I spent much of my diplomatic career in distant capitals—Washington DC, Toronto, Barcelona, Muscat. The surroundings changed, the flags changed, the languages changed—but the office hours were always long. There were, however, brief pauses between stretches of chaos. Sometimes I would stretch out on a couch to steal a few minutes of rest, or simply close my eyes to clear my head. And in those quiet intervals, memories would drift in—gently at first, then all at once—transporting me to another era: the newsroom of The News, Rawalpindi, beside the Marir Hassan railway bridge, that curious dividing line between civil and military Pakistan.
I had just finished medical college but knew in my heart that humanities were my first love. I had often passed by The News offices and had written a few Op-eds for The Muslim, whose team later launched The News. I deeply admired the editor Dr Maleeha Lodhi—who would later become my ambassador when I joined the Foreign Service. She was not only an exceptional editor but one of the finest ambassadors I have worked with.
When I went to seek employment, I also met Salim Bokhari Sahib. Dr Lodhi would later joke that I had walked into her office “with a stiff neck,” looking more like someone inspecting the place than applying for a job. I was given an English test by the very exacting Ejaz Qamar, and to my immense relief, I was hired as a senior sub-editor. From being unemployed—and quietly avoiding relatives because of it—I suddenly had a respectable job. That shift alone felt transformative.
Dr Lodhi carried an unmistakable aura of authority—reserved, precise, coldly competent. She led by example. Bokhari Sahib, in contrast, was warm and approachable, the essential bridge between the editor and the rest of us. Talat Hussain worked on the editorial pages and would usually be wrapping up just as we began our evening shift.
At The News, I learnt to use a computer—a revelation in itself. I struggled to create macro shortcuts to make editing easier. But Amir Shah Sahib (one of the finest human beings I have known), Anwar Iqbal, Basit (RIP), and Nadeem would mischievously delete them from my system. I would be horrified, moving from desk to desk trying to diagnose the mysterious malfunction, while they quietly enjoyed my confusion.
Shaheena at the City Desk was another wonderful colleague. I was fortunate to work with some of the very best. Anwar would go on to become Pakistan’s premier journalist in Washington. Talat became an icon of journalism. Bokhari Sahib remained a gracious mentor.
And then there were the deadlines—the early edition at around 11 pm and the final one at 1 am. We used to joke that even our washroom schedules adjusted themselves to those timings. As deadlines approached, an eerie silence would descend, punctuated only by crisp, urgent instructions. Hands moved faster across keyboards; Amir and Nadeem wore intensely serious expressions. Within twenty breathless minutes, a page would come together.
Tea was the lifeblood of the newsroom—doodh patti on credit, accounts settled at day’s end. Dinner breaks meant murghi saalan, daal and roti eaten in a narrow corridor beside the newsroom.
I recall a Test match in Calcutta when sections of the stadium were set ablaze by spectators after Pakistan’s victory. Talat insisted that the headline must reflect the gravity of the incident. We eventually ran a bold banner headline: “Shameful Indians.” Najeeb, our amiable desk in-charge, handled the tension with composure. He became not just a colleague but a lifelong friend.
After Dr Lodhi, Farooq Mazhar Sahib and several other distinguished editors, including Bokhari Sahib, led the newsroom—each with a different temperament, yet all memorable. Dr Lodhi’s Pearl Continental club sandwich arrived unfailingly at 6:30 pm; one could set a clock by it. Gultaj, her PA—both in Rawalpindi and later in Washington—typed at astonishing speed and understood the editor’s moods. If you wanted access to Dr Lodhi, it helped to be in Gultaj’s good books.
Of course, mistakes were not spared. Once, in haste, I cut Kamran Khan’s article to half its original length. He complained—rightly—and I received a stern reprimand from Dr Lodhi that I have never forgotten.
Around 2:30 am, I would step out into the darkness, kick-start my Honda CD-70, and head home—barely ten minutes away. I would pick up the first edition of Daily Jang for my aging father, who asked for it every morning at 4 am. Handing him that fresh newspaper became a quiet ritual. I had disappointed him by not wearing a uniform and practising medicine, but at least I could bring him the day’s news. I still remember him standing in the verandah at 3:30 am—waiting for the paper, or perhaps waiting for me—seeking silent reassurance that his eldest son had returned home safely.
Years later, as head of mission in Toronto, Barcelona or Muscat, I would sometimes lean back in the official car, the national flag fluttering on its bonnet, and close my eyes. The memories would return—of modest salaries, long nights, shared meals, laughter and reprimands. Those were struggling days, yes, but rich in human warmth. In many ways, they feel more precious than the comforts that came later.
Today, The News Rawalpindi is led by another distinguished figure, Aamir Ghauri. The building looks much the same—unkempt outside, purposeful and efficient on the fourth floor. At midnight and again around 2 am, the presses begin to whirl. Crisp pages of The News and Daily Jang roll out, carrying within them countless unseen hours of labour.
Once, I was part of that great enterprise. And that, perhaps, remains one of my proudest memories.
—The writer is a former ambassador and a staffer of The News
