By SM Shahid - Daily Times - Pakistan
Monday, June 26, 2006
“Shrouds (kafan) do not have pockets!” He overheard Maulvi sahib telling someone, as the children read the Quran under the banyan tree behind the house in Mochi Darwaza, Lahore. Maulvi sahib’s words were beyond his comprehension at the time, but they remained etched in his subconscious. Later, he was to realise how profound the statement was and remembered it all his life. It saved him from mercenary temptations at critical junctures in his spotless professional life. His reputation for honesty was well known to the corporate world in Pakistan and abroad. And his ability to deliver the goods was evident to the nine civil and military governments he served - and survived - during his stewardship of a premier national organisation for nearly 18 years. He went through his exciting career with his head high, not succumbing to political pressure from any quarter.
This was Dr. Shahid Hak, former managing director of the Pak Arab Refinery Company (PARCO), who passed away in Karachi on June 16, 2006, after a protracted battle with multiple myeloma (a kind of cancer of the bone marrow). Dr Shahid Hak was born on December 10, 1945, inside Lahore’s walled city. In his own words: “Having opened my eyes in my maternal grandparents’ house in Lahore’s Mochi Darwaza, I have always been able to relate to and feel comfortable among the egalitarian segment of our society without ever being over-awed by the decadent trappings of elitism, high office and status.”
Shahid’s family came from Gurdaspur in East Punjab and migrated to Pakistan in 1947. The family had produced many lawyers – his father was a lawyer too, but following partition, joined government service. His schooling began in 1949 at Murree where his father was then posted. “One of the best events in our yearly school calendar was when all the children were taken to Sunny Bank to receive visitors from the plains after the snowy season was over in April. It used to be a festive occasion because the boys and girls of other schools too used to be present to welcome visitors to Murree. The occasion reflected well on the cordiality of the population of the hill station and their civic sense of voluntary participation in festivity.”
“Why don’t we see it happening today?” I asked. “Because now there are too many children and too many visitors to Murree.” His wit and humour showed in abundance in his conversation.
From Murree he went to a small private school in Sheikhupura. It was a major change– from a convent school in an exclusive, picturesque hill station to an arid and semi-urban town. “I suddenly became Urdu-medium!”
It was a primary school where students had to sit on taat. Being the wife of the local deputy commissioner, and out of maternal concern, his mother had a chair sent to the school by a servant. It became an embarrassment both for him and his father. “Mr Ghaus, the headmaster, went to my father and told him in no uncertain terms that he would not allow a chair in the class. Imagine this happening today – a primary school headmaster talking to the deputy commissioner in such no-nonsense words.” In 1994, when on a business trip in Sheikhupura, he located the old headmaster and thanked him for not allowing him to sit on the chair. He also donated some money to his old school.
“I was fortunate to have studied in good schools, like Central Model School in Lahore and the Cadet College in Hasan Abdal.” At Hasan Abdal his favourite teacher was H Catchpole, the principal, who taught him the basics of English language and grammar. One incident he recalled was his ninth class physics exam in the laboratory. Dipping a biscuit in his cup of tea, the examiner asked what Shahid observed. The teacher was expecting a scientific answer and was not amused when Shahid promptly replied: “bad manners!” He failed the test.
“How was your childhood?” I asked him.
“As a child I was both shy and naughty at the same time. Unfortunately when I needed to be shy I was naughty, and when I could afford to be naughty I was shy.” He had a humorous thing to say at the end of every serious conversation.
In his passing one has lost not only a sincere friend, but a great humanitarian and patron of the arts. In a country where book reading and book buying are increasingly rare pastimes, his patronage and sponsorship of books on subjects ranging from religion and Sufism to poetry and music are a shining example for others. Many in Pakistan and abroad will miss the regular gifts of books they received from him.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
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Sunday, November 12, 2006
Dr. Shahid K. Hak (1945-2006)
By SM Shahid - Daily Times - Pakistan
Monday, June 26, 2006
“Shrouds (kafan) do not have pockets!” He overheard Maulvi sahib telling someone, as the children read the Quran under the banyan tree behind the house in Mochi Darwaza, Lahore. Maulvi sahib’s words were beyond his comprehension at the time, but they remained etched in his subconscious. Later, he was to realise how profound the statement was and remembered it all his life. It saved him from mercenary temptations at critical junctures in his spotless professional life. His reputation for honesty was well known to the corporate world in Pakistan and abroad. And his ability to deliver the goods was evident to the nine civil and military governments he served - and survived - during his stewardship of a premier national organisation for nearly 18 years. He went through his exciting career with his head high, not succumbing to political pressure from any quarter.
This was Dr. Shahid Hak, former managing director of the Pak Arab Refinery Company (PARCO), who passed away in Karachi on June 16, 2006, after a protracted battle with multiple myeloma (a kind of cancer of the bone marrow). Dr Shahid Hak was born on December 10, 1945, inside Lahore’s walled city. In his own words: “Having opened my eyes in my maternal grandparents’ house in Lahore’s Mochi Darwaza, I have always been able to relate to and feel comfortable among the egalitarian segment of our society without ever being over-awed by the decadent trappings of elitism, high office and status.”
Shahid’s family came from Gurdaspur in East Punjab and migrated to Pakistan in 1947. The family had produced many lawyers – his father was a lawyer too, but following partition, joined government service. His schooling began in 1949 at Murree where his father was then posted. “One of the best events in our yearly school calendar was when all the children were taken to Sunny Bank to receive visitors from the plains after the snowy season was over in April. It used to be a festive occasion because the boys and girls of other schools too used to be present to welcome visitors to Murree. The occasion reflected well on the cordiality of the population of the hill station and their civic sense of voluntary participation in festivity.”
“Why don’t we see it happening today?” I asked. “Because now there are too many children and too many visitors to Murree.” His wit and humour showed in abundance in his conversation.
From Murree he went to a small private school in Sheikhupura. It was a major change– from a convent school in an exclusive, picturesque hill station to an arid and semi-urban town. “I suddenly became Urdu-medium!”
It was a primary school where students had to sit on taat. Being the wife of the local deputy commissioner, and out of maternal concern, his mother had a chair sent to the school by a servant. It became an embarrassment both for him and his father. “Mr Ghaus, the headmaster, went to my father and told him in no uncertain terms that he would not allow a chair in the class. Imagine this happening today – a primary school headmaster talking to the deputy commissioner in such no-nonsense words.” In 1994, when on a business trip in Sheikhupura, he located the old headmaster and thanked him for not allowing him to sit on the chair. He also donated some money to his old school.
“I was fortunate to have studied in good schools, like Central Model School in Lahore and the Cadet College in Hasan Abdal.” At Hasan Abdal his favourite teacher was H Catchpole, the principal, who taught him the basics of English language and grammar. One incident he recalled was his ninth class physics exam in the laboratory. Dipping a biscuit in his cup of tea, the examiner asked what Shahid observed. The teacher was expecting a scientific answer and was not amused when Shahid promptly replied: “bad manners!” He failed the test.
“How was your childhood?” I asked him.
“As a child I was both shy and naughty at the same time. Unfortunately when I needed to be shy I was naughty, and when I could afford to be naughty I was shy.” He had a humorous thing to say at the end of every serious conversation.
In his passing one has lost not only a sincere friend, but a great humanitarian and patron of the arts. In a country where book reading and book buying are increasingly rare pastimes, his patronage and sponsorship of books on subjects ranging from religion and Sufism to poetry and music are a shining example for others. Many in Pakistan and abroad will miss the regular gifts of books they received from him.
Monday, June 26, 2006
“Shrouds (kafan) do not have pockets!” He overheard Maulvi sahib telling someone, as the children read the Quran under the banyan tree behind the house in Mochi Darwaza, Lahore. Maulvi sahib’s words were beyond his comprehension at the time, but they remained etched in his subconscious. Later, he was to realise how profound the statement was and remembered it all his life. It saved him from mercenary temptations at critical junctures in his spotless professional life. His reputation for honesty was well known to the corporate world in Pakistan and abroad. And his ability to deliver the goods was evident to the nine civil and military governments he served - and survived - during his stewardship of a premier national organisation for nearly 18 years. He went through his exciting career with his head high, not succumbing to political pressure from any quarter.
This was Dr. Shahid Hak, former managing director of the Pak Arab Refinery Company (PARCO), who passed away in Karachi on June 16, 2006, after a protracted battle with multiple myeloma (a kind of cancer of the bone marrow). Dr Shahid Hak was born on December 10, 1945, inside Lahore’s walled city. In his own words: “Having opened my eyes in my maternal grandparents’ house in Lahore’s Mochi Darwaza, I have always been able to relate to and feel comfortable among the egalitarian segment of our society without ever being over-awed by the decadent trappings of elitism, high office and status.”
Shahid’s family came from Gurdaspur in East Punjab and migrated to Pakistan in 1947. The family had produced many lawyers – his father was a lawyer too, but following partition, joined government service. His schooling began in 1949 at Murree where his father was then posted. “One of the best events in our yearly school calendar was when all the children were taken to Sunny Bank to receive visitors from the plains after the snowy season was over in April. It used to be a festive occasion because the boys and girls of other schools too used to be present to welcome visitors to Murree. The occasion reflected well on the cordiality of the population of the hill station and their civic sense of voluntary participation in festivity.”
“Why don’t we see it happening today?” I asked. “Because now there are too many children and too many visitors to Murree.” His wit and humour showed in abundance in his conversation.
From Murree he went to a small private school in Sheikhupura. It was a major change– from a convent school in an exclusive, picturesque hill station to an arid and semi-urban town. “I suddenly became Urdu-medium!”
It was a primary school where students had to sit on taat. Being the wife of the local deputy commissioner, and out of maternal concern, his mother had a chair sent to the school by a servant. It became an embarrassment both for him and his father. “Mr Ghaus, the headmaster, went to my father and told him in no uncertain terms that he would not allow a chair in the class. Imagine this happening today – a primary school headmaster talking to the deputy commissioner in such no-nonsense words.” In 1994, when on a business trip in Sheikhupura, he located the old headmaster and thanked him for not allowing him to sit on the chair. He also donated some money to his old school.
“I was fortunate to have studied in good schools, like Central Model School in Lahore and the Cadet College in Hasan Abdal.” At Hasan Abdal his favourite teacher was H Catchpole, the principal, who taught him the basics of English language and grammar. One incident he recalled was his ninth class physics exam in the laboratory. Dipping a biscuit in his cup of tea, the examiner asked what Shahid observed. The teacher was expecting a scientific answer and was not amused when Shahid promptly replied: “bad manners!” He failed the test.
“How was your childhood?” I asked him.
“As a child I was both shy and naughty at the same time. Unfortunately when I needed to be shy I was naughty, and when I could afford to be naughty I was shy.” He had a humorous thing to say at the end of every serious conversation.
In his passing one has lost not only a sincere friend, but a great humanitarian and patron of the arts. In a country where book reading and book buying are increasingly rare pastimes, his patronage and sponsorship of books on subjects ranging from religion and Sufism to poetry and music are a shining example for others. Many in Pakistan and abroad will miss the regular gifts of books they received from him.
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