Somewhere in the long list of things we lost in blood and fire is the joy of poetry.

It is a loss I cannot reconcile with. My memories get in the way. It was through poetry, that I learnt to think, feel, mean and be. Words existed in our household with an identity of their own, like people with names, personalities and pasts. There would be good words and bad, happy and melancholy, wise and wanton. When strung together in perfect meter and imperfect reason, they would offer doggerel explanations of the abstract in a way no other genre could. Poetry would respect life for its expanse and vagueness, not subject it to confined dialectics.

I have always felt that a poem, whether conceived in joy or pain, captures forever the place in life that elicited it; like a white Christmas trapped in a snow globe. There is a strange comfort in hearing from another, what one is feeling within. And so, having navigated life by finding solace, company and sometimes humour in these footprints from the past, I cannot imagine a world without the abstract. To lose the joy of poetry is to lose the counsel of wonder. It is not a loss to be reconciled with.

My grandfather used to quote that a poem is never finished, only abandoned. He was, among many things, a writer and a critic. His book, ‘Urdu shaairi ka tanqeedi ja’eza’ (a critical overview of Urdu poetry), is more of poetry in the horizontal than prose. However, you may not be able to find the book in print anymore. I have an old copy which I hold very dear. I fear that if I don’t, it will be lost forever as the irrelevancy that poetry has become today…

We may be sympathetic to the passion of Faiz and the romance of Faraz, but truth is that most other poets, some very good ones, hardly make it to their second editions. Book stores like Ferozesons, Maavra etc which used to have complete collections of all poets, black, white and brown, have degenerated to the level of deli’s selling what sells. Ironically, you would more easily find classical poets’ complete works in India, than in Pakistan. But is it the problem, or merely a symptom?

Perhaps it is both. Literature, in particular poetry, cannot be treated like Wall Street Journal, good only as long as it sells. But publishers are in the business of selling. I believe the onus therefore lies on the universities, Urdu boards and academies of the country to promote poetry, not as a mercantile pursuit, but as a way of looking at life.

It has to be the easiest thing to do! One would only need to create the platforms. The rest will just happen. Who can deny the fiery provocation of Faiz’s ushhaq, the transcendent drift of Ghalib’s sense of self and the lofty persuasions of Iqbal’s shaheen? What heart wouldn’t relate to the pained pride that was felt and expressed in every possible form by Faraz. Who wouldn’t identify with Jon’s temper, Nasir’s agony or Perveen’s insecurities? Whose thoughts would atleast once not have wandered as freely as Zaidi’s?

These are life-long relationships waiting to happen. Failure to recognize the joy and perspective these bring to life would be like sentencing oneself to a tunneled life clogged with reality and deprived of oxygen. We have too many people worrying ‘what colour is their parachute’, and not enough wondering ‘what colour is the wind’. It is a whole different ball game of self-actualization that is as, if not more, important as the more tangible pursuits in life.

An immediate priority should be an all-hands-on-the-deck effort to digitize Urdu poetry. We should do it before it disappears. If the Urdu Academy doesn’t do it, perhaps we should look at a more private venture to make it happen. Universities, colleges, and poetry lovers all over would need to plough in. A first step in this direction may be developing a reliable OCR for Urdu. With the talent we have in the country in the field of IT, and given the fact that Urdu has no home but ours, it is the least we should do. With the OCR in place, digitization can be led by the universities, proof-read by poetry lovers and institutions, and preserved forever in the cyber-world.

The second step, hopefully an outcome of the first, would be integrating poetry with life. More Mushaairas, more ghazal singers, more celebration of the new and appreciation of the old in the field. What better way to drain the paranoia from reality-clogged minds, too afraid to dream and too clumsy to dance?

It will take time, perhaps five to ten years, but it will be forever. I sincerely hope that we act before it is too late.

For as long as I lived in Lahore, my idea of a perfect evening was an old bench in Lawrence Gardens, a book of poetry and a steaming cup of doodh patti. I feel we have an obligation to add this joy to the packsack of keepsakes we leave behind for the next generation. They can add coffee and kindle a’ la mode, but atleast they will have their counsel of wonder …

Because nothing is perfect, and even flowers have thorny stems.

Why? I know I’ve asked this question perhaps a million times already but I never seem to find the answer. Questions about why I am the way I am, why people are the way they are, and why I can’t be perfect.

Why doesn’t a day go by when I can’t do everything exactly as it should be done? Why do I have inherent weaknesses? Why on earth am I so vulnerable? Why are relationships always so tricky? Why do we judge others and why do others judge us? Why do we feel so good some days and so rotten on some other days?

Why do things never go as planned? Why are things never simple? Why do I find no clear answers and everyone else seems to get along just fine? Why am I such a child sometimes? Why do we age physically yet stay just as tender as a green shoot inside?

Why on earth do I never understand it’s not good to speak my mind like that – most certainly not on the world wide web?

Questions. Questions.

The answers lie deep within.

Let me explain.

The reasons for our own imperfections – and indeed of life – and those that lie in people are because we are human. And that we’re not meant to be perfect and we’ll always be like an imperfect picture – with a dash of red that’s too strong or a blue that’s too light. But it is these so called ‘deviations’ that make the picture real, likable and individual. And it should appreciated for what it is – a masterpiece.

I certainly don’t mean to say I am one, but simply that we’re all masterpieces in our right. And we’re imperfect. Perfect, yet full of imperfections. And it’s okay. What matters is that we accept that and move on.

In the end, I conclude perfection is

Contentment.

That’s right. If I’m content with who and what I am, I’ll feel perfect, knowing I’m full of faults.

It was 2004, my third year at BS(CS) and we were assigned Mr. A as our Networking I teacher. I take these moments and these lines to thank you Mr. A. I was one of the students who wanted to get a reallocation for the course. We wanted to learn from another person. When everyone [...]

4 months ago, I started my brand new story at IoBM. Semester 1 ended yesterday, with the last exam for that semester. Over 4 months of ups and downs, hourlies and assignments, a pathetic term report and my life’s worst ever class presentation (ok, I wasn’t in the mood to present), the semester is finally [...]

I heard somewhere that the reason we love to meet our childhood friends is because they remind us of who we were when we were children. Kinnaird has the same effect on me. A trip to Lahore is incomplete without a slow and deliberate drive past that building, I hardly spent two years in. As I linger a little longer than needed at the traffic signal opposite the narnia from my past, I am reminded of a time, and a ‘me’ to re-align the axis and orbit of all my constellations.

How a light-hearted dalliance turned into a life-long love affair, I will never know. For some time, I thought it was the fact that coming from a co-education school, being one of the only three girls in my class, I was starved for female bonding. But I now know that is not the case. It was something far deeper…

Today, eighteen years later, my memories of Kinnaird are as vivid as they are fond. The dark brick buildings scattered behind the tall green gates, softened in character by the splash of carefree colours all over, sometimes autographed by the place’s more unhinged dwellers with tiny white signatures – referred to in good spirit as ‘Kinnaird’s souvenirs’. The endless corridors with countless notice-boards, making sure you really got to pick your poison…

An outsider would almost immediately place the population in three distinct categories: the temporary dwellers such as myself; the kachi kinnairdi’s, who didn’t have the benefit of the extended Kinnaird experience; and the pakki kinnairdi’s who had the previlege of living at the hostel in the college and would have fascinating stories of midnight pool parties and broken curfews to share…

That there was no ‘uniform’ was a concession constantly challenged by certain ‘others’, and apparently the district administration. To the temporary dwellers amongst us, absence of a uniform meant shorter bed-to-desk time, what with the tuitions and the academies and the science labs. But we were the odd lot. There would be visits by officials to make sure the girls were not going over-board. The college intelligence, as unclaimed as the modern day ISI, would almost always ring the proverbial bell, so the girls could unite in silent defense against an unsuspecting enemy with text book white crisp shalwars and duppattas and coloured shirts on the day of such inspection. And so, the tradition lived on …

There were two canteens: the traditional, bench-and-stone, and the ‘mobile’. The latter, true to its name, would often leave before you found it. The former was one of the busiest and loudest places on the campus, the girls and cats in equal proportions. There was a certain ‘Chaudhry Sahab” who acted true to his title for most part, and a certain canteen boy who we knew what you wanted before you knew it yourself. On rare occasions, I heard the girls would break into food-fights and water-fights, and the cats would have a field day. Such incidents would normally result in a mild slap on the wrist before the next ‘tutorial session’.

Tutorials were a class of their own. Distinguished speakers would be invited to speak on a variety of subjects, and the funniest of things would happen. I believe in hindsight, it was just as learning an experience for the speakers as for the audience…

Once, there was a speaker on HIV awareness. She delivered her lecture and opened the floor for questions. The silence was so complete you could hear your heart beat. Then she realized the error of her ways and distributed small white chits for the girls to write their questions on. If she was looking for response, she certainly got a tsunami.

She answered patiently, something to do with bucket loads of saliva that my memory is conveniently vague about, and referred back to that response some forty odd times.

At another time, there was a maulvi sahib at the altar. He delivered a lecture on Islam and on being a maulvi and was literally butchered for a comment he made about female stereotypes. He was tactful enough to pacify his sprightly audience with lighter humour, generously reciprocated, though I often wonder how the experience changed him as a person.

The college had its signature magazine, but it was the student newsletter titled “The Itch!” where the real stories made home. The library was rich, but it ‘itched’ that the cupboards would be locked.

Elections were serious business. A promise to hold mixed events was sure to win a vote. Girls would come up with pneumonics to help remember their name. “Remember PT, I like sports, my initials are TP”, and so forth. Short, straight, hard to miss. However, unlike the real world, here the contestants would be held to their word, the consequences of a broken promise being the loss of popularity, at that time, worse than death.

But perhaps the most revered event of the year would be the annual debate competition, housed in the campus, a mixed event, with debaters from other colleges including Aitchisons, Government College and Lahore College competing. You had to look your best that day. If you had been good to your elders, you could even be in the organizing committee and get to ‘escort’ the debaters around the campus. Small mercies.

The KC spirit was shy and reclusive, but it would make its appearance in the most touching of ways. My memory of the encounter is when after an event with guests speakers, the equipment playing the national anthem broke, and the girls took over with hardly a second’s adjustment. Very hollywood, I would agree, but being witness to a couple of such incidents, I would vouch for the KC spirit any way asked.

The fondest of memories would of course have names and become part of my life for the rest of my days. Whether it is a coffee-shop in London, an Afghani restaurant in Boston, or a chance encounter in the cyber-space, meeting a KC’ite from a lifetime ago is like an emotional botox. It purges and cleanses with a medicinal exactness.

Light, courage, love – and bucket-loads of memories! It is good to have a place you can never be too old for in life…

A new year begins. 2012.  I remember in the days of PTV ( I m not very old but ya before the private channels) at sharp 12 am a prayer for the country was on aired every new year’s night. Today I grabbed the remote flicking through the channels to get to PTV and instead got mesmerised by the amazing show of fireworks from different cities on all private news channels.

News channels’ headlines at 12.00 am : Manchalay mukhtalif shehron mai sarkon per nikal aay (Youngsters have come out in the streets in celebration of new year). I hope that these ‘naujawan’ and ‘manchalay’ add to the strength of the rising youth for the elections that are going to be crucial for our country. The TV screens are crowded with footage of fireworks from different cities in Pakistan. Ah! What an eventful year it has been for Pakistan in particular and the world in general.

A lot happened, starting with the murder of Salman Taseer shaking Pakistan at the very beginning of 2011. Its shocking that time flied by speedily and here we are knocking at the door of another year. Osama bin Laden’s successful hunt for the US and unfortunate event for ‘us’ was another sad/happy/ironic highlight of the year that will go down in history books and will be passed on to generations. Some will awe some will ridicule and some will let it pass by them. I wonder what it is like deep down in the sea!

The political upheaval is a constant chart toppers for Pakistan. 2011 has, however, ended with a taste to savour with a different political force rising to power. Amid criticism and appreciation PTI (Pakistan Tehreek e Insaf) has risen up as a positive and fresh force from the same old rotten faces in politics. It is indeed a welcome change for the optimists, a chance for the pessimists and ‘liberals’ to shower useless criticism on Imran Khan.

And what of conspiracy theories. Ah well that’s a story for another day!

The biggest change in 2011 for the entire world has been the Arab Spring triggered by a lot of sacrifices of lives in the Arab world. The revolutionary wave left everyone in awe. I hope the civil resistance will become an example for a better world in the years to come. I hope that the change of this magnitude will become a warning, a reality check for the super powers, for the stubborn rulers, for the world politics and its dirty tactics to beware of the power of the common man.

So what is 2012 all about? And what was 2011′s story? No 2012 isnt about world coming to an end!  It is indeed about change. About the wakening of the common man through the example of Arab Spring and on a smaller level in the form of rise of youth and Pakistani politics taking a different road (hoping for a good start).

As I come to the end of this benign reflection as 2011 fades away, leaving behind some scars and some cherish-able memories, I say a hearty welcome to 2012. Lastly  a prayer for Pakistan, for a better tomorrow, for a powerful and intelligent youth, for PTI to keep its conscience alive, for Imran Khan to please watch out and if possible read all the posts on Borderline green!! A prayer for you and me to keep our hopes going, to keep our faith. A crude message for the rotten onion faced politicians to please rot yourselves away. Ameen.

After 45 minutes of news reporting about new year, excessive repetition, the private channels need to keep their excitement into check. No room for a little genuine prayer for the country? Ah the good ol’ days of PTV :p

Another year begins…2012

Each new year, fates promise us a new beginning. And as is the wont of the most beautiful amongst the ladies, and a part of their allure, this assurance can ultimately lead to either of the two, a heartbreak or a delicious surprise . But in the meantime the mere thought of the possibilities keeps one enthralled.

And the new year is also a traditional time for us foolish mortals for making our own resolutions, remarkable only for the generally singular absence of any real intent and serving the rather useful purpose of making us feel good. The frivolous ones go unheeded, as expected, after a few days into the new year. But then there are others , normally based on personal convictions driven by and filtered from bitter experience, which are meant to be kept.

As with individuals, so do nations appear to make new year resolutions. And judging by the general mood, Pakistan has firmly resolved to change.

This new year has a special universal significance anyway. December of this year is when the fourth count on the ancient Maya calendar ceases. Unlike that portrayed in films and imbedded in popular culture this date is not a portent of some great cataclysm which will strike the human race, but to the Mayans it signified an end to one cycle of human civilization and the beginning of the next one.

And this year is also associated with the most powerful positive force in Chinese cosmology, the Dragon. The Dragon symbolizes potent and auspicious powers. It is also a symbol of power, strength, and good luck. What superheroes can do, Dragons can do better, and then some more.

By some quirk of fate, both of the above seem to have intertwined and gifted us ordinary Pakistani’s something which most of us had despaired of ever coming across again , a year to look forward to. Looking back it’s amazing how much difference a mere three months can make in changing the psyche of a whole nation. And to emphasize the point, please do recall that the term nation itself had sounded embarrassingly alien in context of Pakistan not so very long ago.

Now we seem poised on the cusp of a new beginning, with PTI being the catalyst.

While for the elite among us , as a popular saying goes, every day has always been Eid and each night a celebration, for millions of other citizens life had become too much of a struggle. The dire socio-economic situation being a major cause but the chief instigator being an absence of hope. A void which had created a palpable pall of depression all round and put a question mark on the very viability of Pakistan as a normal country. Snide remarks of a failed state were being incessantly echoed in international and national media.

And then the previous three months came along. It’s still debatable that whether PTI jumped or it was pushed but it sure made a hell of a splash. Irrespective of who scored the most points, or runs, in this phase one thing is quite apparent, that the ordinary voters have suddenly been energized and become uncompromisingly demanding. They are no longer willing to be treated as mere numbers, to be duped by the more astutely wily of our traditional politicians.

As that most erudite of observers of life , Oscar Wilde observed “what seems to us as bitter trials are often blessings in disguise”, the apathy of voters in the last election subsequently dealt them a very harsh lesson indeed as to the perils of imprudent choices. Having suffered under the resulting political oligopoly of PPP, Muslim League, MQM and ANP for the last three years, the voters had become increasingly desperate. The desire to teach these arrogant oligopolists a lesson had been thwarted by the fact that there had been no real alternative available. Now Imran Khan and PTI have made sweet retribution all too possible. And promise of real change hangs thick in the air, further exciting the imagination.

No wonder then that two different observers reporting about the mood in Pakistan now and say in the past June would come across to the uninformed reader as addressing different countries altogether. Make no mistake that’s the magnitude of the change which has taken place in the national psyche. At this point in time, after many a year, there is a visible undercurrent of optimism and exhilaration in the national polity.

What we are now witnessing is that for the second time in our history , post independence, the engagement of the voters in the political process is promising to dramatically influence the direction our country is likely to take. The people feel that they have an alternative leadership to support. And most importantly well meaning political leaders have another platform to join in case they feel out of sync with their present party’s policies.

Like a particularly well thought out teaser campaign the new year has thus already provided exciting glimpses of a list of alluring possibilities to the Pakistani nation. For once the ordinary people seem to have a fighting chance to set the national agenda. For too long this has remained a prerogative, directly or indirectly, of our armed forces. Well meaning or not their intervention has ended in disaster for all of us, sooner and later. The last undisputed elections were held in 1970. We all remember what happened next when the will of the people was subverted on the plea of greater national interest. This must not be allowed to happen this time round.

For those pointing out the numerous chinks in the armor of our knight to the rescue, a word of advice. Please save your energy , nobody expects a perfect hero in Imran Khan. Real life hero’s, other than saints, are individuals who despite their all too human flaws have the courage to strive for real , meaningful change. I too disagree with his current tactics, and am pretty vocal about it, but I also truly believe that he is the best choice we have.

The Oracle is in a good mood, the auguries are auspicious, the mood is buoyant. Now it is up to all of us to ensure that 2012 year turns out to be a year to remember.

Today is 28 December. 17 years since the fateful 28 December of 1994. For you it might be just another day, for me it is life changing milestone. It is the day my family decided to move back to Karachi, Pakistan from Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, the move itself being the most marked event in my [...]

Pakistani drama is back, and it is a return to celebrate. For years we watched it slowly drifting away, like a patient in coma, a step away from death, a breath away from oblivion. A whole new generation was born and raised to their teens in the midst of borrowed versions of art and entertainment. The curse of the instant fell upon drama and literature just as it had upon life in general, connectedness a casualty to instant albeit momentary gratification.

But just when we thought it was time to pull the plug, the patient opened his eyes and told us a story. It was just as we remembered; full of love and pain and all that comes in between. The deep dark monsters we nurture but seldom acknowledge engaged with silent hopes of redemption the heart would not relinquish. It was a story of life. As we listened, huddled together around the bed, young and old, men and women, we realized that somewhere in the story, there was someone we knew. A glimpse of ourselves: a shade of the past, a shimmer of tomorrow. And we leaned closer still …

For most people of my generation, the memories of Pakistani dramas are hard to separate from those of the life they happened with. The tradition was rich with playwrights like Ashfaq Ahmad, Munnu Bhai, Haseena Moeen, Asghar Nadeem Syed and the many great novelists whose fantasies made it to the tube with artistic grandeur. Plays like Aik Mohabbat Sau Afsanay would make us rethink our take on love in its many forms, like light passing through a prism and breaking into seven distinct identities. Mun Chalay Ka Sauda is still a favourite, though it means something different every time I watch it. Waris, with its loyalty to human nature made us love and hate the same character at the same time with poetic equity. And then there was our Jane Austen, Haseena Moeen, with a proven, time-tested formula for success that never failed. Pride, prejudice, a battle of wills and a burnt cake – there, you had a delightful fourteen-episode indulgence.

Drama would also touch upon the harsher realities of life in strong moods. Nijaat, Chaand Girhan, Nangay Paaon, Neelay Haath … the list goes on. We were stirred, shaken, inspired and beckoned in the same breath.

With masterpieces like these, it was only natural that Pakistani dramas were held in high esteem across the border. It was not easy to get good CDs, but many reported of dish antennae’s facing this side of the no-man-zone on the night a favourite would be aired. It was a silent division of territories: you do the movies, we do the dramas, eat, drink, be merry…

And then came the private channels, bringing with them the ides of soaps. A drama was good if it brought good money. Tales of grandiose would be coloured in bright, almost vulgar, colours and told in the loudest of voices. If there was quality in the prose, it was lost in the visual and auditory crassness. Kum-kum, tun-tun, bling-bling and ding-ding invaded the screen like drunk victors setting fire to the lush green villages on the way. Drama, as we knew it, was lost to the world.

The void created by dramas was filled, in part (and in stealth), by a new genre of entertainment: the talk-shows. News and political commentary, delivered like a painful obligation for years, found a way to engage and entertain in Musharraf’s era. These were low-budget, usually one-man productions that would feed on our sensitivities and vulnerabilities and actually make good money- what was not to like! And so, political analysts mushroomed overnight to claim their air time, the many TV channels offering great trading opportunities. Today, though still far from the green zone on the maturity continuum, we can boast of a few of such shows as being insightful and analytical enough to merit viewership. A fortunate though arguably accidental by-product of the entertainment experiment.

But drama is still the most satisfying form of entertainment. It offers a sense of continuity. It gives room to understand and sympathize with life in general and its victims in particular. And so, when “Meri zaat zarra-e-benishan” aired earlier in the year, it reminded us of what watching a good drama really meant. The story of a woman, who loves a man only to find that he was a mere mortal, and then finds true love for the Divine, in the process becoming strong enough to show forgiveness and fortitude beyond imagination. Heavy but comforting in an odd kind of way, this is a must see for anyone who doesn’t mind shedding a tear or two.

This drama, thankfully, was only the beginning. Airing today are a number of plays which derive their strength from the delicate and trust worthy subject of life. Among them are “Humsafar” and “Maat”, both based on novels and both wonderfully depicted. Friends, who I know would never read an Urdu novel, found themselves browsing for these wonderful stories on the internet, too curious to wait for the next episode.

I sincerely hope the trend continues to flourish. Acquired tastes like ‘Greys Anatomy’, ‘Downton Abbey’ and ‘Boston Legal’ would always have a place of their own, but that place will not be home. There would always be a sense of unreal, of distance and a “yeah, but…” that so easily vapourizes at the scene of a familiar face struggling with the fears and insecurities we have all suffered, and holding on to the dreams and beliefs that are so much closer to our hearts.

The feminist in me wishes for stronger female subjects, but that’s just a matter of personal taste…

Nostalgia hits all of us at one time or another. The idyllic past becomes a refuge from the hectic present, a sort of an emotional safety valve; a blissful state of mind, which resides in distant memories. And the mind itself seemingly having this wonderfully therapeutic capability of filtering out all that is sad and leaving us only joyful reminiscences …

Normally it is the time one spends in college which holds the most beautiful memories. In my case, it is my professional firm which has a solid grip on my imagination. For years now any CV brought to my notice bearing the words PricewaterhouseCoopers gets extra attention, but one with the magic words A. F. Fergusons wins a guaranteed interview. And the memories always come flooding back.

My four years at F.C College had coincided, unfortunately, with the most repressive and brutal period of Zia’s regime. Given a free hand by the martial law establishment, the Jamiyat ran amok in the college and terrorized all those who dared standup to its regressive agenda. I saw Christian teachers humiliated, students beaten up and systematic vicious repression of any sort of free speech or thought. The only good experience I had during that period was my involvement with a number of the college sports teams.

After graduating, opting for a career as a chartered accountant was a very natural choice. My father was one, and growing up I had heard of a number of his friends who were in senior positions in the profession. He was especially fond of his squash partner in London, Safdar Saleem, who later on worked for Fergusons, and was very upset when he tragically died at a relatively young age.

My batting average for the college cricket team being considerably higher than my graduation marks percentage, I was pessimistic about getting accepted by Fergusons. My father leveraged his friendships and got me an entrance test appointment. I am sure his being the head of finance at WAPDA also helped. I topped the entrance test, remained coherent during the interview and AFF accepted me.

I still remember reporting for my first day at work. Entering the office I saw the wooden sign board for the partner and managers and noticed that all the names there started with an ‘s’: Sohail Hassan, Shahzad Hussain, Saad Bin Khalid, Sikander Gulzar and Shabbar Zaidi …

What struck me in those early days was the easy-going manner in which various firm members interacted with each other. While there was a great deal of respect for the management there was not even a hint of undue formality in any aspect of the professional relationship. A great deal of credit for this went to the mangers, specially Shahzad Hussain and Shabbar Zaidi, who had enough confidence in their professional and personal abilities to maintain a very cordial work environment.

Having endured very stifling college years this was pure manna for me.

AFF during my years there remained a bit like Italy during the renaissance. Work was something which though taken very seriously on a professional level was only one aspect of our existence in the firm. We had an outstanding cricket team, winning almost all of our matches; an in-house magazine, Meridian, which always had the most wonderful articles; and then there was our pride and joy, the “holy scriptures society”.

Membership to the “holy scriptures society” was strictly by invitation, restricted to gentleman of discerning taste having the right family background , and required suitable monitory contribution, in advance. The principal activity consisted in admiring, in printed form, a certain talent that would be grounds for a treason case in lower Court if recent incidents are to be trusted, if you know what I mean.

We had a number of unique individuals among the support staff: Noor Elahi, the doyen of our office peon, who knew where each audit file was located, and Khokar, the lead typist, who could quality check reports better than most of us. The most beloved staff member was our receptionist who knew every clients’ and numerous sweethearts’ numbers by heart. More importantly, she knew the best time to call.

Then there was the presence of our female colleagues, who were always treated with the utmost respect and dignity. The only problem being that the hall would go silent in their presence as polite conversation was an alien art to most of us.

But the most enduring memory of AFF will always be the refreshingly casual, yet thoroughly professional, manner in which the affairs of the firm were run. To use an accounting cliché, if ever there was a business which focused on the substance rather than form it was AFF. Granting its members a wide latitude, and trusting their competence and maturity, it instilled a sense of responsibility in all of us.

To an uninformed outsider this amount of leeway would be astonishing. Throughout my tenure the formal supervision modes would number precisely two: the monthly worksheet, without which we were not paid our stipend, and then the Sunday attendance, conducted by our then senior manager, now partner, on a huge blue register.

But then our side of the bargain was that each one of us had to live up to the high standards expected from us. And the peer pressure was immense. These two coupled together tended to bring out the best out of most of us by leveraging our talents and energy in a very constructive manner.

Having being part of many world class organizations since, I would rate AFF among the very best in terms of matching people development objectives with work demands.

So many cherished memories, outstanding people, friends for life. We can only be thankful to that old firm. Somehow through all the apparent madness of its methods it chiseled off the rough edges, made true professionals out of us, and in the process seduced us for life…

Dear diary, I hope to find you again in a very happy and an enjoying mood since I am in one, alhamdolilah. Today, I feel like reflecting upon the things I have felt and experienced in my life more than I want to talk about Swindon. And I would really like you to be with me in spirit right now How is the weather on your side? Over here in England, it  has reached a maximum of nearly 30 degrees and [...]