Previously published at The Chowk . . . http://www.chowk.com/Views/India/Train-to-Pakistan-2004-In-and-Around-Pindi
And Outlook
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Prologue:- Bangladesh 1971, and all that went with it. "The Emergency", 1975 through 1977 in India, was a period in our multi-hued history which I saw up-close. I also saw the end of the Vietnam war, live episodes of conflicts in Mozambique, Angola, Papua New Guinea and the evolution of East Timor. Ofcourse, we also sailed to the economically stronger parts of the world, Western Europe, North America, Persian Gulf, Far East, even South Africa. For some time I tried to study in Ireland. In Poland, during a strike in the docks, we sat with Lech Walesa. USSR was beginning to look shaky. South America was about discovering women. Africa was about discovering wars.
These were my formative years, after a childhood spent listening to martial lore, where the enemy was respected for bravery. Late teen through early ’20s, when we who were lucky to sail saw the good and the bad that went with it. There was no internet, so exchanging notes on evolution of the human mind was restricted to those you sailed with or met, and learning was largely through books. I was lucky, I crossed the Pacific regularly before the term "Pacific Rim countries" was invented. And so I also met a lot of American people, in addition to those from the rest of the world. And I learnt why the size of maritime containers was linked to the size of the 24-can Coca-Cola crate, shipped by the boxload, to Vietnam.
I met black and white and Latino and Red Americans and rednecks and soldiers and draft evaders and hippies and junkies and whores and truck drivers and pimps and nighlife and discovered that they were also human, understood what a miserable life war was, smoked gifts from India, drank cheap plonk in brown paper bags, learnt philosophy on the real meaning of life. I also saw the evolution of the hard working family ethos with the "average" North American that went towards well known icons like huge big cars and massive buildings with deep lawns on wide roads and immense meal servings but also lesser known qualities like supporting sustainable education, bringing up the next generation through time spent on evolving youngsters through neighbourhood little league base-ball clubs and similar, community service through volunteer fire fighters or draw-bridge maintenance.
And I also understood how validation of truth as well as history were even then the prerogatives of those with fatter wallets. And how these fatter wallets came through a combination of agriculture and aggressive defence and humanities and economics and religion and property and showmanship and commerce and . . . power over communication. Individual or nation or religion or all points in between.
That’s when I figured, hey, this is America, a continent with soil as fertile as mine, so how come I am carrying shiploads of grain back to the starving millions while they seem to be getting there? One hell of a way to evolve an open mind, I tell you.
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Sentiment:- I am on a high, not tired. I have spent the previous night at a miserable ramschackle railway station, Wagah, my first interface with and therefore first impression of Pakistan on this trip, which is probably the lowest point of my journey. Next, I have been introduced to Lahore through the doubtful joys of Mogulpura, and subjected to an assault on my lungs and senses in an ancient rotten train passing through untended slums and dusty terrain. I shall never forget this and not ever let any pompous Lahori-wannabe on both sides of the border as well as anywhere else in the world forget either. Then I have spent some quality time being torpedoed across Lahore in a 3-wheeler with 80 pounds tyre pressure, straight out of Octopussy, that was fun, in retrospect. Downside - all we got to eat in Lahore was chips, wafers, in plastic sacks. Finally, I spent the post midnight through dawn hours being driven in a snazzy and comfortable bus, on a superb motorway, dozing through a Sunny Deol-Preity Zinta movie. All this over land that my forefathers probably tilled. Or atleast, they walked or rode across. Or fought with invaders. Or ran from them. Or capitulated. Whatever. For some reason, I feel like I have been stranded in and around Lajpat Nagar, Delhi, circa 1975, for the night, except when I got on the bus. Once I was on the bus I felt like I was on the Delhi-Ludhiana air-con super-deluxe. Except that . . .
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Aside:- For the curious reader who wrote in, and others, what I saw beneath the Lahore-Islamabad bus next to the luggage compartment was the "hidden" double bottom that many buses and trains and ships and planes all over the world have, for some amount of private commerce also known as "smuggling". That’s OK, I am not here to check on morals, I am sure people will recall a day and age when even grade-A European airlines, some now sadly defunct alas, would come in and disembark seats for "repairs", stuffed with gold biscuits.
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0930-1400, 16th April ’04:- except that, where are the women in this country? Makes me wonder at the logic the flesh traders gave me at Attari when I asked them what the driver, if not monetary, was - young Muslim girls would otherwise get sold to Hindu husbands, they said, when they tried to explain to me that they were doing it for their good and for The Faith. I have been given this reasoning when I asked this question in other Muslim countries, too. Another version of the hard luck stories dished out by women of the trade, who tell customers what they want to hear so that the size of their tip increases. It goes with what we as shippies learnt very early in life - anybody who wants anything from you will always tell you what a great (big) Dick you are (have).
We saw a few women on the train. As we disembarked, they moved off, escorted. After that, agreed, it is midnight in Lahore, but there are none on the streets. None at the bus station. None in the bus. Early in the morning, none at Skyways/Pindi. None at the hotel. None seen along the way or walking with the crowds. And now, in the fairly upscale 2000/- rupee Javed Miandad stands, right next to the balcony leading to the Pakistani team dressing room, barring a few obvious Indian women in Indian colours, none. What is the male-female ratio in this country, anyway? I am not going to get a straight answer to this question during my stay in Pakistan.
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Chacha Green Cricket reaches into a big paper sack and passes me one half of an oily but tasty "kachori", the other half goes to Raghu. He says something in gruff Urdu to me which is a brief welcome as well as simultaneous instruction to his camp-followers to look after us. He asks me my name, I give it to him with the family surname, it goes like this:- "Malik Veeresh _____ of Jhung, now of Delhi, India." He stares at me, obviously recognises the surname, and I get a huge bear hug in return. An assortment of excited young men, meanwhile, orchestraed by Chacha’s nephew (who is unfortunately dumb, but manages sounds in a way that others seem to be able to understand) are piling Raghu with lemon tea and cola and more chips. We are now going through the complete "Welcome to Pakistan" experience that has been top of mindspace for the last few weeks. This is more like it.
The Pakistani cricket team, out in the middle, is kind of collapsing. Chacha and company are going through the drill, with additional slogans on Indo-Pak amity and joy and brotherhood interspersed every now and then. Since I do not follow cricket, I spend my time walking around the stand and introducing myself, talking with anybody who will. Raghu watches the game.
I strike a conversation with an intense young boy, must be 16 years old or so, is very obviously a great cricket fan and club level player. He was selected for some training in South Africa, but was not permitted to go by his parents. Study hard. Has now therefore decided to concentrate on his studies, so did not get a position as a ball-boy, but has bunked to see the match anyway. Has a world view on every Pakistani cricketer.
Bored unidentified Pakistani security man in t-shirt and slacks, young, and sitting with equally bored unidentified Indian security man in safari suit, also young. I think I see weapons under their belts. After a few guarded minutes both let slip that they are happy that the match is getting over early, at least they can now rest. There is a fluid synchronisation in their movements, low on wastage of any energy but alert as a pair all the time, which I marvel at. What a team they would have made against other real bad guys.
Young boys working for one of the cola or soap MNCs, I forget which, walking around making people fill coupons for some sort of market research on best movie, best actor, best actress, best tv serial and stuff like that. One side is in Urdu and the other in English. Fill the forms on random basis with my Delhi address, and they are thrilled. I ask them what they want to be when they grow up, and both of them say "fighter pilots". I tell them they are going to have to learn good English if they want to, they look at me doubtfully.
By now I have a fan club. A group of young men are convinced that Pakistan’s forthcoming loss in cricket to India does not really mean much because 4 of the Indian players are actually "ours". They have the standard view on the fate of Muslims in India. I spend a lot of time trying to explain status of Muslims in India and as Indians, it just seems to go over them, I would give anything for an affluent South Indian Muslim at this juncture. Don’t these guys watch Kamalahassan’s Tamil movies dubbed back in English? The conversation overtakes the match and moves on to equalising the fight for Kashmir as a revenge for East Pakistan. It goes on, I feel like I am at The Chowk. Much of the next few hours are spent in reaching a point in every discussion which inevitably veers towards Kashmir, then changes track to watching the match, joining in shouting all sorts of slogans, and exchanging 10 rupee notes. For every one of them, we are the first Hindus they have ever met. None of them recognise the "Om" symbol across my t-shirt. I wish I had a ponytail and wore caste marks.
Want a smoke? Walk up to any policeman. Want to walk into the restricted enclosures? Walk up with a senior policeman. Want to avoid paying for a ticket? Walk in as escort to families of very senior policeman. I learn that they are called "thullaa" and "mamu" here too. Some bored young boys try to enact the scene from Dil Se, where Shah Rukh Khan’s radio jockey hero is being dragged away in the backlanes of Old Delhi by the bad Muslim terrorists, and poor SRK desperately tries to attract the attention of some cops on a goof off by shouting the magic words "oye thullai, thullai" at them. This has the local constabulary down on them very rapidly, but considering the mixed nature of the crowd and my request-cum-apology on their behalf, they are not thrown out but let off without much fanfare.
I see a few familiar faces from the Indian cricket establishment, their hangerons and media, strutting around. They all look very important with bunches of badges hanging around their necks. As a matter of fact, I see a lot of important looking faces and over-weight bodies from both countries strutting around trying to look Very Important.
For lunch, we Indians and selected Pakistanis are invited by a few people walking around the stadium with a megaphone to assemble at a point near the next enclosure, and then marched off in a large hungry mixed group towards a small hotel nearby. I smuggle the 16 year old Pindi youngster who could not go for training to South Africa because of his folks and a few other young Pakistanis with me, since it is not fair to feed only selected Indians and "official" Pakistanis, and I feel that they are like hungry every two hours kind of youngsters anywhere anyways, besides this is what I would do when a free meal beckons me because of my dispensation at that moment.
The Rawalpindi Cricket Lovers Association are an obviously intense and enthusiastic lot, and they have an Indo-Pak chapter with many impressive names on it. We are all invited to listen to speeches from a variety of cricket lovers from Pakistan, while lunch awaits appetisingly in the hall next door. Not to be out-done, a clutch of Indians get up to make their speeches. Then there are joint songs. After that, there are more slogans and speeches. Everybody wants to say how much they love everybody else.
Luckily, there are some more young people, engineers who have completed their MBAs from one of the better IIMs in India (Bangalore), who are sitting next to us. They have been here longer and wise us up to some of the essentials, like taxi rates and food. And the fact that this can go on all evening, if we don’t start heading for the food. Since they have been living in hostels long enough, they just get up and move towards the food. This starts a trend. Now you know what an MBA is good for.
One thing I want to state here - as and when Pakistan gets back to being a democracy, it will have no problems finding long winded speech makers. Just go to the cricket lovers. After everybody else has gone for food, they are still busy making speeches at each other, which are recorded for television. Later in the evening, the same speeches are played back, cut with shots of the crowd pre-food exodus. So, on to the food.
Lunch is, well, tasty as well as appearing to be immense. Pakistani hospitality towards all Indians and those who look like Indians, is at full throttle again. Lines form for food, and others jump the line for faster servings. Meanwhile, the joint Indo-Pak cricket lovers ask us back to get photographed. Many do, carrying huge dishes full of roast chicken pieces, mystery dry keema, oversized corrugated naans, buttery peas pulaos, a very heavy semi-wet semi-dry kind of daal that I have never had before, salads, vegetables almost al dente instead of the gravied brown mash that goes for "Punjabi food" in India, double heavy phirni, colas in bottles with paper straws, and tea. And lots of butter. Surprisingly, no lassi.
Those photographs have to be somewhere. People are saying cheese with their mouths full of chicken-keema-daal-rice-curry. I wish I had my camera along for the n’th time.
This is the one part of the trip where I feel this deja vu kind of thing. Squash your eyes, and you can almost imagine that you are back in the ’70s in Lajpat Nagar, Delhi, at the gents only section of a reception for a new-rich refugee type of Punjabi wedding, without the booze. An elderly person is giving a speech in a corner, and getting agitated that people are not concentrating on it. Other elderly person are listening to him, grumbling, just awaiting their turn. The mike squeaks and groans every now and then. Other people are cracking wierd jokes. More than that is the Punjabi "eat more or we will feel bad and then we shall have to kill you" approach to hospitality. In the distance, youngsters are drinking colas as though there is no tommorrow. The only missing entities are Shunty-equivalents serving liquor disguised in stainless steel glasses.
I have an old formula here, ignore the main food, go straight for the pudding, hold a dessert plate with something in it, and then abandon it after some time to revert to the main food in peace when the crush is over. The youngsters are eating energetically, and Raghu seems to have evolved into a natural team leader, with stories on Indian starlets I never knew he had any idea about.
We hear some roaring in the distance, and realise that the match has resumed. We burp gratefully, abandon semi-finished plates on chairs, bow to the speechmakers, and join the crowds running back to the stadium. We go through the complete physical examination bit again, half these soldiers must be gay by the way they fondle everybody, and find that post-lunch the complete stadium and their cousins have moved into our Westerly enclosures. The PAF airplane circling overhead has now been replaced by two helicopters, and rumour has it that the President shall be arriving himself. The real reason, however, for the emptying of the Easterly stands is that apart from the shade Javed Miandad Stand provides, it seems as though the sponsors and the Pakistan Cricket Board and their multiple Uncles have already decided the outcome of the match, and so the complete bag of tricks for the post-Match ceremonies, the stands, the stage, the banners, the boards, the preening pretenders, the sponsors, even the cup and the over-size prize cheque, have all been lined up and kept ready. Visible best from Javed Miandad stand. Trust the wily fox.
Shoaib Akhtar is the one spark in a bit of a dismal parade, with his big hits getting Chacha Green Cricket and company dancing in joy. But there is a tension in the air, the margin of victory is too huge and conspiracy theories are doing the rounds.
The cops are over-cautious, the profile of the crowd in the enclosure has changed, and they too sense that there is some tension in the air. The cops walk around to ask the Indians in the crowd to move over to a separate enclosure on the other side, closer to the Indian dressing room. Some of us who have been in this enclosure all day look at Chacha Green, he looks back at us with a stoic, solid and simple look in his face, and so we Indians in the Javed Miandad look quietly at each other, and we stay put. Cops shrug shoulders. Simple as that. I would vote for Chacha Green anyday. Anywhere.
The match is almost over. Camera men and an assortment of other off-field people are taking positions to run towards the pitch. Chacha and I are talking, and I jokingly ask him how come Chachi doesn’t come to see the match, he says laconically that she doesn’t like the game but usually comes on the last day, only this time the game is over before the last day. Somebody else from behind, a Pakistani who is obviously not from his inner circle, asks him crudely how many chachis there are. He turns around, gives him a glare that reduces the unfortunate question raiser to low self-esteem and abject penury for life, provides him with a solid dirty stare, and says "there is always same only one Chachi". We then get a short lecture on why he is loyal to Pakistan, loyal to one same chachi, loyal to true Islam which is brotherhood, and actually prefers his men to have only one wife at a time. And a short funny on why it is more practical to be with only one wife too with much mutual thigh slapping.
Match over, somebody has taken a catch for the unfortunate last wicket. I am concentrating on the way one particular Ten Sports cameraman with a steady-cam on front harness balanced on his paunch is keeping pace with the running, dancing, hugging Indian players. Later on in the evening I see the same frames again. Inspite of so many cops, crowds invade the pitch. The teams retire to their dressing rooms. There is a sullen silence around us, more because of the one-sided result than due to the loss. We bid farewell to Chacha Green who is almost in tears as he waves his flag, and cross over to the Indian enclosure, where cameramen are having a great time trying to rev up the Indians to sing and dance and wave flags. The wonder of the television camera, and yes, it is time to sing and dance and then subseuqently call people back home to ask them to put their televisions on, we are on tv.
All eyes are on the Indian balcony. Wadekar is standing there. Nehra looks out, Nehra goes back in. Sehwag looks out, ditto. Balaji looks out, the crowd goes berserk. The rest of the Indian team come out for a short time, crowd goes silent again. I think Pakistanis would vote for Balaji. In Rawalpindi. That is saying something.
1400-1530, 16th April’04:- there is a Pakistani Master of Ceremonies, an ex-cricketer with a lot of hair done in a retro-puff kind of style. First he talks with the Pakistani Captain in patronising Urdu. Then he talks with the Indian Captain in patronising English. Then he talks some more, with names of sponsors rolling off his oily lips. Somewhere towards the end he comes up once again with Virender Sehwag, who has got one of the big cardboard cheque kind of prizes. He asks Virender Sehwag what he thinks about defeating Pakistan on their home ground, and Virender answers him back, saying that it is all about putting up a good show for the fans everytime, that is all that matters to him, tht they bless him to be able to give them joy. The crowd erupts in a huge roar when they hear this. Next he asks Virender some more inane questions, to which Sehwag provides apt smart responses. The beauty of this exchange is that when the Pakistani MC asks in English, he gets a reply in Hindi. So he switches to Urdu, and gets a reply in English. Sehwag has class. And lip. I don’t know if much of this which happened as some sort of an "aside" came on tv or not.
There are all sorts of sponsor related photo op sessions still going on mid-field when we decide to leave with the crowd. Traffic has been "regulated", and in any case getting hold of a taxi right at the stadium gates is not feasible. Also, there is a particular Army building that I want to walk past, it is part of family history of the sort that would be buried in some archives somewhere, but has to do with explosions at armouries. So Raghu and I start heading in the general direction of Islamabad by foot. The shops are all closed, we are also looking for an Internet cafe, but seems everything is shut down, siesta or cricket?
We walk past this heavily fortified Army building on the left, friends of mine who were keen observors of the American-Afghan covert ops days in Pakistan have asked me to salute this building. The cover ops for this building is a "Survey of Pakistan" outlet. The route is lined with heavily armed soldiers and I ask one of them, "bhaiya, what building is this?" The soldier fixes me with a very beady eyed stare, and says "I don’t know", so I know I am at the right place. I salute the building, sticking my navy beret on my head, which I have brought all the way here, along, just for this reason. At that moment a few cars with sundry cricket groupies aka officials whiz past, and the Pakistani soldier looks away to do his job. It is all so symbolic. How many readers here know what I am talking about, then?
We loiter aimlessly around this part of Rawalpindi, till we get tired. Eventually we find ourselves back at the Stadium. Raghu and I head for the big square up ahead, from where we take a taxi. He gets off at Melody, heads for an internet cafe, and I move on, back to the hotel, towards keeping an appointment of a personal nature. 1
530-1930, 16th April’04: - the personal movements here, courtesy frontier taxi driver contacts that span personal loyalties, continents, generations and decades, with shabby looking cars that pack a punch beneath the bonnet you would not believe, involves risk taking and directs me towards points Shakarparian/Margalla. I learn some truths about Americans in Pakistan, madrassas as well as Afghan refugees up front. These are absolute ground level people, my contacts, and once again, it just proves that at the end of the day, it is the money trail that sustains any strife. As people from one sub-Continent, my observation here is that I think the Pakistanis had better get their acts together very soon and very fast, otherwise somebody shall have East India John Company commanding officers again in some parts of Pakistan, playing tribes off against tribes, this is all I am willing to say about what I learnt here about the land of my forefathers.
1930-midnight, 16th April’04:- quick shower later, my friend and host for the evening, LG, is a prominent and elegant Pathan from a renown family, has worked in many good positions within Pakistan and all over the world and is now making an entry into Pakistani politics as well as big business. We connect, grab a cup of tea at the hotel, exchange gifts, and move on a sight seeing tour of Islamabad by night in his huge new German SUV. Wide streets, ultra clean buildings, and an orderliness which sanitises. Just about the time when I am getting a bit edgy about the pristine driving habits being displayed by LG, he pulls what we call a "Delhi Lefty", which means that when approaching a crossroads to go left with at a red light, all lanes blocked with traffic in the same direction ahead of you, you get to the extreme right, jump the central divider, face oncoming traffic, and then perform a wide left turn from in front of all the stopped vehicles. The trick here is to do it before your light turns green, in which case you lose points since you have to keep going straight. This has to be done with nonchalance and elan. Pathans can drive, yes.
We enter the Marriot just as the Indian cricket team is leaving for dinner. The security arrangement at the Marriot is much stricter at night, the guards log the car number, run a quick video camera shot of the occupants, and only then release the barrier. The rush is absolutely amazing, but LG knows the right moves, parks bang in front of the tour bus, and a valet who recognises him as well as his generous tipping habits comes running to take charge of his SUV as well as clear the route. We meet up with LG’s friend, a banker, and head for the Chinese restaurant on the ground floor. The lobby is packed solid, and so is the restaurant where, naturally, LG has advance reservations for the best table. Next to us is a Minister from the Pakistani Government, a very OxBridge lady, and we go through the introductions. The lady minister knows the college my daughter goes to, and happens to have a youngster from her family there too. It is all so . . . correct society?
The meal is what I would call 5-star hotel Chinese. Means none of the hot ketchup and lukewarm garlic sauces with "tadkaa" that make for the headier and tastier Punjabi Chink in India. I mean, come on, there is no chopped onion with lime? I do not wish to embarrass LG, and Raghu kicks me from under the table, but I always ask for chopped onions with lime for my Chinese food in Delhi. Service is unobtrusive and conversation flows along fairly urbane lines. LG picks up what is obviously a very stiff tab, and on the way out I am surprised to see that the paanwallah has Indian "Pan Parag - with tobacco" on sale in the lobby, this has been banned in India for some time now. Actually I am surprised to see a proper paan-wallah in the lobby. There is a line in front of the paanwallah. I ask the paanwallah if he makes a palang-tod with genuine pearls crushed in it, and he says, yes, but it costs 10000/- rupees and will take an hour to deliver. Home delivery can be arranged. Raghu asks me what a "palang tod" is. We don’t order.
Close to midnight, LG drops us back to our hotel on Club Road by the long route, driving through most of Islamabad before accessing the outskirts. There are some huge weddings on at the hotels in the vicinity, apparently they do serve booze at the banquets here, and the cops on barricade duty are having a field day checking cars. When they really check a car, they get into the car on the driver’s side, sit next to him to literally squeeze him, and then get out looking happy. We see one group of cars coming into the road by driving the wrong way up the exit. I feel so much at home now. Except for the chooped onion, that is. I mean, sorry about this, but even our Chinese food is better than yours.
But LG has not had enough. We head for the Big Mosque again, and he points out the oddity there, the grave and memorial of a man much hated today as a symbol of much that was wrong in Pakistan’ yesterday. It is a fact, Zia ul Haq’s grave does spoil the frontage and serenity as well as aura of the Shah Faisal Mosque. Too many lives were lost, and not just during my formative years but as a cause-effect, subsequently too, were because of this unfortunate man who died do violently in an air crash, never yet explained sufficiently, whose pathetic remains lie buried there.
The mosque itself is airy, brightly lit, and so clean that it reminds me of the Bahai Temple in Delhi. I wonder if it is on the flight path, and how it would look from the air?
LG and I are very silent on our drive back. Raghu, all six foot of him, sprawls in the rear seat like a baby with the sleep of the innocent. LG and I, loyal to our respective flags, but friends through strong ties between dear and respected people in our extended families, pray for good sense in our generation to provide for the serenity of his generation.
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And Outlook
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Prologue:- Bangladesh 1971, and all that went with it. "The Emergency", 1975 through 1977 in India, was a period in our multi-hued history which I saw up-close. I also saw the end of the Vietnam war, live episodes of conflicts in Mozambique, Angola, Papua New Guinea and the evolution of East Timor. Ofcourse, we also sailed to the economically stronger parts of the world, Western Europe, North America, Persian Gulf, Far East, even South Africa. For some time I tried to study in Ireland. In Poland, during a strike in the docks, we sat with Lech Walesa. USSR was beginning to look shaky. South America was about discovering women. Africa was about discovering wars.
These were my formative years, after a childhood spent listening to martial lore, where the enemy was respected for bravery. Late teen through early ’20s, when we who were lucky to sail saw the good and the bad that went with it. There was no internet, so exchanging notes on evolution of the human mind was restricted to those you sailed with or met, and learning was largely through books. I was lucky, I crossed the Pacific regularly before the term "Pacific Rim countries" was invented. And so I also met a lot of American people, in addition to those from the rest of the world. And I learnt why the size of maritime containers was linked to the size of the 24-can Coca-Cola crate, shipped by the boxload, to Vietnam.
I met black and white and Latino and Red Americans and rednecks and soldiers and draft evaders and hippies and junkies and whores and truck drivers and pimps and nighlife and discovered that they were also human, understood what a miserable life war was, smoked gifts from India, drank cheap plonk in brown paper bags, learnt philosophy on the real meaning of life. I also saw the evolution of the hard working family ethos with the "average" North American that went towards well known icons like huge big cars and massive buildings with deep lawns on wide roads and immense meal servings but also lesser known qualities like supporting sustainable education, bringing up the next generation through time spent on evolving youngsters through neighbourhood little league base-ball clubs and similar, community service through volunteer fire fighters or draw-bridge maintenance.
And I also understood how validation of truth as well as history were even then the prerogatives of those with fatter wallets. And how these fatter wallets came through a combination of agriculture and aggressive defence and humanities and economics and religion and property and showmanship and commerce and . . . power over communication. Individual or nation or religion or all points in between.
That’s when I figured, hey, this is America, a continent with soil as fertile as mine, so how come I am carrying shiploads of grain back to the starving millions while they seem to be getting there? One hell of a way to evolve an open mind, I tell you.
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Sentiment:- I am on a high, not tired. I have spent the previous night at a miserable ramschackle railway station, Wagah, my first interface with and therefore first impression of Pakistan on this trip, which is probably the lowest point of my journey. Next, I have been introduced to Lahore through the doubtful joys of Mogulpura, and subjected to an assault on my lungs and senses in an ancient rotten train passing through untended slums and dusty terrain. I shall never forget this and not ever let any pompous Lahori-wannabe on both sides of the border as well as anywhere else in the world forget either. Then I have spent some quality time being torpedoed across Lahore in a 3-wheeler with 80 pounds tyre pressure, straight out of Octopussy, that was fun, in retrospect. Downside - all we got to eat in Lahore was chips, wafers, in plastic sacks. Finally, I spent the post midnight through dawn hours being driven in a snazzy and comfortable bus, on a superb motorway, dozing through a Sunny Deol-Preity Zinta movie. All this over land that my forefathers probably tilled. Or atleast, they walked or rode across. Or fought with invaders. Or ran from them. Or capitulated. Whatever. For some reason, I feel like I have been stranded in and around Lajpat Nagar, Delhi, circa 1975, for the night, except when I got on the bus. Once I was on the bus I felt like I was on the Delhi-Ludhiana air-con super-deluxe. Except that . . .
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Aside:- For the curious reader who wrote in, and others, what I saw beneath the Lahore-Islamabad bus next to the luggage compartment was the "hidden" double bottom that many buses and trains and ships and planes all over the world have, for some amount of private commerce also known as "smuggling". That’s OK, I am not here to check on morals, I am sure people will recall a day and age when even grade-A European airlines, some now sadly defunct alas, would come in and disembark seats for "repairs", stuffed with gold biscuits.
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0930-1400, 16th April ’04:- except that, where are the women in this country? Makes me wonder at the logic the flesh traders gave me at Attari when I asked them what the driver, if not monetary, was - young Muslim girls would otherwise get sold to Hindu husbands, they said, when they tried to explain to me that they were doing it for their good and for The Faith. I have been given this reasoning when I asked this question in other Muslim countries, too. Another version of the hard luck stories dished out by women of the trade, who tell customers what they want to hear so that the size of their tip increases. It goes with what we as shippies learnt very early in life - anybody who wants anything from you will always tell you what a great (big) Dick you are (have).
We saw a few women on the train. As we disembarked, they moved off, escorted. After that, agreed, it is midnight in Lahore, but there are none on the streets. None at the bus station. None in the bus. Early in the morning, none at Skyways/Pindi. None at the hotel. None seen along the way or walking with the crowds. And now, in the fairly upscale 2000/- rupee Javed Miandad stands, right next to the balcony leading to the Pakistani team dressing room, barring a few obvious Indian women in Indian colours, none. What is the male-female ratio in this country, anyway? I am not going to get a straight answer to this question during my stay in Pakistan.
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Chacha Green Cricket reaches into a big paper sack and passes me one half of an oily but tasty "kachori", the other half goes to Raghu. He says something in gruff Urdu to me which is a brief welcome as well as simultaneous instruction to his camp-followers to look after us. He asks me my name, I give it to him with the family surname, it goes like this:- "Malik Veeresh _____ of Jhung, now of Delhi, India." He stares at me, obviously recognises the surname, and I get a huge bear hug in return. An assortment of excited young men, meanwhile, orchestraed by Chacha’s nephew (who is unfortunately dumb, but manages sounds in a way that others seem to be able to understand) are piling Raghu with lemon tea and cola and more chips. We are now going through the complete "Welcome to Pakistan" experience that has been top of mindspace for the last few weeks. This is more like it.
The Pakistani cricket team, out in the middle, is kind of collapsing. Chacha and company are going through the drill, with additional slogans on Indo-Pak amity and joy and brotherhood interspersed every now and then. Since I do not follow cricket, I spend my time walking around the stand and introducing myself, talking with anybody who will. Raghu watches the game.
I strike a conversation with an intense young boy, must be 16 years old or so, is very obviously a great cricket fan and club level player. He was selected for some training in South Africa, but was not permitted to go by his parents. Study hard. Has now therefore decided to concentrate on his studies, so did not get a position as a ball-boy, but has bunked to see the match anyway. Has a world view on every Pakistani cricketer.
Bored unidentified Pakistani security man in t-shirt and slacks, young, and sitting with equally bored unidentified Indian security man in safari suit, also young. I think I see weapons under their belts. After a few guarded minutes both let slip that they are happy that the match is getting over early, at least they can now rest. There is a fluid synchronisation in their movements, low on wastage of any energy but alert as a pair all the time, which I marvel at. What a team they would have made against other real bad guys.
Young boys working for one of the cola or soap MNCs, I forget which, walking around making people fill coupons for some sort of market research on best movie, best actor, best actress, best tv serial and stuff like that. One side is in Urdu and the other in English. Fill the forms on random basis with my Delhi address, and they are thrilled. I ask them what they want to be when they grow up, and both of them say "fighter pilots". I tell them they are going to have to learn good English if they want to, they look at me doubtfully.
By now I have a fan club. A group of young men are convinced that Pakistan’s forthcoming loss in cricket to India does not really mean much because 4 of the Indian players are actually "ours". They have the standard view on the fate of Muslims in India. I spend a lot of time trying to explain status of Muslims in India and as Indians, it just seems to go over them, I would give anything for an affluent South Indian Muslim at this juncture. Don’t these guys watch Kamalahassan’s Tamil movies dubbed back in English? The conversation overtakes the match and moves on to equalising the fight for Kashmir as a revenge for East Pakistan. It goes on, I feel like I am at The Chowk. Much of the next few hours are spent in reaching a point in every discussion which inevitably veers towards Kashmir, then changes track to watching the match, joining in shouting all sorts of slogans, and exchanging 10 rupee notes. For every one of them, we are the first Hindus they have ever met. None of them recognise the "Om" symbol across my t-shirt. I wish I had a ponytail and wore caste marks.
Want a smoke? Walk up to any policeman. Want to walk into the restricted enclosures? Walk up with a senior policeman. Want to avoid paying for a ticket? Walk in as escort to families of very senior policeman. I learn that they are called "thullaa" and "mamu" here too. Some bored young boys try to enact the scene from Dil Se, where Shah Rukh Khan’s radio jockey hero is being dragged away in the backlanes of Old Delhi by the bad Muslim terrorists, and poor SRK desperately tries to attract the attention of some cops on a goof off by shouting the magic words "oye thullai, thullai" at them. This has the local constabulary down on them very rapidly, but considering the mixed nature of the crowd and my request-cum-apology on their behalf, they are not thrown out but let off without much fanfare.
I see a few familiar faces from the Indian cricket establishment, their hangerons and media, strutting around. They all look very important with bunches of badges hanging around their necks. As a matter of fact, I see a lot of important looking faces and over-weight bodies from both countries strutting around trying to look Very Important.
For lunch, we Indians and selected Pakistanis are invited by a few people walking around the stadium with a megaphone to assemble at a point near the next enclosure, and then marched off in a large hungry mixed group towards a small hotel nearby. I smuggle the 16 year old Pindi youngster who could not go for training to South Africa because of his folks and a few other young Pakistanis with me, since it is not fair to feed only selected Indians and "official" Pakistanis, and I feel that they are like hungry every two hours kind of youngsters anywhere anyways, besides this is what I would do when a free meal beckons me because of my dispensation at that moment.
The Rawalpindi Cricket Lovers Association are an obviously intense and enthusiastic lot, and they have an Indo-Pak chapter with many impressive names on it. We are all invited to listen to speeches from a variety of cricket lovers from Pakistan, while lunch awaits appetisingly in the hall next door. Not to be out-done, a clutch of Indians get up to make their speeches. Then there are joint songs. After that, there are more slogans and speeches. Everybody wants to say how much they love everybody else.
Luckily, there are some more young people, engineers who have completed their MBAs from one of the better IIMs in India (Bangalore), who are sitting next to us. They have been here longer and wise us up to some of the essentials, like taxi rates and food. And the fact that this can go on all evening, if we don’t start heading for the food. Since they have been living in hostels long enough, they just get up and move towards the food. This starts a trend. Now you know what an MBA is good for.
One thing I want to state here - as and when Pakistan gets back to being a democracy, it will have no problems finding long winded speech makers. Just go to the cricket lovers. After everybody else has gone for food, they are still busy making speeches at each other, which are recorded for television. Later in the evening, the same speeches are played back, cut with shots of the crowd pre-food exodus. So, on to the food.
Lunch is, well, tasty as well as appearing to be immense. Pakistani hospitality towards all Indians and those who look like Indians, is at full throttle again. Lines form for food, and others jump the line for faster servings. Meanwhile, the joint Indo-Pak cricket lovers ask us back to get photographed. Many do, carrying huge dishes full of roast chicken pieces, mystery dry keema, oversized corrugated naans, buttery peas pulaos, a very heavy semi-wet semi-dry kind of daal that I have never had before, salads, vegetables almost al dente instead of the gravied brown mash that goes for "Punjabi food" in India, double heavy phirni, colas in bottles with paper straws, and tea. And lots of butter. Surprisingly, no lassi.
Those photographs have to be somewhere. People are saying cheese with their mouths full of chicken-keema-daal-rice-curry. I wish I had my camera along for the n’th time.
This is the one part of the trip where I feel this deja vu kind of thing. Squash your eyes, and you can almost imagine that you are back in the ’70s in Lajpat Nagar, Delhi, at the gents only section of a reception for a new-rich refugee type of Punjabi wedding, without the booze. An elderly person is giving a speech in a corner, and getting agitated that people are not concentrating on it. Other elderly person are listening to him, grumbling, just awaiting their turn. The mike squeaks and groans every now and then. Other people are cracking wierd jokes. More than that is the Punjabi "eat more or we will feel bad and then we shall have to kill you" approach to hospitality. In the distance, youngsters are drinking colas as though there is no tommorrow. The only missing entities are Shunty-equivalents serving liquor disguised in stainless steel glasses.
I have an old formula here, ignore the main food, go straight for the pudding, hold a dessert plate with something in it, and then abandon it after some time to revert to the main food in peace when the crush is over. The youngsters are eating energetically, and Raghu seems to have evolved into a natural team leader, with stories on Indian starlets I never knew he had any idea about.
We hear some roaring in the distance, and realise that the match has resumed. We burp gratefully, abandon semi-finished plates on chairs, bow to the speechmakers, and join the crowds running back to the stadium. We go through the complete physical examination bit again, half these soldiers must be gay by the way they fondle everybody, and find that post-lunch the complete stadium and their cousins have moved into our Westerly enclosures. The PAF airplane circling overhead has now been replaced by two helicopters, and rumour has it that the President shall be arriving himself. The real reason, however, for the emptying of the Easterly stands is that apart from the shade Javed Miandad Stand provides, it seems as though the sponsors and the Pakistan Cricket Board and their multiple Uncles have already decided the outcome of the match, and so the complete bag of tricks for the post-Match ceremonies, the stands, the stage, the banners, the boards, the preening pretenders, the sponsors, even the cup and the over-size prize cheque, have all been lined up and kept ready. Visible best from Javed Miandad stand. Trust the wily fox.
Shoaib Akhtar is the one spark in a bit of a dismal parade, with his big hits getting Chacha Green Cricket and company dancing in joy. But there is a tension in the air, the margin of victory is too huge and conspiracy theories are doing the rounds.
The cops are over-cautious, the profile of the crowd in the enclosure has changed, and they too sense that there is some tension in the air. The cops walk around to ask the Indians in the crowd to move over to a separate enclosure on the other side, closer to the Indian dressing room. Some of us who have been in this enclosure all day look at Chacha Green, he looks back at us with a stoic, solid and simple look in his face, and so we Indians in the Javed Miandad look quietly at each other, and we stay put. Cops shrug shoulders. Simple as that. I would vote for Chacha Green anyday. Anywhere.
The match is almost over. Camera men and an assortment of other off-field people are taking positions to run towards the pitch. Chacha and I are talking, and I jokingly ask him how come Chachi doesn’t come to see the match, he says laconically that she doesn’t like the game but usually comes on the last day, only this time the game is over before the last day. Somebody else from behind, a Pakistani who is obviously not from his inner circle, asks him crudely how many chachis there are. He turns around, gives him a glare that reduces the unfortunate question raiser to low self-esteem and abject penury for life, provides him with a solid dirty stare, and says "there is always same only one Chachi". We then get a short lecture on why he is loyal to Pakistan, loyal to one same chachi, loyal to true Islam which is brotherhood, and actually prefers his men to have only one wife at a time. And a short funny on why it is more practical to be with only one wife too with much mutual thigh slapping.
Match over, somebody has taken a catch for the unfortunate last wicket. I am concentrating on the way one particular Ten Sports cameraman with a steady-cam on front harness balanced on his paunch is keeping pace with the running, dancing, hugging Indian players. Later on in the evening I see the same frames again. Inspite of so many cops, crowds invade the pitch. The teams retire to their dressing rooms. There is a sullen silence around us, more because of the one-sided result than due to the loss. We bid farewell to Chacha Green who is almost in tears as he waves his flag, and cross over to the Indian enclosure, where cameramen are having a great time trying to rev up the Indians to sing and dance and wave flags. The wonder of the television camera, and yes, it is time to sing and dance and then subseuqently call people back home to ask them to put their televisions on, we are on tv.
All eyes are on the Indian balcony. Wadekar is standing there. Nehra looks out, Nehra goes back in. Sehwag looks out, ditto. Balaji looks out, the crowd goes berserk. The rest of the Indian team come out for a short time, crowd goes silent again. I think Pakistanis would vote for Balaji. In Rawalpindi. That is saying something.
1400-1530, 16th April’04:- there is a Pakistani Master of Ceremonies, an ex-cricketer with a lot of hair done in a retro-puff kind of style. First he talks with the Pakistani Captain in patronising Urdu. Then he talks with the Indian Captain in patronising English. Then he talks some more, with names of sponsors rolling off his oily lips. Somewhere towards the end he comes up once again with Virender Sehwag, who has got one of the big cardboard cheque kind of prizes. He asks Virender Sehwag what he thinks about defeating Pakistan on their home ground, and Virender answers him back, saying that it is all about putting up a good show for the fans everytime, that is all that matters to him, tht they bless him to be able to give them joy. The crowd erupts in a huge roar when they hear this. Next he asks Virender some more inane questions, to which Sehwag provides apt smart responses. The beauty of this exchange is that when the Pakistani MC asks in English, he gets a reply in Hindi. So he switches to Urdu, and gets a reply in English. Sehwag has class. And lip. I don’t know if much of this which happened as some sort of an "aside" came on tv or not.
There are all sorts of sponsor related photo op sessions still going on mid-field when we decide to leave with the crowd. Traffic has been "regulated", and in any case getting hold of a taxi right at the stadium gates is not feasible. Also, there is a particular Army building that I want to walk past, it is part of family history of the sort that would be buried in some archives somewhere, but has to do with explosions at armouries. So Raghu and I start heading in the general direction of Islamabad by foot. The shops are all closed, we are also looking for an Internet cafe, but seems everything is shut down, siesta or cricket?
We walk past this heavily fortified Army building on the left, friends of mine who were keen observors of the American-Afghan covert ops days in Pakistan have asked me to salute this building. The cover ops for this building is a "Survey of Pakistan" outlet. The route is lined with heavily armed soldiers and I ask one of them, "bhaiya, what building is this?" The soldier fixes me with a very beady eyed stare, and says "I don’t know", so I know I am at the right place. I salute the building, sticking my navy beret on my head, which I have brought all the way here, along, just for this reason. At that moment a few cars with sundry cricket groupies aka officials whiz past, and the Pakistani soldier looks away to do his job. It is all so symbolic. How many readers here know what I am talking about, then?
We loiter aimlessly around this part of Rawalpindi, till we get tired. Eventually we find ourselves back at the Stadium. Raghu and I head for the big square up ahead, from where we take a taxi. He gets off at Melody, heads for an internet cafe, and I move on, back to the hotel, towards keeping an appointment of a personal nature. 1
530-1930, 16th April’04: - the personal movements here, courtesy frontier taxi driver contacts that span personal loyalties, continents, generations and decades, with shabby looking cars that pack a punch beneath the bonnet you would not believe, involves risk taking and directs me towards points Shakarparian/Margalla. I learn some truths about Americans in Pakistan, madrassas as well as Afghan refugees up front. These are absolute ground level people, my contacts, and once again, it just proves that at the end of the day, it is the money trail that sustains any strife. As people from one sub-Continent, my observation here is that I think the Pakistanis had better get their acts together very soon and very fast, otherwise somebody shall have East India John Company commanding officers again in some parts of Pakistan, playing tribes off against tribes, this is all I am willing to say about what I learnt here about the land of my forefathers.
1930-midnight, 16th April’04:- quick shower later, my friend and host for the evening, LG, is a prominent and elegant Pathan from a renown family, has worked in many good positions within Pakistan and all over the world and is now making an entry into Pakistani politics as well as big business. We connect, grab a cup of tea at the hotel, exchange gifts, and move on a sight seeing tour of Islamabad by night in his huge new German SUV. Wide streets, ultra clean buildings, and an orderliness which sanitises. Just about the time when I am getting a bit edgy about the pristine driving habits being displayed by LG, he pulls what we call a "Delhi Lefty", which means that when approaching a crossroads to go left with at a red light, all lanes blocked with traffic in the same direction ahead of you, you get to the extreme right, jump the central divider, face oncoming traffic, and then perform a wide left turn from in front of all the stopped vehicles. The trick here is to do it before your light turns green, in which case you lose points since you have to keep going straight. This has to be done with nonchalance and elan. Pathans can drive, yes.
We enter the Marriot just as the Indian cricket team is leaving for dinner. The security arrangement at the Marriot is much stricter at night, the guards log the car number, run a quick video camera shot of the occupants, and only then release the barrier. The rush is absolutely amazing, but LG knows the right moves, parks bang in front of the tour bus, and a valet who recognises him as well as his generous tipping habits comes running to take charge of his SUV as well as clear the route. We meet up with LG’s friend, a banker, and head for the Chinese restaurant on the ground floor. The lobby is packed solid, and so is the restaurant where, naturally, LG has advance reservations for the best table. Next to us is a Minister from the Pakistani Government, a very OxBridge lady, and we go through the introductions. The lady minister knows the college my daughter goes to, and happens to have a youngster from her family there too. It is all so . . . correct society?
The meal is what I would call 5-star hotel Chinese. Means none of the hot ketchup and lukewarm garlic sauces with "tadkaa" that make for the headier and tastier Punjabi Chink in India. I mean, come on, there is no chopped onion with lime? I do not wish to embarrass LG, and Raghu kicks me from under the table, but I always ask for chopped onions with lime for my Chinese food in Delhi. Service is unobtrusive and conversation flows along fairly urbane lines. LG picks up what is obviously a very stiff tab, and on the way out I am surprised to see that the paanwallah has Indian "Pan Parag - with tobacco" on sale in the lobby, this has been banned in India for some time now. Actually I am surprised to see a proper paan-wallah in the lobby. There is a line in front of the paanwallah. I ask the paanwallah if he makes a palang-tod with genuine pearls crushed in it, and he says, yes, but it costs 10000/- rupees and will take an hour to deliver. Home delivery can be arranged. Raghu asks me what a "palang tod" is. We don’t order.
Close to midnight, LG drops us back to our hotel on Club Road by the long route, driving through most of Islamabad before accessing the outskirts. There are some huge weddings on at the hotels in the vicinity, apparently they do serve booze at the banquets here, and the cops on barricade duty are having a field day checking cars. When they really check a car, they get into the car on the driver’s side, sit next to him to literally squeeze him, and then get out looking happy. We see one group of cars coming into the road by driving the wrong way up the exit. I feel so much at home now. Except for the chooped onion, that is. I mean, sorry about this, but even our Chinese food is better than yours.
But LG has not had enough. We head for the Big Mosque again, and he points out the oddity there, the grave and memorial of a man much hated today as a symbol of much that was wrong in Pakistan’ yesterday. It is a fact, Zia ul Haq’s grave does spoil the frontage and serenity as well as aura of the Shah Faisal Mosque. Too many lives were lost, and not just during my formative years but as a cause-effect, subsequently too, were because of this unfortunate man who died do violently in an air crash, never yet explained sufficiently, whose pathetic remains lie buried there.
The mosque itself is airy, brightly lit, and so clean that it reminds me of the Bahai Temple in Delhi. I wonder if it is on the flight path, and how it would look from the air?
LG and I are very silent on our drive back. Raghu, all six foot of him, sprawls in the rear seat like a baby with the sleep of the innocent. LG and I, loyal to our respective flags, but friends through strong ties between dear and respected people in our extended families, pray for good sense in our generation to provide for the serenity of his generation.
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