Pakistan’s Day of Deliverance

March 24, 2008. The atmosphere in the Pakistan National Assembly was clearly emotive. After a long, hard and bloody journey democracy finally triumphed over dictatorship. The parliament chose Syed Yusuf Raza Gillani as the leader of the house by a huge margin, paving his way to take on the mantle of the most volatile nation in the Indian sub-continent.

Yusuf looked elegant in his business suit. He shook hands with everyone amidst the sloganeering and clamor. Bilawal Bhutto, the scion of the Bhutto family, wept quietly in the visitor’s gallery. It would have been his mom’s moment of glory had fate not decided otherwise. Syed Yusuf, the loyalist that he is, straightaway walked to the gallery and held Bilawal’s hand, amid roaring cheers.

Pakistan has entered a new era. Yusuf leads a rainbow coalition. Dawn succinctly puts it: ‘The coalition consists of the election victor PPP, which calls itself social democratic, its former arch-rival right-of-centre PML-N, Pukhtun nationalist Awami National Party and Islamic fundamentalist Jamiat Ulema-i-Islam. Urban Sindh’s MQM, which is still out of the coalition, is ethnic-based.’ In simple words the new leader has to hold together a flock of disparate views and ideas. The name of the game is accommodation.

Syed sahib, also called Makhdoom Yusuf, sounds very much a Bhutto guy. In his short speech he promised a UN enquiry into Ms Bhutto’s assassination [to a thunderous applause], a national apology for Zulfikar Ali Bhutto’s judicial execution [another applause]. To please the Nawaz camp, he called for restoration of the higher judiciary [standing ovation]. How times change? They say if you don't create change, change will create you. Poor President Musharraf!

In the end, March 24 may well be remembered as Pakistan’s day of redemption. The country has recently witnessed mayhem. Pakistan has been through hell and back. It has been a rat’s nest where suicide bombings became a rage. Judiciary was kicked around. The media was gagged. Nawaz was publicly humiliated. Late Benazir Bhutto’s security was compromised. A change of guard can be expected to greatly emolliate the badly bruised soul of Pakistan.

It is redemption time for everything dear and beautiful this country has lost in the last one decade. It is also time to heal some deep and dark wounds. There is an impelling need to make the institutions strong and democratic. This is the time for love and peace. Education and upliftment. Some introspection and generous forgiveness. Atonement.

Pakistan’s new leaders should not squander this moment.

Sameer

Rants of a Racist

Racial superiority is a mere pigment of the imagination

Geert Wilders is a Dutch right wing parliamentarian. Though brought up as a catholic, he became an atheist. Wilders has made a reputation for his racist slurs on Islam. He wants the Holy Qu’ran to be banned in the Netherlands. He has also equated the Qu’ran with Adolph Hitler’s ‘Mein Kampf’. In past interviews he compared the Prophet Muhammad to the German dictator. Not content with his hitherto local hate-Islam campaign, Geert is now on the verge of a world wide release of a 15-minute anti-Qu’ran movie called Fitna [Arabic for civil strife]. The film links verses from the Qu'ran to violence.

Tempers are running high. Holland has a sizeable Muslim population. Of the Netherlands’16.5 million residents, a million are Muslim. News about the film has fueled ethnic tension in the country and sparked anger in the Muslim world. Threats have started flying. For record no Dutch TV station is willing to air the highly provocative film. Undeterred, Wilders decided to release the movie on Internet. March 23, even its US hosting service, Network Solutions temporarily suspended the website.

Geert Wilders is a very confrontational character. A nut-case racist, who colors his hair extreme platinum blond, he gained early notoriety because of his rants against immigrants and Islam. His party PVV [Freedom Party] has managed to win 9 seats [in the 150 seat parliament] owing to his fierce fascist diatribe. In his new role as the film director, Geert wants to dismiss Qu’ran – a book loved by 1.5 billion people world over – in less than 15 minutes. It remains to be seen how. New York Times adds …’some here have started wondering if it is as fake as his hair color’.

Whatever the ulterior designs swirling in his hate-filled head, Wilders is no more than a rank opportunist with absolutely no respect for other beliefs. As a commentator observes, "while everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion, and even to voice out that opinion, there is a responsibility when [one] tends to bring out the debate to the public. Else we will just turn into barbaric bunch that throw insults to each other. But launching a film where he [Geert] knew would be perceived as an open insult by millions of people is really showing his selfish motives."

Geert Wilders has made a career for himself on a very hateful, racist ideology. Day before yesterday, not withstanding his loathsome brand of politics, thousands of people marched to Amsterdam to protest against his latest anti-Islamic rhetoric. ‘We want to show that there's something other than Wilders,' Rene Danen, chairman of anti-racism group Nederland Bekent Kleur, [The Netherlands Shows Its Colors] said on the occasion. A majority of Dutch people want a colorful society. It is people like Geert who let them down. And also create an ugly schism with other cultures and faiths, that he doesn’t seem to have the mental faculties to understand. That is incidentally the first signs of any feeble mind. It cannot understand, it can only afford to hate.

Geert, by the bye, supports his claims citing the now misused cliché Freedom of Expression. They use it all the time, as a European readymade tool. [Freedom of speech goes to dogs when Prof David Irving suggests Holocaust revision. He was jailed in Austria in 2006 for saying so]. Wilders ‘freedom of speech’ crosses the line, as Lairedon points out in his excellent blog, and turns into discrimination thus violating Article 1 of the Dutch Constitution where discrimination of people on their race, religion, political view, gender, sexual orientation or any other ground is prohibited.

I reckon Muslims have got to be a little thick skinned and let such things pass. They shouldn't construe this as yet another insult from the western civilisation. The world has always witnessed some really awful xenophobes, intolerant and narrow-minded bigots. Geert has just added his name to the infamous list.

The likes of him are relegated to the trash-bin on history, rather ingloriously.

Sameer

Friend of Friends

So after a rather exasperating wait, we finally have a new prime minister in Pakistan. The dude is Syed Yusuf Raza Gillani. He is 55, a Saraiki [ethnic group from South-eastern Pakistan, especially in and around the area of the former princely state of Bahawalpur; Saraikis produce most of Pakistan’s wheat and cotton]-Punjabi from Multan and a pretty influential player in Pakistan’s power equation. An ex-speaker of the Pakistan parliament, Syed sahib was jailed for five long years for misusing his authority while he was the speaker.

Mr Gillani’s rise to fame is largely due to his closeness to Asif Zardari. Asif is a much flamboyant character and is known for throwing legendary social parties and lavishly hosting his close pals. So he eventually cherry picked Syed sahib [an ex-Nawaz guy] over PPP icons like Makhdoom Fahim and Aitzaz Ahsan.

Asif’s friends vouch for his famed friendship. When Gillani was being sentenced to six years of imprisonment, Asif who was present in the Rawalpindi court room [in connection with one of his own corruption cases, all of which have now been dropped] suddenly got up and remarked in his characteristic rhetorical style,’ My Lord you are putting behind bars the future president of Pakistan.

It looks like Asif finally kept his word. In doing so, he chose a relative new-comer to the coveted post. The new PM Gillani is ironically a product of the Martial Law under General Zia-ul-Haq. The dictator made him a member of the Majlis-e-Shoora [Council of Advisors]. A heavy weight politician, he soon became part of the PML. Raza joined PPP in 1988. He has a Master’s in journalism from Punjab University and wrote a book 'Chahe-Yusuf-Se-sada' [Reflections from Yusuf's Well] while in prison.

Before the announcement of Raza’s elevation, last week Asif nominated Dr Fehmida Mirza to the post of speaker of the Pakistan Parliament. Her husband, Zulfikar Mirza, was Zardari's classmate at the Petaro Cadet College and has been Asif’s best friend. During previous governments of Benazir Bhutto, Mirza was often accused of being Zardari's front-man in most of his shady deals. That was why Mirza, whose car registration Zulfi One, used to make waves in the federal capital during those days, disappeared from the scene after the dismissal of second Benazir government in 1996, as Dawn quotes.

The latest choice -- Syed Yusuf Raza Gillani -- has Iranian ancestry. He comes from a very reverend spiritual family in Multan. Interestingly, Geelani’s aunt’s [mom’s sister] hubby is the current Pir Pagaro [Chief of many turbans]. The present Pir [seventh spiritual head of the respected Hur Sufis] is Shah Mardan Shah II. That’s what makes it all the more amusing. Both Zulfikar Ali Bhutto and Benazir had an aversion for the Hurs and hated them guts. The father-daughter duo persecuted the Hurs because they considered them as a big political challenge in Sindh. Now we have a Pir Pagaro kin, a Zia-find, carrying forward the Bhutto legacy.

Gillani’s appointment accentuates two important things. One, he may just keep the high profile seat of PM warm for Asif who may take over, let us say, six months down the line. Two, Asif remains a 'friend of friends' and very much a maverick.

Time for a drink.

Sameer

Poised to Soar

tu shareek-e-sukhan nahin hai to kyaa
ham sukhan teri khaamoshi hai abhi

~Tho’ I can’t talk to you anymore/ Your silences speak to me
[My translation]

India and Pakistan are two countries yoked by a common culture. Though there is much bitterness due to past bloodletting, the bonhomie we share with the Pakistanis is unrivalled. That is because we speak the same language, unwind for similar reasons and get the same jokes.

And nothing can get the two together like music. I think the Pakistanis – despite a smaller cultural scene than India – are pretty much evolved in arts. I was part of an elite gathering this weekend that assembled on the lush lawns of the Intercontinental Grand in New Delhi to listen to the iconic Ghulam Ali.

Ghulam Ali is simply put, magical. His style is simple but powerful. It throws you with the sheer beauty of it. The maestro arrived late but the perfumed gaggle waited on. Everyone knew it was worth the wait. Meantime someone from his troupe – which had already arrived --sang a few Ghazals. That served like an appetizer.

I was in row two with my best buddy. A gorgeous lady in her mid thirties with a permanent smile sat just in front. Her argentate saree flapped in the evening breeze. A hundred minutes behind schedule, Ghulam Ali sahib walked onto the stage. My first impression was Oh, so that is how the virtuoso looks like. In a moment the magic began. It soon spread. I have no doubt in my mind – and I don’t readily approve of superstars – that Ghulam Ali is one of the best Ghazal singers of our times.

His voice leaves you completely ensorcelled. The pitch is electrifying and the notes are divine. Even his pauses are an outburst of the soul. For a while you feel like levitated. Bliss pours. You become the music. Ghulam Ali has an amazing connect with the audiences. He speaks in chaste Punjabi and melodious Urdu. The andaaz [style] is distinctly songlike and his expressions purely poetic.

It also makes you compare, as mortals are often wont to: Who is the greatest of the two legends? Ghulam Ali or Jagjit Singh. Both have millions of fans and both are maestros. I’ve attended concerts of both and I think thus: While Jagjit is more popular and easily associated with a sweet melancholy that is timeless, Ghulam Ali -- no doubt -- has more variety. He is liltingly lyrical and continually improvising. That is his forte’.

Music perhaps has this appeal. Auerbach hit the bull’s eye when he averred, ‘Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life’. Ghulam Ali gives you a big reason to feel good. I remember my fav thinker Nietzsche.

Without music life would be a mistake.

Sameer

The pir who coudn't be the king

The day Benazir was assasinated; BB and Makhdoom talk to Prez Karzai

Now that the Queen is no more, her man Friday can be kicked around by the king’s men. Poor Makhdoom sahib. He won’t be the prime minister after all. That he served Benazir all his life, like an able adjutant, holding together the PPP flock when Mohtarma and her wily hubby were enjoying Mediterranean cruises, didn’t eventually work for Makhdoom Amin Fahim.

The King [that’s Asif Zardari in his new guise] perhaps feeling a notch vulnerable decided -- in his infinite wisdom -- to sideline the affable Fahim. A tête-à-tête in the holiday resort of Muree saw every PPP heavyweight worth his salt breaking bread with their foe-turned-pal Nawaz Sharif. Asif, obviously, led the pack. The only conspicuous absence was – no brownies for guessing this – Fahim sahib. While the big guys clinked glasses [imported juice, no liqueur when media is around] celebrating their victory, nobody thought about the man -- who competently led the winning party in these elections.

Now Nawaz’s folks are going about town [Asif’s men can’t do that directly, stupid] saying Fahim is unacceptable because he has met Musharraf in the past. Oh, I forgot to add, the act [of meeting Mush] is a cardinal sin in Pakistan these days. But wait a second; Fahim met Mush in the past because he was talking on behalf of Benazir. So why is everyone out to hit Fahim? It is no secret that Mohtarma was conniving to enter an agreement with the General. Fahim, as a loyal guy, was just a go-between. What is the fuss about? Do we really need a scapegoat? Why slaughter the old poet? This is, for God's sake, a man who refused the PM's post in the past.

The first press con after BB’s assassination [when the Bhutto kid was crowned heir apparent] saw an emotionally charged Asif announcing Fahim sahib as the choice for PM's slot. A dignified politician, as Fahim is, remained quiet at the occasion. Now under fire from left and right, the poet is finally speaking out. Asked by media men why he didn’t attend the Muree meeting, Fahim waxed poetic: I am a hermit; I don’t go to the mosque unless the Azaan [Prayer call] is called.

Meantime Asif’s men in their attempt to lionize Mohtarma’s widower are now saying that the ex-playboy-turned-peacenik can become the PM in the next few months. That is when he quickly installs a friendly-inept chap as regent for the moment. That would give Asif time to consolidate his grip and contest from a safe seat.

So, some quick lessons to be learnt here. Pakistan’s politics remains very much a feudal charade, as the gifted British intellectual Tariq Ali likes to call it. We may soon see an Asif crony in power while the old boy will control him backstage.

And the clamor shall continue.

Sameer

The Good food

North Indian food is rich and fattening. They use dollops of clarified butter, locally called Ghee and the slick makes you lick your finger-tips like a greedy hog. Ghee and weddings are complimentary in India and I think the only other major culture remotely fond of Ghee is the Egyptian. Besides some north African tribes in Eritrea use it.

I made it to two weddings in the last one fortnight. A Jain and a Muslim feast. While I regard the confluence of cultures – and India being the melting pot of human diversity – I daresay that I find Muslim cuisine the very best. They make regal food and it smacks of heaven. At the Jain nuptials, the priest went about spraying holy water and sprinkling ghee everywhere.

And before my critics take out their knives and forks to assail me on the sacred altar of vegetarian and non-vegetarian bones, let me confess that it is not about the lamb versus ladoos [sugary gram flour balls] debate. My point is that the entire concept of going out for a wedding party -- in your best attire -- somehow looses its charm if you end up eating mustard leaves [saag in India]. I can be wrong too.

I reckon the charm of any party lies in the assorted smiles of its gathering. The air has to be chirpy and the food divine. While the Jain affair was elaborate with many generous layers of ghee to it, I found it pretty bland. As most vegetables tend to be, however deep you try and fry them. The Pathan ball on the other hand was vivacious. Melliferous music wafted over lamb skewers.

In my mind I was attempting to make a comparison with the last party I went to. And I distilled my thoughts thus: In India two kinds of people exist. Those who eat lentils and are content with the vittle and those who savour lamb and just love it. While I would mostly identify with the latter, I think taste is always a relative term. Iffy, if you may call it.

The humorist Fran Lebowitz once averred, ‘Vegetables are interesting but lack a sense of purpose when unaccompanied by a good cut of meat’. Jim Davis, the cartoonist, differs. Vegetables are a must on a diet. I suggest carrot cake, zucchini bread, and pumpkin pie, he argues. I think the Spanish got it right: The belly rules the mind. So eat what you please.

Bon apetit.

Sameer

Ghalib's Delhi

You almost cross a light-year as you make your way into old Delhi from the 21st century New Delhi. The journey is just a trot and on a traffic-slackened day [which, the truth be told, is a rarity in this city], you’ll reach old Delhi in a little over half an hour. It is baffling to see two Indias distinctly co-exist within a stretch of few miles.

Tucked away from the corporate boardrooms of the NCR and the sophisticated drawing rooms of South Delhi, lives the original -- ‘Dilli’. A cacophonously-disorderly space where people somehow tend to find order to their lives. While the rickshaw puller paddles his way through hodgepodge of a humanity on the march, you cannot fail to notice the riot of colors on display along the road.

No it is not an ensemble of designer colors that we are generally attuned to in our new age malls. Nor is it any shade of the latest plasma TV or a bold laptop theme color. It is the passel of tiny schoolchildren in their bright red going back home from school, all packed onto a – no brownies for guessing this – rickshaw. It is the rouge chops -- from constant chomping of betel -- of fat men sitting tight on their fat backs inside very narrow shops, selling everything from car engine shafts to marriage cards – at throwaway, wholesale prices.

There is something about old Delhi, especially the stretch leading upto the historic Jama Masjid, which makes it at once timeless and antique. The odd bleat of a pair of goats tied to a beaten pickup right outside the grand mosque reverberates across the terraces of Emperor Shah Jahan’s 17th century marvel. The din of skinny men, carrying double the body weight on their slight heads, and still managing a smile from earlobe to earlobe actually surprises you.

But what fascinates me the most about old Delhi is her myriad shops. They are all old-fashioned, piddly little holes with heavyset men inside them. Most of these establishments have big, rusty fans and no air conditioners [an act unthinkable of in our part of Delhi]. The shopkeeper has his spectacled father’s photo framed and garlanded just behind his head. Usually the picture glass frame has a dot of vermilion applied on it, right in the middle of the old, deceased patriarch’s forehead. It is a general rule. Images of deities and divinity hang from the 100 year old walls. The area right in front of the shop is splattered with red specs. Most business are partnership: RamLal, Baburam and sons; SS Khanna-TS Tullo. Brothers, Pals, who knows but you find pairs abound.

A mesh of wires – electricity, cable, telephone [you can’t make out: they are all Raj era] – jut out from every shop corner, while street vendors in their dozens fry their domestic fast-food on either side of the arcade. Meanwhile shop-owners can be seen animatedly talking into their telephones and cut deals [in 100’s, 1000’s, millions: you can’t make out]. Orders are quickly jotted down and passed on. It looks like a perpetual bazaar [grocerteria], where business goes on amidst the shouting, yelling, pushing around and the confluence of hordes.

People go on buying spices, cycle tyres, books, auto parts, ceramics, safety pins, wedding cards. In between the sonorous chant for Azaan rises above the Jama Mosque and the faithful scramble to pray. The fragrance of a million herbs wafts over the attar joints [local perfume shoppes]. Restaurants are crammed full with people who love to savor lamb, rustled up in secret recipes, passed on since generations.

Children play in box-like homes. Women, clad in the traditional garb jostle for space, with bearded men and mendicants on miniature streets. An old monkey jumps from roof to roof.

Life leaps in Old Delhi, perhaps a little loudly.
I take a rickshaw back to my metro station.

Sameer.

Pakistan’s Protagonists

Elections in Pakistan have thrown up a fractured mandate. While PPP has emerged as the single largest party and is likely to lead the next government, PML-N is going to form the new government in the politically important province of Punjab. Together Nawaz and Zardari, it appears for the time being, will share the spoils. However neither Main sahib nor Benazir’s crooked widower [as Jemima Goldsmith, Imran Khan’s ex, calls him] can become the prime minister of Pakistan, in the immediate future, as both men didn’t contest these elections. While Mush initially got the constitution of Pakistan tampered with, solely to keep BB and Nawaz out of the PM’s race [A person can be PM only two times according to the amendment], a slew of corruption charges await Zardari. All these equations could be corrected, in the days and weeks ahead.

Already the balance of power has shifted 180 degrees. We have new protagonists in the play. While some of the older hero’s are dead, others may soon have to take a detour or follow the tracks leading to the exit door. Some of our hero’s have grown horns while others developed a halo. Such is the nature of politics in this part of the world. A profile update of Pakistan’s most powerful protagonists:

Nawaz Sharif: The quintessential Punjabi [Power house].
Fabulously wealthy. He and his extended family made a huge fortune during his days as the powerful finance minister under the dictator Zia. Sharif’s family originally migrated from Kashmir, made its fortune 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 Sharif – also called Main sahib – used to talk in chaste Punjabi and Urdu and was considered something of a conservative. His exile [which he blames Musharraf for] 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 in London. 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.


Asif Zardari: Mischievously yours [Backroom dude].
Ex-polo player, horse-riding, ex-playboy. Zardari is considered to be a corrupt guy and was jailed on murder and other charges for eight long years. He was charged with getting his brother-in-law Murtaza [BB’s bro] bumped off. Nothing was ever proved but Zardari remains a much controversial chap.

Asif grew up in Karachi and did most of his schooling at St Patrick's School -- ironically also the alma mater of President Pervez Musharraf. He belongs to a ‘lesser Sindhi tribe’ and surprised the whole of Pakistan and the world at large -- when he married Benazir Bhutto [from the super rich ‘superior Sindhi tribe’] – heiress to the magical Bhutto legacy.

Zardari is given to rhetoric and pretence. He remains a survivor with a penchant for politicking.

Makhdoom Amin Fahim: The quiet loyalist [PM in waiting]
Rare breed. A squeaky clean Pakistani politician known for his dignified demeanor. Always stood besides Benazir. On her last day he was by her, like a shadow. Even as she was shot, Fahim sahib was in the SUV, like always. Offered the Prime Minister’s post by Mush in the past, Fahim, the true family loyalist, out rightly rejected the offer.

Fahim is a feudal lord. His father Makhdoom Talib-ul-Maula, the spiritual leader of Sarwari Jammat of Pakistan, was one of the founding members of the PPP — which was founded in 1969 by the former Prime Minister of Pakistan Zulfikar Ali Bhutto.

Venerated as a peer [spiritual head] of Halla Sharif, Hyderabad, Fahim is elected from Mathihari in Sindh and has an excellent understanding of Pakistan politics. However his heart is in poetry. Loves Rumi on quiet evenings. No wonder his admirers call him, ‘he whose presence brings good harvests’.

President Musharraf: The fall guy [Tough nut]
Ex flamboyant General, Attaturk quoting Prez of Pakistan. Frank. Still thinks out of the box. Wonderful fashion sense. Once loved for the freshness he promised to instill in the debilitatingly corrupt Pakistani political soil, he has since become the worst cynic of his country and went on to commit some humongous mistakes. He sacked the entire judiciary, gagged the media and imposed Martial law -- a move which badly backfired on him. To his credit, he fought Islamists and flushed radicals out of Islamabad’s Red Mosque.

Then something unthinkable happened. Benazir Bhutto was killed on his watch. Right outside the military HQ in Rawalpindi. That evening marked Musharraf’s countdown also. Elections 2008 ousted his party called the Q league. There is no love lost for him. The media continues to grill him. Human rights fellas want nothing less than his scalp. Yet he continues to hang onto power rather shamelessly.

It looks like an ego-fight for him now. Musharraf’s days are clearly numbered.

****
There are other players at the hustlings who are going to be increasingly relevent in the new dispensation -- The supremely gutsy Barrister Aitzaz Ahsan [PPP]: Dark-horse, the tough Sharif bro Shahbaz [PML-N]: Likely CM of Punjab, the tall Pashtoon Asfandyar Wali Khan [ANP]: NWFP chieftan and key ally at the centre.

Sameer

Democracy's Revenge

First things first. Elections in Pakistan were fair. There was no pre-poll rigging. Mush, the scheming dictator, as the mainstream media loves to dub him, is after all no Gen Zia. While Zia was a rude Islamist, Musharraf is wordly and smart. Despite his liberal credentials, Mush is nonetheless overtly ambitious. Methinks he read the public mood. There could be other reasons – No rigging could have worked because the victory margins of the winning candidates have been too wide. The army remained neutral under Gen Kiyani, who though a Mush loyalist, is not politically inclined. The press kept its vigil. World capitals -- notably Washington DC and Riyad -- watched carefully. Most analysts however concede that Musharraf knew that were he to rig these elections, the backlash could be terrible, something he cannot withstand.

Coming to the final outcome of Elections 2008 – I was a little generous perhaps with PPP. I predicted 110. They got 88. If we add the women’s and minorities reserved seats, they add up to a decent 113. Nawaz Sharif’s PML-N did exceptionally well. Since PML is essentially a centre-right party, election boycott by some right wing parties like the Jamat-i-Islami helped Nawaz. They lapped an impressive 65. Add reserved seats and they touch 84. It is a personal vindication for the man, who was kicked around at Lahore International airport on Musharraf’s orders – upon his return from exile -- only a few months back. Now it is Nawaz Sharif’s time to get even. I expect political maturity from Main sahib. However he may settle for nothing less than Mush’s exit. Sharif can always have those lowly chaps at Lahore International airport grilled over hot coals – Pakistan style.

Check http://sameerbhat.blogspot.com/2007/09/london-jeddah-via-islamabad-flight-786.html

Elections 2008 shattered a few myths. There was no sympathy vote. People exercised their franchise mostly on ethnic lines. The voter maturity level was very high. People liked Benazir but not her hubby, who remains a much polarizing figure. Despite him, PPP proved to be a party which transcended political boundaries, like always. Dawn, Pakistan most respected newspaper puts it succinctly, ‘PPP has managed the highest number of seats in the National Assembly and not thanks to Sindh alone. Its enviable comeback is owed to a strong showing in all four provinces. Pity that Benazir did not live to see the day.’ PPP remains party of the masses in Pak.

Now the game of courtship begins. PPP is expected to join hands with Nawaz to form a consensus government. Already the era of coalition governments [ like India] has started in Pakistan. We will increasingly get to hear lexicon replete with words like allies, tie-ups et al in the days to come. Together with likeminded guys like ANP, headed by the pashtoon Asfandar Wali Khan [grandson of Khan Abdul Ghaffar Khan], PPP-PML-N combine can form a stable government. There are differences though – while the PPP appears conciliatory towards Mush, Nawaz is hawkish. [Mush's exit can mean re-alignment of equations for US, who back him at the moment] Restoration of the Nov 3 judiciary could be another sticking point. Since Mush is in no mood to go – though morally he must quit -- I think a confrontational attitude is going to harm the alliance. A more nuanced, step-by-step approach is a smart idea to take the Prez on.

However the task to cobble the next government is uphill. Both PPP and PML-N may have to shed their baggages and past bickering. Unfortunately that may not be very easy. They are ideologically diametrical [PPP: centre-left; PML-N: centre-right] but look headed for confluence. Guardian UK analysizes this thus:
The classic PML voter is urban, lower middle class, relatively educated, with a world-view informed by Pakistani nationalism and a very contemporary moderate Islamism. Nawaz is not particularly politically sophisticated, speaks Urdu or Punjabi not the elite's English but reads local newspapers and watches the new satellite television channels.

By contrast, the PPP's voter, by and large, lives in a different world, a world that was dominant up to a decade ago. It is a world that is much more rural, more deferential, more rooted in tradition. Its nationalism is less marked and its Islam less influenced by the international trends of the last 30 years and thus much less politicised and much more based in centuries-old Sufi traditions.

In hindshight Elections 2008 have been significant for Pak in more than one way. They come at a time of extreme radicalism. The state of Pakistan came close to brink many times in the past few years. The anarchy saw hundreds of innocent Pakistanis die. It witnessed the despicable assassination of Pakistan’s most promising leader. The results, which many read as a referendum against Musharraf and Islamists [both Musharraf’s party PML-Q and Islamists across the political spectrum got a drubbing of their life]. These elections have also firmly established that Pakistan is fed up with the military boots. The verdict is clear. More than anything else the results signal return of the much cherished democracy.

There is an African adage, 'However dark the night, dawn will break'.
Benazir must be turning in her ambrosial grave. It is her dawn.
She has won, even in death.

Sameer

Pakistan’s tryst with destiny

There were many fake starts. Dates were scheduled and cancelled. Pakistan procrastinated on its polls multiple times. Its powerful army refused to budge. Then suddenly the tables turned. The lawyers rebelled. Its civilian leaders got the much needed political fuel. Long exiled, they cantered back to their motherland. And just as people felt a glimmer of hope, there was blood. Slayers of the worst order roamed at will. Soon they lay the most sinister ambush and slaughtered Pakistan’s most darling daughter – Benazir. There was shock and blue funk. My eyes got moist.

Yet hope lingered on. The battle betwixt the slayers and people continued. Meantime Musharraf's ratings slumped. The world said its obituaries for Pakistan. There was a talk of de-nuking the only Islamic nation with the big bomb. Anarchy reigned supreme in her alleys. The country bled profusely. Yet her people stood firm. New election dates were set. February 18, 2007. A new countdown for Pakistan’s tryst with destiny began.

Almost everything in these elections has been unprecedented. Such is the atmosphere of fear that most candidates chose not to address electoral rallies – which are so key to elections in this part of the world -- and instead campaigned through mass media. TV and newspapers stood up against staggering odds – despite a gag order -- to bring out truth to people. Legal luminaries like Barrister Aitzaz Ahsan faced house arrest for months. Yet the resolve of people did not falter. For once it looks like the people’s power is going to prevail.

However the road to democracy is still fraught with danger. Musharraf – once revered -- and now hated guts continues to make threatening overtures. The Sharif brothers’ nomination papers were rejected outright and now Mush says his party -- the PML-Q --will win this election. The statement comes from an authority which is supposed to be plain neutral. In any case, neutrality looks like in suspended animation in Pakistan. Right now -- the judiciary, election commission and local governments – look suspect.

The fear of rigging is real. PML-Q in all objectivity cannot garner more than 20% of the votes. A free, frank and fair election is most likely to produce PPP – Bhutto’s party – as the winner. Nawaz Sharif's PML-N is another strong entity. For a simple majority in Pakistan, a party needs 136 seats in the senate. Since the Bhutto aura is expansive in Sind and her brutal murder a clear emotive issue, PPP is likely to lap 50 seats from the Bhutto land. Punjab – 148 seats up for grabs – will be crucial. Nawaz is popular after his recent dignified posturing. The wily Chaudary brothers [generational supporters of army] are organized and Mush-backed. So Punjab can end up with a fractured mandate. Let’s assume 65+ to PML-N, 20+ to PML-Q and 30+ to PPP. That leaves out NWFP [called Sarhad] and Balochistan.

PPP is the only political outfit with a nation wide appeal and logically it may suffice with 15 odd seats in NWFP and another 7-8 in Balochistan and FATA put together. This is a realistic estimate: Single largest party PPP 110+ seats. I reckon an alliance with Nawaz [who may lap touching 100 odd seats] or one of the smaller parties – like the MQM/JUI – may get it past simple majority.

Of course I am being speculative here and the end results may vary. Mush may rig big time to get his cronies back in power or PPP may simply sweep these elections. Both situations are hypothetical and probable.

For the future of Pakistan and for results of the most watched, debated, bloody fight in its chequered history -- pockmarked by chaos, coups and clamor -- we wait for a few more hours.

I hope Pakistan’s prayers are answered this time.

Sameer

Love ~ in the times of metro and malls

Like every year 2/14 has been special. Natives call it Valentine’s day. Love day. Every teenager -- and most adults cued-in to the big media – wait anxiously for the special day to dawn. Bakeries bake hot cakes, mostly shaped like a human heart and balloon sellers do brisk business. Malls throw open their electronic doors and the ubiquitous metro is crammed full with mushy-eyed, love birds. Love is literally littered everywhere.

Like every year, 2/14 event this year was practiced with much markedness. Everyone was out. Cupid hung from roof eaves and café’ joints. Upon staircases and newly-painted park benches [damn the paint]. It was almost carnival like in the new-age malls where everything possible was made out like a heart – streamers, coffee froth, shoe laces, belts -- while people en masse held hands. Completely lost- in-love, made-in-heaven couples strolled about. Queues for movie halls [where cornflake boxes are heart-like] this year got more serpentine than ever.

I am at loss to fathom – or explain -- this sentient spectacle. Why should we go out in the open and walk with hips joined like Siamese twins on this particular day? Why must we sit in the gardens – which are so filled with humanity on 2/14 – and flirt with each other's locks for everyone to ogle? What is so special about this day that we must mandatory wolf heart-shaped pancakes [ridiculously priced]? Why should we practise our emotions like a mass ritual?

Love is such an uncommon sentiment. We love people for what they are. The feelings are oft reciprocal. Erich Segal, author of Love Story [New York Times top selling work of fiction for all of 1970 in the United States, the book was translated into more than 20 languages worldwide. Motion picture of the same name was the number one box office attraction] writes about love thus: Love comes quietly, without banners or flashing lights. If you hear bells, get your ears checked.

Love is for most of the times an inexplicable phenomenon. It is romance, it is fun and it is madness – yeah. But do we need one day in an entire calendar year to express it? Isn’t love eternal? Do cakes and cut flowers and candies and coffee constitute love? The curt answer is ‘No’. The problem with us is that we are madly aping the west. As a society we have failed to balance the cultural onslaught. In doing so, we have been completely overwhelmed by market forces who give us only two options -- either go out and splurge or feel wanting.

No wonder the idiot box is relentless and the newspaper columns persistent. If you don’t go out and participate in the emotional-make believe pageant, you are doomed! In times of globalization and consumerism, the wholesale import of culture/fests do not come as a shock to me. Commodifying emotions do.

I reckon love is more than just ribbons, bouquets and the love panoply on sale. We have come to such a pass where we need to shell out quick bucks [and that is the real reason for this show-boat] to express our love. Love has -- alas -- been reduced to packages and gifts! The great French dramatist Jean Anouilh waxes eloquent,” Love is, above all else, the gift of oneself’.

Happy V-day.
Sameer

The attack

It is biting cold. One-dog-night types. Winters in the capital are generally chilly and this year there is no let up. [I’m always amused when people say it has been colder this year] You go numb in the feet and cheeks. I see people sipping hot tea and damping their dumpling in the tea just before wolfing it down. Pop corn is an all time fave. None of this for me though. I’m always fighting against odds. This winter it has been a corny tooth.

A few moons back, a gang of germs – stupid little devils – decided to invade my teeth. I have never held any grudges against them but in an unjust world, where the distinction between right or wrong is largely blurred, the germs must have possibly identified their innocent target. A hack with a love for global affairs and coffee is -- any time -- a sitting duck.

Now an important lesson to learn is that no amount of brushing – twice a day – or gargling or mouth fresheners of the expensive variety actually helps. Means no security is completely fool proof when the attack happens. There are unguarded moments – like when you licitly nibble on a Bernachon.

I reckon one of these days when I was flattering my taste buds, the assailants sneaked in. Quietly. And they straightaway carried out their mission: Attack my pre-molars. I felt a sharp, shooting pang go through me. The epicenter was somewhere in the mouth. I popped a painkiller to alleviate the agony but the damage was already done.

My doctor was quick to diagnose some frightening medical-dental jargon and gave me temporary fillings followed by a rather painful but high tech nerve-numbing treatment. They call it RCT. While the fella was busy taking innumerable X-rays and drilling on my mouth cavities, I thought whether RCT actually meant Relief from Constant Trouble.

In reality they clean up your tooth roots, flush the cretins out, cut all replenishments and nerve support to the bacteria and secure the entire space. Sounds like what Bush did in Afghanistan but the dental cavity is no Kandahar and I hate George. So couple of sessions later, after both befriending and enriching my handsome dentist, I can now re-direct my creative energies on the ‘Obama for America’ campaign.

God, quite an invasion, it was.

Sameer

Tariq Ali on BBC

Leading intellectual and historian Tariq Ali's splendid analysis on Bhutto Sr and Zia.

Remembering the pastures

As hiatuses go, it was a longish one. It has been a little less than a fortnight and I have not jotted anything. If I were to give one alibi for my dormancy – I would say: Plain Procrastination.

There were no glad tidings in the days bygone. Someone whispered to me that it is snowing back home in Kashmir. Ah, how I love the divine confetti. I wish to run in the snow meadows, stretch my arms wide, look at God, close my eyes and let the flakes kiss me.

I miss the pastures. The snow hanging onto the pines.

Cummings waxes eloquent: The snow doesn't give a soft white damn whom it touches. I agree.

Regular posts to follow.

Sameer

New Year and coffee wafts

New Year’s Eve.

The idea of fun in this country is very strange. These days everyone is high on some kind of dope. The junkies go ecstatic as the countdown to the New Year begins. I can’t fathom what has exactly led to this relatively new phenomenon but I’ve no doubt that the funny stuff they smoke – leading to the brouhaha -- is courtesy corporate media. India, if I may add, is in a transition phase, going from a staid, slow country to a consumerist, globalizing one -- hence a fertile territory for any takeover [cultural, economical and physical]. Easily put, we we are up for grabs.

A smart but notorious nexus controls our hearts and minds: Market forces-corporate media-ad gang. As soon as they sniff an occasion they up the ante. Frenzied TV reporters – with IQs ranging between 15 and 30 -- hit the marketplace with amazing alarcity and start shouting into their dirty microphones [not metaphorically, the mikes are grimy really]: New Year is coming. New Year is coming!

Basically ordinary people in this country are too busy trying to eke a basic standard of living, not withstanding India's impressive economic growth rates. Returning home completely petered-out, there is an idiot box awaiting them. It is – trust my word on this -- a constant bombardment of standard rubbish: Are you going out? What are your plans tonight? Everyone is offered two choices: either come out and have ‘fun’ [party hard, that is the exact expression used] or stay back and feel deprived and wanting. So everyone is compelled to make up his/her mind: ASAP. Urgently, because you need to grandstand next morning in the workplace/college.

Again there are two choices. Either go to one of the happening places and allow yourself to be fleeced. It could be a disc, pub or a party where everyone and his uncle has already descended, drunk, behaving plain weird. Or go to a public place, park, an open air theater, mall or a concert and meet the funniest human creatures you’ll ever bump across in your life. Either ways, every glade of earth is crowded, cacophonous and commonplace on New Year’s. It gets colorless because there is too much of humanity looking for 'fun' and most of it is spiritless.

Let me be honest here: I did go out on the New Year’s. Pals insisted. Perhaps the deprivation albatross hung around our necks. We decided to go to the heart of the city: Connaught Place. It is Delhi’s lifeline and was considered the most fashionable arcade in North India before malls sprung up everywhere. But we found all exits and entrances to CP, as Connaught place is lovingly called, sealed. When an entire armada wants to assemble in one small square, what options do the cops have? We nonetheless managed to sneak in.

It was the most amusing sight in my life. The great march of lemmings. Just too many of them. Blaring, throwing up, walking aimlessly. Going to nowhere in particular. Seeking deliverence, perhaps. Some looked up in the sky, searching for New Year. I was instantly put off. I winked to my chaps. We left the mobbed venue.

There was no Plan B but luckily, I spotted a cosy cafe'. So at the out start of 2008, I sat amidst cappuccino wafts, cracking jokes with friends. Impromptu moments are so much fun. The ambience was just fine. But in the middle of our chatter, my attention went to a stocky, middle aged, bearded, tall man, clad in a black Pathani dress, walking into the café. I looked at my friends. I knew they were all thinking what I was contemplating. Could he be a suicide bomber? What else do you make of a man 50+, dark, somber, religious-looking, bearded, wrapped in a shawl, in a café at mid-night?

Undeterred we cracked more jokes, some on the poor man. My chums often accuse me of being cavillous. I was merciless, as usual. I went on: Imagine he explodes, and we all die, just like Benazir’s supporters. We laughed out loud but a part of me was sad too. Isn’t it so paradoxical: The fear-factor, the stereotyping, the terror phobia? In the end, the gentlemen sipped his New Year coffee and nothing went off.

We drove back at half past one. Expensive cars lined outside many venues. The golf club parking was chock-a-block. Nothing much. Must be a scantily clad dancer, in the January chill, jiving to a large, loud crowd of liqueur smelling Delhiites, I reckoned. Good way to greet the New Year. Means you are not deprived. Also means you can splurge in the night and go home and sleep for the whole day.

I’ve always believed that it is much more fun to regale in the company of your loved one’s and together welcome new dawns over hope, laughter, familiarity and love.

Happy New Year

Sam

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