Bhutto is assassinated

It broke my heart. My first reaction was Holy Shit, I hope it is not true.

By the time I reached home, CNN was confirming that Benazir Bhutto, that charming lady, affectionately called ‘Daughter of the East’ by the world at large, was no more. The raspy, domineering voice had been silenced forever. Like her iconic dad, Zulfikar Ali Bhutto and her two brothers, Benazir’s life was cut short. Cut young. Cut too mercilessly. Immediately people began to draw parallels between the Gandhi family in India and Kennedy’s in US. The jinxed Bhutto surname. One of the most elegant stateswoman in the world has been assassinated by some nutcase anarchist.

The shock is not surprising. There was a pizzazz about Benazir that can best be described as extra-ordinary. The first Muslim female head of a state, she had an amazing connect with both the grassroots and the powers that be. Benazir would amble across the corridors of White House and fields of Larkana with equal poise. She hobnobbed with the rich and reached out to the poor. The liberal lobby cheered for her, so did the Western capitals. The media considered the Oxford-Harvard educated Benazir honeybunch. She could outdo any informed journalist with her repartees and savvy. I especially read her interviews.

Wedded into criticism, Bhutto had a very polarizing persona. Her critics harangued her for being incompetent and on the pad. I used harsh language in some of my posts about alleged embezzlement charges against her. In hindsight, nothing was ever proved against her in any court. The charges may keep flying but that doesn’t make them true, always. A woman of grand aspirations with a taste for complex political maneuvering, Benazir was indeed ambitious and sought power. She died doing what she enjoyed the most, as my buddy Salah puts it: politics. Many have already started called her a martyr.

Criticized, cut-up and censured for her high profile image, modern outlook and bold policies, Benazir held firm. Flustered, her foes – and she had lots of them – attacked her first in Karachi on Oct 18, 2007 upon her arrival from exile. Remarkably it didn’t deter her. Benazir showed immense character and courage. On December 27, 2007 as evening prayers culminated in Pakistan, the blood-thirsty ultraists finally got to her. Ironically the last thing she said at the Rawalpindi rally -- held in Liyaqat Park -- moments before her death, is now going to make it to history books:

I am ready for any sacrifice.
[Less than 12 minutes before an assassin's bullet pierced her neck]

Less than twelve days later, on January 8, she could have been Pakistan’s prime minister for the third time. Instead she will be laid to rest, wrapped in Pakistani national flag, by her father’s grave tomorrow [Friday] in the mango orchards of Larkana.

Confrontational, flamboyant, moderniser, winsome, stylish and extremely likeable. With that famous head-scarf on her head, always. That is how Mohtarma would be remembered. I hope she rests in eternal peace amidst the mango fragrance of the beautiful Pakistan countryside.

The brave, they say, die never, though they sleep in dust. Their courage nerves a thousand living men.

Ms Bhutto will be dearly missed!

Benazir Bhutto
Daughter of the East
[1953-2007] RIP

Has winter cometh?

O, wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
~Percy Bysshe Shelley

It is winters again. Small nuggets of early December chill have started to tease people randomly. These days one often sees the hoi polloi compressing their necks on the roadside, involuntarily, many times during the day. That perhaps keeps the cold out. Many people wear very unfashionable but supremely warm – so I am told – monkey caps. It is a cap that covers everything from neck upwards, a la mask. Thankfully there is a slit for eyes. You only need a lantern-in-hand to look like one of those 70s movie-style chowkidars, guarding some abandoned circuit house, where a lovelorn damsel walks barefoot on moonless nights. There are many amusing ways to fend the cold off and I find Delhiites pretty ingenuous in this respect.

I reckon the chill factor strictly obeys the law of relative income levels. Everyone well-to-do I bump into [and I bump into lots of them these days] is exfoliated. They wear not too many clothes. A fashionista whispered to me, as I broached the clothing topic, "Sam, these days minimal is in! A shirt or a tee, a multi-color muffler [to be worn more like a tie, you see] and you can compliment it with a feather-light jacket. No undershirts, no heavy-duty attire. Period." I don’t know the winter code for chicks but I assume it must be a tad more minimal than guys.

Meantime those who form longish queues for busses continue to don hand-knitted sweaters, mufflers and warm clothes. Bus cleaners and some employees in the government sector are often found in good old woolens, mostly in a garish colors. The common janta for sure has a penchant for numerous layers of the winter ensemble to keep themselves cosy which makes sense also. I don't understand why I must wear fewer clothes, just to look the party type.

So winter mornings in Delhi appear dreary as death and evenings start exactly as the clock strikes six. Peanuts and popcorn sell like hot cakes at roadside vendors. I have peanut allergy so I can't really help myself but I love the way people consume peanuts in the capital. There are little hills of peanut pods around folks who consume the seed but rarely trash the pods.

I really can’t say that I love the chill [I do have a thing for rains] but I prefer it over the horrid Indian summers. Winter, they say, is the season in which people try to keep the house as warm as it was in the summer, when they complained about the heat.

Sameer
Delhi, Winter 2007

Old man and the sea

Why do we run into cul-de-sacs in life? Why do we change course suddenly only to go into maelstroms? Why do we run smooth and then tumble as we walk? Eventually we realize our mistake but it’s often too late. We sob as we look back on life, perhaps, because we know that deep down all of us are inherently human. Flawed. Animated. Shaky. Emotional.

Plato, the ancient Greek thinker, one of the world’s most influential philosophers, who walked on God’s green earth between 428-348 BC, waxes eloquent, “All learning has an emotional base.”

It didn’t come as a surprise to me that Musharraf choked with emotion and shed a tear, betraying his usual bravado, two times in as many days: First, as he bid farewell to his army and second time when he took oath as the civilian President of Pakistan. [The first military Gen to do so]

Often enough when there is an intense bout of wits between two warring factions and the more powerful one is made to eat humble pie, a sense of dreariness follows. Methinks Musharraf must be contemplating – and lamenting may be -- the enormous goodwill he earned when he took control of the rudderless ship -- called IRO [Islamic Republic of] Pakistan. Like an able captain, he put together a smart crew to navigate through some very rough waters. Everything looked right on.

Then something extraordinary happened. Another mighty ship [big, opulent, powerful like the Titanic] called America was attacked. 9-11. The day changed the world. NYC’s twin towers – iconic symbols of America’s corporate might were brought crumbling down in a matter of minutes. Pentagon – the military jugular of US power was set ablaze in broad daylight. It looked surreal but it was happening – across the Atlantic – on live TV. America got dandered up like that proverbial Spanish bull that is shown a rag. Bush’s war team decided to go rampaging. Their target was clear: Afghanistan.

The good old captain – Mushy -- was contacted mid-night and given a now-famous ultimatum. ‘You are either with us, or you are with the terrorists’. Period. Swiftly and prudently, a wooly-eyed Mushy got the message. He understood, as army commanders are expected to, rather quickly, that something major has happened. That geo-strategic alignments have altered overnight. Briskly, like a keen sailor, he decided to go with the favorable winds. With the west.

The war on terror was won, partly thanks to Mushy’s intelligence folks. They yanked the baddies out of their sleeping beds and turned them over to the US. Once more in history Pakistan rose to the occasion -- providing top level intel, bases, support and backup against the war on terror. Major terror networks and finances were frozen. This greatly angered the Islamists. OBL had a new foe.

The pragmatic captain’s ship had again meandered into rough waters. Between devil and the deep-sea. US, flush with a victory in Afghanistan, went onto mission Iraq, briefly forgetting about Pakistan [like post-soviet-Mujahidin times]. The attention ebbed. And the Islamist tribe in Pakistan grew. Their writ ran large. Suicide bombing became fashionable. They attacked Prez Mush a couple of times, even getting close to him. He survived each storm. The ship wobbled a little but sailed on.

Suddenly a judge from Baluchistan, who used to dye his hair and moustaches black every morning, decided to play tough. He wanted the names of tribals and other blokes who went missing during the war on terror. Now some of these guys had already been handed over to the US, some imprisoned in Afghanistan and some very high value detainees lodged in Guantanamo bay. I am sure some guys must have been eliminated by the military intelligence – either during the round up or in gun-battles. Judge Ifty was summoned to Army House, Rawalpindi and as is the norm in military, told to put in his papers. When he refused [and the army is not programmed to hear Nays] he was suspended.

The decision was to prove shellacking. Around this time, the captain of the ship alienated some of his passengers. Most of the people traveling aboard the ship had been a secular majority but they thought of the captain as being too tough, too pro-west, too dictatorial and hence planned to thrown him into the sea. The tide turned. I wonder what went through Mushy’s head as he shed the first tear this Wednesday. Was he recounting those ill fated hours when he decided to kick out the corny judge. Soon after the lawyers rebelled. Nawaz came back from exile and was promptly dispatched back. Another mistake. Another tear.

And then the beauty – Benazir -- sashayed down the aisle of the ship. The ramp didn’t burn. Instead 150 people were incinerated. It was a clear message of how far the extremists could go. The court, with the dyed hair judge in control once more, was playing truant again. The captain decided to change direction of the ship and instead made the judge with a grudge, annoying journalists, several lawyers and other trouble makers walk the plank. Another fluke. More Tears.

The rest, as they say, is history. As the countdown to the D-day [general elections in Jan 2008] begins, the crew on the ship has changed and the captain, like Archibald Haddock, is more sober now. Big bro, US is pleased again [often a good sign]. In the next 40 days, we will see a mixture of good, bad and the ugly happening on the ship. Fisticuffs may break out. The beauty [West backed], the old warhorse [Saudi blessing], two brothers from Punjab called the Chowdarys [Mushy favor] and other motley crowd. The captain stays albeit his guns have been taken away from him. We have a new first mate -- Kiyani -- on the ship. He, they tell us, will control the direction now. The captain will only guide. No more flukes.

The ship sails on.

Sameer

Gen to Jinab

Passing the baton

The transition has happened, finally. Gen Pervez Musharraf abdicated his military post after serving the army for 46 prolix years. For a brief while, as he handed over the baton [called command stick; it is more like a symbolic scepter] of army chief to his mate and chosen successor Gen Ashfaq Pervez Kiyani, he appeared to be choking but held his nerve, like a solider. Musharraf, a highly decorated army Gen, will be sworn in as the civilian President of Pakistan later today. His legacy, I reckon, will remain that of a competent commander, who led from the front, a PR extraordinaire, someone who wooed the media with his effortlessness, wrote a compelling book while in office and more importantly safe-guarded Pakistan’s interests after the 9/11 US blitzkrieg. He, however, miserably flunked to understand the cesspool of domestic politics in Pakistan and did nothing to allow a new political class to emerge. At some point Musharraf perhaps overstepped his authority but still fared better than most of the previous military rulers.

Even if Mush can no more count on the famed army allegiance but like a smart lad he has played it safe. He has appointed his most trusted men at the top. The ISI boss -- Gen Nadeem Taj -- is a camp Mush man [was his military secretary and accompanied Mush on that eventful flight from Colombo], so is the chief of military intelligence (MI). Gen Tariq Majid, Chairman of the joint chiefs of staff, another key guy remains faithful. The corps commanders, who form the backbone of Pak army and constitute its real strength, were seen cheering for Musharraf, as he bade a final aideu to his 'beloved' army, which remained loyal to him till the end. As long as the army is seen to be backing their old boss -- and new Prez -- Musharraf has no worries.


And despite his resignation from the army, Musharraf [now Sadar-Sahib] will continue to keep his current military staff and his security too will be responsibility of the army. The present constitution of Pakistan gives the president reserve powers, subject to a Supreme Court approval or veto [likely to be approved in a retooled SC] to dissolve the National Assembly of Pakistan and trigger new elections. In effect he would have the powers to dismiss the elected PM. The president also chairs the National Security Council and appoints the heads of the Army, Navy and Air Force. Mush, I reckon, is going to stay both relevant and major league.

In hindsight, Musharraf was quite a charmer. I liked his sartorial ways. Always elegantly turned out, thinking out of the box, running his fingers in the hair, well-read and witty, Mush was a great relief from our dour politicians. Usually politicians in the sub-continent are colorless, bromidic kinds. As the military Prez, he would go to the US on his book tour and sweep his TV hosts off their feet. On his India visits, the media would go euphoric trailing his every move. A liberal guy, who kept pet puppies at home, Mush made enemies with conservatives in Pakistan. The West, aware of the Pan-Islamic wave never left him off-hook. Mush’s outstanding help in fighting the war on terror is however not lost to many in the White House.


Kiyani, as the new army chief, is not just a military commander; he is responsible for the institutional reputation and extensive financial interests of the country's top officers, who consider themselves a class apart. Pakistan’s army top echelons – along with their top political class – come from an elite social stratum. [Rest of the country – 85% and spill over – remain the toiling masses] Since Kiyani 55, is younger than Musharraf, he is expected to have a greater connect with his officers. A Kashmiri by ancestry, Gen Kiyani is a Musharraf loyalist, Punjabi by birth, stammerer, chain smoker, moderate, former Spy boss, palsy but tough. A professional, strict guy, he has an attitude that may best be described as: listen [rather than Mush’s Mantra: Talk], army-back-to-barracks [rather than meddle in petty politics]. However, expect a tougher line against ultraists, since Kiyani will try his best to establish the supremacy of the army and streamline its combat efficiency. In doing so, the US trained Gen may not think twice to smoke the bad guys out with surgical precision.

Next Blog: The Cesspool[Dec 2008]

Sameer

Water Wars

Water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink. The rhyme of the ancient mariner sprang to my mind as I hopscotched through Kashmir during my last visit. Vale of my childhood, where water was the last thing people would possibly bother about. We used to throw water on each other at school and the fun was fondly called ‘Aab Jung’ [water war]. But those were innocent years, with only a few residential areas and a lot of farm land. The rivers were overflowing and filled with fish. The Lakes, I remember, meandered around hills and the golden kingfisher would dive in to catch a little trout in its beak. In the years to come, that innocence was gradually lost. It was molested by indifferent times. The fish drowned in the waters. Then there was scarcity.

I think the water problem does not come as a surprise. To make things worse everyone wants a separate home, complete with gardens and flowers and fencing in Kashmir. And a place for keeping that sparkling car. This has lead to a steady shrinkage of agricultural land and a dip in the ground water table. Natural resources are -- naturally -- stretched thin. Private construction is at an all time high – homes in all kinds of concrete shapes are coming up. But everyone complains that winters are too cold now and you want to tell them: Look here, when you use too much concrete and glass – trying to replicate Delhi architecture -- you can’t expect the cosy warmth of a Kashmiri home.

And it results in Water wars of a different kind. I first noticed the desperation when we drove to the Manasbal Lake. There are tiny picaresque villages on the way. The narrow pot-holed road is lined with beautiful orchards full of red, juicy fruit, ready to be plucked. At a bend in the road, near a hamlet called Poshwari [meaning flower meadow – no flowers though], we met with villagers, who were blocking the road. They told us that we cannot go further up because they are protesting the acute water shortage in their area. No mini-bus, car or scooter was allowed to pass. Only the occasional security vehicle whizzed past, because nobody dares stop the ‘military’. The villagers were pretty animated and no excuses worked. So we parked our car to one side and waited.



I knew all my media accreditations – that usually allow me an entry to the Prime ministers’ garden in Delhi -- won’t work with these folks. So I warmed upto a few protesting guys. Why are you troubling people like this? I asked. “Jinab, they shot back [That native naïve way of addressing anyone dressed in city garb] we have resorted to this extreme step because we don’t have a drop of water to drink”. Our women walk five miles to fetch a pail of water and all we can do is sit and watch helplessly. “We couldn’t even take a bath on the Eid day,” a young man added for effect. I noticed dandruff on his shoulder; I guess he was not exaggerating. Do you think anyone will take notice of your peaceful sit-in? I questioned an old man who was snorting his tobacco. “We don’t know – Jinab – but what else can we do. We have tried everything possible,” he said with an exasperated expression.

We finally made our way through the melee but I felt bad for the poor guys. It is hard life for them. We live in a world of contrasts, I often tell myself. Bottled mineral water and 24 hour water supply for some – me included – and nary a drop to drink for others.

[My pals in the US drink Evian water. Direct from Évian-les-Bains, on the south shore of Lake Geneva, a close friend remarked last month].

I broached the issue with a top tourism officer – incharge of Manasbal waterways. Though the guy was smart and knew quite a bit about water sports, he gave me that amused look as I raised the topic. You know Sam, he went on in an avuncular fashion, you are a financial journalist, how can you can’t understand this local, petty stuff. These villagers are illiterate, uncouth and they don’t understand the water schemes the government launches for them from time to time. I couldn’t buy his government-like argument. It was a typical passing-the-buck and blaming-the-aggrieved answer. I looked on.

Two days before I took a flight to Delhi, I went to see Tanseer’s [best buddy] folks. I hired a Tonga [horse carriage, good old way] and we rode off. About half a kilometer from my destination, we were signalled to stop. People were furiously pelting stones at vehicles and the Tonga-Walla [Carriage driver] thought the horse might bolt. I got down and walked the remaining distance. I thought it was a usual demonstration against the security forces but it turned out to be a water protest. This time in the heart of a major township. I am sure the crowd was dispersed some time soon because the gathering was not around when I returned. I am sure no one heard them, let alone the authorities.

Back in Delhi, as I sat covering an international event in a five star hotel days later, I asked for some water. As I waited for the maitre d'hotel to bring me water, I casually asked a second attendant for water. Two bottles of Himmelsberger arrived in the next one minute. German water. The extravagance of our lives. I thought about the peasants in that lovely flower meadow. I know no one ever took care of their necessity.

Sameer
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Villagers blocking the road at Poshwari, Kashmir [Mobile Pic]

Le Théâtre de l'Absurde

Events in Pakistan are flickering at an amazing speed. Every single day we have new developments from the theater of the absurd. Thursday saw ‘tight’ buddy Bush calling Prez Musharraf -- finally after more than 100 hours of the declaration of emergency. On Friday it became clear that Benazir -- the great elocutionist -- has effectively taken over the mantle on behalf of her democracy-starved countrymen and women [Those at CNN and Fox can’t stop praising her]. To start with, she has begun to tie her head scarf more securely now. She addressed her nation [a la Mush style] on Pakistan TV, because diabolical Mush didn’t let her step out of her Islamabad home. Actually the national TV showed a still picture of her, while her audio played in the background. In reality Ms Bhutto was addressing a handful of supporters outside her barricaded, barbed home – after the government thwarted all efforts for a march to Rawalpindi – the Military base of Pakistan – to lead a public rally.

In the evening the white house spokesperson was asking Pakistan to allow Ms Bhutto to travel freely. How it reeks of an ancient theatre? Allow Miss Bhutto to criss-cross the country! How about those mad-caps on prowl for her? They want to get her, we all know that. Right? US, it seems, has finally decided that Mush alone can’t pull it off for them. So they would need to back Benazir. I don’t think any other reason why a political figure -- under martial law -- would be allowed to say all kinds of nasty things against the Prez on PTV. Live! Time, my fave political magazine, puts it rather subtly, ‘The local-language press — generally cynical and conspiracy-minded — grumble about the theatrics of the whole event, pointing out the lack of visible grass roots support for Bhutto in both Islamabad and Rawalpindi’. Something is cooking, for sure.

The belated phone call from Bush actually seems to be working. Prez Musharraf said day before that elections will be held before Feb 15, as per the original plan. The cornered fox also admitted that he will ask his designer to stop making his military uniforms [which he doesn’t wear anymore] after the friendly supreme court validates [invalidation isn’t an option with them, now] his second term win. Automatically the constitution will be restored. That assurance seems to be placating Bush and his deputy Secretary of State John Negroponte, who – in turn -- called Mush ‘indispensable’ last night. Miss Bhutto, since she is a highly qualified lady, understands that ‘indispensable’ means vital. Yet she would continue to make more noise. That is a little game of politics they teach you at Oxford. Miss Bhutto has been its alumnus. It is about her own relevance.

As for other players, Judge Iftikar Chowdary has been cooped, like Napoleon -- protector of the confederation of the Rhine at Saint Helena. His daughter was yesterday not let out to even sit for her exams. The ultraists are detonating themselves in the hills these days, outside government facilities and the queue to paradise is swelling, as reports suggest. Some of them are on prowl in the military town of Rawalpindi, if the police boss is to be believed [waiting for that pro-west female to come out in the open]. The media is reporting fine. At least the online media looks free. I get my daily dose of happenings in that country from the Pakistani online English press, which is largely accurate and not heavily censored, as one would imagine. Despite all western papers, in story upon story, reminding us that US bankrolled [$10 billion] Pakistan in the last 7 years -- to fight their war, to stitch their flawed policy tatters and to send Pakistani army in the restive tribal belts, for the first time in history to kill their own folks [They don’t tell you that, silly].


Going by the steady flow, the next few weeks are going to be more eventful. We can envisage more hair-raising acts in this ongoing drama. Nawaz – never to be left behind – may attempt something exciting. Benazir will continue to amuse. The Judge with a grudge is expected to say something sensational. Imran Khan, the born-again Muslim [biggety and no mass appeal] might send more emails from his hide-out to his estranged wife. The mad-gang would continue to blow their heads and capture more police posts in the mountains. Fazlullah [Radio-mullah] broadcasts from his private FM, calling for Sharia, could be available to more households. And the US will publicly make all the correct sermons, while privately continue to shape events in their outpost – Pakistan.

Updates to continue.

Sameer

Little world of ours

The wafer cover was prominent by its duskish color from under the crystal clear waters. Kashmir looks Delphic in fall and the potato chip bag thrown into the Manasbal Lake -- perhaps by a pack of tourists -- portends the extend to which forces of globalization have permeated us. Our surroundings. No shade of God’s green earth is sheltered from its ugly left-over. And our attitute to it has been rather sloppy. We seem to be in some sort of a neurotic love affair with its incessant, grabby pull.

Everything is nicely packaged. In little covers. Small boxes, cones and smart cans. Frankly, I don’t wish to throw some of these peel-offs, at times. The consumer fare is made available to us from the biggest metros to the smallest hamlets in Kashmir, where ordinary folks often think that a certain surname will make them superior to everyone else. And then they happily gulp more of the tangy juice and toss the wrappers on roadside. Carelessly.

Christened ‘New India Aeroplane’ the boat that I took, with my pals, had its termite-eaten roof, nicely covered in an Airtel [that’s Worldtel’s India version] canvas. The boatman’s cell phone kept on ringing and the little boat had to be stopped two times, while he took his calls. In reality everyone seems busy on his/her lucky possession [a sleek, high-end cell phone] in Kashmir. They even touch it from time to time -- in their pocket -- to ensure if it is still there. What is your cell phone model, eh?… is a very standard query. I’d to know mine to be ready with a standard response. Long live Nokia!

The mania has gripped all. You have cell phones suddenly clanking in mosques, in the middle of a prayer, in funerals and most irritatingly, in the middle of a conversation [what is buzzer mode]. Etiquettes, if there are any, are melting away, much like good old socializing. You seem to be chatting away with someone and suddenly he pulls the magic brick from his pocket and punches in something. And puts it back. You are completely irrelevant but you are supposed to take that in your stride. For the sake of Globalization. At the altar of manners.

All along the scenic road to hills, you find beautiful humps of golden crop with a buttery sun in the backdrop. The streak is broken only by Shahrukh Khan [selling airtime to the natives] slumped on a king-size chair, a number of times, with a mischievous grin on his 42 year old face. The beautiful fields with hard working peasants in them toiling away appear diametrically contrasting to the billboard. While the villagers thrash the autumn crop, SRK doltishly looks like one of those old world zamindars [landlord], overlooking his tenants.

People appear a lot rich to me in Kashmir. I don’t squeak much as long as they are prosperous and can afford great gadgets. I must admit that I mostly know people from my own social strata and they look blest. They talk about cars, master plans, local politics, plasma TVs and of course religion. However, I feel that most people living on the fringes and in the countryside are miserable. They are left behind while the grabby train has moved on.

I think the potato wafer is still there, under the clear waters of countryside Kashmir. The Lays chips company, Frito-Lay, was founded in1932 by Herman Lay in Nashville, Tennessee, US. The city is located on the banks of Cumberland river. Gliding in Manasbal, this fall and chancing across the Lays wafer in its depths made me think about Cumberland. I tried to connect the dots. Small world, alright. We live in a global village, full of consumerist stuff, I wondered.

The boatman’s cell rang just in time to break my drift.

Sameer

Update: General cracks the whip

The squeeze has begun. Pakistan is under de-facto martial law. A string of harsh laws, as expected, have been enforced. A new bunch of friendlier justices have already taken oath. Most of the misbehaving crowd [lawyers like Aitzaz Ahsan, politicians like the ex- playboy Imran Khan, Nawaz’s top man Javaid Hashmi, Human rights activist Asma Jehangir et al] have been silenced. Phone lines cut and outer doors locked. With an elite flock of Pakistani army regulars on guard, not even the milkman’s bicycle can make it to these blokes.

It is now dawning upon the Pakistan media that they have been asked by a tough school headmaster to shut their traps up or else....! The Press can no longer go about saying the unspeakable. It is gagged. Officially. Sample this:

As per the new law “No printer, publisher or editor shall print or publish” any material that consist of photographs of suicide bombers, terrorists, bodies of victims of terrorist activities, statements and pronouncements of militants and extremist elements and any other thing, which may, in any way, promote aid or abet terrorist activities or terrorism, or their graphic and printed representation based on sectarianism and ethnicity or racialism.

Non-compliance of the new curbs is subject to discontinuation of newspaper publication for up to 30 days, and in case of television channels up to three years of jail and 10 million fine or both will be imposed on the broadcast media licensee or its representative and their equipment and premises will be seized.

The media has also been restrained from publishing any material that is likely to jeopardize or be prejudicial to the ideology of Pakistan or the sovereignty, integrity or security of Pakistan, or any material that is likely to incite violence or hatred or create inter-faith disorder or be prejudicial to maintenance of law and order.

And didn't we alreday foresee something! Pentagon spokesman Geoff Morrell [expectedly] said the emergency declaration "does not impact our military support of Pakistan" or its efforts in the war on terror.

Sameer

Emergency!

The excitement is over. Pakistan is finally under a state of emergency. It had been on cards for quite some time but mid-morning calls from Condy Rice -- in the past -- procrastinated the announcement. I reckon, Mush could hold it no more. Permission from DC came in the end. A public statement by White House [official] can safely be ignored. The military has completely taken over now, as I post [18:30 IST], while the constitution has been put under an animated suspension.

Fundamental rights may go out of the window. That is often the first causality in such a scenario. The judiciary will now be effectively muzzled and the freshly active political parties will go back to their cocoon. Media would be put on a tight leash. The all-powerful Pakistan army is now expected to flex its muscles and a heavy crack down on the gun-totting bad-guys is imminent.

Mush is shortly expected to address the nation explaining reasons for imposition of emergency. I think a new temporary constitution called provisional constitutional order (PCO) will come into effect. It would replace the original constitution of Pakistan. Under Pakistani law, emergency can be imposed only when the security of the country is under threat. The PCO gives sweeping powers to the Prez.

Looks like Mush took the extreme step because Pakistan was fast slipping into anarchy. Extremists were on the prowl. Everywhere. They first attacked Benazir’s convoy, killing 150. Then they struck near the Prez house, another daring suicide attack. Emboldened, a few days later they ripped apart an air force bus, killing a dozen officers. An antiquated radical culture was taking root. Balochistan is on boil. The insurgency in the volatile NWPF is spearheaded by the Tanzim Nifaz Shariat-i-Mohammadi (TNSM), a banned Islamic organization. In Swat, armed tribals have been parading captured Pakistani troops like prized trophies. This was clearly sending a wrong signal in the command and control.

As if it was not enough, an increasingly active judiciary, which has been looking into the petitions filed against Mush’s re-run for presidency was making more trouble for him. The Supreme Court was expected to deliver a verdict validating/invalidating his second term as Prez in the next couple of days. Also the much talked about American backed deal with Ms Bhutto, it now appears, was not working out.

As we wait for a word from Mush, Democracy in Pakistan has been put on the backburner. The activist CJ of Pakistan’s Supreme Court can now water his manicured lawns. A new CJ may be sworn in any moment. Nawaz can stay put in the Jeddah palace. The radical blokes in the NWFP should now gear up for a tough, long, bloody fight including aerial attacks [complete with laser guided precision bombs] with the Pakistan military.

Reports are coming in that Benazir is on her way back to Pakistan from Dubai where she had gone to see her family. The tribals, calling for imposition of Sharia [Religious rule] in the sensitive Swat, have a visceral hatred for both Bhutto and Mush, whom they see as America's gophers.

Can Mush tame the ultraists? Does the deal with Bhutto still hold? Pakistani politics, as ever, remains ever so unpredictable. Bizzare.

Sameer

Don't Tase me, bro

Just two days after it was yelled out in a University of Florida lecture hall, "Don't Tase Me, Bro!" has become the newest cultural touchstone of our pop-cultural lexicon.

So what did you think. The police [those fat, corpulent, dull-looking chaps] manhandle in India only. They do it all over. For no great rhyme or reason. Including the US.

For those of you who've been on vacation on a Greek Island, or are just logging onto your computer from a remote location in China, the incident sparking the worldwide uproar is the Monday arrest and tasering of Andrew Meyer, a University of Florida student.

Meyer barged in line to harangue Massachusetts senator John Kerry during a campus talk that day. The student refused to pipe down after being asked to by the forum's organizers, and after he carried on pressing Kerry for answers, police hauled him off. They forced him to the ground, and tasered him. [Sourced: WB Network]

In the whole ruckus, the student yelled, rather haplessly: Don't tase me, bro.

That was it. The word spread. It is a rage. It is all over. Sample this:

• The term hovered between 9th and 11th place as the most searched for term on Google for Wednesday, according to Google Trends.
• The above video has been the number 1 Viral Video for the past 24 hours, according to Unruly Media, an online marketing firm in London that tracks viral video activity on the Web. The Meyer arrest video has received 2.6 million views and almost 40,000 new comments since Monday.
• In contrast, the much-talked about John Edwards' rebuttal to President Bush's progress report on the Iraq war received 114 thousand views and 43 new posts.
• Many of the leading opinion shapers on both the left and the right, as well as newspaper blogs, offered their thoughts and insights on the incident.
• Television pundits across the dial offered their opinions, and those opinions were archived for posterity on YouTube.
• Several enterprising individuals have even snapped up variations of the spelling of the phrase as Web addresses. One of them points to a Wikipedia entry for the University of Florida.
• Mashups are proliferating on the Web.
• A couple of t-shirt designs, and bumper stickers have emerged.
• Dozens of people have felt compelled to record their own video responses in a YouTube forum discussion on the matter.

A fast digital world, bro.

Sameer

A Mighty Heart

Genre: Non-Fiction Ratings 5/5
If International affairs give you a kick, then go catch ‘A Mighty Heart’.

It is a powerful movie based on naked truth. The film documents the events revolving round the kidnapping and subsequent killing of the Wall Street Journal, South Asia Bureau chief Daniel Pearl while reporting for a story in Pakistan. This was the time when the US was just beginning to flex its muscle in response to the daring attacks of 9/11.

The best part about the narrative is that it is factually and truthfully told. I think that is going to be the film’s USP and will eventually work for it. Angelina Jolie as a heavily pregnant Mariane, Daniel’s wife is at her career best. Expect an academy nomination for her stellar, real-life performance.

Michael Winterbottom’s casting crew makes a fascinating line-up. Indian actors like Irrfan Khan are first-rate. And although we already know Daniel’s fate -- he was beheaded, with the gruesome execution documented on tape -- the narrative still grips us with its frantic editing patterns and a restless, quasi-documentary approach. The hand-held, digital-video camerawork lends a certain heat-of-the moment immediacy to the proceedings, as a broadsheet puts it.

Though many people in conservative circles still believe that Daniel Pearl was CIA, I never trust such clap-trap. I know everything does not necessarily have to be spooky and this spy-thing is largely cliché. It is the easiest and most stupid label people stick on each other, in hostile places. Indian spies, ISI, Mossad, KGB. There is a something mischievously oddball about it.

The film is based on Mariane Pearl's first-hand published account of the dramatic events following her husband's disappearance. I especially liked the film-maker's focus on the Pearl maid's kid as the undersong. Although no ways connected to the main motif, the infant is constantly flickering across the screen, walking in between the labyrinth of wires that the FBI and Pakistani intelligence guys set around the Pearl home in Karachi. The innocent moments offer visual interludes in an otherwise intense movie.

The film is an eye-opener in many ways. It talks about the dangers of modern extremism, the cunning of it. A mighty heart underlines the pressures under which investigating agencies operate and how international relations can go askew in a matter of minutes.

We also learn about the perils of new age journalism, not withstanding its sheer romanticism. AMH subtly tells all of it, very originally, very candidly. Reminds me of Aldous Huxley, 'Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you mad'.

Sameer

Autumn Mosaic

Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all. ~ Stanley Horowitz

Kashmir looks stunning in fall. I pity that Delhi knows nothing of Autumn. I noticed everything looked russet from the tiny window of my plane as we neared the solider-infested Srinagar airport. The fields appeared like large chocolates with little dried apricots thrown in from crease to crease. Only later did I learn that the apricots were actually rice crop artistically thatched away in small chalet like formations. It was so Kashmir. So beautiful.

Two days to Eid [That is what Diwali means in Delhi and Christmas in London]. Everything was sepia toned with faith clearly up on everyone’s right sleeve. Since my chums traveled with me, I had to stop over at a Srinagar mosque for mandatory Friday prayers. The mosque was stunning. It had wooden panels, intricate patterns on its roof and a very repetitive Imam [preacher], whom was extolling upon believers to believe more and warning the fickle-minded with hellfire. I was more interested in the masjid patterning than his hybrid Kashmiri-Urdu sermon. Wonder why people feel this compelling need to be bi-lingual in a place where people perfectly understand Kashmiri.

Everyone wanted the Eid on Saturday. The mood was overwhelmingly festive. Alas the crescent didn’t show up. That is a pre-condition to every major Islamic festival. So it was postponed to Sunday. Most were dandered up. My kid sis was a shade dejected, I thought. Earlier that day the repetitive Imam had actually congratulated people for the Saturday Eid. I was impishly contemplating his distemper at this divine delay.

On the D-day I walked to the Eid-mass with my gang. Must have been about 7000 people for the open air Namaz. Clad in crisp Pathani dresses, good-looking people with sharp features, lined up in endless rows. It had a certain religious discipline to it that is often not prevalent in Kashmir. Post-Namaz [which takes all of five minutes], people greet each other with their broadest smiles. They don’t hug canonically three times like their co-religionists in other parts of India. Kashmiris don't even don skull-caps frequently, which are so common elsewhere in India. I forgot to add that most of them actually consider themselves quite distinct from Indian Muslims.

A small group of boys [7-8 of them] shouted slogans atop a moving mini-bus on the way home. Not many people agree on the distinction betwixt church and polity. Azadi [Freedom]. A lone cop looked away. The ubiquitous war-cry. Inspiring but inane. Empty of any purpose. The minibus guys were carefully bending over at places where the electricity cables hung low. Lest their irrational exuberance electrocutes them instantly and cuts short the march to freedom.

The mornings and evenings remained dreary and cold throughout my stay. The chill confuses you. It is warm in the afternoons though. I lunched with folks. It was not only delectable but satiating. Peaceful.

More posts to follow. Watch this space.

Sameer

Gore's day

Je suis retourné.

And before I begin scrawling about all my far-out and freakish adventures in Kashmir, I can’t help but briefly comment on the vicissitudes of our little planet. Many things transpired in the interim period – which has been a little over 10 days. Let's quickly catch up with it. Glad tidings first. Al-Gore, my fav US politician bagged the Nobel Peace Prize. I exulted for one whole hour, as I heard my Dad’s old transistor broadcasting the slice of news. Naturally I couldn’t share my joy with anyone. Not many know about the Harvard-tutored Al-Gore and his climate change stance in Kashmir. Most people think Gore means a tasty water-nut, you find in the Dal Lake. An inconvenient truth yeah. That’s the Oscar winning documentary Al-Gore made and went screening around the world, like an intense film-maker. It won him laurels and earned him his stripes.

I watched the docu along with pals, as soon as it came. It was as unnerving as it was fascinating. Not only does it shake you to the horrors of global climate shift patterns, it makes you reflect deeply why it is so topical to do more about its nasty outcome. The big corporates may appear seething – because they are the biggest polluters – and Bush might further sulk – because of his administration’s non-serious approach to the climate crisis – but Al-Gore appears to have finally made it. [Gore was declared the original Prez elect in US in 2000 before a controversial Supreme Court ruling went in W’s favor. Alas that judgment led to anointing an ignorant farmer from Texas, whose sole claim to fame was his Dad’s riches. We all know what the twerp did in the years to come].

In deciding to award the prestigious Nobel Prize to a widely respected Al-Gore, the Norwegian committee has clearly made its point. The world needs guys who care and protect. Not, of course, people who are bent on destroying everything worthy.

Nobel Prize committee: [Al-Gore gets the prize for his] efforts to build up and disseminate greater knowledge about man-made climate change, and to lay the foundations for the measures that are needed to counteract such change.

Encore

Sameer

Happy Eid

Remember
This October,
That love weighs more than gold!

I am taking a sabbatical. For a little over one week. It is the season of perpetual hope. With the festive season around the corner, I hope merriment is not too far. It is Eid. I'm expecting some shindig.

I shall see you all, soon.

Sameer :)

As the rain set in

For what is it to die,
But to stand in the sun and melt into the wind?
~ Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

She was barely 32. Youthful, vivacious, inartificial. We would fondly call her baby. I remember when she was married into my neighbors; we would all kid around with her. ‘My dad got this for me from Nepal’, she said, stressing Nepal. That was ammunition for us – Me, Suhail, Salah (who had spent a large part of life in Europe and US). ‘Yeah, Nepal, must be pretty expensive’ Salah remarked rather mischievously. She nodded, unmindful of our naughty ways. I still recall the glint in her eye. It was pure innocence.

Her dad was a colonel. Uncle died last year. Baby was a military kid in many ways. Upright, honest and impeccable. She was always perky. However I mostly admired her for her naivety. ‘You bring my lil sonny lovely toys from Delhi, I am truly indebted,’ she would say in her characteristic humility. Now where do you find people, who reciprocate and value love? Baby was really one-of-a-kind.

A beautiful girl, who was also god-fearing. And full of life until death caught up with her. She got some medical problem, which -- as my doctor buddy in the US tells me -- has no real chance of leading to a premature death in the modern times. However, Kashmir is a godforsaken land, notwithstanding its glorified beauty, where doctors – with inadequate contraptions -- routinely fail to establish such symptoms.

On Oct 9, the day preceding the holiest Islamic night – Shab-e-Qadr – [that means beatification, going by the native logic], Baby breathed her last in her new home. Still beautiful, still young, not at all deserving to die. No one knows whether death is really a blessing or curse, but it reminds you that we can’t take life for granted.

Baby
1975-2007
Godspeed

Sameer

Pakistan Scene I, Act II

Play: Waltz of the warriors
Primary Players
Musharraf: King and the kingmaker
Be-Nazir: A beautiful but ambitious damsel
Kiyani: A knight errant
Bush : Big brother is watching

Trivia
Supreme Court: To divvy out a key verdict
Godmen: Howling and sneering but no one is listening
Gunmen: Running mad and fuming
Press: Effectively gagged; occassional jeers

Freedom is a saddled mustang -- beautiful, powerful but reined in. ~ SSB

The stage is all set. Curtains are being re-tailored. Pakistan, our ineluctable naughty neighbor is on the verge of creating a new order, which may shape its destiny in the times to come. Musharraf, the wily General has won the Prez poll. Oh, and it was very democratic. He went to the same senate and assemblies [unlawfully] – which were elected under him in 2002 – and no brownies for guessing how many votes his closest opponent got. Two [Poor, old boy Justice Wajihuddin]. Mush lapped an impresive 671. The Islamic parties along with Nawaz’s PML boycotted the polls. They anyways stood no great chance. Alsorans. Now the supreme court of Pakistan will decide on Oct 17, whether the poll was valid.

There is a rider though: If it okays the win, the SC will live to adjudicate more cases. In case they decide otherwise, [which is unlikely] expect a US backed military takeover [Applying the principle: Obeying dictators stay; the non-assenting hang]. The white house spokesperson Scott Stanzel would have a one-liner ready: Internal matter of Pakistan. So simple. Fundamental rights will go out of the window. Honorable Justices can then take a long walk, with no work. No messenger of the Armageddon, I hope democracy prevails in Pakistan. Diminished-deficient-democracy.

Politics is no rocket science but it could involve complex practicals. Last week, Musharraf signed a national reconciliation ordinance [they are good at coining these terms….Chief executive, accountability bureau et al] thereby absolving Pakistan's former prime minister, Benazir Bhutto, and other favorable politicians, of all corruption charges — a move that has been criticized by many. Bhutto, a one-time rival, termed as a security risk, previously by Musharraf, is now seen as a major partner in the future government to be formed under the newly declared but yet-uncrowned king. Exigencies of real politic, as they say. Nothing is perpetually fixed. There are no permanent friends or foes.

While we saw Nawaz being bundled back to -- where he belonged [using the Mush expression], we now have Madame eminence busy packing her designer bags to Pakistan. Mohtarma Bhutto returns Oct 18. She might have a slightly shady past but the lady oozes charm. Those at CNN and BBC fall for her. The mango orchards of Larkana turn crimson, as the 'Daughter of the East' descends. No Pakistani politician worth his salt – for instance -- can match her pizzazz. Oxford-Harvard educated, armed with twin degrees in political science and economics, Bhutto is suave, polished and blessed with an amazing pedigree. [Dad: Prez/PM/Martyr/Oxford-Univ of Berkeley product; Grand-dad knighted by the Queen of England/Dewan of Junagarh; Ms Bhutto has just sent her sonny Bilawar to Oxford....and the legacy continues]

Supremely conscious of her image, you can expect Benazir to turn up -- in Pakistan -- in great style. Versace sandals, a Dior bag in hand, a Guy Laroche pettycoat firmly buttoned up, she looks geared up to lord over 150 million believers. A female! Difficult to stomach for many. The mullahs are riled, heads filled with nothing but rage. Taliban has started issuing threats but that won’t deter Pakistan’s first family in absentia from returning. Bhutto’s are to Pakistan what Gandhi’s are to India and Kennedy’s to the US. Flawed but tragic and regal, thus heroic.

While Pervez may soon doff his uniform and slip into those smart Shervani’s, he has taken utmost care to choose his successor in the army. That is called cherry-picking. Another Pervez replaces him. Gen. Ashfaq Pervez Kiyani. Musharraf loyalist, Punjabi, stammerer, chain smoker, moderate, close to Miss Bhutto [military advisor during her PM days], palsy but tough. Kiyani, as is the case with Bhutto, was finalized after an official stamp from the US of A. Only liberal, accommodating guys make the cut. The new spy boss at the powerful and deadly ISI is another Mush bloke, Gen Tariq Majeed. That completes the equation for you.

Wait for the third week of October. The drama is expected to play out as per the agreed script. Unless the judiciary decides to add a flaky line or two. We know what happens next.

Sameer

Ivy Debate -- Update

Expectedly the praise for the Iranian Prez is fulsome. Time, one of the world's most respected news magazines, writes in its latest issue:

Despite the harsh words of his host, Bollinger, Ahmadinejad stayed on message, appearing relaxed, reasonable, open, even charismatic.

[Though Bollinger called him] astonishingly uneducated....the event was a resounding victory for the Iranian president.

The Art of Sitting

Every single time I cross over to Kashmir, the first thing I always espy is the natives' Art of Sitting. I don’t know if it is a purely cultural thing but it is unique. No other place have I bumped into people hunkering down on floor to rest. Or eat. Or watch TV. Or fight. Or laze. Or prattle. I’ve figured out that there are many things exclusive only to Kashmir. Outside of the dell, it is usual for people to sit on chairs (in government offices and lower middle class homes), on ergonomic furniture (in corporate offices and media cabins), on benches (in schools, they can also make you stand up), on davenports (in British style cottages), on sofas (in well to do urban Indian homes), upon couches (in Indian film industry and fashion houses), on beanbags (every call centre executive at home), on charpoys (rural Indian homes) and so on and so forth.

The regular rule only deviates in Kashmir, like so many other things. From civil service guys (there is no corporate or private counterpart – only Sarkari Naukri matters) to your neighborhood sweeper, everyone hunkers down on haunches (Sits on his/her lion) upon the floor. That is standard. It is romance wrapped in novel nostalgia. It’s also the first feel you get that I’m home.

I reckon the ‘Sitting thing’ came from nowhere in particular. Since world over -- I beg your pardon, I know that is an exaggeration but that’s what the locals believe -- Kashmir is the best mother Nature has to proffer, Kashmiris consider being closer to nature is a blessing. Squatting on floor makes you feel nearer to ground, hence closer to the elements. Water. Fire. Earth. The heaven is like a playground with nice homes, castles, trees laden with fruits but no chairs. How do you think the chair addicts can adjust? Someone suggested after a deep thought. Instantly I was tongue tied. You don’t reason innocence, daftness, romance.

Kashmiri homes have the most exquisite flooring you will come across anywhere in India. Beautiful carpets, woven with an old world expertise over many wintry days and endless cups of pink salty tea, adorn most houses. The flooring is complimented with similar pillows. These throw pillows have pillow slips usually matching the room sheeting. The floor plan in most homes is aesthetic. The area rugs often go well with the drapes, which are tradionally crewel. The crewel is another key import into Kashmir from central Asia – like Islam -- but in their characteristic bravado, the natives will make you believe that it is authentically Kashmiri. Crewel is at least a thousand years old. It was first used in the Bayeux Tapestry in Europe but don’t even attempt to explain it to the folks.

Sitting is folk magic. Legend has it that sitting is a magical act that connects the person who sits, with other persons, states or places where he sat. So every major event in Kashmir is celebrated while sitting. Births. Marriages. The groom sits on the floor, so does the bride. Children will mostly pore over their books at home while sitting. Vegetables are cut whilst sitting. Sweaters are knitted in the same fashion. Many elders never get up from the floor, as if fastened. You eat while sitting. Naturally you pee like that. Everyone and his neighbor sit cross-legged. Tailor-style. Since all matters are discussed – threadbare – sitting, most policy decisions are taken from the soil. While sitting.

I was browsing through an online Kashmiri daily today. A visiting European Union delegation calling on the separatist leader Malik Yasin was hunkered down on the floor along with him in a picture.

True to its reputation, I smirked.

Sameer

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A Kashmiri offers Namaz by the Dal lake, in Ramadhan

God bless

Tell your God to wipe this religion thing off.
Do you believe in such a thing as sin?

Two very special people – good friends of mine, both – separately gave me these pieces of prescription immediately upon knowing that I am fasting for Ramadhan. I smiled a little. Mortals…how trendy it has become to lampoon God. A la mode. It is interesting also. Asserting that you are godless does a lot of things to you: It absolves you of faith, to begin with. It sanitizes you from belief. You are free to go forth and transgress. Free.

I believe in God, although I’ve my adjustment problems with organized religion. I reckon, if not anything, the notion of God puts a beautiful sense of discipline in your heart. They say he who kneels before God can stand before anyone. I concur.

Faith is imperative. It is often redeeming, expiating. Faith helps you evolve in a million different ways. You can hang tough. Our individual beliefs are not simply trivial topics which come and go over time. They delve into the very fabric of our being and strengthen our character. Faith is like the bird that sings when the dawn is still dark, as Tagore avers.

It is strange that people confuse God with religionists. We flunk to understand that people can be bad – both in faithfulness or faithlessness. People fight for religion because they are either too ignorant about or misunderstand its tenets! Faith discourages all conflict.

Yet some of the biggest atrocities on earth have been committed in the name of religion – The Christian crusades, for instance, were the worst form of human wickedness ever, Islamist anarchy in the modern times is plain vulgar. A purely Jewish state commits little genocides each passing day. Faulting God for this human fallaciousness is like accusing your father for your misdemeanors.

History teaches us that people have pillaged one another since eternity. From antediluvian -- pre-religious -- years humans have been at each other's thoats. The Romans, Punic, Persian, Sicilian, Spartan, Syrian wars – all pre-date modern religion. People have always been murdering fellow people – as long as it was in the name of land, gold, greed or God.

Organized religion, let me concede, has bred superstition, bigotry, priests and rituals. Who was it that led to the supreme exposition, exploitation of these misplaced emotions, passions? Religion and not God. And ever since, people have done the most horrendous things in the holy name of religion. Such is the diabolical complexity of human brutishness. The god men, clergy, prelacy have only added to the confusion. It is indeed sad but does it still give us a carte blanche to curse God?

Indeed a large crop of thinkers, scientists and writers – who came in the last 300 years --have raised their voice against this abject irrationality that half-understood, half-baked religions spawn. As Swift puts it, we have just enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us love one another.

In hindsight, I reason, may be there really is a need to know God. To understand the significance of God in our lives. Not because of sin or vice. Virtue or paradise. But because God is the only elixir to the spiritual hollowness and emptiness of our times.

As for all those blokes – who like to be dubbed godless -- maybe the atheist cannot find God for the same reason a thief cannot find a policeman. And as they say -- any fool can count the seeds in an apple. Only God can count all the apples in one seed.

Happy Ramadhan

sameer

Flight 786 London to Jeddah via Islamabad

It was the most important journey of his life. Yet Nawaz Sharif kept sleeping most of the time on board PIA airplane flight PK-786, a symbolic Islamic number. Unsure of his fortune, the two-time prime minister of Pakistan kept his rendezvous with fate. In a laconic moment, flying over the vastness of central Asia, Sharif must have thought about those fateful moments during the fall of 1999 when a similar PIA aircraft carrying Gen Musharraf from Sri Lanka was not allowed to land in Pakistan, on his orders. Until that airplane ran dangerously low on fuel. Moments later, the all-powerful army took over. The Gen – of course landed safe – and Prime Minister Sharif was tied up, jailed and finally bundled into oblivion. To rot by the Red Sea, in Jeddah.

Not the one to take his fall from grace lying down, the billionaire Punjabi Nawaz Sharif, decided to wait his time out. With politics in his DNA, the Kashmiri-origin Nawaz who is often called the Titan/Lion of Punjab (He is a Punjabi, with both his dad and mom of Kashmiri ethnicity – a terrific combination in Pakistan, where three ingredients matter: Wealth, Faith and Kashmir) decided to strike back. Sharif, also called Mian Sahib by his followers, shifted base to a more political London from lavish Jeddah. Thames is a better idea than Red sea, as most of us would know. Aware that the Gen is considerably weakened by the sudden judicial activism in Pakistan, Main Sahib decided to return home – to Pakistan.

Mian Sahib is the quintessential Punjabi. He is fabulously wealthy. Sharif made a huge fortune during his days as a powerful finance minister under the dictator Zia. His family, immigrants from Shopian in Kashmir, made their millions in steel [Ittefaq Industries] before moving into sugar and textiles. Most of Pakistan's political elite has tended to come from the agricultural, rather than industrial sector, so Nawaz is an exception. The Biryani-loving Main sahib used to talk in chaste Punjabi and Urdu and was considered something of a conservative. His exile did two good things to him. He got an image make-over and improved upon his English. Sharif is now clad mostly in Seville row tweeds and has a new hair crop, thanks to a quick hair transplant. Not surprising from a man, who wanted an amendment in constitution of Pakistan during his second term as PM, to designate himself as the ‘Amir-ul-Momineen’ [Leader of the faithful], a politically loaded Islamic title.

So back to the flight. A planeful of world media in tow. Members of the British parliament sit by his side. His aide-camps. There is suddenly a heightened world attention. White House, we learn, is closely tracking the plane’s route. Could he scuttle their war on terror in Afghanistan? The Saudi King – Custodian of the two Holy Mosques and world’s oil boss – is watching developments with a strange eagerness from his Mecca palace, where golden threads are reported to fall off drapes when the servants dust them each morning. Meanwhile in Pakistan an all time high sympathy wave awaited Nawaz. It is a much leaner looking Sharif, with transplanted mane. Did he feel a sense of Déjà vu? Like time coming back to gnarl as distances shortened between him and his beloved homeland.

Flight 786 landed with fuel to spare. Mush had already gagged Nawaz’s supporters. Barricades were set all over. Violators threatened with dire consequences. Phones jammed. Military style. Tough, no-non-sense. Often enough in Pakistan’s history -- in the tussle between its military and civilians -- the former hold down the latter. Perhaps instructed to be rude, low level airport officials, the Pakistan media reported, misbehaved with Sharif -- the guy who is credited with detonating Pakistan’s first and only nuclear bomb. A once powerful man -- Mian Sahib -- could only utter: No body dares touch me. The feudal splendor was intact. The News, Pakistan, writes that the ex-PM broke down at one point and sobbed slowly when repeatedly misbehaved with. That is abominable. The rich and the respected should not cry. If and when Sharif – the mature politico – comes back to power (I have no doubt he will) he can always have that lowly, poor immigration officer slowly char-grilled, along with his superiors. No worries.

Sharif was immediately sent back. Such is the nature of Pakistan’s vindictive politics. Mush has once again, proved he is no different. Dispatching him back to the boring Red Sea palace – called Nawaz Palace – Musharraf displayed a complete lack of ethics and contempt of court – which allowed Sharif's homecoming -- and a vengeance that has become typical of the Gordian knot that is Pakistan.

Mush, the so-called savior, has -- alas -- become a silly suzerain that they all end up as.

Sameer

The malady of media

Beverly Hills is West Hollywood, California. The city is entirely surrounded by Los Angeles (LA). Woody Allen once famously remarked, “In Beverley Hills, they don't throw their garbage away - they make it into television shows.” The brilliant satirist couldn’t have been more candid about the kind of content that modern television beams. As globalization gradually paints every last nook of the world -- in its often outlandish colors -- we have become witness to an era of mushrooming TV channels. There is a new news culture. Everyone and his dog is well-informed. The only problem is that the information is mostly run-of-the-mill and garden variety, doing nothing to add to their intellectual prowess.

Sample this: Sanjay Dutt, a movie star, is going to visit a goddess in the hills. Breaking news: Dutt has now ridden a brown pony. Our channel is the first to bring you these live pictures, as Dutt crosses milepost # 6 en route to the hill goddess. His girlfriend is on another horse, but wait Sanjay’s pony has stopped. Let’s go and see why.

This is just a slice of what passes as journalism and TV reporting in India. If the television craze continues with the present level of programs, we are destined to have a nation of morons. Marsh was so very right. The problem with TV news in India is that it is still in its infancy. At a nascent stage with naïve people running the show. So you have bewildered boys and girls, fresh out of journalism schools, thrusting microphones down the throats of any one who can be remotely called a celebrity. It can be yesteryear film villains or former cricket players or anyone for that matter. As long as someone has Fluff Value.

We have a large crop of TV news channels, most of them Hindi, in India. By far, the Hindi chaps presenting the 24 X 7 news, are the worst of the lot. The reporters are homespun kinds, mostly mediocre. The reports are average. The other day, my attention went to a solitary TV glaring, as I ambled across a room. The hacks were following some former model, who perhaps unsuccessful in the fake fashion world -- and unable to cope with it -- had gone penniless and turned edgy and high-strung. She begged the reporters to let her be but our Boys-Without-Brains won’t relent. What followed was a sickening invasion of the poor girl’s privacy. Ethics, Responsible Journalism! Are u nuts? The Mike-goons have to have a story to be fed to the insatiable belly of the Non-stop news culture.

It is amazing that the news culture has dropped to such hollowness. My friends in TV tell me that they do it for TRPs. That there are no real issues to cover and if there are any, no one is really interested. I reckon the real truth is far more sinister. The Hindi news czars have identified their target audience: The hoi polloi. The segment includes everyone from your neighborhood paan-waala to an average office going guy, who has no understanding of how the junk news is manufactured and packaged. Some stupid Baba, making villagers drink some unholy concoction, so that they can make only male babies. Or the same, old, trite, beaten terrorism theme. Show some bearded guys in skull caps and talk in fluent, loud Hindi phrases, complete with silly reporters at ten places (talking to unintelligent passersby, who can’t even spell terrorism) and you have a full package. The problem is compounded by the fact that the entire exercise has to be repeated over and over gain.

And it is not like the west. TV news in US, UK and most of Western Europe is very balanced, produced and presented by the very best and mature people. They are seasoned and mostly original, with occasional ideological tweakings. In India you get – for example -- a very uncouth looking Prabu Chawla, shamelessly aping Tim Sebastin in Hard Talk (BBC World). Our balding Prabu anchors Seedhi-Baat (Straight talk…Hard talk, Loose talk…Naughty boy, Copy-Cat). Call it his puerility, but no one has explained the cultural gap between UK and India to our local James Bond. Tim is often confrontational and bellicose in his interviews and that is conventional going by the stiff upper lip British standards. Simply filching his style and talking to your Hasti (Important Figure/Personality….that includes a gawky item girl, et al) is simply childish. Prabu’s channel, Aaj Tak, I forgot to add, is a rage with the masses.

TV news in India has become a euphemism for cacophony. They distort facts and coax at will. And they holler a lot, like farmers. It is trash and it is a huge threat to the intellectual fabric of the people who are its supposed viewers. As they often say…Theatre is life. Cinema is art. Television is furniture.

Sameer

Addendum

Just to chronicle for posterity -- and present if people still care. I’m happy to note that I was not too wide of the mark when I wrote about the coolest brands doing the most un-cool things to better their bottom lines. As if to validate my point, my fav newspaper – which I daresay is the world’s best – The Guardian, London carried its lead story on similar lines on Monday (Sep 3, 2007).

What connection between reader and the paper. An alignment of ideas.

The sweatshop high street - more brands under fire, the banner headline hollers. Go to http://business.guardian.co.uk/retail/story/0,,2161302,00.html for a better idea of how the biggest and the best brands do business.

Cheers
Sam

To tag or not to tag

Fashion is not something that exists in dresses only. Fashion is in the sky, in the street; fashion has to do with ideas, the way we live, what is happening.
~ Coco Chanel
French Fashion designer, King of Parisian haute couture for six decades, 1883-1971

The takeover is complete. Every single inch of their consciousness overwhelmed, stupefied by the dazzle that modern fashion is. And it has permeated deep down, to the level of fathomless obsequiousness. I can't help smirk when I see fashion-toadyish bands of boys, raiding branded stores, laden with disposable incomes. Linkin park loving. Rapcore fans without following a word of what is being sung. I can understand an African-American teenager – with his soggy pants - in the 1970’s crooning the un-intelligible hip-hop, swear words and all, as a means of breaking free of the dominant discriminating attitude of those times but what has become of our fellas.

Sadly it all passes as Fashion. Sporting a Nike is mandatory. That is being branded. Rich. How does it matter that Vietnam Labor Watch, a respected activist group, painstakingly documented that Nike violates minimum wage and overtime laws in much of the poor world, where their goods are typically manufactured. Sources of this criticism include Naomi Klein's book No Logo and Michael Moore's documentaries. A $ 15 billion company knows how to gloss that over. Fluent sales gals in ultra-stylish showrooms -- showcasing the latest apparel to our Linkin park-adoring guys -- do the needful. In an intellectually-bereft generation, everything is cool.

Donning famed tags is not a problem. I – for record -- wear a branded perfume, wear Lee. As someone’s correctly pointed out, the most important thing you can take anywhere is not a Gucci bag or French-cut jeans; it's an open mind. It is about sensibility. Recklessly aping the west to the extend of deranged fascination, bordering on sublimation, is not sensibility. It is fakeness and it smothers originality. As they say, it is better to fail in originality than to succeed in imitation.

The media makes the plebeians think that imitation is cool. That behaving in a certain way is hip. Ironically what we read and hear is Corporate Media. Media, funded by the same companies, which sell you a floater for a ridiculous four grands or make you shell out a fortune for some nutty, cranky gizmo. Fashion! So we have neo-fashionists with often no sense of style. You can be fashionable but the style quotient cannot come without proper exposure. Understanding one's culturescape is also key. Fashions often fade, style is eternal.

True, in a globalized world, we can’t question the west’s flooding of our markets, music and minds but shellacking its impact is important. To tell clever marketeering from genuine fashion. The problem is that we are all carried away by the high pitch hype. It has gotten too shallow. Ad-gurus with their finger on the society's pulse, know the Bull's eye: The collective psyches. Results: Free SMSes. Premium packages. Discounted apparel. Keep them transfixed, sucked up!

Market forces will rather have you take an extra something – Coffee shots for example -- for a price, which can buy you a work of John Paul Satre, the greatest thinker of our times. The gentleman refused the Nobel Prize in 1964. But who cares? We got to send another scrap to another chum – who by the way we not too chatty with -- on Orkut.

Such is being cool!

Sameer

Mush’s Comeuppance

I have no guilt in admitting that for a long time I was in awe of Gen Pervez Musharraf. I thought of him as a cool chap, not withstanding our mandatory neighbor bashing. After a spate of hard-nosed, wily politicians on either sides of the divide, who usually have a cloaked axe to grind, here we had a guy -- refreshingly candid -- who could deliver. Always thinking out-of-box, a catch phrase he made incredibly popular on his first visit to India, the commando was endearing. With his Mouser pistol firmly in the holster, grip always showing, and a military air, he would charm the media. The US swore by him. Pakistan’s economy began to steady. Peace with India, despite the oh-so-usual irritants, looked like a real possibility.

Ruling Pakistan is always an arduous task. The country simply does not have a democratic culture. Whenever democrats feel close to real power in that country, they have turned autocrats. Bhutto senior is a case in point. Recently, Nawaz won by landslides but soon slid to autocratic ways. No wonder the all-powerful Pakistani military has played an influential role in mainstream politics throughout Pakistan's history with military presidents ruling from 1958–69 (Gen Ayub Khan), 1969-71 (Gen Yahya Khan), 1977–88 (Gen Zia) and from 1999 onwards (Gen Musharraf). That’s roughly 32 years. Successive civilian governments in Pakistan have had to either eat crow or play second fiddle to its army. In our generation, Gen Mush has been the face of Pakistan and its army.

Until recently. How times change? And so swiftly. Musharraf is now a much reviled person in his country. If there were any popularity ratings in Pakistan, as there are in the US, he would fare lower than Bush Jr., his best buddy. But Crawford Ranch seems a long distance from Army House, Rawalpindi. Bronx cheered from the left and right, Mush has been cornered. The Islamists are out there to have his scalp. How Al-Zawahiri would love to see Mush skinned alive! Politicians across the spectrum – from Nawaz’s Muslim League N to Bhutto’s PPP – would like to see his back. Add to the chorus -- the plucky, retaliative CJ of Pakistan, a dodgy gentleman with dyed hair, who is passing order after order against the Gen in a pickle.

Mush must be licking his wounds. I wonder who the heck advised him to remove the CJ? That’s when it all began. Power misused is like a pet serpent that can lunge at you! The Gen set his own declension. Now even Mohterma Bhutto, despite a clandestine deal with the Gen – who once called her names – is bargaining hard. Nawaz seems set to return from exile. Adding to Mush’s woes are: Hold your breath -- the huge advocates lobby, the mad-mullah’s association, a former playboy cricketer-turned-politician, radical Pakistani media who think he is too close to the US, rightwing US media who opine he is not doing too much to fight terror, an angry judiciary, pro-Pakistan leaders in Kashmir who feel he betrayed them, tribal leaders because he’s tough on them, US presidential hopefuls because he’s not too tough in the border areas, the dreaded elusive Al-Qaeda, displaced Lal masjid students because he violated their den. Poor Mush.

The next few weeks are going to be snappy for Mush. He may have to quit as army chief. He may have to sleep with the enemy. He may even have to abdicate. He may well have a surprise in store. Only time will tell. Till then, it is going to be Hobson's choice for the dishy Gen. Let’s hope he swims through.

Sameer

Chak De

Rarely does one come across a movie being made in India which blends sportsmanship, redemption and patriotism in just the right puckle. Frankly, I don’t think too much of our Bollywood because more-often-than-not the content is pretty pedestrian. Then there comes a flick which breaks free of the stereotype: No running betwixt the trees, no dialogue-baazi and no clutter. Simple story-telling. Done powerfully by some exceptionally talented actors. Shamit Amin is a brilliant film-maker. SRK doesn’t really need to be cheered. He remains, if I have my druthers, the King.

I won’t spoil the party for those who are yet to watch it. I won’t touch on the storyline. I was not scheduled to, neither had I planned to catch the movie, but I am glad an unexpected, split-second decision entirely changed my opinion about the game of hockey. Chak de is a very fine movie. Perhaps one of the best ever made on sports in India.

Chak de – I think it is a war-cry, slang for do it – is crisp, topical, sensitive and full of verve. The humor is unceasing. The actors are your neighborhood gals. And then there is the cerebral, stubbled Shahrukh. Who needs an item song!

For those of you who like their facts in figures:
Cost of the movie: 20 crore; Earnings first week: 20 crore.

Sameer

Why the haste?

Take away India, and Britain would become a second-rate power.
Lord Curzon

As India and Pakistan prepare to clink glasses on the 60th anniversary of their respective independences, a little galling detail juts out. Although it won’t quite spoil the party, it intrigues me. What was the urgent need to fast-forward the partition of British India? Why was the country midwifed recklessly over lunch, like the newborns won’t survive another day? Why did Lord Louis Mountbatten – uncle of Queen Elizabeth II’s hubby, Prince Phillip – allow the partition in such supreme haste? Even if Nehru and Jinnah wanted it quick. Mountbatten’s daughter, Pamela Hicks says her dad thought partition was a crazy, unworkable idea. So! So he better make haste.

In the process, Mountbatten advanced independence by a good nine months from June 1948 to August 1947. Partition happened. Pakistan was created at the midnight of Aug 14 and India on Aug 15, 1947. In the ensuing confusion, more than ten million people were uprooted. A million others perished.

Christopher Beaumont is daintily called one of the few people who knew the real truth about partition. He was a key figure in the partition of India. Beaumont was private secretary to the senior British judge, Sir Cyril Radcliffe, who was chairman of the Indo-Pakistan Boundary Commission. In short, the trusted inside-man in a team that was given a pencil – sharpened one – but no eraser and an assignment: Go out there in the plains of India and draw the consecrated line. The good Englishmen eventually drew the line, on a rather simple rag of map. The etchings, needless to add, still draw blood 60 years later. Some lines are too sharp to be blurred by time.

The viceroy, Mountbatten, must take the blame - though not the sole blame - for the massacres in the Punjab in which between 500,000 to a million -- men, women and children – perished, Beaumont says in his memoirs. Isn’t it strange that independence was declared prior to the actual partition and it was left to the new governments of India and Pakistan to keep public order! The infant governments clearly hadn’t anticipated the magnitude of mass-migration, mass-murders and the subsequent unrest. They flunked to control the mayhem. “The handover of power was done too quickly’’, Beaumont adds. The partition resulted in arguably the largest mass migration of peoples the world has ever seen. Mountbatten’s reactions to the bloody aftermath of partition were, according to his biographer, Philip Ziegler “at his most shallow”.

The British Military intelligence knew that the situation could take an ugly turn. Aware of this, Field Marshall Auchinlek -- Commander of Chief in India -- had wanted to keep British troops in India -- temporarily -- after Independence, but was over-ridden by Mountbatten. At any level, it was not a smooth transfer of power, as the Clement Atlee government in London wanted. With a royal megalomaniac at helm, who dismissed concerns from his own staff and other British experts far more knowledgeable than him about Indian communal tensions and politics, the bloodshed was inevitable.

So our guys who went out to draw those lines took some time. Exasperated, Mountbatten gave them a six-week deadline. “The trouble was that Muslims, Hindus and Sikhs were an integrated population so that it was impossible to make a frontier without widespread dislocation,” Beaumont writes. While still at job – with no final boundaries, no clear demarcations of what belonged to whom – India was cut into two. The Indo-Pakistan Boundary Commission guys were so distraught that they refused compensation for their work.

The rest, they say, is history. Most historians agree that Mountbatten cajoled Radcliffe into making compromises in the border crafting. Beaumont remained an honest guy until his end in 2002, dubbing both Radcliffe and Mountbatten discredited. Mountbatten was blown up in an IRA bomb at his summer home in Mullaghmore, Ireland in 1979.

The British legacy remains -- despite the trains and roads they bequeathed us – that of a hasty retreat. An inexplicable haste that led to widespread misery, murder, marauding. The aftershocks still continue.

On the eve of India and Pakistan’s 60th annev. Cheers.

Sameer