Passing of a great mind
Qazi Sahab passed today on Dhul-Hijjah 8, 1426, the day of hajj. He was a friend as well as an Uncle who suffered a mental stroke while undergoing heart surgery. It is the curse of our colonized mentality and medical sciences that we allow surgeons to cut open our rib cages with electric saws without a thought to what it would do to a body’s energy flow. He opted for a heart bypass after finding out that his artery was blocked and the esteemed doctors of the OMI clinic in Karachi did a perfectly localized heart operation but somehow they did not consider his body as a holistic system and in their negligence, his blood pressure dropped resulting in a massive brain stroke. In the end, he had blood gushing into his heart, but an empty mind, which is sad, because he possessed an incredible mind.
As a math whiz and had completed all his studies at the top of his class. When the opportunity came for him to clear his final MENSA admission test in Australia his IQ was measured at 185, which should take into account that he was a non-native speaker of English in his late thirties. If I had that kind of a brain, my megalomania would have surpassed most world leaders, but Qazi Sahab had a personal humility that was the hallmark of a Sufi. Again, I don’t mean luddites who eschew technology and use miswaq for brushing teeth so that they can be with the ‘one’, only to be turned away due to periodontal disease, he was a traditional Sufi with utmost humility, a ready smile, the mark from sijda on his forehead proclaiming his as someone who prayed five time on time and a crazy leg spin bowler.
Qazi Sahab came from a middle class family and resided in F.B Area in Karachi. With his numerous brothers, who were all smart resourceful and unconventional, he formed a neighborhood cricket team. Their house was a hotbed of amazing unconventionality. The brothers played cricket in nooks and crannies between alleys and corridors and perfected the art of leg spin with house rules and developed hobbies that resulted in a bicycle powered water pump, calligraphy or a pieced together refrigerator. In a neighborhood filled with middle class mediocrity they challenged the conventions and opted for non traditional professions, one of them became a religious scholar in Australian, another joined Karachi television as a graphic artist, while another became a poet.
Qazi Sahab married my phoppo, my father's sister, in the late seventies. At that time he was an NED graduate who worked at British Oxygen. He was a mechanical engineer by training and a perfectionist who was lovingly referred to as Mr. Plant, since he spent all waking hours of the day working. However, unlike most engineers who are posers (and I know this cause I am one) he was a real professional. He introduced me to the world of quizzes, puzzles, and IQ test. He demonstrated liquid nitrogen to me and once when I was twelve he was about to explain to me how to make a limestone bomb when he stopped, probably alerted by the crazy glint in my eyes.
But enough of my self centered rant, he was something to everyone, to my sister he was the uncle who introduced her to Urdu writers, he mentored my brother as a mechanical engineer to the level that he is now Mr. Plant, to my aunts he was the one with the charming manners, to the children he always came loaded with yummy snacks procured from inner mohallas of Karachi and to his family he was the ultimate father and husband. When were growing up, a lot of us kids made jokes at his expense, he was an easy target cause he was soft spoken and balding, which somehow is induces fits of laughter from twelve year olds. Once when we picked him up from his evening MBA class and passed numerous cinema's with grotesque Lollywood film art, one my cousins in his innocence pointed to a poster and shouted, 'Look a baldy' Without missing a beat, Qazi Sahab looked back asked us, ‘Where?’ We all felt truly embarrassed realizing that he fully well knew of our jokes.
Last November I met him in Karachi for the last time. He had done an umra earlier this year and looked healthy and trim. My last memory of him was in defusing a dangerous situation where my brother was fuming over something catty said to him by an aunt, which incidentally happens a lot in our family. As he left I remember bending down to hug him. Qazi sahib's physical presence was not traditionally impressive. He was just over five foot and did not have the moustache, broad shoulders or the Army bearings of my other uncles, neither did he boast handsome good looks or a domineering intellect. Once during ramzan as my other Uncles vociferously debated on how it was important to greet ramzan joyfully. After dinner, I asked Qazi Shabi for his thought on the subject, as he had not said a word, even though he was the only one who actually prayed five times a day. He just laughed and replied.
'Ramzan is a test. Do you look forward to a test?' I said no, I don't,
'So the same thing for ramzan, you have to do it, but the real joy is Eid not the month of fasting.'
Lastly, it is hard to forget his humility, he was the first one to run any sort of errands in the house and that always made him look less grand. Once some aunt referred to him as ordinary but instead of feeling angry, I had laughed off the idea, because he was a mensa member, an engineer, a sufi and a leg spinner and what would these made up aunties know about any of these things. Off the numerous nuggets of wisdom that he left behind, I remember one clearly. He was an avid reader of Executive digest which always had some management lesson in the back. He showed me one with a picture showing a hand of cards and below it ran this quote from Robert Louis Stevenson,
'Life is not a matter of having good cards, but of playing a poor hand well.'
Qazi Sahab leaves behind one son and two daughters. I hope he finds peace wherever he resides.
As a math whiz and had completed all his studies at the top of his class. When the opportunity came for him to clear his final MENSA admission test in Australia his IQ was measured at 185, which should take into account that he was a non-native speaker of English in his late thirties. If I had that kind of a brain, my megalomania would have surpassed most world leaders, but Qazi Sahab had a personal humility that was the hallmark of a Sufi. Again, I don’t mean luddites who eschew technology and use miswaq for brushing teeth so that they can be with the ‘one’, only to be turned away due to periodontal disease, he was a traditional Sufi with utmost humility, a ready smile, the mark from sijda on his forehead proclaiming his as someone who prayed five time on time and a crazy leg spin bowler.
Qazi Sahab came from a middle class family and resided in F.B Area in Karachi. With his numerous brothers, who were all smart resourceful and unconventional, he formed a neighborhood cricket team. Their house was a hotbed of amazing unconventionality. The brothers played cricket in nooks and crannies between alleys and corridors and perfected the art of leg spin with house rules and developed hobbies that resulted in a bicycle powered water pump, calligraphy or a pieced together refrigerator. In a neighborhood filled with middle class mediocrity they challenged the conventions and opted for non traditional professions, one of them became a religious scholar in Australian, another joined Karachi television as a graphic artist, while another became a poet.
Qazi Sahab married my phoppo, my father's sister, in the late seventies. At that time he was an NED graduate who worked at British Oxygen. He was a mechanical engineer by training and a perfectionist who was lovingly referred to as Mr. Plant, since he spent all waking hours of the day working. However, unlike most engineers who are posers (and I know this cause I am one) he was a real professional. He introduced me to the world of quizzes, puzzles, and IQ test. He demonstrated liquid nitrogen to me and once when I was twelve he was about to explain to me how to make a limestone bomb when he stopped, probably alerted by the crazy glint in my eyes.
But enough of my self centered rant, he was something to everyone, to my sister he was the uncle who introduced her to Urdu writers, he mentored my brother as a mechanical engineer to the level that he is now Mr. Plant, to my aunts he was the one with the charming manners, to the children he always came loaded with yummy snacks procured from inner mohallas of Karachi and to his family he was the ultimate father and husband. When were growing up, a lot of us kids made jokes at his expense, he was an easy target cause he was soft spoken and balding, which somehow is induces fits of laughter from twelve year olds. Once when we picked him up from his evening MBA class and passed numerous cinema's with grotesque Lollywood film art, one my cousins in his innocence pointed to a poster and shouted, 'Look a baldy' Without missing a beat, Qazi Sahab looked back asked us, ‘Where?’ We all felt truly embarrassed realizing that he fully well knew of our jokes.
Last November I met him in Karachi for the last time. He had done an umra earlier this year and looked healthy and trim. My last memory of him was in defusing a dangerous situation where my brother was fuming over something catty said to him by an aunt, which incidentally happens a lot in our family. As he left I remember bending down to hug him. Qazi sahib's physical presence was not traditionally impressive. He was just over five foot and did not have the moustache, broad shoulders or the Army bearings of my other uncles, neither did he boast handsome good looks or a domineering intellect. Once during ramzan as my other Uncles vociferously debated on how it was important to greet ramzan joyfully. After dinner, I asked Qazi Shabi for his thought on the subject, as he had not said a word, even though he was the only one who actually prayed five times a day. He just laughed and replied.
'Ramzan is a test. Do you look forward to a test?' I said no, I don't,
'So the same thing for ramzan, you have to do it, but the real joy is Eid not the month of fasting.'
Lastly, it is hard to forget his humility, he was the first one to run any sort of errands in the house and that always made him look less grand. Once some aunt referred to him as ordinary but instead of feeling angry, I had laughed off the idea, because he was a mensa member, an engineer, a sufi and a leg spinner and what would these made up aunties know about any of these things. Off the numerous nuggets of wisdom that he left behind, I remember one clearly. He was an avid reader of Executive digest which always had some management lesson in the back. He showed me one with a picture showing a hand of cards and below it ran this quote from Robert Louis Stevenson,
'Life is not a matter of having good cards, but of playing a poor hand well.'
Qazi Sahab leaves behind one son and two daughters. I hope he finds peace wherever he resides.
posted by Samurai Zauq at 7:04 PM
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