K haled Ahmed’s death from cancer, at 81, is a loss not just for Pakistan but for the entire subcontinent. He was that rare editor, author, linguist, newsroom mentor, and no-pretences, no-qualifications secular liberal that our region’s public debate finds only a couple of times in a generation. If you argued, or disagreed with him as an Indian on an issue, for example, he will never try to close the argument with a dismissive ‘but what about Kashmir?’ or some version of it.
Khaled, as his colossal body of works—now immortalised on the worldwide web, in four books, and through thousands of columns in English and Urdu—prove, was beyond anything petty or divisive. Never the word ‘what about’ for him. Some of his most invaluable but much under-appreciated work lies in his columns where he traced the common origin of words in different languages.
Check out his Word for Word: Stories Behind Everyday Words We Use, published by Oxford University Press. Knowing him closely, as a friend and sometimes sparring partner, was an honour. He was the wisest Pakistani I knew, or probably existed, as his many fans would agree.
That’s why this loss is also personal. Getting to know Khaled was one of those coincidences you can write about in your memoirs, or occasional writings like this episode of my First Person/Second Draft. In early September 1984, I saw the swarthy, Pathan-ish looking man in a khaddar salwar-kameez in the elevator of what used to be the Boston Park Plaza H.
