It was nighttime, and my grandfather, the late Siddiq Baloch, was reading on his bed. I entered his room and informed him that I was leaving for Lahore tomorrow (for my bachelor’s). He asked me to sit beside him and said jokingly, “Take care of yourself in Punjab boy”. With my undeveloped opinions, I asked, “What lies ahead? What is the solution to all that is happening in Balochistan?” He replied, “Let me give you two books, and figure that out for yourself. When you think you have a solution, we will talk.” The two books were “In Search of Solutions, an autobiography of Mir Ghaus Baksh Bizenjo by BM Kutty,” and the second one was “Balochistan Conundrum by Maria Malik.”
Yes, I used to ask him about the political situation, life, and almost everything. He was like a best friend, a mentor, and, of course, as the title says, my superhero. This superhero is neither in the context of the DC and Marvel universes nor in the lame context of political heroism. But this superhero means he was not ordinary like the rest; his opinions were not, his stances were not, nor his actions. Since childhood, I have never looked towards a heroic character and was never fascinated by the heroes of the movies, though I binge-watch a lot. Whatever he did from day to night was not only a source of motivation to lead a disciplined life like him but an inspiration to be principled as well. Aren’t these traits rare these days in this mess of what Raza Rumi calls undigested post-modernism?
Maybe he would not have agreed with the word “superhero” because, once, when I was assigned the topic “Are we better than our forefathers” by the English language center I was enrolled in, I asked him, “What do you think?” He replied, “Of course, we are better. It is a matter of progress, technology. What did our forefathers have?”. Then, I naively questioned, “Would we be better than your generation?” He said, “Of course, you will be a generation with technology and modern tools. Never look backward but ahead.” He was right.
The day when I was released with almost 200 others after spending 7 days in Kot-Lakpath Jail Lahore, charged with dozens of cases, including the 7ATA for protesting peacefully for the release of other fellows in front of the Press Club in Lahore, I received calls from multiple family members, including my grandfather. When most of my family scolded me for participating in the protest and being involved in student activism (justified fear though, looking at the situation with the Baloch students overall), the first thing Baba (I used to call my grandfather that) said was, “Did you eat vegetables there?” Joking about my habit of not touching vegetables at all. I replied, “No, I remained hungry the day they gave vegetables.” He then went on and motivated me, saying that this is part of your active learning besides what you get to know in your curriculum and classrooms. Baba pointed out that he had been writing editorials about the jailed students. In the hurry of reading those, I said goodbye to him, and then the conversation ended. I did not know then that it would be the last time I was talking to him. I knew that he wasn’t well, but I didn’t know that his situation was getting critical. Otherwise, his words about everything else are still present in the archives, but the conversation we had cannot be brought back and is just a memory that never fades.
After a day or two, as I woke up and looked at my cell phone, there were multiple missed calls. Before looking into them, I opened social media, as my generation is obsessed with it. The first post was about the death of Baba. I froze at the moment until my father called and narrated the whole story. I didn’t cry at the time, not later, not even till now. Psychology says that crying makes you feel lighter, and you can let go of the thought that is disturbing you. But maybe, I still do not believe that he is not there to tell me jokes and stories and give me advice. I am well aware that the state of denial leads to a more intense mental situation, but this is how it is. Superheroes never die; their ideas live even though their bodies expire. Maybe this thought has kept me going till now without shedding a tear. As long as this piece can go, I can weep out a sea of thoughts about him, but then I remember his advice that never make your write-up lengthy; the world has no time to only read what you have to say.
The list of write-ups written about his politics, his early life, his journalism, his beliefs in progressive ideals, personal interactions, and other things is long. But this piece is coming from the home where he lived. The ideas which he advocated were practiced in the home. He was self-dependent and advised us to be that and often said that women in the house are nobody’s maids; learn to do things by yourself. When I was younger, I used to have a problem with what he said because of the dominant narratives caging my mind. As I grew, as I read more, as I learned more, today, I can say that thing was a resistance against patriarchal norms. If I started narrating such pieces of advice and principles, the list would be long, and the space would be small. Therefore, at last, I would say he was a modernist but held culture and social conventions also high. It wouldn’t be fair to call him any specific “IST.” May his soul rest in peace and power!