Yes it's a very controversial thing. The champions of democracy and freedom of speech are outraged. An old friend seems aggrieved that I've written a pro-ban tweet on Twitter (which I finally decided to reactivate on my cell phone). He and other ultra-liberals will undoubtedly argue that if people don't want to participate in a "drawing competition" against the Holy Prophet (PBUH), they can bloody well ignore it.
Well, I'm sorry, because for once I agree with what the government of Pakistan has done (even if it is at the hands of rogue courts).
I don't claim to be the most religious Muslim in the world (if anything, I may be closer to the other end of the spectrum) but enough is Enough. Sometimes it is important to make a statement, even if it is a symbolic one, even if people can still access Facebook on their blackberries and raspberries or even their PCs using third party software.
My claim is very simple. Would Facebook ever tolerate a user site celebrating the Holocaust (the very question I posed to my liberal friend) or allow a user group called "10 Reasons Why the Holocaust Never Happened"? Probably not, and nor should they. The Jewish people have feelings, and they will be offended (umm, also they happen to control the pursestrings of America.) But anything condemning Muslims is considered fair game. Why is this? Is it because...
a) All Muslims are Terrorists and plant car bombs in Times Square?
b) Muslims need to take a chill pill and should be more tolerant in their views?
c) Muslims frankly have no economic control over anything and it's easy to walk all over them?
d) All of the above.
e) None of the above.
Its anybody's guess but I know where I'd place my bet.
A simple examination of Facebook's terms of use (just type that into Google) reveal just how draconian the social networking site really is. If they 'find out' that you are not using your real first and last name or real date of birth, you can be banned, as many users have been (so much for your privacy or desire to appear a bit younger to the rishta aunties!) A UK MP was recently banned because Facebook didn't believe he was really an MP! (They later apologized and restored his account.) Facebook can also determine what is controversial and what is spam, whether you have too many contacts (I guess they haven't heard of 'human networkers' in Pakistan) or are way too active on other people's walls. And if I start talking of Facebook's controversial privacy policy, it would become a digression that's the subject for another blog. But what does any of this have to do with Pakistan's ban on Facebook? Simple. Facebook can ban an account if you have used a pseudonym or created a playful account for your pet fish, but offending a billion Muslims on an issue of extreme sensitivity is well - not an issue - because these Muslims need to get a life and embrace the spirit of freedom of speech.
I must confess that, at a personal level, I am not thrilled at the ban on Facebook, but I will continue to support it as long as the government of Pakistan considers it fit to maintain the ban.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
2009 – The Year that Was (Part I)
2009 is but a blur in my mind, it is the ‘whoosh’ of the wind when you put the window down in a speeding car, it is the flash of an angry green eye (with flecks of hazel). It disturbs me immensely that I cannot remember much about this year; I only know that it happened because 2008 couldn’t possibly have led to 2010.
This (now) first of two blogs is thus dedicated to remembering 2009. It is not premeditated, it is not preplanned. It may well end with this sentence (or not...) It is a flow of consciousness, a deliberate and determined mining of my subconscious. In short, these blogs are being written because 2009 must not be allowed to get away.
My Face or Yours?
If TIME magazine can declare the iPhone ‘Person of the Year’ for 2008, I have no hesitation in declaring Facebook ‘Phenomenon of the Year’ for 2009 (thus also improving on TIME’s dumb if self-consciously clever noun). Yes, Facebook has been around a bit longer (as had the iPhone in 2008), but 2009 was the year, in my impression, that it gained critical mass with Google-like domination. It’s the year when everyone (and their aunt – literally) wanted you to be their ‘friend’ – if only in cyberspace.
My countless attempts to explain Facebook to my father have failed because there is simply no parallel, no pre-Internet paradigm. Its not like email which even 4-year old Kyan can understand (thanks to mildly annoying characters like Postman Pat). So I tried to rely on the newer lingo. ‘It’s, umm, a, social networking platform….where you can find old friends, and people will post their pictures and things…’ was the best I could manage but my father wanted to know why you couldn’t simply email pictures to each other (I think he finally figured out email in 2007). Facebook is not an easy phenomenon to explain because it fuses technology and sociology to create a brave new world that even the most timid can navigate - unlike its foolish predecessor Orkut and equally bizarre cousin Twitter! Where else in the world do you reconnect with long-lost friends like Jane Ashley Barr (last seen in the 1990s…)? How else do you host a party without sending out any voice, paper or email invites – yet know exactly how many people to cater for? And how else would you keep a tab on what hundreds of ‘friends’ are up to (if you’re that way inclined…), who’s ‘tagging’ them in strange photographs, and what their kid’s new hamster is called – without exchanging as much as a ‘hello’? And talking of friends – how on earth does one have 438 friends, anyway? So bizarre is the sociological phenomenon of Facebook that people who may normally ignore you in person seem to have no hesitation in sending a Facebook friend request – yet ignore you next time round! So it makes one wonder – is collecting friends on Facebook a badge of honor? (I must confess I am more than a little insecure about my humble list of 145... but then enter Ayesha Kasuri with 550 ‘close friends’!)
Facebook is also an unexpected bonanza for marketers, allowing them to launch new products and services with zero budgets and viral prowess, as experienced recently by my sister-in-law Mashal Jawad whose first clothing exhibition was a complete sell-out thanks to Facebook’s modus operandi. (Yes she had to return a couple of outfits but that’s another story!)
But Facebook, like life, is not perfect, because 2009 was also the year when the uncles and aunties discovered Facebook with a vengeance and started sending friend requests to an unsuspecting lot of ‘youngsters’ not quite ready to share their latest diversions with their friend’s mom – or indeed their own! I of course have the added challenge of receiving countless ‘friend requests’ from Beaconhouse students and parents who fail to comprehend that this is not the best forum to advise me that the toilet paper has run out in North Nazimabad Primary III. So you do what you do in life: ignore.
In short, Facebook is great, but is it insidiously dismantling the very order of human society? After all, is it really necessary to meet people any longer?
Dishing it out
2009 was also a culinary delight thanks to DISH- a beacon of understated elegance on a new road named after my very overstated and highly accomplished grandfather. I am not quite sure what drew Sophia and I to DISH in our nightly feeding frenzy – the fabulous entrees and desserts, that the insecure foodies of M M Alam would instinctively avoid it (ultimately, though, a self-defeating blessing), that the owners were friends and my then-GM HR the landlord, or that the road bore my last name. Regardless, there were many excuses to frequent DISH, and we exploited each with relish!
That DISH did not succeed is a sad comment on the vacuous and utterly tasteless residents of the city I live in. Shame on us! But kudos to J&S (and their unamused investors) for giving Lahore the resplendent DISH!
The Immortal King
Fast-forward to June: how does one explain the phenomenon of Michael Jackson to a 5-year old?
I was in San Diego, California when we were dumbstruck by news of what had just happened in neighboring Los Angeles. The initial disbelief was followed by simultaneous impressions of coming of age with the King of Pop at the helm of all that was hip. We were confused, like a generation that had just lost an imperfect icon, not sure whether to dwell on the probable truth of the imperfections or the undeniable truth of rhythm. When Sophia’s moonwalk stories of Omar Javaid were (finally) exhausted, an even darker thought surfaced: what if Madonna also died? It seemed crazy but entirely within the realms of possibility after MJ’s unthinkable demise. We imagined dismay at an entire generation left orphaned.
I was oddly reminded of Benazir Bhutto’s assassination, when another larger-than-life figure was instantly canonized. It seemed like untimely tragedy was the ultimate redemption for both our fallen heroes. Was it fair that poor Farrah Fawcett, whose life ended a few hours later, was all but eclipsed by Michael Jackson? Cleary being an angel (if just Charlie’s) was not good enough for a media that thrives on scandal.
I was at a loss on how to explain the MJ phenomenon to Lina and Kyan, and not sure how not to, since there was nothing else on TV but images of ‘Thriller’. I just explained that he wasn’t really a zombie, and left it at that. I have no doubt that one day they will discover his music, as I did Elvis Presley’s, who also died when I was five. Such is the immortality of some people.
End of Part I
This (now) first of two blogs is thus dedicated to remembering 2009. It is not premeditated, it is not preplanned. It may well end with this sentence (or not...) It is a flow of consciousness, a deliberate and determined mining of my subconscious. In short, these blogs are being written because 2009 must not be allowed to get away.
My Face or Yours?
If TIME magazine can declare the iPhone ‘Person of the Year’ for 2008, I have no hesitation in declaring Facebook ‘Phenomenon of the Year’ for 2009 (thus also improving on TIME’s dumb if self-consciously clever noun). Yes, Facebook has been around a bit longer (as had the iPhone in 2008), but 2009 was the year, in my impression, that it gained critical mass with Google-like domination. It’s the year when everyone (and their aunt – literally) wanted you to be their ‘friend’ – if only in cyberspace.
My countless attempts to explain Facebook to my father have failed because there is simply no parallel, no pre-Internet paradigm. Its not like email which even 4-year old Kyan can understand (thanks to mildly annoying characters like Postman Pat). So I tried to rely on the newer lingo. ‘It’s, umm, a, social networking platform….where you can find old friends, and people will post their pictures and things…’ was the best I could manage but my father wanted to know why you couldn’t simply email pictures to each other (I think he finally figured out email in 2007). Facebook is not an easy phenomenon to explain because it fuses technology and sociology to create a brave new world that even the most timid can navigate - unlike its foolish predecessor Orkut and equally bizarre cousin Twitter! Where else in the world do you reconnect with long-lost friends like Jane Ashley Barr (last seen in the 1990s…)? How else do you host a party without sending out any voice, paper or email invites – yet know exactly how many people to cater for? And how else would you keep a tab on what hundreds of ‘friends’ are up to (if you’re that way inclined…), who’s ‘tagging’ them in strange photographs, and what their kid’s new hamster is called – without exchanging as much as a ‘hello’? And talking of friends – how on earth does one have 438 friends, anyway? So bizarre is the sociological phenomenon of Facebook that people who may normally ignore you in person seem to have no hesitation in sending a Facebook friend request – yet ignore you next time round! So it makes one wonder – is collecting friends on Facebook a badge of honor? (I must confess I am more than a little insecure about my humble list of 145... but then enter Ayesha Kasuri with 550 ‘close friends’!)
Facebook is also an unexpected bonanza for marketers, allowing them to launch new products and services with zero budgets and viral prowess, as experienced recently by my sister-in-law Mashal Jawad whose first clothing exhibition was a complete sell-out thanks to Facebook’s modus operandi. (Yes she had to return a couple of outfits but that’s another story!)
But Facebook, like life, is not perfect, because 2009 was also the year when the uncles and aunties discovered Facebook with a vengeance and started sending friend requests to an unsuspecting lot of ‘youngsters’ not quite ready to share their latest diversions with their friend’s mom – or indeed their own! I of course have the added challenge of receiving countless ‘friend requests’ from Beaconhouse students and parents who fail to comprehend that this is not the best forum to advise me that the toilet paper has run out in North Nazimabad Primary III. So you do what you do in life: ignore.
In short, Facebook is great, but is it insidiously dismantling the very order of human society? After all, is it really necessary to meet people any longer?
Dishing it out
2009 was also a culinary delight thanks to DISH- a beacon of understated elegance on a new road named after my very overstated and highly accomplished grandfather. I am not quite sure what drew Sophia and I to DISH in our nightly feeding frenzy – the fabulous entrees and desserts, that the insecure foodies of M M Alam would instinctively avoid it (ultimately, though, a self-defeating blessing), that the owners were friends and my then-GM HR the landlord, or that the road bore my last name. Regardless, there were many excuses to frequent DISH, and we exploited each with relish!
That DISH did not succeed is a sad comment on the vacuous and utterly tasteless residents of the city I live in. Shame on us! But kudos to J&S (and their unamused investors) for giving Lahore the resplendent DISH!
The Immortal King
Fast-forward to June: how does one explain the phenomenon of Michael Jackson to a 5-year old?
I was in San Diego, California when we were dumbstruck by news of what had just happened in neighboring Los Angeles. The initial disbelief was followed by simultaneous impressions of coming of age with the King of Pop at the helm of all that was hip. We were confused, like a generation that had just lost an imperfect icon, not sure whether to dwell on the probable truth of the imperfections or the undeniable truth of rhythm. When Sophia’s moonwalk stories of Omar Javaid were (finally) exhausted, an even darker thought surfaced: what if Madonna also died? It seemed crazy but entirely within the realms of possibility after MJ’s unthinkable demise. We imagined dismay at an entire generation left orphaned.
I was oddly reminded of Benazir Bhutto’s assassination, when another larger-than-life figure was instantly canonized. It seemed like untimely tragedy was the ultimate redemption for both our fallen heroes. Was it fair that poor Farrah Fawcett, whose life ended a few hours later, was all but eclipsed by Michael Jackson? Cleary being an angel (if just Charlie’s) was not good enough for a media that thrives on scandal.
I was at a loss on how to explain the MJ phenomenon to Lina and Kyan, and not sure how not to, since there was nothing else on TV but images of ‘Thriller’. I just explained that he wasn’t really a zombie, and left it at that. I have no doubt that one day they will discover his music, as I did Elvis Presley’s, who also died when I was five. Such is the immortality of some people.
End of Part I
Friday, September 26, 2008
The Romance of Jasmine Tea
(or, ‘How I ended up spending $100 on chai after making an ass of myself in office’)
Beaconhouse Regional Office, KL: This tale begins with a case of poorly timed acne and – concurrently – a rather visible tear on the back of my pants. Could it get any worse? Yes, because this beauteous scene is in the midst of our regional office in Kuala Lumpur where I am making a desperate sales pitch to a middle-aged Chinese couple (who probably don’t understand half of what I’m saying) about why they must sell their 2 successful, purpose-built schools to us for half a million Ringgits less than they want to. I have a very large pimple on my forehead which I am somewhat conscious of, because – as much as I would like to consider it a sign of youth – I am past the age when normal people get acne. What I am blissfully unaware of, however, is the large tear on the seat of my pants. My captive audience consists of 3 of our senior managers in KL and the hapless Chinese couple. Suddenly, in an urge to explain how in fact we are paying them the half million extra through an earn-out formula (when in fact we’re not), I stand up and – in the style that my peon in Lahore must now be familiar with – impatiently demand a board marker so I can demonstrate my point. After irrationally accusing the marker-giver of having stupidly handed me a permanent marker vs. the erasable kind – which is of course not the case – I turn my back to the audience and start scribbling on the board. I’m too wrapped up in my ‘sell me your schools’ sales pitch to notice that some people in the room have started shuffling around uncomfortably. As I’m reaching my climactic ending, I am nudged on the shoulder by my finance manager, suggesting that I wear my blazer. I look at him quizzically and assume he’s finally lost his marbles. “Your pants are torn in the…seat”, he murmers apologetically. Momentarily disoriented, I am not sure whether or not to acknowledge my unfortunate situation in front of a roomful of people. Instead, I sit down and shamelessly continue addressing the visibly perplexed Mr & Mrs Tan.
Pyramid Mall, Subang Jaya: Hours later, I have purchased Eucerin’s entire range of skincare products including sebum reducing cleanser, clarifying facial toner, skin regulating cream gel, and of course 25% zinc oxide ointment from the Guardian Pharmacy’s drained pharmacist. As I’m walking away from the pharmacy, I have a sudden urge to turn back and quiz the pharmacist on why she didn’t suggest I buy the more fashionable Lancome range, but then better sense prevails – or perhaps I am distracted by someone staring at my forehead. I am now lost in the endless expanse of the mall. Totally randomly, I drift into a little tea shop, perhaps expecting that the ancient mystique of tea will purge my soul of its indiscretions. I find myself surrounded by a delicate cocktail of aromas as I explore the quaint little shop which claims to boast teas from across the East. An unobtrusive salesman stands by as he undoubtedly observes me – or perhaps my acne-scarred face – staring wide-eyed at exotic looking tins of tea ranging from [the equivalent of] $15 to $300 and more! The salesman tactfully intervenes at just the right moment. “Ah”, he says, “I see you’re looking at the compressed tea!” Handing me a solid disk as hard as a brick, he explains that compressed tea can last for upwards of 50 years. “Compressed teas have been used by the Chinese for centuries; they made excellent travel companions in the old days when people had to go on long journeys. The variety that you’re holding was farmed in the mid 1900s…it is extremely expensive but slightly bitter…a bit of an acquired taste.” He smiles his polite Chinese salesman smile. I am fascinated and start to imagine myself sipping tea from delicate china cups in some ‘Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon’ type of landscape. It’s not long before I am tasting different varieties of tea and – like the keen pupil that I never was at school – learn to distinguish between green tea, oolong tea, black tea, flower scented tea, and compressed tea. Watching the salesman’s even more servile assistant prepare a cup of jasmine tea for me, I am fascinated to see tiny pellets of jasmine literally morph into fresh flowers as boiling water is poured on them. “Notice the fragrance!”, gasps the salesman. “Now I’m going to give you a very special tea…the Tie Guan Yin, a variety of oolong that not only has a delicate fragrance but – unlike jasmine – leaves a sweet aftertaste on your palette which, according to legend, reveals the lingering charm of Guan Yin, the Chinese Iron Goddess of Mercy!” (His grammar was less perfect.) By now, I am gracefully flying over buildings in tea heaven, having forgotten the mall outside and, indeed, the twin ailments of my afternoon.
Sheraton Subang, 2.30 am: It is thus that I sit insomniacally at my laptop, turning nouns into adverbs, admiring my loot of tea which includes a rather expensive tin of Tie Guan Yin and 3 tins of jasmine tea. I have no idea whether Mr & Mrs Tan will fall for my earn-out formula but I’ve already spent a tiny portion of the anticipated savings on a lifetime supply of some of the most spectacular tea known to mankind – or the Chinese, anyway, who seem to comprise most of it. Guan Yin have mercy!
Beaconhouse Regional Office, KL: This tale begins with a case of poorly timed acne and – concurrently – a rather visible tear on the back of my pants. Could it get any worse? Yes, because this beauteous scene is in the midst of our regional office in Kuala Lumpur where I am making a desperate sales pitch to a middle-aged Chinese couple (who probably don’t understand half of what I’m saying) about why they must sell their 2 successful, purpose-built schools to us for half a million Ringgits less than they want to. I have a very large pimple on my forehead which I am somewhat conscious of, because – as much as I would like to consider it a sign of youth – I am past the age when normal people get acne. What I am blissfully unaware of, however, is the large tear on the seat of my pants. My captive audience consists of 3 of our senior managers in KL and the hapless Chinese couple. Suddenly, in an urge to explain how in fact we are paying them the half million extra through an earn-out formula (when in fact we’re not), I stand up and – in the style that my peon in Lahore must now be familiar with – impatiently demand a board marker so I can demonstrate my point. After irrationally accusing the marker-giver of having stupidly handed me a permanent marker vs. the erasable kind – which is of course not the case – I turn my back to the audience and start scribbling on the board. I’m too wrapped up in my ‘sell me your schools’ sales pitch to notice that some people in the room have started shuffling around uncomfortably. As I’m reaching my climactic ending, I am nudged on the shoulder by my finance manager, suggesting that I wear my blazer. I look at him quizzically and assume he’s finally lost his marbles. “Your pants are torn in the…seat”, he murmers apologetically. Momentarily disoriented, I am not sure whether or not to acknowledge my unfortunate situation in front of a roomful of people. Instead, I sit down and shamelessly continue addressing the visibly perplexed Mr & Mrs Tan.
Pyramid Mall, Subang Jaya: Hours later, I have purchased Eucerin’s entire range of skincare products including sebum reducing cleanser, clarifying facial toner, skin regulating cream gel, and of course 25% zinc oxide ointment from the Guardian Pharmacy’s drained pharmacist. As I’m walking away from the pharmacy, I have a sudden urge to turn back and quiz the pharmacist on why she didn’t suggest I buy the more fashionable Lancome range, but then better sense prevails – or perhaps I am distracted by someone staring at my forehead. I am now lost in the endless expanse of the mall. Totally randomly, I drift into a little tea shop, perhaps expecting that the ancient mystique of tea will purge my soul of its indiscretions. I find myself surrounded by a delicate cocktail of aromas as I explore the quaint little shop which claims to boast teas from across the East. An unobtrusive salesman stands by as he undoubtedly observes me – or perhaps my acne-scarred face – staring wide-eyed at exotic looking tins of tea ranging from [the equivalent of] $15 to $300 and more! The salesman tactfully intervenes at just the right moment. “Ah”, he says, “I see you’re looking at the compressed tea!” Handing me a solid disk as hard as a brick, he explains that compressed tea can last for upwards of 50 years. “Compressed teas have been used by the Chinese for centuries; they made excellent travel companions in the old days when people had to go on long journeys. The variety that you’re holding was farmed in the mid 1900s…it is extremely expensive but slightly bitter…a bit of an acquired taste.” He smiles his polite Chinese salesman smile. I am fascinated and start to imagine myself sipping tea from delicate china cups in some ‘Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon’ type of landscape. It’s not long before I am tasting different varieties of tea and – like the keen pupil that I never was at school – learn to distinguish between green tea, oolong tea, black tea, flower scented tea, and compressed tea. Watching the salesman’s even more servile assistant prepare a cup of jasmine tea for me, I am fascinated to see tiny pellets of jasmine literally morph into fresh flowers as boiling water is poured on them. “Notice the fragrance!”, gasps the salesman. “Now I’m going to give you a very special tea…the Tie Guan Yin, a variety of oolong that not only has a delicate fragrance but – unlike jasmine – leaves a sweet aftertaste on your palette which, according to legend, reveals the lingering charm of Guan Yin, the Chinese Iron Goddess of Mercy!” (His grammar was less perfect.) By now, I am gracefully flying over buildings in tea heaven, having forgotten the mall outside and, indeed, the twin ailments of my afternoon.
Sheraton Subang, 2.30 am: It is thus that I sit insomniacally at my laptop, turning nouns into adverbs, admiring my loot of tea which includes a rather expensive tin of Tie Guan Yin and 3 tins of jasmine tea. I have no idea whether Mr & Mrs Tan will fall for my earn-out formula but I’ve already spent a tiny portion of the anticipated savings on a lifetime supply of some of the most spectacular tea known to mankind – or the Chinese, anyway, who seem to comprise most of it. Guan Yin have mercy!
Monday, July 7, 2008
An infrequent blog
My ‘new’ blog has turned out to be about as vacant as the new government of Pakistan (which, I should add, was not the government when I rather grandly started ‘blogging’ in December 2007…those were the good old days in which my friend SA governed the forests and fisheries of the Punjab, and my relative WS broke all known records as teenage minister.) It was then, in the darkness that delivered this now not-so-new year, that I was finally driven to write. (Also, the fact that there were no New Year festivities in Karachi, where I was then, and I am now, may have played a minor role.)
I have thus been troubled by the fact that my blog has not quite become a blog; it is but one sad Entry made over 6 months ago, when I was young and carefree (Not) and the world was a braver place. I have derided myself, psychoanalyzed myself, and even flirted with self-important ideas like ‘writers block’, and what-have-you.
It was after some soul-searching that it finally struck me.
Certain things can only happen once in history (and thank God for that). Like that fateful midnight 60 years ago that carved two nations out of one, my ‘Blog’ was also borne of a cataclysmic event – the assassination of Benazir Bhutto – and thus belongs to history. To expect it to perpetuate does not, perhaps, augur well for the other great leaders of our nation… Differently put, nothing has quite touched me since. I am clearly the antidote to a certain distinguished family interviewed recently by the scholarly GT whose matriarch declared: ‘We are an eccentric family – things touch us.’ Well, things do not ‘touch’ me.
In my defense, however, between 27 December 2007 and 6 July, nothing of any significance has happened…unless of course one considers that today – 6 July – is the birthday of George W Bush…a fact I was forced to discover when somebody forwarded me an email with a photograph of a road sign greeting drivers entering the state of Connecticut: ‘Welcome to Connecticut, birthplace of George W Bush’, it read, followed by ‘We Apologize.’
So what is one supposed to celebrate – apart from W’s birthday? The fact that Mr. Z, who till recently was plotting his revenge from a jail cell, is now leader of the pack? (He plotted well.) Or do we get misty-eyed (or perhaps mystified?) at his newfound ‘closeness’ with NS, the protégé and prime beneficiary of Mr. ZAB’s killer? Or, perhaps, do we delve into the latest brainteaser and try to figure out who’s the ‘Old PPP’, who’s the ‘New’, and which one counts Aitzaz Ahsan amongst its members? Speaking of whom: I am also not ashamed to say that I don’t give two hoots about the ‘judiciary’, which to me has become nothing more than an over-hyped election issue. (I mean, who was the first to storm the Supreme Court anyway?) And what’s more important: massive food and fuel insecurities compounded by backbreaking inflation and back-to-back ‘load-shedding’, or the reinstatement of some dude called Iftikhar Chaudhry? It almost seems like a poorly-hatched film plot: keep harping about the cross-eyed guy, and hope that the 16 crore awaam will somehow lose sight of the real issues!
Indeed, it would not be a lie to say that I have stopped reading newspapers (although it could be a lie to say that I ever really read them)… and let’s not even talk of the ‘Breaking News’ alerts (yawn) that flash endlessly across 800 new channels at a breathtaking pace. But despite this newfound detachment, what did irk me tremendously was when, on a recent visit to New Delhi, a friend of ours, while twisting and turning on a barstool in a much sought-after new Japanese restaurant (we couldn’t get a table), declared: ‘The way things in Pakistan are happening, I think we’ll all soon be…together.’ There was a brief lapse before the meaning of the gratuitous remark sunk in. I realized she hadn’t even prefaced it with the customary ‘I hope you don’t mind’ (or equivalent thereof), almost as if I would instantly embrace this idea of oneness with Bollywood and Shining India. I dropped, from mid-air, the California roll that I was about to stuff my face with.
I have thus been troubled by the fact that my blog has not quite become a blog; it is but one sad Entry made over 6 months ago, when I was young and carefree (Not) and the world was a braver place. I have derided myself, psychoanalyzed myself, and even flirted with self-important ideas like ‘writers block’, and what-have-you.
It was after some soul-searching that it finally struck me.
Certain things can only happen once in history (and thank God for that). Like that fateful midnight 60 years ago that carved two nations out of one, my ‘Blog’ was also borne of a cataclysmic event – the assassination of Benazir Bhutto – and thus belongs to history. To expect it to perpetuate does not, perhaps, augur well for the other great leaders of our nation… Differently put, nothing has quite touched me since. I am clearly the antidote to a certain distinguished family interviewed recently by the scholarly GT whose matriarch declared: ‘We are an eccentric family – things touch us.’ Well, things do not ‘touch’ me.
In my defense, however, between 27 December 2007 and 6 July, nothing of any significance has happened…unless of course one considers that today – 6 July – is the birthday of George W Bush…a fact I was forced to discover when somebody forwarded me an email with a photograph of a road sign greeting drivers entering the state of Connecticut: ‘Welcome to Connecticut, birthplace of George W Bush’, it read, followed by ‘We Apologize.’
So what is one supposed to celebrate – apart from W’s birthday? The fact that Mr. Z, who till recently was plotting his revenge from a jail cell, is now leader of the pack? (He plotted well.) Or do we get misty-eyed (or perhaps mystified?) at his newfound ‘closeness’ with NS, the protégé and prime beneficiary of Mr. ZAB’s killer? Or, perhaps, do we delve into the latest brainteaser and try to figure out who’s the ‘Old PPP’, who’s the ‘New’, and which one counts Aitzaz Ahsan amongst its members? Speaking of whom: I am also not ashamed to say that I don’t give two hoots about the ‘judiciary’, which to me has become nothing more than an over-hyped election issue. (I mean, who was the first to storm the Supreme Court anyway?) And what’s more important: massive food and fuel insecurities compounded by backbreaking inflation and back-to-back ‘load-shedding’, or the reinstatement of some dude called Iftikhar Chaudhry? It almost seems like a poorly-hatched film plot: keep harping about the cross-eyed guy, and hope that the 16 crore awaam will somehow lose sight of the real issues!
Indeed, it would not be a lie to say that I have stopped reading newspapers (although it could be a lie to say that I ever really read them)… and let’s not even talk of the ‘Breaking News’ alerts (yawn) that flash endlessly across 800 new channels at a breathtaking pace. But despite this newfound detachment, what did irk me tremendously was when, on a recent visit to New Delhi, a friend of ours, while twisting and turning on a barstool in a much sought-after new Japanese restaurant (we couldn’t get a table), declared: ‘The way things in Pakistan are happening, I think we’ll all soon be…together.’ There was a brief lapse before the meaning of the gratuitous remark sunk in. I realized she hadn’t even prefaced it with the customary ‘I hope you don’t mind’ (or equivalent thereof), almost as if I would instantly embrace this idea of oneness with Bollywood and Shining India. I dropped, from mid-air, the California roll that I was about to stuff my face with.
Monday, December 31, 2007
The Circle of Life
April 1979: I was 7 years old at the time of Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto’s death. Although my grandfather Mahmud Ali Kasuri had been his law minister, and had played a central role in the framing of the 1973 constitution, they had had an ugly falling out when my grandfather grew disillusioned with Mr Bhutto’s regime for a number of reasons that included serious differences on the final shape that the constitution was to take (amongst other things, Mr Bhutto wanted sweeping powers to be granted to the President – which was him.) The end-result was that, in a fray of much-publicized resignation and acceptance letters published in the media, my grandfather resigned from Bhutto’s cabinet in October 1972 and, along with my father, joined hands with the PNA, an alliance of opposition parties bitterly opposed to Mr Bhutto’s regime.
The day that Bhutto was hung, an eerie silence permeated the house; it was finally the cook who told me in hushed tones that ‘Bhutto ko phaansi lagaa dee hae’. As a 7-year old, I wondered why the household was not alive with celebration. After all, hadn’t we driven through the streets of Lahore just before the 1977 elections, moronically chanting through our car-top loudspeakers: ‘Gali Gali mein shor hae, kay Bhutto cheeni chor hae’? I remained bewildered until my mother explained: ‘Even if you don’t agree with somebody, it’s always very sad when they die.’
27 December 2007: 28 years later, I feel much the same about the passing of his daughter, the complex and ultimately tragic Benazir Bhutto. I was never a great fan of her politics, but her stunning assassination has rocked me to my core. Just articulating the reality of her death seems surreal, as if she will pop up any minute on television in one of her designer specs, delivering yet another carefully measured interview. (Indeed, she is all over television, but for an entirely different reason…)
History can be cruel when it repeats itself but is also a poignant reminder of the circle of life. It hit me thus when my 4-year old daughter Lina, who suddenly found herself grounded at her grandparents’ home in Karachi, declared over the phone: ‘We cannot go out because the shops are closed because Bannazeer is died.’ While upset that my 4-year old should have to be subjected to the ugly realities of life (and sadder still about her choice of grammar!), my mind was jolted back to that fateful day in 1979 when I too couldn’t quite figure out what was going on. I suddenly understood what people mean when they say that the more things change, the more they stay the same…
30 December 2007: The predictable has happened, of course. Bilawal ‘Bhutto’ Zardari has been named heir-apparent to the political dynasty that is the PPP. He is painfully young and understandably uneasy, flanked on either side by his media-savvy, multi-lingual father and the eternally gloomy Amin Fahim. He tells us in his impeccable English that his mother always used to say ‘Democracy is the best revenge’, his voice rising so that one almost expects something more profound to follow, but his debut submission to the world media is over. I mourn for him, not only because he has lost his mother, but because his childhood has been cut short by a cruel twist of history. He has already entered a phase of ‘accelerated growth’ and will soon be unlike any other 19-year old. My wife Sophia disapproves. She says that he should have been given a ‘choice’. I remind her that a crown prince cannot refuse to be King. It is his destiny, his inheritance. It’s really as simple as that.
But what does worry me is whether, 3 decades later, Lina will be writing something similar about three generations of Bhuttos… I truly hope not, but it remains a lingering fear in my mind, not because I am a great Bhutto-lover, but because I am human. So I can only hope that he who submits to destiny is equally familiar with its evil twin: fate...
2 hours to 2008: Talk of corruption and inadequate delivery will indeed hang at the peripheries of Benazir Bhutto's legacy, but it will overwhelmingly be one of martyrdom, of a vibrant life cut short by the enemies of freedom and democracy. This is the inevitable portrait that is already emerging, and its rough edges are all too easy to disregard. After all, only the ‘experts’ micro-analyze a legacy, and their views don’t hold much weight in the collective consciousness of an entire nation.
Whether you loved her or loathed her – and there isn’t much middle ground with people like that – Benazir Bhutto was impossible to ignore. From her controversial sense of style to her often schizophrenic statements, she was simply one of the most fascinating political leaders in the world. And to non-Pakistanis such as the chatty taxi drivers I’ve invariably had to endure in places like London, she embodied the residual goodness and beauty of Pakistan. Now that she is gone, I can only hope, as the remaining hours of 2007 fade into history, that we can, as a nation, reclaim some of that goodness in the New Year that still lies ahead.
The day that Bhutto was hung, an eerie silence permeated the house; it was finally the cook who told me in hushed tones that ‘Bhutto ko phaansi lagaa dee hae’. As a 7-year old, I wondered why the household was not alive with celebration. After all, hadn’t we driven through the streets of Lahore just before the 1977 elections, moronically chanting through our car-top loudspeakers: ‘Gali Gali mein shor hae, kay Bhutto cheeni chor hae’? I remained bewildered until my mother explained: ‘Even if you don’t agree with somebody, it’s always very sad when they die.’
27 December 2007: 28 years later, I feel much the same about the passing of his daughter, the complex and ultimately tragic Benazir Bhutto. I was never a great fan of her politics, but her stunning assassination has rocked me to my core. Just articulating the reality of her death seems surreal, as if she will pop up any minute on television in one of her designer specs, delivering yet another carefully measured interview. (Indeed, she is all over television, but for an entirely different reason…)
History can be cruel when it repeats itself but is also a poignant reminder of the circle of life. It hit me thus when my 4-year old daughter Lina, who suddenly found herself grounded at her grandparents’ home in Karachi, declared over the phone: ‘We cannot go out because the shops are closed because Bannazeer is died.’ While upset that my 4-year old should have to be subjected to the ugly realities of life (and sadder still about her choice of grammar!), my mind was jolted back to that fateful day in 1979 when I too couldn’t quite figure out what was going on. I suddenly understood what people mean when they say that the more things change, the more they stay the same…
30 December 2007: The predictable has happened, of course. Bilawal ‘Bhutto’ Zardari has been named heir-apparent to the political dynasty that is the PPP. He is painfully young and understandably uneasy, flanked on either side by his media-savvy, multi-lingual father and the eternally gloomy Amin Fahim. He tells us in his impeccable English that his mother always used to say ‘Democracy is the best revenge’, his voice rising so that one almost expects something more profound to follow, but his debut submission to the world media is over. I mourn for him, not only because he has lost his mother, but because his childhood has been cut short by a cruel twist of history. He has already entered a phase of ‘accelerated growth’ and will soon be unlike any other 19-year old. My wife Sophia disapproves. She says that he should have been given a ‘choice’. I remind her that a crown prince cannot refuse to be King. It is his destiny, his inheritance. It’s really as simple as that.
But what does worry me is whether, 3 decades later, Lina will be writing something similar about three generations of Bhuttos… I truly hope not, but it remains a lingering fear in my mind, not because I am a great Bhutto-lover, but because I am human. So I can only hope that he who submits to destiny is equally familiar with its evil twin: fate...
2 hours to 2008: Talk of corruption and inadequate delivery will indeed hang at the peripheries of Benazir Bhutto's legacy, but it will overwhelmingly be one of martyrdom, of a vibrant life cut short by the enemies of freedom and democracy. This is the inevitable portrait that is already emerging, and its rough edges are all too easy to disregard. After all, only the ‘experts’ micro-analyze a legacy, and their views don’t hold much weight in the collective consciousness of an entire nation.
Whether you loved her or loathed her – and there isn’t much middle ground with people like that – Benazir Bhutto was impossible to ignore. From her controversial sense of style to her often schizophrenic statements, she was simply one of the most fascinating political leaders in the world. And to non-Pakistanis such as the chatty taxi drivers I’ve invariably had to endure in places like London, she embodied the residual goodness and beauty of Pakistan. Now that she is gone, I can only hope, as the remaining hours of 2007 fade into history, that we can, as a nation, reclaim some of that goodness in the New Year that still lies ahead.
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