Beyond the Call of Duty

Columnist Brig (Retd) Muhammad Mehboob Qadir discusses why one must rise beyond one’s mandate.

During rare moments of reflection a soldier might wonder what really is the call of duty that one may one day decide to rise above and beyond the same. None in the Army seems to really grasp the full scope of this military phrase beyond the compass of his own interpretation, bound within the envelope of the situation he finds himself in at a given time. Broadly speaking anything and everything within the Army is inside the ambit of duty. Space beyond the call of duty is also duty despite this engineered differentiation. However, this demarcation did contribute to growing military intellectual misperception in Pakistan with widespread and unexpected ramifications, more by analogy.
British commanders were the original authors of this notion primarily to reward natives under their command who excelled in battles which were aplenty in those imperial times. Understandably, it was the Raj’s compulsion to encourage a band of loyal servants tested in battle to perpetuate themselves. This legacy of patronage and perpetuation as left behind became embedded in the psyche of basically colonial but now national armies of the Subcontinent. Gradual erosion of political authority and demolition of civil institutions in Pakistan left the field open to the military to amplify and invent the sweep and the scope of its duties from purely military to civil and political as well. Take for example the ingenious inclusion of the word ‘ideological’ in the mission statement of Pakistan Armed Forces which has been projected as defenders of geographical and ideological frontiers of Pakistan since the times of late General Zia ul Haqe. This subtle but loaded addition opened the door for military’s customised intervention in the national affairs under the guise of defence of ideological frontiers. Resultant chaos and disruption continues till today, conveniently wrapped under the call of duty or rather beyond the call of duty that no one assigned.
At each level and in almost every capacity officers and soldiers have been confronted with this dilemma especially those performing civil duties under military governments. Discretions and attempts to rationalise own reactions led to comic and at times pathetic situations. Which were glossed over as hazards of service. These hazards of our adventures were transferred to our civil society with disastrous consequences, multilating and paralyzing the entire national structure. From society to governance, from perception to reality and from self esteem to nationhood everything has been brutalised and devastated.

The King and the Fakir
In the year 1987, while posted at Rawalpindi we had gone to Hathi Chowk to buy some sweets, a day before Eid. A gusty wind was blowing, kicking up dust and light litter everywhere. As the car parked, I saw a youngish beggar sitting on the filthy steps before a shuttered shop. His unkempt shaggy beard had gathered a lot of dust and appeared unclean, disorderly at any rate. He wore a typical coarse cotton short shirt without sleeves like the ones worn by labourers working on construction sites. His shirt was soiled, sweaty and overused. He took out a dirty cloth and wanted to wipe my car windshield. Instead I offered to give him some money without that which he refused. Leaving some more money with my school-going son I told him to give it to the fellow if he feels up to it. When I returned, after a while the beggar had gone. My son still held that money in his hand.
He wasn’t a beggar. He was a matriculate young jobless doing daily wages work with a local contractor. Because of Eid holidays, there was no work and he hadn’t eaten since last two days. As he didn’t wish to beg, therefore, he wanted to earn some money by wiping the windshield. Gusty wind and my hubris aborted that effort too. He must have walked away exhausted and hungry. A few days earlier a plane full of free loaders and lackies had just left for Umra on state expense seen off by the President with great show of pious pomp.
Huge shamianas were being erected in specially enclosed GHQ grounds for Eid prayers. Carpets and mats etc were being spread according to expected number of dignitaries. There was another innovation applied by the ever present supple and the plaint. Against the accepted practice they had provided VIP entrance through the front next to where the Imam is supposed to lead from. There is no VIP in prayers, the privilege of place in the front rows goes to those who arrive first. One had also seen a car with a metal plate inscribed with ‘CITIZEN’. It was quite out of place among special plates so brazenly inscribed from ‘Member Zilla Council’ to anybody and everybody who could wield his own or a borrowed clout. In the absence of real weight, men of lesser substance had already begun to wear acquired glory, stolen in some cases. Grace and decency are increasingly becoming unfashionable. Disused dignity and self respect being frequently consigned to dustbin.
It was fairly late one night when we walked out of a famous restaurant in Islamabad, having generously partaken of sizzling barbecue and good company. There was a severe chill outside. Still relishing the taste of delicious food and overflowing mutual goodwill, we merrily sailed into our cars and on to our ways home. Just as we slowed down on an intersection, a little distance on we saw a few dogs and cats scampering to and from a garbage dump. There also was a man scavenging the same dump for bits of food, bread crumbs and other eatables. With perfect concentration and deep satisfaction he was eating palms full of rice discarded there by some vendor. He had the privilege to scoop rice from the middle of the mound. A clammy feeling of involuntary distress overcame us for some time. It ignited a slow pricking remorse of a kind accomplices feel. And lingered on for a long time afterwards as nagging as a nail in the insole.
Decent looking reasonable people drive absolutely murderously caring less for traffic rules, pedestrians and fellow travellers. How does one explain this collective madness? Despite pleadings of innocence, traffic police Seargent challaned driver of a measly old rickshaw in front of GPO on the Mall road. A shiny new Honda took a leisurely turn around the same Seargent with only ‘Khan’ written on its blank number plates. He drove off with majestic unconcern and arrogance of plenty.
Ever noticed the pitiable plight of a policeman haplessly trying to regulate traffic on the busy intersection? Few care to listen to him, that too probably out of sympathy and self-interest than any regard for the law.
Those not extended any courtesy should hardly be expected to show grace in return. Pedestrians, school going children, women, old and infirm cross roads at the peril of their lives, missing being crushed under unrelenting vehicles by the skin of their teeth. They go through this act of survival many times a day, round the year. Imagine the vengeance with which they will drive when these very children take to the wheel tomorrow. How does one set out to raise responsible, law abiding citizens when a simple act like stopping on red lights is considered timid, even foolish? These blistered souls in our splintering society are swirling crazily to the edge of self-destruction. More so when most seem to have built themselves an Everest of ego each, and an inventory of scores to settle never mind the ethics of it all.
Nature’s decisions impact on a scale so grand and immense that they appear almost indifferent to the fate of those for whom they were originally meant. Events and their initiators must invariably disappear into the pages of history if so merited but the nature’s scheme of things remains imperative and clear for the perceptive. It was 1983, my late father who used to stay with us in Lahore decided to visit the mazar of Hazrat Data Sahib. I took my school going son also along. Outside the mazar the whole area was full of people, of all hues and gender, in hundreds. Devotees, Fakirs, newly weds, sick and elderly, women and children and the onlookers. Each one preparing to enter the shrine through the majestic main door.
People were buying and distributing meals to the needy from a large number of iron urns laid along the passage to the gate. Qawals were sitting here and there singing praises to the saint while devotees were showering them with money. Passage to the gate was lined on both sides with shops full of flowers, garlands and all kinds of things that could be laid at the shrine as a token of devotion.
At the main gate and beyond was a different world altogether. Barefooted, heads covered and slightly bowed devotees silently moved towards the shrine, quietly praying. There were some overcome with emotions, softly crying. Quite a few others either prayed in the adjacent mosque or sat reverently facing the saint’s mazar. Wafts of incense floated around gently in the pleasant breeze. An overwhelming sense of soothing and respect enveloped them irresistibly. For the young man the whole exposure was inexplicable and deeply impressive.
A week earlier we had gone around visiting Shalimar Gardens, Shahi Mosque, Lahore Fort, and Emperor Jehangir’s royal tomb. At the Emperor’s enclosure the official gate keeper had made it convenient to be absent leaving the premises unattended. As we entered a sick old horse limped across to the next poorly kept lawn for greener grass. The whole structure was laid out and constructed in a befittingly royal style. Grand, exquisite and spare. Long corridors, rows of royal arches and doorways, marble floors and the lavish Moghal artwork, all spoke of the Emperor’s majesty and his regal grandeur. As we came close to the Emperor’s grave a mangy little puppy got up from his noontime nap and lazily made for the next corridor.
Contrast between the two premises was striking. It must have filled my son’s head with all kinds of questions quite apparent from the pre-occupied rather puzzled look on his young face. He was very curious to know why were so many people at Data Sahib? Was there a funfair on??, And so many more. An opportunity had arisen for the young impressionable to collect an invaluable piece of the timeless conventional wisdom with which our people are so well bestowed.
Emperor Jehangir was one of the grandest Moghal emperors of India, Afghanistan and parts of Burma. His armies conquered kingdoms and he gave endless riches to hundreds and thousands of men. He held one of the most dazzling courts in the world. I explained. Data Sahib was a penniless Fakir who wore patchy clothes and remained always short of the next meal. He could give no riches, nothing when alive let alone provide anything to anybody after death. People still flock to him hundreds of years after his death. They revere him so much even when a mighty emperor lay buried in his grand abode only a mile away as the crow flies. There is no throng of devotees nor anyone cries there out of emotions.
Inevitably like the King and the Fakir, everyone with their riches and the rags would descend into oblivion. However, in the final analysis only goodness and care for the fellow beings last, and not the awe and majesty of power nor imperial courts and the treasures.

Borrowed Glory
It was 1982-83 when a senior Martial Law officer in Hyderabad over-stepped himself. One that he was reasonably well placed in the hierarchy and secondly he had the right connections to the late President Zia’s inner circle; a powerful force multiplier at that.
Somewhere in 1982, a general decision was taken to round-up anti-social elements in Sindh. Long lists were prepared with the help of police, civil administration and intelligence agencies. Perhaps Islamabad had got the wind of MRD’s planned mass movement of non-cooperation and agitation. These lists were vetted and a copy retained at the DMLA’s Headquarters. Thousands of arrest warrants were issued; the jails overflowed with detenus. A job seemed to have been well done; but only when one morning two respectable looking women appeared in tears at the DMLA Hyderabad’s Complaints Office. A horrendous story unfolded.
Briefly, that senior officer had connived with a local political influential to gobble up a few very expensive acres of Heerabad real estate next to the city that belonged to a highly respected senior citizen. The audacious plan was hatched in collusion with the old man’s vagrant son whom he had thrown out on account of his incorrigibility and officially declared ineligible to inherit any property from him. The deal was, that they will help him obtain his share of land, in turn he will gift them half of the share which could fetch a couple of million rupees in those days. The rogue and his father were brought to a lower ML office through police where the old man was made to beg his renegade son’s pardon under very humiliating arrangements. But he refused to part with the property. This resulted in the old man being put behind bars on a manufactured arrest warrant forgetting that original lists retained at the DMLA’s Headquarters did not contain his name. That proved the officer’s undoing during the enquiry which was duly ordered. The officer was removed, given a sack and eventually left the service.
This was not the only case against him, there were more well known but unproven ones that circulated in the city about his impingements on justice and good governance. Inevitable, divine law of retribution came into full action a little later. His son’s had a genetic deficiency, in that their skin pores had not fully developed requiring them to exert as little as was possible. In the following years, one believes this debility, unfortunately aggravated to the level of total air conditioning and inactivity. In the meanwhile, his daughter suffered a peculiar nerve disease attack in which one of her eyelids had drooped permanently due to a nerve failure. These regrettable reimbursements are known there may be more unnoticed.
Unlimited power is dangerous, but borrowed glory under the shadow of real power is simply devastating, especially if it is worn by men of inadequate depth. They soon get out of their element tossing courtesy, civility and respect for the law out of the window. Decent, self-respecting and hardworking people are the first to get the boot. Obedient and the servile soon follow suit. The next thing that they do is to surround themselves and their masters with dense witted knaves, fake and the frivolous. This is a familiar central picture, wherever and whenever a power is doomed to fall.
Mir Rasul Bux Talpur had passed away, his body was flown for burial to Hyderabad. Late President Zia was to attend the funeral. Therefore, everybody who was anybody in the civil and political hierarchy wanted to be present in addition to DMLA Hyderabad and Governor Sindh who had to be there under the protocol.
From airport to the late Mir’s house were long lines of gleaming official cars of all descriptions. Ministers and senior bureaucrats were vying for as close a place in the queue to the CMLA as their drivers and vehicles could possibly manage. It caused accidents, a few rows and much heartburn. The sight was sadly comic. Pathological self-seekers need always reassure themselves of their importance in the design of prevalent power regardless of the brazenness of the effort or tumbling the other man’s trough.
When the motorcade moved from the airport, I had to sit in Governor Sindh’s official car being a staff officer to DMLA Hyderabad. Governor Sindh and DMLA were accompanying President Zia in his car. Governor’s car was next in the line, the driver could not cover Pakistan flag on the bonnet nor the star plates as they moved in a hurry. In any case there were outriders, escort vehicles and pilot cars with their flashing beacons and blaring sirens enough to cause a swell.
President’s motorcade sped through the narrow and crowded roads at breakneck speed to the Mir’s house in old Hyderabad suburbs. People on the roadside looked like small specks, faceless and insignificant. A surge of self-importance began to crawl up my skin and a wave of inflated ego or more appropriately a false sense of genetic superiority started to form in the head. With great effort I recovered from this fatal mirage. If borrowed glory could be so toxic, real power should be pure poison.
Commissioner Hyderabad Abdullah G Memon was an experienced and a brilliant civil service officer with considerable power of absorption and necessary resilience. One would sometimes marvel at his presence of mind and self-confidence in handling some very tricky situations, particularly where it had anything to do with anti-regime elements and direct orders from ML authorities. He managed to maintain his balance without moving into the line of fire.
A number of ladies had accompanied their important husbands for attending the Mir’s funeral. They were temporarily put up in the Circuit House till Mir Sahib’s household could get into proper shape to receive them. Although, there was still some time left but the compulsion was that the administration ran short of appropriate cars for some of these ladies. The matter was referred to the Commissioner who decided to request Governor’s wife to leave for Mir’s house half an hour before the scheduled time so that the Governor could then travel to the graveyard in the same car. On the next impulse he made the imprudent request personally in the presence of other ladies. The retort was imperious and unforgiving. He backed off visibly disconcerted pulled himself together and sped away in the direction of the Mir’s house, probably to enlist the Governor’s help this time. This gifted civil servant later rose to become a federal minister in President Leghari’s interim government and as expected gave an honourable account of himself.
Decent Folks
Sindhis generally are a friendly crowd. They are hospitable, mild mannered and cultured. All that one needs to do, is to be understanding, respectful and be on the same plinth. Their response in most cases to genuine overtures of such solidarity is instant laced with grace and thoughtfulness. Thereafter, a fascinating equation of mutual respect and affection doesn’t take long to develop.
Intermittent periods of martial law, Federation’s insensitivity and civilian misrule seem to have left these people deeply bruised and bewildered more than any other in the country. There could be an endless debate on causes, effects and their justification. However, one of the major factors contributing to their ultra-sensitivity could be the fact that by nature and by the dint of continuity their fundamental social values and culture have not been disrupted since the times of Mohinjodaro and beyond. Basically, an open agrarian society, seafaring and suave, it amicably interacted with competing civilisations like Mesopotamian, Genetic and Iranian and religions like Hinduism, Buddhism and Islam, enriching themselves immensely in the process. Logically, a lot of good must rest with a people of such depth and rich heritage. These are the strengths that need to be grafted upon and developed when national integration and prosperity is sought. The Federation, in their experience and esteem seems to have lost its credibility a long time ago. It is no wonder their saints and Sufi poets spoke so longingly of an all pervasive brotherhood and limitless tranquility.
Qamar Bhatti was a senior ranking nationalist leader in late G M Syed’s Jeay Sindh Movement. By 1982 he was already in jail for over seven years, under trial for a dozen or so cases that included alleged murder, arson, anti-regime speeches and sloganeering etc. His prolonged detention, according to the record dated well into 1976, with a brief release after declaration of Martial Law in 1977. Soon he was locked up once again. He was considered a perennial threat to power of the day whether elected or self imposed.
A scrutiny of record and reports painted him as one of the more volatile JSSF student leaders in the same category as Gul Mohammad Jakhrani, Abdul Wahid Arisar, Dodo Maheri and the like. He was detained at Khairpur Jail and used to be brought to Hyderabad for trial in one of the summary military courts.
I was dealing with law and order and student’s affairs. Call of duty and curiosity combined compelled me to ask the concerned court to send Qamar Bhatti to my office once it had completed hearing of the case next time.
A few days later, a very sick-looking, skinny and pale detenu was brought into the office in handcuffs and leg irons under a heavy police escort. It was Qamar Bhatti, the Inspector announced. He looked exhausted teetering on the verge of collapse. It was very hot outside in any case. His shackles were so uncomfortable he couldn’t even sit properly on the chair. Seeing this I ordered Qamar Bhatti’s chains and irons removed, the Inspector very reluctantly complied warning that he was a very dangerous prisoner, responsibility for any untoward incident would rest on me. I accepted asking the police to leave the two of us alone in the room. His wrists and ankles had calloused to a deep dark tan leaving ugly marks of the handcuffs and shackles.
At first he declined the offer for food, but agreed on the condition that the cost would be considered a loan. A paltry sum that he had was already taken away by the police party for their tea etc. enroute. He hadn’t eaten a full meal since days.
It took sometime to develop mutual confidence before he consented to give his version of his life. Nevertheless the narration was effortless, truthfully lucid and painfully candid. A woeful tale unfolded of a perfectly self-made rural Sindhi youth who wanted to honestly progress in life, was drawn into student politics and victimized due to lack of connections, unfaithful political sponsors and what is more his poor origins. Soon after admission in the local school he became an orphan. With great difficulty his mother eked out a living supporting her son’s studies in absolutely abject poverty. A few years into the school he began to write for local Sindhi newspapers and magazines to supplement their meager income. He continued this practice in Jamshoro University, where he rose to become the Vice President of the students union, more on the dint of his activism and strength of character. That is where his troubles with the establishment really began. He was not an exploitable commodity for sale, unbending cost him shattering.
At the end of fifth hour it was abundantly clear that he was a prisoner of conscience framed deliberately into false cases through an unholy convergence of self-serving elements of power establishment, changes of government not withstanding. That was perhaps the last time he opened his heart to a perceived adversary in the hope that good sense might prevail. All cases were recommended to be dropped to provide him a fresh start in life and to redress the wrong as much as was possible. The system turned the request down, diverting him for a long time to come or perhaps forever (Qamar Bhatti presently leads Traqqi Pasand faction of Jeay Sindh and lost the recent election to Sindh Assembly).

About the Author
Commissioned in Pakistan Army in 1968. Graduate of Command and Staff College Quetta and National Defence College Islamabad. Holds Master’s Degree in Defence and Strategic Studies. Held various command and staff appointments, remained Director General Pakistan Military Mission in Saudi Arabia 1998-2002. Contributes research articles regularly to Pakistan’s leading military journals.