Madhuri and I...

I first met Madhuri Gupta at the Republic Day function in Islamabad two years ago and mistook her to be a Pakistani. Blame it on her size, the glitter on her clothes and her perfect Urdu accent!

She was chatting with a few local journalists when I was introduced to her. We got talking about Pakistani newspapers. She told me that I was wasting my time reading English newspapers. “If you want to read real news, read Urdu papers. That’s where the real gossip is,” she said airily.

I was new to Islamabad then, she asked me if I’d seen the city yet. “I’ll show you around,” she offered tossing her golden-brown hair back. For want of something better to say I told her that I liked her sari. She gave me details of where she had purchased it and then we parted with her insisting that “we meet again”. “I will come and see you,” she promised.

For the next two weeks she was on my mind. I had imagined her to be a compulsive shopper who would drag me to scores of stores before striking the right deal and I was dreading her visit. I was glad when she made no attempt to call or see me.

Over the years, we kept bumping into each other. She would tell me how she drove at breakneck speed on the Lahore-Islamabad motorway and I would deliver my “wahs-wahs” on cue. I would usually comment on her hair-colour or her clothes and vanish.

Somehow, she never struck me as an overtly intelligent or a career woman. On one occasion, I asked her if life was difficult for a single woman in Pakistan. She evaded a definitive answer. “Sometimes I don’t cook for days on end. I just eat Maggi and go off to sleep. That’s a problem when you are alone,” she said.

What struck me most about Madhuri was her energy and her confidence. She made friends easily and her excess weight never bothered her.

One of my longest encounters with Madhuri was in December last year. She had just driven back from India and was wearing a smart coat. “I got it from Lajpat Nagar,” she told me.  She said her trip to India had exhausted her and that she was happy to be back in Islamabad.

“I feel I am back home,” she said. The look on my face gave me away. “Home is where you live. Good or bad, this is home,” she let out her trademark loud laugh.

I asked her how much more time she had left in Islamabad. She said she should be out in a few months. “Back to Delhi?” I asked. “No,” she said. “I am hoping to get London or Washington,” she said coolly.

I let out a long “wow”. “Two back-to-back foreign postings?” I asked again. “Yes,” she said, adding that she had done foreign postings before.

“I was in Baghdad earlier,” she told me. I was impressed. I decided that I had misread her all along. She was, after all, an exceptionally bright woman who had been sent by India to Baghdad and Islamabad – the world’s most dangerous cities. She started telling me about her days in Baghdad and I took in every word.

I asked her how her Islamabad posting happened. “Did you want to be here?”

She told me that she had learnt Urdu to be here. “I hired a Muslim woman to teach me. She came home and taught me for two years.  She taught me everything from the scratch. I didn’t even know my ‘alif-bays’,” she said.

I was sure that her love for sher-o-shayri prompted her to learn Urdu. Her answer surprised me. “No. I don’t like all that.” Still I was impressed because I had tried to learn Urdu – but found the going tough.

I met Madhuri the last time in January. I spotted her smiling her polite smile at every body. We exchanged pleasantries but couldn’t quite talk.

When I heard two days ago that Madhuri had been held for allegedly spying for Pakistan, I couldn’t believe my ears – to me she was this woman who would rather worry about the golden on her clothes and her hair than pass on state secrets.

Not reading Fatima Bhutto…

I had been quite taken in by Fatima Bhutto when I came in two years ago. Her website was dead then, but I read every word of what she wrote in her weekly column for a local daily.

I liked the way she presented her case when her aunt Benazir Bhutto was alive, and also after she was assassinated. I found the reams about her villainous uncle Asif Ali Zardari very convincing too.

I enjoyed her rare anecdotal takes, which had little to do with her famous surname – my favourite being the piece she addressed to her fans some of whom had wanted “to make friendship with her” and some others who had emailed marriage proposals to her.

Post-Benazir, Fatima was seen as the next Bhutto to reckon with. She reminded everyone of a young Benazir and soon enough she was the foreign media’s darling baby.

Her column for the local daily was suspended shortly after and she started writing for thedailybeast.com and thenewstatesman.com and occasionally for internationally renowned newspapers.

That’s when I started dreading her writing. Though still lyrical, Fatima’s well-packaged pieces became rather predictable. I was, of course, moved by her accounts of what she had to suffer as a little girl – but the overdose, week after week, was beginning to turn me off.

The writings were almost always about how her father was killed; how news of his death was broken to her; how the powers-that-be had embarrassed her by asking her real mother to meet her at school when she was in grade 9; how she had no plans of plunging into politics; how she had never misused her magic surname; how Zardari-Bhutto kids were not the real Bhuttos; how the country is being led by corrupt criminals (read Mr Z); how little they (read Mr Z) have done/or plan to do for the nation; and how demonic her late Wadi Bua was.

Towards the end of 2008 she made a deal for her tell-all tome on the Bhuttos– which she lovingly calls SOBAS. I was happy for her.

While she was working on the book, she continued to write for thedailybeast and thenewstatesman – pegging her column on the news of the week, draconic cyber laws to drone attacks, and then going back to the Benazir-Zardari-PPP rant.

Some months ago, I got to see the real Fatima Bhutto. Well almost as real as she can get for me.

Fatima, who detests Facebook (she would rather have “lunch with David Milliband every day of the week than be on FB”), surprised everyone by showing up on Twitter October last.

“I despise Twitter. But I'm tired of strange Fatima Bhuttos posting as me. I won't be very active - I hate unnecessary abbreviating FB,” read her first tweet.

I, of course, decided to follow her. Initially, she tweeted about stuff she was reading and then soon enough she was trying to settle scores with the fake Fatimas on Twitter.

  

“Twitter has been wildly useless in removing the fake me…and is no longer enjoying the Kafkaesque irony of it all,” she tweeted. “That's a new fake. How do these people have the time?” read another tweet.

I was quite amused. Fatima wasn’t. After wasting time in a one-on-one fight she got the fake Fatimas suspended. “Twitter victory is mine!” she tweeted excitedly one day.

In between she tweeted about her acts of charity: “Bringing our total of computers given to community centres and schools to 11…If I knew how to put pictures up here I would, but am hopeless.”

In February, she got busy publicizing her book on Twitter. She regularly listed upcoming international events; uploaded links to interviews she had given to famous people; how she “squealed, blushed and ran” when she saw her book cover; how her book was sold out everywhere.

“Finished filming a book promo with two very brave filmmakers who flew in and out of Karachi most quietly to do the filming,” she tweeted another day. She even graciously thanked India for making her book a bestseller.

This isn’t Fatima’s first book (she has written two before) but with this one she has put her best foot forward. If her magic surname, which she has never ever misused, was at work when she was sealing the book deal or when she was giving interviews to A-list interviewees or when she was chalking plans for embarking on global book tours – it was obviously absolutely unintentional and totally coincidental!

The sailing has been smooth for Fatima all along, yet she has showed little grace when faced by critics, including an uncle, who claim that the book is full of glaring half-truths or that she has needlessly demonized her aunt to make a hero out of her dead father.

“Pakistani media is spitting blood over it – which is to be expected…” she tweeted. In another one she wondered what people who “hate” her have in common!

She even got petty with her followers on Twitter wondering how they had access to her account when she had blocked out “undesirables”. The real shocker, however, was when she ticked off an Indian follower in Mumbai who said he didn’t like her book with: “Why don't you get off my page?”

An open letter to Bhai…

Bhai on his trusted mobike

Dear Bhai,

Hope all is well with you.

Forgive me for communicating with you in this manner – I did train a pigeon but it took off when it figured I was an Indian in Pakistan.

First things first. Thank you so much for keeping track of this blog and reading all posts – not just once, but over and over again, all the time, from all kinds of locations. I really do appreciate your interest in my interests.

I am truly indebted to you for this and so much more that you do for me all the time. If only I could return the many favours…

Bhai, I feel so special and so cared for each time I step out of the house and you try and match footsteps with me. The other day when you followed me into the superstore and kept me company when I was shopping for groceries, I was so moved.

I noticed that you asked the store supervisor and other shop helps too to take good care of me. It felt so good being the cynosure of all eyes – including the customers’. And you looked so cute making a mental note of which pulses I eat and which brand of flour I buy. Ah! I so wish I could tell you so.

I also spotted you carrying a packet of Ariel washing powder. You remembered to shop for Bhabhi even on duty? She must be one happy woman!

I was delighted when you and another Bhai walked into a laboratory with me where I had gone to collect medical reports. Of course, as you would have gathered, the reports weren’t mine but my maid’s. Yet the fact that you care makes me feel so nice.

I felt honoured when you walked into the upholstery store with me. Because of your presence the sales guy helped me make up my mind in record time. I figured how possessive you were about me when you pulled up a museum guide for talking to me too much.

I also loved the way you spent time with me in that teeny-weeny jewellery shop some time ago. There was barely enough space for the two of us, yet you did not deprive me of your company even for a second. It was nice of you to take interest in the kind of designs and gems I like. Ditto when I checked out Pakistani handicraft and you tried to get details of my likes and dislikes from the salesmen after I had walked out of the store.

Did you know that I like that smile on your face when you look at me and when you take a sharp U-turn on your red Yamaha to announce that you are there for me – always. I feel so thrilled when you follow me on foot when I decide to go for a walk.

I love the way you hang around under that tree in front of my house with your pals (you know, the chowkidars and guards) and keep a careful eye on my house. I am positive that if it wasn’t for your special job you would have attained Moksha by now. I don’t know the Urdu equivalent of Moksha, but in English its “salvation”. Familiar? Did they teach you about “salvation” at your madrassa?

I want to put on record that the chowkidars and guards are doing a brilliant job of filling in for you while you are away. I would even recommend a raise for them and, if I may say so, a weekly off. Of course, I’ll miss them tremendously – not to mention their “meow-meows” (when they see me with my cats) and their comments when I play badminton – but then you know I am all for good working conditions.

Thank you again for making my stay so comfortable in your country. I will try and write as often as I can to you. I know you’d love to write back, but then don’t worry your silence is worth a million words. And, of course, you can continue to pay/repay me in kind for writing to you.

My salam to bhabhi/bhabhis (as the case may be) and muah muahs to the chunnu-munnus.

Best,

Your pyari behan

Miss the good old ‘Khuda Hafiz’…

The other day I was chatting with an old friend on Facebook and then she had to leave suddenly. The good-bye message on my screen read: “AH”.

The “AH” – short for Allah Hafiz – surprised me because she usually signs off with “tata” or just “ta”.

I am all for the good old Persianised “Khuda Hafiz” and hate it when people correct me with “it’s Allah Hafiz”, underlining the “Allah” in the Arabised and, therefore, more pious and religious version.

In the two years we’ve been in Pakistan, the switchover from “Khuda” to “Allah” has become more prominent and I’ve had several people correct me.

As a kid, I was taught to say “Khuda Hafiz” and it just seems so odd when people expect me to say “Allah Hafiz”.

I remember for days and weeks after my mother passed away about two years ago, I regretted not having said “Khuda Hafiz” to her. We were both laughing over something during a chat on the phone and I just told her that I would speak to her later. Of course, I never did because she was dead a few hours later.

Even though “Allah Hafiz” is fast gaining currency in India too, my father is one of the few people I know who still ends his conversations or signs off his emails with “Khuda Hafiz” or “KH”. He even uses “Khuda” liberally – “Khuda chahe toh ho jayega…” or “Khuda na kare aisa ho…”

Some days ago, I found that a group called “Bring back Khuda Hafiz” had been floated on Facebook, pleading Muslims to stick to the good old Persianised “Khuda Hafiz” instead of the new Arabised version “Allah Hafiz”.

“Support Pakistan's innocent, historical goodbye – Khuda Hafiz. Stand against the essentialist ideology working to remove it from our colloquial discourse,” read the note by the creator of the group.

I immediately joined the group, and persuaded some others as well, yet the going has not been easy for the group.

Facebookers have joined in to make a case for Allah Hafiz. “The word Khuda means God which can also be used while referring to deities...,” argued a member.

A couple of Pakistani columnists have been writing about the shift from Khuda Hafiz to Allah Hafiz. Khaled Ahmed wrote about “the rise of the Allah Hafizites” a few years ago. More recently, another columnist wrote that when he was growing up he never heard anyone say Allah Hafiz and that now “Khuda Hafiz” has few takers.

Even as I will continue to say “Khuda Hafiz” (more so, because my ancestors came from Persia), I know that soon, as a Pakistani writer famously remarked, “Khuda Hafiz ka Allah hee hafiz hai”. 

I’ll call you when I get lonely…

The Sania Mirza-Shoaib Malik affair has brought back memories of another Indo-Pakistan wedding that happened over half-a-century ago in England.

Zainab (name changed) was an unusually bright student from a small central Indian town who was encouraged to pursue higher studies in England. As expected, she excelled at the university and also found her soulmate in a fellow student – a Pakistani.

The two got married and after some years her husband decided to move back to Pakistan with their children. Zainab had to give up her Indian nationality. Few years later, Zainab and her husband parted ways. Zainab’s husband decided to relocate to another country, and she back to India.

Zainab had little idea how difficult it would be for her to regain her blue passport (I am sure it is true about green passports as well). She ran from pillar-to-post (her hometown to New Delhi); met all the right people (some of whom were in positions of power and were known to her family) but nothing worked.

She continued to make several trips to India over a period of 10 years (by now she had touched 50), but all her efforts proved futile. She argued with Indian authorities that she had no family in Pakistan (as her children had opted to stay abroad) and that she was old and wanted to be back where her roots were.

On one of her trips to India she overstayed, hoping to see them bend rules for a woman who was now in  her sixties, and quite harmless. The cops from the local thana came and harassed her, called her names and tried to stop her from doing the odd things (this would bring tears to anyone’s eyes) to sustain herself. She pleaded that she had no one to go back to, she didn’t have anyone to take care of her, and obviously none to bury her when she is gone – but nothing moved them.

Zainab and I come from the same small town, where she is like folklore. I have had the honour of meeting Zainab a couple of times. I have heard her stories, seen copies of letters sent to people who mattered, and, of course, her tears.

I saw her giving her best shot till they decided to throw her out. Her departure reminded me of the time when she corrected me in her impeccable English, “It’s ‘may I take my leave’ and not ‘may I take your leave’ – because you are leaving, I am not!” I thought to myself “she is taking my leave”.

Ever since she has been living in Pakistan – trying to make a living. Trying to forget the country of her birth.

After several years, I spoke to Zainab today. I wasn’t sure if she’d recognize me, but she did. “Of course, I know you,” she said, when I phoned her, surprised that I was in Pakistan. "I asked her how she was. “What do you expect of a 80-year-old?” she chuckled. She said she hadn’t been to India in years. “I don’t have anyone to go back to.”

I told her I’ll come and see her, that I’d take her to India and that she could stay with me.

“Please do that,” she said. I asked her if there was anything I could do for her in Pakistan, and she replied, “I’ll call you when I get lonely.”