Memories of Radio and Conversations About It
By: Khair Jan Azad
Today, after nearly a decade and a half, as I stepped once again
through the gates of Radio Pakistan Quetta, it felt as though time had
folded in on itself, and the past stood with open arms, ready to
welcome me. On the other side of the gate, every memory, every scene
seemed to be waiting for my arrival.
As soon as I entered, the affectionate smile of Mama Meetha Khan came
alive in my imagination. That same smile, which always greeted
visitors at the door, felt like an unspoken permission slip to enter
the world of radio. His distinct blessing— “Babo Khairat o Khuda Kumak
Numa!”—still echoed in my ears. His presence was the very soul of the
radio station. Not just a gatekeeper, but a gracious host who treated
every visitor with warmth and respect. A man whose lips never uttered
a complaint—only words of goodwill.
But today, his absence at that very gate left behind a void. The gate
was the same, but the fragrance of its past had faded. The place
remained, yet characters like Mama Meetha Khan seemed to have become
part of memories forever.
Lost in nostalgia, I walked straight to the security office, where
Sultan Sahib once occupied his designated chair. But today, someone
else sat there. Sultan Sahib had a unique personality—always ready to
guide visitors. These qualities now seemed to reflect in his son,
Suhail. Following tradition, the visitors’ entry was recorded in a
register, and a slip bearing the name of either Ghulam Haider Hasrat
or Yusuf Thani was handed over.
Among the prominent pillars of the Brahui section at Radio Pakistan
Quetta, Ghulam Haider Hasrat rose as a significant figure following
the passing of the renowned broadcaster, esteemed writer, and the
central figure of Shah Baig Watakh, Ghulam Nabi Rahi. Hasrat was a
sincere individual and a capable, professional producer. However,
opinions about him varied. This is why, even today, among those who
served the Brahui language—whether still among us or merely in our
memories—Ghulam Haider Hasrat remains conspicuously absent from Brahui
literature and its scholars. This is an unsettling reality.
His boisterous laughter used to fill the station with vibrancy. If his
laughter echoed all the way to the gate, it meant he was in a
welcoming mood. But if silence prevailed, it hinted at an unspoken
caution. He was an officer, but his approach to leadership was
distinctive. He relied more on his “ears” than his “eyes” in official
matters. Those around him, more alert than any CCTV camera, were
skilled at sensing future possibilities.
Whenever someone entered his office, they were met with cheerful
banter, often accompanied by the distinctive voice of Mir Sikandar
Khan, who was always by his side—whether at the radio station or at
Baldia Hotel.
The upper floor housed the offices of senior officials, including the
dignified presence of Station Director Abid Rizvi and Program Manager
Naseer Shaheen, whose leadership only added to the station’s prestige.
These were administrators, but more than that, they were mentors. This
was the hub of bureaucracy, yet it also accommodated the various
language sections—Brahui, Balochi, Pashto, and others.
When I think of the Brahui section at Radio Pakistan Quetta, I don’t
see just an office but a “family of language,” where announcers,
comperes, actors, producers—all gathered like members of a household.
The only difference was that access to this “family table” was
reserved for a select few—as if it were an inherited privilege meant
only for them. There was plenty of talk about serving the language,
but the doors to that service were as firmly shut as the gates of an
ancient fortress, with the keys held only by the elite.
A common man, no matter how knowledgeable or capable, was deemed
“unfit” for this service. It seemed that it wasn’t love for the
language that mattered, but rather devotion to certain individuals.
Thus, this so-called “fortress of language” became less about its
preservation and more about serving the comfort of a privileged few.
An outsider looking in might wonder if they had knocked on the wrong
door.
After years of effort, I barely managed to gain access to the Brahui
program Diwan as a compere. But the atmosphere there was neither a
paradise nor a guesthouse for me; instead, it felt like a battleground
for talent. For some fortunate souls, it was indeed a
haven—comfortable, filled with appreciative sips of tea, and brimming
with an air of personal superiority. But for restless minds like mine,
it was a graveyard of abilities, where the sacrifice of hard work was
an accepted norm.
Shaking off my sense of self-respect, I sought refuge in the newsroom,
where at least my dignity was not up for sale. Here, it felt like a
sanctuary—a place where the price of work was respect rather than mere
favoritism.
One day, Alam Khan Mengal adjusted his glasses and asked, “Why do you
want to join radio?” Enthusiastically, I poured out my entire
philosophy in one sentence: “To serve the language!”
Upon hearing this, a knowing smile crossed his face—the kind that
usually appears when one notices their tea cup has been slightly
moved. Then, he let out such a hearty laugh that even Ghulam Haider
Hasrat and Paind Khan Laik would have struggled to match it.
“Wake up, dreamer!” he declared with amused wisdom. “First, serve
yourself, then think about serving the language!”
At that time, it felt like a sarcastic remark—an outright dismissal of
my sincerity. But today, after experiencing the harsh realities of
life, I realize it was an eternal truth. First, establish yourself.
Solve the problems of sustenance and dignity. Only then can you serve
the language—or anything else.
Whenever the atmosphere in the Brahui section became too heavy, when
words began to feel like echoes of boredom, I would head to the
Balochi section. There, over cups of tea with Ismail Baloch and Akhtar
Nadeem, life seemed to regain its flavor. Their words, infused with
the magic of Balochi folk tales, felt like an old song resonating in
my ears.
The Pashto section had a different charm altogether. People like Qudus
Durani and Abu al-Khair Zaland, with their elegance and gentle
manners, won hearts effortlessly. Their words carried weight without
force, like dew settling softly on mountaintops. A heart wandering in
search of sincerity was drawn to places where truth lingered in the
air, while voids of pretense instinctively made it pause.
Different languages, but emotions intertwined.
This was a radio station where harsh realities confronted us one
moment, and in the next, friendship and affection turned even the
bitterness of time into sweetness.
Climbing the stairs, on the left, there was the copyist room—perhaps
still there today. That space saw daily gatherings with Ghaus Bakhsh
Sabir, Munir Shahwani, Sher Ali, Barat Ali, and Abdul Samad.
Conversations flowed seamlessly, and meetings were routine.
The duty room of the radio was a lost island where time seemed to
stand still, and every moment dissolved into the struggle of waiting.
It was not merely a collection of walls and chairs but a sanctuary of
stories, memories, and encounters. There, the presence of Agha Gul and
Hafiz Ashfaq Sahib imparted gentle life lessons, like the silent
advice of an unspoken teacher. It was also where one could meet people
like Anees Tabsum, Nazir Hunnah Wal, Rafi Kakar, and Tanveer
Iqbal—individuals whose conversations could either bring a deep smile
or leave one in contemplation.
At exactly 8:15 PM, the time for “Diwan” to air approached, and it
felt as if the bell of a cultural gathering had been rung. Whenever it
was time for Diwan, meeting Manan Sahib was inevitable; his presence
was almost a guarantee of the program’s success. When Akbar Kakar
arrived for “Khabrein Utre,” his encouraging tone was like a fresh
breeze. It felt as if, just as news could descend from the mountains,
a person too could unburden themselves of life’s struggles—provided
they had an inspiring mentor like Akbar Kakar.
The newsroom was not just a place for broadcasting news; it was a
vibrant world filled with remarkable personalities. The esteemed
Khalid Mahmood Sahib, the senior sub-editor, was always a symbol of
kindness. His words carried a calm dignity that left a lasting
impression. Shakir Baloch, the then Deputy Controller of News, spread
waves of warmth with his charming smile, adding a subtle yet firm tone
to every news piece. Then came Muhammad Ilyas Sahib, hailing from
Sialkot, who breathed new life into the newsroom. His persona carried
an almost mythical charm, reminiscent of Suleiman Shah from the
Turkish drama Ertugrul Ghazi—a blend of seriousness, wisdom, and
leadership. After his departure, the atmosphere of the department
changed, yet his memories still shine like a lantern in the heart,
reminding us that true leadership rules over hearts, not just chairs.
Speaking of the golden days of radio, it would be impossible not to
mention tea. Every day concluded with a gathering after “Balsam,
Zambar, or Chhanta” programs, where a few of us would sit near the
radio tower. The presence of friends like Saeed Qalandarani, Naseer
Baloch, Nasir Rahi, Matlab Mengal, Sher Muhammad Sarparah, Hussain
Bakhsh Sajid, or Atta Muhammad Adil always made those moments
unforgettable. Across the radio station’s wall stood Syed Hotel, still
in its place, which remained our go-to spot for tea. We would order
teapots, calling the tea vendor “Khetran” instead of his real
name—neither remembering nor ever trying to learn it. Perhaps, in the
fragrance of tea, such details always faded away. Then there was the
legendary Qalandari Hotel, where tea made by Muhammad Hanif Kakar had
an almost hypnotic effect on the mind. Sometimes, we sipped tea with
Jumma Khan Mengal, Sagheer Ahmed Sagheer, Imandara Ali Nawaz Mengal,
or my late, dearest friend, perhaps Nasir. Our conversations would
simmer alongside the tea, like old memories being slowly brewed.
And how could we forget Afzal Karahi’s dal qeema? Back in our student
days, before eating, we would contribute our share under the “American
system” and enjoy a communal feast. That dal qeema tasted even better
because it carried the laughter, teasing, and carefree spirit of
friendship. Finding a good cup of tea in the radio canteen was a
miracle, but Ali Nawaz Kurd’s sincere company made up for the lack of
quality tea. The radio station back then was always buzzing with
artists, singers, actors, and voice-over artists—it felt like a grand
celebration of love and passion.
Those days are no longer here, but in the corridors of memory, those
moments are forever preserved. Time has changed many things, yet the
aroma of tea and the warmth of those Qalandari gatherings still
comfort the heart, as if whispering: Friendship and tea—both never
grow old!
The radio station still stands, but the faces are gone—the laughter,
the enthusiasm, and the spontaneous conversations that once echoed in
its corners have faded into the whispers of cold winds. Standing
before that building, it felt as though, if the walls could speak,
they would narrate the stories of days gone by. Every brick held a
hidden tale, yet there was no one left to listen.
Even the birds were silent, as if their chirping too had become a
relic of the past. The scene was reminiscent of standing before a
silent graveyard, but these were not graves of people—they were graves
of memories, dreams, desires, and decisions. Each tombstone bore an
untold story, but there was no one to read them.
Radio was not just an institution; it was a school, a training ground
where every voice carried a story. It was a place where we learned the
art of speaking, the grace of living with dignity, and how an ordinary
person could become extraordinary. We mastered learning to such an
extent that those who spread love not only learned to love but also
mastered the art of hatred. But the real question is: What did we give
back to the radio? The institution that gave our voices recognition,
refined our personalities, and upheld our dignity—did we ever return
its due? Perhaps not. That building still stands, covered in the dust
of time, but we left it with nothing but a pile of forgotten memories.
And that, perhaps, is the greatest tragedy of all—where once there was
an ocean of voices, now there is only a desert of silence.
