Class Act

JUNE 2004 - ‘The Gathering’ is what Abbas Khattak called it and a gathering indeed it was. And that too was the large inscription that was boldly placed in the red visitor’s book. Below that, we all put down our names and addresses for the record so to speak. Every name and more importantly, every nickname was well remembered. And in front of our names we wrote brief comments – as much as the narrow columns would allow. There was too much to say and too little space to say it in. Still that was the protocol and that was observed.

Class 8 C was meeting, as a Class, after a gap so long that most would have agreed that the earlier gathering must have been in the Bronze Age. A brainchild of Abbas Khattak’s, inspired by the Golden Jubilee celebrations of Hasan Abdal earlier this year in March, the project of getting together the remnants of that Class was ably assisted and organized by his wife Samina who arranged everything in a remarkable and classy fashion. However, it was the Chief who led the show. Single-handedly, based in Peshawar, he put together the list of all the ‘usual suspects’ who were to be rounded up for one long weekend amongst the pines in Khanspur, Ayubia. On a dreamy Saturday evening, with the valleys falling away on either side, we finally assembled at a vantage point. In the distance, PC Bhurban glinted in the setting light. It was a stunning spot. The perfect point for the perfect takeoff.

The Class arrived in bits and pieces. Amidst whoops of delight and joy we greeted one another with genuine affection and undisguised emotion. Amongst the first to be there, rightly was the host, flanked by his two strapping sons. His brother, Iqbal Khattak who lives nearby and is inseparable from his brother, was there as well – happily admitted since he too was from Hasan Abdal. Zahir Shah arrived having driven straight from Peshawar, looking a little flustered after the drive and change in altitude. His curly mop of hair continued to be as unruly as ever before. No change there. Even otherwise, he bore few marks of the toll that the years usually take. Otherwise he was as cool and quiet spoken as ever. Pingo, Brig. Pervez Asghar arrived, jocular and looking the part having had a near miss with the Old Reaper a couple of years back. Four bypasses he recounted with great pride. Pingo never did anything unless it was on a grand scale. Before long he was practicing golf swings and exchanging golf stories with the other enthusiasts. Along the bend came Aurangzeb Noor, whom at least I had not met since – well we’ll let the years alone. From what I recalled – a rolly polly character who was in a play the details of which are best left undescribed, he was now a dapper, mature business person with a wit that was quietly lethal and devastatingly brilliant – as we all discovered during the evening. A shout went up to herald the arrival of Maj. Shamshad Ahmad or better known as Shamo. In a flamboyant green shirt, he was fit, trim, smart and rippling. ‘Waist 31 inches,’ he informed me almost immediately sending me plunging into gloom. ‘Feel the biceps,’ he added. ‘Solid steel,’ he concluded. ‘Punch me in the stomach,’ he offered. I obliged, as I had faithfully done all the years before. Like then, I encountered nothing but a wall of granite. Luckily he spared me the arm wrestling routine. With him, the buzz registered a few Gs in the upward direction. How could there be a quiet moment with him around? Masood Burki was still missing till Abbas announced that intelligence had reported. ‘The eagle has landed.’ Sure enough, Burki ambled in, traveling more sideways than front on; another lean-mean machine. Unmistakably Burki, with a mop of white-gray hair inspired it seemed by Abbas’s own luxuriant white forest top. Aqil Shah arrived next, black shirt and black suit and the party was complete. With wives – we had been generous and invited them as well, there we were about 25 in all. All credit to the women who watched with patient amusement as their spouses reverted to silly childhood.

When the party repaired indoors, Abbas using a stage mike introduced everyone to set the mood. In the beautiful and tastefully decorated large room, a fancy version of our modest ante-room in Hasan Abdal where we socialized on evenings, we raised the first of many toasts to absent friends, those who had not made it to the hills and those who had long departed for other hills in other worlds. All the boys (well, kind of boys) were generously sprayed with clouds of Brut After Shave Lotion, that we all fancied in the year dot. How Abbas had remembered that beats me? Smelling like Italian gigolos, we were well and truly anointed.

In a sense, those who were unable to be there were counted in as well. Khurshid (Railways) had a pressing trip to Peshawar. Farooq Hyat was willing but his Mrs was not upto the mark, suffering from blood pressure, as was Iftikhar Rashid (Secy. Communications), whose nickname I will refrain from making public. Saeed Ismat was away to London, running his restaurants, Col. Aijaz (Joji) Akram of the Army Aviation and Aga Khan Foundation, was snapped up by Nadir Pervez’s son’s engagement function- Joji being readily forgiven because Nadir is ex-Hasan Abdal too. Iqbal Jan, residing in Abbotabad, wanted to know if the party wasn’t for the 25th June, when Abbas finally called him. It was by that time too late for him to make a dash to the hills. Shahid Hak was away in Vienna and Tariq Ikram on a jet somewhere in the stratosphere. Iqbal Shah (Plaza Cinema) was ‘under tension’ as he put it and the matter was not pursued much further though Abbas had a perfectly logical solution to de-tension him. Tariq Pervez, related to Nadir, was engaged too. Saleem Asghar Mian (Income Tax) was collecting at least a daughter and a wife from separate flights and was on happy airport duty.

With fond curses thrown in the direction of the missing ones, it was time to party and that is precisely what happened, till 2 am when other than Shamo, everyone was ready to drop dead. With music from the period, ‘Desi’ and ‘Vilayati’, Elvis Presley still stole the show but not before Shamo jived and jived till we were beginning to wonder when the polished floor would start smoking. Burki produced an amazing performance, a kind of a stand and deliver belly dance with a quivering body variation thrown in for good measure. It had everyone in fits except Burki who was the picture of serious determination. Pingo moving with amazing delicacy jived while Shamo was gyrating in all four directions at the same time. Between liquid bouts, the choicest delicacies that had arrived from ‘Namak Mandi’ in Peshawar were served non-stop and when dinner was finally laid at close to midnight, we were all wondering how we would manage. We did. Never under estimate the old boys.

An evening like that can’t have a follow up, but there was one, the next day when another sumptuous brunch was laid on. With stories from those golden years still flowing, we attacked as men possessed and stopped till there was no further room for any more excesses. In small groups or otherwise, the yarns continued with Mr. Catchpole’s famous ‘Well-I-mean’ ringing in the alpine air. By early evening, almost everyone had gone. It was over all too soon.

Class Reunions must be commonplace after all but there is something undeniably wonderful about them. Those of you who don’t indulge in this, must without further delay. Time moves far too quickly when you are on the other side of 50. Reunions are not simply meeting one another. It’s a bonding of the soul, a reaffirmation of perhaps the greatest and happiest years of our lives. It was not just a visit to the twilight zone but a reminder that those things, which are precious in life, must be nurtured and that friendship that asks for nothing more than friendship, endures, when most other things fall apart.