14th August - Pak Day
My Chauda Aghast (14th August)
(On Pakistan Independence Day 2000) Word count: 1398
"Man electrocuted trying to mount a flag"
Imagine a nation where people die for their country over something as benign as mounting the national flag. In the good old days, there used to be two reasons to climb up on the roof, to unfurl the green and white flag or to configure gigantic antennas, accessorize with aluminum pateeli(pots) covers. The purpose of the former was to celebrate our freedom; the latter indulged our libido.
Yes Generation Zee there was a time when the young and the restless did not have satellite TV and the only female figurines on TV were Goris in Gul Ahmed Textile’s Lawn commercials. Imagine the psychological damage done to an imaginative 13 year old boy watching blondes frolicking in Shalimar Garden wearing cotton Shalwar Kameez. For serious skin flicks one could endlessly tune VHF frequencies on vintage color TV’s, in hopes of catching uncensored episodes of ‘Buck Rogers’ or ‘Charlie’s Angels’. Mostly, we got static and white noise, and when the Gods did favor us, we saw the constipated face of a surly man in turban, his majesty Sultan Qaboos of Oman.
The other 14th August shugal (fun), was finding fireworks. Naturally, under righteous regime of our fearless leader, Ameer-ul-Momeneen, Gen Zia-ul-Haq all fun activities like dating, free speech, unions, alcohol, public gathering (Ordinance. 144) and fireworks were forbidden. However, our fearless smugglers, the true heroes of Pakistan, routinely smuggled fireworks, among other things, from Bharat, although one had to frequent mysterious places like Delhi Colony, Patel Para, Kala Pull and Goli Maar. One does not have to go further then Goli Maar, literally ‘bullet fire’, to understand the psyche of Karachi. Maybe R.K Pelton needs to include it in the world’s most dangerous places
One might ask how come a mummy papa bacha, though a peeli diwar alumni, could impregnate the nefarious underworld of Karachi? To this I credit my network of contacts, comprising of various characters from the length and breath of Pakistan. And here I mean the demanded Pakistan, not the moth eaten version we got because Edwina had a thing for Nehru (something akin to ‘Whose your Daddy’ biaatch), and Lord Mountbatten, well one look at him can tell anyone that his rujhan (inclination) was more towards the likes of Ziggy Stardust. But don’t get me wrong, I am not bitter or against cross dressers or our talented neighbors (especially their starlets and man of letters), apparently there was something in Mr. Nehru that our fearless leader lacked, although reading Stanley Wolpert’s biography of the man, it certainly wasn’t charm. In any case, I am all for using the Mata Hari prerogative to get what you want, and propose Neeli as the next ambassador to the US. But then again, the next US president might be a sour pickle, so once again we have erred in our timing.
But coming back to my Pakistan and those who defined it. There was Arif from Abottabad, who taught me the delicate art of khancha baazi (wheeling dealing), Khan our fearless and mustachioed chowkidaar (security guard) from Jehlum, Abul Kher, the perpetually hungry khansama from Bangladesh, Razzak painter/urdu poet from Barelli in UP, Sarwar, the slow motion man from Sukkur, Tara Masi, the heroinchi gutter man with his long bamboo sticks, Chandan our Seraiki mai(maid) and her serenely beautiful daughter (allow me a sigh!), and Gul Afsar, the minibus turned race car driver from Kohat, These folks were my Pakistan, a true Beneton commercial, long before I learned how to spell the word or support the team.
Of course, lighting assorted fireworks like phuljari, patakhe, bum and anars had all their special appeal. My personal favorites were bums (bombs), a pinch of volatile chemical wrapped in brown paper, the same kind we used to cover up our school kapi books. To use it, one would hold it a fist, blow hot air and fling it on the pavemen. KABOOM, or usually a hissing POOF followed. It was the stuff legends were made of, as a far as kids are concerned. Your pockets filled with these lethal grenades, you could scare the living shit out of stray dogs and cats and occasionally sleeping khansamas (cook).
Frivolous activities aside, the true essence of 14th August was it’s timing, which put it in the middle of the Monsoon season. The rainy season in Karachi not only helped in keeping the population under control - by electrocuting numerous patriotic men who fearlessly climb on top of rickety building to tie the flag to some pole - it also turns Karachi into a desi Venice. Quite an honor considering that Mohenjodaro’s archeological ruins are a mere 400 miles away, where for the first time a proper sewage system was developed. What better sight than to see floating Suzukis, kids playing in rainwater mixed with sewage, and fruit sellers on top of floating thelas. But it was not only the poor who were disadvantaged, even the upper class was affected by the rain, it was the great equalizer. Most houses had leaking roofs and water seepage through windows. Carpets were rolled, curtains were taken down, mops were put against doorways and pots and pans were strategically placed to catch drips. All this and curses on the haram khor (son-of bitch) contractor who made this house last year with inferior quality cement.
On top of this, with torrential rains came crashing wires and burned PMT’s (Pole Mounted Transformers). So usually, Karachites had to do without power, which led to candles, gas burners and other exotic lamps smuggled in from China. In those days, darkness came peacefully, unlike now when the loss of power is greeted with the ugly snarls of Honda generators. So yes, it was peaceful, and the candlelight playing with the shadows of the night made it esoteric, except for those damn parwanas (moths). Favored by Urdu poets as the metaphor for unconditional love, these pesky insects were all over the place, humming, buzzing and eventually burning, their bodies sprawled all around candles. Ghalib might find this romantic, I found it disgusting. Raining outside, muggy inside, trapped in a house with parwanas crawling all over the place. Even going to the bathroom at night made you feel like a Viet Cong solider tunneling under Saigon.
However, the main event of the day was usually the lights. As soon as it got dark, most families would leave the house to see beautification of Karachi. Now granted Karachi does not have a Lake Shore Drive, a Manhattan Skyline or a Golden Gate Bridge, but we have Habib Bank Plaza. The cure for all skyscraper envies. But before the route is selected, the phone lines are buzzing with plans for the impeding sojourn.
“Anwar said that Sheraton Hotel is done up real well. He went there for lunch na . . . . Oh he eats there all the time. . . . I have not cooked lunch for days. Tum ko tu pata hai kai mein tu bachpan sai his lunch kai khilaf hoon, aur Anwar tu kabhi Sheraton, tu kabhi Sindh Club. Bichare ghar ki khane ki liya taras jaate hein. Job hi aisis hai un ki”
“Naheen yaar, mein aur Feryal tu Goethe Institute kai dinner pai invited hai, mein nai socha tum sai pooch luon sheher kai halat. . . No, no, no, it’s a folk night thing yaar, you know just a few select, cultured people. You know how Feryal knows all these art wallahs. Haan yaar, sharab tu ho gi, jabhi tu mein jaraha hoon“
“Are you nuts? Going out in this traffic. Babar says that it is total suicide to drive in this weather. After all he is a Doctor you know, everyday he sees he sees accident patients being bought into JPMC . . . . Nahin Sana ka admission tu nahin karaskte kiya kum number ai hai? . . . You know seats are only reserved for Professors, how old do you think Babar is . . . . Baal tu isliye safaid hu gai hein kai kuch lagate nahin hai.”
Eventually, we would get on the way and do Tour De Karachi but the last sight was always Quaid-e-Azam’s mazzar. Shimmering in the muggy and polluted air, which is peculiarly Karachi, the white mausoleum was, and will remain, a reminder of the purity of the idea that was Pakistan. After the obligatory circle around Guru Mander roundabout, we would return home with sadness. Tomorrow was another school day. Yuck!
(On Pakistan Independence Day 2000) Word count: 1398
"Man electrocuted trying to mount a flag"
Imagine a nation where people die for their country over something as benign as mounting the national flag. In the good old days, there used to be two reasons to climb up on the roof, to unfurl the green and white flag or to configure gigantic antennas, accessorize with aluminum pateeli(pots) covers. The purpose of the former was to celebrate our freedom; the latter indulged our libido.
Yes Generation Zee there was a time when the young and the restless did not have satellite TV and the only female figurines on TV were Goris in Gul Ahmed Textile’s Lawn commercials. Imagine the psychological damage done to an imaginative 13 year old boy watching blondes frolicking in Shalimar Garden wearing cotton Shalwar Kameez. For serious skin flicks one could endlessly tune VHF frequencies on vintage color TV’s, in hopes of catching uncensored episodes of ‘Buck Rogers’ or ‘Charlie’s Angels’. Mostly, we got static and white noise, and when the Gods did favor us, we saw the constipated face of a surly man in turban, his majesty Sultan Qaboos of Oman.
The other 14th August shugal (fun), was finding fireworks. Naturally, under righteous regime of our fearless leader, Ameer-ul-Momeneen, Gen Zia-ul-Haq all fun activities like dating, free speech, unions, alcohol, public gathering (Ordinance. 144) and fireworks were forbidden. However, our fearless smugglers, the true heroes of Pakistan, routinely smuggled fireworks, among other things, from Bharat, although one had to frequent mysterious places like Delhi Colony, Patel Para, Kala Pull and Goli Maar. One does not have to go further then Goli Maar, literally ‘bullet fire’, to understand the psyche of Karachi. Maybe R.K Pelton needs to include it in the world’s most dangerous places
One might ask how come a mummy papa bacha, though a peeli diwar alumni, could impregnate the nefarious underworld of Karachi? To this I credit my network of contacts, comprising of various characters from the length and breath of Pakistan. And here I mean the demanded Pakistan, not the moth eaten version we got because Edwina had a thing for Nehru (something akin to ‘Whose your Daddy’ biaatch), and Lord Mountbatten, well one look at him can tell anyone that his rujhan (inclination) was more towards the likes of Ziggy Stardust. But don’t get me wrong, I am not bitter or against cross dressers or our talented neighbors (especially their starlets and man of letters), apparently there was something in Mr. Nehru that our fearless leader lacked, although reading Stanley Wolpert’s biography of the man, it certainly wasn’t charm. In any case, I am all for using the Mata Hari prerogative to get what you want, and propose Neeli as the next ambassador to the US. But then again, the next US president might be a sour pickle, so once again we have erred in our timing.
But coming back to my Pakistan and those who defined it. There was Arif from Abottabad, who taught me the delicate art of khancha baazi (wheeling dealing), Khan our fearless and mustachioed chowkidaar (security guard) from Jehlum, Abul Kher, the perpetually hungry khansama from Bangladesh, Razzak painter/urdu poet from Barelli in UP, Sarwar, the slow motion man from Sukkur, Tara Masi, the heroinchi gutter man with his long bamboo sticks, Chandan our Seraiki mai(maid) and her serenely beautiful daughter (allow me a sigh!), and Gul Afsar, the minibus turned race car driver from Kohat, These folks were my Pakistan, a true Beneton commercial, long before I learned how to spell the word or support the team.
Of course, lighting assorted fireworks like phuljari, patakhe, bum and anars had all their special appeal. My personal favorites were bums (bombs), a pinch of volatile chemical wrapped in brown paper, the same kind we used to cover up our school kapi books. To use it, one would hold it a fist, blow hot air and fling it on the pavemen. KABOOM, or usually a hissing POOF followed. It was the stuff legends were made of, as a far as kids are concerned. Your pockets filled with these lethal grenades, you could scare the living shit out of stray dogs and cats and occasionally sleeping khansamas (cook).
Frivolous activities aside, the true essence of 14th August was it’s timing, which put it in the middle of the Monsoon season. The rainy season in Karachi not only helped in keeping the population under control - by electrocuting numerous patriotic men who fearlessly climb on top of rickety building to tie the flag to some pole - it also turns Karachi into a desi Venice. Quite an honor considering that Mohenjodaro’s archeological ruins are a mere 400 miles away, where for the first time a proper sewage system was developed. What better sight than to see floating Suzukis, kids playing in rainwater mixed with sewage, and fruit sellers on top of floating thelas. But it was not only the poor who were disadvantaged, even the upper class was affected by the rain, it was the great equalizer. Most houses had leaking roofs and water seepage through windows. Carpets were rolled, curtains were taken down, mops were put against doorways and pots and pans were strategically placed to catch drips. All this and curses on the haram khor (son-of bitch) contractor who made this house last year with inferior quality cement.
On top of this, with torrential rains came crashing wires and burned PMT’s (Pole Mounted Transformers). So usually, Karachites had to do without power, which led to candles, gas burners and other exotic lamps smuggled in from China. In those days, darkness came peacefully, unlike now when the loss of power is greeted with the ugly snarls of Honda generators. So yes, it was peaceful, and the candlelight playing with the shadows of the night made it esoteric, except for those damn parwanas (moths). Favored by Urdu poets as the metaphor for unconditional love, these pesky insects were all over the place, humming, buzzing and eventually burning, their bodies sprawled all around candles. Ghalib might find this romantic, I found it disgusting. Raining outside, muggy inside, trapped in a house with parwanas crawling all over the place. Even going to the bathroom at night made you feel like a Viet Cong solider tunneling under Saigon.
However, the main event of the day was usually the lights. As soon as it got dark, most families would leave the house to see beautification of Karachi. Now granted Karachi does not have a Lake Shore Drive, a Manhattan Skyline or a Golden Gate Bridge, but we have Habib Bank Plaza. The cure for all skyscraper envies. But before the route is selected, the phone lines are buzzing with plans for the impeding sojourn.
“Anwar said that Sheraton Hotel is done up real well. He went there for lunch na . . . . Oh he eats there all the time. . . . I have not cooked lunch for days. Tum ko tu pata hai kai mein tu bachpan sai his lunch kai khilaf hoon, aur Anwar tu kabhi Sheraton, tu kabhi Sindh Club. Bichare ghar ki khane ki liya taras jaate hein. Job hi aisis hai un ki”
“Naheen yaar, mein aur Feryal tu Goethe Institute kai dinner pai invited hai, mein nai socha tum sai pooch luon sheher kai halat. . . No, no, no, it’s a folk night thing yaar, you know just a few select, cultured people. You know how Feryal knows all these art wallahs. Haan yaar, sharab tu ho gi, jabhi tu mein jaraha hoon“
“Are you nuts? Going out in this traffic. Babar says that it is total suicide to drive in this weather. After all he is a Doctor you know, everyday he sees he sees accident patients being bought into JPMC . . . . Nahin Sana ka admission tu nahin karaskte kiya kum number ai hai? . . . You know seats are only reserved for Professors, how old do you think Babar is . . . . Baal tu isliye safaid hu gai hein kai kuch lagate nahin hai.”
Eventually, we would get on the way and do Tour De Karachi but the last sight was always Quaid-e-Azam’s mazzar. Shimmering in the muggy and polluted air, which is peculiarly Karachi, the white mausoleum was, and will remain, a reminder of the purity of the idea that was Pakistan. After the obligatory circle around Guru Mander roundabout, we would return home with sadness. Tomorrow was another school day. Yuck!
posted by Samurai Zauq at 9:00 PM
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