CIVIL servant par excellence, Fazlur Rahman Khan who died on Sunday May 1, 2016, was so meticulous that he kept copies of every single judgment he passed as a magistrate. My 68-year friendship with him began when he came to Lahore for his postgraduate studies after graduating with honours from Allahabad University and we met at Ewing Hall hostel of Forman Christian College in November 1948.

After obtaining his Masters degree in 1950 Fazal first taught geography at Punjab University.

He then joined the civil service in 1952 and served all over Pakistan, including five years as chairman Central Board of Revenue. His final posting was that of principal secretary to then president Ghulam Ishaq Khan. He had been writing an autobiography — still unfinished — called Seven Scorching Summers about that period in Pakistan’s history.

During our long friendship, we hardly ever had any serious arguments, except when the discussion turned to Gen Zia or Mr Ishaq Khan — it was difficult for him to say anything that would show them in a bad light.

In the old tradition of civil service, he never talked about the politics of these two controversial gentlemen. He particularly admired Mr Ishaq Khan’s knowledge of Eastern and Western music, as well as Persian and Urdu poetry.

Once when a friend of mine who was heading the BBC Eastern Service was visiting Islamabad, I invited him to dinner along with Fazal and Fakhar Imam who was a minister at the time while Fazal was at the President House. Both of them assiduously avoided any political discussion, talking only about cricket all the time during dinner.

Fazlur Rahman Khan was an avid collector of books and periodicals.

Fazal was an avid collector of books and periodicals published during the last century, including writings by members of the Indian Civil Service who had served during the last 125 years.

Among his other interests were music — particularly Indian, whether classical or light — and films. He knew by heart the history of Indian films and their musical scores. He was also a sports enthusiast, particularly of cricket.

His high intellectual calibre did not allow him to suffer fools gladly, but his only reaction would be to go silent as the Buddha. Impoliteness was never an option. 

While in service he wrote by the pen name of MAH. Once he got into an exchange in print with scholar and journalist Sibte Hasan who, when he realised that he was at the losing end of the argument, caustically asked, “Who the hell is MAH? Why does he not come out openly with his name?”

On one occasion, the two of us met up in the company of a friend of mine, Julie, who was working with a BBC charity called Children in Need. Fazal talked about the work of various charities in the subcontinent. When Julie mentioned that she had been a dancer before, Fazal switched to the history of ballet and spoke at length on that subject, much to my friend’s pleasant surprise.

In 1968, while on a road trip in Asia, another friend of mine, Jan Myrdal was passing through Peshawar on his way from Kabul. As I was in London at the time, Fazal, who was then posted in Peshawar, played host to Jan.

Although Fazal was an immaculately turned-out civil servant and Jan a Bohemian, both hit it off immediately. Jan’s father, Gunnar Myrdal, the Swedish Nobel laureate economist, was the author of Asian Drama, which deals with the subcontinent of India and Pakistan, and American Dilemma, a study of race relations in the US. Fazal had already read his work. Jan himself had written a book called A Guilty European. He left a copy for me with Fazal and gave one to him duly signed.

Although his friends would aptly describe him as a man for all seasons, Fazal, who came from a long line of bureaucrats, soldiers and academics, was nevertheless a very private person. He was born in Chhattisgarh in India, which is now the capital of Jharkhand, a new province carved out by the Indian government from the original Central Provinces.

The tribes near his birthplace, which is today a hotbed of Maoist activities, were a source of deep fascination for Fazal throughout his life. Fifteen days before he died, when he visited me in his wheelchair, he was feeling nostalgic. He borrowed my collection of Makhdoom Mohiuddin’s poetry and we talked about his most popular work Ye Jang Hay Jang-i-Azadi. Amazingly enough, the Maoists still recite that poem — a fact that surprised Arundhati Roy when she met them — even though they don’t know who has written it.

One hopes that his memoirs will be published as early as possible, for they will help illuminate the behind-the-scenes events during one of the most volatile periods in Pakistan politics.

The writer is an author and a commentator on foreign affairs.

Published in Dawn, May 8th, 2016