Epi 11 , Islamabad at the foothills of the Himalayas and surrounded by mountains on one side, adjacent to the older city of Rawalpindi, is one of the most marvellous capital cities in the world. The heart and mind of Pakistan’s politics live in these two twin cities.

The minds supposedly are in Rawalpindi, and locating hearts in politics is always a tough job.

In these cities, my career eyes were opening. Even though after student life my interest in politics was minimal, at my work most of the clients I frequently visited were from the public sector.

The public sector of 1992 — the lifts, the stairs, the manual working, the red-tape system, the rule book, the cosy and dreamy heated rooms of high-ranking government officials — and after three decades, except for mobile phones and computers, the system still runs in the same way.

Especially, I feel surprised that a country which flies the most advanced war planes and handles the most advanced strategic weapons is being run manually at the grass-root level.

I was providing services, along with my manager, to many departments of the Pakistan Army, Navy, Health Ministry, Agriculture, and there was also the Population Control Department. There were subsidiaries of these institutions and departments, like the Federal Board of Revenue and the Board of Investment.

Though my area was advertising only, advertising as a profession gives deeper knowledge of departmental working, as organisations usually advertise what they do and what they have achieved. Dealing with departments at such levels, and at that age, taught me a lot about the very specific ways government offices function.

In those government buildings — slow elevators operated by liftmen and countless stairs during power failures — my years of youth were passing by, swarmed with events and memories.

In those times, Generation Z and Alpha were not subjects of discussion, and even if they existed, they were not considered as important or powerful as they are now. It is a point to ponder that humans remain important simply by being born, and remain so until they die.

Entering public offices — even security institutions like the Army and Navy — was not that difficult. You could park your bike and walk in for work purposes. Initially, my work was that of a delivery boy, and with time it evolved into receiving briefs to develop print advertisements. TV adverts were not common for the public sector then; there was only one channel, PTV, and video cameras were considered high-tech, almost sacred machines.

The first film director I met in my office was Fawad. He was artistically groomed and professionally trained, and he was the most special person in the office. At that time, I was envious of just one liberty of his — he used to come to the office at 1 p.m., and the red marks on his attendance card were never questioned.

Later, I found many more reasons for envy when I first saw him with the then popular model Anita Ayub. Later, our resident director invited the cast of the government-sponsored drama serial Sunehre Din. For the first time in my life, I saw such beautiful people — especially the girl in the leading role, whose name I can no longer recall. Fawad was leading the entire event when those glamorous stars were in the office.

Fawad Farooqi was his full name. He later died of an ailment at a very early age.

Fawad was a born film producer, director, and creative director. From his jeans to his jacket, from his glasses to the pen hanging from his neck — he was living cinema.

When you met Fawad as a film director, your first impression would be that he would never cast you in his film, that he would never even talk to you. But once you sat with him for a while, you would start feeling that you could become a model, or even a film star.

He guided me a lot in later days about work, and he was the friendliest person in the entire office. Since most of our office worked for the public sector, the environment had become stale and bureaucratic — there was no fun and no festivity. But the moment Fawad Farooqi entered, colours of laughter appeared, cigarette smoke wrapped itself around film ideas, and the office began to look like a creative hotspot.

I remember telling Fawad about my willingness to study further. He showed me the route to get admission at Quaid-e-Azam University — initially in Anthropology and later in International Relations. Both attempts failed. The reasons could have been my BA marks, lack of resources, or simply fate.

I remember a student leader, close to a union of that time, who took a small amount of money from me and mentioned the name of a renowned politician who was supposedly able to secure my admission under some quota. That attempt failed too.

Later, Fawad Farooqi
Fawad Farooqi directed me towards my fate — in a very dramatic way.

Why Fawad died so young remains a mystery. Not a mystery in the true sense of cause and effect — of course there was a cause — but a mystery of the universe: why do some people, full of soul energy, die so early—while in others the soul dies early, yet they live so long?

Remembering Shakespeare:
“As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods.”

This is a continuing journey. Episode 12 will follow.