Will miss you Chicklet...

In my three-year stay in Pakistan, which hopefully draws to a close  soon, I had never felt so helpless and miserable as when I saw my ten-month-old cat Chicklet, and two other kittens, poisoned to death last week.

I was poisoned to death. I was only
three-months-old

My husband and I had rescued Chicklet and his litter-mates from our neighbour’s washing machine last winter. Chicklet and his litter-mates were like little fur balls and we had to resist the temptation of adopting them because we already had six very territory-conscious indoor cats to take care of.

Yet soon enough Chicklet and his sister were in our backyard, the sister taking the lead and the brother following suit, and before we knew it they were ours. We were feeding them, rushing them to the vet, or saving them from stray Toms at 3 am!

Chicklet had a knack of getting himself into trouble and we had to go around requesting neighbours to let us into their houses and get him down their roofs or out of their backyards. He would be happy to see us rescue him, rub his chin against walls and roll on the ground non-stop as if saying his “thank yous”.

This summer we got worried when Chicklet went missing for several hours. We were on our roof calling out for him; checking other rooftops and backyards for clues. We’d just given up our massive search when Chicklet obliged us by alighting from under the overhead tank of our Indonesian neighbour.

We threw food to him and then went begging to the neighbours’ to let us in. Chicklet saw me making my way up the ladder and launched his major “thank you act”; he rolled on the ground, rubbed hard against my legs and made me run all over the roof before letting me catch him.

Happy to be back in our backyard, he perched himself on his favourite place, the kitchen window sill, rubbing his cheeks against the iron grill and purring hard.

Chicklet grew up to be a big and healthy cat. He no longer had to be rescued from rooftops; but he still loved playing his little games with us – “I spy” by showing up at all windows and doors of our house and announcing his arrival with grand meows or turning up in our lawn and then wanting to be let inside the house to cross over to the backyard.

Chicklet showed symptoms of food poisoning on early September 14 (around 3.30 am). We were to take him to the vet in the morning, but Chicklet didn’t wait for us. We looked around for him on all rooftops, backyards, our street, but there was no trace of him. We hoped and prayed that he would return and announce his arrival with his grand meows once again. But that was not to be.

On September 16, around 5 pm, as I stepped out on our terrace to call out for him yet again I saw him lying dead on our Indonesian neighbour’s roof, on the same spot from where I’d rescued him in summer, with half a dozen crows and hordes of flies feasting on him. We got him down and gave him a burial.

If Chicklet’s death was not a blow enough for us, we saw two other kittens, who would stop by for food, poisoned. While the male died, the female has made it.

We were just getting over the two deaths post-Eid, when last Saturday, I noticed Chicklet’s sister and her three kittens, who were born in our backyard, showing similar symptoms.

Sadly the weakest in the litter could not make it. We used to jokingly call him “Wheezer”, because last month he had been treated for wheezing. Wheezer died a very painful death. His litter-mate, the friendliest kitten I have known, is still at the vet’s fighting it out.

Chicklet and the two kittens didn’t deserve to go the way they did, at least not in an Islamic Republic, because the Prophet is said to have liked cats and kept one too.

We are your mehman, Mrs Ahmed!

Mrs Ahmed is Pakistan's top chef (photo courtesy: Newsline)

We have a queer mix of neighbours. A kind German diplomat who was quick to act on our complaint and advised his newest guard not to peer into our house “because we don’t want trouble Mohammed”; an elderly Pakistani-American economist who spends most of her time in the US and is friends with “Prime Minister Manmohan Singh”; and a bunch of baker boys who have, most unfortunately, been bestowed a bake-in, sleep-in status on our street by their “madam” – a top chef of Pakistan.

When we moved into this neighbourhood about two years ago, I remembered staring at the ugly, unkempt house of “madam”. Our landlord was quick to tell us that the house was unoccupied. We believed him.

As I settled in, I noticed that someone loved baking in that house and baked 24/7. Cakes. Bread. Everything. And when that someone was not baking in the front of the house, he/she would be cooking/barbecuing in the backyard.

The constant smell of fish and prawns and the cling-clang of utensils gave me a headache. I decided that a middle-class housewife was trying to make a living by catering for private parties. I just so wished that she would make it big and move out of the residential area. Or till such time, at least move her army of bakers and cooks to another address.

Months later as I was leisurely scanning the Sunday papers, I read about my “middle-class housewife”.  She was Shahida Ahmed, a star chef, who ran one of the most expensive restaurants in Islamabad.

Newsline, a monthly magazine, praised Ahmed’s “lobster with garlic and lemon, stuffed with fresh asparagus and fresh mushrooms, Thai fish tucked in herbs and chilli sauce, seafood ravioli with chilly crab sauce, Mediterranean chicken with olives, feta cheese and basil and Arabian salad platters”.

More recently, the newly-launched daily The Express Tribune wrote:  “Shahida Ahmed, the owner of Tiramisu, has been in the catering business for the past 20 years…”

“....I baked a four-tier birthday cake (which was sold) for Rs 65,000,” Ahmed told the daily, adding that she supplied accessories for themed birthday parties and charged up to Rs 500 for a goodie bag.

I am sure if Ahmed was in India she wouldn’t have been allowed to run a bakery/kitchen in a residential area. Sadly our Pakistani neighbours have been indifferent; so have our neighbours from the diplomatic corps.

Mrs Ahmed, we wish you well in life, but could you please move your kitchen and your kitchen boys, especially your super courteous chowkidaar, to another address? I am sure you can more than afford it.

I am a kaafir...

We have a Pakistani Hindu family living in our neighbourhood. The first time I heard about them was when they refused to let out their servant quarter to someone I had known. “Woh log bhi aapke India sai hain,” I was told.

It was unusual for us not to know an Indian family living on the same street as us. Even then I checked with the small Indian community in Islamabad, but nobody seemed to have a clue.

Few weeks later, I learnt that the “Indian” family owned a handicraft shop in an upscale Isloo market. Everything fell into place. Our neighbours were Hindus from Sindh who owned one of the biggest handicraft shops in the federal capital and that the locals referred to them as “Indians”.

Once I was giving my address to a shopkeeper, who knew I was Indian. He heard me out and said, “Ek aur Indian ka ghar bhi toh hai wahan…” I told the shopkeeper that he got the address right but the family he was referring to was not “Indian”.  “Par woh Hindu hain na…,” he tailed.

I was reminded of the shopkeeper’s remark when a young Hindu man’s coffin was marked “kaafir” (infidel) in black and then highlighted with red.

Prem Chand was among the 152 people killed when an airliner crashed into the majestic Margalla Hills last week. Prem Chand, 25, was a bright spark and was a member of the Youth Parliament. He was flying along with five other parliamentarians to Islamabad to attend a session.

I was struck when Pakistanis expressed disgust and said the way Prem Chand’s coffin was treated was a “national disgrace” and some even apologized to the minority Hindu community. Prem Chand’s friends were quick to remove the marking before his relatives saw the coffin and wrote “We love you – from the Youth Parliament” over the word "kaafir".

I was touched to see Pakistanis floating a page in Prem Chand's memory and a member suggesting that a “kaafir day” be celebrated in Pakistan to stop “such acts of religious bigotry”.

Prem Chand described himself as a social worker. His last status update on Facebook made me shiver: “Comments can make a person and comments can break a person. So be careful and ethical while giving comments for someone.”

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