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.