Goethe
“Kun taki”. “Kun taki fried chicken”, to be exact. “Kun” in some dialects of Persian means one’s bottom (buttocks, arse, ass, bum) and “taki” means a repair patch, an adhesive bandage or plaster usually placed on cuts, blisters or wounds. So what is this “kun taki” fried chicken? Can you guess?
Here’s the answer: It is how I first pronounced the greasy but delicious fried chicken I ate in Mashhad, Iran. Long before this brand of fried chicken-----Kentucky Fried Chicken (KFC)---- was sold in Pakistan, it was a household brand name in Iran, mostly due to the accelerated modernization and/or Westernization of the country by the late Shah of Iran during the decades following WW II. The Shah, Muhammad Reza Pahlavi, was deposed in 1979 by the Islamic and cultural revolutionaries. A year later, he died in exile in Egypt. I, along with my elder sister, was visiting Iran and was with my late uncle Abdul Baqi Asadi when I had my first gustatory encounter with the popular Kuntaki Fried Chicken (KFC) in Mashhad e Muqaddas, the city of the eighth Shia Imam Ali Reza (AS). The year was 1982. It was the year Iran Khodro (National Motors of Iran) launched the new Peykan 1982 car (local version of Hillman Hunter/Rootes Arrow) which featured wide square head beams and lots of red and orange glossy plastic for tail lights, perhaps in an attempt to rival the beautiful Toyota Corolla 1982 which was selling like hot cakes back in Pakistan then. My cousins Zia and Siraj were going crazy about that new Peykan. Although lacking the elegant finish of a Japanese Corolla, it was a tough car, nevertheless. (Yes, cars! Sorry folks, just can’t help it!)
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| The KunTaki Fried Chicken (KFC) |
Abdul Baqi Asadi was the eldest among his brothers and sisters. He lived the latter half of his life in Mashhad, Iran with his wife and children. The main reason for his move from Quetta to Mashhad was his marriage to an Iranian relative, a wonderful woman with a heart of gold. It was also because of better employment opportunities, I guess. Iran was a very different place when he moved there, unlike the country of today. He was an ambitious man, the sort that loved challenges above all the other things that the adjective “ambitious” connotes. Like his other brothers, he was also a committed and resourceful professional in whatever he did----and he did a lot of different things in his life, was a versatile man and a deft multitasker long before that word became popular. In his numerous professions he was, nevertheless, a very different person from others in the family, in the sense that he not only viewed and studied or analyzed, but also dealt with situations, especially the intractable ones, differently. Difficulties made him more focused: he was a “can do” man. In that, which basically meant temperamentally, he resembled his younger brother Abdul Rahim, and to some extent, Abdul Mehdi, too.
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| Kolpur Train Station |
Before he moved to Iran he worked for Pakistan Railways. I vaguely remember his postings as Station Master at such remote or out-of-the-way train stations as Spizand, Aab e Gum, Kolpur and Nushki in Balochistan. We would visit him in these godforsaken ghost towns and their equally spooky, dusty train stations that always reminded me of the scary tales that I used to read in the popular Suspense, Jasoosi and Ibn e Safi digests my father used to buy from the book vendors at Mizan Chowk.
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| Spizand Junction, Bolan |
At these train stations that looked and felt like abandoned colonial-era structures right out of a horror and mystery tale, the things that I most enjoyed were the beautifully lacquered and regularly waxed solid wooden boards on the walls of the Station Master’s office. These wooden panels listed the names of all the previous luminaries that the stations hosted, the deceased, retired and transferred Station Masters. I would try to read the names aloud and sit there for long, looking excitedly at the exquisite quality of the solid, shiny wood that made a strange backdrop for everything else in the office which was old, broken and dusty.
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| Aab e Gum Station |
After his move to Iran, Abdul Baqi soon found his niche, or rather, he created one for himself. No, not in the Iranian Railways----the unfortunate Iranians in that department of public transportation and rail logistics, wittingly or otherwise, deprived themselves of a qualified man!----but, first at the Pakistan Consulate in Mashhad as an interpreter and liaison officer, a job which continued for some years, and then in a private firm that had nothing to do with the overseeing of day-to-day operations of sooty, coal and diesel driven locomotives. It was some kind of trading house, dealing in import and export of a whole range of products. I clearly remember meeting the president and owner of the firm, one Mr. Sakhawati, or Agha e Sakhawati as they say in Iran. A remarkable man was he, this boss of Abdul Baqi, so much so, that he could easily be introduced to English speaking non-Iranians as “Mr. Generous” or “Mr. Generosity”, which was the literal translation into English of his typical Persian name. My uncle Abdul Baqi, whom I have already introduced as an apt multitasker and a polyglot, had the complete trust of his boss and to say that he was his right-hand man would be an under-estimation: he was running a sort of one-man-show at Mr. Sakhawati’s trading firm. There, he was the manager, the translator and interpreter, the accountant-cum-auditor, the dispatcher, the sales and legal representative of the firm, event organizer and so on.
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| A Bansuri |
Abdul Baqi was a man of many tastes and hobbies. He was an expert flute or bansuri player, for example. On his old bansuri, he could play most of the old Bollywood hits, especially the ones sung by crooners like Talat Mehmood, Manaday, Mukesh and the great Muhammad Rafi. Not to say anything about the hit songs of Lataji. Often, he would also sing the songs for his audience. He was a champion carrom player, too. Once it was his turn, our eyes would get tired following the big, round striker hole or “pocket” one carrom men (carrom piece) after another (the small black and white plastic discs). He would use all the tools in his arsenal of carrom skills: direct hit, rebound, angle shot, double touch and so on. And when we would start protesting, he would relent but only after positioning his pieces in such a way that would obstruct the opponent’s angle of hit! Think of Jimmy White and the game of snooker and you will get the idea of what I am talking about. But above all else, it was his wit, his sophisticated command of at least three languages, his refined sense of humor and his constant cheerful and positive disposition that most make up my memories of my uncle Baqi. In a place like Iran where people take pride in their language, the old Farsi language, and never let an opportunity go by without pulling some kind of a linguistic trick or without using wit and sarcasm, often in the form of poetic verses and proverbs, either to entertain friends or to upset opponents, Abdul Baqi Asadi was always the undefeated contestant. He would tell us original and quality jokes that would make us roar with laughter, to the point that we would start getting cramps in the stomach. Whether at home with children and relatives, outside with friends, or at work with colleagues, he was excellent company. He was a sweet man, Abdul Baqi Asadi, our Mama e Nuqul.
Yaadish Bakhair
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| Abdul Baqi Asadi with his parents |
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The best sense of humour and sunniest disposition of all the mamas
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