…Amidst the Alien Corn

OCTOBER 2003 - Many summers ago on a tranquil and magical evening, we sat at the edge of the sea, behind us the isle of Capri and watched the waves gently lapping at our feet. I turned to my dearest friend, a resident of those parts since 1971 and asked him if he was really happy. This is a question we often ask from those who no longer choose to live in Pakistan. My friend thought for what seemed an eternity and then shook his head. “I don’t really know,’ he said. And that’s the dilemma of those who go into exile, voluntary or forced.

Over and over again, one has met Pakistanis who have spent the better parts of their lives abroad. Many have been extremely successful, have made enormous amounts of money and raised wonderful families with wives from the countries they have chosen to live in. They have tasteful homes, live well, travel a great deal and some even find the time and the capital to indulge in passions which we may have too but seldom get to enjoy – concerts, theatre, art exhibitions, automobile shows – the list is long. Their children go to some of the most prestigious universities and secure lucrative and professionally rewarding careers, but somehow a small piece in the great jigsaw that we call life, remains empty. That’s the pull of the old homeland, the one that made my friend say, ‘I don’t really know.’

Many simply miss the things they always took for granted when they were here. My friend says that what he misses most when he comes home is the sound of his mother, now dead for many years, who would hear his footsteps on the stairs and call out to join her for a cup of tea. Somehow, someone would have a steaming cup of tea, the one with lots of milk – ‘doodh patti’ and he would squat down beside her and they’d sip in silence. It was not that she would be at different places. At that time of the evening, she was invariably seated in the same part of the courtyard where she would sip tea and conduct the household chores. Not a priceless moment in any terms yet this simple, daily scene of domestic bliss remains etched in my friend’s consciousness and no amount of Capri or the undeniable charm of all things Italian can quite match that. Everyone has their favorite memory, preserved like a family heirloom, kept in a safe place to take out now and then and handle with tenderness and nostalgic love.

Another friend, now long lost to the lures of the west, would say that all his daydreams and longings were for the worst possible things that were part of his life when he was in Lahore. He said he would dine at some of the finest restaurants in the US yet in a quiet moment he would be whisked back to the ‘dahi-bhallay’ corner at Regal Chowk where you would stand and devour a full plate of the best, the yogurt so fresh, the coarsely chopped onions, the succulent potatoes, the soft yet firm chick peas and those aromatic and spiced masalas that made every spoonful an event. I reminded him that the place stank, there were always flies and the traffic raised clouds of dust so that one had to keep one’s back to the road to protect the bowl, but this did not deter him in the least. He asked if the shop was still there with the same loving concern as you would have for an aged and infirm relative. Yet others dream for what was part of their growing years and of course like all memories of the past, there is always a kind of golden glow that enhances the experience and snuffs out the other realities that years later, the mind does not wish to recollect. A great deal of the past is linked with eating and drinking because I suppose those are common and pleasurable moments when friends were around in large numbers. Almost all of us remember the tuck shops where we wasted enormous hours talking of things that had little bearing on where our lives were going to go, yet they were of immense importance at the time – and of course not even the subjects mattered really. It was the company, the laughter, the jokes and the falling back on familiar things that made the moments special. Now decades later, old men and women long for those little things that made up childhood and the years that followed till paths divided and lives went their separate ways.

In the eighties, during two visits to England in connection with cricket, there was a party of journalists and broadcasters with whom we traveled to all the famous venues – Edgbaston, Trent Bridge, The Oval, Manchester – and while we were all working people who were actually on assignment, there was a generous smattering of pure partygoers like Mansoor (JungleFresh) Moajiz, who made up for his lack of cricketing knowledge with a regular dose of amusing anecdotes. After a hard day’s work – and most of the party were long time residents of the UK, a hunt for a Pakistani restaurant would begin. Up and down city centers we went, lanes and roads and side streets and dead ends, on and on, till we would spy some lone little shop where to squeals of delight we would unload from the creaking car and plunge in. The food was invariably bad, the atmosphere tacky, the service indifferent, the taps dripping and the towels damp, but there was no let up in the genuine pleasure that would radiate on the faces as ‘Pakistani’ waiters with Midlands accents were asked, ‘What’s for dinner?’ It was understood that whatever the odds, dinner had to be Pakistani; no fish and chips, no burgers, no nothing. Alu Gosht, Dal Mash, Chicken curry and Palak Gosht. It was another gesture to remain in touch with the old home even though there were thousands of miles that separated the two. And it is this refrain which runs into dozens of encounters we all have, cabbies who refuse to accept money for a ride, bus conductors who wave you in and start chatting instead of punching out a ticket, salesmen and women who slip in an extra discount for you and when they have nothing to offer, a chat about Lahore or Mardan or the cricket team.

Someone once said that nobody would live away from his country voluntarily and that so often a combination of forces drives people to take the plunge. This is true and while reasons vary, they are important for the people who take that vital step. Some regret it all their lives, some keep the regret private and some feel it is the best thing they ever did, but with the odd exception, the heart gets pulled towards the old times, the old haunts and the old memories and it is then that the voice may slightly tremble or the eye begin to slightly go moist. Some steps are irrevocable and the realities that bind us all down, here or there, have the final say but the nostalgia never quite goes away. As Pakistan recklessly plunges down daily into an abyss of hate, intolerance and violence, those of its sons and daughters who are far away, can only mourn deeply and in silence. They are powerless to do anything really – they have no hand in who runs the country but their anguish is painful because they still see the country differently, unlike most of us here who have all but given up hope. A hundred and more Pakistanis die everyday. Those whom bullets and bombs spare, capsizing boats, derailing trains and reckless buses take away. Children, women, men are killed on the slightest pretext. The government is powerless and clueless. Our only religion left is to take lives and there is no end in sight. How long will it go on and how long can this country survive? This causes us sleepless nights but the anguish of those who live in exile, must be even harder.