by Karan Thapar
‘A chance to marry even if you are 50. Govi Buddhist Kandiyan parents want to marry off their 39 year old daughter but beware she looks younger although your looks should not matter. An honest application would be appreciated.’
The amazing bit is that Sri Lankans have enormous faith in the reach of their matrimonial columns. I came across a classified ad put in by a couple resident in Australia seeking a spouse for their daughter. The only condition they stipulated was that the applicant had to be an Australian citizen. Yet the ad was in the Colombo Sunday Observer. I’ve never seen anything similar in India.
Another difference is that there’s a separate page for potential bridegrooms-in-need. It’s no less explicit or frank but, I suppose, men, being men, the required procedure for replying is innovative to say the least :
‘Computer analyst wants a partner. Age, looks, caste and colour not important but knowledge and love of the Net essential. Replies only by email to [email protected]’.
If you decide to apply for a lark, do let me know the results.
4
A Farewell to Afghanistan
The Kabul I remember was very different. In fact, Afghanistan itself was another country. Zahir Shah was on the throne, the hippies had yet to discover the place and Chicken Street was only famous for its crude abattoirs. The birds were kept in open street-facing cages. Once a purchase was concluded, their necks were wrung in front of you and the blood drained into the open juis (gutters) that lined the street. It was heady stuff but quite different to the drug trade that took over in later years.
Kabul was a happy city. Innocent and carefree but also a little deceptive. Behind the huge walls that surrounded each house, ensuring privacy and protection, lived middle classes at ease with western sophistication. Women smoked, painted their nails and dressed in the best of French fashion although they might wear a burkha if they ventured outdoors. Men wore suits and kissed the hands of the ladies they met. French was spoken as frequently as English. And it certainly wasn’t uncommon to see people drinking.
My father was the Indian Ambassador and we lived on the same street as the American Embassy which was burnt down last week. Except at the time, it did not exist. Our house faced a vast open expanse of barren land but visible at the far end was the Pakistan Ambassador’s residence. Along side was the home of Marshall Shah Wali, the King’s uncle. Such geography might seem unlikely today but in the middle ‘60s, it was unremarkable. It also led to close and lasting friendships. General Yousuf, the Pakistan Ambassador, and Daddy were colleagues from the days of the old British Indian Army. Not surprisingly, the families became firm friends. Abidah, their younger daughter, taught me tennis. She would wear a white pleated skirt for our lessons and beat me without consideration for my age. I was nine.
My parents got to know the Royal Family quite well. Abidah and my sisters became better friends with the princes. There were five of them. When, towards the end of our stay, when Daddy had a heart attack, he was surprised by how often the younger princes would visit. “I had no idea they were so fond of me.” He once remarked. My sisters found it difficult to suppress their laughter. Mummy had to bell the cat.
The King also had two daughters. The younger one, Mariam, was a part time nurse at Kabul Hospital. Fate was to be less kind to her. In keeping with Afghan custom, she married her first cousin only to find that in 1973, her father-in-law would overthrow her father. For the last thirty years, she has lived torn between her parents in exile in Rome and her husband in London (after his father, Daud, was himself deposed in 1978). Her life is a sad illustration of the greater tragedy that has befallen her country.
Of course, in 1964, all of this lay in the future.At the time Afghanistan’s politics seemed stable, even placid. My world was my school. Known by its acronym AISK, the American School was a microcosm of Kabul’s international society. There were Polish, German, Yugoslav, Iraqi, Turkish, French, Italian, Pakistani and even a few Japanese kids but Afghan children dominated. We hankered after peanut butter sandwiches and rich chocolate brownies. We read Superman and Archie comics. We played American football. ‘Aw shucks’ and ‘Gee whizz” were our favourite phrases.
My accent drove my mother up the wall. “No darling.” She would correct me when I got home. “It’s aluminium”. I can still recall her lips mouthing each syllable as she pronounced the word meticulously.
But aloominum sounded more catchy to my ears and I was determined to be American.
It was a time of innocent pleasures. The Spinzar Hotel, run by an elderly Swiss couple, was famed for its patisserie. The éclairs were everyone’s favourite. However, the younger set preferred the Khyber Restaurant at Pashtoonistan Square. It was large, self-service and cafeteria style but it was the happening place in town. Lemon meringue pie and baclava were the most popular choice. It never occurred to us that they symbolised two aspects of Afghanistan’s life that would soon be crushed.
On summer weekends, we would head for Kargah, a deep-water ice-blue lake a half hour drive from Kabul. Here there was always laughter and music. Carefree bathers would lounge in their swimsuits. Bikinis were the rage, sun tanning was de rigueur. Only the enthusiastic would actually swim.
The nearby hill resort of Paghman was the rival attraction. Rich Afghans maintained holiday villas on its fruit tree lined slopes. On Friday evenings, as the weekly holiday came to a close, sipping green tea whilst a cool mountain breeze blew past was a popular pastime. Nothing much happened nor was it expected to. The pace of life was restful and easy, uneventful but full of fun.
Not all of Afghanistan was equally developed. When we visited Bamiyan, the hotel was a poorly converted former stable. For heating, we were given the braziers on which the kebabs had been cooked for dinner. My mother’s request for a hot water bottle confounded the staff. After much explanation, they gave her an old whisky bottle filled with scalding water. But the Buddhas were a joy to behold. As the morning mist lifted after breakfast, you could see them standing like strong silent sentinels. To a nine year old, they appeared incredibly big.
I remember our holiday in Kunduz and Mazar-i-Sharif, now in the hands of the Northern Alliance. The high point of the journey was the Russian built Salang pass. It cut through the Hindu Kush mountains and what emerged on the other side was a different world. Here the water was so cold, you could chill your beer in minutes in the cascading mountain streams. When we set off from Kunduz for Mazar, the road soon petered out into dry deciduous savannah. We drove for hours across this landscape with nothing but telegraph poles to guide us. It was jeep country but Daddy’s ambassadorial cadillac covered it uncomplainingly.
I wasn’t impressed by Ghazni, Kandahar or Herat. No doubt, they are old cities, rich with heritage and culture, but they are also hot, dusty, fly-ridden places and the air smells of sweat. It’s fitting that the Taliban should have made Kandahar their spiritual capital.
Looking back on my memories, one strange fact stands out. I can’t recall being scared in Afghanistan. This emotion, so common in childhood, is strangely missing. I was often scolded, and even occasionally slapped. Consequently, I can remember times of anger, pain, remorse, tears and a lot of sulking. But I don’t recall fear. I can’t explain its absence. It’s simply a fact.
If at all, there was fear in our lives it came from the constant anticipation of earthquakes. Kabul, a valley surrounded by the Hindu Kush range, is prone to them. Everyone seemed to have his or her favourite earthquake story and none of us tired of hearing it. But in the ‘60s, at least, earthquakes only frightened us. They caused little damage.
When I returned to Kabul as an adult in the 1980s, just after the Soviet invasion and thereafter repeatedly till the Taliban took over, I found that this fear had been forgotten. A more genuine one had taken its place. The constant rumble of guns. Now people were truly scared.
I don’t know when the Afghanistan I have described passed into history. Perhaps in ’73 when Zahir Shah was deposed or in ’78 when Daud, his brot
her-in-law, was removed? But there were remnants that lingered on through the communist presidencies of Tarakki, Amin and Karmal. Even Najibullah’s Kabul retained recognisable echoes of the past. Maybe it was with the Mujahideen that it finally ended?
After the Taliban, of course, only memories survive.
5
The Subtle Charm of Sri Lanka
Saturdays are sleepy in Colombo. The streets are bare, the shops deserted and the birds make more noise than the traffic. Even the security seems relaxed. The guards appear to slouch, their guns by their side. It was a restful atmosphere to prepare for an interview with President Kumaratunga. Nirmal, our director, thought otherwise.
“What’s the matter?” He asked the officials at the President’s large white house. “Why is everything so quiet?”
“It’s Saturday. What else do you expect?”
But this only further confused Nirmal. The problem was that it was so different to Delhi.
“In my country,” He replied, beaming with pride, “Saturday is a day when everyone goes out. The streets are packed, the shops are crammed and everything is full of activity.”
“Ah.” said the Sri Lankan official visibly unimpressed. “Not in my country. Saturday is a holiday and we prefer to take the day off.”
“So what do you do?”
“That’s not important.” The official replied. Now he was smiling. “It’s what we don’t do that is important.”
“What’s that?” Nirmal’s curiosity was irresistibly aroused.
“We don’t work and we don’t rush around pretending to work.”
Once upon a time, it was known as the Isle of Serendip. The word ‘serendipity’ is derived from it. So it’s not surprising to find the people friendly, gentle, smiling and, yes, laid-back. Things happen effortlessly and, in the Lanka Oberoi Hotel, very efficiently. Yet there’s no sense of urgency. No hurry. No visible tension. Not even when you remind people of the LTTE and the terrible attack on Bandaranaiake Airport in July.
“It was bad, very bad.” The Lobby Manager told me. “But the most frightened were the foreign tourists.They were scared they would not get home!”
But is the city itself frightened? Far from it. A peaceful calm prevails even at the airport itself. We arrived at the ungodly hour of 3.30 a.m. — a time I would have thought terrorists would be at their most dangerous but I hardly spotted a guard. Of course, there were a few but they were chatting with friends, they seemed relaxed and far from apprehensive.
Now you could argue that this is proof of carelessness. Ceaseless vigil is the price of safety (as much as liberty). And all of that is true. But overdoing it simply makes people nervous. It takes the fun out of existence. And that would be an LTTE victory.
The smile on Sri Lankan faces, their ready laughter and their continuing carefree ways may not count for much when the bombs go off but I would rather live amidst such people.
I dined with the Editor of The Sunday Leader and as he held forth on the President’s troubles, I realised I was in the presence of a formidable intellect. Quite honestly, Lasantha Wickrematunga has few peers in India. His presentation of the political crisis that has engulfed this island for two months and more was a tour de force.
He’s not one of her admirers and I am not revealing any secret when I say so. The case he builds against her is irresistible. Not because the facts he relies upon cannot be denied or questioned. But because he uses the President’s own commitments and promises to nail her performance.
In 1994, when Chandrika Kumaratunga was elected Prime Minister and, four months later, Executive President. It was with the promise she would solve the Tamil problem and abolish the “evil powers” of the Executive Presidency. Within week, she declared a truce with the LTTE and promised to change the constitution by July 1995. Alas, nothing came of both gestures. When the LTTE proved to be a tough nut to crack politically, she decided to do so militarily, forgetting in the process her promise of negotiations. And when abolishing the Presidency translated into giving up powers that she, by then herself enjoyed, she sought ways to avoid doing so. Her option was a transitional clause that retained the powers whilst she held office abolishing them only when her successor is sworn-in. Not surprisingly, the opposition refused.
“So how would you sum her up?” I asked Lasantha as he stirred his coffee. His slow, measured, circular movements continued for a while before he spoke. When he did so, it was without any triumphalism.
“Well, once upon a time, she was thought of as the solution to Sri Lanka’s problems. Today, she is very possibly the problem itself.”
Monday dawned bright and early and to Nirmal’s relief, the roads were clogged with traffic. But the real surprise was the security at the President’s House. It was comprehensive but unobtrusive. We were frisked but the guards on duty kept smiling. It wasn’t long before we were ushered into President Kumaratunga’s office. Then a long, interminable wait started to unfold.
She was over two and a half hours late. I had been told she would be. Virtually the first thing I was told about her is that she is never on time. But two and a half hours is more than I had anticipated.
What only a few had mentioned was that I would not hold this against her. As the hours ticked by, I was convinced they were wrong. When she arrived and introduced herself, I saw how correct they were.
The lady is a charmer. Her warm, broad, full and vibrant smile is irresistible. Her conversation is a delight. From memory, this is how it went:
“I’m sorry I’m so horribly late.” She explained as she finally walked in. “You see, I have a dog problem.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. I smiled indulgently.
“He keeps Indian time.” The President continued. “So I’m always half an hour late.”
“Ah.” I said but I probably sounded unconvinced which perhaps provoked the final bon mot.
“You’re lucky he’s not Pakistani. In that case, I’d still be coming!”
The President has an eclectic collection of books in her office. All three volumes of Atal Behari Vajpayee’s Lok Sabha speeches, all three volumes of Gopal’s biography of Nehru, a copy of the Indian Constitution and a copy of T.N. Seshan’s ‘The Degeneration of India’. I reached for the latter to find it appeared unread. I wasn’t surprised.
But what truly surprised me was her answer when I complimented her sari.
“It’s from Bangalore.” She said.“I love Indian saris. They are so beautiful. I wear them all the time.”
6
Pictures of Pakistan
A visit to Pakistan is a revealing experience. It’s different to what you imagine. Most Indians arrive with a certain trepidation. Many of us are uncertain of how we will be received, suspicious of the country, or simply prejudiced. So the first surprise is the welcome.
Because we look like them, they don’t know you are Indian until you reveal your identity. When you do, they respond with a mixture of curiosity, attentiveness and affection. They go out of their way to be nice. The impact is both immediate and overwhelming.
It’s amusing to witness. Last week, I saw how the response of my colleague Ashok Upadhyay changed in the course of a single day. He arrived early in the morning unsure of what awaited him. For the first few hours, he was tentative, even tense. Being Bihari, he doesn’t share my Punjabi propensity to warm to things Pakistani. If anything, he’s suspicious of it. So the more I seemed to relax, the more reserved he became.
By lunch, however, Ashok’s manner had begun to change. He was chatting to waiters and taxi drivers with easy familiarity. In the afternoon, he started to notice striking similarities between both countries: yellow and black taxis, trees half-painted white and people lounging in parks under shady trees. By the evening, he was praising Pakistanis for wearing shalwar-kameez. In this sartorial uniformity, he seemed to see equality and unity.
I noticed the change but did not realise how profoundly it had altered Ashok’s attitude. At dinner, I discovered the depth
of the transformation.
“You know.” He said, in the same chatty voice he uses in Delhi when he is visibly relaxed and carefree. “Pakistan is just like India. I feel completely at home.”
I smiled. I wasn’t sure what to say.
“The only difference.” He continued. “Are the road signs in Urdu.”
“Oh there’s one more.” I added.“There are no cows wandering around the city.”
“Ummm.” Ashok muttered, his expression metamorphosing into a rare look of mischief. “Not of the bovine variety but what about the human ones?”
The other surprise is how critical Pakistanis are of their country and their politicians. Most of us in India would not have thought so. We tend to see them through the prism of their military dictatorship. It can be terribly misleading.
The Pakistani papers are at least as critical of their government as ours are of Mr.Vajpayee’s. Their news channels question, probe, embarrass, expose as effectively and as regularly as do NDTV, Star or Aaj Tak. And the ordinary man in Islamabad is as contemptuous of his netas as we, in Delhi, are of ours. General Musharraf is not excluded. No doubt, his charm and financial probity are admired but the political mess he finds himself in as he struggles to retain his army uniform along side his civilian presidency is the subject of ceaseless comment. Much of it is ridicule.
“I had no idea that freedom of speech was so passionately upheld in your country.” Ashok commented to a retired Pakistani ambassador at a dinner in Islamabad.
The man roared with delight. He had noticed the tone of amazement in Ashok’s voice and it amused him. He gulped generously from the large whisky in his right hand as he avuncularly slapped Ashok across the shoulders with the other.
“Arre yaar.” He laughed. “In Pakistan, the issue is not freedom of speech. Here the big question is freedom after speech!”
If, like me, you believe it’s the little things that count then Pakistanis have a penchant for paying attention to the smallest courtesies. Tea, sandwiches and biscuits are offered at every meeting. Each time you say ‘thank you,’ you’re bound to receive a ‘welcome sir’ in quick response. And whenever Pakistanis agree to do something, they unfailingly add ‘Inshallah’.
