By:-Muhammad Firdous khan
Dedicated to Sir Zia ul Qamer, and all teachers who taught us how to live, not just how to pass exams
In 1977, I walked through the red-brick arch of Edwardes College, Peshawar, a fresh matriculate with dust on my shoes and big dreams in my eyes. But dreams didn’t matter at 8 AM. What mattered was Mrs. Edmonds. Wife of Dr. Phil Edmonds, our principal. She stood at the main gate every morning, eyes sharp as a hawk. Collar clean? Shoes polished? Shirt tucked? If not, back you went. We complained then. Today I understand. She wasn’t checking uniforms. She was raising children. Dr. Phil Edmonds was strict but caring. He and his wife treated us like their own kids for two years. That gate gave me my first lesson in discipline.
I chose Statistics, Economics, Political Science, English and Urdu. ICS with Stats — the thinking group, we called it.
For Economics we had Mr. Zaki. He made graphs and theories feel like stories about real markets, real people in Qissa Khwani. He taught us that economics wasn’t just numbers. It was life.
But the soul of Edwardes for me was Sir Zia ul Qamer. A Pathan by blood, but in class he was more English than an Englishman. His personality, his way of teaching — he didn’t just teach grammar and Shakespeare. He taught us how to carry ourselves, how to speak, how to think. He made a boy from Peshawar believe he could stand in any room in the world and hold his own. Sir Zia is no longer in this world, but every time I speak English, a part of him speaks through me.
For Political Science we had Sir Danis Joseph — a perfect gentleman with high morals and the softest voice in college. While others shouted to control class, he’d speak quietly and the whole room would go silent to listen. He taught us politics, but more than that, he taught us dignity. I hear he’s still alive, old now. Sir, if you ever read this: thank you for showing us that strength doesn’t need to be loud.
3. The Ground & Extra-Curriculars – The Evergreen Teacher
And then there was Mr. Kalimullah Khan. The teacher with an evergreen personality. He looked younger than all our batches. But age didn’t matter on the football ground. He’d play with us, full energy, sliding tackles and all. Off the ground, he loved Pushto music. Music and football — that was Mr. Kalimullah.
But his real magic was this: he never let us feel like students vs teacher. We played together. We laughed together. Batch after batch came and went, but he stayed young. He was proof that Edwardes keeps you young.
Life moved on. I passed my exams , joined government service, and decades flew by. But 2-3 years before retirement, . After office hours, I’d tell my driver, “Take me to Edwardes.” Not for any reason. Just to walk.
And nothing had changed. The same benches. The same tall trees that gave us shade in 1977. The same college bell that once sent panic through us, now ringing softer. The canteen still stood where it stood when Mrs. Edmonds checked our collars.
I wasn’t a government officer anymore. I was 17 again, nervous, hopeful, a teenager with the whole frontier ahead of him. Only difference: most of my teachers had left this world. But the campus hadn’t.
By evening, as I walked the lawn, the birds would return. Crows, parrots, with their own evening noises, settling in the tall trees for the night. Just like us 50 years ago — coming back home to Edwardes.
But Edwardes did more than wait for me. The college administration still invited me. For drama nights. For annual dinner. For science exhibitions. For Golden Nights.
I’d go. I’d sit with young students, clap for their dramas, walk through their science models, eat at annual dinner. And I’d mix up with them, participate in their extracurriculam activities, and feel young among them again. Mr. Kalimullah would still be on the football ground. The trees would still host birds at dusk.
I wasn’t a retired officer anymore. I was just another Edwardian student.
Today, my third generation walks through the same gate. My sons studied here. Now my grandson entered from the same gate for his O-Levels at Edwardes School. Soon he will be a college student here too, wearing the Edwardes uniform, sitting on the same benches, hearing the same bell.
I watch him and I see 1977 again. The same confidence Mrs. Edmonds demanded at the gate. The same trust Sir Zia taught in English class. The same recognition Sir Danis carried in his quiet voice.
Edwardes gave me confidence when I was a boy with dust on his shoes. It gave me trust to serve in government. It gave me recognition in society.
And now it’s giving the same to my sons, and will give it to my grandson.
Mr. Kalimullah Khan is retired now. But when I see him, he’s still the same — same physic, same energy, same love for football and Pushto music. Time has changed him, yes. But Edwardes hasn’t let time change his spirit.
A college that educates a grandfather, his sons, and his grandson — from matric to O-Level to college — that’s not just an institute. That’s Edwardes. That’s home. That’s family.
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The writer is a retired government officer and Edwardian Batch 1977 81 He lives in Peshawar.
