Asif M Basit, Director MTA Programming
It was a cold, frosty evening of December 2004 when I received the good news that Hazrat Khalifatul Masih V, may Allah strengthen his hand, had appointed me as office-in-charge for MTA International. That same evening, I reported to MTA where I was instructed to start attending the office from the following morning.
I was not entirely unfamiliar with the MTA general office as prior to my appointment, I had the opportunity to present MTA news and would frequently pass through the office. The office-in-charge at the time was Abdur Rashid Hyderabadi Sahib, whom I would encounter often. He would usually be occupied in some work at his desk, which was surrounded by some chairs and a sofa. At the time, this office was no more than just a passage. In those days, my acquaintance with him never exceeded the customary salaam and how are you.
It was the first day at my newly assigned duty. Upon entering the office, I found that Hyderabadi Sahib was not at his desk, but rather sat in a corner of the office organising some files. He greeted me with great warmth and congratulated me on the approval of my waqf and my posting. He was a lot older than me, and so this gesture meant a lot. I thanked him and sat down beside him on the sofa when he shot up immediately, grabbed my arm and directed me towards the desk saying, “Why are you sitting here? You must take a seat at your desk.” I was somewhat taken aback, but as you do with elders, I did not resist and sat at the desk he had occupied for many years.
He was the office-in-charge before me, but that day, without being instructed or voicing any complaint, he emptied the seat for me and lovingly permitted me to take it. Any resistance on my part, which might have been effective elsewhere, was met with failure and he calmly resumed his work on the sofa. This was how things remained for the next 5-6 years; in one office, from morning to evening, every day, save Sundays which he took off for his duties as the sadr jamaat of North London – a position he had held for more than two decades.
This daily routine went on for five years until the nature of my work, although still in MTA, changed. Hyderabadi Sahib resumed as office-in-charge in the Fazl Mosque facility, whereas I was assigned an office in the newly constructed MTA wing in Baitul Futuh.
Despite the change of routine, I still had the chance to meet him almost daily as I would frequent the Fazl Mosque, either to submit reports to Hazrat Khalifatul Masihaa or collect my mail from the MTA office.
We spent five years together in one office and experienced many events during that time. So although now we met briefly, our encounters usually ended in Hyderabadi Sahib’s unique and infectious laughter.
I received the news of Abdur Rashid Hyderabadi Sahib’s passing only a few hours ago. While this brought deep sadness, it also brought countless pleasant memories. Rashid Sahib got to live a long, purposeful life, so I won’t express sadness here, but share those pleasant memories with readers – not because those memories are reflective of our friendship, but because they are of a devout yet silent servant of Khilafat-e-Ahmadiyya and the Jamaat. Such memories must be kept alive and not be allowed to die with the deceased.
Though it felt wonderful to know my waqf had been accepted, it was a bit daunting for me as I was not accustomed to a desk job. In Pakistan, I was a teacher, and after migrating to London but before my waqf, I had worked in a bank where the nature of my work revolved around customer care. I had next to no experience of a desk job, nor was I ever predisposed to it.
On my first day, Hyderabadi Sahib very graciously gave me a full induction of what the job entailed; what sort of invoices our vendors sent, where they must be placed, how to process them and the department they must be sent to. He explained all the ins and outs of the role.
I tried to grasp everything that was said to me. I’m sure I could have done a better job of it, but I listened attentively nonetheless. Where the mail came from, where it must be placed, how to take action on certain letters, which fax number to use for sending letters to the chairman were all things explained to me that day. It was certainly a lot to absorb, but the work was also very much not in keeping with my nature.
Rashid Sahib continued to mentor me and within a few days, I took control of the job as he guided me as to whether or not I was performing my duties accurately. Any mistake I made, he would correct it without putting pressure on me, nor did I take any pressure of the workload. In this way, Rashid Sahib taught me – a subpar colleague, half his age – all the intricacies of the job. Surprisingly, he managed to do all this without me falling victim of boredom and aversion to the job.
After only a few moments of beginning my new duty, the late Safdar Gujjar Sahib entered our office and brought with him a flask containing freshly made tea from the langar, which he placed on the coffee table. This meant that it was now time for tea.
I came to learn that rejecting anything that came from the langar was akin to sin for Rashid Sahib. As soon as Safdar Sahib would set the flask down, Rashid Sahib would say, “Work can continue later. Let’s have tea first” and we would both enjoy the delight that is tea.
After tea, we would work a little, before Zuhr time would come upon us. Rashid Sahib’s attention to detail in wudhu (ablution) is worth mentioning here. We all perform this duty, but Rashid Sahib’s wudhu was such that would catch one’s attention, mainly owing to his customary suit and tie – aside from when he changed his attire on an Eid here and there (something that must be mentioned and shall be mentioned later).
It will be of no surprise that one’s diligence in wudhu in such attire is noticeable. I mean, how long can a tie balance itself on one’s shoulder as they wash their feet up to their ankles? And really, how long can one’s sleeves stay so far up one’s arms as they wash them right up to their elbows? Once Rashid Sahib had performed wudhu, his clothes would bear testimony to his dedication to this rite.
For someone so watchful over their wudhu, it goes without saying that Rashid Sahib was even more watchful in the matter of his prayers. There is something, however, that must be mentioned as it remains a special memory of Rashid Sahib.
Since our office was in the Fazl Mosque compound, we were fortunate to offer all prayers that fell into office hours behind Hazrat Amirul Momineenaa; sometimes in the mosque; occasionally in Mahmood Hall and, on weekends or busy days, in our office. But no matter where we were, Rashid Sahib would spring up after salat to catch a glimpse of Huzooraa. If we were in Mahmood Hall, he would stand at the doorstep of the hall to see Huzoor; if in the office, he would peer through the blinds to get a sight of him. The thing that surprised me most was that every time he did this, he would be overcome with joy as though it were his first time seeing Huzooraa.
Another benefit of having our office within the Fazl Mosque complex was that every now and then, Huzooraa would visit various departments of MTA, including our office. And when this happened, Rashid Sahib’s state was indescribable. He would be an epitome of humility in the presence of Khalifatul Masih, so much so that he would appear to have shrunk in size. He would hold his hands in front of him as though he were repeating an oath; he would respectfully bow his head and lower his gaze, and only occasionally look up in Huzoor’s direction, lest he lost the chance of seeing Huzooraa from so close. And when Huzooraa would leave our office, Rashid Sahib, with his head still lowered, would bring his right hand to his forehead – as done when saying adaab – and lovingly say salaam.
Hazrat Sahibaa would show him a lot of love and would converse with him. The manner in which Rashid Sahib would respond to Huzooraa was, in its own right, a teachable lesson. Only by imagining the apex of reverence, respect and admiration can you picture Rashid Sahib’s condition in such moments.
After a nikah ceremony, as Huzooraa would depart the mosque, relatives of the newlyweds would line up to present Huzooraa with bidd (customary dried fruit). Huzooraa would graciously take some with him and then pass it on to someone present. On some occasions, in fact, Rashid Sahib was fortunate to be the recipient of this grace.
How I found out about this was that as soon as Huzooraa graciously gifted him some bidd, Rashid Sahib came rushing into the office, carefully carrying the bidd in both hands as if they were something hot, with his shoulders and arms lowered as though the bidd were not only hot but heavy too. Without saying anything, he would extend his hands in front me and – as if to honour the sanctity of the gift – carefully whisper, “Have some! It is tabarruk [blessed].” I would take some, and so would Rashid Sahib, before carefully placing the rest in his pocket. He would then phone his wife, narrate the whole incident jubilantly and tell her that he had saved her some – promising to take it to her in the evening.
Seeing this level of adoration for Khilafat always made me feel weak in my faith. His love and respect for Khilafat, his punctuality in salat, his observance of fasts, his devotion to tilawat, his desire to listen to dars-ul-Quran during Ramadan, his financial sacrifice and his passion to serve faith; all this made me envy him. Isn’t it this type of faith that takes a person from being an ordinary human to a Muslim, and then from a Muslim to a mu‘min?
While we’re on the topic of tabarruk, boxes of mithai (traditional Indian sweets) were often sent to us from Huzoor’s office. Rashid Sahib would take a piece of his choice, then present the box with tremendous affection to those present. Anyone who rejected it would be met with Rashid Sahib’s insistence as he explained where it had come from. If the person refused saying he was diabetic, Rashid Sahib would briefly stare at the person, with a surprised gaze, before moving the box away.
Now onto the incident concerning his attire that was promised and must be mentioned. On Eid day, MTA’s broadcast begins in the morning and thus, Eid day is not much of a day off for MTA staff but is rather a hectic day. Savoury and sweet snacks are placed in the MTA office for workers, who take some while they rush past doing their duties. Providing these snacks was a responsibility that Rashid Sahib carried out for many years.
On one Eid morning, when I arrived at the MTA studios, I found Rashid Sahib sat beside large boxes containing samosas and jalebis, dressed in a loose and long achkan (traditional men’s coat of the Indian subcontinent). His hands were hidden in the sleeves, while the bottom of the coat hung below his knees.
Seeing the grin on my face, he gathered that a dig was on its way. Nonetheless, he waited and let me speak my mind. I said, “Rashid Sahib, the achkan is wonderful, but it seems you had it tailored to someone else’s size.”
For a quick moment, he glanced at me, as if in shock and astonishment, and immediately responded, “It is Huzoor’s! Huzoor gave me this as an Eid gift!”
And with that same look of surprise, he remained silent and allowed me to absorb the guilt that was headed my way, albeit with a smile on his face. Of course, I apologised since I had no idea. But it was the achkan of Rashid Sahib’s beloved Imamaa, which Huzooraa had ever so lovingly gifted! And Rashid Sahib, who would be so elated at the tabarruk of bidd at a nikah, must have been overjoyed wearing a used achkan of Huzooraa. May Allah grant him the garments of love of his dear ones and a lofty place in Paradise.
Where the incidents of sweets and mithai tell us of his veneration for tabarruk, it is also important to mention that even at the delicate age of 70-75, Rashid Sahib experienced very good health and managed to dodge conditions such as diabetes and high blood pressure. He would often express gratitude to Almighty Allah for this.
One Ramadan, I asked him, “When one wakes up after sehri [meal before starting a fast], why is there a feeling of bloating and heartburn?”
Very innocently, he merely replied, “What bloating?”
I tried to explain, but this was an alien concept to him. I tried no further to save myself from the embarrassment that he was double my age, yet fitter than me.
I always observed him walk briskly. Allah had given him such good health that I never noticed him take extra care in terms of his diet. Every day, he would partake of the langar food and would express gratitude to Allah.
I too would eat from the langar on a daily basis as Safdar Sahib would lovingly place food in our office for us. But I noticed that I was rapidly gaining weight and so, to stem the issue, I decided to halt indulging in langar food and bring my own packed lunch.
On my first day of this new routine, I revealed my intention to Rashid Sahib and opened my packed lunch. He laughed aloud and continued to laugh. He then enjoyed the langar food while asking me various questions. “So how long is this new diet to last?” “Did the doctor prescribe this new diet, or is this your own decision?” “At your age, we never bothered with such precautions!”
He certainly was telling the truth as even then, he was not taking any precautionary measures.
After a few days, I felt that the reason behind Rashid Sahib’s witty remarks was less to do with my dietary control and more for a want to continue eating together. He missed the days when we would eat together and, realising this, I began eating with him again. At times, I would take some rice or some roti and eat it with my meal. Rashid Sahib was a loyal friend and appreciated loyalty – something I wished to honour.
While on the topic of langar, it must be mentioned that at times, people indulge in the food that is prepared by the langar, all the while criticising it. This is not appropriate. No one is compelled to eat from the langar, which is a facility provided for workers and visitors. I always observed Rashid Sahib appreciate this blessing by eating whatever was cooked and being immensely grateful for it.
While he would be occupied in his food, if I ever passed a comment such as “Isn’t the food a bit too salty today?”, he would shake his head in the customary Indian manner, showing complete agreement, and reply, “Yes, very salty.” Neither was my intention to pick out flaws in the food, nor would Rashid Sahib’s aim be such, but never did he instigate such a conversation or initiate such a remark. With utmost gratitude, he would complete his meal.
“Rashid Sahib, there’s quite a bit of oil in today’s food.” Rashid Sahib would express his agreement: “Yes, there’s a lot of oil in the food today. And you’re meant to be on a diet!” With that, he would roar with laughter and the conversation would take a sharp turn to my so-called diet.
Since the very start, despite the age gap and his status as a senior, he considered me a friend. As a result, I discovered many sides to Rashid Sahib’s personality. He was a beautiful person and of very simple disposition. As our friendship grew, one day he said, “We should make a pact that whatever is said between us must remain between us.” I immediately concurred and the pact was agreed upon. I knew that this friendship was a result of his humility; otherwise, he was my elder and would remain so. We both upheld the conditions of this pact, save on one occasion when there was a blunder on my part.
Rashid Sahib once narrated a very humorous anecdote, which I deemed harmless, and so I relayed it to a colleague at MTA. But my mistake was that I relayed it attributing it to Rashid Sahib; not knowing that the person was not in Rashid Sahib’s close circle. I did not even give it a second thought as it slipped out during a conversation.
After only a few days, I noticed Rashid Sahib be a bit reserved. He was unusually quiet that day, something I picked up on. Usually, our day would consist of us working, all the while conversing and joking with one another. This disturbed me and left me thinking what could have caused this. I could not think of a reason, so I ascribed it to something personal. Anything I asked was met with a brief response followed by a long silence. This was not in keeping with Rashid Sahib’s nature.
In the evening, as he departed the office, I couldn’t help myself and enquired, “Rashid Sahib, is everything alright? You’ve been awfully quiet today.”
He immediately retorted, “You broke the pact! You relayed that incident to [so and so]. It was meant to stay between us.”
I was extremely embarrassed and ashamed. I very politely asked him to forgive me, which he did. In fact, he let out a chuckle and said, “Forgive you for what? It happens!”
As he left the door, just to assure me that he was no longer cross, he said, “The mithai that you rejected yesterday is still in the fridge. Make sure to take some, otherwise it’ll go bad. Also, if you’re not diabetic, why are you being so cautious?”
This was his way of forgiving me. And in this manner, he let me know that despite our candid friendship, he wouldn’t compromise his self-respect, and I too ensured that this never happened again.
This exposed me to a new side of Rashid Sahib’s personality – if he was cross, he would admit it and explain why. He would not hold a grudge or forever hold it against you. He’d not allow anything to affect his friendship with someone.
During my time with Rashid Sahib, I learned a lot from him. One thing I learned most from him was how to laugh at one’s own expense in a dignified manner. If one can master this, then most issues related to one’s ego can be eradicated. Rashid Sahib was free of any egotistical traits.
Back then, programmes would be sent by various MTA studios around the world through the post in the form of cassettes. These cassettes would be rather costly and so, once those programmes had been copied by the London studios, they’d be sent back to the respective studios that they may be reused.
One day, when such cassettes were to be sent back, I requested Rashid Sahib if he might stop by the post office on his way home and have the cassettes dispatched. He agreed and grabbed the cassettes before leaving the office.
A few minutes after he had left, I received a phone call from the security cabin in the Fazl Mosque saying that Rashid Sahib had driven off with the box of cassettes on the roof of his car and forgotten to put them inside. Rashid Sahib had a mobile phone, but rarely used it back then, especially while driving.
I called him nonetheless, but he didn’t pick up. I got in my car and hurried in the direction I thought he might have taken. I couldn’t find him. Rashid Sahib was gone. I tried my utmost to drive on various roads to spot the box of cassettes so that it might be salvaged, but to no avail.
The next day, he arrived in the office in a very jolly manner – commenting on the weather, complaining about the traffic and preparing his tea. I was waiting for him to tell me that he had misplaced the box the previous day and that the cassettes were lost, but he didn’t mention anything about it.
Eventually, I ended up asking him whether he was able to post the box of cassettes. He replied, “Yes! Yes! I posted it.”
I then openly asked, “Didn’t you leave the box on top of your car as you left?”
To this, he laughed and continued to laugh. When he stopped, he said, “After I left here yesterday, I noticed a motorcyclist following me. I thought perhaps he meant harm and so I chose not to stop the car. He even gestured to me, but I refused to pull over. He continued to follow me until I reached a dead-end. I stopped the car and the person got off his bike, approached me, handed me the box of cassettes and said, ‘This had fallen off your car a while back. I was trying to get you to stop so I could give it to you but you weren’t stopping. Anyway, here you go.’
“And so, I got the box back and handed it in to the post office.”
In this way, Rashid Sahib was comfortable with humour at his expense. This, to me, was a big thing and indicative of him having completely conquered his ego. Having known him closely, I can safely say that Rashid Sahib was free of egotistical traits and was a simple, beautiful person.
He had a lot of love for his family. He raised exceptional children and afforded them good education. From a very young age, he funded their tuition and, by the grace of Allah, they all are well-educated. From a young age, they served the Jamaat and to this day, they continue to do so.
He loved his wife a great deal. They would travel to India every year for Jalsa Salana Qadian as well as going on holidays to various places together.
One day, while we were in the office, we noticed that it was snowing outside. Just as an innocent child does, he stared out of the window in amazement. But even such precious moments he never wished to spend alone and he called his wife ever so affectionately, saying, “Fahmida, look outside! It’s snowing!”
He wished to share even such a fleeting moment with his wife, both of whom had an incredible amount of love for each other. May Allah make this parting easy for her!
Rashid Sahib spent his whole life in the service of the Jamaat. When he arrived in Britain, he lived in Birmingham for some time, before relocating to London. And since then, he had the good fortune of serving the Jamaat in various capacities. For as long as North London remained one jamaat, he served as its president for nearly three decades. He quietly continued to serve in MTA for a very long time. He had no desire for praise or to be known. May Allah increasingly reward him for his services!
Our encounters continued until the Covid days hit. Sometimes, when I called the office, he would pick up and we would catch up in this way. But once the pandemic struck, our interaction decreased.
During the early Covid days, I had the opportunity to speak to him over the phone, but he seemed a bit bewildered. He would reply to my questions, but they were not coherent responses. I then spoke to his wife, who told me that he had been diagnosed with dementia and although it was still early days, things were not looking good.
Of all people, I knew how she felt. I had my mother living with us at home in those days and I learned the painful lesson that dementia is a one-way road – there are no turnings, no U-turns and there is no light at the end of this tunnel. It is the beginning of the end. I felt really hurt by this. My dear, elderly friend had just taken his last step in this life.
My last meeting with him was at Jamia Ahmadiyya UK’s convocation ceremony. As soon as I saw him, I scuttled in his direction. He met me with great warmth and we laughed together as we once routinely used to. I always found his laughter to be heart-warming. But his laughter that day had the opposite effect on me. Instead of replying to my questions, he just smiled and chuckled.
But it was, after all, in Rashid Sahib’s nature to smile and laugh, even in the face of adversity. This was, perhaps, the most difficult challenge he was to encounter in his life, but he somehow managed to continue to smile and laugh in its midst. May Allah keep Rashid Sahib smiling and laughing in the Hereafter too!
Only recently, I had one last opportunity of meeting Rashid Sahib, which unfortunately I missed. It was the occasion of his youngest son, Qudsi Rashid’s walima to which I was invited. But due to work in the days following Jalsa Salana UK, I was unable to attend. I will forever regret that I could not attend. If only I had gone! So that I could tell him, “Rashid Sahib, there will be no dietary restrictions today! I will try everything!” He would certainly have enjoyed this and would have responded with a witty remark about my diet.
Rashid Sahib, to you I say, you were my elder! And this was something I always had great regard for and will continue to. But it was you who spoilt me with your frank and loving friendship. You felt injured by me merely eating separately from you, but it is you who has turned your face the other way and left this world.
Indeed, you were my elder, but permit me to say that today, I have lost a friend!
I leave you in the hands of Allah! And I trust that you are enjoying the many tabarruks of Paradise. May you always be happy! Allah Hafiz!
(PS: Dear Rashid Sahib, I have not broken our pact in writing this. Had I done so, this write-up would have turned into a voluminous book. Rest in peace!)