A liberated marionette

No, I am not talking about the movie with Governor Ah-nold and one of my favorite Irish sons, Gabriel Byrne. . . .

It was, it was not a few days ago I was having my one of my daily conversations with Ma. We began talking about Pakistan, one of the top five topics that preoccupy both of our minds at the moment. I was telling her about the “Christian gangs” that exist, which got her to haw hai-ng. (just to set the record straight, I have never heard Ma say hai hai, or haw hai in my life, and if some of us use the latter lament it irks her) I was glad that we were agreed on reactions to one community as opposed to another. Every community in Pakistan, like anywhere else in the world, has their reactionaries, certain folks who would rather fan the flames of ethnic or religious hatred - for lack of a better word - than put them out. They would like to tell you who is a pukka Pakistani and who is not. Whose fault it is for all the political failures we have had since 1947, and whose ideas are the more correct. There are times when I want to go on a particular website and say why the fuck do you care about what the Indians say about you when you are in pissing matches with one another. But that would be misinterpreted, and it would not be the first time.

I digress, hasb-e-maamool. As our conversation regarding the old country came to a close, Ma said that things were bad everywhere and they are only getting worse. My response was: It’s supposed to be this way.

Now is that a end-of-days-ian thing for me to say or what? Ma certainly thought so. I thought about it later on and said, what the —-??? I certainly would not want to be put in the same league of those erstwhile religious all-knowing folks who make insane comments about other cultures, and the reason why earthquakes or floods happen in certain countries!

Here’s the thing, even if I did believe in the words: nation will go against nation, brother against brother, and whatever is supposed to happen - unlike Naniji I never memorized bible verses - it does not follow that we sit around complacently, smug in our own beliefs and just watch it happen. Or just pray about it and not do anything. Or think we are waxing triumphantly about those bloody kaafirs, heathens and heretics when we are blind to what is happening in our own house.

Even if things are supposed to end badly, it does not mean that we not act to rebuild the bridges we are burning.  

***

So, here is what gets me about gangs being described as Christian gangs, and I still do not think I will be able to express this thought clearly. We do not call Muslim gangs, Muslim gangs in Lahore do we? Why not just call them a fucking gang and be done with it. The example of various ethnic gangs is presented to me, like Irish gangs, so why not describe them for what they are. My thought is, they are gangs. Period. If we, in Pakistan, are going to refer to a group of Christian badmaash as Christian gangs, then let us call Muslim badmaash, which there are also plenty of, as Muslim gangs. (which the firangi folk do in their own way) And contrary to what some believe, one cannot say that describing a gang as Christian, is the same as describing one belonging to a particular ethnicity, like Punjabi or Sindhi. Okay, so I say they cannot. Khalaas!   

Having been so vociferous about this, I hope not to say anymore on this topic. Though some of you know my tendency towards repetitiveness. I could say a little more, but my words will be misinterpreted, and it will not be the first time. There is a saying that we have shouted out at protests which some folks think is rather passé: the people united will never be defeated. Pakistan as a country will defeat herself, if her sons and daughters bicker about who deserves to be more of a Pakistani. Unity is not about exclusion. I know it is a painfully obvious statement, but obviously not to everyone. When I said I wanted to be seen as a Pakistani first, rather than a Christian, it is because in the eyes of some, a Christian is not a Pakistani. One can throw names of Pakistani Christians who have served our country well to prove me wrong, but I have seen those eyes. I do not agree with those Christians who want to separate themselves and be treated as an entity all to themselves, and I do not agree with those Muslims who wish to separate or isolate us, and describe us by our faith rather than our nationality.

I grew up amongst Christians and Muslims in Lahore. Some of my father’s best friends to this day are Muslim. They are somewhat devout, what I know of them. They do some of the things required of them: the haj or the pilgrimage, fasting during Ramzaan (what the rest of the world knows as Ramadan). They treated us as their own, and never made a big deal of the fact that we were Issaie. Of course there were boundaries even in these friendships, but the point is that they were models to me. One of our friends was a mentor of sorts to all of us. He encouraged some of us, particularly my older siblings when we were down. I used to fight with him for silly reasons, and one day when I had received a booklet with beautiful calligraphy, and quotes from the Surahs, I gifted him with it as a peace offering. . . .

***

As I was walking home, I quietly began to sing My name is Anthony Gonçalves, MeiN iss duniya maiN akela hooN. It is from the movie Amar, Akbar, Anthony which is one of my favorite Hindi fillums. Three brothers who are separated from their parents and one another are found and raised by a Hindu police officer, a Muslim tailor and a Catholic priest respectively. As they become adults, certain events bring them together, and not knowing they are brothers, they treat each other as if they were, at least Akbar and Anthony do. I do not know if there is anything utterly profound in this, but there is a method to the hilarity here. And there were stereotypes as well, the character of Robert for example, and the way in which he speaks Hindi seemed to be a stereotype of the Anglo-Indian.

What I found to be fascinating, and linguistically so, was when Akbar, barred from leaving Robert’s house, writes to his wife in Urdu, in Nastaliq script which no one else can read, and gives her instructions for help. So it is not simply ek jagah jab jamah hoN teenoN, Amar. Akbar. Anthony, who save the day, but also Nastaliq! Yay!