In my professional capacity, I have often been asked to lecture in different institutions on a subject very close to my heart – history. I feel particularly honored, when I speak to audiences on the life and achievements of our Founding Father Muhammad Ali Jinnah. This lecturing experience has on many occasions humbled me and reversed my role from speaker to student.
It was a lovely spring evening as I found myself being driven by a friend on the (then) under construction Murree Expressway, many years ago. The overcast sky and lush surroundings overwhelmed me, making me forget completely that I had a speaking commitment in Islamabad. As we were driving back, it began to pour, turning the road into a slushy morass. Something triggered my memory and I suddenly remembered that I had to lecture a group of brainy young people attending a specially organized activity in the vicinity of Shakarparian Hills. My concern turned to panic as the vehicle began sliding in the mud until it could move no further. I began to berate myself silently on realizing that at best I would reach the lecture venue improperly attired sans my notes and worse, might suffer the added humiliation of being late.
It took us almost a quarter of an hour to find help and push the vehicle out of its predicament and another thirty minutes to reach my destination. I entered the room wet, disheveled and in clothes caked with mud as the class comprising of selected high IQ students from various schools across Pakistan, watched with barely concealed amusement. Feeling ashamed at having violated the very principles that I had planned to focus on during the lecture i.e. qualities that hallmarked Jinnah’s ‘battle’ for Pakistan, I took a deep breath and began running the gauntlet laden with apprehension at what was likely to ensue in the question and answer session.
Then came the moment of reckoning as a girl in the front row raised her hand - “Sir, when you did not arrive for this class in time, we unanimously decided to ‘rip you apart’ for your lack of responsibility and punctuality. We also felt that somebody, who did not follow Quaid’s principles, had no business to talk to us about them. The expression on your face and your condition, when you entered the class suggested that there may be compelling circumstances for your coming late. We therefore decided to let you off the hook for isn’t this the sentiment that Jinnah Sahib would have displayed had he seen the mess you were in.” I stood speechless for a few moments in a futile effort to check my emotions, for this group of young people had taught me something, which no amount of academic grooming could ever do. I returned home that evening in a state of humble contentment. My humility stemmed from the fact that I had been taught an abject lesson by a group of youngsters and I was content in the knowledge that as long as Pakistan was home to such young men and women, no real harm could ever come to it.
I have always preferred facing the animated younger generation than a group of condescending senior adults, whose aim is to sleep through the sessions and make a beeline for the tea-room. The thought reminds me of a teacher of mine, from when I was in transition (now called ‘prep’) class. Her name was Miss McMullen. Beautiful and always immaculately attired, the young woman was the secret heart throb of every child in class. When I hugged her some five decades later at the 125th Anniversary of my Alma Mater, my heart still skipped a beat. Requested to speak to the assembly, this wonderful lady negotiated the steps to the rostrum gingerly and made the shortest, but the most expressive speech that I have ever heard. She said, “I have taught children my entire life, and I am now so used to speaking with the young ones that I find it difficult to talk to adults.”

The writer is a historian.