Celebrating the Many Facets of Musadiq Sanwal
Remembering The Man Behind My Love of Storytelling.
It had been a long day at work, and I was just getting ready for a meeting when I got a text from a friend asking me whether I was going to attend Musadiq Sanwal’s memorial that evening. I felt a jolt of surprise and pain at the thought, so I immediately replied back asking for details.
It had been more than a month since his passing. The multitude of people that were proud to call themselves a part of Musadiq’s clan were going to come together and share their love for him. It would be a final celebration of his life.
I immediately logged onto Facebook and found the event’s details. I would attend in honor of the man who recognized my love for storytelling, and taught me to wholeheartedly embrace it.
Musadiq had been my mentor and Editor during the brief time I spent as an Assistant Multimedia Producer for the News Desk at Dawn.com (back in 2013). His bright smile would light up the entire newsroom each morning when he would enter with a spring in his step. He would walk up to each of us and briefly ask about our health and our plans for the day. Regardless of our respective places in the newsroom’s corporate hierarchy, we were all emotionally attached to him in one way or another.
When Musadiq passed away on 17th January, 2014, it was as if the world stopped moving. It was just a day earlier that I had been discussing my experience working under such a renowned editor with my Journalism teacher (and mentor), Fahad Faruqi.
That same night, a colleague informed me that Musadiq’s condition had turned critical. To my horror, I learned that Musadiq was in Agha Khan’s ICCU for pneumonia and his kidneys had failed. He had already lost one lung to cancer earlier; an illness he had been courageously battling for the past year.
I decided to visit him in the hospital the following day and donate my blood. I had a driving test scheduled the next day. I would head to the hospital straight from the testing center. The next morning, just as my parents and I reached the license office in Clifton, I received a text message from a close friend and colleague at Dawn.com.
“Noushin, Musadiq is dead.”
Those four words should have caused an emotional volcano to erupt within; but all I felt was…. numb. I felt as if a hollow pit had opened up at the bottom of my stomach, and my mind seemed to move in slow motion. As we drove towards the testing center I told my parents, “Musadiq passed away. I just got a message.”
My mum and dad expressed their sadness, and I agreed. Yet, I felt nothing. It seemed that my body had decided that to go numb with shock was the best way to deal with the news.
When we arrived at the license office, we were made to fill out forms and were soon going about our business, trying to procure licenses for the three of us. All this while, my mind seemed to be detached from the rest of my surroundings. I felt as though I was watching everything unfold from a distance.
I knew they were holding a meeting in the cafeteria at Dawn.com. I could feel the silence that had probably gripped the newsroom at the news, and the tears and the sobbing that were sure to follow. Yet, here I was, getting my license made as if it were just any other day in the world.
In my mind’s eye, I could still see Musadiq standing at the newsroom door, smiling at everyone; getting ready to launch into his grand plans for the day. In my heart, I understood that these two scenarios were at odds with one another. Musadiq was gone forever.
In my shocked condition, and to my complete surprise, I still managed to score a permanent driver’s license. Upon arriving back home, I immediately began to make phone calls. I was completely calm on the surface, talking with colleagues and acknowledging our shared grief. As the minutes ticked past, however, something inside began to slowly crumble.
I refused to acknowledge it and focused on getting ready for the funeral, due to take place in a couple of hours. It was as if my entire life centered around the coming event. I had never before set foot in a Shia Mosque before. I called up my friend and asked advice on what to wear to a Shia Mosque for a funeral. I did not want to cause offense in any way to Musadiq’s family members present due to my ignorance.
When I arrived at the Yasrab Imambargah, the street was completely blocked by the swarm of people going in. We had to walk to the main gate. People were streaming outside, and my heart sank as I realized I had come too late to participate in the prayers. As I walked down the long stretch of pavement leading up to the women’s section (I’d gotten lost and had had to ask around) I saw women sitting together in the main room, some reciting Surahs from the Koran, while others were huddled together and cried softly for their loss.
As I walked up the steps, I felt the numbness surrounding me slowly begin to fade away. Watching the mourners sitting together in different groups, I could no longer deny the harsh truth of his demise.
My friends were sitting on one side of the vast room and I tred softly on the white sheets towards them. The girls were all glassy eyed as they shared in hushed tones how the news had first broken that morning. As I sat there surrounded by people who were grieving for him, my eyes welled up with tears and a few slipped down my face. Fatima, my dearest friend from school who I was also fortunate to be working with, wrapped her arms around me and we sat in silence; mourning the man who had made such an impact in our lives.
I quickly realized a few days after the funeral that I had still not said goodbye to him. I could niether talk about him nor write about him for many months. Grief had blocked my only outlet for healing: my writing.
A few months after his funeral, at the Karachi Literature Festival 2014, when renowned Pakistani author, Mohammad Hanif, during his conversation in the Main Garden, read a poem for the audience by (in his words) “my close friend Musadiq Sanwal”, I stood amongst the crowd and silently wiped away the tears that fell down my face. People passed worried glances my way, but I did not care. After weeks I had finally felt the pain of his loss, yet I still stubbornly refused to let go.
This was the reason why Musadiq’s memorial, taking place more than a month after his passing, was extremely important to me. It would be my one chance to finally sit amidst people who knew Musadiq and who shared a love for him — a deeper love and respect than I ever could.
Musadiq Sanwal’s Memorial (February 18, 2014)
All throughout the meeting I sat at the edge of my seat, conscious of the ticking of the clock. By the time the meeting ended, I had only half an hour left to maneuver my way across the packed roads of KDA towards the Karachi Arts Council on I.I.Chundrigar Road.
When we reached the venue, only a handful of people had come so far. Thankfully, the event had yet to start. Mohammad Hanif stood at the door welcoming the guests.
Inside the auditorium, people were milling about, trying to locate a good spot; where they could be both closer to their loved ones and have a good view of the stage. I spied the Dawn.com team sitting directly to my left as I reached the top of the stairs and walked up to greet my old colleagues and friends. The Desk Editor Quratulain “Annie” Siddiqui and Blog’s Editor Zehrish John were at the front of the auditorium, directly before the stage. These two talented ladies had trained me under Musadiq’s watchful eye.
As a newbie at the News Desk, even though I officially worked under Annie and Zehrish (sometimes), I reported directly to Musadiq for feedback. It was an absolute privilege to work under, and learn from, such a master of words.
As the technical team was setting up the final necessary equipment, the auditorium slowly began to fill up. Musadiq’s friends, family members, colleagues and loved ones all trickled in. Some exchanged words of comfort while others simply embraced each other, preferring to stay silent in their grief. As we sat talking to one another and waiting for the event to start, a video of Musadiq’s song “Aajzi” (directed by Farjad Nabi) began to play on the screen. His melodious voice filled up every corner of the room.
Musadiq Sanwal — Aajzi — YouTube
Hearing his soulful voice singing Madho Laal Hussain’s poetry with such emotion gave me goosebumps. I was staring at the changing images on the screen, feeling as dumbstruck as some other members of the audience, and the thought hit me: I never knew he could sing. During our many lunch time musings — or, rather, the conversations we had in the cafeteria before lunch time since I was usually manning the news desk during lunch hour — he had expressed a passion for music several times. I never knew how deep that passion was. Until that moment.
Soon, the event was officially underway. Hasan Zaidi, a journalist and the Editor Magazines at Dawn, was a close friend of Musadiq’s. He had been chosen to act as moderator.
“Let me start by saying that we are not here in sadness, but are here together in happiness in order to celebrate the life of Musadiq Sanwal,” Zaidi started his speech. “And even if, sometimes, a few tears drop from our eyes, they are tears of happiness at having had the pleasure of knowing such a person.”
As he spoke, my gazed wandered across the auditorium, taking in the people sitting together in groups, all staring intently at the figure on the stage: “you brought all of these people together. They came because of their love for you. You are still alive among us.”
On stage, Zaidi went on to tell the audience about Musadiq’s many talents — a trained singer, journalist, actor — and informed them about his aptitude for languages.
“I know that if he could be here and see this he would say: Abay yaaar!” causing the audience to laugh appreciatively at this apt imitation of the late artist.
“Musadiq could speak fluently in a host of languages: English, Urdu, Punjabi, Saraiki… I decided to moderate the event today using the language we all share (Urdu) but please feel free to express yourself in whatever language you are comfortable with.”
He then recited a couplet from a poem by Musadiq’s favorite poet, Nasir Kazmi: “Zindagi maut k parday main rahi, Khwaab dar khwaab hi bedaar hue”.
The event was officially started off by Sagheer Baloch, another close friend of Musadiq’s. He performed a poem by Nasir Kazmi on his flute which was often hummed by Musadiq during his life, the sound hauntingly beautiful as it floated across the auditorium and captured each and ever member.
He was followed by Zafar Abbas, the Editor for Dawn Newspaper. Abbas looked visibly shaken as he came to stand behind the podium and spoke for a few minutes about the man who had brought us all together (from our different busy lives, in the hopes of sharing his life with each other for those few minutes before walking back out into the real world).
“In all this time, I could not properly know him!” He declared, hesitant to call it his biggest failure. “I am getting to know him now (his personality, the different sides to him.”
He told us he had been introduced to Musadiq by their mutual friend, Mohammad Hanif. Soon after, Abbas had rejoined Dawn and begun working closely with Musadiq, who called him “Murshid” which is an Arabic term for ‘guide’ or ‘teacher’. Regaling us with their encounters, he remembered how Musadiq would often tell him to stop working constantly and take a break once in a while.
“Kabhi mere studio tou ao!” he said, remembering how Musadiq would often ask him to visit him in his studio and here him play his music. “I wish I could have gone once.”
He went on to tell us how Musadiq had broken the news of his illness to him one fine day. He had come into his office and asked him to come outside so they could talk, and said ‘Murshid ek problem hogai hay’. Contrary to what Abbas had initially thought, the problem was not related to work but was a lot closer to home.
He stated how Musadiq smilingly had told him about being diagnosed with cancer, while he had sat and stared in stunned silence unable to believe the news.
“Musadiq was a fighter!” Abbas declared. “He said to me, ‘laraingay! puri zindagi lartay aye hain, isay bhi laraingay!’ ”
There was a sad silence amid the soft clapping as he descended the stage afterwards to go back to his seat.
Zaidi then called for Wusutullah Khan, a fellow colleague of Musadiq’s at BBC Urdu. The man looked visibly shaken as he slowly climbed the stage and went to stand behind the podium, taking deep breaths before beginning. His speech consisted majorly of a poem he had written for Musadiq, and he ended his emotional monologue by comparing his late friend with Multani Mitti, which can take the shape of whatever the child wants it to be, saying “Musadiq mujhe woh mitti ka gola nazar ata hay.”
It was then Hasan Zaidi’s turn to take to the stage. The journalist regaled the crowd with a story he had recently come across while sharing memories of the great man with mutual friends and he asked permission from the original teller before stating the them of it.
“Nazish Brohi was telling me earlier about an incident that happened with her and Musadiq,” he began, smiling down at the woman sitting in the audience. “She told me they were camping around a fire in Thar desert, and Musadiq asked the camel owner to walk his camel around them in a circle because he liked the soft tingle of its ankle bells. He then began to sing, his voice floating around them. When he was done, Brohi picked up a few ghass poose and needles lying on one side and presented them to him as a gesture of appreciation. Musadiq, instead of taking it graciously, looked down upon the offering and said, ‘that is not a desert rose. I got one (from Hasan) and I know what it is.’
“Soon after he said that, a gust of wind came and picked up the thorn and needle bundle, carrying it far away. Musadiq raced after it, and was soon so far away that they had to travel in a car to get to him, where they found him lying in a heap on the sand with the bundle clutched in his arms. Afraid something had happened to him, the quickly went to his aid. Musadiq looked at Nazish and said, ‘Hasan ne tou mujhe maulvi bana dia hay.’
He was referring to how religious leaders refuse to accept and look beyond what they are taught or what they learn by heart, failing to see the beauty in the simplest of things.”
Zaidi’s anecdote left us all feeling slightly more nostalgic than when we had first entered the arena, the picture he painted so aptly describing Musadiq’s absolute acceptance of everything regardless of origin.
In continuing with the spirit of nostalgia that had slowly spread across the people attending the memoir of Musadiq, Zaidi then decided to call onto the stage Musadiq’s very own theatrical group Baang. It now consists of only three people after Musadiq’s death: Ali Hasnain, Khusauri and Farrukh Hassan.
Ali Hasnain started the speech, talking about how 22-years-ago Musadiq first started the group after he came from Lahore and taught them all how to act.
“We shared the same room for 10–12years, myself, Muhammad Hanif and Musadiq,” said Hasnain, talking about the difficulties of trying to introduce theatre for the first time in a society which had never accepted it before. “He would walk amongst the people and convince them to watch our performances.”
He regaled the audience with the economic difficulties they had faced, reminiscing about the time when they did not have money enough to even pay their rent.
“Ek martaba tou hum dukan ka pesa aur kamray ka karaya le kar bhaag gaye,” he said, causing the audience to burst out laughing.
Khusauri was overcome with emotion during his speech. He managed to utter a few incoherent speeches and abruptly ended the monologue by praising the broad mindedness of Musadiq Sanwal.
Farukh Hassan was the last of the trio to speak and easily the most extrovert of them all. It was easy to see how he and Musadiq could have been such close friends. “Musadiq started theatre in Karachi from scratch and his was a progressive success.” He went on to talk about how Musadiq was both a mentor and a friend, who selflessly took care of them through thick and thin.
“Esa lag raha hay jese abhi Musadiq ayega aur zor se bolega, yaar drama shuru karo drama shuru karo sab aagaye hain!” he laughed softly, gesturing towards the crowd.
He further went on to regale the crowd of an incident between him and Musadiq. “The one quote of Musadiq’s that I remember clearly and always remember… I had just finished my thesis on psychologically unwell children and wanted him to take a look at it. He flipped through it and then wrote something on the paper before handing it to me. Gali gali meri yaad bichi hay, pyaray rasta dekh k chalo.”
This anecdote so clearly defined Musadiq’s love for his fellow man, accepting the people for who they are — and proud of being one of them, without judgement or fear.
These emotionally rich speeches were followed by two pieces of music recorded by Musadiq played to a collage of his pictures. The first song was in his Aajzi album, Saiful Mulook, written originally by Mian Mohammad Baksh. The second song was an — as yet — unreleased version of a Punjabi poem which he recorded against techno music with Bilal Brohi.
His rich voice filled the auditorium, for a second making us believe that he was right there among us. None of us could tear our eyes away from the screen, filled with remorse at having lost our time with him, happiness at having known him and joy at having the opportunity to celebrate his life with each other once again.
Zaidi then called on to Zehrish John, Blogs Editor at Dawn.com to say a few words regarding Musadiq and his memories. Wearing a beautiful orange and black sari, John spoke about Musadiq as a mentor.
“Very few people know about Musadiq the mentor,” she began, going on to talk about how the late Editor of Dawn.com was also a friend. She said Musadiq had had a flair for a variety of subjects, from philosophy to architecture to music. John’s speech was heartfelt and aptly described Musadiq’s ways.
“We at Dawn.com are a staff of only 28 people, so we are very like a family,” she said. “He was our mentor and our friend. Our problems became his problems, our happiness was his happiness.. He taught us about being gentle with strength and about being forgiving.”
Her speech made quite a few tears to be spilled, and sniffles could be heard in different parts of the auditorium. John’s voice was trembling with emotion as she finished and invited the members of the audience to view a clipping of the people of Hazara, a project undertaken by Dawn.com and very close to Musadiq’s heart. The clipping focused on the Sketch Club in Hazara community, aimed at creating peace and unity through art. You can view the indepth feature here.
The auditorium reverberated with claps as the clipping finished and Hasan Zaidi once again came on stage. He praised the video and Musadiq’s resilience in going after what he loved, before inviting Owais Tawheed, Musadiq’s close friend, to say a few chosen words for the departed.
Tawheed recited a few well-versed poems in Musadiq’s honor, calling the poet “sur ka musafar, Sanwal”.
He remembered the times when as students they would visit Musadiq’s room, knowing their friend would be there to welcome them with open arms.
“On one side lay the harmonium and on the other side of the room was his pile of books,” he laughed.
He ended the speech by poetically describing Musadiq to the audience.
“Na darwazay ko kufr ki adat, na anay janay k liye waqt ki pabandi.”
Mohammad Hanif and Arts Council President Ahmed Shah also spoke about Musadiq and shared their memories of him with the people. These speeches were followed by a musical project worked on by Musadiq and Bilal Brohi, who introduced it to the audience.
Unforturnately, I was unable to stay until the very end so I could not stay to hear the opinions and memories the audience was asked to share at the end of the event. It was an amazing way of sharing our love for a great man and celebrating him in our small way by coming together and joining our hearts if only for a few hours to pay him our respect and gratitude.
He changed the life of everybody he came in contact with, and in this day and age, that is not easily come by. In Hasan Zaidi’s words,
We shall miss you, Sir. Until we meet again.
PS: You can read the Dawn Newspaper edition of the event here.
One blog that really hit me was written by Chagtai Khan, who talked about the different faces of Musadiq really well.
Also, feel free to go through the blogs others wrote about him here.
Photo credits*: Dawn.com
