Haroon Ur Rashid Tabasum

2026-02-25 - 21:33

THIS remembrance is of a man I had observed from afar for many years. Then, by chance, we met—and that meeting proved to be the last. It was through the blessing of Iqbal that people gathered in Quetta from near and far. Among them was Dr. Haroon-ur-Rashid Tabassum. Seeing me, he greeted me warmly and recited: Aaya hai aasman se urr kar koi sitara, Ya jaan par gayi hai mahtaab ki kiran mein. Ya shab ki saltanat mein din ka safeer aaya, Ghurabat mein aa ke chamka, gumnaam tha watan mein. “Has a star descended from the heavens, or has a ray of moonlight come alive? Has the envoy of day entered the kingdom of night? He shone in exile, though unknown in his own homeland.” Such was his affectionate style. I touched his knees respectfully and replied, “Please do not say so, Doctor Sahib. If there is a star here, it is one held captive by your greatness in exile.” That first detailed meeting united us like long-separated friends who fear another parting. What was Haroon-ur-Rashid Tabassum? Much could be debated, but the essential truth is simple: if one wished to see self-confidence and steadfastness embodied, one should have seen him. After his passing, someone wrote that without him Sargodha looked desolate. Such tributes are usually reserved for the powerful and wealthy. He possessed no material fortune. He came from a modest, anonymous, hardworking family—people who live quietly and fade into the background. Yet those who saw the broad forehead and bright eyes of that newborn sensed something unusual. The midwife, moved with joy, told the mother that her son would be fortunate. As he grew, people began to believe he would make his mark—and he did. His journey, however, was long but not easy. There was little difference in our ages. When he was stepping onto the heights of recognition, I stood at the threshold of adolescence, watching with admiration. In those days he wore the black shirt and khaki trousers of Civil Defence, moving briskly from place to place. Many young men joined that department and received a modest stipend. All wore the same loose uniform, yet when Haroon wore it, it appeared transformed. He had a natural sense of presentation. He would have his clothes properly fitted and never stepped outside carelessly dressed. Elegance and discipline accompanied him throughout his life. Many served in Civil Defence; some may have been equally smart. Why then did they disappear into obscurity while Haroon’s star continued to rise? I cannot give a simple answer, but I know that in that era eloquence shaped destinies. Students distinguished themselves through speeches and debates. Good speakers were celebrated and respected. Haroon was among the fortunate few whose oratory earned admiration and recognition. I do not know which perceptive Deputy Commissioner of Sargodha first noticed him, but it was a time when civic life flourished. The Meena Bazaar, organized for families, became a vibrant social event in Company Bagh. Such festivals demanded tireless effort. I still remember a poster he published for a musical program bearing the lines: Is ghairat-e-Nahid ki har taan hai deepak, Shola sa lapak jaaye hai, awaaz to dekho. “Each note of this dignified songstress burns like a living lamp; behold how her voice makes the flame leap skyward.” Sometimes his own photograph appeared on the poster, saluting in crisp Civil Defence uniform. For years, the image of Civil Defence and Haroon seemed inseparable in my mind. Through dedication and sincerity, he became central to the organization of national day ceremonies—Independence Day, Pakistan Day, and Defence Day. For over half a century, whenever such events succeeded, his name came naturally to people’s lips. Fame often fades; flowers wither. Yet his name did not. Such endurance rests on two foundations: steadfastness and sincerity of intention. God had blessed him richly with both. In a long public life he earned only respect. Even if he had adversaries, none could point to scandal or blemish upon his character. Alongside social service, he remained devoted to scholarship. Opinions may differ about the depth of his academic work, but gathering scattered research—particularly in Iqbal studies—into accessible book form is itself a valuable contribution. Not everyone must construct grand theories; sometimes preservation and compilation are service enough. He was a teacher of Urdu and his students were countless. They loved him and regarded him as an exemplary mentor. There was a time when earning a bachelor’s or master’s degree was a matter of pride displayed at one’s doorstep. He pursued multiple master’s degrees with remarkable enthusiasm, almost as if collecting them were a pastime. Eventually, under the guidance of the distinguished scholar Dr. Rafiuddin Hashmi, his energies were directed toward doctoral research. Without that guidance, he might have continued accumulating degrees indefinitely. Instead, he attained his PhD and found intellectual direction. May his grave be filled with light. Sargodha will not forget him. From a humble, hardworking household emerged a man who carved a name for himself through dedication, discipline, eloquence and sincerity. Haroon-ur-Rashid Tabassum stands as a rare example of how steadfast purpose and purity of intention can lift an ordinary beginning into lasting remembrance. —This writer is former advisor to the President of Pakistan, author & mass media theorist. (farooq.adilbhuta@gmail,com)