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 Pakistan Day, March 23rd, every year as memories
of the past half a century 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.
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 fifth decade and the period thereafter till
the military takeover 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.
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.
Man has contributed immensely to the charm and beauty
of California -a vast desert in its natural state.
The sand hills and dunes have been turned into verdant
hillocks studded with houses built on steppes and
clearings on the hillsides. These houses look like
dollhouses from a distance.
Anaheim Hills, where I live with my sons now, comprises
beautiful hills, dales, streams, rivers and canyons.
But, I yearn 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 at that
distance. Called Pindi for short, it 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 wastage,
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 of
its fits of efficiency clear them. 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!
A cynic attributed Benazir’s 25 foreign trips
in as many months of her rule to this ubiquitous
stench. She is now in a self-imposed exile to London/Abu
Dhabi enjoying her wealth, irrespective of its source.
So is her alter-ego in corruption, the biggest crook
the country has produced.
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 faqir 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 Constentinople (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 torn, shabby
shoes.
I long and hunger for such sights; I am nostalgic
for them.
I wish you many happy returns of the Day, and I
wish Gen. Musharraf all success in his clean-up
operation.
(The writer may be reached by e-mail at: arifhussaini@hotmail.com
or by phone at 714-921-9634)
