TAfter returning from Hajj, all of Mawlana Islahi’s engagements revolved around teaching in the Halaqah-e- Tadabbur-e-Qur’an, preparing drafts of the Qur’anic commentary Tadabbur-e-Qur’an, and the monthly journal Mithaq. He was deeply satisfied with these activities. He was particularly pleased with the intellectual capacity of the students in the Halaqah-e-Tadabbur-e-Qur’an and the effort being invested in them. He discussed this in considerable detail in Mithaq.
From that article it becomes clear that he taught Arabic to the students using Imam Farahi’s concise treatise Asbaq al-Nahw. Thereafter, he taught them a book prepared by Mawlana Hamid al-Din Farahi as an elementary reader. Along with language instruction, this reader trained them in the practical application of grammatical issues. From the very first day, the teaching of the Qur’an continued regularly, in which linguistic issues, the coherence of discourse (nazm al-kalam), and the interpretation of verses were discussed. After this reader, in order to advance further in literature, they were taught Kalilah wa Dimnah, and after that Muqaddimah Ibn Khaldun was begun. When the students started to understand the Muqaddimah well and read it fluently, he discontinued it and had them read Hamasah of Abu Tammam in its entirety. For further reading as well as for Hadith, he taught them Sahih Muslim by Imam Muslim. For jurisprudence, he taught Bidayat al-Mujtahid by Ibn Rushd. In this way, instead of being confined to a single school of law, the students became acquainted with all the well-known and lesser-known juristic opinions, along with their arguments. After this, he taught Hujjat Allah al-Balighah by Shah Wali Allah.
After teaching this curriculum, what his expectations and objectives were, he himself writes:
After this, in my estimation, there will no longer be any need to teach them anything lesson by lesson; rather, they will be able to study everything on their own, and they will themselves open up the paths of deduction and inference. This, indeed, is my objective. (Maqalat-e-Islahi, 1/324)
Since these students were modern, educated individuals, he wrote about them:
Along with possessing an Islamic mind and outlook, these students are, by the grace of God, Muslims in practice and outwardly as well. I have produced a new kind of ‘mullah’ who, God willing, will feel no embarrassment at being called a mullah; rather, they will take pride in it. Each one of them is also equipped with all the weaponry of modern education. If God so wills, they will prove to be a double-edged sword in the defense of Islam and in the struggle against atheism and irreligion. (Maqalat-e-Islahi, 1/321–323)
Mawlana’s goal was that on this very principle, within a period of three years, he would prepare modern educated people to learn and teach religion, and that these individuals would establish similar circles in different cities, thereby generating a movement for learning and teaching religion.
This series continued until 1965. Then, in that very year, Mawlana was confronted with the greatest tragedy of his life. This incident shook the routine of his life to its foundations.
The Martyrdom of Abu Salih Islahi
It has already been mentioned in these pages that among Mawlana’s three sons, the eldest was Abu Salih Islahi. Mawlana had a special affection for him. He had attached many hopes to this son of his. He chose the field of journalism and had come to be counted among the leading journalists of the country. He was the editor of the most famous newspaper of his time, the daily Mashriq. On 20 May 1965, he departed for ‘Umrah on a PIA flight. The aircraft crashed and was destroyed in the Egyptian city of Cairo. One hundred and twenty-four people lost their lives in it. There were also twenty-two journalists on board the plane, one of whom was Abu Salih. On his tragic demise, the condolence article written by his close friend and renowned journalist of that era, Agha Shorish Kashmiri, is perhaps unsurpassed in writing about Abu Salih. Through it, readers will learn all the details about him. This article is included in Shorish Kashmiri’s book Nau Ratan. We present that article here:
“‘Abdul Majid Qureshi said: Shorish, meet him—this is Abu Salih Islahi. You wrote the editorial note on his article stating that God Almighty has opened for him the paths of thought and vision. The article under consideration is the result of his vast observation, deep study, and prolonged analysis.’
Abu Salih Islahi—?
I greeted him warmly with a handshake, even embraced him by forming an arc with my right arm around his neck, yet I could not believe that this was Abu Salih Islahi. Firstly, given his name, the image that formed was of an elderly man; secondly, considering what had emerged from his pen—from the maturity of handwriting to the blending of ideas—it was hard to accept that this youthful lad was Abu Salih Islahi. At that time, he was perhaps around twenty or twenty-one years old, but in appearance he looked sixteen or seventeen. He had a slender body; his eyes were both lively and bright; his complexion was clear; his face round and full; his tongue sharp; and in his gait and demeanor there was a trace of graceful charm—and thus began our friendship.
As time passed, the friendship deepened. Abu Salih began journalism with the daily Tasnim; he wrote for Chattan for four or five years. ‘Qalam Qatl’ was his special column—an invention of his own mind. He engaged in light satire, rarely targeted individuals, performed post-mortems on news items, or subjected those theories he found laughable to the edge of humor. He never struck below the belt; whatever he wrote, he wrote cleanly. He had a complete grasp of the temperament of satire. He understood well where the pen inflicts wounds and where it makes flowers bloom. ‘Qalam Qatl’ not only enhanced the beauty of his pen, but also became a distinct style.
When Kohistan was launched, he went to Rawalpindi as its editor. In place of ‘Qalam Qatl’, he began writing ‘Aaj Ki Baatain’. When he came to Mashriq, he brought the title along with him. In short, his talent continued to mature in daily newspapers, until he became a complete editor. Whoever he targeted felt that something from the realm of literary elegance had occurred. Humor is neither abuse nor buffoonery. The virtue of humor lies in the fact that even the person being teased derives pleasure from it. Bitterness or sharpness should be only to the extent of the mild intoxication of a light fever. Abu Salih Islahi was fully acquainted with these subtleties and graces. His upbringing itself had been such that he was not accustomed to harshness in writing. He wrote in a conversational style, wrote extempore, and whatever he wrote, he wrote with measure. His writings were spared from extravagance of words and wastefulness of thought.
My association with him dates back to the end of 1948. We went through thick and thin together. When he moved to Rawalpindi during the Kohistan period, the daily closeness changed; otherwise, before that, his routine was to have breakfast at home, come to the Chattan office in the morning, and stay together until seven or eight in the evening. In those days, we ate and drank together. At noon, we would spend an hour or an hour and a half at the coffee house with Nizami Sahib (Hamid Nizami). In the evening, at Loring Metro or Keso’s. In Hamid Nizami’s circle of friends, there were three talkative individuals: Sheikh Khurshid Ahmad (former Law Minister, Government of Pakistan), Shorish Kashmiri, and Abu Salih Islahi. Sheikh Sahib excelled in verbal sparring; Abu Salih generally debated politics, sometimes with light humor.
When he began to reside permanently in Rawalpindi, the daily connection with Lahore naturally diminished, but whenever he came to Lahore every second or third month, gatherings would be held. Neither could he leave without meeting us, nor could we return from Rawalpindi without meeting him. He had relationships with others as well, but we were his true companions. In our view, he had only one flaw: he chewed betel. There was no blemish on his character. He was pure gold—clean youth, radiant prime. Averse to the rebelliousness of the self, his heart was a mirror; whatever he saw or read, he reflected upon it. We had roamed every alley of life and had acquired a certain sharpness of passion. Abu Salih was devoted solely to books. For him, matters of beauty and love were merely themes of ghazal poetry; perhaps he did not consider them things to be practiced by human beings. Beauty was present in his writings, but in demeanor he was entirely uninitiated. He had no sense of physical beauty at all, nor did he possess any poetic fervor. The saying ‘youth, therefore, falls’ did not apply to him at all.
At one time, Shaheed Suhrawardy (Prime Minister of United Pakistan) used to spend a large part of the day at the Chattan office. Since he had a taste for revelry and color, he did not hesitate to go to ‘that market’. After the day’s mental engagements, he would certainly seek recreation. But Abu Salih, despite mingling with us, never accompanied us to that alley. In other words, he had no interest in revelry, color, music, or song. During the period of compiling Is Bazaar Mein (Shorish’s celebrated book on the red-light district), he went along two or three times, but no more than that—since even on friendly journeys he had to pass through that one turn. He was unfamiliar with matters of union and separation.
Upon returning from America, he stayed for a few days in Germany. We were already there to attend the annual meeting of the International Press Institute. In those countries, it does not take long for a person to become exposed, but he had no inclination in that direction. He commented on everything—from the palanquin of the Paan to the bullet of Kennedy—but even among close friends, he would not touch upon immodest topics.
When Mashriq was launched from Lahore, he became its editor, but those informal gatherings no longer remained. Nizami had passed away; I was absorbed in my own engagements; and he was constrained by editorial responsibilities. Mashriq gave newspapers a new color and polish, which was impossible without constant labor from morning till evening. Nevertheless, we met daily—sometimes he would come to the Chattan office, sometimes I would go to the Mashriq office. What topic was there on which we did not try our hand? Like Nizami, he too sensed the suffocation of the surroundings and would say much in good humor, but he believed that an Islamic government would be of this very kind. He was always content, but after his marriage he became very content. Every kind of circumstance came upon him, but some of his habits were so refined that he had learned the art of living with contentment.
He was the capable son of a renowned father. From his father, Mawlana Amin Ahsan Islahi, he inherited two things: dignity without a trace of arrogance, and contentment that even great men lack. He had acquired this wealth at a very young age. When he graduated from Madrasah al-Islah, Sarai Mir, India was being partitioned. He came to Pakistan. His father was Vice-President of Jamaat-e-Islami; he himself also joined the Jamaat, but left it much earlier than his father. His mind always remained Islamic—owing to his early education and training, as well as his father’s influence and the home environment. He had immense respect for his father. The flippancy commonly found among journalists was entirely absent in him—it did not even touch him.
He studied Arabic, Persian, and Urdu at the madrasah; he learned English on his own, to the extent that he mastered even the most complex books. He learned writing from his father and became proficient within a year or two. Difficult words had no passage in his writings. He expressed his thoughts in simple, straightforward words, and whatever he conveyed, he did so with such excellence that it left an imprint on the listener’s or reader’s heart. He was perhaps the last young editor of his cohort who possessed foundational knowledge of Urdu,
Persian, and Arabic. He was thoroughly familiar with the classical literature of these languages. Easternness permeated his veins. Not for a moment did he surrender himself to Western civilization; rather, he made Western civilization submit to him.
He had no desire to go to ‘Cairo’. He wanted to perform ‘Umrah, and it was with this desire that he prepared himself. The State Bank officials kept him waiting until the last moment for foreign exchange. One day before he was to depart on the journey of death, he came to the Chattan office and chatted for a long time. I said, ‘I will be present at the airport in the morning.’
He replied, ‘Agha, what need is there for such formality? I will be back on the third day.’
It is my habit that I rarely go to airports or railway stations to see people off or receive them; perhaps it has happened only once or twice in my life. But that day, my heart repeatedly urged me to go. So, despite the intense heat, I reached the airport on time. He was ready to depart. Upon seeing me, he embraced me.
‘Agha, you really took the trouble.’
‘No brother, what trouble! I felt like coming.’
‘I will be back the day after tomorrow.’
‘My friend! What trust is there in this flying contraption?’
We embraced, and he went into the passenger room to board the aircraft.
The words slipped from my mouth, but at that time it never even crossed my mind that this plane was flying with the wings of the Angel of Death; that there was no return written in its destiny, nor in that of its passengers. The next morning, around eleven o’clock, Majid Nizami called to say that the PIA aircraft that had taken journalists to Cairo had crashed near Cairo—everyone had perished.
His images began to swirl before my eyes. The last embrace with Abu Salih Islahi came back into view. One image stood before me—his final image. Yes, handsome, wheat-colored complexion, large eyes, a dagger-like nose, a broad forehead; he used to wear an achkan, now he had begun wearing a suit. His height was slightly below average, though his build had grown fuller. Alas, these were not the days of his death, yet in the blink of an eye, they became so.
When Hamid Nizami passed away, he came from Rawalpindi to Lahore. The funeral procession was underway; he wept bitterly all along the way. It took a long time for his heart to steady. His health remained weak for several days. Since he was the youngest among all friends, we would often tease him. We would say, ‘My friend! When we depart to God, be sure to write an article on our virtues and merits, do print our photographs—and if I am there, do take out a special number!’ He would laugh and say, ‘You are outrageous, brother! Where are you people dying yet—we have only just begun the journey of life.’
But he did not know that the journey he was embarking upon was the final one. He was not going to Cairo; he was going to the city of non-existence, and the mourning of his untimely death was destined for us.
‘Alas, O death! If only death itself had come to you.’ (165–173)
[To be continued]