August
30, 2007
Nostalgia for the Homeland
Despite the easy access here in California to exemplary
creature comforts, 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 independence Day every year as
memories of the past 60 years come rushing to mind
-many happy and exhilarating with some sad and depressing.
The first two decades of the country’s history
were marked with remarkable attainments against
numerous odds. The third decade witnessed the dismemberment
of the country and nationalization of basic industries
in the name of social justice. Thanks to the charisma
and rhetoric of Mr. Bhutto, the common man remained
buoyant and kept his head high.
The fourth decade found Pakistan engulfed in a proxy
war with a super power. The collapse and disintegration
of that super power speaks volumes for the valor
of the Afghans and the excellent support provided
to them by Pakistan. There is, however, no victor
in a war: the defeated is a bigger loser than the
winner. The rewards for Pakistan of the 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 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 for personal pelf.
Major events of this entire period come rushing
to mind when I reminisce now about Pakistan. The
mosaic of memories carries some amusing patches
too. These immediately occur to mind perhaps because
I miss them here.
Living here in California, blessed with several
modern amenities, I feel on each national day an
intense nostalgia for the lifestyle and values of
the native land.
Man has contributed immensely to the charm and beauty
of California -a vast desert in its natural state.
The sand hills and dunes are all verdant hillocks
studded with houses built on steppes and clearings
on the hillsides that look like dollhouses from
a distance.
Anaheim Hills, where I live with my sons now, is
as its very name suggests studded with beautiful
hills, dales and canyons. But, I yarn for the sights
of the hills of Margala in Islamabad whose natural
attractions have been unfortunately depleting with
each change of government. Propelled by political
power, each new regime finds the lap of these mini-Himalayas
suitable for being parceled out in patronage. I
hope the limits of geography have put an end to
this nefarious practice.
Believe it or not, I am nostalgic for the various
forms of pollution: streets caked with animal wastage,
and 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 vicinities of such stench-making dumps which
are fast becoming ubiquitous -the number may vary
from area to area but they adorn the sights everywhere.
You become so used to them that you start missing
them should the municipality in one its fits of
efficiency clear your familiar dump.
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/Dubai
enjoying her wealth suspected of being ill-gotten.
So is her alter ego in corruption, bearing a name
in total contrast to his public conduct. Both are
pining for a return to the country to resume their
expertise in robbing public exchequer. The widespread
corruption in India in defense purchases, exposed
by Teheleka.Com, pales into insignificance when
compared with the amounts usurped by our Twiddle-Dee
and Twiddle-Dum.
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 the 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.
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
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 build up 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.
(arifhussaini@hotmail.com: 714-921-9634)
