Reporting Pakistan

by Meena Menon

  The shelves looked so tempting, full of colourful, and for me, useless cartons of stuff I never ate or drank, like juices, chips and whatnot. Friends warned me against American coffee; don’t touch it, they said, so I settled for Lavazza. People favoured tea here, especially from teabags, for reasons I never fathomed, and green tea after every meal even as late as midnight was something that was the norm.

  Water supply was scarce and came from bore wells. I was advised against drinking that water and had to buy twenty-litre Bisleri cans and heave them up the kitchen platform. So used to drinking boiled water back home, this reliance on bottled water took me a while to get used to. In terms of water, power and transport, the city was way behind, though I hear that now there is a new public transport system and the power situation is improving.

  Luckily for me, kadi patta (curry leaves which no one used there) grew at home, and I tried planting dhania (coriander) as well. But finding mustard seeds was a challenge—the only stuff available was microscopic red seeds which were tasteless and often didn’t sputter. Finally, I had to settle for that and despite searching in many markets, I didn’t have any luck. There was no sign of raw bananas which were among my favourite vegetables—sautéed with onions. I didn’t see some of the vegetables I used back home, like the many varieties of beans and gourds we have. But to make up, fruits were in plenty. In winter, fresh strawberries grew in the fields of Bani Gala. Small carts piled up with the lovely fruit would line the roads, and strawberries in any form became the order of the day. When I got there, giant and juicy peaches from Swat were in season, which passed soon to my regret. Compared to the ones back home, these had a delicate rosy tinge to the golden yellow, and were huge—eating one of them was almost like a meal.

  Outside the Kabul bakery, there was an old man who sold flowers—they were nargis, the small yellow-and-white fragrant flowers in winter, or later the orange-and-red roses. I was a regular customer and I suspect he overcharged me, but it was too tempting to pass up those beautiful flowers. Their gentle fragrance came back to me in Delhi’s Khan Market where they were similarly kept on the pavement in thick bunches. The bakery had a small showcase outside which advertised real guns—a 1917 Webley revolver, Mark 6, was priced at $1000 while a 1913 Enfield rifle with what looked like a bayonet cost $1300. There was another more expensive rifle below. They didn’t seem to have any buyers since I saw the guns there for a long time. The F-8 market had a shop for guns and ammunition as well.

  Of Mehrans, robberies and katchi abadis

  The well-planned city had no public transport worth the name then. When the driver had his day off, I had to rely on the expensive private taxis or radio cabs which were very efficient. The cheaper way of rattling about was the Suzuki Mehrans. Islamabad had no metred taxi system and the fares were random. The Mehran rundowns moved strictly on willpower—they often had every part loose, no brakes, and poor wheel alignment; it was a big risk to travel by one of them though they were the cheapest option if you could bargain for a while.

  Aurangzeb was a fount of information and gossip. He knew everything—he was the one who told me about the robbery at the house of an Indian high commission official who was away on vacation. Even his large alcohol stash was filched and his silver. Later, the house in which Aurangzeb was living, where his wife worked as a maid, was robbed. The house was also that of an Indian diplomat’s. The thieves entered through the terrace, which was not locked properly, and took away all the gold jewellery, and even the passports. After the incident, we were summoned to the high commission for a short lecture on security. We were advised to keep our doors locked and even the bedroom door had to be locked at night. They stopped short of advising us to have security guards posted outside our houses, which my driver said would attract unnecessary attention and in any case, he said that these men almost never fought with attackers. Ironically, the expected robbery did take place, not in Islamabad but in my flat in Mumbai after I returned. Nothing happened while I was away but a couple of days before I left for New Delhi (in June 2014) where I was posted, I came home after a visit to a doctor to find my cupboard ransacked and all the jewellery I had, mostly gifted by my mother and mother-in-law, gone. Someone had broken the lock, and they took my husband’s phone but mercifully left behind our passports, money and my iPad. One of the policemen who swarmed all over my house boasted that he had solved a robbery in actor Hema Malini’s house a few days ago. I knew then that nothing would happen and since I wasn’t a celebrity, the police couldn’t even trace the cell phone.

  In the Islamabad house there were no grills or iron bars, so I had to be content with the wooden doors and hope no one tried to break and enter. On the first floor, the terrace had a glass door with a wire mesh cover, both of which were flimsy. These houses were not built with security in mind; they were friendly in a way, not fortresses. It was bucolic, and the lawns, the trees, all added to that feeling of cosiness. Sadly, for such a city, the garbage and dried leaves were usually burnt on the road or in the compound in my neighbourhood, and no one seemed to mind. The lovely streams below the road would have plenty of garbage, and the small slopes would glow with burning refuse. There was some move to have a garbage dump but there was no centralized garbage clearance, just as in Delhi where the garbage piled high into little mountains on the outskirts.

  My friends at home would worry if I was safe and how the spooks were treating me. My veteran colleagues from The Hindu had warned me about spooks, who were going to be a part of my life. Some had them stationed outside their homes too. There would also be jokes about the ISI (Inter-Services Intelligence), and one of my friends in his ‘direct messages’ on Twitter would always say ‘Hi’ to the ISI and a note saying I know they are reading this! I must say that Islamabad is safer than Karachi, and walking around, though few do, is kosher. It’s a city for the well heeled, with its capacious bungalows fronted with lawns. Its quiet, leafy lanes will see few people except for the drivers hanging around and maids who travel long distances crushed in uncomfortable vans. Nowhere is the divide between the very rich and poor more evident than it is in the capital. Much like New Delhi, the poor are herded together in slums. People tend to use cars even for minuscule distances. The rains are scarce—nothing like the wretched downpour in Mumbai which I am used to—and it does get cold. My friends laughed when I asked about rain shoes and umbrellas. No one used them.

  The capital is charming with its wide roads, but the poor public transport meant that those who didn’t have cars had to wait for the shared vans which were erratic in their frequency. Sajida who lived near Bari Imam would reach home late, and sometimes she had to walk a long way for the shared vans. The red-bricked katchi abadis—where the poor lived are bigger than the small rooms in Mumbai slums and spacious, but are just as sordid as in India in terms of basic amenities, cleanliness and overflowing gutters. Poverty, as much as it was hidden in Islamabad, was acute. People had to collect firewood for their fuel needs, food security was low, and the power sporadic. When I was leaving, I offered the large fridge to Sajida as a gift. She refused to take it. Her son said that since there was no power, it could end up as a storage cupboard. I insisted she should anyway use it when there was power, but she didn’t budge. But after I sold the fridge on the last day she looked very sad. She said she wished she had listened to me, but really it would have been difficult to keep that fridge. Sajida was so honest about the whole thing—anyone else would probably have taken it and sold it, since there seemed to be a demand for second-hand stuff.

  While the economic situation of the country is far from happy and the wealth is concentrated in a few families, Prime Minister Sharif has done well for himself as the richest elected representative, with assets of PKR 1.82 billion. His election affidavit, uploaded by the Election Commission of Pakistan (ECP) in December 2013, shows that he owns vast tracts of agricultural land and property worth well over a billion Pakistani rupees, some of it inherited or gifted, in Lahore and Sheikhupura, while his w
ife Kulsoom Nawaz owns two properties in Murree. He also has investments in sugar, textile and engineering companies, and owns four vehicles, a 2010 Toyota Land Cruiser, two old-model (1991 and 1973) Mercedes-Benz cars and a tractor. His son also sends him money from London. The only other billionaire is the minister for petroleum and natural resources, Shahid Khaqan Abbasi. Imran Khan, the chairperson of Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf (PTI), has assets worth over PKR 29 million, while Punjab Chief Minister Shehbaz Sharif has a modest PKR 424 million, making him the richest chief minister in Pakistan. Only an Independent member of the National Assembly, Jamshed Dasti, declared no property or assets except his salary as a people’s representative.

  Stone carvers, truck art, books

  I wasn’t allowed to visit Taxila, but I met a stone carver from that great centre of learning and art at a handicrafts fair at Lok Virsa, a folk art and history complex on the outskirts of Islamabad. Usually the stuff tended to be tacky, but I got lucky. He made exquisite Buddha figurines in the Gandharva style. He even gave me his card and said I could call him for more. He was a young man who had started carving at an early age and the two small figures I bought were of stone and made with great delicacy. My predecessor in Islamabad, Anita, had bought a lovely sofa from a second-hand furniture-cum-antique shop which agreed to take it back for a small cut in the original price. Since I wasn’t taking it back, it wouldn’t have fitted in my small home, I sold it. The shop in the city had a courtyard where furniture was being refurbished and there were some unique articles on sale, like blue pottery jugs, beer mugs, carpets, lacquer coasters and Sindhi window frames.

  I had interviewed Mohammed Ilyas, the only slate carver from his village Bail near Haripur. Slate was used for doors, window frames and tombstones which used to be intricately carved. If it was a woman who had died, there would be a necklace or something to indicate that. With marble replacing slate as tombstones, people like Ilyas rely on their wits. It is difficult to get slate and few people know the craft. He is an innovator though, and has introduced calligraphy—he carves Koranic inscriptions on houses in slate. A modest man in his fifties, he was hard at work when I met him at the Satrang art gallery, run by the gracious Asma Khan. Looking at the displays in the gallery, he said it took him two years to make all of them. ‘Isn’t it foolishness?’ he asks. Ilyas has transformed slate art into everyday articles, like trays, wall hangings, clocks and coasters, but the precision carving with a small chisel was masterly. I watched him patiently chip away at a design of a mosque using a fine chisel. It’s as strong as an iron hammer. He used an iron pencil to draw the design on the slate before carving.

  In the elegantly arranged art gallery, there was plenty of his work—some of them huge cabinets and tables (dressing tables, side tables), clocks—and the grey slate added a touch of class. I had never seen such beautiful carving on a stone which we used to scribble on in school, and most people don’t even know what slate is now. From dull roofs and tombstones, he had managed to give life to this nondescript grey stone. I bought some slate art, the small trays and plaques, one of them with a rose carved on it, as souvenirs. He was amused by all the questions I asked him, but replied with great patience. His visiting card said ‘Chitrakar’; he peered at me over his glasses and told me that’s Hindi for painter in your country, isn’t it?

  The other place I loved to visit was Saeed Book Bank, almost an institution in the capital, with an amazing collection of non-fiction on Pakistan, India and Afghanistan. The salesmen would show me books they thought I would like, and they were good at finding stuff. And the discount coupons made you want to buy even more. Once they went out of their way to get me a copy of Maj. Gen. A.O. Mitha’s book, Unlikely Beginnings,10 which wasn’t available anywhere. The Oxford University Press also had a well-stocked shop with wonderful books and discounts, and I was a regular customer. There were some second-hand book shops in the same market where some rare books were available, but searching in the musty shelves made you sneeze all the time.

  This is Pakistan

  Just before I left, Khaadi, which was one of my favourite shops, offered me loyalty points. I wanted to tell him, ‘Hey, wasn’t I supposed to be enemy number one!’ I had to regretfully refuse and say I was being sent back to India, and that loyalty points from a cloth store didn’t count any more. The salesman looked puzzled and I didn’t offer an explanation.

  The lawn sale before summer set in was quite an event and if you were not savvy, you could end up as collateral damage. The crowds put me off and I waited out the sale. I wasn’t very fond of the really fine fabric which people seemed willing to die for.

  Islamabad also has a dedicated Facebook page appropriately called Islamabad Snob where you can post about events in the city. I did post once on a Parsi businessman from Mumbai who often travelled to the capital to sell Indian goods like saris and jewellery. I met him at a guest house; he had brought his mother along and she sat in a plush chair in a corner, while people came and looked at his exotic Indian clothes and jewellery.

  The capital may seem unreal and detached, but it is a city which also witnessed furious and prolonged protests by lawyers when the then Supreme Court chief justice, Iftikhar Chaudhry, was removed, along with other judges summarily in 2007 by General Musharraf. It may not have the bustle and culture of rallies and crowds that Karachi has, but people did take to the streets often, especially after the church bombings, the Shia attacks and the attempts to terrorize journalists and media houses. The lawyers’ protest was, in a way, a major one, coming as it did after so many years of repression, and people are still proud of that phase in Pakistan’s history. I had not realized the mark it had left till I saw the procession on Justice Chaudhry’s last day in office. I was at PTV that day for an interview and couldn’t leave as the gates were shut. Outside, Justice Chaudhry was being taken out in a procession—there was much shouting and sloganeering, and we ran to the wall surrounding the PTV headquarters opposite Parliament to watch. In the darkness all I could see were cars moving slowly and white-shirted lawyers shouting. The PTV journalists were impressed; they told me, ‘This is Pakistan—this won’t happen anywhere else.’

  ‘Bollywood film hai, ticket milega?’

  The city’s first mall, Centaurus, had just opened before I arrived and it had a multiplex cinema which was a bonus (there were no other cinemas, in case you are wondering). I loved movies, and though DVDs were an option, there’s nothing like the big screen. In fact, thanks to my friends there, I ended up seeing very bad Hindi films which I would have avoided. (I preferred to see movies on my own in Mumbai, since most people tend to chatter all through.) Sitting in that packed hall, I could feel a buzz of approval for Bollywood, and no matter how terrible the films were, they ran to full houses, and people loved every minute. I seemed to be in the minority. In fact, they didn’t even want to know anything about the film before watching it. Once when I went to buy tickets, I heard a woman asking, ‘Bollywood film hai, ticket milega?’ I count among the worst films I ever saw Main Tera Hero, which, to my astonishment, was highly appreciated. Even my friend who was the one who wanted to see it, said it wasn’t so bad! People loved the locales, especially if it was Mumbai, which looked great on screen, much better than it did in reality. They would be awestruck by the sea and Marine Drive, and I rose in esteem because I came from this city of dreams and glamour. In fact, moviegoing became a regular activity. I went alone to see the Pakistani film Waar which was praised for its high production values, and I sat in a hall full of clapping Pakistanis, and squirmed at the stereotypes—the Indian agent, Lakshmi, had set a honey trap for a Pakistani businessman (how predictable) and there was much vocal appreciation for her role; since she fitted in with a stereotype of an Indian woman spy enticing a poor Pakistani, the Taliban was full of Indian agents, and so on. It was tacky, clichéd and the English dialogue often bordered on the hilarious. I did read some real criticism of this film and was happy to find I wasn’t alone in my distaste. I concluded that the you
ng people sitting next to me were indiscriminate; by the interval, they seemed enchanted—I heard them say it was fabulous, and they were ecstatic that such a film was made, and Pakistan had never seen anything like this. I couldn’t believe we were watching the same film. There was much clapping and hooting, especially when the Indians were exposed but that was not the reason I didn’t find anything to like in the film. I don’t know if Pakistanis reacted similarly to Sarfarosh, which also has stereotyped agents, but at least it was a slicker film with some decent acting. I also watched bad Hollywood. Gravity, with Sandra Bullock uttering guttural sounds in bluey 3D outer space, was exasperating and not redeemed by George Clooney. There was another theatre in nearby Bahria Town, which was off limits, so watching Naseeruddin Shah in Zinda Bhaag had to wait till I got a bad copy in Delhi. The soundtrack was, however, available at Kuch Khaas, and the highlight was a superb qawwali by Rahat Fateh Ali Khan.

  In fact, most Pakistanis internalized Bollywood so much they almost believed that Holi was celebrated exactly as it was shown in the movies, with pichkaris and colours, and long, flowing outfits. I tried telling people I knew that Holi was dreaded in some parts of the country and synonymous with balloon throwing, blinding people, and the licence to molest women. It was a festival I avoided, and in Mumbai, I would even prefer to leave the city for a few days to avoid being doused with water balloons on the way to work. Suburban trains were targeted, especially the women’s compartments—Holi had assumed criminal proportions. There were cases of women going blind, thanks to water balloons being thrown at them. Besides, those balloons didn’t always have water. The colours were toxic and caused allergies. It was a day to be spent indoors. But I was wasting my time telling this to my friends in Pakistan—they thought I was making it all up. On the other hand, Basant, the kite festival that takes place in March every year, was banned in Lahore; one of the several reasons being that the use of the manjha, or the glass-coated twine used to fly kites, led to too many accidents, with the lethal string cutting the throats of innocent passers-by. In fact, I once got a message that Holi was going to be celebrated at a secret venue in Islamabad, but I didn’t reply since the source was anonymous and sounded like a hoax.