Woh kaun thi?

I first came across her while enjoying a customary and rather delicious piece of fruit post-dinner. She appeared suddenly, and the moment I saw her I was transfixed. Her feminine grace; her slender body; her sensual movements; and a hint of shyness in her demeanor, where she stole glances at me and yet did not meet my strong gaze. In awe and with wonder, I watched her perform her delicate dance in front of me–a form that was both unique and new, and strangely familiar. Surely she must have spent an era perfecting this. No, on second thought, this seems to come naturally to her. As she twisted and turned on the surface that was her natural milieu, my natural curiosity overtook me. I could not help but wonder who she was and where she came from and how she ended up here. What was her life story? Did she belong here, was it her choice, or was she a mere victim of circumstance? Much to my dejection, however, my train of thought and my interest in this wondrous performance was rather crudely interrupted by my father’s howl.  Since then I have christened her Gulaboo, the sundi in my amrood.

A week in the life of an intelligence agent: The Diary of Captain Jawad Generic – 1

Dear Diary.

Hello. I’m Captain Jawad Generic, an officer in the sensitive agencies in the service of the motherland. I’ve been feeling under the weather lately, very much fatigued and angsty. I really can’t say what this affliction is, although my trusted colleague and old boarding school mate suggests that it is probably stress that is to be blamed. We work long and hard hours in the forces you see. And sometimes the workload gets to us, rendering us antisocial and irritable. He recommends that I start putting my thoughts down on paper to relieve some of this pressure. He had personally done this last year during his posting as Station Chief New Delhi (a most tough posting I hear), and it apparently worked wonders for him. So, I’m giving it a shot.

I will begin documenting and archiving the events of my life in my diary (recently purchased from Saeed Book Bank, Jinnah Super Market, Islamabad as part of a fabulous discount for forces’ employees buying a copy of Jeremy Scahill’s expose on Blackwater!). These events will be re-told as they happen, with an obvious addition of my own opinions on the matters at hand.

Regards, Captain Generic.

 

Captain Jawad Generic

Monday

Duty outside Indian High Commission, Diplomatic Enclave, Islamabad.

 

Sigh. My week got off to the worst possible start. I was posted outside the Indian High Commission visa section on espionage duty, where my job entailed establishing the motivations of those poor, hapless souls who applied for Indian visas. It is exasperating work by any standard, being out in the sun with one measly tent to offer protection. On top of that, imagine the indignity of having to borrow drinking water from the Indian Embassy personnel.

Worst, though, are the visa applicants: wretched scum of this pure soil who for whichever Godforsaken reason want to cross the border and visit the Other Country. Such characters I saw! There was this pathetic old lady who was mumbling something about wanting to see long lost relatives for Eid. She apparently was in some delusion that she will cook finger licking-good mutton karahi and will be put on a glamorous train that zooms through the fields of Punjab and ends up in New Delhi, where she will take a charming tonga ride through the cramped, rustic streets of the Muslim neighborhoods of the old city, finally arriving at her magnificent ancestral haveli where she will be greeted by her estranged brothers, sisters, cousins, their sons and daughters, grandsons and granddaughters, their neighbors, their neighbors’ sons and daughters, their neighbors’ grandsons and granddaughters, the old mochi, kasai, halwai, sunar, kumhar, lohar, and their sons and daughters and grandsons and granddaughters and other assorted characters from the ol’ mohalla. I tried to reason with the woman: madam, this only happens in TV ads such as these.

She would, of course, have none of it, and got in the visa application line, only to come face to face with a filthy bald Hindu who rejected her application on the pretext of her not having filled out the application form. At all. Apparently women grew up illiterate in magnificent havelis in inner city neighborhoods in pre-partition northern India.

And then there was this silly motley crew of young university-going boys and girls who wanted to attended some “youth development and cultural exchange” conference next month. Say what? This always drives me nuts. Every once in a while this random group or the other come sauntering in with an influential-sounding letter from some big shot industrialist and hope they will get a bloody Indian visa in time for their alcohol-laden debauchery festival in some wretched Indian city or the other masquerading as a fucking “youth development and cultural exchange” conference. My blood boils looking at these snobs and their desire to go party with hot Delhi girls and then post pictures on the internet with comments such as “Yaro Yehi Dosti Hai, Kismat Se Jo Milli Hai.” Fuck me.

Thankfully this is one issue where the bald Hindu and I see eye to eye. He summarily dismissed their “application” and practically tore their influential big shot’s letter into pieces, saying he doesn’t want these kids to go prancing around Hyderabad Deccan with a video camera recording tourist attractions and then handing over that stuff to some naughty people with bad motives.

Now how the fuck he came up with that ludicrous idea is beyond me! But, on second thought, it’s fascinating isn’t it? I wonder if we can use it in our next, um, assignment.

Facebook tells me that many who like Coke Studio…

…are conformist sheep, really. You know how Facebook has this magnificent suggestions thing going whereby it runs its super-smart algorithm to tell you what your friends like, with the hope that you’ll like it to? Well, I decided to play along and see what is this all about after getting annoyed by a constant barrage of suggestions along the lines of “Many of your friends who like Coke Studio also like…” (Yes, I like Coke Studio on Facebook. In my defence, Ali Hamzah is irresistibly cute and my current man-crush.)

Ali Hamzah = *drool*

As it turns out, people who like Coke Studio, amongst my friends, also tend to like things as diverse as Pervez Musharraf, Zaid Hamid, Junaid Jamshed, 3 Idiots (the movie, not the previous three personalities, who are obviously not idiots. Duh.), Imran Khan (do you know Sony Entertainment Television recently ran a “Become the 4^th idiot” contest?), Ufone, Top Pops (!), gol gappay (! x 2), Nestle Fruita Vitals (?), and a delightfully named Facebook page, “Oye, extra pen hai?”

In this piece, I will try to analyze why Coke Studio fans are partial towards some of the entities mentioned above. Let me begin with Pervez Musharraf:

Pervez Musharraf is the reason Coke Studio exists. Had he not toppled Nawaz Sharif’s fumbling, tumbling Humpty-Dumpty-sat-on-a-wall government, pop and rock stars in Pakistan will still be writing boring, meaningful, mildly-catchy songs about accountability (eh?) and consequently getting banned on television. By setting free the powerful forces of enlightened moderation to guide us towards gleaming progress, he set in motion the wheels that eventually led to Meesha Shafi singing on national television clad in, of all things, jeans. Coke Studio, obviously, is the progeny of Musharraf sahab’s visionary thinking, thereby explaining why they have many fans in common.

Beauty & The Beast(s)

Zaid Hamid’s case is even simpler. Coke Studio is Pakistan’s answer to A.R. Rehman. And as we know well by now, nothing pleases Zaid’s hilariously passionate supporters more than us one-upping India. That too an India made famous by a treacherous, traitor Muslim like Rehman, whose forefathers were probably too lazy (more likely poor or indifferent) to migrate to the pure-land back at the time of the Big Bang. Never mind, Zaid bhai, when (y)our dream comes true, Radio Pakistan New Delhi will be blaring Arieb Azhar 24/7 to torture Rehman and his compatriots into eventual and glorious submission.

On the other hand, I honestly cannot for the life of me understand what is in common between Junaid Jamshed and Coke Studio besides a) Rohail Hyatt being the sugar daddy for both; and b) only rich kids able to afford his kurtas to wear at Eids and their cousins’ Mehndi celebrations are actually into Coke Studio.

I am similarly confounded by the seemingly disparate nature of gol gappay and Nestle Fruita Vitals. I am inclined to hypothesize the following: while the Coke Studio-savvy crowd has obviously become health and brand conscious, and thus relies on premium-priced fruit juice to quench its thirst and replenish its vitamins after a grueling gym session, it still appreciates the quaint, sarak chhaap charm of the occasional plate of gol goppas to feel connected to the pure-land’s delights on offer. However, I am certain the irony of paying Rs.100 for a sanitized, upscale version of such traditional delicacies at places like Chatkharay is lost on us.

Generic logo image to add visually to this blog post

Finally, “Oye, extra pen hai?” Sigh. Well, there is no clearer signal regarding the dominance of the ballpoint revolution than this. All school- and college-going kids now use Picasso pens. Disposable, cheap, pathetic pens carried by the dozens by every student. A few years ago, back when I was growing up, you wouldn’t be caught dead without an ink pen. Students now sneer at such anachronisms and rely instead on the ease and convenience of Picasso. I guess legible and pretty handwriting just went down the drain.

I wrote this as a piece for the Sunday magazine of the Express Tribune. It appeared on Aug 1, 2010 (minus the funky images, of course).

O Brother Where Art Thou: An Open Letter to the Chief of Army Staff

I wrote this for the Express Tribune’s sunday magazine and they published a much shorter (“mutilated”, according to the editor dude) version.

The Chief in all his glory. (Image courtesy random google images search.)

General sahab,

I have been a silent admirer of you and your methods for a long time now. You have impressed all and sundry with your charm, your cool, your foresight and your prudent outlook on matters of great importance. You have admirers in the motherland, in the Enemy Nation across the border, the Great Red North and the Imperial Kingmaker, a hard feat that even your charismatic and skilled predecessor struggled to achieve. And yet, respected sir, I have a major bone to pick with you:

Where is my military coup?

With the predecessor, looking sharper than him. (Image courtesy random google images search)

I have waited with bated breath for you to step up to the plate and provide deliverance to us measly Pakistani and rid us of this corrupt, ineffective, incompetent and unpleasant dispensation, and put the country back on the path of progress and unbridled nationalistic fervor. I have bit my nails at odd hours and during moments of crises, waiting for you to appear on national television looking your usual dapper self, with an inspirational picture of the Quaid in the background, announcing the wrap-up of this nonsensical farce that has been running for two years now. And yet, you have not lived up to my expectations. I only have one question on my parched lips:

Where is my military coup?

I sat through many hours of the trudging Long March hoping you will seize the moment and send home these misguided champions of democracy and people power, only to see you display a reverential-yet-frustrating measure of restraint. I was on the edge of my seat, laddoos ready, during all of December 2009 hoping your friends and admirers in the media will finally convince you to heed their prophecies and put in place the ingenious and admirable Minus-One Formula. And yet again, you displayed your characteristic self-discipline. Watching Geo News every day, I cannot help but wonder:

Where is my military coup?

You went to the United States and were wined and dined by the most fashionable members of the World Capital’s foreign policy apparatus. They fawned over you and listened to your every word with wide-eyed wonder. You rather cleverly got your Boy, Mr Foreign Minister, to schmooze with the former First Lady and get cute pictures taken together that were mocked the world over, while you got down to the real business of deal-making with the powers-that-be. What a skillful move that was, General sahab – I must say I was left rather awestruck and dazzled by your aura. You also went to Europe and charmed our NATO allies with your great acumen and insights into the War and our nation’s crucial rule in its endgame. And all I could think was how a son of the soil was telling the world what rightful place our great nation deserves in the galaxy of global powers. People listened to us and respected our opinions – for the first time in an era, if ever, I might add – and you were our worthy voice. I saluted you then.

After Mumbai, when the Enemy Nation sent its fighter jets over for a brief reconnaissance mission, you scrambled our boys up in the air and drove the Enemy jets back over the border. You took pictures and nonchalantly passed on this message to the offenders: “Next time we will bring them down.” I felt proud to be a Pakistani that day, realizing you were guarding not just our physical borders, but also keeping watch on our much-maligned and always-threatened ideological frontiers, a task that the current dispensation, with its motley crew of misguided, traitorous, anti-Pakistan separatist loonies, is ill-suited to accomplish. And when the journalist from across the border wrote a two-part piece on you in The News, profiling you in great depth and showing reluctant admiration, I fawned with him. Finally, when Ayesha Siddiqua wrote her piece in Dawn, calling it you a man of destiny, I found a kindred spirit. My resolve was permanently strengthened and I vowed that day to support you in this noble endeavor that you are, as she implied, destined for.

And yet, General sahab, you are disappointing me. Your time at the helm is running out, and I am afraid that you will not grab at the opportunities that are presenting themselves. Please, for the sake of my nation and its ideologically motivated and endlessly frustrated citizens, I implore you to reconsider this restrained approach. You rid us of the monsters in Swat, and you can do so with those in Islamabad as well. I urge you to step up and claim what you are destined for. Make amends, sir, and take the throne that is rightfully yours, so that no other dispirited man like myself can longingly ask the question:

Where is my military coup?

Making your American airport experience more pleasant despite the baggage of the Green Passport

Update: This has been rendered useless as soon as it was written. After Times Square case, forget it: you’re in for it at airports.

We Pakistanis complain, and do so often, about the treatment meted out to us by security personnel at U.S. airports. After accounting for the general penchant of our countrymen to complain incessantly, there is no reason why this issue should miff them so much. Instead, it is far more productive for everyone to put up and make the most of this rather ‘unpleasant’ situation. In this piece I offer some practical tips regarding this matter to make your American travelling experience more efficient and comfortable.

Having travelled extensively on airplanes throughout America for the past two years, I feel confident enough to assert that I have mastered the delicate art of dealing with stringent checks and unpleasant security personnel. For your own sake, you are advised to listen to me.

First, smile a lot. Do not look mad. No one likes looking at a pissed-off Pakistani. It reminds everyone of Pervez Musharraf, and Americans don’t want to be reminded how he played them like a flute. Instead, show your bateesi like our current President. Smiling widely will help you ingratiate with the security guy, and will make both him and you feel more comfortable. You are also advised to exchange pleasantries; this is your chance to show off your newly acquired knowledge about U.S. sports and your local team.

Second, dress sharp. Wear a shalwar kameez to an airport at your own risk, no matter how dapper you think you look in your uber-desi attire. Preferably, wear a suit, especially if you are going to another big city. Everyone knows suits make men feel more confident, and this swagger is much needed at airports if you want to get through the security check faster. Americans tend to be a sucker for confident types, so utilize that to your advantage. Also, do not scratch down there, as that will make you look ridiculous at best and suspicious at worst. And we all know you don’t want that.

Third, and I say this with a very heavy heart, do not crack jokes at any point inside the airport. Remember that Qatari diplomat a few weeks ago who was smoking in an airplane toilet and then made a joke about lighting his shoes on fire when he was confronted by the flight attendant? Yeah, such flamboyance will only get you deported. And what will you do with only five hours of electricity? So, do yourself a favor and leave your funny side at home. Mind you, this is easier said than done: it is exceptionally hard to subdue your temptation of cracking a joke after all that confidence you have already built up by following my earlier advice of smiling and wearing a suit. It is indeed a fine line you will be expected to tread between flair and solemnity, and there will be significant pressure on you. But then, if we’ve learned anything from our national cricket team, it is that Pakistanis perform exceptionally well under pressure in an environment charged with sky-high expectations. You are in good standing, my fellow countryman, so stand proud and charm the pants off that mean-looking security dude.

Finally, and most important: despite this charm offensive, even if you randomly selected for extra screening, do not throw a hissy fit like some of our FATA senators did a few months back. Instead, feel proud when asked to stand inside that machine that reveals everything to everyone. It is important to know that the picture is being seen by one single person sitting in a different room. Enjoy the moment while it lasts; after all, this is probably the only chance you have as a desi man to get a gori to see you naked.

If all of these tips and tricks fail to satisfy you, just man up and get a U.S. driving license. You probably are over twenty-one years of age. (If you aren’t, well, you’re probably too young and irresponsible to be alone in this country in any case, and thus any harassment at airports is probably justified – stop getting drunk at college parties and go home to join daddy’s business.) Just go give a driving test (doesn’t it suck that they don’t accept bribes in America for this purpose?), get an I.D. card and use that to visit airports. Leave your green passport-to-hell at home, and pretend you’re an American. So, unless you really screw up like that Afghan idiot Najibullah Zazi, chances are your air travel will be free of hassles and discomfort.

I wrote this for the Express Tribune newspaper’s Sunday magazine. A slightly edited version appeared in it.