"The Promise to the Leader" Ishraq A. Hashmi

 

Master Abdul Ali's entire life was spent in teaching. His family had witnessed the bloody scenes of the Partition of India. Fire and blood, killing and destruction. True fans of his father, Jinnah Sahib, they had destroyed everything in his name. They had sacrificed their wealth and lost their relationships.

But, deep down, there was love for Pakistan and devotion to Muhammad Ali Jinnah. “My son will become a teacher…” When Abdul Ali first picked up the plaque and medal, he declared. The son also believed in his father, and after passing the CT test, he became a teacher in the village school. “You will introduce Muhammad Ali Jinnah to the coming generations. You will instill the love of the Quaid-e-Azam in their blood so that every generation remembers how much great favor has been done to them.” He had made a promise to his son.

Master Abdul Ali was very sincere in his profession. He never tried to teach his students through mere rote memorization. This was the reason why the students never forgot the lessons he taught them. He also used to build character along with the textbooks. He repeatedly explained the two-nation theory. He had it written on a big chart in the classroom. “A Muslim does not panic.” The sayings of Muhammad Ali Jinnah were a part of his conversation.

He would narrate the events of their lives in a vivid manner so that the students would be aware of every aspect of their benefactor's life. "Remember! Nations that forget the deeds of their benefactors and heroes, then they start beating drums in the dark." As he said this, there was a gentle expression on his face and the light of experience in his eyes. And this was the reason why his students listened to his lectures with full attention.

The disciple of Master Abdul Ali, who was very proud of him, was Abdul Wasi. He also met him under strange circumstances. “Son! What are you doing?” He asked this when he saw a thin child on the bank of the river trying to count continuously. “One, two, three, four…ten.” He would stop every time he reached ten. He first counted trees, then started counting sparrows sitting on electric wires. 

After that, flowers grew on the rose branch, but each time the count stopped at ten. He had been watching this child for several days while going to school on his bicycle. "I want to study, but my father doesn't allow it," he said in a sad tone. And again he started counting the trees on the bank of the canal. Master Abdul Ali looked at him sadly and decided to talk to his father. 

A man in shabby clothes was selling bread. Talking to him, it became clear that he had nothing to say except poverty, hunger, and lack of resources. Education was a kind of luxury. "I will give you two hundred rupees a day, but let your son read." Master Abdul Ali's tone was pleading. Holding his finger, the little boy was studying his father's face in a state of despair. Finally, after a little discussion and deliberation, he agreed.

Now he would wait for the bell of his bicycle by the canal every morning. He would make him sit with him and take him to his school. On the way, he would count trees, chickens, and children going to school. He had memorized the numbers very quickly. He was not only intelligent, he was very intelligent. If he did not study, it would have been a great injustice, not only to him but to the entire village. From the fifth grade, he started receiving a scholarship from the school for his excellent performance. Which was determined by well-wishers. Now his father did not need Master Abdul Ali's monthly two hundred rupees because Abdul Wasi had started working after school.

When he took up a position on the board in Medak, the entire village stood in front of his dilapidated door with sweets and garlands, but Abdul Wasi himself was crying at the feet of Master Sahib. “If you had ignored me that day, I would have been pushing a cart today too.” Master Abdul Ali held him by the shoulders, stood him up, and hugged him. “My every success is in the name of Master Abdul Ali,” he had said in an interview.

Abdul Wasi worked hard and did so much that he became the identity of his village. The golden coins of time were falling. And then one day there was a prominent headline in the newspaper. "Abdul Wasi of Dhoak Alamgir has secured the first position in CSS." Today, in this village nestled in the mountains, there was happiness in every direction, lamps in every house. Abdul Wasi had become a great officer. Master Abdul Ali was still sharing the light of knowledge. Already old and weak, but just as determined as he had been years ago. 

Even today, there would have been some rare gem in their group who was to become the future Abdul Wasi. He came to meet them, happy and joyful over his success. There was sweetness in the winter sun. There was a pile of dry leaves; someone had lit a fire in them. So he joined the bass wind. He sat on his knees near them. There was great devotion in his eyes for the bright tower that had made him a thorn.

"I knew; my intuition had informed me that you would reach your destination, but your real test has now begun. Leaving the world of books, you have to fight for your loyalty, survival, and dignity in the jungle of humans. Beware! Never do anything that will make you ashamed in your own eyes. Do you remember the words of Muhammad Ali Jinnah, which I have repeated many times? The promise made to him." Master Abdul Ali looked at his talented student. In response, he kissed his hand and bowed in greeting.

There was a familiar silence in the room, which also contained many mysteries. The quiet and quiet man of the past, Abdul Wase, was now the DC. His fame rang in the city. Big decisions were made on his signature. A file was sent to him; an illegal work had to be legalized, and his signature could do this. In return, he had a bright future and many privileges. For a moment, greed raised its head, the intoxication of power took over, and then suddenly… strong winds started blowing. The windows were shattered. 

There was a pale-yellow mirror in front of him. He got up from his chair and opened the door and came out. "We will take Pakistan. Long live the Quaid-e-Azam!" People were passing by him chanting slogans, but no one paid attention to him. "Today is Jinnah Sahib's rally; his carriage is coming." Two men were passing by saying. He looked up in surprise. This was the era of 1945 or 1942. He tried to guess. He saw a thin, sharp-eyed leader standing on the stage. It was the Quaid-e-Azam. The venue was echoing with slogans. 

Abdul Wasi could not believe his eyes. Then suddenly there was silence in the venue. Jinnah Sahib was giving a speech. "I am often asked what the form of government of Pakistan will be. Who am I to determine the form of government of Pakistan?" 

The Muslim system of government is contained in the Holy Quran, which was revealed thirteen hundred years ago for our guidance, and it will remain so until the Day of Judgment.” His eyes were on Abdul Wasi, or perhaps he felt that way. It was as if he was standing alone in the entire hall with his leader. He began to absorb his words. Suddenly he stumbled and fell facedown.

He looked up in shock. He was sitting alone in his room. The file had fallen at his feet. The air was still, the window was closed. There was no living soul in sight, except for the dignified portrait of the Quaid-e-Azam on the wall in front. He felt as if he were looking at him with intense anger and reproach. 

He quickly tore up the file and threw it in the dustbin. The picture of the late Master Abdul Ali came to his eyes. "I remember every promise I made to you, Quaid-e-Azam!!" He said under his breath while standing in front of the picture and wiped the moisture from his eyes. He felt that the shine of Quaid-e-Azam's eyes had increased, the smile on his lips had deepened.