Arey Larkay!

Mushfiq Khwaja

Dec 19-1935 – Feb 21,2005

Author, poet, historian, humorist

*****

“Arey Larkay, go to the fourth room, third shelf from the right and fourth from the top, bring me the seventh book from the right.”

I looked in amazement as the servant whom he always referred to as Larka or larkay disappeared, soon to reappear with an autographed book by historian and critic Qazi Abdul Wadood of Patna. Mushfiq sahib turned the pages, stopped at a page and read me some lines backing up what he was saying.

This was in early eighties. I had just returned from a long and exhausting trip all over India and Pakistan. I had met, photographed and tape recorded interviews with leading Indian and Paksitani Urdu authors and poets.

We were sitting in his study on the second floor of his three floor row house near the Abbasi hospital in Nazimabad. Except for the kitchen every room was lined with wall to wall shelves bulging with books.

He was enquiring about my trip and the writer and poets I had photographed and met. And as I named them he would regale me with stories from their works and correspondence with him.

This was post ’71 and pre-internet times. Urdu books and publications from India were hard to come by. But he had every single relevant and important Urdu book from India in his library curtsy of friends and well wishers.

And the larka act was repeated a few times during the course of the afternoon. He would send the larka with precise instructions and the servant would appear with the exact book by Kalimuddin Ahmed, Malik Raam, Ali Sardar Jafri, Aaal e Ahmed Suroor that he wished to show or quote from.

He had prodigal memory, was very meticulous and organized. He was working on revising a monumental book called (A Survey of Urdu Manuscripts). He had organized all the information on 3x5 cards. No, no computers then.

I recall he had left his regular work with the government and had taken an early retirement. His wife Amina was a teacher. He worked with clockwork precision. Waking up at a certain hour, working, eating, resting, working, walking, resting, working and retiring. Sunday was a day reserved for friends and well wishers.

He seldom left his home. Hated socializing and avoided controversies.

He was of medium height, wheatish complexioned, wore mostly kurtas, and spoke and ate and smoked in a very measured way. He was confident and very soft spoken.

Mushfiq Khwaja was a poet, historian, portrait photographer and humorist. Until recently very few readers knew that he was the writer behind the pseudonym khama b’gosh.

My visit to Karachi would be incomplete if I did not visit with him. It was a pleasure to sit and listen to him talk about Urdu and the global Urdu writers.

I met him last in May or June last year. The larka this time was a bearded middle aged man. But the books came forth to punctuate his conversation with written quotes as usual.

I told him about my tapes and we discussed where I could donate them so scholars can get useful material out of them. And I promised to hand them over to him on my next visit.

M and I wish Amina peace.