Dajla when he visited Baghdad.
He had a gym nook, with a bench and weights, adjacent to his bedroom - which was on the second floor of his house. An ardent fitness aficionado, he exercised daily till his very last days. That room had the hard bed of a soldier and a desert cooler to keep him cool in the Rawalpindi summers - he called himself a ‘man of deserts’ and said it was his reason for keeping a desert cooler instead of an AC in his room.
At times he would open up about his personal life. Legend had it that the greatest Urdu novelist Qurratulain Hyder was once in love with him. Shafiq sahib was in England at that time. They met a few times. While smiling, Shafiq sahib narrated how he took Qurratulain Hyder for dinner a few times - potentially a date - and after having a spicy meal she would always say “marchi marchi!” (spicy, spicy).
Many tragedies struck him in his later life. His final years looked more like a Greek tragedy than the portrait of his joyous youth. One of his three sons Khaliq-ur Rehman, a freshman in medical college, committed suicide in 1981. The second son’s failed suicide attempt resulted in a blind young man. To us and the world he remained the same - willing to laugh, affectionate and filled with zest to explore the unknown yet beautiful world that existed across the blue shores. Expressing his grief in a letter to my father, Shafiq sahib wrote that Joe’s death (nick name for Khaliq) reminded him of a Scottish tune played by the docked ships when the British Royal Navy destroyers would sail in World War II - never to return:
Will ye no come back again?
Will ye no come back again?
Better loved you cannae be
Will ye no come back again?
Growing up, Shafiq sahib was an officer and a gentleman, a great romantic and every inch of what his writing would made his reader imagine him to be.
My most cherished memory of him is a letter with advice that he sent to me in my adolescence - a stanza from Charles Kingsley, which he often quoted:
When all the world is young lad
When all the trees are green,
When every goose a swan lad
And every lass a queen,
Then hey for boot and horse lad
And round the world
Young Blood must have its course lad
And every dog his day
Decades have passed since I first read Neeli Jheel. I read Neeli Jheel once a year - it resonated with the aspirations of an adolescent and it still does for a middle-aged man.
The writer can be contacted at smt2104@caa.columbia.edu