Anwar Maqsood is very many things: painter, poet, playwright, television talk-show host. He is also, and perhaps primarily, a truth-teller. It is a risky business, this telling of truths; no one knows this quite as well as we do in Pakistan. Maqsood, however, possesses a special trick: he can make you think and he can make you laugh, both at the same time. And by the time laughter, or its urge, has ceased, the time to have taken offence has passed.

It seems odd to refer to a man of his age and stature as mischievous—but there is mischief in Maqsood’s eyes, an impish twinkle, as he narrates how once, late in the morning, early in the ’80s, he found himself in a sticky situation: at the GHQ in Rawalpindi, before a row of stony-faced generals. The general, Zia-Ul-Haq, was livid: at a show hosted by Maqsood the previous night, he had been made to wait several hours. As a result, he thundered, he had missed his meeting with the French ambassador.

In the face of such withering disapprobation, a man more ordinary may have buckled. Not Anwar Maqsood. “Why sir,” he said innocently. “I didn’t think you’d mind.” The general paused, puzzled. “What do you mean?” “I thought you’d be used to it.

After all, you budgeted 90 days for yourself but have stayed on for eight years.”

Where does this wit come from, and the courage to dispense it? Maqsood dismisses the latter part with a wave of the hand, then raises the same hand and touches the top of his head, an oddly superstitious gesture. “I don’t know,” he says in response to the former. The wit in question has spared no one, slicing egos, presumptions, and delusions with barely concealed relish.

To Benazir Bhutto, when she proudly proclaimed that she had returned democracy to Pakistan after Zia’s demise: “It is the Pakistan Air Force that has brought back democracy, ma’am—after all, the C130 that crashed was theirs.” To an irate brigadier, who grabbed him by the collar and insisted that Maqsood’s jokes had cross a line this time: “I don’t get paid to cross borders, sir—I believe you do.”

Doing things in a certain manner, with the courage of conviction alone, appears to be characteristic of the Maqsood family.

When they migrated to Karachi in 1948 (“We brought with us 50 trunks of books, that’s all.”), accommodation was a problem.

His grandfather refused to occupy the houses abandoned by fleeing Hindus. “They have locks on them,” he said. “They belong to people.” So they pitched a tent on Jamshed Road. When rains washed away their makeshift home, they rented a one-unit house in PIB Colony.

With good grace and good humour, the Maqsoods made the best of their lot. Elder brother Ahmed joined the government service. (Fatimah Surayya) Bajjiya had begun to write and garner acclaim. Maqsood did not attend formal school for the next five years, then enrolled in the Bahad-e-Ajal school with Khwaja Moinuddin as his class teacher; it was from him that he received his real training in writing.

His training in art, however, took place on the walls of the house he lived in: he would sketch caricatures of his family members with chunks of coal. There was no money, however, to purchase paint, until Shakir Ali (who lived next door) recognised his incipient talent and bought him his first paint box. In 1959, he held his first exhibition at the French embassy.

It was sold out within half an hour; Jamshed Marker bought all of them.

Maqsood’s plays (who can forget Aangan tera?) and his satirical talk shows (the seminal Loose talk, with Moin Akhtar, completed a staggering 349 episodes over eight years) have become so popular that it is easy to forget that he is foremost an artist. Recently, he says, his paintings always include a small bird, signifying themes of repression, the yearning for freedom. “Sometimes, she (the bird) is in a cage, sometimes she is outside it, wanting to, but unable to leave. That too is entrapment of a certain sort.”

Maqsood’s entry into show business came in the form of The Knights, Pakistan’s first pop band established in 1960 in which he played the guitar. “I used to dress the part with hair down to my waist, golden shoes and black trousers!” The Knights were in great demand, especially on New Year’s Eve when they would get paid a princely sum of Rs300 to play through the night.

Prior to this, he had a brief stint at UBL but couldn’t get used to the nine-to-five environment, the wearing of suits and the sitting at desks. “And my math was very weak,” he says wryly.

His most gratifying spell as an employee was with a music recording company, where he recorded the entire range of Eastern classical music with Khwaja Khursheed Anwar as part of Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s project. Maqsood also worked as the editor of the Hurriyet magazine, until an irrelevant pun on words regarding a hotel promotion unleashed widespread furore, with fatwas being proclaimed and mobs demanding his head. “Don’t mention that incident in any great details,” he says. “I’ll be fine but you might get into trouble.”

Maqsood has been a witness to the story of Pakistan right from its inception: when, according to him, was the country at its best, its most hopeful? “In 1946,” he quips, without missing a beat. It is a quintessential Maqsoodian response: short, seemingly flippant, but hinting at greater truths. The idea of Pakistan was a beautiful one, it seems to imply, but repeated lapses in its execution—for whatever reasons—has eroded it, chipped at it bit by bit.

Maqsood’s lip curls in distaste at the mention of the current crop of humour: cartoons and caricatures dancing on screen, their heads transposed with the faces of politicians. “Good humour entails a degree of decency,” he says. “It is a tricky tightrope, a sea of fire (aag ka darya) that must be skilfully navigated.”

His rage, however, is reserved for ineptitude: it is bad writing, rather than bawdy writing, that irks him most. He takes aim at a telecom advertisement that can currently be heard and seen on all networks, a cheery little jingle celebrating cricket. “Hum kheltey huay khaatein hain aur hum khaatey huay kheltein hain,” he sings mockingly. “Who came up with this gem? Three of our youngsters are already serving time for ‘eating’ while playing!”

His deepest affection is reserved for his family, however—in particular, his six grandchildren. “I am their friend before I am their grandfather,” he says with pride. “They call me Anwar, I cook for them nearly every day.”