It was 1989, if I correctly remember, when renowned laureate Ashfaq Ahmad and his wife, Bano Qudsia, visited FC College, Lahore for a motivational talk on the invitation of the Urdu Department. I was just two years into my academic career and was serving as a lecturer in history.

Having read his literary pieces like Aik Mohabat Sau Afsaney, Safar dar Safar, and more importantly, Gadariya, one of the greatest short stories of Urdu literature, and listened almost on a regular basis to his radio programme, Talqeen Shah, (most popular for the social critique and longest running radio talk show in Pakistan) all this was big enough an excuse for me to go and attend his talk.

As a story teller, he had an uncanny ability to cast a mesmerising spell on the audience. A story that he related that day had a smack of Hassan Askari’s intellectual touch.

In his own words, the story went like this: “One day, I was travelling to Sahiwal. The car I was travelling in with some of my peers, broke down in the middle of nowhere. One of the fellow travellers had to go all the way to Okara to bring a mechanic. The whole exercise was time consuming. That accorded me ample opportunity to explore the area. While roaming around, I travelled some distance and caught sight of a cottage made of hay, something that invariably serves as dwelling place for the poor. Led by sheer inquisitiveness, I ambled across the sprawling fields of cotton and saw a couple of boys of school-going age tending to a herd of sheep. Completely overtaken by curiosity, I peeked inside the cottage; there was an old man making mats from the date leaves. When our eyes met, he invited me in with warmth typical of a rural simpleton. I went in. He offered me a newly woven mat to sit on and handed me water in an earthen utensil. One thing that came to my immediate notice was a big photograph of Quaid-i-Azam, set in a wooden frame, fixed against the wall. We started conversing on general themes of mutual interest. I asked about the young boys tending to the herd of sheep. They were his grandsons who looked after the cattle and also sheep whereas his son had a few acres of land and he worked in the fields. Then I asked him why were the boys not enrolled in any school, his response was somewhat unexpected. ‘I have unremitting love for this country, Pakistan. I migrated from Gurdaspur in 1947 and most of my family was martyred on its way to Pakistan but I have no remorse. Big sacrifices yield big and historic results (like Pakistan).’

“But Baba ji, (I was absolutely flabbergasted by his answer) whatever you are saying does not answer my question. I have simply asked why have you not sent your grandchildren to school? He focused his eyes on me and said, ‘It was educated guys who ruined Pakistan. It was educated people who sacrificed the interests of the country on the altar of avarice and self-aggrandizement. They had no sense of ownership for Pakistan. I don’t want my kids to be like them.’”

That conversation between Baba ji and Ashfaq Ahmad didn’t end there. I will take it up some time later. When I came to know about lawyers having broken in to Punjab Institute of Cardiology and ravaged the place, that story surfaced in my mind. For several years, I had dismissed Ashfaq Ahmad’s story as an elucidation of his nostalgia for the days gone by while living in a modern age, he keeps on denying it, which seemed to me, quite anomalous.

But following the villainy I could draw an analogy and make sense of Ashfaq Ahmed’s dissatisfaction with the educated. Undoubtedly, the overall attitude or social (mis)demeanor of Pakistan’s educated class towards their country and its institutions warrants dispassionate analysis, which has not been done so far.

Having seen the lawyers perpetrating vandalism, the social behaviour of the educated must be brought under scrutiny.

Generally, education is considered as an antidote for ignorance and inhuman social behaviour. But the fact is that, in Pakistan, education has ceased to be the panacea for social impropriety, an avid illustration of which was provided by lawyers ransacking the PIC.

In the cultivation of social civility and respect for institutions like hospitals, universities and schools, education and the methods in vogue to impart it among the people (I am not calling them citizens as many (educated ones) don’t qualify to be citizens) inhabiting Pakistan.

In previous write-ups I have pointed to a stark disconnect between education and social responsibility, which underlines ineptitude and incompetence of our policy makers. How many of those jumping traffic signals are uneducated? I wonder how a family of six riding a bike is not aware that it is dangerous and in violation of the law? Is our education system working to enable our youth for the job market only? Is it not meant to make them responsible human beings?

Politics is always played out to assert one’s rights. Have we ever asked those blocking the main arteries connecting one part of the city with the other and making life hell for commuters, whether they have done their duty?

Why is it that everyone in a dharna or in protest procession asks for the rights without performing their obligations? In Pakistan, can we raise the slogan, ‘no obligations-no rights’? Our predicament is epitomised by such cliched statements as yaran da yar as a laudable trait in somebody, particularly someone who does not care about laws and regulations when it comes to supporting his friends. Friends are important and, according to them, state institutions may go to hell. Who cares! Even more glaring is the example of GCU, Lahore’s registrar (on ad-hoc charge of course because he didn’t have the requisite qualifications to compete) who said it without any demur, ‘I facilitate only those who are my personal friends.’ He demonstrated what he said in practice with impunity and no one has raised any question. These are questions that our policy makers must keep in front of them while making decisions.