i

Miss Fatima Jinnah is a constant source of help and encouragement to me. In the days
when I was expecting to be taken as a prisoner by the British Government, it was my
sister who encouraged me, and said hopeful things when revolution was staring me in
the face. Her constant care is about my health. - Quaid-i-Azam, 9 August 1947.
 ii

My
Brother

Fatima Jinnah

Edited By
SHARIF AL MUJAHID

1987
Quaid-e-Azam Academy
KARACHI
 iii

Published by Quaid-i-Azam Academy

297 M.A. Jinnah Road, Karachi-5, Pakistan

Copyright (c) Quaid-i-Azam Academy 1987

First Published 1987

Typed & printed by Sa'ad Publications, Karachi

Colour Printing by Saad Publications, Karachi
Jacket Design by Ahmed Anver
Layout by Ghulam Mohiuddin

The views & opinions presented here do not reflect those of the Quaid-i-
Azam Academy or any other authority but are solely those of the author
and the editor.

ISBN 969-413-036-0
 iv

Table of Contents

PREFACE ............................................................................................. v
A Nation is orphaned ...................................................................... 1
From Kathiawar to Karachi........................................................... 38
A Businessman Becomes a Barrister .......................................... 63
 v

PREFACE
Of the seven brothers and sisters of Quaid-i-Azam Mohammad Ali Jinnah,
Miss Fatima Jinnah (1893-1967), his third sister, resembled him the most.
In his personal life as well, no one was so close to him. Their father, Jinnah
Poonja, having died in 1901(?), Jinnah became her guardian. He also took a
keen interest in her education. It was his steadfast support that saw her
join the Bandra Convent in 1902, and later enrolled in Dr. Ahmad Dental
College at Calcutta in 1919, despite the strident family opposition to the
very idea of a Khoja girl joining the Convent as a boarder or launching upon
a professional course. And when she finally qualified, Jinnah went along
with her idea of opening a dental clinic in Bombay and helped set it up in
1923.

Miss Jinnah had first lived with her brother, for about eight years - till
1918, when he got married to Ruttenbai. Upon Ruttenbai's death in
February 1929, Miss Jinnah wound up her clinic, moved into Jinnah's
bungalow, and took charge of his house. Thus began the life-long
companionship, which lasted till Jinnah's death on 11 September 1948.

In all, Miss Jinnah lived with her brother for about twenty-eight years,
including the last nineteen years in his life, which, by all accounts, were
the more critical, the more trying, years in all his life. During these years,
The Quaid emerged, slowly but dramatically, from almost political
isolation (especially during his self-exile in England during 1931-34) to an
almost universal acceptance of his leadership of the newly proclaimed
Muslim nation of a hundred million when he snatched victory out of the
jaws of defeat, when he struggled long and hard to wrest for Muslims
nationhood and statehood by finding a more rational and a more equitable
 vi

framework for power-distribution between India's two major nations,

culminating in a startlingly new ordering of the sub-continental cosmos.

Miss Jinnah, who not only lived with her brother but also accompanied
him on his numerous tours, had developed and displayed a keen sense of
the heroic struggle he was waging. There is also evidence to show that he
discussed various problems with her, mostly at the breakfast and dinner
table; he also confided in her. On Miss Jinnah's part, she was, to quote the
Quaid, "a constant source of help and encouragement" to him, saying
"hopeful things when revolution was staring him in the face."

The thought of doing or sponsoring a biography of her illustrious brother,

it seems, came to Miss Jinnah about the time when Hector Bolitho's Jinnah
was first published in 1954. Although a good biography, anchored as it
was, for the most part, on the personal recollections of Jinnah's
professional colleagues, political companions, and observers, as well as
contemporaries who had something or the other to do with him during his
long professional and public career, it was yet generally felt that Bolitho's
Jinnah had somehow failed to bring out the real Jinnah in terms of his
political life and achievements.

Shortly afterwards, Miss Jinnah began looking for a suitable Pakistani

author to do a biography of the Quaid since she believed that only a
Pakistani, especially one supremely endowed with a sensitized view of
the evolution of Muslim politics during the epochal decade of 1937-47,
would be able to reconstruct the complex scenario of that decade and do
justice to the Man and his mission. Her first choice was Professor Itrat
Husain Zuberi, formerly Principal, Islamia College, Calcutta, and later
Vice-Chancellor, Rajshahi University. When for some reason Professor
Zuberi had to leave Pakistan for the United States in 1958/59, her choice
fell on Justice M.R. Kayani. But he died rather suddenly, on 15 November
 vii

1962. Then she chose Mr. G. Allana for the assignment. For some eighteen
months, Mr. Allana assisted Miss Jinnah on the biography, but late in 1964,
about the time when she was persuaded to contest the presidential
election against Field Marshal Mohammad Ayub Khan as the Opposition's
nominee, they parted company, due to reasons which have remained
undisclosed. Interestingly, the termination of their collaborative venture
dampened neither Miss Jinnah nor Mr. Allana. While the former continued
with her quest for a suitable author or co-author for the biography till her
death on 8 July 1967, the latter remained steadfast to the cause of doing
a biography, producing one after Miss Jinnah's death under the title,
Quaid-i-Azam Jinnah: The Story of a Nation. To date, it remains the best
biography of Jinnah by a Pakistani.

The present Ms., recovered along with the Quaid-azim Papers from
Mohatta Palace after Miss Jinnah's death, and preserved in the National
Archives of Pakistan at Islamabad, was presumably written during 1963-
64. This is indicated on its title page, which says that it was done by
"Fatima Jinnah with the assistance of G. Allana."

Clearly, Miss Jinnah was the source of information contained in the Ms.,
with Mr. Allana's contribution being for the most part limited to improving
the original write-up and making it readable. This assumption is based on
two material facts, which are within the knowledge of the present editor.
First, Mr. Allana, while discussing with him the biography project in some
detail, late in 1963, informed him, inter alia, that he was doing, in
collaboration with Miss Jinnah, a biography of the Quaid, and that the first
two chapters on his family background and early years, which had been
dictated by Miss Jinnah, would be in quotes, denoting her authorship of
them. Second, there are several long passages (without quotes, of course)
in Mr. Allana's biography of Jinnah, which are almost identical with those
in the Ms.
 viii

The Ms. comprises three chapters. The first one concentrates chiefly on
the last year of the Quaid's life, especially his devotion to Pakistan
despite his failing health; the second one delineates his family
background and early life, and the third one his days in London and the
early years in Bombay when he was struggling to set up his practice.
Though somewhat fragmentary, the second and the third chapters
contain a good deal of hitherto unpublished material while the second
half of the first chapter confirms Ilahi Baksh's account of Jinnah's last
illness as delineated in his With the Quaid-i-Azam during His last Days
1949).

The Ms. represents an important source of information for the early years
of Jinnah, and has figured in the literature on him since the time it was
made accessible to researchers. In particular, it has been extensively
quoted and cited by Stanley Wolpert in his much-acclaimed Jinnah of
Pakistan (1984). An edited and somewhat abridged version of the Ms. was
included in Pakistan: Past and Present (1977) under the title, "A Sister's
Recollections"; but it has received scant notice in scholarly works.

The present volume has been edited according to the accepted norms,
and except for an extremely controversial passage, it truthfully
reproduces the contents of the Ms. However, what has been told about
the Quaid in these pages was presumably reconstructed by Miss Jinnah
on the basis of her memory without the aid of any diaries or any other
written accounts; hence it should not be too surprising if sometimes
dates, events, and places get mixed up in the narrative. The factual
position in respect of such inadvertent "errors" has been explained in
footnotes, wherever necessary. Excerpts from Quaid's speeches included
in the narrative have been compared with his speeches published in
various compilations, and the correct version (along with documentation)
has been given in place of those in the original Ms. Excerpts from Ilahi
 ix

Baksh's account of Jinnah's last illness have been included (in footnotes),
wherever necessary, in juxtaposition to Miss Jinnah's account.

Appended to the present memoir are fifteen documents that have a direct
bearing on Jinnah's early life. These are: (i, ii & iii) relevant pages from the
registers of Sind Madressah-tul-Islam and Christian Mission School; (iv)
Jinnah's library card from the British Museum, dated 10 February [1896?];
(v) his petition dated 25 April 1893, to the Honourable Society of Lincoln's
Inn to excuse him of the Latin portion of the Preliminary Examination; (vi)
the Inn's notification of the same date acceding to his petition; (vii) the
certificate (dated 25 May 1893) of his having passed the Preliminary
Examination; (viii) the Inn's notification (dated 14 April 1896) granting his
petition "to have his name altered on the books of the Society to Mohamed
Ali Jinnah"; (ix) the Inn's notification (dated 11 May 1896) ordering that "a
Certificate... be granted him of his Admission Call to the Bar"; (x) the
certificate awarded to him by the Lincoln's Inn which indicates that he
was admitted to the Inn on 5 June 1893, and called to the Bar on 29 April
1896; (xi & xii) two certificates from his tutors, Sir Howard W. Elphinstone
and W. Douglas Edwards, dated 5 and 6 March 1896 respectively; (xiii) his
petition dated 18 August 1896, to the Registrar, Bombay High Court,
seeking admission as an advocate; (xiv) a character certificate from P.V.
Smith, Chancellor of the Diocese of Manchester; and (xv) an extract from
the Bombay Civil List which indicates his admission as an advocate.
Regrettably, our efforts to get the missing portions of two documents (xii
and xiv) have proved fruitless. These documents, except for the first five,
are published here for the first time. It is hoped that they would help
researchers, as would Miss Jinnah's account, in reconstructing the story
of Quaid's student and early professional life.

Now it remains to thank those who have helped me in various ways in

producing the present volume. I am indebted to the National Archives of
 x

Pakistan and its Director, Mr. Atique Zafar Shaikh, for providing us with a
legible photocopy of the Ms. and several photographs; to the National
Documentation Centre, Lahore, and to Mr. Nazir Ahmad in particular for
making available to us a microfilm of documents (vi) to (x); and to
Mohammad Ahmad and Khwaja Razi Haider for helping me in the
production of the volume. Above all, I am beholden to my nephew,
Muhammad Akbar, whose perseverance finally procured for us the last
five documents from the Bombay High Court. Most of the photographs
included in this volume come from the collection of my late lamented
friend, Jamil-ud-Din Ahmad, to whom all of us who now specialize in the
Quaid and the Pakistan Movement owe so much for his pioneering work on
these two subjects, dating back to the middle 1940s. I am also most
grateful to his widow for donating his valuable collection of photographs
to the Academy.

SIRAJUL MUJAHID
KARACHI
27 December, 1986
 1

A Nation is orphaned

As I see the mausoleum in Karachi rise inch by inch to shelter the mortal
remains of my brother, poignant memories come rushing into mind of that
day, a Saturday, the 11th of September 1948, when I lost my elder brother,
and my nation became an orphan. Before embarking on this venture to
project his life as I saw it, having been his constant companion for more
than forty years, I thought it fit to go to his grave this morning, to offer
my prayers, to lay some flowers, and to shed a tear. For, after all, what
else can one give to those that one loved and who have departed to the
Great Beyond? He has become a part of history, and the pages of this book
will endeavor to unfold his life and work, his years of struggle, his days of
frustration, his moments of triumph, and the concept, philosophy, and
ideology which were the basis of his demand for Pakistan.

Nature had gifted him with a giant's strength in so far as his

determination to achieve the tasks that he had set for himself were
concerned, but it had clothed that will in a frail body, unable to keep pace
with the driving force of his restless mind and will. It was bitter to be
afflicted with health that could not stand the rigors of a tumultuous life
in the face of overwhelming odds, and to be gifted with a tenaciousness
that wanted to triumph over all obstacles to lead his people to their
ultimate destiny.

His political activities and responsibilities had increased manifold during

the last ten years of his life when he had already entered the morning of
his old age. Despite the advice of his doctors and the pleadings of a
younger sister, he did not spare himself, refusing to take rest or respite.
 2

Work, work, and more work. He drained away the last reserves of his
energy like a spendthrift child of nature. Alarmed at his poor health, when
I sometimes begged of him not to work such long hours and to give up for
some time his constant and whirlwind tours that carried him from one
end of India to another, he would say, 'Have you ever heard of a General
take a holiday when his army is fighting for its very survival on a
battlefield?' He had the reputation of demolishing a well-built-up case
with one sentence, and what match could I be for him when it came to
arguments? On such occasions, I abandoned logic for sentiment, 'But your
life is precious, and you must take good care of it.' With a distant look in
his eyes, he said, 'What is the health of one individual when I am
concerned with the very existence of ten crore Muslims of India? Do you
realize how much is at stake?' This was enough to silence
sentimentalism, and he plunged himself deeper and deeper into the
stormy ocean of political struggle to the utter neglect of his health.

When the general elections under the newly enacted Government of India
Act, 1935, were being held in February 1987 all over India, the Muslim
League for the first time put up its own candidates. At that time, the
League was neither well-organized nor had its message yet reached the
Muslim masses. The brunt of the burden of organization, of rallying public
opinion in favor of the League, fell on his shoulders. The more he traveled,
addressing mass meetings, the more were the demands made on his time.
He was flooded with requests inviting him to visit cities, towns, and
villages, to carry the message of the League to the Muslims, who were
gradually becoming more and more conscious that unless they stood
together, their political future was not secure.

Wherever he went, I was with him. It was a heartening sign to see that
the Muslims were getting over their lethargy, and the increasing number
of people that turned out to listen to him indicated the growing hold the
 3

Muslim League was beginning to have over their minds, as well as of his
growing personal popularity. As he spoke of the gigantic strength that
the Muslims had in their hands, which could become decisive in
determining the shape of any scheme of political reforms in the future, if
they all stood united, loud and prolonged applause would rend the air. He
thundered with the voice of an inspired leader, saying, 'Let everyone
realize the Muslim League has come to stay. All attempts to sabotage the
growing popularity of the Muslim League are doomed to failure. The
Muslims are marching forward, and no power on earth can suppress their
determination to succeed.' As he ended his speech on the soaring
crescendo of promise and hope, the huge gatherings would shout, 'Muslim
League Zindabad,' 'Mohamed Ali Jinnah Zindabad.'

Ever since the League session in Lahore in 1940 passed the resolution,
which has come to be known as the Pakistan Resolution, he whipped his
failing health to make it keep pace with his increasing work. With a
scattered and disorganized following as his only strength, he decided
from that year onward to translate the demand for Pakistan into a heroic
chapter of human history. Incessant traveling, long and arduous hours of
work, and the worries that are the only reward that a political leader
receives during his days of struggle were taking a heavy toll, but he paid
the price with a smile. His 5'10"' body that normally weighed around 112
lbs was losing its weight ounce by ounce, but he showed supreme
indifference to such private matters as his personal health. That should
not interfere with his work. I was once again arguing and pleading with
him to put himself in the hands of competent doctors and to pay at least
some attention to his physical fitness. But I never succeeded in stopping
the onward rush of the mighty ocean of his will that wanted to sweep
away all obstacles that stood as hindrances in the path of his people.
 4

In addition to his duties and responsibilities as the President of the

Muslim League, he had also to shoulder the burden of the office of leader
of the Muslim League Party in the Central Legislative Assembly. We left
Bombay sometime in [early November] 1940 to attend a session of the
Assembly in Delhi that was being held there, in spite of a slight
temperature that he had been running for the previous few days. He had
his dinner, and the train was racing onward to its destination under a
clear sky, studded with innumerable twinkling stars. As he lay in bed, he
suddenly shouted out loud, as if somebody had pierced him with a red-
hot iron. I was soon by his side and inquired the reason for his shouting.
The severity of the pain had numbed his power of speech, and all that he
could do was to point with his finger to a spot a little below the spinal
cord and to the right side of it. It was obvious the pain was unbearable,
and it was clear that medical aid could not be obtained on a moving train.
In the hope of relieving his pain, I gently massaged the part of his body
that was causing him so much pain. But finding that it only aggravated
it, I gave up the attempt in despair, hoping that the train would stop soon
at some station, so that I could arrange to get a hot water bottle for
fomentation. The minutes passed, and the train came to a final stop.

I called the guard and asked him to immediately arrange for a hot water
bottle to be brought to our compartment. Wrapping the bottle in a napkin,
I gently applied it on the painful spot, and was relieved to see that the
pain somewhat subsided. The train steamed into Delhi station in the early
hours of the morning, and we were soon at 10, Aurangzeb Road, which was
our Delhi residence. I supported my brother from the car to his bed and
immediately called his doctor on the telephone to come and examine him.
After a thorough examination, the doctor pronounced that it was an
attack of pleurisy and that he must stay in bed for about a fortnight. As
soon as the doctor left, my brother said to me, 'What bad luck. It is an
important session. My presence is so essential there. And here I am,
 5

enjoying the luxury of an enforced confinement in bed.' He remained in

bed for two days and was again at his work. His was a restless spirit, born
in a restless period of his nation's history.

It was a momentous session of the Central Assembly, and on him fell the
task to explain the stand of the Muslim League on India's participation in
the war efforts. As I watched him from the distinguished visitors' gallery
rise in his seat to take the floor, I wondered if he could at all muster the
strength to speak for more than a few minutes. He started his speech
with a voice that betrayed fatigue, but as he progressed with his
arguments, all trace of weariness disappeared. He was soon in his
element, ridiculing the Government for their insidious propaganda to
beguile the Muslims of India and indicting the Government for it, saying,
“Of course, you can do a lot by propaganda, but there are certain things
which you cannot carry out by inspiring fear alone.... it has become a
fashion [he continued] to give a lecture to the weaker party, and you can
afford to lecture the weaker party. But we cannot really possibly vote
supplies in the expenditure of which we have no lot, no share, no
controls.”

Warming up, he continued, 'if the Congress succeeds in defeating the

Government, it is not my fault; it is the fault of your constitution; and you
have enacted this constitution; you have been carrying it on-this
wooden, antediluvian Government for decades now, and you cannot have
it both ways. It is your constitution, it is of your making. . . . I say this on
the floor of this House that the reason why there has not been a
settlement between the Hindus and the Musalmans is that the Congress
leaders will pardon me for saying this-the Congress is a Hindu
organization, whatever they may say - that the Hindu leaders and
Congress leaders have always had at the back of their head the basis that
the Musalmans have to come within the ken of the Congress and the Hindu
 6

raj, that they are a minority, and all that they can justly press for is
merely safeguards as a minority, whereas let me tell the gentlemen of the
Congress and the Nationalist Congress Party members that the
Musalmans always had at their back the basis - and it has never been
different during the last 25 years - that they are a separate entity”.

At this, Mr. M.S. Aney started to heckle him, 'At least that was not the view
of Mr. Jinnah before 1920.' The Quaid-e-Azam retorted, 'Since 1916, since
the Lucknow Pact was passed, on the fundamental principle of two
separate entities.' Mr. Aney was not satisfied, and he angrily shouted, 'I
was there.' The Quaid-e-Azam stood unruffled; in a cool voice, he said, 'My
friend may have been there, but he was not even heard of at that time.'
That devastating sentence silenced the otherwise irrepressible Mr. Aney.
He had spoken for about one hour, and he was still on his legs. I was
apprehensive about his health, which was far from satisfactory. Luckily,
he concluded his speech, saying, 'Bhulabhai Desai throughout his speech
only emphasized two things: Democracy, democracy, democracy and a
national government! What is the use? Whatever that cabinet may be, it
will be responsible to this Legislature - in which Mr. Bhulabhai Desai can
command two-thirds of the elected members. I will pity the man who
happens to be in that cabinet and does not obey the Congress command
and the Congress mandate!’

As we drove home in our car from the Assembly, I saw his hands were
shivering, and his fingers could hold his cigarette with difficulty. On
reaching home, he straight away went to bed, without so much as
changing his clothes.

The attack of pleurisy, in my opinion, was the beginning of the sickness

that ultimately claimed his life. He could have got over it, if he had taken
proper care, if he had kept regular hours, if he had given up exposing
 7

himself to wind and rain, as he toured the subcontinent, almost

uninterruptedly. Thereafter he was always allergic to colds, and the
slightest attack of even a mild cold would soon deepen into agonising
days of fever and coughing.

A few months later, to be exact in April 1941, we were on our way from
Bombay to Madras, where he was to preside over the Madras session of
the All India Muslim League. When our train was a few hours from Madras,
he left his seat to go to the toilet. I was shocked to find that he walked
only a few steps and then collapsed on the wooden plank flooring of the
train. I rushed to his side and asked, "Jin, what is wrong?" He smiled, a
worn-out smile, "I feel very weak, exhausted." He put his hand on my
shoulder, lifted himself up, and wobbled towards his berth.

Fortunately, within a few minutes, the train came to a halt at an

important junction, and thousands of enthusiastic Leaguers were on the
platform, shouting, ” Quaid-e-Azam Zindabad." I opened the door of
our compartment slightly and shouted, “Don't shout. The Quaid is in bed,
down with fatigue and fever. Run, get a doctor.” "Within a few minutes,
the doctor came, examined him and said, “Sir, you have a nervous
breakdown, very mild. Nothing serious. But I would not advise you to
move about for at least one week. You must confine yourself to bed for a
week.”

We were in Madras, where thousands of delegates had gathered to attend

the All-India Muslim League Session. The Quaid was too weak to address
the open session on the first day, but on the following day he insisted he
would deliver his presidential address. I advised him against it, but
finding that he was adamant, begged him to make a brief speech. "Yes, it
will be very brief," he assured.
 8

A hushed silence descended on that vast gathering as he rose to address

them. He spoke extempore, without notes. He built each point with clarity
of thought and clothed them in a language that was easily intelligible
even to the uninitiated in the intricate complexities of Indian politics of
the time. He spoke with the voice of a leader that knows not only his mind
but was fully aware of the sentiments of his own following. The address
was far from being brief, for he continued to speak for over two hours.

This leader, who had left a sick bed to be amidst his people, boldly
elucidated the goal of the Muslims of India. He said,

'Let me tell you as clearly as I can possibly define it that the goal of the
All-India Muslim League is this: We want the establishment of completely
independent states in the North-West and Eastern Zones of India, with
full control finally of defense, foreign affairs, communications, customs,
currency, exchange, etc. We do not want in any circumstances a
constitution of an All-India character with one government at the Centre.
We will never agree to that. If we once agree to that, let me tell you, the
Muslims will be absolutely wiped out of existence. We shall never be
tributaries of any power or any government at the Centre so far as the
North-West and Eastern zones of our free national homelands are
concerned.’

I was proud of his performance, but behind that justifiable pride, there
arose the lurking shadow of the fear of a setback in his health. The
unbounded enthusiasm of that mammoth gathering, however, had
injected a powerful tonic into his worn-out body. He forgot his weakness,
exhaustion, and fever in the mad rush of work into which he had willingly
plunged himself.
 9

The seven years before the establishment of Pakistan were the busiest
and stormiest that he encountered in all his life. He toiled ceaselessly for
the Muslims of India, and they gave him their support and loyalty
ungrudgingly. They had endearingly named him Quaid-e-Azam, "The
Great Leader,” and he was now more conscious than ever before of his
role in the struggle for the emancipation of the Muslims of India. To me,
who was always with him, it was a common sight to see him get up from
a sick bed with difficulty, looking worn out and exhausted, despite the
smart clothes that he wore. We would sit in our car on our way to address
a huge gathering of Muslims, and all along the route, he maintained strict
silence, not to marshal his thoughts but to preserve every ounce of his
energy. He entered the ranks of his admiring followers, wearing a grim
look, bowing slightly to this side and then to that, saluting and returning
the tumultuous greetings of his party men. His step was firm, his eyes
gleaming with hope. He mounted the dais, and after the recitation of some
verses from the Holy Quran and speeches by local leaders, he would walk
to the mike. As he surveyed the seething mass of humanity that sat in
their tens of thousands on bare earth to listen to him, he would speak to
them in a voice that showed no trace of age or ill-health. At every pause,
they would shout, “ Quaid-e-Azam Zindabad.” He kept on raising his
voice to a higher and higher crescendo of hope and cheer to his people,
who seemed to be trapped in a dreary darkness under a cloudless sky.
Little did his people know how tired, worn out, exhausted, and how sick
he was. He was their hero, and how can one blame a hero for being heroic?

Back home, in the sanctified solitude of his room, he lay prostrate in bed,
breathless with fatigue, gasping for breath. Like many heroes of history,
he was at home with solitude. But his radiating fire warmed the hearts of
his people from a distance.
 10

Fortunately, he had the capacity to sleep at will, and so the worries and
cares of the day stood on the side-lines of his subconscious, even though
they did not completely melt in the warmth of a sound sleep. With the
approach of dawn came fresh letters, fresh requests, new problems, and
weighty decisions to be made. His was a soul that thirsted for service in
a body that was worn out by work and ill-health. He kept up this feverish
tempo of life for a number of years, despite the recurring bouts of fever
that emaciated his body.

The demand for Pakistan had been accepted, and Pakistan was
established on August 14-15, 1947. As we drove through cheering crowds
on the streets of Karachi to the Governor-General's House, little did they
know how sick the Quaid-e-Azam was. To his nation, it was the day of
their independence; to him, it was the moment of fulfillment. The
destination had been reached, but the journey was not yet over. A new
state that emerged on the political map of the world had to face many
problems of gigantic magnitude. As the Head of the State, the task of
steering the ship of Pakistan's destiny to a safe harbor fell to his hands
that were worn out with work.

I watched with sorrow and pain that in his hour of triumph, the Quaid-e-
Azam was far from being physically fit. He had little or no appetite at all,
and the best of delicacies, prepared with love and care, could not tempt
him. His lifelong habit of sleeping when he willed had gone, and he passed
many sleepless nights, tossing on restless pillows. His cough increased,
and with it, his temperature. From beyond the borders of Pakistan came
the harrowing tales of massacre of Muslims, of rape and arson and loot,
and these had a damaging effect on his sensitive mind.

As he discussed with me these mass killings on the breakfast table, his

eyes were often moist with tears. The sufferings of Muslim refugees that
 11

trekked from India into Pakistan, which to them had been the Promised
Land, depressed him. Then there was the Constitution of Pakistan to be
framed, to which he applied his mind as often as he could find time to sit
in his study, surrounded by books dealing with constitutions of various
countries of the world. The problems of Kashmir Muslims, who had been
betrayed by an alien and tyrannical ruler, weighed heavily on his mind.
Pakistan had taken its place on the map of the world, but it had yet to
take its roots in its own soil. These were the problems of which he talked,
morning, noon, and night. These were the phantoms that disturbed the
peace of his mind and snarled at him like phantoms in a nightmare.

A few days after our arrival in Karachi, he said at a dinner in his honor at
the Karachi club. “Miss Fatima Jinnah is a constant source of help and
encouragement to me. In the days when I was expecting to be taken as a
prisoner by the British Government, it was my sister who encouraged me,
and said hopeful things when the revolution was staring me in the face.
Her constant care is about my health.” Little did his listeners realize how
bad was the health of their leader.

It is a truism that complete success is more fatal to heroic inspiration

than complete failure. His life's work had been accomplished, and he had
been rewarded with the fullest measure of success, but it did not dampen
his enthusiasm and zeal for more work in the service of his people. His
physical strength had been sapped by the demon of ill-health, but his
irrepressible spirit raised its head high, braving the challenges that
independence brought to his nation. He wanted to face them
courageously, to grapple with them, and to find solutions for them.

He totally neglected his health, and his coughing and slight temperature
were beginning to worry me more and more. On my insistence, he agreed
to be examined by Dr. Col. Rahman, his personal physician. He had an
 12

abnormal aversion for doctor's medicines, and I was never able to find out
the reasons that were at the basis of this life-long habit. Col. Rahman,
after examining him, said he had a slight attack of malaria and he wanted
to treat him on the basis of that diagnosis. Quaid-e-Azam put his doctor
a number of questions, as if he was cross-examining a witness in a
courtroom. Not satisfied with the doctor's explanation, he refused to take
the medicines prescribed. “I don't have malaria. I am run down due to
over-work.” Rest was obviously the best medicine in such a case, but that
he would not take; there was so much to be done. He said to me, “I will dig
the mine of my physical strength to the last ounce of that metal to serve
my people. And when that is exhausted, my work will be done, for life will
be no more.”

Refugees were pouring into Pakistan from the Khokrapar border, and he
wanted to be in Lahore to see refugee camps and other arrangements
that were being made for them. The choice that lay before him was
between dereliction of duty to a cause that he had always held dearer
than life and the loss of health that alone could sustain his life. He chose
to listen to the voice of duty and to turn a deaf ear to the advice of his
doctors. The individual in him had surrendered all its rights to the leader
in him. So we were on the move, from Karachi to Lahore, in September
1947, about a month after our arrival in Karachi. After a few days at
Lahore, we came back to Karachi, and we had hardly remained in Karachi
for three weeks when once again we went to Lahore towards the end of
October. The achievement of Pakistan had meant for him only the end of
one phase of his life and work and the beginning of another phase, equally
important, of consolidating Pakistan and ensuring its stability. He was
not going to desert his place at the period of crisis through which his
nation was passing, and he did not spare himself. There were clouds of
despondence hovering over the skies of Pakistan, and he wanted to infuse
cheer and hope to dispel any feeling of frustration and desolation.
 13

Addressing a mammoth rally at the University Stadium in Lahore on 30th

October 1947, he said, 'Some people might think that the acceptance of
the June 3rd plan was a mistake on the part of the Muslim League. I would
like to tell them that the consequences of any other alternative would
have been too disastrous to imagine. On our side, we proceeded to
implement this plan with a clean conscience and honest intentions. Time
and history will prove that. On the other hand, history will also record its
verdict on those whose treachery and machinations let loose forces of
disorder and disruption in this subcontinent causing death of lakhs,
enormous destruction of property and bringing about suffering and
misery to many millions by uprooting them from their homes and hearths
and all that was dear to them. The systematic massacre of defenseless
and innocent people puts to shame even the most heinous atrocities,
committed by the worst tyrants known to history. We have been the
victims of a deeply-laid and well-planned conspiracy executed with utter
disregard of the elementary principles of honesty, chivalry and honour.
We thank Providence for giving us courage and faith to fight these forces
of evil. If we take our inspiration and guidance from the Holy Quran, the
final victory, I once again say, will be ours.'

As he proceeded with his speech, his voice trembled with emotion, and I
heard him speak of death for the first time: 'Along with this, keep up your
morale. Do not be afraid of death. Our religion teaches us to be always
prepared for death. We should face it bravely to save the honour of
Pakistan and Islam. There is no better salvation for a Muslim than the
death of a martyr for a righteous cause. Do your duty and have faith in
God. There is no power on earth that can undo Pakistan. It has come to
stay.'

He had done what he could as the Head of the State in the interest of the
incoming refugees, and satisfied that they would receive all necessary
 14

attention, we returned to Karachi. The emotion of the occasion,

aggravated by the sufferings of his people, had worn out not only his body
but also his spirit and soul. He was once again in bed, laid up with
exhaustion and a mounting fever. In the meantime, the pace of work of
the Government of a country that had just emerged, and that was
starting its work from scratch, went on increasing from day to day. Files
were pouring in, ministers and secretaries came to seek his advice, and
peace and rest were impossible.

He oscillated between weeks of work and days of rest. He had promised

the people of the Frontier Province that he would visit Peshawar to
personally express his gratitude to them for the wonderful work they had
done in the referendum the previous year by which they decided to
accede to Pakistan. He would not let them down and, in order to fulfill a
promise that he had made, we went in April 1948 to Peshawar, where a
heavy program awaited him. In his address to the students of Islamia
College on 12th April, he said, “On this occasion the thought that is
naturally uppermost in my mind is the support and help that the
movement for the achievement of Pakistan received from the student
community, particularly of this Province. I cannot help feeling that the
unequivocal and unmistakable decision of the people of this Province to
join Pakistan, which was given through the referendum held last year,
was helped considerably by the contribution made by the students. I take
particular pride in the fact that the people of this province have never
and in no way lagged behind in the struggle for freedom and achievement
of Pakistan.”

The next day we drove to Risalpur, where he had to address the officers
and men of the Royal Pakistan Air Force. India had retained military
equipment that, according to the understanding arrived at the time of
partition, had to come to Pakistan, and our Air Force was without
 15

adequate aircraft and equipment. On that occasion, he said, 'I know also
that you are short of aircraft and equipment, but efforts are being made
to procure the necessary equipment and orders for modern aircraft have
also been placed. But aircraft and personnel in any numbers are of little
use, unless there is a team spirit within the Air Force and strict sense of
discipline prevails. I charge you to remember that only with discipline and
self-reliance can the Royal Pakistan Air Force be worthy of Pakistan.'

On 14th April, he called a meeting of Civil Officers at Government House in

Peshawar. He met many of them, mixed freely with them, and in an
informal talk to them, he said, “The first thing that I want to tell you is
this, that you should not be influenced by any political pressure, by any
political party or individual politician. If you want to raise the prestige
and greatness of Pakistan, you must not fall a victim to any pressure but
do your duty as servants to the people and the State, fearlessly and
honestly. Service is the backbone of the State. Governments are formed,
Governments are defeated, Prime Ministers come and go, Ministers come
and go, but you stay on, and, therefore, there is a very great
responsibility placed on your shoulders. You should have no hand in
supporting this political party or that political party, this political leader
or that political leader - this is not your business. Whichever Government
is formed according to the constitution, and whoever happens to be the
Prime Minister or Minister coming into power in the ordinary
constitutional course, your duty is not only to serve that Government
loyally and faithfully, but, at the same time, fearlessly, maintaining your
high reputation, your prestige, your honour and the integrity of your
service.

If you will start with that determination, you will make a great
contribution to the building up of the Pakistan of our conception and our
dream - a glorious State and one of the greatest nations in the world.
 16

While impressing this upon you on your side, I wish also to take the
opportunity of impressing upon our leaders and politicians in the same
way that if they ever try to interfere with you and bring political pressure
to bear upon you, which leads to nothing but corruption, bribery and
nepotism - which is a horrible disease and for which not only your
Province but others too, are suffering - if they try and interfere with you
in this way, I say, they are doing nothing but disservice to Pakistan. May
be some of you may fall victims for not satisfying the whims of Ministers.
I hope it does not happen, but you may even be put to trouble not because
you are doing anything wrong but because you are doing right.

Sacrifices have to be made and I appeal to you, if need be, to come

forward and make the sacrifice and face the position of being put in the
blacklist or being otherwise worried or troubled. If you will give me the
opportunity of your sacrifices, some of you at least, believe me, we will
find a remedy for that very soon. I tell you that you will not remain on the
blacklist if you discharge your duties and responsibilities honestly,
sincerely and loyally to the State. It is you who can give us the
opportunity to create a powerful machinery which will give you a
complete sense of security.

You should try to create an atmosphere and work in such a spirit that
everybody gets a fair deal, and justice is done to everybody. And not
merely should justice be done but people should feel that justice has been
done to them.”

A few days later, he addressed [the staff and] students of the Edwards
College at Peshawar, where he recalled the day when he was “literally
dismissed from this Province in 1937”. He recalled the days of defeat of
the Muslim League in the Frontier, and then spoke of the change that came
over the Province during the last two to three years. He expressed his
 17

gratitude to the brave Pathans, who gave an overwhelming verdict in

favour of Pakistan. He concluded,

'I want you to keep your heads up as citizens of a free and independent
sovereign State. Praise your Government when it deserves it. Criticize
your Government fearlessly when it deserves. Certainly, criticize
fearlessly when a wrong thing is done. I welcome criticism. By that
method, you will improve matters more quickly for the benefit of our
people.’

While attending one of the open-air meetings held in Peshawar, the skies
were overcast with foreboding and dark clouds. As the meeting
proceeded, it began to drizzle. But thousands of people that had gathered
there continued to keep their seats, undeterred by the threat of rain. My
brother could not disappoint them, although, sitting next to him, I advised
him that we must leave. He was drenched to the bone, but he sat
throughout the meeting, braving the inclement weather.

That night he had a running nose, cold and chill, cough, and high
temperature. He turned down my advice to call for a doctor, “It is nothing.
Just a cold. I-will get over it.” But he never got over it.

When we returned to Karachi, he continued to cough constantly, and

when a doctor was forced on him, he learned that he was in for a mild
attack of bronchitis. Although he kept in bed for a few days, he regularly
attended to his files that were brought to him. After about six weeks, he
was feeling a bit better; weakness, however, continued to persist. I was
constantly pleading with him to leave Karachi and go somewhere else in
Pakistan, to give a chance to his health to recoup. My arguments were
supported by his personal physician, Dr. Rahman, who warned him in no
unmistakable words that unless he gave up work completely for at least
 18

two months and took complete rest, he would only be doing irreparable
damage to his health.

I was relieved when one day in June he yielded and suggested that we
should get away from the oppressive heat of a Karachi summer and go to
the cool heights of Quetta. Within a few days of arrival in Quetta, I found
there was a marked improvement in his health. He was able to sleep well
and eat well; the coughing had subsided, and the temperature was
normal. Only very important files that required his immediate attention
were brought to him, and it was for the first time in many years that he
appeared to enjoy a prolonged rest.

Occasionally, he accepted to attend public functions that were sought to

be arranged by different sections of the citizens of Quetta. He used them
as occasions to make his views known on important problems that
Pakistan was facing at that time. For instance, while replying to a
welcome address presented to him by the Quetta Parsi community, he
said, "In the very nature of things, it will take eighteen months to two
years before the new constitution of Pakistan is ready.” As he said these
words, I recalled many occasions after independence when he spoke to
me about his anxiety that a new constitution should be framed, which
would be liberal, and ensure fundamental freedoms to the people of
Pakistan, and that he hoped to complete this task in about two years. "It
will be a constitution,” he would say, “that will be worthy of the free
people of a free country.” It was very irritating to his sensitive mind that
this all-important task was being delayed due to his recurring illness.
Continuing his reply to the address, he dwelt on the problems of
minorities in Pakistan, "You know that it is the policy of my Government
and myself that every member of every community, irrespective of caste,
colour, creed, or race, shall be fully protected with regard to his life,
 19

property, and honour and that there should be peace in Pakistan and law
and order should be maintained at any cost."

The following day he addressed the officers of the Staff College, Quetta,
and in an emphatic voice, he said,

“One thing more, I am persuaded to say this because during my talks with
one or two very high-ranking officers I discovered that they did not know
the implication of the Oath taken by troops of Pakistan. Of course, an Oath
is only a matter of form; what is more important is the true spirit and the
heart. But it is an important form and I would like to take the opportunity
of refreshing your memory by reading the prescribed Oath to you: I
solemnly affirm, in the presence of Almighty God, that I owe allegiance to
the Constitution and the Dominion of Pakistan (Mark the words
Constitution and the Government of the Dominion of Pakistan) and that I
will as in duty bound honestly and faithfully serve in the Dominion of
Pakistan Forces and go within the terms of my enrolment wherever I may
be ordered by air, land, or sea and that I will observe and obey all
commands of any officer set over me. . . . As I have said just now, the spirit
is what really matters. I should like you to study the Constitution which
is in force in Pakistan at present and understand its true constitutional
and legal implications when you say that you will be faithful to the
Constitution of the Dominion."

On 15th June in his reply to the Civic Address presented to him by the
Quetta Municipality, he said it pained him to find the curse of
provincialism holding sway in every section of Pakistan, and he advised
them to forget that they were Baluchi Pathans, Sindhis, Punjabis,
Bengalis, but to look upon themselves as Pakistanis first and last. Toward
the end of his reply, he said, “Representative government and
representative institutions are no doubt good and desirable, but when
 20

people want to reduce them merely to channels of personal

aggrandizement, they not only lose their value but earn a bad name. Let
us avoid that and it is possible only if, as I have said, we subject our action
to perpetual scrutiny and test them with the touchstone not of personal
or sectional interest but of the good of the State.” He had accepted to
perform the opening ceremony of the State Bank of Pakistan in Karachi on
1st July 1948.

Afraid that if he undertook the journey to Karachi for this purpose and
returned to Quetta after a day or two, he might have a relapse in his
health, I tried to dissuade him from undertaking the journey, and
suggested letting someone else read the speech he had prepared for the
occasion on his behalf. He replied, "You know, the Congress and the Hindus
prophesied that Pakistan would be a bankrupt State, that our people
would not know how to run its commerce, industry, banking, shipping,
insurance. We must prove that we have the talent to run our country not
only in the field of politics but also in finance and banking. So, my
presence is necessary. And then we will return to Quetta in a few days.
Why worry about my health? This is a duty I have to perform. I can't put
it off, and say I am afraid to take risks."

This air journey between Quetta and Karachi laid him low, and on the day
of the opening of the State Bank, he was confined to bed. He was too weak,
yet he got up, dressed for the occasion, and was reading his address
before a distinguished gathering. His very first sentence explained his
presence despite his bad health.

“The opening of the State Bank of Pakistan symbolizes the sovereignty of

our State in the financial sphere. As you have observed, Mr. Governor, in
undivided India banking was kept a close preserve of non-Muslims and
their migration from Western Pakistan has caused a good deal of
 21

dislocation in the economic life of our young State. In order that the
wheels of commerce and industry should run smoothly, it is imperative
that the vacuum caused by the exodus of non-Muslims should be filled
without delay. The abnormal rise in the cost of living has hit the poorer
sections of society, including those with fixed incomes, very hard indeed
and is responsible to a great extent for the prevailing unrest in the
country.
The policy of the Pakistan Government is to stabilize prices at a level that
would be fair to the producer, as well as to the consumer. The economic
system of the West has created almost insoluble problems for humanity,
and to many of us, it appears that only a miracle can save it from the
disaster that is now facing the world. It has failed to do justice between
man and man and to eradicate friction from the international field. On the
contrary, it was largely responsible for the two world wars in the last half-
century. The Western world, in spite of its advantages of mechanization
and industrial efficiency, is today in a worse mess than ever before in
history. The adoption of Western economic theory and practice will not
help us in achieving our goal of creating a happy and contented people.
We must work our destiny in our own way and present to the world an
economic system based on the true Islamic concept of equality of
manhood and social justice. We will thereby be fulfilling our mission as
Muslims and giving to humanity the message of peace which alone can
save it and secure the welfare, happiness, and prosperity of mankind.”

Everyone present must have realized that the Quaid-e-Azam was in bad
health, his voice being scarcely audible, pausing, coughing, as he
proceeded with the text of his speech. When we returned to the Governor-
General's House after the ceremony, he went to his bed with his clothes
 22

and shoes on. Within that emaciated body that lay in bed there burnt the
dazzling flame of genius. He had accepted for that evening an invitation
to attend a reception at the American Ambassador's house. His ill-health
was not to keep him away from discharging his official duties.

He was soon dressed for the occasion, and we were at the Ambassador's
party. He showed no trace of fatigue or weakness; he chatted with the
guests that were brought to him; his jovial spirit belying his extremely
poor health. He had to pay the price that an exalted position demands on
such occasions, and he paid it with a smile. After five days' stay at Karachi,
where he attended to some very important files and work, we returned to
Quetta by air. Although he stood the air journey well, the next day he
showed signs of weariness and fatigue.

A slight fever persisted, adding to his discomfiture and to my anxiety.

Once again at Quetta requests began to pour in from various institutions,
and demands were made from so many individuals and leaders, who were
anxious to see the Quaid-e-Azam. He felt dejected that his health could
not permit him to oblige them, and one day he decided that we move up to
Ziarat, a few miles from Quetta, where it would be cooler than Quetta and
decidedly more restful. The Residency at Ziarat, where we stayed, was a
picturesque, old, double-storied building, standing like a watchful sentry
on a rising hillock. It has spacious lawns and gardens, where the birds sing
their morning hymns and their evening vespers. A cluster of fruit trees
and beds of flowers add to the scenic beauty of the place, and the Quaid-
e-Azam fell in love with its quiet and charm.

I was informed by Mrs. Khan, wife of the Commissioner of Quetta division,

that Dr. Riaz Ali Shah was on a visit to Ziarat to examine one of his patients,
and she thought it would be a good idea to have the Quaid-e-Azam
examined by Dr. Riaz. When I made the suggestion to my brother, he turned
 23

it down with an emphatic no, saying he was sure there was nothing
seriously wrong with him; only if his stomach was able to digest food a
little better, he would soon be on his legs. His lifelong aversion to being
ordered about by doctors what to do, what to eat, how much to eat, when
to sleep, how long to rest, kept on asserting itself.

Up to this time he had refused to undergo a thorough medical check-up

and to put himself entirely in the hands of doctors, thinking he could will
his way to health. He had by now realized that his attempts had proved
futile, and for the first time, his health began to give cause for alarm to his
own self. I was very happy one early morning when he agreed that he
should take no more risks, that he really needed good medical advice and
attention. I wasted no time and asked Mr. Farrukh Amin, Private Secretary
to the Quaid, to telephone Chaudhri Mohammad Ali, who was at the time
Secretary-General of the Cabinet, that Dr. Col. Ilahi Bux, an eminent
physician of Lahore, should be immediately flown out to Ziarat. This was
on 21st July 1948.

The message had been sent, and we waited anxiously for the arrival of Col.
Ilahi Bux, as the condition of the Quaid-e-Azam was getting worse every
hour. In spite of his physical disabilities, his mind was active and alert, his
spirit undampened and undaunted. He had won many battles in life; he
faced his struggle against ill-health with confidence. He had spent all his
life treading the fiery path of struggle and defiance, and he did not want
to end it in the ashes of complacency.

He continued to talk to me frequently about the new constitution, about

Kashmir, about the refugees; and I could see in his words the agony of a
soul that wanted to do so much and who had so little time and strength
left to do it. Nonetheless, he believed the candle should go on shedding its
light until the dawn had taken over its task.
 24

Late in the afternoon of Friday, the 23rd -July 1948, I was relieved to learn
from Farrukh Amin that Col. Ilahi Bux had arrived in Ziarat, and was
waiting downstairs to examine the Quaid-e-Azam. I gave the happy news
to my brother, and he said in an unenthusiastic voice, "Ask the doctor to
see me tomorrow morning. It is late in the evening now, and I don't want
to be disturbed."

The nonchalant manner in which he received the news shocked me, and I
cajoled him to allow the doctor to examine him, as it was not wise to play
with one's life. All that I received from him by way of an answer was a
sweet smile that completely disarmed me. The following morning, I took
Col. Ilahi Bux to the Quaid-e-Azam, and before the doctor could ask any
questions from his patient, he said, "I hope, doctor, you had a good
journey."

The doctor was now asking him what the trouble was and the history of
his sickness and complaints. The Quaid-e-Azam gave faithfully a brief
account of all his ailments since 1934, his emphasis being that he was
alright, and that he would soon be able to work normal hours and keep his
scheduled appointments if his stomach could be set right. He continued,

"I have been working fourteen hours a day for the last fourteen years. I
have never known what sickness really is. However, for the past few years
I get frequent attacks of fever and coughing. A few days rest enables me
to get over them. Recently they have become more exacting and more
frequent, and they have laid me low.” These few sentences had
completely exhausted him; the doctor took hold of his left arm to check
his pulse, and the patient was coughing frequently. “A few weeks ago,” he
continued.
 25

I had an attack of cold and chill, and I have been taking penicillin lozenges.
There is nothing organically wrong with me, I am sure. It is my stomach
that is the root cause of my troubles. About fifteen years ago, some
doctors in London advised me to undergo an abdominal operation. But
when I consulted doctors in Germany, they said my stomach was alright.
My Bombay doctor at that time told me I had heart trouble. So, you see,
doctors don't agree among themselves.

After Col. -Ilahi Bux had thoroughly examined him, he said, “Sir, your
stomach is alright, but I am not sure about your chest and lungs. I will get
your blood and sputum examined; I will, therefore, ask for the necessary
equipment and apparatus and for some doctors to assist me in this task.”
Quaid-e-Azam listened to the doctor in silence.

"Sir, you must take a nourishing diet in sufficient quantities," the doctor
advised. “For breakfast, you must take porridge, eggs, butter, bread,
coffee, and plenty of milk. For lunch, minced chicken, vegetables, and
custard or jelly; for dinner, grilled fish, with the sauce of your choice,
vegetables and fruit, pudding, and coffee.” "That is a lot, doctor. Do you
think my weak stomach can stand all that?" “Sir, you need a high-caloric
diet. It is very essential in your case.”

The following morning Dr. Siddiqui, the Civil Surgeon of Quetta, and Dr.
Mahmood, the Clinical Pathologist, came with the necessary equipment.
They took samples of his blood and sputum, and that afternoon I learnt
the fateful news that the result was positive. The world seemed to be
slipping from under my feet. What could I do? I thought it best that Col.
Ilahi Bux should inform him, as it appeared to me to be the only way of
obtaining his fullest cooperation in the matter of diet, rest, and
treatment. When he stepped into his presence, Dr. Ilahi Bux, in a voice that
betrayed no undue anxiety, said, “Sir, I am afraid the results of the clinical
 26

tests show that you have an infection of the lungs." He heard the news
quietly, and after a few minutes said, “This means that I am suffering
from tuberculosis.” Col. Ilahi Bux did not reply. “Tell me, doctor, since how
long do you think I have had it?” “I think, Sir, at least two years. But I
would like to have an X-ray examination of the chest before I could
express any definite opinion on that point. But, Sir, I assure you it is not
very serious. We will do our best, and if your system responds well to the
treatment, you will soon be alright again.” “Does Miss Jinnah know of
this? Did you tell her?” “Yes, Sir, I have.” “I think it was a mistake. She is
a woman, after all.”

Just then I entered the room, and the Quaid asked the doctor, "How long
do you think I will be in bed? You know I have so many responsibilities and
I have so much to do." "It is too early to answer that question, Sir. But
everything possible will be done to put you right as soon as possible." I
was all alone with my brother, despite his pale face, which spoke loudly
of fatigue and exhaustion. He smiled and said, "Fati, so you see, you were
right... I should have consulted specialists earlier... But I am not sorry. Man
can only struggle... the tongue of destiny is always dumb... I will stand
my post as long as I can... you know, my principle has always been... never
to blindly accept... the advice of I have always followed... my own will...
and learned by hard knocks." Only a few months earlier he had said in his
address to the students of Islamia College at Peshawar, “You will learn
from your costly experience and the knocks that you shall have received
during your lifetime.” To go his own way and to learn by hard knocks, that
had been the dominant keynote of his character throughout his life.

It was heartening to see that he could eat more than he had done for many
weeks, and to tempt his appetite, I engaged as our cook, Amanat Ali, who
had learned the culinary art at the Ritz Hotel in Paris and had been for
some time the chef of the Maharaja of Kapurthala. Dr. Ilahi Bux engaged a
 27

lady compounder to take the Quaid's temperature. For the first time, he
asked her, “What is my temperature?” She replied firmly, “Sir, I can only
say that to the Doctor.” He insisted, “But I must know my own
temperature.” She was adamant, "Sorry, Sir, I can't tell it to you." As soon
as the lady compounder left, he smiled and said to me, “I like people like
that... People who can be firm... and refuse to be cowered down.”

No visitors were allowed to see the Quaid-e-Azam, but when Mr. Hassan
Ispahani, our Ambassador in Washington, visited our home in Ziarat, the
Quaid was happy to see Mr. Ispahani, who had been his close associate for
a number of years. As he came down after seeing his leader, Mr. Ispahani
broke down in tears. He could not bear to see that veteran of many fights
lay helpless in bed, struggling feebly for his life. He assured Dr. Ilahi Bux
that he would be only too happy to fly out specialists and medicines from
America that may be needed. He was informed they would gladly ask for
it if it was necessary.

In the meantime, on Dr. Ilahi Bux's request, Dr. Clinical Pathologist, arrived
from Lahore, with the X-ray apparatus and equipment. Their examination
and tests confirmed the opinion and findings of Dr. Ilahi Bux. They decided
it was necessary to have a night nurse to attend to the Quaid. At first, he
refused, saying he was being well looked after, and that it would be sheer
waste of money to engage a night nurse, but ultimately, he agreed,
saying, “My sister has been by my bedside, day and night... for so many
weeks... she must be tired... Yes, you can engage a night nurse.” And so
sister Phyllis Dunham, who was working in the Civil Hospital, Quetta,
came to Ziarat. She proved to be an efficient nurse, and the Quaid liked
her for it. Dr. Ilahi Bux was told by Sister Dunham that the Quaid was
wearing silk pyjamas, which had been his lifelong habit, and that at night
he often shivered with cold. On this, the doctor ordered viyella from
Karachi and I had some pyjamas made for him. It gave us reason for hope
 28

when we found that he was more restful, slept long hours, and was able
to take sufficient food. His temperature was normal, his coughing had
almost subsided, and his blood pressure gave no cause for anxiety.

Towards the end of July, without prior notice, Mr. Liaquat Ali Khan, the
Prime Minister, arrived in Ziarat accompanied by Chaudhri Mohammad Ali.
He asked Dr. Ilahi Bux about his diagnosis of Quaid's health. The doctor
said that as he had been invited by me to attend to the Quaid, he could
only say what he thought of his patient to me. “But, as Prime Minister, I
am anxious to know about it.” The doctor politely answered, “Yes, Sir, but
I can't do it without the patient's permission.”

As soon as I was told, as I was sitting with the Quaid, that the Prime
Minister and the Secretary-General wanted to see him, I informed him.
After a few minutes, he said, “Go down... Tell the Prime Minister... I will
see him.” “It is late, Jin. Let them see you tomorrow morning.” “No, let him
come now...”

The two were together for about half an hour, and as soon as Liaquat Ali
Khan came down, I went upstairs to my brother. I found him absolutely
tired, and he wore a sickly look. He asked me to give him some fruit juice,
and then said, “Send Mr. Mohammed Ali.” The Secretary-General of the
Cabinet was with him for about fifteen minutes, and when he was once
again alone, I went into his room. I asked him if he would have juice or
coffee, but his mind was too preoccupied to answer me. By now it was
dinner time, and he said, “You better... go down... Have dinner... with
them.” “No.” “That is not correct... They are... our guests here... Go... Eat
with them.”

On 14th August, when our nation was to celebrate its first anniversary of
Independence, was drawing near and against his doctor's advice, he was
 29

thinking about the message that he wanted to address the nation on that
occasion. He was busy at it, despite his failing health.

The message to be released on Independence Day said, “Remember, that

the establishment of Pakistan is a fact of which there is no parallel in the
history of the world. I have full faith in my people.”

Disappointed in their efforts by other means to strangle the new State at

its very birth, our enemies yet hoped that economic maneuvers would
achieve the object they had at heart. With all the wealth of argument and
detail, which malice could invent or ill-will devise, they prophesied that
Pakistan would be left bankrupt. And what the fire and sword of the
enemy could not achieve, would be brought about by the ruined finances
of the State. But these prophets of evil have been thoroughly discredited.
Our first budget was a surplus one: there is a favorable balance of trade,
and a steady and an all-round improvement in the economic field.

A few days later, the doctors found that his blood pressure was very low;
there was swelling on his feet, and his urinary output had considerably
decreased. After a prolonged conference, the doctors said to me that he
was suffering from weakness of the heart and kidneys. Ziarat was not
good for him in his present condition of health. The Quaid agreed with
their suggestion but insisted he should be shifted to Quetta after 14th
August, on which day the First Anniversary of our Independence was to
be celebrated. The doctors were not prepared to wait until then, and so
ultimately, we made ready to leave Ziarat for Quetta on 13th August.

He insisted that he would not travel in a pyjama suit, saying he had never
done that in his life. I was happy that he continued to show signs of
 30

interest in life, and I brought out a brand-new suit, which he had never
worn before, a tie to match, put the kerchief in his vanity pocket, and
made him wear his shining pump shoes. He was brought down on a
stretcher and was put in a semi-reclining posture in the back seat of the
big Bumber car, in which we undertook the journey to Quetta. I sat next to
him and Sister Dunham in the extra chair, and his A.D.C. sat in front with
the chauffeur.

The car moved slowly to avoid jerks and bumps, and on our way, we
stopped twice, when I had him tea and biscuits. It took us four hours to
reach Quetta, and I was apprehensive every minute whether he would be
able to stand the strain of the journey. As soon as we reached the
Residency in Quetta, where we were to stay, the doctors examined him,
and they assured me that he had stood the journey well. He told his
doctors after a few hours. "I feel better here at Ziarat... it was difficult to
breathe.”

He began to improve, and Dr. Illahi Bux suggested he should start

attending about an hour a day to his files, as he thought it better to divert
his active mind to some work to prevent it from brooding all the time
about his health. He was very happy, and he enjoyed this liberty with
great relish. After a few days, the doctors asked him to leave his bed and
to walk a few steps every day in his room with their help so that it may
help the circulation of his blood. He accepted the suggestion with a smile,
happy that once again after many weeks he would be able to stand on his
legs, instead of lying in a sick bed. It was heartening to see that he still
showed signs of fight, a hope that was confirmed when he told the
doctors the following story:

"You know, doctor, I will tell you a story. There was a woman who
told her doctor she could not walk, as she had been ill and had
 31

been in bed for many months. The doctor said she had recovered,
and it was necessary she should leave her bed and start walking.
She refused, despite the doctor's pleadings. Another doctor
came, examined her, and gave the same advice. He paused, tired,
breathless. Then another doctor came. He put a flaming stove
under her bed, without her knowing it. She realized her bed would
soon be in flames... She rushed out of her bed... screaming... We
all laughed. "Doctor, do you want to do that with me?”

After a little pause, he said, “Doctor, I like smoking... I haven't smoked for
days... Can I smoke?" Dr. Ilahi Bux said reassuringly, "Yes, Sir, begin with
only one a day. But don't inhale." I brought out a tin of his favorite brand
of cigarettes, Craven A. He had always been a heavy smoker, smoking
about fifty cigarettes a day.

In the evening, the doctor came again; seeing five cigarette butt ends in
the ashtray, he looked at his patient inquiringly, and the Quaid said with
a smile, “Yes, Doctor, I smoked five... But I didn't inhale.” And he laughed,
happy as a child.

Eid-ul-Fitr was to fall that year on 27th August, and he was busy
preparing his Eid day message to the nation. This proved to be the last of
hundreds of speeches he prepared during the course of his long political
career. In this message, he wrote, "It is only with united effort and faith
in our destiny that we shall be able to translate the Pakistan of our
dreams into reality.”

For us, the last Eid-ul-Fitr that followed soon after the birth of Pakistan
was marred by the tragic happenings in East Punjab. The bloodbath of last
 32

year and its aftermath - the mass migration of millions - presented a

problem of unprecedented magnitude. To provide new moorings for this
mass of drifting humanity strained our energies and resources to the
breaking point. The immensity of the task very nearly overwhelmed us,
and we could only just keep our heads above water. The brief span of 12
months was not sufficient to see all the Mohajareens settled in profitable
employment in Pakistan. Considerable progress has been made in
resettling them, but a good many remain to be rehabilitated. We cannot
rejoice until every one of them has been put on his feet again. I am
sanguine that by next Eid, this formidable and intractable problem will
have been solved, and all the refugees absorbed in Pakistan's economy as
useful members of society.

Continuing his message, he wrote:

“My Eid message to our brother Muslim States is one of friendship and
goodwill. We are all passing through perilous times. The drama of power
politics that is being staged in Palestine, Indonesia, and Kashmir should
serve as an eye-opener to us. It is only by putting up a united front that
we can make our voice felt in the counsels of the world.

Let me, therefore, appeal to you - in whatever language you may put,
when the essence of my advice is boiled down, it comes to this - that
every Musalman should serve Pakistan honestly, sincerely, and
selflessly.”

These turned out to be his last recorded words. Towards the end of
August, the Quaid-e-Azam suddenly became apathetic, and one day,
looking intently into my eyes, he said, “Fati, I am no more interested in
living... The sooner I go... the better.” These were ominous words. I was
shocked, as if I had caught a live electric wire. I managed to keep calm and
 33

said, "Jin, you will be soon alright. Doctors are hopeful." He smiled, a
deathly smile, “No... I don't want to live.”

On 1st September, Dr. Ilahi Bux, in a depressed voice, said to me, "The
Quaid-e-Azam has had a hemorrhage. I am worried. We must take him to
Karachi. The altitude of Quetta is not good for him."

His health began to deteriorate, and on the 5th, the doctors, on examining
his sputum, found there were signs of germs of pneumonia, and his blood
showed evidence of acute infection. He was feeling suffocated and out of
breath, and doctors started giving him oxygen.

On the 7th, I sent a cable to Mr. Ispahani in Washington to fly out American
specialists, whose name had been suggested by Dr. Riaz, and the
following day I telephoned Dr. Mohammad Ali Mistry of Karachi to come
immediately to Quetta. There was another conference among his doctors,
and after weighing the pros and cons of the situation, they decided it was
necessary to remove him to Karachi at once, as the altitude of Quetta was
bad for his weak heart.

They broke the news to me with a heavy heart that there was little hope,
and that only a miracle could save his life. When I informed my brother
about the advice of his doctors to go to Karachi in order to avoid the
altitude of Quetta, he said, “Yes... take me to Karachi... I was born there...
I want to be buried... there.” His eyes closed, and I stayed by his bedside.
I could hear his thoughts ramble in the realm of his unconsciousness. He
whispered in his sleep, "Kashmir... Give them... the right... to decide...
Constitution... I will complete it... soon..."

The Viking of the Governor-General was ordered to fly immediately to

Quetta, and the doctors decided on 11th September that we should be at
 34

the airport at two in the afternoon on our way back to Karachi. As he was
being taken on a stretcher into the cabin of the Viking, the pilot and the
crew had lined up to give him a salute. He raised his feeble hand with
difficulty and returned their salute.

We laid him comfortably in the seats that had been converted into an
improvised bed in the front cabin, and with him sat myself, Dr. Mistry, and
Sister Dunham. The pilot had warned us that he would have to fly at about
7,000 feet for some time, and as soon as he had crossed the mountains of
Baluchistan, he would fly at about 5,000 feet. The oxygen cylinder and
gas mask were ready, and I was to give him oxygen when we were flying
at high altitude. We were airborne, and the Viking ascended higher and
higher.

The Quaid found it difficult to breathe, and I put the gas mask to his
mouth. He took oxygen for some time, and then brushed it away, as if to
say to me, "It is useless. It is all over.” I asked Dr. Mistry to call Dr. Ilahi
Bux, and I was happy to see that Dr. Ilahi Bux succeeded in inducing him
to take oxygen. I have never had a more anxious air journey in all my life.

After about two hours of flying, we landed at Mauripur Airport at 4.15 in

the afternoon. Here he had landed about a year ago, full of hope, full of
confidence that he would build Pakistan into a great nation. Thousands
had thronged to welcome him, including cabinet ministers and members
of the diplomatic corps. But that day, as instructed in advance, there was
no one at the airport.

Colonel Geoferry Knowles, the Military Secretary of the Governor-General,

was the first to receive us as we got out of the plane. The Quaid was
carried on a stretcher to a military ambulance that had been kept ready
to drive him to the Governor-General house. Sister Dunham and I sat with
 35

him in the ambulance, which was being driven at a very slow speed, while
other members of our party left in cars; only Dr. Ilahi Bux, Dr. Mistry, and
the Military Secretary were following our ambulance in the Governor-
General's Cadillac.

After we had covered about four miles, the ambulance coughed, as if

gasping for breath, and came to a sudden stop. After about five minutes,
I came out of the ambulance and was told that it had run short of petrol.
The driver started fidgeting with the engine, but it would not start. As I
entered the ambulance again, the Quaid's hands moved slightly, and his
eyes looked at me in an inquiring manner. I bent low and said to him,
“There is a breakdown in the engine of the ambulance.” He closed his eyes.

Usually, there is a strong sea breeze in Karachi, which keeps the

temperature down and relieves the oppressiveness of a warm day. But
that day there was no breeze, and the heat was unbearable. To add to this
discomfort, scores of flies buzzed around his face, and his hands had lost
strength to raise themselves to ward off their attack. Sister Dunham and
I fanned his face by turns, waiting for another ambulance to come; every
minute an eternity of agony. He could not be shifted to the Cadillac, as it
was not big enough for the stretcher. And so we waited, hoping...

Nearby stood hundreds of huts of refugees who went about their

business, not knowing that their Quaid, who had given them a homeland,
was in their midst, lying helpless in an ambulance that had run out of
petrol. Cars honked on their way, buses and trucks screamed to their
destinations, and we stood there - immobilized in an ambulance that
refused to move an inch, with a precious life ebbing away, drop by drop,
breath by breath.
 36

We waited for over one hour, and no hour in my life has been so long and
painful. Then came another ambulance. He was carried on the stretcher
to the newly arrived ambulance, and we proceeded, after all, to the
Governor-General's house. When he was gently put into his bed, Ilahi's
watch told me that it had been more than two hours after we had landed
at Mauripur airport. Two hours from Quetta to Karachi, and two hours
from Mauripur airport to the Governor-General's House.

The doctors examined him and said he had been none the worse for the air
journey and the irksome incident of the ambulance. He was soon fast
asleep, and the doctors left the Governor-General's House, saying they
would be back in a short while. I was now alone with my brother who slept
so peacefully. I intuitively felt it was like the last brilliant flicker of the
candle-flame before it has burnt itself out. In my silence, my mind
seemed to commune with him:

'Oh, Jin, if they could pump out all my blood and put it in you so that you
may live, if it would will God to take away all my years and give them to
you so that you may continue to lead our nation, how grateful I would be
to Him.'

He slept for about two hours, undisturbed. And then he opened his eyes,
saw me, and signaled with his head and eyes for me to come near him. He
made one last attempt and whispered, "Fati, Khuda Hafiz. La Ilaha Il Allah...
Mohammad... Rasul... Allah." His head dropped slightly to his right, his
eyes closed.

I ran out of the room, shouting, screaming, "Doctor, doctor. Be quick. My

brother is dying. Where are the Doctors?" In a few minutes, they were
there, examining him and giving him injections. I stood there, motionless,
speechless. Then I saw them cover his whole body, head to foot, with a
 37

white sheet. I knew what it meant. Death had come to take him away from
this life that must end to a life that is eternal, immortal.

Col. Ilahi Bux walked on heavy feet towards me, put his right palm over
my left shoulder, and wept like a little child. Those tears, in a language
without words or voice, conveyed to me the fatal news. I searched for
tears, but the well where one finds them had dried up. I wanted to scream
and cry, but my voice had sunk into the abyss of speechlessness. I
dragged myself to his bedside and flung myself like a log of wood on the
floor.

The news of his death must have spread far and wide. The huge iron gates
of the Governor-General's House, where normally strict security
measures prevent unauthorized entry, opened themselves wide, and
endless streams of people came from all directions. Soon many of them
were in the room, where he lay, undisturbed, in a sleep that was beyond
awakening. I sat there, oblivious to my surroundings. I lost count of time;
I had completely lost myself in my irreparable loss.

I do not know how long I sat there, staring at the white sheet that covered
my brother's body. But I remember that an elderly lady, whom I had never
seen or known, put her arms around my neck and quietly whispered into
my ear a verse from the Holy Quran:

" From God he came, To God he returned."

 38

From Kathiawar to Karachi

With the dawn of the second half of the nineteenth century, the sun of
British Raj in India was inexorably climbing towards its meridian. The
foreigners who had started their life on this subcontinent as merchants,
seeking concessions, begging for friendly and favorable treatment, had
ended by becoming rulers of this country, setting up an empire that
became the most dazzling jewel in the Imperial Crown. On the surface
was the calm that precedes a storm. The alien rulers believed their
civilizing mission had sobered the fiery temper of the disgruntled, and
that Pax Britannica had cooled down the smoldering cinders of 'native'
revolt and defiance. The subterranean rumblings of hatred against
foreign rule escaped their notice until, in the year 1857, a calculated spark
ignited a mighty flame of rebellion that spread far and wide, and its
enactment came to be recorded as the first chapter in the book of India's
long and tortuous struggle for freedom from foreign domination. It was a
stormy period in our history; many of our patriots lost their lives on the
battlefields, and they came to be looked upon as martyrs in the cause of
our country's freedom. It left a lasting impact on the minds of our people
practically all over India.

There were, however, some parts that continued their placid life,
unconcerned about the political conflagration that raged all around them.
Gondal, a princely State in Kathiawar in the Bombay Presidency, was one
such spot. The Thakur Saheb of Gondal, in return for his unstinted loyalty
to the British Crown, continued to rule in all his splendor over his subjects.
It paid him to keep the shadow of revolt against the British out of his
State, lest it should darken the glamour and glitter of his own undisputed
sway over his people. Under the protecting umbrella of the Thakur Saheb,
 39

the people of Gondal State went about their daily round of life,
undisturbed by the political upsurge that had engulfed India.

Agriculture was the mainstay of Gondal's economy, the main crops being
cotton, wheat, jowar, and bajri. Among the agricultural produce of
Gondal, the one that gave Gondal a special reputation was chilies, and
even to this day, Gondal chilies are famous. This may explain the reason
why, in our house, in the earliest days that I can remember, our dishes
always contained a plentiful sprinkling of chilies, and those of us that
found the food not strong enough to our taste could add an additional
dosage from a plate that was always on the table containing a handful
supply of chilies.

Gondal, being the capital, was the biggest town in the state; but by far
and large, the people of this principality lived in countless villages,
leading a simple but contented life. Theirs was a narrow world, whose
horizons remained confined within the geographical boundaries of their
State.

Paneli was one such village, which had a population of less than one
thousand, around the time the 1857 rebellion was sowing the seeds of
organized political opposition to British rule in India. In this little village
lived my grandfather, Poonja, and there had lived and died his
forefathers. My grandfather was one of the few citizens of Paneli who
was not an agriculturist. He owned a few handlooms, on which he worked
long and tiring hours and with the help of a few hired hands, he produced
coarse hand-woven cotton cloth. By the sale of which, he made enough
money to entitle his family to be ranked among the well-to-do families of
that small village.
 40

He had three sons, Valji, Nathoo, and Jinnah, the last named being his
youngest son and a daughter, Manbai. Jinnah was more dynamic and more
ambitious than his two elder brothers, and he was born around 1857, the
historic year of the first Indian rebellion. To his youthful and ambitious
mind, Paneli appeared not only a sluggish and sleepy village but also a
place where life revolved around the gossip of the village bazaar and the
village well. He had heard that Gondal was a big city, where life was brisk
and business was big. What could he do in Paneli? The prospect of working
with his two brothers on the family handlooms did not attract him. That
was too small a venture. His eyes were set on the big city, where the spirit
of adventure beckoned him.

His father gave him little cash but much advice that before he invested
his money in any business, he should make a thorough study as to which
would be the best business to enter. Having an analytical and cautious
mind and a meager purse, my father was not a man to rush into a venture
in a hurry. It did not take him long to find a few profitable lines in which
he could do quick buying and selling. His flair for business and hard work
soon helped him to make sufficient profits, enabling him to add
substantially to the original capital. When he returned from Gondal to
Paneli after some months, his father was happy to find that his son had
made good in a big city. Believing as they did in the old traditional values
of life, they were afraid that temptations in Gondal might allure their
youthful son and distract his mind from a lucrative business that he had
succeeded in establishing in such a short time. Moreover, they were
getting on in years; their other two sons and daughter had been married,
the only parental responsibility that remained was to get their youngest
son married to a good girl, from a decent family of their own Ismaili Khoja
community.
 41

They began to search for a suitable match for him, being eager to get him
married before he left Paneli to settle down permanently to a new life in
Gondal. Their search took them outside Paneli, and in Dhaffa, a village
about 10 miles from Paneli, they decided Mithibai, a girl from a
respectable family, would be a suitable spouse for their youngest son.
The parents of the girl were approached through a matchmaker, and they
agreed to give their blessings to the proposed match. And thus, my
father, Jinnah, and my mother, Mithibai, came to be married in Dhaffa
around 1874.

The business of my father prospered, and he seemed to have an assured

future. The urge for hard work and ambition to do bigger and bigger
business, however, flowed in his veins. He believed in putting his shoulder
to the wheel in order to go forward on whatever path he chose to tread.
Indolence and complacency he considered as hindrances; consecration to
duty and long and laborious toil were the price one must willingly pay to
succeed in life. He considered Gondal too small a place for his soaring
dreams and ambitions.

He heard of that big city, Bombay, which was bursting with prosperity,
where enormous fortunes were being amassed by big business families.
He also heard encouraging reports of a lesser city, Karachi, which had
during the last few years developed into an important seaport and a
flourishing center of trade. He began to ponder in his mind whether he
should migrate to Bombay or to Karachi, leaving Gondal behind for good.
While greater chances of business in Bombay tempted his mind, destiny
made a decision for him, a decision that resulted in my father and mother
migrating from Kathiawar to Karachi.

He had never seen a city as big as Karachi, although at that time all that
it could boast of was Khadda, where sailing boats daily brought a big
 42

catch of fish to be dried in the open spaces under the sun and to be
stocked in fish-godowns that littered the coastline; Kharadar which, as
its name implies, was a cluster of houses, where the saltish waters of the
Arabian Sea wriggled themselves on streets, lanes, and by-lanes;
Mithadar, where the sweet waters of Lyari and Malir rivers could be
obtained by digging knee-deep wells; and Saddar, where British troops
had their Cantonment and barracks. My father rented a modest two-room
apartment on Newnham Road in Kharadar, a locality that was the
business heart of the city. Here lived numerous business families, some
of them having come from Gujrat and Kathiawar.

The building was of stone masonry and lime mortar; its roof and floorings
being of wooden planks. The apartment taken by my father was on the
first floor, where a spacious wooden and iron balcony projected above the
pavement, providing a cool and airy place for sitting during the day and
to spread a charpoy to sleep at night. The balcony and the rooms faced
West, which is the best direction in Karachi to face to ensure a full blast
of cool sea breeze practically throughout the year.

The young Mr. Jinnah, at first, found it difficult to hit upon a trade that
offered an easy opening to set up a lucrative business. He tried his hand
at different businesses by turns and steadily went on adding to his
modest pile. He seemed to have the golden touch; whatever business he
handled, it brought to him rich dividends. There were, at that time in
Karachi, a few British firms that exported the produce of Karachi and the
hinterland to Europe and the Far East and imported consumer goods from
England. Grahams Trading Co. was one such firm, and it was one of the
leading import and export houses in Karachi. Although my father had not
had a regular education at school in English, his diligence and natural
 43

aptitude had enabled him to be fairly conversant with the English

language. This was then considered quite an accomplishment, as few of
the merchants in Karachi were able to converse in English. It is likely that
it was his ability to speak English that brought him close to the General
Manager of Grahams Trading Co., and this proved to be a great blessing
for the rapid expansion of his business.

Many years later, when our family came to be settled in Ratnagiri for a
short while, my father would collect me and my two sisters at night and
teach us to read and write English. He was a strict disciplinarian, and we
had to behave in his presence during that tuition hour as if we were at
school in our class-room. In our childish eyes, father appeared a big man,
one who could speak English so well. We envied him for it, and how we
wished we could speak English as well as he did. Sometimes when we
three sisters met and were in a playful mood, we would imitate father's
English. One of us would say to the other, "Ish, Phish, Ish, Phish, Yes"; and
the other would reply, "Ish, Phish, Ish, Phish, No." We took this game so
seriously, feigning we were at last on the threshold of learning English if
we had not already mastered that language.

In those days, many Afghans from Kandahar came to Karachi for business,
and my father had extensive business dealings with them also. It was by
constant conversation with them over so many years that he had been
able to make himself conversant with spoken Persian, and I found him
speak that language quite fluently. Being from Kathiawar, the language
spoken in our house was Gujarati, but after settling down in Karachi, the
members of our family became quite at home with Cutchi and Sindhi also.

With business contacts established with Grahams Trading Co., my father

started doing business in isinglass and gum arabic, in addition to his
various other business interests. He had by now business relations with
 44

a number of countries, in particular with England and Hong Kong. As

correspondence with these countries had to be carried on in English, my
father taught himself to read and write English.

In those days, some of the merchants of Kharadar acted not only as

businessmen but also as bankers. The entire trade of the hinterland of
Sindh, Baluchistan, and the Punjab passed through the port of Karachi
and, in the absence of adequate banking facilities, monetary transactions
and transfers were usually conducted with the assistance of these firms.
Many families deposited on trust their private savings with those
merchants, using their offices as we use banks in our times. Of course, all
the modern paraphernalia that goes with modern banking did not exist
then, but these merchants were scrupulously honest, and their word was
as good as a bond. Jinnah Poonja and Co., my father's firm, was one such
concern, doing a big and flourishing trade and enjoying the trust and
confidence of the people and of the business community.

My mother was now with child, and father devoted all his attention and
care to his young wife, both excited at the expected happy event. There
was hardly any maternity home worth the name in Karachi, and the few
good midwives that had established their reputation in their profession
were in great demand. Antenatal treatment and care were unknown, and
it was only at the time of actual delivery that the midwife was summoned
to the house. Being a rich locality, there lived in Kharadar a midwife who
was considered to be among the best in the city, whom mother engaged
in advance, and it was her hands, trained in the medical college of
everyday experience, that brought into the world my mother's first child,
a boy; the day was a Sunday, and the date was the 25th of December in
the year 1876.
 45

The baby boy was weak and tiny, having slim, long hands, and a long,
elongated head. The parents were seriously worried about his health, this
little baby that was underweight by quite a few pounds. They had him
examined by a doctor, who said that, except for his weak appearance,
there was nothing physically or organically wrong with him and that his
health should give the parents no cause for concern. But a doctor's
reassurance can scarcely set at rest a loving mother's fears and
anxieties.

There arose the question of naming the child. So far, living in Kathiawar,
names of the male members of our family had been so much akin to Hindu
names. But Sindh was a Muslim province, and the children of their
neighbors had Muslim names. The two were agreed that Mohammad Ali
would be an auspicious name for their firstborn, and this was the name
they gave him.

My mother was intensely fond of Mohammad Ali, and despite the fact that
six other children were born to her, she continued to the end of her life to
look upon Mohammad Ali as her favorite child. Rahemat, Maryani, Ahmed
Ali, Shireen, Fatima, and Bundeh Ali were to be her other children, in all,
three sons and four daughters.

Cares of a flourishing business weighed heavily on my father's shoulders,

but my mother insisted that the two take Mohammad Ali to the durgah of
Hassan Pir in Ganod, ten miles from our village, Paneli, for the agiga
ceremony. As a child, my mother had heard miraculous tales concerning
devotees that believed in the supernatural powers of this Pir, who was
buried at that durgah. Her mother's intuition made her believe that a
great future awaited her Mohammad Ali and she wanted to take him to
 46

Hassan Pir's durgah, where in the traditional manner of those days, his
head would be shaved ceremoniously, and the mother would make a wish,
invoking the blessings of the saintly Pir for its fulfillment. At first, my
father tried to get himself excused, saying he could ill-afford to be away
from Karachi for over a month, but his obduracy melted in the warmth of
his young wife's pleadings. And so, with their baby boy, a few months old,
the father and mother booked seats on a sail-boat that would carry them
from Karachi to Verawal, a port in Kathiawar, braving the rain and winds
that might be encountered on the voyage.

The frail boat with a plentiful load of passengers ran into a storm and
tossed about like a plank of wood in mid-ocean. There was concern and
anxiety among the people on board, and panic under such conditions is
always infectious. While my father looked at the skies above, wondering
when the storm would blow over, giving the boat a calm passage, my
mother held her little boy close to her heart praying for the safety of her
fellow-voyagers among whom was her darling, Mohammad Ali. After the
storm, a strange calm descended on the ocean, and the boat sailed on
merrily to its destination. Days later, my mother told father that in those
anxious moments she had made a vow that if they reached their
destination without mishap, she would stay a day longer in Ganod,
praying and thanking God for His mercy at the shrine of Hassan Pir.

When the boat put anchor at Verawal port, and they had set foot on terra
firma, they hired a bullock cart to take them to Ganod, a distance of a few
miles. So after a stormy voyage across the Arabian Sea and after a jerky,
jolty bullock cart journey, my baby brother, Mohammad Ali, sat in the
arms of my mother, surrounded by our numerous relatives, ready to have
his head shaved at the durgah of Hassan Pir, in fulfillment of the vow
made by my mother.
 47

The facts about the life of Hassan Pir are so intricately mixed-up with
legend that it is not possible to extricate the one from the other. However,
it is established that the Pir came from Iran as an Ismaili missionary,
through the overland route from Baluchistan, and for a while lived in
Multan. His saintly and exemplary life won him an admiring following, and
many non-Muslims accepted Islam at his hands. The wandering
missionary then trekked into Sindh, continuing his missionary work,
crossed into Cutch, and finally came to a place near Paneli, where he
pitched his tent and devoted all his time to propagating [preaching] Islam
among the non-Muslims of that area.

Legend has it that he had supernatural powers; many are the stories that
are attributed to him, and this is the usual image that is woven around
such figures, whose authentic life and work cannot be vouchsafed on
historical and documentary evidence.

Hassan Pir is said to have followed in the footsteps of those Muslim sufis
who devote their days to the teaching of the Quran and the message of
Islam and their nights on the mystic shores of meditation. It was his
practice to sleep early, to wake up around two in the morning and to sit
in meditation outside his tent on the bank of Bhadhar River until he had
said his morning prayers. One night as he sat lost in communion with the
Unknown, a huge tidal wave lashed the banks of the river, penetrating far
beyond the precarious embankments. The sudden onrush of the river
waters dragged Hassan Pir, who was lost in meditation, into mid-river,
and death by drowning ended his earthly life. His corpse floated leisurely
under the cover of darkness from Paneli to the banks of the river near a
village called Ganod, where the majority of the people were non-Muslims
of the Rabari caste, their ancestral occupation being breeding of cows.
 48

As some of the Rabaris came early morning on the banks of Bhadhar River,
they found the dead body of Hassan Pir that had been washed onto the
shores by the receding waters of the river. They at once recognized the
saintly person, whose reputation had spread beyond the geographical
boundaries of Paneli village. A conference of their elders, seeing that
chance had gifted the dead body of the saint to them, decided to accord
him a solemn and befitting burial and to build a mausoleum over it,
believing that his durgah would bring prosperity to their village.

And so it was that Hassan Pir came to be buried in Ganod. Lapse of many
years has not dampened the devotional enthusiasm of the people of
Gondal State, and even to this day, every year there is an Urs (anniversary
celebrations) of the saint at his durgah where both Hindu and Muslim
devotees gather.

After the agiga ceremony at Hassan Pir's durgah, my father and mother
took their bald little boy to their native village, Paneli, making the journey
again by bullock cart. My father's boyhood friends and relations had
heard glowing tales of his financial success in Karachi, and success
adorned him with a dimension that inspired respect in the eyes of his
village community. My mother decided to celebrate the birth of her
darling son by arranging a feast, inviting the entire village population to
join in a community dinner. In the days when I was still a child, I heard
from my elders, 'On that day in Paneli, not a single family had lit fire in
their homes; their cooking utensils and eating plates sat on the kitchen
shelves, as if relaxing in their resting places in celebration of the arrival
of tiny little Mohammad Ali, the son of a villager of Paneli.'
 49

After staying in Paneli and Gondal for a few weeks, my father and mother
made the journey back to Karachi, with their baby boy, whose little mind
could not comprehend that his arrival in Ganod and Paneli had been the
occasion of so much festivity and celebration. They were back in Karachi,
and my father got absorbed in his business preoccupations, while my
mother gave all her time and attention to her newborn baby.

In spite of the occasional outbursts of extravagance, particularly when

my mother so desired, my father was frugal in his living and careful with
his money. A businessman, who was struggling to establish and expand
his business in a new city, had to be careful with his pennies. The family
lived a simple life, what they lacked in ostentatiousness being made up
by the warmth of a happy family life. So although my father had quite a
flourishing business, the habit of not spending money unnecessarily
persisted. Fortune is a capricious deity; it may smile on you today, but
who knows what will be her mood tomorrow. It was on this principle that
my father ran his family budget. This had a lasting impression on our
minds as we grew up, and this was a trait in the Quaid-e-Azam's
character that lasted throughout his life.

Mohammad Ali was now about six years old, and my parents engaged a
teacher to teach him Gujarati at home. They thought he was still too
young to be sent to school, and the nearest school was at quite a distance
from our house, a distance which they thought was too much to be
covered on foot by a boy of six. He was indifferent to the reading lessons
that he was made to do but positively loathed to enter the realm of
addition and subtraction, passing his hour with his tutor as an
unwarranted infliction. He was more at home when he was playing with
the boys of his age in the neighborhood, among whom he established a
reputation as being proficient at games. They, in their childish minds,
 50

looked upon him as their leader, and he intuitively felt that he was their
superior.

However, when he was about nine, he was put in a primary school, where
he had to compete with his classmates at the time of examination. He was
disappointed to find that other boys defeated him, securing more marks
than he did. He, who had always looked upon himself as superior to other
boys at play, found that he could not be the first in his class. On the one
hand, he had to abandon his play for so many hours a day to attend school,
and on the other hand, these hours at school did not yield to him the honor
of being the topmost pupil. He developed a childish aversion for books and
school, to the horror of my father, who was anxious to give his son a sound
education to enable him to join his business after he had passed his
matriculation examination.

My mother, who had a blind faith in the destiny of her son, frequently said,
'My Mohammad Ali is going to be a big man; he will be very clever; better
than the other boys,' found her dreams tumbling down to the ground.
Mother cajoled him to be regular at school and to give serious attention
to his studies, saying that way alone he would rise in life and be a big man,
standing head and shoulders above the others. In spite of grave
provocation, the father was patient with him, asking him why it was that
he did not devote sufficient time to his books. 'Father,' said little
Mohammad Ali, 'I don't like to go to school.' 'What would you like to do,
then?' 'Father, I would like to sit with you in the office and learn to do
business.' 'But you are too young for that, Mohammad Ali.' 'I would do
better in your office than at school.' My father was a tactful person, and
he tried to tempt him, saying, 'Mohammad Ali, in my office, there is strict
discipline. You will have to go with me to the office early in the morning
at eight, return for lunch from two to four, and then again to the office
from four to nine at night.' 'I will do that, father.' 'But that will give you
 51

no time at all for play.' 'I don't mind.' And so young Mohammad Ali, after
oscillating in the borderland between his father's office and the
classroom, started going with my father to the office. He soon found he
could not do anything in the office. Everything depended on reading and
writing; monies received and paid had to be entered into account books,
and he did not know either to read or write or to keep accounts. All that
he could do in the office was to do little odds and ends of jobs, which were
not to his liking. And then decisions for buying, selling, and regarding
other important matters were done by his father with the assistance of
his business executives. Nobody bothered to consult him or to obtain his
approval. The most irksome disadvantage was that he was absolutely cut
away from his games, which had such fascination for him.

Within about two months, he was fed up with office work, and he one day
surprised my father, 'Father, I don't like office work.' 'What would you do
then, Mohammad Ali?' 'I would like to go back to school.' My father was
very happy, but he tried to conceal his pleasure by maintaining an
unruffled appearance. 'You see, my boy,' he said, 'there are only two ways
of learning in life.' 'What are they, father?' 'One is to trust the wisdom of
your elders and their superior knowledge, to accept their advice, and to
do exactly as they suggest.' 'And what is the other way, father?' 'The
other way is to go your own way and to learn by making mistakes, to learn
by hard knocks and kicks in life.' The boy Mohammad Ali listened
attentively. This incident explains the characteristic of the Quaid, who up
to the last days of his life preferred to go his own way.

Back at school, he was a completely transformed child, no more

inattentive, indifferent, and lagging behind his classmates. He wanted to
make up for the lost time, as boys of his age and even younger than him
had gone ahead of him. He took to his lessons with a vengeance, studying
into the late hours of the night at home, determined to forge ahead. My
 52

father was very happy to see Mohammad Ali take seriously to his studies.
One day he encountered his boy's class teacher on the road and asked him
how his son was faring at the school. The teacher said, 'He is coming up.
But I must tell you the boy is horrible in arithmetic.' This completely
disappointed my father, who already knew that his son was not a child
prodigy, as the boy's mother fondly believed, nor would his son prove to
be a precocious young man. He had already failed to impress his tutors as
a pupil of great promise; they thought that with hard work he would
manage to pass his examinations, possibly to be devoured in the
anonymous ranks of office clerks. But my father wanted him to be good
at mathematics, as accounts were the backbone of business, and he
wanted the firm of Jinnah Poonja & Co., to keep on forging ahead as a
going concern when his son took over the business from him. 'Poor at
mathematics,' my father mused. 'I wonder what the boy will be!' But my
mother's faith in Mohammad Ali was not to be shaken. She said, 'You wait.
My Mohammad Ali will do well, and many people will be jealous of him.'

My father decided he should be guided by what appeared to him to be in

the best interest of my brother, rather than by the intuition of his wife.
He thought it better to put him in a school far from their house, as his
classmates in the primary school at Kharadar had a disturbing influence
on his attendance at school, tempting him always to abandon books for
marbles, tops, gilli danda, and cricket. Sind Madrasah-tul-Islam, a high
school about a mile from our house on Newnham Road, the only one that
Muslims of Sind could boast of, founded by Khan Bahadur Hassanali
Affendi, was the school he decided his son should join. Mohammad Ali was
about ten years old when my father got him admitted in Sind Madrasah
as a student in the fourth standard Gujarati. Records of the school show
that he was, in serial order, the 114th boy to be admitted. But a change of
school effected no change in his attitude to his studies, and he continued
to woo success and victory on the play field rather than at school.
 53

Around this time, my father's only sister, Manbai, happened to be on a

visit to Karachi from Bombay, where she had been married and where she
lived with her husband. Manbai Poofi, as we called her, was a vivacious
person, full of wit and humor and wise beyond her academic education.
My father was very fond of his sister, and Manbai was devoted to her
youngest brother, Jinnah. There was great attachment between the two,
and it continued unimpaired until their last days. As I look back on about
four decades of my constant companionship with the Quaid-e-Azam, I am
reminded of the strong bonds of friendship and devotion that persisted
between my father and his sister. I recall that when Manbai came with
her husband many years later to settle down in Karachi, she constantly
visited our house.

She was a great storyteller, and I wonder to this day how she was able to
remember hundreds of tales by heart, as she had never gone to school and
therefore could not have read them from books. Manbai Poofi would
gather me, my sisters, and my cousins around her after sunset. She was
the center of our eyes and ears, and we listened to her, enraptured by the
bewitching way in which she would narrate her stories, night after night.
She told tales of fairies and the flying carpet; of jins and dragons; and
they seemed to our childish minds to be wonderful tales, stories out of
this world.

My father, mother, and Manbai Poofi sat in conference, discussing what

to do with Mohammad Ali, who simply refused to be serious about his
studies. He was almost ten years old, and he had not yet passed fourth
Gujarati. Manbai suggested that she take him with her to Bombay, in the
hope that a change of environment might help in inducing the boy to be
more regular with his studies. My mother was persuaded to agree to this
proposal and she reluctantly gave consent. And so Mohammad Ali was on
his way to Bombay with Manbai Poofi.
 54

She got him admitted to Anjuman-e-Islam School in Bombay, and for a

while, Mohammad Ali showed signs of taking to his books seriously. He
passed his fourth Gujarati, entitling him to be admitted to the first
standard, English. The mother felt miserable at the absence of her darling
son. A mother's love and affection triumphed over a father's sense of
logic, and Mohammad Ali returned to Karachi from Bombay.

My father got him admitted once again in Sind Madrasah, and the records
of the school show that this time his serial number of admission was 178,
and the date of admission 23-12-1887, the school previously attended
being Anjuman-e-Islam School, Bombay.

By now, Mohammad Ali had developed a great fascination for horse-

riding. My father owned a number of carriages, which was the
aristocratic way of transportation in those days, the era of combustible
engine motor cars being still far away. In the stables of my father were a
number of fine horses, and Mohammad Ali was quick to learn horse-riding,
a sport he immensely enjoyed. He had a school friend, Karim Kassim, son
of another merchant at Kharadar, and the two boys would go horse-riding
for long distances every day.

He loved his horses; they stood erect, holding their heads high, indicative
of strength and confidence. He saw in all nature, life mold itself on.
Vertical lines. Horses stand erect, and so do the trees, as also flowers on
the bough; man walks upright, as must birds and beasts; minarets and
domes aspire to the skies. He made it a principle in life not only to look
ahead but also to keep his chin up. He would not allow difficulties to bend
him; he would rather accept their challenge and overcome them. He would
be like a giant pine, whom storms may toss but cannot bend.
 55

He spent his days at school, managing to pass his examinations, and his
evenings he devoted to horse riding. His inclination for change once again
asserted itself; and he asked his father to get him admitted to another
school. After some argument, my father agreed, and the records of Sind
Madrasah reveal that while he was in English fourth standard, he left that
school on 5-1-1891. The next school he joined was C.M.S. High School on
Lawrence Road in Karachi. But he does not seem to have liked the latter
school. Once again, he asked my father to get him re-admitted to Sind
Madrasah; accordingly, on 9-2-1891, one month after he had left it, he was
on the rolls of Sind Madrasah, studying in fourth English.

He was now fifteen, and my father began to despair about the future of
his son. What would this boy be, he wondered.

The General Manager of Grahams Trading Co., an Englishman, who had

now become a great friend of my father, offered to get young Mohammad
Ali admitted to his Head Office in London as an apprentice for three years,
where he would learn practical business administration, which would
best qualify him to join his father's business on return from London. The
General Manager was sure that the young man could then be a great asset
to his father, helping him to further expand his business. This tempted
the heart of a flourishing businessman, who was convinced that after
such rich experience in London, his son would surely add quite a few new
and lucrative lines to the family business. But he wondered how much it
would cost him in this venture, which may yield dividends to the family
in the long run, but it definitely had no prospects of giving immediate
returns.

My father discreetly asked him what would be the cheapest way of

transportation from Karachi to London, and how much he would have to
spend each month for the upkeep of his son in England. The figures were
 56

worked out in detail and with great care; although the total amount
involved for three years was quite substantial, my father decided he
could afford to deposit the sum with Grahams in London to ensure
continuity to his son's training. After all, he thought business success is
as capricious as the wind; it can change its direction without notice. As it
turned out subsequently, the prudence of a businessman, who had come
up the hard way, proved to be highly beneficial, and without it, my
brother's career in London might have terminated abruptly.

But my mother was adamant. How can she allow her darling Mohammad
Ali to be away from her for three years? Father explained to her that it
was in the best interest of the boy's own future, as also of their family
business, Jinnah Poonja & Co. And after all, three years would soon be
over. Mother agreed after days of persuasion, but she put her own
condition for her consent. England was a dangerous country to send an
unmarried young man to, particularly a young man who was as handsome
as her Mohammad Ali. She was afraid he might get married to an English
girl, and that would be a tragedy for the Jinnah Poonja family. Father
agreed with her reasoning, and the question arose where they would get
Mohammad Ali married to.

My mother had a ready answer to this; she knew of an Ismaili Khoja family
of Paneli who were distantly related to her, and they had a girl of
marriageable age, Emi Bai; surely she would be a good match for
Mohammad Ali. My father had no objection to this, but the two parents
thought it advisable to inform their son. In those days, it was the parents
that arranged marriages for their children, the boy and girl had no option
but to believe in the superior wisdom of their parents. Of course, the
parents knew what was good for their children.
 57

It is probably the only important decision in the life of the Quaid-e-Azam

that he allowed to be made by others. He loved his mother so much, he
could not refuse her. He trusted his father's worldly wisdom so much, he
was sure that his father could hardly make a mistake. As was the custom
in those days, he acted as an obedient son, accepting the decision of his
parents, and he thus came to be engaged to Emi Bai of Paneli.

This young man, who had a mind and will of his own, who was determined
to go his own way and learn by hard knocks, showed some reluctance on
this occasion. His initial objection against marrying a girl he had never
seen or spoken to vanished like thin mist in the sunshine of the
assurances of his mother, who made her son believe that a mother's
blessings in such matters prove propitious and such marriages turn out
to be happy and auspicious.

As a result of this engagement, to be followed by marriage, before his

departure for Paneli, he left Sind Madrasah on 30-1-1892, while he was
studying in fifth English, and the school records show the entry,
"Mohammad Ali Jinnahbhai left school to go to Cutch on account of
marriage."

In his first speech as Governor-General designate of Pakistan, on 9th

August 1947, he fondly recalled, "Yes, I am Karachi-born and it was on the
sands of Karachi that I played marbles in my boyhood, I was schooled in
Karachi."

He had a consuming hunger for experience gained through his own efforts
and he, therefore, refused to be ordered about by others as to what to do
and what not to do, as to what was good for him and what was not. This
trait, developed as a child, was to be his compass and guide even during
the most turbulent periods of the political evolution of his mind. But,
 58

paradoxically enough, he submitted completely in the matter of the

choice of a wife to the decision of his mother.

My father, mother, Mohammad Ali, Manbai Poofi, and some other relatives
left Karachi by sea for Verawal, and from there the marriage party
proceeded by bullock cart to our village, Paneli. Distance lends
enchantment, and the village-folk of Paneli in their unsophisticated
minds believed that Jinnahbhai had become a multimillionaire in that big
city, Karachi, doing business with Europe and the Far East, sending his
goods to these distant lands by big ocean-going ships that made voyages
without sails. And then he had a big house, carriages and horses. Oh, yes,
they gossiped, Jinnahbhai had made a big fortune. The Poonja family was
proud that a big barat or marriage party was coming to Paneli.

My father knew all this, and he was not going to disappoint his family or
the people of his village. He had brought with him a large number of
presents, which were to be given as marriage gifts to relatives, friends,
and to the head of each family of Paneli. A tally of such names and the
presents brought showed that they were less than what would be
needed. He sent out his cousin to buy more presents, from Gondal to make
up the deficit. They were also to bring with them firecrackers in plenty so
that sleepy Paneli would thunder with their booming, and their dazzling
light would light up the skies for miles around. In those days there were
no bands that could parade the lanes and bazaars of Paneli, proudly
proclaiming that the son of a rich man was to be married. So from Gondal
were invited professional nakara beaters, who played on a big semi-
circular drum with two thin sticks, without any musical instrument
accompanying them. But their noise was enough to make its echoes and
reechoes reverberate beyond the boundaries of Paneli.
 59

The women-folk of the family were busy for days, carrying presents,
clothes, jewels, sweets to the bride's house, the nakara beaters leading
the procession, while the ladies slowly wended their way to the bride's
house, singing wedding songs, sprinkling rice on the way, as was the
custom then. The entire people of the village were invited to participate
in community dinners and lunches for a week. Unadorned and
unattractive Paneli wore the garment of festivity, as if the village had
suddenly woken one morning to find itself a bride among the villages of
Gondal. My father did not mind the expense; after all, it was the wedding
of his first-born child and, who knows, his other children may be married
in Karachi, or, may be, in Bombay. This ostentatious wedding
tremendously impressed his own village-folk. At least they would
remember, when he had gone back to Karachi, that Jinnahbhai, who, as a
child, played in the lanes of Paneli, indistinguishable from other children
of the village, had become a big businessman in a big city.

One can only imagine what must have been the thoughts of the
bridegroom in the midst of all this festivity. He was hardly sixteen, and
he was embarking on the uncharted waters of the matrimonial ocean. He
had never spoken to a girl of his age outside the circle of his own sisters
and cousins; he had never seen the face of his bride, with whom he was
expected to share his life; he had never spoken to her. All he must have
been aware of was that he had made a departure from the way of life he
had chalked out for himself - to go his own way, to make his own
decisions. He was powerless before Destiny that, in the person of his
mother, had decreed that he should marry Emi Bai.

Decked from head to foot in long flowing rows of flowers, strung in

invisible white threads, he marched in a procession from his
grandfather's house to that of his father-in-law, where sat fourteen-
year-old Emi Bai, dressed in expensive new clothes, heavily bejeweled,
 60

her hands spotted with henna, her face and clothes heavily sprinkled with
costly ittar. The village moulvi performed the nikah ceremony, recited a
few verses from the Holy Quran, and the two became husband and wife.

My father had been already away from Karachi for about four weeks, and
communication in those days being what it was, he was beginning to
worry as to how his business affairs would be running in his absence. He
showed signs of impatience and made his decision known that he would
have to leave Paneli as early as possible for Karachi. But social customs
had powers all their own, particularly in an out-of-the-way village in
those far-off days, and it was considered almost sacrilegious to offend or
break them. My brother's in-laws were the type of people that make a
fetish of tradition, and they let it be known to Jinnahbhai, politely but
firmly, that their newly-wed daughter must stay in their house for at
least a month, if not for three months, before they could agree to her
being taken by her bridegroom to Karachi. It was not possible for my
father to stay in Paneli that long, and he was busy making arrangements
for his departure. My mother would not allow her husband to go alone to
Karachi. He was so busy, he worked so much and for so many hours. She
should be there to prepare food for him, and serve it fresh and hot. Who
can trust servants? They would not be so clean; they could not make good
meals; and they would not bother to keep awake till a late hour, until her
husband returned from work, and serve him freshly prepared chapatis.
No, she would not stay behind. Of course, Mohammad Ali could wait in
Paneli until his in-laws agreed that he takes his bride with him to Karachi.
But my brother was also eager to go with his parents to Karachi.

The two families, newly joined in marriage, began to argue heatedly the
point under dispute. Although the two families sat in conference for a
number of days, the differences remained unsolved. It seemed to them as
if they had reached an impasse. For the time that negotiations were being
 61

carried on, young Mohammad Ali remained silent, keeping on the sidelines
of the field where the family dispute was being thrashed out. But once he
came to know that negotiations had broken down, he took charge of the
situation.

Without informing my father or mother, Mohammad Ali went to see his

father-in-law and mother-in-law. They welcomed their newly married
son-in-law with warmth and ceremony that such an occasion demanded,
and overwhelmed him with hospitality. He sat with them for quite some
time, without letting them know the reason why he had come to see them.
What a nice, quiet, docile son-in-law he is, they must have thought. But
after warm greetings and formalities were over, Mohammad Ali spoke in
a firm tone. He said that his father and mother could no longer stay in
Paneli and they must return to Karachi, and that he would go with them.
He would like to take his bride with him, and he hoped her parents would
have no objection. But if they decided otherwise, in deference to village
custom and tradition, they could have their way. He had come to tell them
that in that case they could keep their daughter with them, and send her
to Karachi whenever they wished. The parents of the bride were
astonished to hear a young man talk to his parents-in-law with such
insolence, and they looked at their son-in-law with wide-open eyes, too
stunned by the unexpected firmness and outburst of this young man.
Mohammad Ali, however, continued and said that he would be soon
leaving Karachi for Europe, and he would be gone for three years. Maybe,
the parents of his bride would like to send her to Karachi in his absence,
and she would have to wait for three years until his return from England.

The young son had succeeded in clinching the issue, where his father and
mother had failed. The following day, the father and mother-in-law of
Mohammad Ali came to see my father and mother, solicitously asking
when they would like to take Emi Bai with them to Karachi, so that they
 62

might make the necessary arrangements. Cordiality was restored

between the two families; dispute and acrimony were forgotten.

According to the custom prevalent in our family, Emi Bai would conceal
her face with her head-covering or orni whenever she came in the
presence of her father-in-law. This was a sign of respect that one wished
to manifest towards the elders of one's husband's family. But Mohammad
Ali had his views on such matters. His wife was like a daughter of his
parents, a full member of the family, and it was unnecessary to cover
one's face just because one's great-grandmother had been doing it. My
father supported the views of his young son, and from that day Emi Bai
discarded the age-old custom, which had been running in the family for
generations.

My mother was moved to her depths on the prospects of being away from
her son for three years. Oh, that was a very long time. But it was for
Mohammad Ali's good that she had agreed to give her consent. She said
to him, "My son, I hate to be away from you. But I am sure this visit to
England will help you to be a big man. This has been my dream all my life."
Her son listened to his mother in silence, and she continued, "Mohammad
Ali, you are leaving now on a long journey. I have a feeling I will not live to
see you come back from England." And she sobbed. Mohammad Ali
embraced his mother, overcome with choking emotion. My mother bade
him farewell, "Mohammad Ali, God will be your protector. He will make my
wish come true. You will be a big man. And I will be proud of you."
 63

A Businessman Becomes a Barrister

While the ship carrying him across the seas to England kept its course
with the help of charts, compass, and stars, my brother was embarking
on the uncharted ocean of a new life in a country that was completely
unknown to him. Except for a few children who were accompanied by
their parents, he was the youngest passenger on board the ship. The
presence of this boy of sixteen, unaccompanied and unchaperoned, in
those far-off days of the early 1890s, when a voyage to England was an
out-of-the-ordinary event in the life of an Indian, aroused the curiosity of
many of his fellow passengers, most of whom were Englishmen. One of
them took kindly to this lonely young man, who had the appearance of a
lad but the self-confidence of a person much beyond his years. The
Englishman asked him the purpose of his visit to England, whether he
knew anyone there, where he would stay, and what he wanted to be in
life. The young man favorably impressed the elderly Englishman, who
took to him like his own son. Every day, he would spend much of his time
talking to my brother, giving him such information about London as he
thought might be useful to him.

Those were the days when it took three weeks for ships to reach England
from Bombay, stopping en route at some ports, where passengers would
avail the opportunity of landing on shore for sight-seeing. When the ship
berthed at Port Said, the Englishman advised my brother to be careful
with his valet, in which he carried money, saying, "You must be careful at
Port Said. People here have nimble fingers, and they may pinch your purse
without your being aware of it." As a precaution, he carried only a small
amount of money on his person, but he took the advice of his English
friend as a challenge to his sense of responsibility and alertness. He went
on his own, alone, on the streets of Port Said, nonchalant on the surface,
 64

but deep down in his consciousness, very wary and careful at every step
he took. Returning to the ship late in the evening, he narrated to the
Englishman his impressions of Port Said, its peoples, and the winding
bazaars, concluding by saying, "You see, Sir, my valet is still safe with me.
I was very careful."

"That's it, my boy. It is best to be very careful with everything in life."

The Englishman, before disembarking at Marseilles, gave my brother his

London address and asked him to see him occasionally. During the next
four years, whenever this Englishman came back to his native land from
India, he would call my brother to his house and ask him to have a meal
with him and his family.

Mohammad Ali disembarked at Southampton to catch a train for London.

This sprawling metropolis impressed the youthful mind of my brother as
he drove in a horse-carriage on its spacious roads to a hotel that the
cabby recommended to him; inexpensive, and yet offering the comforts
and food of a private home. He walked to the reception desk and asked for
a modest room. The receptionist carefully surveyed this young Indian
from head to foot, and in a tone that betrayed incredulity, asked, "Young
man, will you be able to afford the charges?"

"Oh, yes, oh, yes," he replied firmly. "But I hope they will be reasonable."

His baggage was soon deposited in a cozy room of the hotel. He was given
two letters of recommendation by my father, so the first thing he did was
naturally to get in touch with them, but to his surprise and horror, both of
them were out of London at the time.
 65

Winter was in full blast, and Mohammad Ali found life in London rather
depressing. He was not used to such severe weather. He could not afford
the luxury of a cab ride to go from this hotel to his work, at the office,
having to cover the considerable distance daily in the damp winter of
chilly London. Years later he said to me,

"It was quite an experience. I was young and lonely. Far from
home; far from my parents. I was in a new country where life was
so different from the life I had known in Karachi. Except for some
employees at Grahams, where I worked, I did not know a soul, and
the immensity of London as a city weighed heavily on my solitary
life. The severe cold and the heavy downpour of rain chilled my
muscles and bones, and I felt so miserable. But I soon got settled
to life in London, and I began to like it before long."

The Grahams Shipping and Trading Co., which had its office near
Threadneedle Street, took charge of this young apprentice, the son of one
of their business friends in Karachi. He was given a small table and a chair
in one of the rooms where he sat with a number of office-hands, learning
the ropes of business administration.

He had brought with him some money in cash, and my father had asked
Grahams to transfer more money from Karachi to their London office so
that his son might have enough funds to complete his period of
apprenticeship. Inheriting the family trait of being careful with his
money, my brother deposited his monies in the Royal Bank of Scotland,
123, Bishop Gate Street. He soon realized that as he was to stay in London
for at least two years, it was not economical to stay in a hotel, and that
it would cost him much less if he could find a good family that would be
prepared to accept him as a paying guest. Scanning the brief
advertisement columns of the daily newspapers, he jotted down
 66

addresses of a few families who were willing to accept paying guests.

After visiting a number of such families, he ultimately decided to stay
with Mrs. F.E. Page-Drake, on 35 Russell Road, Kensington, opposite the
present imposing Olympia building, on High Street, Kensington, built much
later than 1892. Even now it is in a reasonably good residential quarter of
London, overlooking numerous sections and cross-sections of railway
lines, and centrally located in the Kensington area. But in the 1890s, it
must have been among the much sought-after residential localities of
London. The London County Council a few years back put up a plaque on
this building, which reads, "Quaid-e-Azam Mohammad Ali Jinnah 1876-
1948 - Founder of Pakistan, stayed here in 1895".

His eager mind was keen to benefit from his visit to England at a time
when the spirit of British Liberalism was making such a profound impact
on the minds of its people. He adopted the typically English habit of
reading carefully his morning paper as he awoke and to complete reading
it before finishing his breakfast. He read with admiration of the triumphs
of great leaders that dominated the political scene of England, and their
speeches in and outside Parliament, which millions read with undisguised
adulation. Wherever he went, he heard conversation revolve around the
latest utterances of these political leaders, whom the people looked upon
as men of destiny of that period of their history. And here he was buried
under the drudgery of office-routine at Grahams near Threadneedle
Street, from morning to evening, and the only prize that might in the end
crown his patience, industriousness, and devotion would be to join his
father's business and make it more prosperous and flourishing than when
he took it over. This appeared to him to be such a sordid and narrow
prospect. Yes, money was important in life, but then he could never
become a leader of men, a hero in the cause of the betterment of the lot
of his countrymen. As this thought cast doubts in his mind about the
appropriateness of a career for which he was equipping himself, a career
 67

that would begin and end with himself, he began to study and discuss the
lives of the great contemporary and past leaders of English public life. He
discovered that many of them had studied for the Bar, and that a sound
knowledge of law had stood them in good stead in their public life.

He began to waver between two alternatives - to continue to work as an

apprentice with Grahams, or to qualify himself for the entrance
examination in order to obtain admission to one of the Inns in London and
become a Barrister. "It did not take me long to decide that I should prepare
myself for the Bar," he said.

"Fortunately for me, that year was the last when one could
obtain admission by passing the examination known at that time
as 'Little Go'. The following year regulations were to be changed,
and it would take me two additional years to be called to the Bar.
So I decided to give up my apprenticeship with Grahams and to
study hard to get through the 'Little Go'.

There is no doubt this was one of the most momentous decisions that he
took for himself, a decision that was to change the entire course of his
life. His young mind had been ignited by the spark of ambition to carve
out for himself a worthy place in the public life of his country, and to that
end, he devoted all his time and energy. A complete transformation seems
to have come over him, and he sat glued to his books. His diligence was
rewarded, and he passed his 'Little Go' with credit and joined Lincoln's Inn.
Explaining to me the reason why he decided to join Lincoln's Inn, he said,

‘It was during the days that I was busy studying for my 'Little
Go'. I was determined to pass. I may say I was confident I would
pass. I thought of seeing the various Inns in London and meeting
students studying there to make up my mind in advance. My
 68

inquiries and discussions made me decide for another Inn than

Lincoln's. But then I had seen the name of our great Prophet
engraved on the main entrance of Lincoln's Inn among the
greatest law-givers of the world. So I made a sort of Minnat or
vow that I would join Lincoln's Inn after getting through the
'Little Go'.

I have in my possession to this day his bank passbook for the period 1892-
1896 on which he has written with his own hands his name,
'MAHOMEDALLI JINNAHBHAI ESQ'. In this passbook of the Royal Bank
of Scotland, there is an entry that shows he gave a cheque for £138.19 to
the Lincoln's Inn on 7th June 1895 as his entrance fee. Thus, at the age of
17, he was studying for the Bar, while my father in Karachi was hoping his
eldest son would return from England soon to help him manage and
expand his business.

As soon as he learned from his son that he had joined the Lincoln's Inn and
that it would take him three years to be a full-fledged Barrister, my father
wrote to him to give up this unprofitable pursuit and to return home
immediately. In spite of a strongly worded letter, the Quaid wrote back in
a pleading tone and words to my father to allow him to remain in England
and to complete his studies for the Bar. He further assured that he would
not ask my father to send him any more money, for, he would work in
England while studying and spend as little as possible so that he would
be able to stagger his two years' allowance that father had given him to
last for four years. Although my father was not happy at the decision of
his headstrong son, he reconciled himself to the situation and hoped and
prayed for the best.

Not long after the Quaid had left Karachi for England, his wife, Emi Bai,
died. He had not lived long enough with his child-wife, whom he had
 69

married at the dictates of parental authority, so he was not much grieved

by her death. But when he received the news, while still studying at
Lincoln's Inn, about the death of my mother, who died in childbirth when
my youngest brother Bundeh Ali was born, the shock was unbearable for
him. He wept and sobbed for hours for his departed mother, whom he
loved more than anything else in the world. He had a sensitive nature that
felt intensely sad, and therefore, he suffered intensely. Far away from
home, lonely, and having missed being with his mother in her last days,
the shock laid him low, overcome by a violent fit of fainting. After all, the
premonition of his mother had come true; she died before the return to
Karachi from London of her beloved Mohammad Ali. He fondly recalled the
forecast she had made about his future, saying that he would one day be
a great man. The obscurity of his existence as a young man made him
wonder if that would ever come true. For the present, he passed his days
in utter anonymity, not knowing what the future held in store for him.

After the death of my mother, the business of my father went on

suffering one reverse after another. He was by now a prematurely old
man, a widower with six children, some young and some still babies, to
look after. Mohammad Ali, who alone of his children could be a support to
him, was reading for the Bar in London. Without the knowledge of my
brother, my father had started doing a separate business in the name of
his eldest son. These business ventures were ending up in heavy losses,
and my father was really worried. He wrote pathetic letters to my
brother, who replied that my father need not worry at all, for, as soon as
he returned to India, he would be able to face the situation and save the
reputation of my father and of our family.

The Quaid was about 18 when he had already lost his mother, his wife, and
was aware that the prosperous family business, so painstakingly built up
by his father, was on the verge of collapse. Sometimes heavy reverses in
 70

life draw out untapped and unknown resources in certain individuals. The
Quaid faced these disasters and losses with the courage of a Stoic,
determined to succeed, to add lustre to his family name; and he now
changed his name to "M.A. Jinnah Esqr.".

His bank pass-book shows that he was paying £10 a month to Mrs. F.E.
Page-Drake, with whom he was staying as a paying guest. In later years,
he recalled that Mrs. Drake was a very kind old lady, having a large family,
and that she was particularly fond of him and treated him as her own son.
She had an attractive daughter, who was about the same age as the Quaid
at the time he stayed in their house. The pretty Miss Drake was deeply
attached to my brother, but he was not the type who would squander his
affections on passing fancies. While Miss Drake showered her special
attentions on him and assiduously endeavoured to win him, he kept her
at a respectful distance. Miss Drake would sometimes arrange mixed
parties in her house, and among the various games she would run for her
guests would be the typically-Western game in which the penalty for
being found in one's hiding place would be a kiss. Despite her persistent
inducements, the Quaid always stood out of this kissing game. "It was
Christmas Eve," he said to me, and the Drake family was celebrating the
event. As is customary among Christian families, there were mistletoes
hung on door-tops, under which it is permissible for them to kiss one
another. Miss Drake caught me as I was standing under a mistleto without
myself being aware of it, embraced me, and asked me to kiss her. I
reprimanded her and said that this was not done nor was it permissible
in our society. I am glad I behaved that way with her. For, after that day I
was saved the daily embarrassment of her coquettishness.

While studying at Lincoln's Inn, the Quaid widened the horizons of his
interests. He obtained a reader's ticket for the Library of the British
Museum and devoted his time to enriching his mind with intensive and
 71

comprehensive reading. He would sometimes go on a Sunday morning to

the famous Hyde Park corner to listen to the demagogy and eccentricity
of the soap-box orators that have made that corner into a world-famous
institution. As he listened to the rash and incoherent utterances of these
irresponsible speakers, who often attacked their own government in the
most scathing terms, he realized the importance and necessity of
freedom of speech as the exhaust-pipe of a nation, without which the
voice of a people becomes stifled. He was a constant visitor to the House
of Commons, where he listened with unabated admiration to the
speeches of such liberal statesmen of the day as Mr. Gladstone.s Lord
Morley, Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, Mr. Balfour, and that great Irish patriot,
Mr. T.P. O'Connor. Those frequent visits to the Commons enabled him to
acquaint himself with the art of parliamentary eloquence, which was to
be his strongest weapon in later years.

By sheer dint of hard work, he passed his examinations at the Lincoln's

Inn in two years, and at the age of 18, he came to be the youngest Indian
student ever to be called to the Bar. But he had still to wait in England for
some time to obtain his cap and gown, as he had to complete the formality
of attending a prescribed number of dinners.

He was not one who would spend all his time browsing over his study
books to pass an examination. As a student, he plunged himself into the
whirlpool of activities centering round Indian students in London. In the
very first year of his arrival in London, there was great excitement among
Indian students, as Dadabhoy Naoroji, a veteran Parsee leader from
Bombay, who had settled down in London for the last many years as a
businessman, was seeking election to the House of Commons from the
Central Finsbury Constituency. He was the first Indian ever to attempt
this, and it was only natural that Indian students were eager to
enthusiastically work for his election. Quaid-e-Azam threw himself heart
 72

and soul into this election campaign, and thereby caught the eye and won
the esteem of Dadabhoy Naoroji, the Grand Old Man of India. Recalling
these electioneering days, my brother said to me,

"When I learnt that Lord Salisbury in one of his speeches had

ridiculed Dadabhoy as a 'black man,' thereby warning Finsbury
constituency not to elect him, I was furious. If Dadabhoy was
black, I was blacker; and if this was the mentality of our political
masters, then we could never get a fair deal at their hands. From
that day I have been an uncompromising enemy of all forms of
colour bar. I worked for the Old Man with a vengeance.
Fortunately, he won by a majority of three votes. However thin
the majority, jubilation among Indian students in London was
tremendous. As I sat in the galleries, listening to the maiden
speech of the Old Man in the Commons, I felt a new thrill within
me. He said he admired the British institution of free speech; and
there he was, an Indian, who would exercise the right of free
speech and demand justice for his countrymen. He was quite
right. Without free speech a nation is like a rose-bush that is
planted in a place where there is neither sunshine nor air."

The Quaid-e-Azam developed great respect and admiration for Dadabhoy

Naoroji, who was to exert such a great influence on his political
individuality in the years to come. He remained a devout friend of the Old
Man, though much younger than him in years, and the two together were
to render yeoman service to the Indian National Congress in the early
years of its existence.

His days in England as a student made him realize the lack of close and
frequent contacts among Indian students, without which, he felt, they
could not organize themselves effectively to support their own or their
 73

country's cause. If only Indian students could organize themselves into

an Association, offering a meeting place and a forum, he thought it would
be of immense benefit to the students. He pioneered this idea and
approached a number of students in this connection, only to meet with
opposition on the ground that this idea was too big to be shouldered by
such a young and inexperienced student. However, this thought persisted
in his mind, and when he visited England in 1913, no longer an unknown
person, but an Indian leader of eminence, Indian students besieged him
for guidance and advice. They arranged a meeting of Indian students at
Caxton Hall in London, where the Quaid was asked to address them. He
advised them to take a keen interest in the political events and
developments both in England and in India, but he warned them not to
take an active part in politics, while they were yet in the midst of their
studies. They should learn to be academic political thinkers so that when
they entered politics actively, they could act as missionaries of
enlightenment and progress. He appealed to them to organize themselves
into a well-knit body, and as a result, the Central Association of Indian
Students was formed in London.

His catholic and extensive readings had made him acquainted with the
works of many writers and poets in the English language, some of whom
he continued to read and enjoy until late in life. But the one who had the
greatest fascination for him was Shakespeare. He was fond of the London
Theatre, but he could not afford to frequent it. He had to resist the
glittering, but expensive, nightlife of the theatrical world to save his
money, invest it in books, and to prepare patiently for the prosaic studies
at Lincoln's Inn.

Living on a tight budget, any job that he could find to augment his funds
would be welcome to him. He sometimes went to see Shakespearean
plays at the Old Vic, where he fell under the spell of the great
 74

Shakespearean actors of those days. For some time, he toyed with the
idea of taking to the stage seriously, but the only offer he got was to work
in a minor capacity with an unimportant theatrical company that
sometimes put Shakespearean plays on the stage. His ambition in those
days was to play the role of Romeo at the Old Vic, a dream that remained
unfulfilled not only in the limited field of the stage but also in the wide
arena of the stage of life. Even in the days of his most active political life,
when he returned home late, tired after a grueling day's work, he would
take a play of Shakespeare and quietly read it in his bed. Sometime when
the two of us would sit in the drawing room after our dinner, he would
read out to me aloud his favorite passages from the plays of Shakespeare.
I still remember whenever he recited Shakespeare, his voice would take
on the richness and correctness of tone and the proper intonations that
are characteristic of people who have undergone some training in the art
of stage-acting.

His young mind in those four formative years of his life had been making,
imperceptibly, momentous decisions that were to influence his life.
Nature had gifted him with rich talent. He decided it did not suit his genius
to prepare himself for a business career, where the highest ambition in
life was to see that from year to year one's assets exceed one's liabilities,
enabling one to gradually amass a big fortune. He did not want to lose
himself in the narrow lanes of that sordid world; he wanted to discover
himself on the highways of eminence and fame. Despite his predilection
for a career on the stage, he rejected it as too small for his soaring
ambitions. The actor on a stage could win the applause of only the limited
audience in the theatre; he would be a hero on a much bigger platform,
where he could be the acclaimed leader of millions of his people.

The formalities of dinners at Lincoln's Inn were over, and he was now
preparing, after a stay of about four years, to leave England to join his
 75

family in Karachi. In the inner cover of his pass-book of the Royal Bank of
Scotland are the last four cheques that he issued in London. One was
issued on 14th July 1896 to Mrs. F.E. Page-Drake for £3; this would
probably be the amount that he had to pay to finalize his outstanding
accounts with her as a paying guest of the family. On the 15th of July, he
had drawn three cheques. One is a cheque for £71.1.10 in favor of National
Bank of India Ltd., Bombay, indicating that he had already decided, while
in London, to settle down in Bombay and not in Karachi. The other is to
Thomas Cook and Sons for £42.18.12, his passage money for his trip back
from London to Karachi. The last is a self-cheque for £10.9.8, to finally
close his bank account. During the period of about three and a half years
that he stayed in London, his bank account shows on the credit side a
total of approximately £800. As he was in the habit of invariably
depositing his cash with a bank, it may be safely assumed that this was
the approximate amount he spent during his stay in England, a
commentary on the simple mode of living of a student whom change in
family fortune had denied liberal remittances from home, and who had
therefore to be careful with his money.

He was on his way back home, once again on one of those ships that did
the voyage in three weeks, his future as inscrutable as the deep ocean.
He was only aware of the cares and worries of a large family that had
fallen on the enfeebled shoulders of his father, who hoped his eldest son
would soon partly shift the responsibility on himself. His homecoming had
for him a melancholic touch; as he moved his searching eyes on the crowd
that stood waiting on the pier at Karachi harbour as his ship sluggishly
glided to cast anchor, he could see his father, brothers and sisters, and
few relatives, but he missed his mother. How cruel fate had been to him.
Only if she were there, now that he had returned from England, a
Barrister, with a bright future, how proud she would have been of her
Mohammad Ali.
 76

On reaching home, my father was soon in conference with him, explaining

that the family business was in ruins, and that he had to pay large sums
of money to a number of business houses, some of whom had filed cases
in law courts. This was true also of those business deals that my father
had done in the name of Mohammad Ali Jinnahbhai & Co, hoping that by
the time his son returned from England he would take over, besides the
family business, a business of his own, already well-established and
prosperous. That business also proved a flop, and there were a number of
cases pending against the firm of Mohammad Ali Jinnahbhai & Co. Here
was a young Barrister, whom the gloomy prospect of defending cases
against himself stared in the face. "My son," father said, "all my dreams
have come tumbling down, and I don't know what will happen to you and
your young brothers and sisters. I am already broken down in health, and
I don't know how long I will live."

"Father," Mohammad Ali replied in a faltering voice, "don't worry, I will

work hard and look after you and our family. I am young, and my whole
life is before me. I will make money, and I will pay up all the debts that our
family has to discharge."

My father thought it best to get him fixed up as a junior in the Office of a

flourishing advocate of Karachi, and in this connection, he spoke to two
firms who were also his lawyers, Harchandrai Vishandas and Co., and
Lalchand & Co. The heads of both these firms were only too willing to take
this young Muslim Barrister, newly returned from England, into their
firms. After all, in those days, there were only a few Muslim Barristers in
the Muslim province of Sind, and the young Mohammad Ali, they were
sure, would be an asset to them. But my brother's mind was already made
up. Instead of practising in Karachi, where the bitter shadow of the
business failure of his family would darken his path, he had decided to try
his luck in Bombay, a city that he thought offered greater opportunities
 77

to one who was willing to work hard. My father wanted very much that
his son should set up his practice in Karachi, where his family had already
made friends with a number of families, and the prospect of cutting away
his roots from Karachi and to venture on a new life in Bombay did not
appeal to him. He asked his personal friend and neighbour, Mr. Ramjibhai
Pethabhai, to dissuade his son. In spite of Ramjibhai's best efforts, the
young Barrister was adamant. He had made up his mind; he would go his
own way; as usual, he wanted to learn the hard way - by kicks and hard
knocks in life.

Little did he know at the time that his decision to migrate to Bombay was
to be an important milestone in his life and that it would profoundly
influence his future. And so, bidding goodbye to his father, his brothers
and sisters, he set sail for Bombay.

He took a room on a long-term basis at the Apollo Hotel in Bombay and got
his name enrolled in the Bombay High Court. These were mere formalities
and easily disposed of. The real difficulty was to set himself up in an
office, to secure briefs, and to have his reputation established as a
dependable Barrister. These proved to be a heart-breaking ordeal. It was
like scaling a steep and difficult mountain, the grip of his feet slipping at
every step. This young man, with a proud look in his eyes, walked up and
down the corridors of many courts, giving one the impression of being a
leading legal luminary, but, in fact, desperately in need of his first brief.
He lived in majestic isolation on the roof of the castle that he had built for
himself, while into the office of people of lesser talent in his profession
poured in clients, ready to pay the fees that were demanded from them.
He sat in his small one-room office that he had hired in the Fort area,
waiting for a chance to usher in a client, browsing and brooding over his
scanty stock of law books.
 78

It was bad enough to be enrolled as a Barrister in the Bombay High Court,

to go round the courts daily, as if it were a religious routine, and to return
to his cramped-up room in the Apollo Hotel in the evening without having
earned a single rupee for months. But when the irksome months
lengthened into three agonizing years, he felt really miserable. Then
there was his father and his family in Karachi facing litigations and
difficulties, and he could not be of any help to them, contrary to his
expectations when he left Karachi for Bombay. Disappointed and
frustrated, he showed a stiff chin to the world outside, but within his
heart, there gnawed the rancor of an unsatisfied yearning.

In spite of the difficult times through which he was passing, he kept up

social contacts, frequenting some of the best clubs of Bombay, and very
often a guest at parties in the homes of the elite of Bombay. In his early
twenties, he was an extremely attractive young man, tall, of
commanding personality, a pair of small but penetrating eyes that
bespoke of a shrewd intellect, a face with a sharp Grecian profile, long
limbs, impeccably dressed, with the bearing and poise of a born leader of
men. Nature had endowed him with charm and personality, but society
had refused to supply him the wherewithal that could enable him to make
a comfortable living. While those that rubbed shoulders with him in the
days of his struggle recognized in him a young man full of promise, little
did they know how empty his pockets were.

But inadvertently, these social contacts proved to be a blessing and were

to prove responsible for a breakthrough. A friend of his, who held his
talent and ability in high esteem, introduced him to Mr. MacPherson, who
was at that time the acting Advocate-General of Bombay. The latter was
impressed with the young Barrister, and he invited him to work under
him, extending to him the privilege of utilizing his well-stocked library
and of reading in his Chambers. My brother never forgot his magnanimous
 79

gesture on the part of Mr. MacPherson, particularly as in those days it was

very rare for an Englishman to extend such courtesies to Indian
Barristers.

Mr. MacPherson soon discovered that the new recruit to his office was a
young man of great charm, ability, perseverance, and integrity, and he
was not slow to pass on some cases to the young Mr. Jinnah. At this time,
my brother flirted with the idea of taking a government job, so that he
could be reasonably assured of continuous financial security, the
uncertainty of success at the Bar being too dreadful to contemplate.
When he placed this idea before Mr. MacPherson, he was only too willing
to strongly recommend him to Sir Charles Ollivant, the member in charge
of the judicial Department, and within a couple of weeks, my brother was
appointed a temporary Presidency Magistrate.

He felt that success, which had so far eluded him, was now firmly in his
grip. His exemplary conduct as a Magistrate won him praise from his
superiors, and when the period of the temporary appointment that he
was holding was over, Sir Charles Ollivant offered him another and better
judicial appointment on Rs. 1,500 a month, a princely salary then. "No,
thank you, Sir," he replied. "I will soon be able to earn that much in a single
day," was his firm retort.

As soon as he resigned his post as acting Presidency Magistrate, he was

approached by a number of people to act as their lawyer. He gave up his
small room in the Apollo Hotel and took a modest apartment in the Apollo
Bunder area, got it tastefully decorated and furnished, and opened a new
office in a building where some leading lawyers had their offices. He
spared no money within his limited income in converting his office into an
elegant and attractive Chamber, which any lawyer would be proud to
own. His feet were now set firmly on the ladder of success, and he sent
 80

letters and telegrams to my father to come over to Bombay with the

family.

My father had lost his wife in Karachi; the business that he had
assiduously built up in the hope that it would be passed on to his sons had
crashed, and he was led to the conclusion that his stay in Karachi would
only revive bitter memories in his mind. Moreover, now that his son was
getting well settled in Bombay, he decided it was better for his family to
move to Bombay. And so, we went to Bombay and rented a small two-
room tenement in Khoja Mohalla at Khadak, where my brother often came
to visit us. He was now making enough money in his profession to live well
and to support his family, taking upon himself the responsibility of
bearing all the education expenses of his brothers and sisters.

A hard and heart-breaking struggle had not dimmed the brilliance of his
self-confidence, nor had it shaken his belief in pursuing a life of complete
independence, unbending and unyielding to patronage from his superiors
and bullying from his seniors. It was for this reason that Sir Chimanlal
Setalvad wrote, "Jinnah had always, even in his junior days, shown
considerable independence and courage. He never allowed himself to be
overborne either by the judge or the opposing Counsel."

My father was often told that his young son was overshooting his mark,
and that his seeming arrogance and quick temper with the senior people
at the Bar and the Bench would hinder his rise and progress. But the
earlier skepticism about Mohammad Ali had vanished, and it had yielded
place in his mind to a growing belief in the brilliant future that awaited
his eldest son.

Mr. Strangman, an Englishman, was a senior and respected member of the

Bar in Bombay. He and my brother were briefed together in a case, and on
 81

one occasion my brother had to go to Strangman's Chamber for joint

consultations. In those days it was not unusual for Englishmen to behave
in an overbearing manner towards their Indian colleagues. Strangman
talked to the Quaid in a tone and temper, which he interpreted as insulting
and derogatory. From that day, he never went to Strangman's Chamber
and even broke off exchanging greetings with him whenever he met him
in the Courts or outside.

As a freshly enrolled member of the Bombay Bar, he was appearing once

before Justice Mirza, and the opposing Counsel was Sir Chimanlal
Setalvad. While he was developing his arguments, Justice Mirza
interrupted him and snubbed him. The Quaid resented it, and thereafter
began to address the judge in a manner which Justice Mirza felt was
insulting. The judge pulled up the young Barrister and said, "Your tone and
words could be held to be a contempt of Court." Turning towards
Setalvad, he asked, "Don't you agree with me, Mr. Setalvad?" Referring to
this incident, Sir Chimanlal Setalvad wrote in his book,

"It was indeed stupid of the judge to have put such a question to
me. I answered, 'it is not for me to give an opinion whether Mr.
Jinnah has committed contempt or not. It is your privilege to
determine that. But I can say this that knowing Mr. Jinnah as I do,
he would have never intended to insult the court.”