In loving Memory of my husband, Khalid Murtaza Chowdry

I had never met a person like Khalid, until I got married to him. For our honeymoon he took me to trekking in Northern Pakistan. It was quite scary for my family to say the least, as they didn’t hear from us for the duration of the trip. However, my family soon realized that Khalid was a very different husband in a very traditional sense of the word.

Khalid believed in living life to the fullest and creating the means to enjoy life every moment. Money or no money he believed that attitude was more important. He showed me the meaning of life which I had never experienced even living in Toronto, Canada. We experienced life together in places where only few can experience in their life time. From living in Gilgit to eating friend fish in Jamshoro to Universal studios in USA to Vancouver, BC. We experienced it all. My family adored him and he provided guidance to all of my family with his quick wit and solutions. He had a solution for everything and didn’t hesitate to share it.

Those who knew Khalid describe him as one in a million; it’s very hard to find such a well rounded person who excelled in every area of his life. Today I wish that Khalid was around to see Seenaan our son grow up to be man just like him. How I feel is hard to describe but it can be summarized by this poem which I came across the other day…

I don’t know how to feel
it’s all locked up inside,
the emptyness is waking
the tears are running dry.
Your the one who held me
gave comfort when things went wrong,
what do i do without you
I feel my faith is gone.
My heart just doesnt realise
that you are really gone.
A loss that came so suddenly
but will last my whole life long.
Our time just meant so much too me
I know it allways will
the memories locked inside of me
forever to hold on too
You told me that we’d be,
together forever more
partof eachothers lives
but now the door is closed.
Never too be opened
kept locked on both sides now
Although you may have gone away
your spirit will forever stay
Sue.

For my husband Khalid “Banjara” Chowdry I loved your integrity, for the honorable path you always took against all odds. I loved your strength for you were the wind below my wings. I loved your free spirit for the adventures and excitement you brought to my life. And more importantly, I loved your love, for it makes me strive to become the best woman, and a mother to our lovely son Seenaan.

With love always,

your wife

Sabrina.

Related Post:

In Memoriam – Banjara

I had heard people talking about how they remembered exactly where they were and what they were doing when they heard that President Kennedy had been shot. For people my age, around 8.45 am, September 11, 2001 was such a moment, one that will always remain etched in my memory.

I drove on to work where the television was on in the waiting room as always. We could all see the view from across the river with a plume of smoke rising from the towers. A short time later, the towers went down one by one. My first thoughts were for my younger brother, single and studying in San Francisco and my mother who had come to visit me in the US but had gone to Chicago for a few days to meet a friend. No one knew what was going on. News sites on the internet were jammed as everyone tried to find out what was happening.

Rumors started flying soon, though. Someone said there had been more attacks on oil refineries and nuclear installations. Someone else said gas was rising in price by the minute and would run out in hours. It was another two days before we got a hold of my brother and several more days after that my mother was able to get a flight home to me, shaken and tearful. My father asked me several years later what it was like. I told him it was the most horrific day of my life. Worst of all was the uncertainty, the not knowing what was going on and what was next. We were Americans, damn it, we were always in control. We knew how the world worked because we were the ones who made it work; On that day, for a while, we were not in control and it was a frightening feeling.

Soon after, the news came out that the attacks had been carried out by Muslim fundamentalists. American flags and wreaths made of stars and striped started appearing on doorways and in lawns. I resisted this for a while not because I agreed with the attacks or condoned them in any way but because I didn’t think that flag waving jingoism was the correct response. After a few days, though, when my house was the only one that did not have a wreath on the door or a flag in the yard, I felt uncomfortably isolated.

I had also been reading the reports of racist attacks on Arab/Muslim or even ‘Arab appearing’ men. One mob even killed a Sikh because they didn’t know any better. There were reports of arrests, detentions and interrogation. For the first, and last, time in my life, I felt afraid of being in America. I thought about my wife and infant son and what they would do if the FBI knocked on the door one night and took me away. One day, I decided I needed to take the bulls-eye off my front door and went to get a wreath.

I rationalized it to myself. I wasn’t agreeing with the bigots and racists attacking Muslims, Arabs and non-whites in big cities or supporting the war-mongers whipping up the nation into a frenzy of hostile patriotism. I was expressing my sorrow at the thousands of innocents who lost their lives on that Tuesday morning. I went to the local K-Mart expecting to walk in and pick up a wreath. No such luck, as every shelf was marked ‘sold out’. I made my way to the back and at the customer service center, someone agreed to make me one. As he worked, I could feel him eyeing me intently. Finally, he asked “Where are you from?” I stiffened perceptibly as I answered “Pakistan”. He smiled and told me his grandparents were from Lebanon. He then asked if my family was alright or if anyone had harassed us.

This scene was repeated numerous times in the subsequent weeks. Neither my wife nor I were ever subjected to any harassment yet were asked many times by American friends, co-workers and many times strangers in grocery stores, gas stations and book stores if we were OK. It was this feeling of being in a place which recognized us as different and respected us for it, where human rights were more than just platitudes mouthed by politicians that carried me through the ensuing months and years. The war in Afghanistan commenced soon after. “Guantanamo” became a house hold name along with “Patriot Act”, “Special Registration” and other choice procedures devised especially for us “aliens”. Being a rabid science-fiction fan, the irony was not lost on me.

My mother eventually went home to Pakistan swearing never to come back to America (although she eventually did). My brother went through an unpleasant episode where he was taken off a flight and questioned by the FBI because his name resembled someone they were looking for. He finished his education and also went home swearing never to return (and he hasn’t). I kept on taking my annual trips to Pakistan, patiently enduring the fingerprinting at airports, the picture taking, the questions, the trips to the local immigration office. To their credit, they were brusque but never rude.

Since that terrible September day, I have had passionate discussions about it, with friends and colleagues, family member and acquaintances, in person, in print and online. I have tried to walk the fine line between criticizing America for its ham-handed response to the specter of fundamentalism of any type and praising it for the healthy and open society that it still is.

At home, in Pakistan, where chauvinist nationalism, rabid anti-Semitism, anti-Americanism and fundamentalist Islam have melded together to create a particularly noxious stew, it is difficult to get people to engage in a constructive conversation about problems and solutions. In addition, by virtue of having lived in America for so long, I am now American, the term being used with humorous derision. My opinions are thus contaminated by my ‘American-ness”.

Here in the US, the news media have painted Pakistan and its surrounding areas as some sort of latter day Iwo Jima with people being killed on the street and bombs exploding all round. My trips to Pakistan usually elicit anxious queries from colleagues about whether I will be safe. While Pakistan has had its share of unrest, life goes on, people go to work, come home, visit their families and carry on with their lives.

It is actually much easier to criticize, analyze and discuss American policies here in the US than anywhere else. Abroad, the discussions quickly become tainted with laundry lists of America’s real or imagined crimes and misdemeanors.

My family, with my three American born children, is now inextricably linked to this great country, which welcomes outsiders, rewards hard work and encourages people to dream big dreams, this country where people may not understand your accent but will always respect your accomplishments, where they may not understand your religion but will defend your right to practice it as you see fit, this country that asks you to always have an opinion and to defend it without fear of reprisals or retribution.

Perhaps one day, my fellow citizens in Pakistan will be able to claim as much.

First published in the daily “Jonesboro Sun”, April 12,2008.

Consider the following truisms:

– An average successful Pakistani shopkeeper is smart enough to easily swindle most of us.
– Miandad knew every trick in the book – a master tactician.
– Jawans of the Pakistan Army fought valiantly and courageously in the ’65 war and again in the Kargil war winning several lost-cause battles.
– Pakistanis living in Silicon Valley and elsewhere make excellent engineers and low to mid-level managers.
– Computers’ related vocational schools have mushroomed in Pakistan.
– Rulers and governments are judged exclusively by their short-term performance. 

So, what’s the common thread? Now consider the following respective corollaries:

– The shopkeeper swindles you for a few rupees not realizing that his petty action is not good for business in the long-term.
– Miandad refused, and perhaps still refuses, to see the utility of long-term planning. He publicly ridiculed Pybus’s request for a laptop.
– While the Jawans and lower ranked officers have often made us proud – the same cannot be said for the generals. All of Pakistan’s military engagements, external and internal, have been unmitigated strategic disasters.
– Pakistanis are conspicuously missing from the executive management cadre in Silicon Valley and elsewhere.
– While Computer programming schools have grown in number, any effort to teach kids (or adults) the basics of education and science is laughed at by society.
– Musharraf, Zia and Ayyub still have a number of supporters among educated Pakistanis – need I say more?

I hope you are getting my point. Pakistanis are great at tactics (moves for short-term gain) but absolutely horrible at strategy (moves for the long-term). There are almost endless examples of this not only in contemporary society but in the history of sub-continental Muslims. For example, when the British defeated Tipu Sultan, we were taught in school and through popular folklore told that the tragic defeat was caused, and tragic it certainly was, by the traitors Mir Jaffer and Mir Sadiq. Nobody mentioned that such maneuvers by the British are a part of military strategy and all conquering nations (not least, modern day United States) have employed such means. So, Tipu Sultan, while a brilliant soldier and tactician, lacked a bit in the long-term strategy department. Let me also point out that Pakistan’s sole strategist and founder of the country was culturally quite British.

Reforms in the education system, primary, secondary and tertiary, is the best hope of changing this well-heeled cultural trait. Sir Saiyyid tried it before, we can try it now.

About a year ago, Khalid started to contribute regularly to Soach and his SoachCasts rapidly became a very popular and anticipated feature at the website. Since I had known him, he had been an ardent poetry fan. He knew classical and contemporary, minor and major and local and global Urdu poetry with equal deftness. When he recited the poems, he breathed a personal touch into them that nobody else could. 

Recently he moved to Pakistan. Back in April when he was about to move I talked with him at length. He told me that he was not happy in Canada despite a secure job and a good life. I guess “Banjara” was missing his roots. He was also very excited about his new job at SIUT. He said that it would give him something more purposeful and fulfilling to do. I talked with him for the last time about a week before his death not knowing that it would be our very last conversation. He told me that he was very busy but happy. He was doing something he had always wanted to do – help other people especially the ones who had nowhere else to go. We had a lengthy talk and he told me about what was going on in Pakistan in general. He was not exactly thrilled with the cultural and political direction the country was taking but he still was very optimistic. Such was Banjara – he never gave up. 

Someone once said that the only certainty in life is death. It seems so true today. For if someone like Khalid, who was so vivacious and full of life is gone then anything in life is possible – however uncertain or unexpected it might seem. A while back, he recorded a poem by Ibne Insha. We would like to post the same poem in his memory. May Allah have mercy on his soul. Ameen!

Click below to listen to a piece recited by Banjara.

On Sunday, during a lull in the Eid parties, I took the kids to a small regional park. It was a lovely day (like most other days in northern California), a cool breeze was more than made up by the robust sunshine.After the ritual dangling, sliding and swinging in the play areas, we took a walk around the park and eventually sat down on a bench facing the pond. For the kids, the main attractions were the ducks and geese that flocked over to us. For me, it was a respite from a cramped schedule to look back and reflect upon the last two years. Did I “return” then or have I “returned” now? What are the things that pulled me there and what has brought me back? I have been asked this question a quadzillion times and each time I have answered it differently. I wish life was simpler.

October 26, 2007

I often depict Pakistan as a society on the verge of collapse – during moments of despair, I even argue that Pakistan has passed the point of no-return, thereby hurtling with increasing speed towards a supernova of war, famine, internecine struggle and an ultimate, bloody, re-structuring of society. But, on other days, I think of the many remarkable people I met in Pakistan, some old friends and some I met during my brief stint there. I, admire their spirit more than anything else. All of them see how Pakistani society has gone from bad to worse, they realize that there is no quick fix, above all they realize that in the most optimistic scenario whatever effort they put into the cause that is Pakistan can show no measurable difference in their lifetimes. Yet they plod on, undeterred by criticism, unfazed by frequent and deliberate hurdles. Hats off to these pillars of hope, the unsung heroes and heroines of Pakistan. But, let us not be too exuberant– the group I have just described is a dying breed. As a percentage, there were many more of such people in the late seventies and early eighties than there are now – a vast majority has been converted to staple Pakistanis, corner cutting, cynical individuals, doing their best just to survive and feed themselves and their families.

Edward Said started his polemic “Orientalism” by describing the western caricature of the Orient [1]. He describes a typical bazaar in the Orient, where smells of spices, smoke from wood fires, shouting of hawkers and vendors, among others, combine to create a rich sensual experience [2]. With all due respects to Said, of whom I am an ardent fan, I find a lot of truth in this picture of the Orient. In Pakistan, all of one’s senses are continually being exercised – strange smells (mostly foul but sometimes good), sounds (mostly loud and noxious but sometimes enriching – particularly if you have a penchant for Punjabi humor), sights (generally hideous, but sometimes breathtaking) and other experiences await the adventurous. On one hand is the sterile blandness of the West, particularly that of the United States, and on the other hand you have sensual overload in Pakistan – smell, noise, shoving, pushing, extreme heat – you name it. The key, then, is one’s appetite for adventure. At forty (the formal start of middle age), maybe I am not as adventurous as I once was.
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[1] I am using a more classic definition of the Orient, which includes the Arab and Muslim areas of the globe.

[2] Maugham, in my opinion, did a much better job of describing the Orient in the “Magician”.

As Karachi comes to a grinding halt amidst bloodshed, riots, and strikes, an interesting civil and political situation has turned tragic. It was surreal to see live coverage of the deadly events in Karachi juxtaposed with vulgar speeches and music orchestrated by the ruling party in Islamabad. There is little disagreement among Pakistanis that Saturday marked a new low for the military regime. Until this fateful weekend, I had found myself strangely elated by the clash between the legal community and our uniformed custodians. The weekend before, I stayed up late following news coverage of the Chief Justice’s caravan from Islamabad to Lahore. Now all that is gone – Karachi brought us back down to Earth, back to reality.

The Lahore rally was a singularly uplifting event for me and for countless others, first because it seemed to suggest that Pakistanis are capable of peaceful political activism and that the “common man” is finally protesting against one-man rule. Second, Pakistanis are so starved of good news of any sort that they are willing to work towards change, any change. The optimism that grips the nation at times of such turmoil is more a testimony to the human spirit of resilience than to actual reasons for expecting things to improve. And third, Pakistan appears to have a “natural” political cycle of about a decade after which they want a change of guard. The psyche of the nation is such that long tenures at the top are somehow unacceptable. Maybe, we are inherently a “democratic” nation – again I imagine light at the end of the tunnel.

However events play out in the next few months (and there are a couple of interesting permutations on the table), it is unlikely that the next regime will in any way be better than the outgoing one. The country will remain in the firm grip of the feudal aristocracy, with the active support and help of  the military. The common man will still be denied dignity, justice and the opportunity to seek a brighter future for his children. But, let’s get on with it; Musharraf has had his chance.

A couple of days ago I read an appalling piece of news. The Civil Aviation Authority (CAA) has announced that by paying a fee at the airport, visitors can be whisked through immigration, baggage claim and customs. Will anyone be surprised when existing service, already poor by all standards, gets worse for people who cannot or will not cough up the additional dough? Will people ever get fed up of this and refuse to be discriminated against? Is there a part we can play? Why is this system so resistant to change, in spite of significant opposition from within (see, for example, columns by Drs. Khayal and Bari)? Following are my thoughts on these questions.

The social order that prevails in Pakistan is called a colonial system. The society in this order is geared towards serving the colonial master. We, in Pakistan, particularly in the areas east of the Indus, know this very well and have perfected the art of servitude. Starting from the Central Asian kings, through the Moghuls and then the British, the system has changed little. Some masters were better than others but overall society’s main purpose was to serve the ruling class. Masters are, of course, reluctant to give up their privileged position and in general, have to be thrown out either by a new master class (change of dynasty) or by popular movements (independence through revolution or war). The events leading to Pakistan’s independence in 1947 certainly did not fall into the latter category. It was a change of dynasty in the guise of independence. The indigenous elite [1] in India recognized that the old order is falling apart. The inevitability of eventual British withdrawal from India must have been evident to the sharp intellects of the indigenous elite during the First World War. The slumbering masses in the areas now in Pakistan, though, had no great desire for change and no inclination to go through a painful revolution of independence. Whatever little enthusiasm they mustered was a direct consequence of hard canvassing by the elite [2]. So, when after independence, the indigenous elite seamlessly slipped into the shoes of the departing masters, there was hardly a whimper by the commoner, the old faithful. For a colonized nation, most of the things generally identified with stability and prosperity, such as a strong military and bureaucracy, good infrastructure, good schools and hospitals etc., act towards strengthening the status quo. Therefore, the more economically prosperous today’s Pakistan becomes, the firmer will be the grip of the ruling class [3]. For the common man to share this potential prosperity self-rule is a prerequisite.

The masters are not about to relinquish their privileges voluntarily. Do we now wait for a revolution and while queued up for the guillotine (if you can read this you are likely to on the wrong side of the falling blade), lament how we became unfair victims of society’s wrath, or do we start or join a movement ourselves and make the privileged class realize that it is in their long-term interest to stop acting like colonial masters? My vote is for the latter in the hope that it is not too late to avoid the bloodshed that accompanies all revolutionary wars of independence.

A few months ago, I touched upon the moral repugnance of encouraging and perpetuating the class system by keeping servants. But I sold my soul to the devil – we now have a maid, a janitor, a gardener and a chauffeur. I succumbed – and I was told by wise men that it was inevitable. This is a clear example – changing the system threatens the lifestyles of everybody who is in any position to affect change. Let me say that in a different way; only the relatively privileged, people like us, have the full stomachs to worry about issues that go beyond basic survival. But these people would be working against their master status by standing up for social and judicial equality. Hence, in my opinion, there is scant possibility that internal social movements will bear any fruit. That is why exhortations of Drs. Khayal and Bari get nothing but a sympathetic nod of the head even from the most progressive.

The independence movement (I don’t know what else to call it) has to be launched from outside the country. And what better place can there be than the United States [4]. Leadership of this mandate falls naturally on the Pakistani-Americans who see on a daily basis how a relatively classless society functions and how an egalitarian distribution of public services and of disbursement of justice strengthens the civic fabric.

Here is a sample of what we can do:

Break the Feudal-Military Alliance

Lobby the American government to stop all military aid to Pakistan. The only purpose of the military is to keep the privileged in power by throttling and exploiting the common man. I won’t say more – speaking out against the army is a dangerous business unless you have the literary gifts of Javed Hashmi and can use the time in confinement to churn out a new book every six months.

Lobby for an increase in economic aid, which should be disbursed to private charities with an established track record of helping the common man. No money, public or private should flow to any government agency. An example of abuse was the disbursement of aid, sent mostly by overseas Pakistanis in the aftermath of the Earthquake. Local feudals lobbied the government to hand them the cash. They wanted the power to disburse funds according to their wishes. That is bad; our charitable contributions should not end up in the hands of the military (government) or the feudal landlord.

Help the Common Man

– Encourage, through friends and family in Pakistan, charitable work that directly benefits the common man. We must stay away from “The President’s Fund” or other such hoaxes.
– Prepare a list of Pakistani companies that treat their employees well. Conversely, identify the bad guys – companies that use semi-indentured men, women or children. Then lobby to encourage the good guys and publicly admonish and boycott the bad guys.
– Avoid, like the plague, anything that even smells of child labor.
– Treat servants (when in Pakistan) like you would treat your employees or subordinates in the US. They should have a set of job responsibilities, not an open-ended mandate of servitude. For example, they should be under no obligation to carry out the orders of your guests and visitors.

Activism for Political Change

– Make it known that the Pakistani government cannot rely on the Diaspora for unconditional support. We should stop identifying with the ruling elite, and eliminate the feeling of shame which propels us to hide governmental shortcomings and to blindly support their policies in the media and on public for a, sometime against our better judgment. The Pakistani-Americans should give visiting Pakistani government officials “hell”. During interactions with them, focus should be on the many shortcomings not on the few achievements.
– Agenda for specific political reform leading to good governance, such as emphasis on accountability, should be made and publicly pushed.
– Specific vigilance should be set aside for identifying abuse of power. Those instances should be widely publicized to the global media unapologetically.

The new idea here is to start acting like dissidents and not ambassadors of the current system. If you wish Pakistan well, work for its people, not for its rulers.
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[1] The indigenous elite is referred to in popular lingo as the Brown Sahibs.

[2] Among pre-independence Indian Muslims, the only places where the Movement had popular support were Uttar Pradesh and Bengal. Considering provinces currently in Pakistan, my statement above remains factual without exceptions.

[3] The obvious assumption here is that the ruling class will not let the benefits of good schools, hospitals and economic wealth percolate down to the common man. It is certainly true in Pakistan.

[4] A strong case can be made for leadership of this movement to come from British-Pakistanis, who are more likely to identify with the common Pakistani. I focused on Pakistani-Americans due to my own ties with that community.

The weather is nice these days – the January cold is behind us and the heatis still a few weeks away. Add two back-to-back long weekends (Muharram followed by Kashmir day) and the stage is set for enjoying a cricket match. Batting against weak bowling, I love; bowling against weak batting is also quite good but fielding for any bowling or against any kind of batting is anathema to me. Unfortunately, weak batsmen and bowlers are difficult to find in this cricket crazy place. The solution is obvious – I decided to watch Pakistan play South Africa this past Sunday. Most of you know what happened so there is no need to get into that painful episode but two symbolic things have stuck in my mind. First, the bowling of Muhammad Samiwas eerily reminiscent of Waqar Younis bowling to Jadeja at Bangalore in the quarter final of the 1996 World cup. It was one shortish ball after another, ideally suited to big heaves over mid-wicket. Why didn’t Sami or Waqar change the line or length to avoid the obvious slog? Second, in the 48thover or thereabouts, a new South African batsman lifted one over mid-off, the fielder charged in for a difficult chance; he ended up not getting to the ball and conceded four runs. He could have easily saved the four if he had not attempted the catch. Why did he make that choice? Was he thinking?

During myriad post dinner conversations spanning multiple decades, I maintained that education was not the panacea for Pakistan’s problems. My argument rested upon the uncivil and irrational behavior of educated Pakistanis. Now, after spending the last year in Pakistan hobnobbing with the educated elite, I have come up with a theory explaining this paradox.The Pakistani system punishes active thinking, so the “educated” come outworse than the totally illiterate who at least learn to think on their feet as a consequence of their street experience. The “educated” get drafted into the civil service and other good jobs, public and private, perpetuating this cycle. It is interesting to see intelligent people who left Pakistan for the West at various stages of college (or high school) education having to unlearn their childhood habits and then re-acquiring a questioning, critical attitude towards life. All professionals successfully employed outside Pakistan can probably identify with this phase of unlearning bad habits and then acquiring the habit to think.

Indeed, many of Pakistan’s problems are either caused by the educated few or are exacerbated by a poorly thought-out and horribly executed remedial action imposed by the Aitchison and Punjab University graduates. In Pakistan, therefore, we have to work on quality (teach our kids to think for themselves) as well as quantity (increasing literacy rate) in education. Maybe an Oxford education had something to do with Pakistan winning theWorld Cup in 1992.

Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian Spring.

Last month, I crossed the Iron Curtain of the East; I set foot on the forbidden land; I did it! A short fifty-minute flight over the alluvial plains of Punjab took me to the Indira Gandhi Airport in the Indian capital territory of New Delhi. I spent four days in Bangalore and one day in Delhi,which by no means turned me into an expert on India. My impressions are subjective and are tainted by my prejudices and experiences, for example images of multi-limbed gods brought back memories of Indian grocery stores and restaurants in the US.

India looms large in the Pakistani consciousness. The cultural and military threat posed by India has shaped Pakistan’s history and the raison d’etre of the Pakistan army. My childhood perceptions (perhaps typical of all Pakistani school children) of India were that of a formidable adversary, which was bent upon the destruction of Pakistan (which some Indians undoubtedly still are). The other common belief about India among Pakistanis is that the extent of poverty, hunger and filth far exceeds that in Pakistan (which is not true). During my five days in India, I was attuned to these two social aspects of Indian society, trying to judge for myself. So, I scanned local and national papers, trying to gauge local attitudes about us. For the most part, I didn’t find any related news items, until there was a bomb blast in Assam which some politicians squarely blamed on Pakistan. For Indians, it seems, Pakistan only has a nuisance value. For example, there is an acute high-tech labor shortage in Bangalore, but the tech-savvy understand that there is no real engineering university in Pakistan and no talent pool from where good workers can be lured to their industry. So, I got the feeling, while in Bangalore that the Indian high-tech industry, quite rightly, has no respect for its counterpart across the border. They have little respect for Pakistan in general, they being extremely proud of their democracy and their country. Regardless of the merits of their systems, the Indians have bought into it, which means that the public generally believes in, and supports its leaders, a trust which is sometimes misplaced (a familiar situation for those following American politics).Their optimism about the future of India, constantly buoyed by new and more bullish economic reports, is in stark contrast to the pessimism that pervades the Pakistani society. On the subject of poverty, filth and the like, the difference between the two neighbors is minimal in all but one aspect, air quality, which is noticeably better in India. At the end of the day though, I would say that there is little difference between Pakistan and India in terms of appearance, infrastructure, facilities etc., but there isa big one between the Indian and the Pakistani, the common person – one is forward looking, optimistic and confident about a more prosperous India of tomorrow, the other is despondent, cynical and trying all possible ways to emigrate from what he considers a sinking ship. Pakistanis in India are treated politely but not with the same awe as Indians are when they visit us; that, I guess is how big guys treat little guys (à la New York).

In this case, I feel I must end with a concluding note and a political one at that. Paradoxically, I agree more strongly with Musharraf now in his haste to make peace with a burgeoning World power, and in his emphasis on the economy. I also, blame him and his ilk more strongly for keeping Pakistan colonized by special interest groups. If only the common Pakistani thought of this land as his own, we too could have coalesced into a real nation.

A rich guy (RG) in a late model Honda driving out of the affluent suburb of Defense, going too fast for the existing conditions, hit a poor guy (PG) on a bicycle. The PG ricocheted off the windshield, which shattered on impact, back on the road. The crowd that gathered in seconds helped the injured man, and his cousin, into the RG’s car. The three of them sped off to the General Hospital. After the initial first-aid, two policemen on duty in the ER section of the hospital questioned the RG, took down some details of the accident and decided to impound the car and inform the main police station. At that time, the RG pulled aside the constable and had a few words with him in private. Following that, the two policemen made themselves scarce and did not follow up on impounding the car or on informing the main police station to initiate criminal proceedings. The rest of the incident followed the usual script. The RG had by now summoned some senior doctors of the hospital who negotiated with the PG’s cousin, paid him a paltry sum of money and drove off into the darkness of the wintry night.

It happened on my commute home from work. In accordance with the unwritten speed limit in Pakistan (go as fast as the traffic allows), I had sped up in the nearly deserted section of the road. That section of the road is dual carriage, wide, has light traffic, has no cross-roads and in general has no pedestrian or cyclists, except occasionally. Driving on low beams, a bad habit I had acquired in a faraway alien land, I saw the bicycle crossing the road too late to stop in time to avoid a collision. Seconds afterwards, I was yelling to the crowd for directions to the nearest hospital but none came. They were too busy “enjoying” the drama. So, I headed to the nearest hospital I knew, the General Hospital on Ferozepur Road. The injured man was conscious and wasn’t even bleeding profusely. He kept saying that he had lost his shoe during the accident. Looking through the small hole in the otherwise opaque windshield, we got to the General Hospital. The paramedics rolled him up the ramp and into the hospital. A considerable time passed, the poor man was given a bit of a run around but my shouting, in very inadequate Punjabi, to not worry about the paperwork and get on with treating the patient, seemed to have an effect. Then, I sat down in the waiting area, quite shattered and at a loss for what to do next. Minutes later, a man in a shawl (a common site during winters) came and asked me to follow him. He took me to where the injured man’s facial wounds were being dressed and asked me a few basic questions about the accident and took my particulars. It was clear that he and another man were part of law-enforcement. After a couple of minutes of questioning, they decided to take the steps mentioned in the blurb above. That was the trigger point, where I turned from a human to an animal. I beckoned the constable outside the clinic, made him sit down and told him that first, I was quite willing to help the injured man, but will not give him a penny at any cost, regardless of consequences. Second, I had connections too, and that he would be advised not to mess with me. The former was very much my intention but the latter was a bit of a stretch. Fortunately, though, my sister works in that hospital; and right when this conversation with the constable was taking place, a doctor, well known in the hospital and to the policemen, came around the corner asking for Dr. Salman. At various points during the next two hours, we tried to locate the two policemen but they had literally disappeared. By now, the injured man and his cousin had been coached by the masses. In addition, they had acquired a number of legal representatives who were bargaining on their behalf. To cut a long story short, the compassion I had felt for the poor man dissipated to a certain extent by the show of exaggerated grief and by their crude attempts at extortion. I ended up giving him far less than I would have if they not tried to bargain – I was unfair. My fear and dread that living in Pakistan would turn me into a real Pakistani are coming true.

The poor man, when I left him seemed okay. His head x-ray was good, his limbs were fine. Only his face suffered from shallow cuts which required a few stitches. He and I were lucky.