August 15 , 2008

Independence Day: Memories & Nostalgia

I miss and miss badly the sights, sounds and smells of the homeland, of Pindi/Islamabad in particular where I lived, worked and enjoyed life for over two decades. The nostalgia becomes more profound on the Independence Day every year as memories of the past several decades come rushing to mind - many happy and exciting with some sad and depressing.
The first two decades of the country’s history were marked with remarkable attainments against numerous and formidable odds. The third decade witnessed the dismemberment of the country and nationalization of basic industries in the name of social justice. That wobbled the nascent industries, slowed down economic growth and reinforced the grip of feudalism on the polity. But, it also recorded the beginning of the country’s nuclear program and a welcome shift in relations with China.
The fourth decade found Pakistan engulfed in a proxy war with a super power. Among the deleterious effects of this war were the Klashnikov culture, widespread informal economy, drug barons, smugglers, and a spurt of violence and crime because of easy access to war surplus weapons. The religious extremism promoted during that period is still roiling the social milieu. It has, as a matter of fact, become now the top problem of the society.
The fifth decade and the period thereafter till the military take-over in October 1999, witnessed the leadership of the country falling into the hands of two puny leaders who were too incompetent to provide the much needed buttress to a badly hit economy. They could hardly provide a solution, inasmuch as they constituted themselves the major part of the problem.  They used power chiefly for personal pelf. Both were tall on promises and shockingly short on delivering them. The country reached the verge of being declared a failed state.
The army, the best organized sector of the society, had to step in for the rescue. The eight-year army rule gave the country stability, law and order, freedom of the media, and a fair growth rate. But, it failed to make basic reforms in the feudal structure of the society, in the stagnant sectors of water, power, agriculture and industry. Nonetheless, it has to be credited for holding free elections and for gracefully accepting the defeat of its subservient political party.
Leaders of the two political parties that were successful in the elections have been behaving more like the tricky outfitters in the fable “The King’s New Clothes”. While the common man is crushed by the high cost of living, they are quarreling over issues having no direct bearing on his lot. They live abroad and have their assets there. And, both are not yet members of the parliament!
Major events of this entire period come rushing to mind when I reminisce today about Pakistan.  The mosaic of memories carries some amusing patches too.  These directly occur to mind perhaps because I miss similar sights in the US.
Anaheim Hills in California, where I live with my sons now, comprise beautiful hills, dales, streams, rivers and canyons. But, I yarn for the sights of Margala Hills in Islamabad with all their natural charms and original attractions. Islamabad, a beautiful, modern city, nestles in the lap of these mini-Himalayas. It was no small treat to be able to live in this marvelous place for almost two decades.
But, Islamabad is not Pakistan. It is some fifteen miles from Pakistan. Rawalpindi, the twin city of Islamabad, is the real representative of the general pattern of life in the country. You travel fifteen miles in space to reach Pindi but go back a century in time.
When I think of Pindi, I recall the various forms of pollution:  streets caked with animal wastes, and the oozing of clogged sewers littered with the overflow of uncollected garbage piled on the sidewalks. The emanating stenches might be a nasal disaster for a Western visitor but for the locals they are the cure for many mental ailments, arrogance for one.
Even ghosts and poltergeists do not haunt houses in the vicinity of such stench-making dumps. You become so used to them that you start missing your familiar dump should the municipality in one its fits of efficiency clear it. The odor reaches all regardless of rank or address. No barrier can shut it out; no social distinction can save one from it.  I miss that leveler, that equalizer! 
There are more cars here in just one city, Los Angeles, than in all of Pakistan. Yet, there are fewer accidents. A bruised, dented and accident-damaged car is seldom seen. Traffic is well regulated and the ‘meek’ drivers religiously obey the traffic rules. The traffic jam, a monster spawned by civilization, has been largely brought under control here.  It is so colorless, so prosaic.
I miss, therefore, this multi-faceted, enormous monster in the cities of Pakistan. Cars, buses, wagons, horse carriages, motorbikes, bicycles and pedestrians all melt together in one agglomerate mess. Everyone seems to be driven by some frantic demon of haste in total disregard of traffic rules. Even the stray dogs and cats appear supercharged as though late for an appointment. Total chaos is the stuff of the traffic jam.
In the middle of this mess could be seen three or four traffic constables blowing their whistles and shaking their arms in all directions. Theirs is no mean contribution to this mess. Some give them total credit for it.  I have never seen a situation so dismal that a policeman of Pakistan couldn’t make it worse!
Caught in a traffic jam, you are buffeted with the fumes of unwashed bodies and the stench of ‘niswar’ mixed with wafts from the adjoining gutter overflowing on to the road. You keep turning your head from side to side till your nostrils get used to both and your brain becomes numb and insensitive to time and space. Probably, you reach the mystique elation of the Mansehra fakir whose blessings are reported to have been sought by four prime ministers of Pakistan – two interim and two regular. It is also reported that two of them lost their august position within days of supplication with the holy man! 
History tells us how Moses crossed the Sinai with his people, how Caesar crossed the Rubicon with his men, how Sultan Muhammad Fateh crossed with his armada the strip of land to reach the Basphorous and conquer Constantinople (Istanbul).   A pedestrian who manages to cross a street in say Karachi amid such a traffic jam deserves no less a notable place in history, provided of course he does manage to reach the other side alive.
At  ‘rush hour’  - a self-contradictory term, an oxymoron, since the crush of traffic precludes speed and consequent rush  - conductors load as many as thirty passengers into a wagon designed for fifteen. The buildup of pressure inside the vehicle forces much of this human baggage through windows and door openings to cling to the sides like squids to a rock.
I miss also the rags and riches paradox  - tenements huddling pitifully in the shadow of mansions, splendors of the posh localities sneering at the filth of shantytowns. The poor living close by the rich and the contrast in their housing embarrassing those of sensitivity, troubling those of conscience and mocking those of faith. This counterpoint of squalor and luxury strikes like a lady with diamonds round her neck but her toes sticking out of her torn, shabby shoes.
I long and hunger for such sights; I am truly nostalgic for them. For, that is “my own, my native land.”
 (The writer may be reached by e-mail at:  arifhussaini@hotmail.com   or by phone at 714-921-9634)