by Meena Menon
Bollywood reigns supreme
While we were in Hyderabad city in Pakistan (during my visit in November 2011), Aishwarya Rai, Bollywood actor and model, had just given birth to a baby girl. That was the day we had a meeting with business leaders, and at lunchtime while we tried to get interviews, TV crews hounded us, the women in the delegation, asking our views about this event which they thought was breaking news and momentous. I asked them why only the women were questioned and they, the breathless, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (that’s definitely something we have in common) TV reporters said they were wondering if we would be upset if it was a girl and would we say so on camera! We were speechless with indignation! That didn’t earn us too many brownie points and for some moments Indo-Pak relations tottered on the brink!
In Pakistan I found that even the most serious journalists, and there were many, would take the trouble to come and introduce themselves and ask you about the political scene quickly before launching with great deliberation on their favourite subject. Not being a big Bollywood fan and not even clued into filmi gossip, I would dread these encounters and fob them off by asking about things that interested me in Pakistan. Two years later when a delegation of the Karachi Press Club visited Mumbai, a meeting was arranged with actor Aamir Khan. One of the journalists said after the meeting that he didn’t have anything more to wish for in his life! (‘Bas ab aur koi kwaish nahin raha!’) This amused me no end, as I hadn’t suspected this serious sports journalist of such a weakness.
Indian TV serials are popular and the dresses the women wear in them are much sought after. In Islamabad, a journalist craved the bindis the women wore and I gave her the only packet I had. My husband’s encounter with a security officer when he was returning home via Lahore was enough to make him swear off that route again. He was buttonholed by the officer while he was locked up in a room in transit waiting for the next flight to Delhi. No fancy transit lounges there. On learning that he was an Indian, the officer spoke of how addicted he was to Indian soaps and he was in a hurry to go home to watch the next episode of some TV serial which Venkat had never seen. In fact, he had rescheduled his shift in such a way that he would never miss the episodes. He was anxious about what would happen and when Venkat was non-committal and couldn’t conceal his lack of interest, the officer asked him, first, if he had been to Salman Khan’s house and then why he and the whole country couldn’t prevent a breakup between Salman Khan and all his girlfriends. He felt no one in India was doing enough to ensure that Khan got married, and beseeched Venkat to seek the highest intervention. Salman Khan’s wedded bliss being of little or no interest to Venkat, the conversation petered out into a monologue which only ended when the flight to Delhi was announced—a period which my husband said felt like a decade. Traumatized by being locked up in that stuffy room, smoking with an official droning on about Bollywood, TV serials and broken love affairs of stars, the next time he visited, Venkat returned via Karachi where he could stay in a hotel.
Lots of goodwill but no real change
For the cynics who groan and don’t get carried away by Pakistani hospitality, I must say that this unconditional affection and warmth is overwhelming. For instance, during my first visit to Pakistan, when I went to Karachi, groups of people with rose garlands were waiting for us at the airport. Our delegation of Indian journalists was clearly unprepared for the effusive welcome and the unending receptions and felicitations and being honoured with the traditional Sindhi black, white and red Ajrakh shawls of which we amassed a large collection by the time we left.
We had come to Karachi three years after the brazen 26 November 2008 terror attack on Mumbai, and most of us in the delegation were not only from Mumbai, but had reported and lived through it. While the ‘composite dialogue’ was all but shot to pieces after that, there were consistent attempts by people across the border to forge better relations. There was widespread condemnation of the Mumbai attack and it was felt that this must never be repeated. Karachi itself witnessed two blasts while our press club delegation was visiting, and much like Mumbai, the people seemed shaken but stoic.
There was much bonhomie and nostalgia but quite a few present at the first meeting in the club felt a sense of déjà vu and said it had to go beyond that and result in tangible gains. There were some sensible suggestions from people tired of these successive feel-good sessions without any results. One came from Muhammed Badar Alam, editor of the Herald magazine, who clearly said that the problem with interactions between the people of India and Pakistan is that often they tend to become emotional and that was not surprising since they shared the same history and culture, and were divided later. Visits generated instant goodwill without any tangible benefits, and it is important to create constituencies of peace within a society.
The lack of a free media exchange meant that during the 26 November attacks, no Pakistani journalist was allowed to visit and report the attacks, except for the two permitted in India. Eternal optimists like Karamat Ali and B.M. Kutty hoped that the momentum for change would continue. We visited some official institutions and the University of Karachi, where women outnumbered the male students by 70 per cent. Tensions between liberal and conservative students were visible in the colourful posters, some calling for rock music parties while others put up by the conservative Islami Jamiat Talibat (girls’ wing, IJT), the student wing of the Jamaat-e-Islami (JeI), spoke of how the students’ hearts were in the West while they lived in the East. Karachi University has perhaps contributed more to the language of peace with confidence-building measures (CBMs) and people-to-people contact programmes which has changed the vocabulary of bilateral talks. It also runs a popular course on CBMs. Peace between the two countries can improve academic relations and research possibilities, and the university has a number of collaborations with Indians, leaving aside political differences. Academically, at least, peace is the motto.
The play’s the thing
The theatre scene is rather non-existent in the capital and so the few plays staged ran to capacity. It was exciting to watch Sawa 14 August, a play written by Anwar Maqsood and directed by Dawar Mehmood, at the Pakistan National Centre for Arts, an elegant brick complex, where they don’t let you in till a few minutes before the show. So everyone had to freeze outside and the queue kept getting longer, full of people muttering in anger. Once we got inside, the place was overflowing and people were sitting on the staircases and aisles. It was one of the few significant cultural events in the city and people made the most of it. The play was a take on the political situation in Pakistan and the legacy of Jinnah and Bhutto. The actors smoked real cigarettes I think, and in the stuffy hall it made people cough. But it was a live theatre experience which I enjoyed and it made you laugh while questioning the current situation by taking you through history and the erratic political leadership.
Other entertainment included a bowling alley where we went once to celebrate a friend’s birthday; it seemed to be popular and was fun, though I can’t imagine it becoming a habit. I didn’t know I had latent bowling skills. There was also a large trampoline and a mini golf course—in a desolate play area by the lake. Another game involved wearing special clothes and shooting paint at each other. It didn’t entice me in the least.
Since there wasn’t much by way of entertainment, films were the cheap way out. I was advised not to bring CDs or DVDs, and so had to buy everything in Islamabad. I bought a simple music system and a DVD player. Fortunately, copyright was taken to mean the right to copy, and music and films, all kinds were available easily. I didn’t see any original films or CDs, and managed to get a large collection of copies of old Hollywood films which were expensive elsewhere, and watching movies at night was the norm if I had nothing else to do. Similarly with music; I wasn’t sure if I could bring CDs from home, so I bought copies of a lot of music, including the best of Pink Floyd, Pashto pop, classical music, both Indian and Western, jazz and rock, as well as the Coke studio albums which were among my favourites. I f
ound very good copies of most of the albums I used to listen to at home. Pink Floyd kind of grew on me and I didn’t know what it was but the haunting music and the lyrics seemed so appropriate there, and I always switched it on when I entered the house. Pink Floyd and Pakistan would remain connected in my mind. One had to be ‘comfortably numb’ to survive sometimes.
3
On Being a Foreign Correspondent
It was my first posting outside India. I was a foreign correspondent in a not-so foreign country. Things were at once easy and difficult. From the word go, people were helpful and it was easier than I thought. You had to be grateful for things you could access and also accept that some things would remain out of bounds—which later came to include the whole country! One of my colleagues was told that my stories were too critical of the country. At some level, like most countries, there is an ‘if you are not with us, then you must be against us’ attitude.
Before leaving for Islamabad, I had long discussions with Anita and Nirupama, the two colleagues who were posted in Pakistan before me. I was saved a lot of the spadework about setting up the house, and so on, and learnt many dos and don’ts. One of the things I was warned about was speaking politely. I was from Mumbai, and our Bambaiya Hindi was not known for any degree of formality or correctness. Unlike Hindi, which has a strict grammar with masculine, feminine and a neutral gender, our imperfect slang has no such demarcations—we women can get away with saying ‘mai ata hoon’ and other atrocities. Words and sentences were short and to the point; no niceties were observed and everyone was as rude as they liked. Swearing was the norm. I found that since Pakistanis were addicted to Bollywood, the slang was familiar to them but I didn’t try it out.
Most of the time we spoke in English but when I switched to Hindi or Urdu, I had to remember to say the right things, keeping the correct gender in mind and also the Urdu greeting and the reply. Not knowing Urdu can be a severe handicap, even though I liked poetry and ghazals. And the fact that I was a South Indian didn’t help. There was a comical bias against ‘Madrasis’ (all the South Indians are called this in India too, so it’s a bias not restricted to Pakistan), and the stereotype included the belief that we were some uncultured, dark louts, not used to the freezing northern climate and bundling up in excess for the cold. In fact, once someone in Delhi on a freezing winter morning heritage walk, remarked that I was dressed like a ‘Madrasi’. Many people I met joked about our lack of appreciation of Punjabi which I didn’t know in any case. Once at a party when Punjabi poetry was being recited, I asked for a translation and was soundly ticked off. I concluded that Punjabi pride is as great as the hospitality, and my asking for a translation had kind of insulted the great language—or so the politician who was reciting it said. The loss was mine!
So I had to think carefully and frame sentences fully before I spoke; it took me twice as long to say anything politely but I learnt how to. Once when I posted Ghalib’s poetry on Facebook, my Punjabi friend (I really didn’t think of him like that) was shocked that I knew it. I told my friend that just as the ‘Madrasis’ are vilified, the Punjabis, or Punjoos, are stereotyped as ostentatious, loud people in India who have lavish weddings. I found them a warm, hospitable community, proud of their language and culture, and often clashing with the equally proud, hospitable and charming Pashtuns. It was quite funny at a harmless, friendly level but nationally, it was the basis of a serious political divide. Once when a lawyer spoke in Punjabi to a Pashtun friend, she snapped at him and asked him to speak to her in a language she could understand! Even in our circle of friends, there would be these fights which became very serious at times.
Spooks on my trail
A lot of people ask me if I volunteered to go to Pakistan. That was not the case. I didn’t imagine I would ever be a correspondent there and was surprised to hear I was nominated. When I was asked by Siddharth Varadarajan, then editor of The Hindu, whether I would like to be posted in Islamabad, I didn’t think twice before saying yes. After my visit to Karachi and Hyderabad in 2011, I was excited about going to the capital even if it meant getting stuck there with little hope of travel. I realized it was a much-envied posting, and one of the more memorable reactions came from a former journalist and foreign relations expert who was so excited that she asked me to leave all my clothes at home and get them all done there! The exquisite tailoring in Pakistan had a reputation of its own. I admit this was the last thing on my mind, as generally I find it tiresome to run around to tailors, though I did get some stuff stitched there.
Initially I was lulled into a sense of well-being because of the warmth of people and the comfort of living in Islamabad. It was the end of the summer when we got there and soon the temperatures dropped, and we didn’t even need fans. The first question that many would ask me was: ‘Are you being tailed?’ or ‘Where are your friends’?’ It was during a routine visit to the visa office in January 2014, with its corridors reeking of urine, that I realized that I was really being tailed. Two men literally walked into me, it could not have been an accident—a bearded creature in a salwar kameez who tried to leer all the time while trying to look grim and failing; and a younger man, chubby, and awkward about what he was doing. I will name them Beard and Chubby. That same evening they walked into a café where I was waiting to meet someone for an interview. I was sitting in a plush sofa near the door when Beard pushed open the glass door and stopped suddenly on seeing me. Satisfied that he had ‘terrorized’ me, he shut the door abruptly and walked outside. I sometimes wished their intelligence could be put to better use, for instance, stopping young men blowing themselves up in public places or preventing them from wrecking churches, courts and marketplaces. The first time I went to the house of an Indian diplomat, we got out hesitantly from the car and a burly red-moustached man was there to welcome us; he announced my name with satisfaction. I was impressed he knew my name and was so welcoming, but the diplomat laughed and said that they were his ‘friends’. Some well-meaning people went to the extent of telling me that these guys were meant for my safety and that they could be quite helpful; one Britisher said they helped his parents get a rickshaw in Lahore when they were struggling with the language. I was relieved to hear that spooks were tailing people from other countries as well. To the credit of Pakistanis, they knew I had this baggage, but they would rarely refuse to meet me or entertain me in their homes, and often it was a subject of much laughter and jokes. My driver, too, was constantly pestered for information and he was quite savvy about the goings-on in the capital. Even if they obviously didn’t follow me everywhere, they would know where I went and land up there and grill people endlessly on why I was meeting them, what I wanted to know, and whether I asked any ‘sensitive’ questions.
How was I supposed to do stories without getting around? Only one NGO didn’t allow them inside where I was to attend a meeting—otherwise they came everywhere. They would pounce on my friends and ask them for information—if I had discussed defence matters (very funny) and if I had wanted any secret information. And once when a friend was particularly dogged about not talking, they invoked the patriotic question and said that she must tell them what I had said in ‘the name of Pakistan’. That did it for her and she really tore them apart and told them off about lecturing her on her national duties. They also felt free to stand outside the walls and take pictures or intrude into houses and ask questions. They seemed to have a carte blanche and nothing and no one could stop them.
Spooks are seemingly bumbling and inept but can annoy you, a little like flies buzzing around. Only you can’t swat them. I was told to pretend that they didn’t exist which was difficult, but possible and even amusing. They looked very silly tailing my husband and me on a hike, right from when we left our house. It’s walking distance to the trail and they got off their bikes a little before Faisal Mosque. Every time I stopped to take a picture, Beard would stand in front of me and speak loudly into the phone. By then my anger had turned into amusement and most of the time, I was
stifling my giggles and concentrating on my frame (the auto focus helped), and as the hike progressed they must have realized how pointless it was and that there was no deep plot to uncover. The Margalla Hills have six main trails and Trail 6 is behind Faisal Mosque. We weaved in and out of the Sunday crowd, with little boys selling pink candyfloss and fried papads. While I was taking pictures, Beard was standing close enough for me to hear his drivelling commentary on my movements. I stopped deliberately to change lenses, to shoot the top of the rocket-like minarets and the giant, burnished crescent on Faisal Mosque. A young boy selling papad was perplexed by this semicircle of attention—I was taking pictures, my husband was next to me, and Beard was jabbering into the phone. It was ludicrous. We had been trekking in the hills for a while, and this was our third time on this trail, and the only time we were so closely followed. I must be grateful that I was not stopped from hiking, though that seemed to be the general idea, with all this intimidatory tailing and furious chattering into the phone. The Margalla Hills had been off limits for Amit Baruah while he was posted there, but luckily no one stopped us (Nirupama also trekked a lot in the hills and in fact, I met a friend of hers by coincidence while he was hiking on Trail 5). Trekking was a passion for both my husband and me, and we used to trek often in the Sahyadris in Maharashtra, with its wide range of hills and forts, and even in the Himalaya. We couldn’t believe our luck with the Margalla Hills, and used to joke that it was like having the Sahyadris in our backyard. I kept reading about a proposed tunnel through the hills to connect to a new city in Abbottabad, and there would be periodic protests by environmentalists. It is a precious ecosystem in the capital and it would be a pity if it were damaged.
