It was autumn, the season of silence and golden days. Fresh mornings, mellow sunlight, cool evenings and starlit nights; the season of the fulfilment of spring and summer, the evensong preceding the death of the year. The summer past had been more bountiful of sunshine and fruitfulness than any within living memory. Germans gave thanks to the Great Giver in the words of Rainer Maria Rilke: “Lord: it is time. The summer was most great. Lay your shadow on the sun-dials, and on the fields let the winds loose. Command the last fruits to be full; urge them to perfection and send the last sweetness into the heavy wine.” Whenever I went to Germany, I heard them talk of the wonderfully warm summer and the abundance of grapes they had harvested. The scenery was much the same everywhere: the chinar and the Columbia creeper had turned a fiery red; yellow leaves floated down, the breeze ran its fingers through girls’ hair as they hurried homewards; the fragrance of roasting chestnuts and baking bread warmed the chill of the evening air. George Trakl captured the scene in a few memorable lines: “Sun, autumnal, then and vague, and the fruit falls from the trees. Stillness resides in blue rooms one long afternoon...Nightfall full of peace and wine... The grape has been pressed, the soft stillness is filled with gentle answers to dark questions.”
Hamburg: Germany’s largest city and Europe’s biggest whore-town. Also rich and beautifully laid out with parks, lakes and a tidal river reaching out into the North Sea.
We hail a cab at the Harbour Station. I let the ladies take the rear seat and get in the front. The cab driver is a young girl, barely twenty, blonde, well proportioned—the kind we describe as burey kaam vastey buree nahin—not bad for a bad deed. I greet her gutten taag and announce to my companions, “We have a lady taxi driver.” Our escort, Heidi Bernsdoff, informs us that there are quite a few women plying taxis. “All hours, all places?” I ask. The question is translated and answered. “No, she does not drive after sunset and does not ply through the red-light area, Keeper Bahn.” “How can she tell a potential molester from an honest traveller?” I ask. The girl waggles her head in a worldly-wise manner and replies: “One lives and learns.” She tells us of her sister who is still in the process of learning. She fell in love with a young Pakistani and the two were married in a Hamburg mosque. She accompanied the bridal couple to Karachi to spend her vacation there. There they discovered that the Pakistani already had a wife. By then her sister was pregnant. So she settled for being a second wife. “One lives and learns,” she repeats philosophically, “the more one sees of the world, the more one learns.”
“Since you have seen something of the world, can you tell what country I come from?” I ask. She turns her grey eyes on me and gives my turban and beard a careful look. “I don’t know. Maybe from Iran.”
”Close enough! Make a second guess.”
She refuses and despite having a Pakistani brother-in-law cannot name another country east of Iran. She is embarrassed by her ignorance. To help her out I ask her if she would have risked taking as odd-looking a passenger as I, if I had not been accompanied by two women. She gives me a second quizzical look and answers with a reassuring smile: “Surely, I know your type. More bark than teeth. You look pretty harmless.” I am not flattered at the backhanded compliment. However, we have arrived at our destination. All I can say as she extends her hand to say “chuss”—goodbye—is, “You still have a lot to live and learn.”
In Gaddafi Land
Western journals, chiefly American and English, have sold to the world a grotesquely distorted picture of Colonel Muammar Gaddafi. Libyan media’s efforts to rectify the distortion by plastering the entire country with his pictures captioned Al Qaid-o-al Muallam-o-al Fikr (Supreme Leader and Wise Guardian) and exposing him for hours on end on TV has only confirmed the Western media’s depiction of him as a megalomaniac, a bigot, the chief patron of international terrorism and meddler in other nations’ affairs. No doubt in his zeal to propagate the eternal values of Islam, Gaddafi assumed the championship of the oppressed people of the world by generously giving money and arms to terrorist organizations as well as extending hospitality to their leaders. These included American Indians and Blacks, the IRA and Muslim minorities everywhere they feel oppressed. He outbid Israel and bought over Idi Amin for the Muslim world and gave large sums of money to Black dictators in the hope of converting them to Islam. He sent arms and money to Pakistan for use against India in the Bangladesh War of Independence and is known to be the chief financier of the Islamic bomb. All these exercises cost Libya a lot of money and earned him many enemies. For a while his squander-mania in the propagation of Islam was lauded by Muslims but soon even his fellow Arabs—the Saudis, Egyptians and Syrians, came to regard him as a man dangerously disturbed. It is ironic that while most outsiders regard Gaddafi as a Muslim fanatic, the chief opposition within his own country comes from the mullahs who believe that he is too modern. They are backed by Libya’s once-rich landowners and industrialists whose estates and business were taken over by the government.
There is much about Muammar Gaddafi that compels admiration. He is incredibly handsome. There is not a breath of scandal about his private life, his patronizing relatives or feathering his own nest. He is abstemious and puritanical beyond belief. Prohibition against alcohol is total and as effective as it is in Saudi Arabia. But unlike Saudia’s sheikhs who live in a vulgar opulence, Gaddafi and his colleagues live a spartan life. Gaddafi is as devout a Muslim as any Saudi Wahabi but he interprets the Quran in an entirely different manner. Libyan women except old tribals are not veiled; more than half the students in Libyan universities are women; they have equal job opportunities for which they draw equal remuneration. They are required to join military service just as the men.
There are other aspects of Gaddafi’s revolution that do not please the mullahs. Gaddafi is a thinker of dangerous thoughts with a messianic zeal to propagate his gospel. The Green Book first published in 1976 is evidently the product of a deep study of different political systems, their shortcomings and practical proposals to give power to the people. It is the third universal theory. Briefly, it propagates communism without rejecting religion. In fact, Gaddafi regards the true practice of Islam as the best example of theoretical communism. Everything belongs to Allah. Anyone who has land or property beyond what he can till himself or needs to shelter his family transgresses the laws of Islam. Workers are partners not wage earners. It is a daring experiment much of which has yet to prove its viability. Neither Gaddafi nor any of the propagators of the Green Book regard it as an infallible manifesto and are constantly engaged in discussing problems that arise in its implementation. Gaddafi does not dictate; he discourses in the manner an elder brother speaks to his younger brothers and sisters with parables and anecdotes from contemporary history. It is a delight to hear him on TV. There is no demagogy, no raving or ranting—only the gentle persuasive voice of a guru.
Little is known of Gaddafi’s personal life; different people give different versions. He is forty-one; the only child of beduin parents. He took a degree before he joined the army. He has two wives, the second being a nurse who looked after him when he was very ill. She tasted everything before it was given to Gaddafi to make sure it was not poisoned. The gesture touched Gaddafi and he married her. It is not known whether or not he divorced the first. He has children through both.
Many attempts have been made on Gaddafi’s life—some say sixteen. Once two bullets missed his heart by a few inches. None of these have frightened him and he continues to appear in public all the time. Every month he manages to cover most of his vast country to see how things are going. The last attempt on his life was made on the morning of Tuesday, the 8th of May Official sources say fifteen men involved were slain in the shoot-out. Non-official gossip puts the figure at over a hundred. An entire block of apartments in which some assassins took shelter was levelled to the ground by bulldozers. It is believed that three of the gang are still at large. Hence the vigorous check by army and police on all roads. If you do not have you
r identity papers you may find yourself in a lockup for a week or more.
Gaddafi is building a new nation. Everywhere you go you can see buildings coming up: schools, hospitals, factories, dams. The departing Italians had planted millions of olive trees and vineyards for their own consumption. Gaddafi has planted many millions more citrus, fig, apricot and almond trees. All these orchards have been given away to the peasantry. A hundred and five’ nations are engaged in the hectic task of ensuring a century of prosperity to Libya after its oil revenues dry up in fifty years. Among the nations which have a respectable share in building Libya is India.
It was not to India but to Muslim Pakistan that Gaddafi had initially looked towards for collaboration. It took him some years to realize that he had backed the wrong country. The breakthrough came in 1978 with the visits to India by Major Jalloud, generally recognized as Gaddafi’s right-hand man and the man who gets things done according to Gaddafi’s plans. Today there are 35,000 Indians working in Libya. Thirty Indian companies between them have business worth over 2 billion US dollars and are engaged in building roads, houses, hospitals, power stations, airports, storage tanks. Public sector enterprises like BHEL and IRCC are major partners. Among private sector enterprises with large contracts are Dastur and Co., Kamani’s Continental Construction Co. (Bassi and Verma) and Darshan Singh and Co. In the week I was in Libya I had the occasion to visit the Wadi Ghan Dam (seventy kilometres from Tripoli) completed by the Continental Construction Co. with entirely Indian equipment (BHEL and Maneklal) and awaiting the Libyans to take it over. Gian Singh, a portly sardar, and the tall-powerful looking Haryanvi Jat, Naunihal Singh, are now planning to move their Indian labour force to wherever they secure contracts—if not in Libya then in neighbouring Algeria: D.S. & Co. made a modest entry in Libya only three years ago as subcontractors of a German firm. Today they have over 1,200 Indian workmen—mainly Punjabis and Rajasthanis—and have become Libya’s major hospital builders.
An Indian labourer earns a minimum wage of sixty dinars (Rs 1,360) per month with his food and accommodation taken care of. However, in recent months the Libyan government has imposed a law that no more than half of the earnings can be taken out of the country nor can they be converted to watches, transistors or other electronic equipment effectively reducing their earnings by half. The high-powered delegation led by N.D. Tewari which went to Tripoli in the last week of May signed agreements to expand Indo-Libyan cooperation in the fields of agriculture, industry, culture, health, trade, science and technology. Unless the Libyans relax rules for repatriation of earnings, Indian firms will find it hard to secure workers to undertake Libyan ventures.
Money earned without sweat creates its own problems. Libyans found gold in the way of oil beneath their woollen tents and almost overnight became one of the richest nations of the world. Till Gaddafi came on the scene, they wallowed in this unearned wealth forgetting that oil-wells may one day dry up. It is only in recent years that they began to turn their attention to agriculture, industry, handicrafts and tourism. Old habits persist. Workers don’t put in the hours expected and refuse to be disciplined. Passport and customs officers make visitors feel unwanted. Hotel staff from the receptionist to the room bearer (unless he is Bangladeshi or a Filipino) brusquely dismiss any request made; gun-wielding policemen leisurely examine identity papers before they toss them back. Shopkeepers who have very little merchandise to offer continue to have the take-it-or-hop-it attitude: the customer is always in the wrong. Since Gaddafi launched the movement for Libyans to do their dirty work themselves and packed-off thousands of Bangladeshis, mountain heaps of garbage lie in front of Libyan homes and litter the streets. I hope the Colonel will soon launch a crusade against discourtesy with the slogan “Politeness costs nothing”. Right now the Libyans outdo the Hong Kong Chinese in being among the rudest people in the world.
A Globe-Trotter’s Diary
Every time I leave India I have this odd feeling that no sooner than I am airborne, my country will be shaken by a terrible earthquake which will destroy everything; I’ll be amongst the few who will escape the catastrophe. This time when I left India three weeks ago there was more substance to my chimerical fantasy than ever before. Many parts of my country were in fact feeling the tremors of an oncoming earthquake with its epicentres in Punjab and Maharashtra. And three days before I left two police officers had called on me to arrange security for my person. They were as relieved as I to know that I was leaving. I was not important enough to be pursued abroad.
A crowded plane gives me claustrophobia and constipation. However, this time it gave me a sense of comfort and security. I knew many people on board: retired ambassador Sundar Haksar looking too old for his years and his wife, Chunni, looking too young for hers; minister Narain Dutt Tewari almost unrecognizable without his tilted Gandhi cap, bush shirt, pants and a sizeable paunch. The seat next to mine was occupied by a giant-sized Yorkshireman named Harrison who wore eighteen size shoes (to my eight) and downed six pre-dinner gins to my two Scotches; while I was still struggling with my stringy roast chicken he polished off a five-course supper to the last cheese cracker and was tossing in post-supper cognacs till I lost count of them and the plane was descending on Abu Dhabi. The vacated seat next to Harrison’s was taken by an Indian lady who wafted in a billowing chiffon sari and a cloud of perfume. She busied herself applying fresh lipstick, eyebrow pencil and rouge to make sure she looked as attractive to people she met in her dreams as she did while awake. When I woke at 4 a.m. Harrison was snoring away with his mouth wide open and the Indian lady was examining her face in her compact mirror to repair damages caused by her dream lovers. Ambassador Ajmani who came to receive Tewari at Rome airport revealed her identity as Princess Sita Devi, divorced wife of an Italian. All this company was mine only a few hours from Delhi. How reassuringly distant from the fires raging in Punjab and Maharashtra.
Rome
Time distorts images of the past. I had been to Rome many times and done all its sites. Nevertheless, when I saw the same places they seemed as if I was seeing them for the first time. Perhaps it was the gold of the broom in flower and white clouds tumbling along the blue sky that gave the same pictures different frames. Trevi Fountain was much bigger and grander than the vision imprinted in my memory; and Spanish steps much smaller and nondescript. The crowds were certainly different. More camera-armed Japanese than other nationalities. At the Trevi Fountain a three-year-old Japanese toddler was aiming his toy camera exactly like his father took aim with his Nikkon. On the Spanish steps a party of young, bearded Latinos were singing to the strumming of guitars and the beat of bongo drums while scantily dressed American girls lay sprawled on the flagstones soaking in the sun.
Every year everything becomes more expensive. Only the Italians have perfected the art of passing on the additional price burden to the visitors. Restaurants display menus with prices which look reasonable. When the waiter brings the bill, the price displayed is multiplied three times over. Ambassador Ajmani, who gave me lunch at his favourite restaurant, Capriccio, explained how this is done. First there is the cover charge for use of the napkin, cutlery and crockery. To the main dish are added prices of vegetables served with it. Wine which was at one time compris (included) is charged separately; so is the salad. Then there is the tax, service charge of fifteen per cent (the waiter nevertheless expects a tip). And now an extra charge for music as well. “All that remains to be charged separately are flowers on the table, salt and pepper,” remarked Ajmani ruefully. I toss in yet another taxable commodity in Italy: pretty girls—Italian lasses are the shapeliest of all in Europe. Soon added to your bill may be “ogling tax”.
Libya
Tarabulus is Greek and Arabic for “Three cities”: Tripoli is its Latin version. The name is now monopolized by one city spreading thirty kilometres from east to west and another thirty from the blue Mediterranean to the fringes of the desert.
Libyan Arab Airlines plane touches down at 7 p.m. when an or
ange sun is going down on a line of date palms. How picture-postcardish can it be! As we enter the spacious lounge we can hear the sonorous call to prayer come over the colour TV showing a muezzin atop a minaret. The Libyan Minister of Industry is there in his loose Arab dress in a rosary of worry beads to greet Tewari and his entourage. We are escorted to the VIP lounge and plied with a variety of over-sweetened non-alcoholic campari and fruit juices. Tewari and party leave for their hotel. I await my baggage. “No problem,” my escort assures me, “it will take ten minutes.” I have learnt from experience that when anyone says “no problem”, real problems begin. It is after 10 p.m. that I emerge from the airport with my valise and we are driven into the unknown dark.
Tripoli has a lovely climate: dry, cool and fragrant with oleanders in bloom everywhere. Anywhere else people would be out in the parks, sitting out on pavements or strolling along the seaside. I saw no signs of life save lines of cars tearing along well-lit highways. Twice we were stopped by the military police and asked to explain who we were. It was a twenty-kilometre drive through deserted streets and homes with their doors and windows fast shut.
The lounge of Hotel El-Waadi was crowded with guests and hotel staff watching TV. I took my key and found my room on the twelfth floor. It was to be my home for the next week. I switched on the TV. Colonel Gaddafi was waving to a crowd of admirers waving clenched fists to the chanting of slogans. He was followed by a group of folk-dancers. They were followed by Colonel Gaddafi making a speech to a crowd of girls again waving their fists and chanting slogans. They were followed by folk-singers, followed by Colonel Gaddafi speaking to a group of children. I felt as if I was watching Doordarshan with a different cast.
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