| Mumbai - December 22, 2000. |
Cover
Story
 Diary |
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The most humane
and lovable thing about working with Abbas Sahab was that he never
gave the men working with him the feeling that they were his servants,
that they belonged to a lower class who could be treated the way
he wanted just because he was paying them a salary (and he always
made it a point to pay his people their salaries in time during
his good times and bad times).They were not paid as well as other
men doing the same kind of jobs for other better known and richer
men but they worked for him more out of a feeling of respect and
dedication almost bordering on reverence. Heading the
staff in the office was Abdul Rehman, " the man without whom
I can not do a thing, move a thing, pick up a pin or find the right
book" (Abbas). Abdul Rehman was the only man who could understand
his handwriting. Abbas always wrote with a fountain pen which was
then going out of fashion and at times it seemed like only Abdul
Rehman knew that what Abbas wrote was in English. And I wonder how
many million words Abdul Rehman must have typed on that type-writer,
the only modern equipment Abbas had in his office besides the hundreds
and thousands of books, trophies and awards from all over the world.
Abbas solely depended on Abdul Rehman for every minute detail. The
day Abdul Rehman who lived far away from the office came late or
did not come at all seemed like the end of the world for Abbas.
He knew that Abdul Rehman was his most dedicated man but he forgot
his love for him temporarily when his work suffered till Abdul Rehman
arrived and all was well with the world. Abdul Rehman
reported on duty at around lunch time and stayed on till late in
the night. He was the best man to whom Abbas left everything, everything
from typing his manuscripts to keeping in touch with his publishers,
keeping all his accounts intact, keeping everything legal and general
and even some family matters in place. And Abdul Rehman was thoroughly
efficient in every thing he did "because I don’t do what
I do as a job but because of my love and admiration for this great
man”, he said. There were times when he was the only man who
had the courage to point out some mistakes in what Abbas had written
and Abbas took him seriously just like Frank Moraes, one of the
greatest editors India ever saw during its most crucial post-independence
phase, used to depend on his proof reader, Hari. Abdul Rehman
could have found a better job, made more money, led a more comfortable
life if he had worked the way he did in any other place or for any
other individual. I once asked Abdul Rehman if he would work for
Abbas all his life and he impulsively said: " yes unless Abbas
Sahab throws me out or tells me that he doesn’t need me any
more. I work for Abbas Sahab and not for my material needs, not
for the salary but out of sheer love for this great man. Then there was
Jaffar who was his man Friday. I don’t know why he took dislike
for me right from the first day. He did not like Abbas giving me
so much attention. He was so jealous that he did not allow me to
touch any book in the library. He looked out of place in the office.
He would have looked better in a butcher’s shop. Abbas knew
his weaknesses " but I can not throw him out and let his family
suffer for his weak points". He was uneducated, uncultured
and uncouth and yet, Abbas kept him as some kind of errand boy but
he behaved like he was greater than Abbas in the office. I had a
feeling that his behaviour would not last long. I kept my cool even
when he humiliated me (and even threatened me for refusing to tutor
his dim-witted sons) which he did very often and my feeling was
right. He was caught cheating by Abbas himself and cheating had
no mercy in the book of values of Abbas. He was thrown out, sacked.
I was not happy. I felt sad. The man had asked for it. Strangely
till the very end he believed that he faced all kinds of misery
only after I joined Abbas Sahab. He was one of the first cruel men
I had met in my adult life. Then there was
this elderly man , Abdul Hamid whose only job was to translate or
transcribe what ever Abbas wrote from Urdu into Hindi. He was a
born pessimist and Abbas knew it. Abbas was the only man before
whom he stammered when he was fired, the rest he treated like dirt
because he had the feeling that he was the most learned man in the
office. I didn’t exist for him. I thanked my stars for such
a kind favour. He was the first man I met who showed me how hating
the world for no genuine reason was also a school of thought. He
sometimes had the guts to say that Abbas wrote what he didn’t
believe in. He was not a good writer at all, according to learned
Abdul Hamid and I could strangle him for saying that! I had never
seen such betrayal, such namak harami from a man who was not fit
to tie the laces of Abbas Sahab’s shoes. One day he told the others in the staff that he could write better than Abbas Sahab and would prove it one day. He never did. He never could. One morning he was found missing. Soon he was missing for several mornings. He was then just missing and no one missed him.
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