Between Ink and Ideals

Thank you for teaching me that in a land of swords, the mightiest weapon is a sentence that refuses to lie.

You stood unarmed, holding only a red pen and a conviction that truth, if sharpened well, could cut deeper than steel. You taught me that a sentence must arrive like morning mist over Dal—soft, inevitable, impossible to ignore. That a lead is not written but earned, the way a shepherd earns the trust of mountains.

The Mirwaiz was not enraged, but visibly unsettled. In his Friday sermon at Srinagar’s Grand Mosque, he urged people not to be swayed by “what is appearing in newspapers.” It was clear, he was referring to one of my articles, published—though only in part—in Aftab. The piece questioned how the affairs of this historic place of worship, a major symbol of our ethos and identity, were being managed. He wanted his followers to look past the criticism, yet tempered his words by reminding them that the critic was “not any stranger but our own flesh.”

We were neighbours. After a dispute over her husband’s decision to take a second wife, my grandmother returned—along with my father, then a toddler—to her brother’s home in Saifuddin Pora, near Mirwaiz Manzil. My father grew up there among children of the Mirwaiz family, especially alongside Mirwaiz Muhammad Ahmed, who was his schoolmate. His maternal uncle, who also raised him as a foster father, was an active member of the Muslim Conference led by Mirwaiz Muhammad Yusuf Shah.

After hearing Mirwaiz Muhammad Farooq and realising my effort had struck a chord—he promised, albeit obliquely, to rectify the wrong—I grew impatient to see the second part of my piece, Jama Masjid Challo, in Aftab. When it didn’t appear for a week, I visited the newspaper office to find out why.

By chance, I walked straight to Khawaja Sanaullah Bhat’s desk. I had been writing for vernacular newspapers, especially Aftab, since my undergraduate days at Sri Pratap Higher Secondary School. Though I had never met Khawaja Sahib, I had glimpsed him years earlier when he scolded a man reading aloud the 10^th  standard results from the official gazette and charging Re. 1 to each successful candidate. I was one of them, but before I could pay, the man fled at Khawaja Sahib’s sight. Later, we discovered his identity—‘Sona Aftab’—in a Lal Chowk backstreet.

Now, Khawaja Sahib sported a beard and long hair, resembling a dervish. He fixed his piercing eyes on me and asked, “who are you and what do you want?” I replied without hesitation: “Sir, I’m a regular contributor to your newspaper. I’m grateful for your support, but I’m uncomfortable that my latest piece hasn’t been published in full. The first part ended with ‘to be continued.’ May I know why?”

He muttered something about an absent assistant editor ruining the paper, then promised the rest would run. It didn’t. When I returned, he warned me against “hot” stories and said he would never have passed it had he seen it first.

The rebuff stung, but before I left, Khawaja Sahib asked if I wanted to pursue journalism full-time. “Yes,” I said. “My work already appears in Khaleej Times, Blitz (Bombay), and Munsif (Hyderabad-Deccan).” He quipped, “I don’t care, but you have potential. You should be given a chance.” He invited me to join Aftab. I agreed, requesting evening shifts as I was still studying. He consented.

I spent nearly four and a half years at Aftab, learning the craft and honing my skills. Khawaja Sahib encouraged me constantly, assigning major events and press conferences of political stalwarts like Sheikh Muhammad Abdullah, his sidelined lieutenant Mirza Muhammad Afzal Beig, and Syed Mir Qasim. At a ‘meet the press’ with the Sheikh, I asked a question he disliked; he dodged it and joked I should “check with my dad,” drawing laughter. When Khawaja Sahib heard of it, I feared his wrath—but he said, “Keep it up, but always be courteous.”

The Sheikh-Beig alliance had already unravelled. Khawaja Sahib sent me to Beig, who was furious at our coverage, accusing us of bias. Yet he agreed to an interview, in which he lambasted the Sheikh. Khawaja Sahib ran it as the lead story without hesitation. It caused a stir, but the Sheikh remained indifferent.

My closeness to Khawaja Sahib irked some, especially when he acknowledged my assistance in scripting his first book, Kashmir: 1947 to 1977, in its preface. One day, he declared in the calligraphers’ room that anyone calling me by my surname instead of the nom de plume ‘Jameel’ he had given me would face his wrath. Colleagues dubbed me his ‘blue-eyed boy.’ Some privately warned me of Khawaja Sahib’s inner conflicts and cautioned against hurting his ego.

I tried to remain modest, but history repeated itself. He began finding fault with my work, creating a tense environment. I reminded myself of his personal struggles, which seemed to shape his behaviour. He oscillated between warmth and ire, even towards lifelong friends. Occasionally, he made questionable editorial decisions, which no one dared challenge. One day, I inadvertently embarrassed him before a former employee. He stormed out, absent for three days. His friend Nizamuddin Qureshi advised me to apologise.

When I visited his Soura home, he greeted me with kehwa. I asked, “Are you my employer or am I yours? If you dislike me or my work, you could ask me to leave. But why vanish for three days?” Before I could apologise, he said, “That is all water under the bridge.”

Things improved briefly, then soured again. He often called me ‘arrogant.’ Eventually, he removed my name from the print-line after I went on leave for a Pakistan visit and an Amnesty International conference in Madras. Denied a visa, I returned via Jammu, where senior journalist J N Sathu told me, I’d been fired. In Srinagar, my colleague Tahir Mohiuddin explained that a misunderstanding, fuelled by journalist Bansi Lal Kak, led to my removal. Kak claimed I’d secured a job with Khaleej Times and lied to Khawaja Sahib. On my return, Khawaja Sahib seemed repentant but said nothing. I had already decided to quit. It was an unpleasant parting.

In June 1990, the Army seized me and took me to a Uri border post for questioning. Authorities in Srinagar misrepresented it as a militant kidnapping. Released the next day after the Army realised its error, I returned home to anxious parents. My mother, after kissing my forehead, said, “Don’t be so callous.” She had seen Khawaja Sahib on television, barefoot, leading a protest march under the scorching sun to the UN Military Observers Group office, demanding my release.

Later, accompanied by photographer Habibullah Naqash, I visited Khawaja Sahib at his Budshah Hotel office. He was as warm as ever. We never looked back.

As a professional, he was a harbinger of modernism. His experiments at Aftab thrived. He nurtured talent, though his inner turmoil drove many away, depriving the paper of lasting gains. Others used Aftab as a springboard for their careers, which he often lamented. As a human being, he was a blend of noor and naar- light  and fire – in the same breath.

A day after I resigned, I went to Aftab to settle my accounts. I was sitting with Manager Abdus Salaam when he walked into the room, glanced up, and asked a stranger, “Who are you? What do you want?” Four and a half years by his side, and in a single moment he erased me.

More than ten years later, at my wedding, he pressed a copy of the Quran into my hands, then crossed to the bride’s house, handed her another, and said softly, “I only wanted to see who will become the life of my son.” He left without touching the food.

Khawaja Sahib, you taught me that in a land of swords, the sharpest blade is a sentence that will not lie. I still write with the pen you dipped in blood, honed to a razor’s edge, and finally snapped across your knee.

 Yusuf Jameel, Kashmir based veteran journalist.