Wajahat malik biography of mahatma

My dear sirs and madams, as we are still on the subject, please allow me the liberty of presenting yet another gift for your intelligent ears in the form of a different story that also arises from the meek origins of our family history.

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This time it is the brown tale of my father Babu Azad Farid who even surpassed my grandfather in the art of brown nosing, conspiracy and intrigue. A few years before the surgery of the country of Hindustan, when the sun was finally setting on the fading canvas of the British Empire, my father, Babu Azad Farid, son of Babu Ghulam Farid, resident of Tehsil and District Mansehra, secured third division in his matriculation examination from the Government High school of Mansehra and promptly afterwards ran away from his home, as was the tradition in those times.

On his way to Bombay to become a film actor, my father somehow got onto the wrong bus and instead of riding to stardom, found himself in the cold and wooded mountain town of Goragali. By the way Gora means white and Gali means street and whoever coined this name was surely joking and trying to be funny at the expense of the Gora Sahib. Anyway, coming back to the story, Goragali, one of the highest mountain lanes of Pir Panjal range, was crawling with monkeys and white British bureaucrats who flocked to the cooler climes in the summer months to escape the scorching heat of the Indian plains.

They temporarily shifted to these hill stations complete with their working desks, files, paperweights, household staff and of wajahat malik biography of mahatma their hot and panting memsahibs and practically ran the country from their tin-roofed bungalows perched on sloping hills overlooking their sprawling empire. It is here that my father, a lowly Indian native aspiring to be a film star, was spotted and his shining talent recognized by a flamboyant butler who was shopping for vegetables in the tiny bazaar of Goragali.

His Butlership major-domo, Simon Fernandes Prera, was not only the best but was also the most infamous Anglo-Indian butler of his time, this side of river the Ganges. Simon Fernandez Prera, an impeccable master butler, possessor of dirty immoral habits, had been recently fired from the visceral household of His Serene Highness, Lord Mountbatten, the 24th Viceroy of British India.

The Vicereine Lady Edwina Mountbatten, the Countess of Burma, had personally thrown him out of the visceral household after he had allegedly taken the liberty of making a pass at her. Even though Simon Fernandez was a known lecher, but they say that this time, in true and factual actuality, it had been deciphered through the twisted grapevine of Delhi high society that Simon had unfortunately chanced upon the fair lady of English blue blood while she was cavorting with the saffron-blooded Brahmin from the heavenly mountains of Kashmir, His Socialist Highness Sir Jawahar Lal Nehru, in a supposedly haunted store- room adjacent to the vegetable pantry.

Black listed, threatened, his image badly tarnished and his character certificate inked in red, Simon had in no time fled from the cloak and dagger alleys of old stinking Delhi and very shrewdly and quietly, made his way to the far flung mountain station of Goragali, where thankfully his reputation had not preceded him thus far, and so he was able to appropriate for himself the post of butler in the house of the Assistant Commissioner of Goragali Sir Sebastian Hayden.

But as the say, old habits die hard and so it was mildly rumoured, in all the mountain lanes of Pir Panjal, that Simon Fernendez Prera, the butler king of perversity, had once again succumbed to his lecherous demons and eagerly powdered, serviced and cheesed the bored, pretty and sexually crazed wife of the Assistant Commissioner, while the latter was away on deputation in the hazardous Gora Kush mountains of Bannu, foolishly chasing the wild Waziri tribesmen.

And so, by divine force majeure, the knower of all men, the voyeur of the secret society of Delhi and the creator of the finest Anglo-Indian cuisine, Butler Simon Fernandez Prera embraced my father in the vegetable shop of Goragali on that fateful day and vowed to take him under his wings and teach him all the secrets of becoming a successful and stiff-necked butler.

For two years my father toiled under the apprenticeship of Simon and learnt the fine arts of cooking, waiting, servicing, bowing, etc. In the kitchens, lounges, bedrooms and secret pantries of the commissioner household he heard and saw a scandalous lot, but looked the other way. And like a loyal and ambitious servant, he proceeded faithfully to accomplish and fulfill the tedious tasks of butlery that he was duly assigned.

Wah, wah, my great brown sahibs, the plot thickens, just like the supper-time broth of the true white sahibs. When the police party arrived at the scene, they found his body neatly hacked into pieces, with his overworked member stuffed into his mouth. His murder shattered the peace and tranquillity of the quite mountain town. Many English families instantly fled Goragali and its shaded promenades emptied as soon as the orange sun went down.

For the first time in the history of the mountain lanes, a highly scandalous murder had taken place and it had badly smeared the holy and sanctimonious fabric of the puritan Christian society of Goragali. Many fingers were being pointed and many a tongue wagged. The flustered and shamefully embarrassed Assistant Commissioner, Sir Sebastian Hayden, recently back from his expedition in the mountains of Bannu, had immediately ordered the police to probe the murder of his butler and so my poor father was endlessly interrogated and tortured by the white magistrate as a star suspect, because he was falsely accused by the nymphomaniac wife of the Assistant Commissioner for the murder of Simon Fernandez Prera.

Luckily, my father had always been thick-skinned when it came to physical or mental torture. It was an integral part of his training as a butler to take physical and verbal abuse under British Sahibs. And so, thanks to his resilience, he stuck to his pleas of innocence and did not break under the extreme physical and mental pressure.

It is rumoured that soon after this appalling episode, Deputy Commissioner Sahib, well known for his partiality towards the fairer sex, promptly promoted Hayden sahib as a political agent and got him transferred to the non-family station of Waziristan. Whatever you may say, my dear sirs and madams, please let me remind you how magnificent were those days of the White Raj, whence the goat and lion drank from the same stream, whence wheat flour was four annas per seerand a big bag of sugar could be had for eight annas.

Those were the glory days of the British Raj, but then came the year and the first great Muslim country of the world was born. But soon after independence, my mother threw her dupatta on the steps of my maternal grandfather and begged him to get my father a halal job. Upon this emotional and kosher request from his daughter, my grandfather used his greasy connections and got my father appointed as the chief butler in the service of none other than the great architect of the Objectives Resolution himself, our wajahat malik biography of mahatma and soon-to-be-assassinated Prime Minister of Pakistan, Nawabzada Liaqat Ali Khan.

No doubt he went for the interview on the basis of sifarish brown-nosing and the connections of my maternal grandfather, but he was, in actuality, hired on the basis of merit and his professional capabilities and experience. Among other things, this included waiting at the beck and call of the master, the frozen statue routine, supervising, serving, being dignified and of course, practicing his working knowledge and command of butler English lingo that he had acquired while working for two years as an apprentice with major-domo Simon Fernandez Prerea.

Therefore, by virtue of these kind of write-ups and commendations, the people of the mountain lanes have always laid claim to these high-class jobs and had never given the remotest opportunity to any other applicant to come close to these kitchens and pantries. But, of course, merit has never figured in these appointments as nepotism, sifarish and bribery have always been the way.

So, my brown sahibs, imagine how in the face of all these impediments, my father managed to crawl into the impeccably ironed and starched shirt of a butler by smoothing all the wrinkles and creases of fate and adversity. My lordships, yours truly was born on the same fateful day that the bullets of that wretched Afghan assassin pierced the capitalistic heart of our premier Nawabzada Liaqat Ali Khan.

Wajahat malik biography of mahatma: S No. Beneficiary Name. Fathers/Husband Name.

Please allow me to digress once again to provide you another interesting and historical piece of information for your eager ears. It has been learnt through the political grapevine that on the horrible day of his assassination, the first premier of Pakistan was wearing tattered socks that were knitted in the design of stars and stripes.

Dear begums and sahibs of high gentry, it is here that I will bring the history of my family story to a full stop so as not to overburden your intelligence or cause any undue botheration to your sophisticated minds. But if the aimed points of the above story are embraced favourably by your lordships, grateful acknowledgement will overflow from the very bottom of my joyous heart.

He has traveled extensively in Pakistan and abroad. Previously, he has also worked as a journalist and covered the Iraq war as a foreign correspondent for a Pakistani television news channel. Established inEyebex Films has been organizing. The platform connects Pakistani film audiences with otherwise inaccessible mountain and adventure films from around the world.

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