Pakistanis on Indians…

Have you met Shahrukh Khan? Isn’t he cute? 
(If the questioner is older, substitute SRK with Amitabh Bachchan.)

You don’t watch StarPlus?!! (read saas-bahu sagas)

We love going to India. Great place to shop.

You mean you haven’t been to the massage/spa centres down south yet?

We speak the same language, share the same history, it’s our governments who do not want us to interact. I hope things change for the better…

You are our “mehman”…hope you are enjoying your stay.

You don’t drink?

Overheard: Are there mosques in India?

You don’t look Muslim. Did you marry and become Muslim? That's the trend there – right?

We feel bad for the Muslims in India. Look at Gujarat…

You mean Muslims are not treated unfairly in your country?

When India-Pakistan talks were suspended in the wake of the Mumbai attacks: Why don’t you want to talk to us? You’ve just seen one Mumbai. We see Mumbais every day.

We wish Indian media would stop perpetuating stereotypes about Pakistan and its people.

Why are you stealing our water?

Of course, you are creating trouble in Balochistan!

And the latest addition: Walk like an Egyptian, eat like an American, shoot like an Afghan, plot like a Paki – but think like an Indian (courtesy Wajahat S Khan)

Indians on Pakistanis…

Sometimes it is difficult to explain to fellow citizens, who know little about Pakistan, what I/we are doing on the other side of Indus.

Here are some of their reactions:

You mean you didn’t marry there?
So this is like a punishment posting… Oh my God! How long before you get out?
After being briefed about the nature of the posting and that it is not quite a punishment: But what exactly do you do there?
Have you met the Taliban? Has your neighbourhood been bombed?
Do you know where Dawood Ibrahim is?
Do you wear the burqa there? Are women allowed to step out? What language do you speak?
We’ve heard that Indians have shadows? Is that right? Do they trouble you?
If you invite friends/relatives to Pakistan: Are you crazy? Do you want us killed?
You must be getting awfully bored there.
The food must be awesome! Right?
Pakistanis are a very hospitable people.
Shopkeepers give away things for free to their Indian ‘mehman’
Will I be in trouble if we connect on Facebook/phone/stay in touch?
You better return fast. I will pray for you.
…………….

This is why, when in India, I usually do not give away our current location to strangers because it is quite cumbersome to answer the same questions over and over again.

I was at an eye specialist’s in Delhi and he was annoyingly gregarious. He asked me to return in two weeks for a follow-up. I told him I couldn’t because I didn’t live in that city. The doctor was not in a mood to give up: “Where?” I surprised myself by saying “South Africa”.

Another time I had a nagging co-passenger in transit. “So you belong here?” he asked. I said, “No”. He pressed, “Oh so you must be from…” I walked off to get myself a cup of coffee.

Of course, with friends and relatives I am more than patient because I seriously want to dispel the many myths we have about each other’s countries. I also humour them with stories from Pakistan. Like the ones about our tails.

And yes, it feels rather strange not to have “Daku Bhai” tailing us or that I can just pick up the phone and whine about anything under the sun without having to worry about another Bhai trying to decode my conversation.

PS: Coming up next – Pakistanis on Indians

The ‘F’ word…

“Fautgee ho gayee hai. Ghar jaana hai,” our driver told us barely a month after we’d arrived in Islamabad. I wasn’t familiar with the word. So I asked, “Matlab?”

The driver’s cousin sister had passed away and he had to rush home. We let him take a week off and also gave him some advance.

A few days later, I spotted our gardener who hadn’t shown up for over a week pulling out weeds in the lawn. “What happened?” I asked him.

“…fautgee ho gayee thee,” he explained. I shut up.

Our domestic help, too, decided to rush home during her children’s winter break because of a sudden “fautgee” in the family.

The driver no longer works for us, and we’re on to our fourth gardener since. We’ve had to sack three because there were too many “fautgees” in their families, sometimes the same people dying all over again.

“Didn’t your nani die some time ago?” I asked one of our gardeners once. “No that was my nani’s sister. This time it is my nani,” he informed rubbing one of his eyes.

The word “fautgee” has been thrown at me so many times that for me, the one and only thing it can mean is that the help is disappearing for an indefinite period.

Earlier this month, our brand new maid Delphin walked into my room all tears. “Mere behnoi ki death ho gayee hai. Das din ki chutti chahiye….”

The word “death” hit me and my husband. “Please go,” I said trying to console her. My husband even offered to loan her money to facilitate her trip to Karachi.

“I wanted to leave for Karachi right now but my husband Adnan says you should take the train tomorrow,” she wailed.

Few minutes later I stepped out into the lawn and heard peals of laughter from her quarters. Delphin was getting set for her 10-day break in Karachi….

When she returned, the family was in celebration mode. “There’s too much noise from your quarters….” I told her two days later.

Sensing that I was perhaps surprised by the mirth and joy in the wake of a death in her family, Delphin said: “Well, my sister wasn’t too distressed by the death of my brother-in-law. My sister was fed up. Uski taang bhi nahin thi; aankh bhi nahin thi…..”

No escape…

A Pakistani advertisement for a fairness cream 

In the two years that I have been in Islamabad I have figured that there is no escaping the beautiful portly women who run beauty salons, boutiques and fitness centres.

Last week I was handed a “pink slip”, perhaps for the twentieth time in twenty months, by yet another woman who promised the moon to me at her salon, even though I have no desire of being there just yet.

I flashed my make up-less smile at my savior, my liberator, my nurturer trying to tell her that she was wasting her beautiful pink visiting card on me. But my savior persisted. “I’ll give you a 15 per cent discount!” I gave up and let her indulge me.

She quickly checked me out disapproving of everything that she saw of me. “You need to colour your hair,” she announced. “It’s important to look glamourous. Otherwise your husband will eye other women.”

I smiled at the thought of my husband with four wives. Poor him, I said to myself. Imagine how my un-coloured hair could change his fate.

“But my husband hates coloured hair,” I argued. “Wait till he sees the colouring,” she gleamed.

My saviour also advised me that I should not neglect my feet and hands and should keep my nails painted at all times. “You should take care of what God has given you,” she said. But isn’t painting nails un-Islamic? I teased her. She told me a fresh coat could be applied after performing ablutions. Five times a day? I rechecked. “It just takes a couple of minutes,” she retorted.

Before parting she told me the economics of a minor makeover – just about the same as I would spend on four paperbacks. “This is expensive!” I told her. “You have a lot at stake too,” pat came the reply.

On stake is my marriage – never mind that my husband prefers my make-up less natural, un-coloured hair look. I am sure there are many others like him too.

This, of course, wasn’t my first encounter with “evil” influences. I have had other rich wives of the famous go into the whys and hows of being “tip-top”. The arguments, which sound like folklore, unfortunately run through our subcontinent. Almost always the bottomline is: the going is good for women who look good and who dress good.  

I dread to think about how many nice and normal women fall for this trap. It’s so easy to make women insecure and waste resources, including precious time, at these salons – little realizing that hair colour cannot change the DNA of a man who is looking for a fling, an affair, or another wife.

If beauty salon owners weren’t enough to ruin my stay in Islamabad, I’ve had women cornering me on another equally dreadful query: where do you shop for clothes? Before I can even attempt an answer they vomit a list of places to shop at. I politely nod my head and try and look guilty when I hear the “Oh! You haven’t been there? Oh! You’ve never heard of that?”

I also bump into wannabe designers who dismiss my sartorial sense with practiced ease. “This is out,” a fashion-savvy wife told me recently. How can I wear a short trouser when it is un-Islamic? I poked her back. “You can always change when you have to pray,” she suggested. The Taliban may come and get me, I joked. “It’s fashion. Everyone wears it,” she snapped.

She even offered to accompany me on my next shopping trip and help me find the right clothes. Thankfully I have not bumped into her since.

Though I am yet to be personally counselled by women who run fitness centres, I have heard of others being warned to get back into shape to keep their husbands from straying like tomcats. I know women who have somehow managed to squeeze in an hour at a gym, missing out on precious family time, to keep their skins aglow and their husbands at home...

The murtimaker...

Unmindful of the many unkind glances that come his way Zahid Hussain silently continues to do what he is best at – carve idols of gods and goddesses -- in an otherwise famous art and culture address of Islamabad.

A man of few words Hussain hardly every looks up when the holier-than-thou visitors shower him with unholy looks and tap their cheeks with a “tauba-tauba”.

Thirty-something Hussain is one of the four proponents of the ancient Gandhara art in the country. He learnt the art of making idols twelve years ago and now retails his wares from Lok Virsa.

It is difficult to get Hussain talking. “I carve on Schist stone. I get it from Swat Valley,” he tells me reluctantly.

I wonder if he has ever been threatened or attacked for making ‘murtis’. I wonder if his family approves of his art. I wonder if he will teach his children his art. I wonder who his clients are.

I bargain for two beautifully etched Gandhara boxes and soon Hussain decides to talk. “The stone is available in three shades -- green, gray and black. It’s not easy to carve on stone. Even little details take up an entire day,” he offers showing me a chipped nail and his slightly gnarled fingers.

I notice the many Buddhas and other gods and goddesses forming an interesting backdrop in the Islamic Republic of Pakistan. “I get the stone cut and set in the quarry and then I start work on minute details. It is a tedious process,” he explains.

“There are only four of us in the entire country who practice this art,” Hussain informs. Not surprisingly a little box embellished with Gandhara art costs up to Rs 1000. The bigger ones can cost up to Rs 2000-Rs 3000. A small Buddha bust costs about the same, and the idols are priced at Rs 5000 upwards. Apart from idols, Hussain also makes vases and wall hangings.

Hussain’s thin and haggard frame suggests that the going has not been good for him. “There are hardly any buyers from amongst locals. Very rarely I get a Pakistani customer who takes interest in the idols,” he said.

Yet there is no dearth of people who raise an eyebrow at his art and lecture him on what awaits him in the Hereafter. “Sometimes they try and argue with me that this is against Islam. It is difficult to convince them that practising this art is not against the spirit of Islam,” he said.

What about his family?  Do they lecture him too? “They have accepted me, but they are not happy. I seem to have embarrassed them.”

Has he ever been threatened for making idols? “No. My seniors in Lok Virsa appreciate my art. No one can threaten me here,” he said.

The silver lining in Hussain’s career is the fact that he retails from Lok Virsa and his clients are primarily foreigners. They adore his Buddhas and also other idols. “It’s mostly the foreigners who buy the idols. They love Gandhara art,” he declares.

By now Hussain and I are friends. He leaves his seat and shows me his “good” pieces explaining why they were his favourites. He also agrees to be photographed -- posing with all his exquisite pieces. 

R.I.P...

We’ve come across the weirdest number plates in Pakistan. If the ever popular “RIP” and the many “LOVs” and “LUVs” speeding on the roads weren’t funny enough, we recently stumbled upon a “BRA” and an “STD”!