Waqiat Aur Asbaq

It was probably around 1974. I was a final-year student at Nishtar Medical College in Multan. The “Ghazala” railcar used to run between Lahore and Multan. I had boarded it from Lahore. Another student from Nishtar, whom I only vaguely recognized, had come and sat across from me. He was holding some digest magazine. We weren’t well acquainted, but we knew each other by face. We chatted briefly, and in the meantime, the train had left the city and was speeding along.

I borrowed the magazine from him and was flipping through the pages when, all of a sudden, a man’s terrified scream echoed through the compartment. Instinctively, I looked out the window and saw another passenger train hurtling towards us on the same track at full speed. The railcar’s driver, showing remarkable presence of mind, applied the brakes and began reversing the train. Like many others, I was among the first to jump out of the moving train.

The railcar was picking up speed. A man threw his toddler, about a year or a year and a half old, toward me, and I instinctively caught the child. The oncoming train—whether it was Khyber Mail or Tezgam, I don’t remember—had stopped. A man was dangling one leg out of the railcar’s window, with his face leaning out as well. I shouted at him to stop, telling him there was no danger now.

The trains were now on separate tracks. We reboarded the railcar. As we traveled onward, we encountered a rescue train approaching, with medical personnel in white coats aboard. The railcar stopped briefly, likely to report the incident, at Pattoki Station. People, including the emotional father of the child I had caught (even though I could never catch a ball in my life), lay down on the tracks in protest.

Moral: People make mistakes, but a savior can prevent others from suffering the consequences of those mistakes.

There is a place called Astore in Gilgit, though it is more of a settlement than a town. The Pakistan Army’s 80th Brigade was stationed there. This was in 1976. Our field ambulance unit was located in Gorikot, some 10 to 15 kilometers from Astore. I was reluctant to cross the Burzil Pass. After a heated argument with the Colonel, I finally agreed to go to Gultari. Major Cheema and Navy Lieutenant Khalid had landed a helicopter at the Astore helipad. Brigadier Daud and Colonel Zia, who had come from Gilgit, disembarked and headed toward the offices.

I began chatting with Major Cheema and told him that I would be going “forward” with him today. He jokingly said, “I can’t take a ‘criminal’ like you along.” I quickly jumped into the co-pilot’s seat, buckled up, and said, “Sir, you’re taking me with you today.” Major Cheema, startled, said, “Get out, Doctor; the commander is coming.” I got out and stood by. Brigadier Daud waved his stick and said, “Captain Mirza, you won’t be going today because I’ve brought Colonel Zia for reconnaissance.” Major Cheema stuck his tongue out at me, and I just smiled.

We saluted the officers, and the helicopter took off, banking away. I walked the 50-60 steps to the MI (Medical Inspection) room, removed my cap, and said, “Siddique, bring me some tea.” I was about to sit down when emergency whistles began blaring from all directions. It was an emergency. I grabbed my cap and rushed out, jumping into the jeep that had brought me from Gorikot and ordered the driver, “Go.”

Soldiers and civilians were running in all directions. We also headed in one direction. I stopped the vehicle and climbed up a hill, then descended and climbed another until I reached its peak. Looking down, I clutched my head in despair. Below, at the river’s edge, lay the shattered remains of the helicopter in which I was supposed to have been a passenger. Before reaching the wreckage, I took a letter out of my pocket addressed to my mother. In it, aside from other things, I had written, “Perhaps this will be my last letter to you.”

I tore that letter into pieces and let the wind scatter them before descending. Only Lieutenant Khalid was alive, and he was being carried up in a makeshift stretcher. The DQ ordered me, “Go up and save him.” I was already exhausted from all the climbing, but I started to ascend again. A local man said, “Sir, climb onto my back.” Without hesitation, I did just that, and he scaled the slope with the agility of a monkey, carrying me up. But by then, Lieutenant Khalid had passed away.

Moral: You know nothing; the One who knows all rarely lets your “perhaps” come to pass.

Iran, Lavan Island, the year 1982. I was flying to Tehran in a chartered plane of the oil company. Captain Mehesti, a helicopter pilot for the oil company, was seated next to me. I mentioned to him that I had always dreamed of becoming a pilot and expressed my desire to see the cockpit. He said that the captain of the plane was his friend and that he would arrange it right away. Thus, for the first time, I sat in the cockpit of a flying airplane for many minutes.

Captain Mehesti asked if someone would be coming to pick me up at Tehran Airport. I said no. A Pakistani employee of the oil company, Haji Ghafoor, had given me the address of another Pakistani, Khalid Saeed, saying I could stay at his place. Captain Mehesti said that a car would be coming to pick him up, and he could drop me off at the required location. Khalid Saeed’s house number was thirteen. It took a long time to find, but we couldn’t locate it. Suddenly, Captain Mehesti remembered that the number thirteen was considered unlucky in Iran, so we looked for “12+1” and found the house.

About two weeks later, Captain Mehesti fled to Dubai in the company’s helicopter, taking his wife and children with him. Thankfully, I wasn’t an old acquaintance of his; otherwise, I might have been caught up in the investigation by the Revolutionary Guards.

Moral: It’s better to take no favors and rely on your own strength.

Moscow, Russia. I, along with a few other Pakistanis, rented a floor in a hotel to “sublet” to others. This hotel was often frequented by swindlers from Karaj, Iran. Entire families would travel the world, duping people and skillfully picking their pockets. They referred to their work as “going on a tour.”

One day, an American checked into the hotel. He had rented a room on his own, but we became somewhat acquainted, and I even visited his room for tea a couple of times. He claimed to be involved in buying and selling ships. It never occurred to me why someone involved in such a big business would be staying at a three-star hotel. He seemed like a nice person.

I eventually left the hotel. One day, I read in the newspaper that he was actually an American spy who had been stealing Russian naval secrets and had been sentenced to fifteen years in prison. Later, a Russian spy woman was caught in the United States along with her network. In a prisoner exchange, the American spy was released and sent back to the U.S. on Putin’s special orders. Until that day, I had been worried that I might be considered suspicious and detained.

Moral: Only establish relationships with foreigners whose background and occupation are already known to you.