My Beautiful Rizwan

I was 19, he 23. We were engaged on August 5. Two days later I flew back to USA to complete my BS in Information Systems at The American University in Washington DC. For the next 2 years, while I worked and studied in USA, we didn’t meet and he never questioned me about my plans for marriage. This was his second gesture of magnanimous love, letting me follow my dream - no questions, no burdens, no reprimand.

The first such gesture was when he offered to tell the parents, his and mine, that we could not be married. To his conservative Pakistani mind, it was most inappropriate for a girl to refuse a marriage contract of her parents’ choice. So, much as he was in love with me and had initiated the proposal, he was ready to give up his pursuit when he realized that I did not find the suggestion particularly exciting. My americanized self did not accept this favour ofcourse and snapped back “I can tell them myself, no problem. But why won’t you listen to me, why can’t we move to the States? I don’t mind us getting married but, for cryin’ out loud, must we continue to live in slumcity here?” His face, those beloved features yet unfamiliar to my eyes, took on an earnest, sombre look, one I was to become accustomed to over the years. He said flatly “Ghar nahin chor saktay. I will quit the Air Force if you want, we can live in any city you like, but we can not leave Pakistan.” I fretted and fussed, argued in my well-cultivated aggressive yankee style, tried to hide my disappointment over being dumped in favour of Pakiland, but I could tell from the gentle yet decisive look on his face that he was not impressed. This was the first time that, subconsciously, I drew from the contentment and peace of his person and made the right decision. I didn’t know then that the strength of his principled yet unconditional love would, unbeknownest to me, guide me towards the right choices many times in my life. I was not in love with him, far from it, but I realized that such commitment deserved my respect and perhaps, in time, my affection. I decided to commit myself to him in return, green card be damned.

Such was the overpowering presence in my life, of Rizwan - my husband, my friend, my soulmate, my shaheed.

I don’t know when I fell in love. Was it that first evening together, after the hectic wedding ceremony was over, and he said to me “don’t worry, be happy”? I don’t believe the phrase was coined then so it must have come from the heart. Or was it the time when, after having chattered nineteen to a dozen in my amreekan twang I ended with “well, whaddya think?” and was confronted with a characteristically precise response “angrezi ahista bolo, kuch samajh mein nahin aya!”? It might have started when I realized that he intended to fight the world to support my need to have a career, that he was ready to commute from his Base to Karachi, Lahore or Islamabad – the only cities that I could operate from – on a weekly basis just so we could be together over the weekend, that he was proudest when I won a scholarship to George Washington University and actually left home for a short time to study while he completed his BE in Aerospace at CAE, Risalpur. Perhaps it happened gradually over time, as I discovered the many facets of this gentle yet powerful human being. He could hold little Andaleeb in his arms for hours and just watch her sleep, take the most crumpled up piece of paper and fashion an aircraft out of it for Taimur, play a mean game of backgammon, swim the fastest lengths in the PAF pool, have those famous “crib sessions” with his coursemates all through the night, and if ever I dozed off with my head resting on his arm, he wouldn’t move a muscle for fear I would be disturbed. I don’t know when I fell in love, but fall for him I did, like a ton of bricks, and I haven’t surfaced since.

Rizwan’s favourite pastime was to teach his children “a hundred ways to kiss”. They would devise novel, and often laughable, kissing techniques and then name them. There were flying kisses and shooting kisses, soft pecks and loud smacks, Baba’s specials such as planting a soft one on Sabine’s adorable “thori pay til” or the jet fighter kiss that invariably landed on Billu’s nose. The names were creative too. The way to deliver a “Chak-kish” was to softly bite Baba on the cheek, and the “Chipkoo” was when Bilal’s lips would simply get stuck to Mama’s cheek and everyone else had to pry the two of us apart. There were other family oddities as well, such as getting the two little ones to finish their milk which they refused to do unless Baba helped. So, they would drink from their milk bottles while Baba drank from Bilal’s big toe since, you see, the milk would reach the feet first and then start filling all of Bilal up. Boy, it took a lot of milk to fill Bilal up since Baba would be stealing a lot of it from Billu’s big toe. A favourite pastime was called “follow Mama around with the video camera”. There must be a hundred home videos featuring nothing more than my backside as I rushed from room to room trying to dodge a persistent camera-toting-husband-with-trailing-children. How I wondered at Razi’s energy and his devotion to the family since, during the most taxing of his assignments, he would not abandon a minute of our family time in favour of work. There wasn’t a weekend during the 9 months of CCS which he topped that he missed visiting us in Lahore. During the 4 years of Aeronautical Engineering which won him the gold medal and the best engineering design trophy, we drove nearly every evening from PAF Korangi to Boating Basin for his favourite Baluch ka “eshpaishal” Falooda. While all 93 officers studied till the early morning hours during the Staff Course at RAF Bracknell, UK, we would religiously hop on the Bracknell-London train every weekend for “lafantri” in downtown London. He completed not only his Staff Course with excellent grades but also earned his MA in Defence and Strategic Studies from King’s College, London during this time. He would jokingly say that “lafantri” trips to London helped him better understand the anglo-indopak strategic and geopolitical situation. Strange that I refer to our family eccentricities in the past tense; somehow, without him around, one can not imagine attempting a soft kiss on Sabine’s achingly beautiful “til” and ofcourse, the kids are now too old to be taken in by the nonsense about milk filling up a baby from the toes up.

In 1993, when Rizwan topped the Combat Commanders’ Course and won that most prestigious trophy, I visited Sargodha to attend the awards ceremony. As usual, I knew less about Razi’s accomplishments than did the wives of his colleagues, senior and junior alike. I was told by any number of them how they envied me for having such an accomplished and capable husband. I acted duly grateful and proud. To me, my Razi was special anyway, perfect course score or no, with or without his sword of honour, minus his best pilot’s trophy, stripped of the many medals and accolades he had won over the years. He was special because I never heard of his brilliant successes from him, no one did. He never talked about them, he just lived his principle, that of having absolute faith in Allah and total confidence in his own capability. He used no crutches, rode no beams. He considered himself of average intellect but admitted that he was the hardest working person he knew. He was, ofcourse, much too modest. Rizwan was the finest pilot the PAF had, “one with his aircraft” someone once said, the most methodical, meticulously organized and articulate professional the PAF produced, and the most ethical and upright individual one could hope to be associated with. Air Vice Marshal Abdul Razzaq, then Wing Commander and OC CCS, someone whom Rizwan admired greatly and alongside whom he embraced shahadat, said to me “Bhabi, Rizwan kitna special hai, even he does not know. Aap ko pata hai keh nahin?” Yes, Razzaq Bhai, I always knew, but perhaps for all the wrong reasons.

He was special because he could be in the middle of a society GT and not be impressed either by its superficial glamour or by the underhanded wheeling and dealing that is inevitably part of such gatherings. Socializing loudly and publicly was something he disapproved of. During a society ball, one of a few I managed to drag him to, he sat there grumpy as ever. He thought the women were indecently dressed, designer labels or no, thought the booze was flowing a bit too freely for a poor country like ours, and decided he could probably dance better than most who were attempting to but making spectacles of themselves. I challenged him to walk the talk, “let’s see you dance then, big guy!”. He wouldn’t. It would be “un-officer like”, he said, to be jumping up and down like Jeetendra. What laughs we had and what tears we shed, two SPCs – Simple Pakistan Citizens as he liked to call us (as compared to VIPs, MNAs, MPAs, OSDs and other such pretentious acronyms!) - incongruously stuck amongst the bold and beautiful movers and shakers of his beloved Pakistan.

He was also special because his entire course, 66 GD (P), lovingly called him “Rajaji”, shortened form of his name Raja Rizwanullah Khan, and meant it literally. To them, he was the crown the course wore on its head. By their own admission, they had no competition with Rajaji. They had accepted him as the best amongst them, had owned him up and considered him 66th’s proud offering to the PAF. His soulmate, Air Commodore Marwat, and he could sit together for hours, not say a word yet communicate in some extra-sensory manner. Razi said Rizwan Yousaf tells the classiest sardar jokes but, much to my annoyance, would not share most of them with me later. Even those who were no longer part of the PAF and had gone on to greener pastures abroad would congregate with the locals every chance they got and raise hell. The coursemates’ crib sessions were legendary; they would talk about the beam riders, the crutches that one was using and the horse that another was riding, the mistakes that someone constantly made while flying which would surely take his life, wrong policies that they would correct when they acquired authority, and somewhere during the wee hours of the night they would embark upon a nostalgia tour, regressing into their teens and reliving the silliest, and therefore the most memorable, events of their cadetship.

Not knowing Rizwan well, you wouldn’t think he would have much of a sense of humour. He was shy with women so couldn’t be termed a flirt, and he was reserved with men so couldn’t be considered a great conversationalist. Several people thought him snobbish because he would speak only when spoken to and then would utter a few measured and calculated words which seemed to give a message to the other party to abandon the effort to draw him into a conversation. Those who knew him, and those whom he liked, knew a different Rizwan. He had a dry, sometimes whacky sense of humour. To me, his jokes were often just not funny but, upon his insistence, I would give in and laugh at the punch line that passed me by. On the other hand, some of his “initiatives at humour” were totally creative. For example, inspired by PARCO’s two publications on truck “shairi”, Rizwan decided that he could come up with much better content. In fact, while he thought the idea was great, PARCO’s collection of verse was simply not upto his standard which, he claimed, was high due to the many hours he had spent driving between Sargodha and Lahore. For a person who knew many driver hotel wallas by name and was welcomed as a VIP at “Chakkiyan” whenever we visited there to sample Rizwan’s favourite daal roti, truck shairi was the highest form of ethnic art. So, off he sent a number of his staff members in Sargodha to collect couplets and phrases from trucks, richshaws and taxicabs. For the past three months, I had been taunting him about his project which stood seriously delayed. He would come back with “type ho raha hai”. Three days after the crash, as I went through one of his briefcases, I found five typed pages of truck verse. With tears in my eyes, I chuckled at some of them; “khangi jao tey langi jao”, “speed meri majboori, overtake mera nakhra”, “kabhi ao na sargodha surma laga kay”. In case PARCO would like to undertake a third publication, I have good material to contribute to it.

I am considered an accomplished professional in my own right. Several years of interaction with Pakistani men has brought about the understanding that, amongst the chauvinistic Pakistani male community, there are only two kinds of men who do not feel threatened by a woman’s success. The more common kind is the Pakistani male who needs a woman’s money and doesn’t care how much she suffers to earn it; his acceptance of her unconventional lifestyle is more materialistic than spiritual and emotional. The other, rare kind is the Pakistani man whose ego is so secure, who has such confidence in his own capabilities that nothing overwhelms him - not his wife’s success, not a competitor’s achievements, not even the crooked route that some might adopt in a bid to overtake him. Rizwan was that rare Pakistani man who not only supported his wife’s decision to pursue a career but actually encouraged her to take on greater challenges. Often I would suffer guilt pangs for not playing the traditional “Mrs. Air Force” role and would voice my concerns about how my rebellious ways might affect his career. Indeed, I would have quit and joined him anywhere that he was posted had he so much as snapped his fingers. Rizwan found my worries ridiculous. At the onset of each new assignment, a time when my guilt pangs topped off the barometer, I would receive his oft-repeated spiel about how the PAF could not challenge him, that he did not need his wife’s social presence as a crutch, that he carried his own weight and expected me to carry mine only, and that it was high time the PAF awakened and saw the real world where husband and wife must cooperate to build a family and a life. Immediately after, his loyalty to the PAF would take over and he would say “this is the Air Force yaar, not some substandard organization with illiterate biases. The PAF has no problems with our lifestyle. Everyone is quite proud of both of us. They are our family.” I must admit, my doubts were indeed unfounded. Never has the PAF stood in the way of my career, nor did it ever hold my husband’s decision to let the kids and me live away from the Base against him.

Rizwan had more faith in my abilities than I did and he was my greatest fan. Before I could introduce myself as his wife, he would take over and say “she isn’t just my wife…..” and launch into my resume. With a twinkle in his eye he would tell his friends how I paid more tax in a month than the salary he earned in three! Whenever someone started the countdown of his many trophies and awards, he would stop them half way and point to me saying “my most precious trophy” and then to our 4 funky kids “and the bonus”. So right he was too. I am Rizwan’s creation, a personification of his many cliché-like principles such as “success happens when opportunity meets preparation” and “don’t sweat the small stuff, but make sure you sweat it out well before you relax”. From him I learnt to be organized and methodical, to prepare meticulously and articulate precisely, to control my emotions during highly charged business meetings and to cut out the clutter and think logically and clearly in order to arrive at the most shrewd and profitable decision. He was my audience for presentation practice, my critic of technical papers, my sounding board for business strategy and vision, and my muse when I simply wanted to let my mind wander and drift. I, who was always in awe of his myriad talents and skills was also their biggest beneficiary and I can not help but regret that the same tutelage will not be available to his children. I can only hope that all four of them have arrived in this world with more of him and less of me. That they all look like him is some small comfort and I wonder if the resemblance continues further, into mind and heart, personality and character. I shall find out in due time.

Rizwan’s last assignment, Personal Staff Officer to Chief of Air Staff, was one for which he was earmarked by Air Chief Marshal Mushaf Ali Mir. Being a field officer, he was not too excited about “flying a desk”. He felt his disposition was not suited to diplomatic and administrative activity. He thought he would find it difficult to tail the CAS around. The only thing that made the situation attractive to him was the Chief of Air Staff himself. Mushaf Ali Mir, his instructor and commanding officer, and he, had a mutual admiration club. They, quite simply, were totally impressed with each other. When in their company, I could feel the respectful yet supremely comfortable relationship they enjoyed. Often, the Chief would introduce him as “My new PSO, he’s a sword of honour winner, do you know he has written two books, this man is going to go places…….”. Mushaf Bhai repeated this introduction twice to General Pervez Musharraf, much to Rizwan’s embarrassment. I learnt to see Mushaf Bhai and Billie Apa through Razi’s eyes and could not help but share the affection that he had for them.

Air Chief Marshal Mushal Ali Mir was a fine man. Rizwan spent a short 7 months as his PSO, but their professional relationship went back many years. He was Rizwan’s instructor and Rizwan had commanded No. 11 Squadron during Mushaf Bhai’s tenure as Base Commander, Sargodha. The Chief carried the reputation of a workaholic, a hard taskmaster, someone with whom an average professional could not keep pace. Rizwan matched him step for step and, had divine providence given him time, he could have added some value to ACM Mushaf Ali Mir’s aggressive campaign to restructure and rebuild the Pakistan Air Force for, despite his young age and junior rank, Rizwan had the vision and foresight that is uncommon in the average professional. His seniors realized this quality in him and acknowledged it generously. Another favourite senior colleague of Rizwan’s and now his fellow shaheed, AVM Saleem Nawaz, was a great jester. Like me, AVM Saleem Nawaz was an Air Force brat. His father, father-in-law and bother are PAF officers which gave him the right to declare “hamaray baap ki Air Force hai!”. Every time we would meet, he would grin and ask “Seemi, doesn’t this husband of yours know that you are losing several hundred dollars in consultancy while he makes you stand around here playing Mrs. Air Force? And by the way, did the drop in the exchange rate affect your salary adversely?” I would try to hush him up but he would carry on. “Saleem Bhai” I would finally say “aap meri naukri kay peechay kyon paray hain? When you become Chief of Air Staff, I know you will make me quit!” He would just laugh and say “I think the only one who can make you quit is he. Look at him, with your executive persona and your dollar salary, Razi still towers above you.” What a compliment he paid me for I was always, and continue to be, the proverbial bit of sand that shines bright with a reflection of sunlight falling upon it perchance. The last time that our pleasant banter took place was at the Air House on Eid-ul Fitr as Rizwan and I received the guests, he looking regal in his “Pierre Cardin” sherwani and I simply trying hard to keep up. I wonder now if I declared AVM Saleem Nawaz future Chief of Staff too loudly and too soon. Shayad nazr lag gai.

I saw my Razi for the last time on February 18th when he drove me to the airport. We talked while we waited for the Karachi flight to be announced. I said to him “You do realize that Pakistan is about to be nuked to smithereens if we don’t get our act together?” He responded “It won’t happen. My Pakistan will prosper someday, you will see”. My personal misgivings aside, I am keeping his faith.

On Feb 19th, I sent him an email and an SMS to check his mail. I believe he tried to call me several times that evening but I had a dinner meeting and my phone was switched off as usual. I returned late from dinner, thought of calling him but then decided not to since I knew he had an early morning flight the next day. I didn’t want to disturb him. He probably didn’t call me before he left for Kohat the next day thinking it was early and I would be asleep. I wish both of us had cared less about each other’s comfort for once in our lives. I wish…..

Now that my Rizwan is no more and I have time on my hands that I don’t know what to do with, I try to think of something in him that I could consider a fault, a shortcoming, a weakness. I think hard and find nothing. It is not possible, I know, for a human being to be faultless and it is, perhaps, common amongst grieving wives to place their departed husbands on a pedestal and worship them, irrespective of their lifelong deficiencies. I would be forgiven for my blasphemy, I suppose, by indulgent friends and relatives; “She’ll get over it” they will say “she’s just overcome with emotion right now”. Not so. I have always thought Razi faultless, have found nothing in him that could be considered less than dignified, respectable, loveable, attractive – I could string a hundred adjectives which would, together, say he was just plain beautiful. Oh, but wait, there was one thing wrong with him, maybe two. Lately he had started to snore, and he always had bad handwriting.

Farewell my darling, with your own words to me on one of our too few wedding anniversaries;

“Though parted by distance, you dwell in my heart
Let us enjoy it, this time apart
Next time – Together”