A Civil Service Apprentice in Abbottabad- Part I

Ziauddin Choudhury-from USA

In a hot July morning of 1969 when the sun was about to start to scorch every skin at
Rawalpindi bus terminal, I was desperately looking for a bus that would take me to
Abbottabad—the headquarters of Hazara, the south-western most district of North West
Frontier Province. With some help from willing clerks and porters, I was able to spot the
bus and gratefully boarded it to avoid the sun. Air conditioned bus in those days was
unheard of; but I was delighted to find myself a seat near the window that allowed the
possibility of some fresh air to get in while in motion.

I was on my way to my placement station for three months of district training as a

probationer in the Civil Service of Pakistan. This was mandatory field training for us, the
Civil Service rookies, which would complement the academic courses that we had taken
the previous nine months at the Academy. This would be learning, as it were, at the feet
of the Civil Service gurus in the district such as the Deputy Commissioner, and his
associates. Learning to be a magistrate, a revenue collector, and as a district officer.

I made myself as comfortable as I could, squeezed into a corner by people twice my size
in outfits mostly of the North Western Region. As the bus wound up the spiraling road
skirting the mountains leaving the plains below, the hot air gradually started to give away
to cooler temperature. My gaze was mostly on the changing scenery and the beauty that I
was encountering with each ascent. After about a ride of about six hours the bus dropped
us at Abbottabad.

I found Abbottabad to be everything that I had expected it to be, mountainous, verdant

with pine trees and other evergreens. That is, everything except the roads where I was
dumped. Potholed and gravelly, the road had vehicles of all descriptions. The
automobiles were vying for the road with more visible horse-pulled vehicles—the
Tongas. There were cabs, but the Tongas took precedence in the parking space. To add
to the chaos, there were tea stalls and fruit vendors along side the bus terminal occupying
parts of the parking space. An overwhelming smell of sweet-meats and steaming tea
mingled with the smell of horse manure wafted across the street. To escape from this
sweaty place I was desperately looking for a transport.

I was hoping for a government transport at the bus station since the Civil Service
Academy at Lahore had already informed the district administration of my arrival around
that hour in Abbottabad. As I was looking around, a turbaned, middle aged person with
trimmed salt and pepper beard approached me with an uncertain gait. Tentatively he
asked me, “Choudhury Saab?” I realized the turbaned man had guessed who I was from
my very apparent Bengali physique. When I replied in the affirmative, the man
introduced himself. “Salam Alaikum, I am Jahan Zeb Khan, the District Nazir.
Welcome to Abbottbad, sir”. Jahan Zeb beckoned a beefy peon in tow to take my
luggage, and we proceeded toward the Government Jeep parked a few yards away side by
side Tongas, a few cabs, and motor cycles. Thus began my three months of
apprenticeship for my upcoming civil service career.

Abbottabad was an attractive posting for a civil service probationer. A part of the North
West Frontier, in the sixties Abbottabad was the headquarters of Hazara District—known
as the home district of General Ayub Khan who hailed from Haripur Tehsil of the district
(a sub-division that time). By the time I went to Abbottabad, July 1969, Ayub Khan had
already been replaced as President by General Yahya Khan.

Although situated at an altitude of about 4000 feet, Abbottabad was not exactly a hill
resort. It was quite hot in summer. Abbottabad is primarily known for the Pakistan
Military Academy located at Kakul-just a few miles away from the city. The city also
serves as the gateway to some of the exquisitely scenic places in Pakistan—Kaghan and
Naraan valleys, which are nestled by the Himalayan mountains.

From the bus station my guide, the District Nazir, took me to the Circuit House—the
ubiquitous government rest house that one would find in all district headquarters of the
Indian sub continent. (The District Nazir was officially the person in charge of
supervising the bailiffs of the District Magistrate’s courts who serve court notices
including summons on people. Over time, however, the District Nazir became a factotum
of the District Magistrate/Collector, who would be relied upon by the District Officer for
all chores, including protocol duties.)

I was greeted at the Circuit House by Kalander Khan, the Circuit House Chowkidar and
Cook, a gaunt old man with a flowing beard. He was accompanied by a much younger
man who took custody of my luggage. It appeared that the young man, Lal Khan, was
the old man’s son who helped his father unofficially in return for free lodging in the staff
quarters of the Circuit House. The district authorities looked the other way at this father-
son arrangement since it provided an extra help at no cost to the government.

The Abbottabad circuit house had two buildings, one old and the other new. The old
building was handed down from the British days. I was led to the old building where the
room I was shown had moldy smells and furniture that appeared to be breaking at joints.
I probably would have put up with the room had it not been for the bathroom where to
my horror I found the toilet flush was not working. I called out for Kalander Khan, but it
was the son who appeared. I showed Lal Khan the pitiable state of the room and the
inoperable toilet, and asked that I be given another room. After a brief conference
between father and son, I was taken by Lal Khan to the new building, and to a much
better room that would be my residence for next three months.
 The Deputy Commissioner’s office or the District Court building where I reported for
work the next morning with my guide the District Nazir was a hundred-year old structure
that evoked the old Raj days. Jahan Zeb first took me to the Superintendent, Sufi Abdul
Hamid—the person who looked after the office administration. With his flowing white
beard and a white turban, Sufi saab looked like a venerable religious person who should
have been surrounded by disciples. He had a large desk in a commodious room also
occupied by several other staff all of whom stood up and looked at me with curious eyes.
Sufi saab asked everyone to get back to their business while showing me a chair opposite
him. Very politely he asked me if I had any trouble traveling or faced any problem in the
Circuit House. He seemed gratified by my response that I did not encounter any.

Sufi saab informed me that I had been already assigned by the provincial government
powers of a second class magistrate so that I could preside over my first cases. He later
conducted me to a small room that I would use as my court and office for next three
months. The cubicle had a desk mounted on a raised platform that was separated by a
wooden rail. For the three cases that I would hear during my apprenticeship the wooden
rail would act as a barrier between me and the prosecuting police officer, the hapless
suspects, and their defense lawyers. The cubicle smelt of damp furniture, and had a hand
pulled fan hanging from the ceiling instead of an electric one reminding me of the days
when a British magistrate might have occupied the room.

My next stop that day was at the Deputy Commissioner’s (DC) office at his bungalow
located a half mile away from the court buildings. The DC had two offices, one in the
Court Buildings, and the other in his residence. The DC, Mr. Nasim had joined the Civil
Service from a stint with the Pakistan Navy, and had the rank of Lt. Commander noted
before his name. (The Civil Service of Pakistan had recruited a few Army and Navy
officers in 1960-61 through an oral interview process.)

Commander Nasim was an extremely amiable person who received me very cordially,
asked me about my lodging arrangements, and gave me a summary of the kinds of work
that I would be expected to do during my apprenticeship. Before beginning the few
criminal cases that I would adjudicate, I was expected to sit and watch court proceedings
in a senior magistrate’s court, visit tehsils, and also spend two weeks in a sub division
under the watch full eyes of a sub-divisional officer, which office in NWFP was known
as Assistant Commissioner. Before leaving his office, the DC handed me a hand written
letter in Urdu saying that it was a petition from a Union Council Chairman in Haripur
requesting government help for improvement in drinking water supply in that area. The
DC asked me that at a suitable time I should visit the area, and submit a report to him on
what could be done to help the local people. I nodded without knowing how to go about
it.

I spent the next two weeks getting to know the whole district administration including the
district police, judiciary, health officials, and engineers who looked after roads, water
supply and power in the district. The district police superintendent, a balding man of
about fifty had risen from the ranks, entertained me with stories of his adventure in the
mountains of Kaghan and Naraan –all the more to attract me to those areas. A rather
amusing story about him that I heard from his Assistant Superintendent, another Bengali,
is worth narrating.

The Police Superintendent always insisted on paying his food bills when he visited the
police stations in his area. This was unlike most of his kind who were not only feted by
their subordinates during such visits, but who also received cash gifts that were given
from the graft the subordinates had received in their duty stations. This Superintendent
was different; he would not receive any of these favors from his subordinates. However,
the Superintendent’s subordinates were smarter. Realizing that their boss would not
accept a free meal, they would charge him a ridiculously low amount for the meals. For
example, for a whole chicken that cost five rupees (late sixties price), he would be
charged one rupee. The Superintendent would know this, but he would happily pay the
absurdly low price for the meals thinking that this was the least compromise he could
make in an otherwise corrupt institution.

Before sitting on trials as a magistrate of the second class (powers to sentence a felon to
jail up to six months, and fine up to five hundred rupees at that period), I had to spend
two weeks as an observer in the court of the Assistant Commissioner who had powers of
a magistrate, first class. The Assistant Commissioner, Shahbaz Khan—a pashtun,
belonged to the Provincial Civil Service, or PCS, as the service was known. He had put
in about fifteen years in the service, but with his wizened face topped by white hair he
looked like a hundred year old sage. He was gruff, short of temper with his staff, even
more so with the lawyers in his court. I was not sure how much magisterial education I
obtained from his court, but I do recollect with great amusement his imperious conduct in
the court, and his dismissive way with the lawyers and others in the court.

Shahbaz Khan was in the habit of stopping court proceedings to answer phone (which
was always on his desk), to receive guests in the court, and take tea breaks in full view of
others in the court. One day in a preliminary hearing in a robbery case, when the defense
lawyer was arguing for bail for the defendant, Shahbaz Khan stopped the lawyer to
answer the ringing phone. The lawyer stopped the argument, and waited for the phone
call to end. After Shahbaz Khan had put down the receiver and the lawyer was about to
resume his speech, Khan shouted at the lawyer, “did I ask you to resume?” Before the
poor lawyer could stammer an answer, Shahbaz got up from his chair, and said “the
proceedings are postponed. My wife called to say that I have to attend my son’s
circumcision at the hospital”. He left the court in a huff leaving a bewildered lawyer and
the court clerk running after him for a new hearing date for the case he had just
abandoned. This was my first introduction to the way of the Assistant Commissioner and
Magistrate First Class of Abbottabad.

The second incident in the court of Shahbaz Khan related to a bail petition for a person
accused of theft. After hearing the defense lawyer’s plea for bail, Shahbaz Khan rejected
the petition without giving any ground. When the defense lawyer pressed for reasons, an
angry Shahbaz Khan replied, “who do you think I trust more? You who work for money
from a criminal, or my police officer?” Shahbaz left no doubt in anyone’s mind that
people hauled before him by the police had only one place to belong—to Jail.
With such bizarre court experience it was small wonder that I would be hesitant to begin
my magisterial experience. Nonetheless, I had to go through the criminal cases that were
sent to me in the three months period—three cases in all. Once case of theft, one of
robbery, and one of rape. I will relate only the theft, and the rape cases.

In the theft case, the indicted person—an emaciated person of about forty was produced
before me by the police. The charge against him was stealing several bags of wheat from
a store. The poor soul had no defense lawyer, he pleaded for himself. He stated that he
had been wrongly charged with theft by his employer, owner of the store. He further
stated that he had been in jail for over two months since the previous court had declined
bail upon serious opposition from police. I took one full week to hear the prosecution,
the defense was pro forma since the accused was defended by a government appointed
lawyer. At the end of the hearing I was convinced that the case was concocted by the
store owner, and the poor employee who had no previous criminal record was implicated
in the case for some personal reason. The man had rotted in jail for two months for no
reason. I let him off, much to the chagrin of the shop owner.

The rape case was a distressing one. The victim was a teenager who was allegedly
violated by a rogue youth from the same village, now present in the court on bail. The
girl’s parents had lodged the case with police who had taken an inordinate amount of
time (about three months) to investigate the case, and charge the youth with the crime. He
was arrested, but was later released on bail. Since the crime, if proved, would warrant a
sentence of a maximum of 14 years of jail, I could not hold a trial with my minor
magisterial powers. My job was to hold a preliminary hearing, and if the case was
established, I was to forward it to the District Sessions Judge’s court for trial.

The prosecution witnesses included the hapless girl, the investigating officer, and the
female doctor who had examined the girl. The girl gave her story sobbing all the way,
which was confirmed by the investigating officer. The medical officer gave her evidence
supporting the charge that the victim had been raped. The initial evidences went
smoothly, but the ugly parts flew all over the court when the defense lawyer cross
examined the witnesses. For me it was drama in real life.

The defense lawyer took off his kid gloves and used street language to establish that the
girl was a common slut who, under the influence of her parents, had brought false
charges against an innocent youth because he had refused to marry her. He had brought
two or three persons as character witnesses who all said that the boy was a victim of
village politics.

It was a case of baptism by fire for a young civil service apprentice. In the maze of
accusations and counter accusations, it was nearly impossible to determine which side to
believe. I took me three weeks to decide. The girl came from a poor peasant family,
supported by parents who earned their living by working for wealthy landowners. The
boy was from a land owning family and his family had means to employ a high profile
criminal lawyer for his defense. All the time in the court I was moved by the look of
terror in the eyes of the girl and her parents, who were the only major witnesses, besides
the lady doctor who had examined the girl and had established that the girl was raped. At
the end of the third week, I found that a preliminary case was proved, and ordered that
the case be sent to the Sessions Court for trial. The defense lawyer was unhappy, and left
the court in loud protests. I was told later that this was also part of the drama because he
knew very well that he would earn three times the amount he got now when he would
defend the case in the Sessions Court.

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