Creative control

The year was 2003. I was between jobs and desperate. Islamabad, even then, was an expensive city and I was running out of money. I had a regular column but it did not pay well. It was then that an idea struck me. I had applied to various papers and recently launched news channels. While I awaited a call I could branch out and dabble in fiction writing. The only medium that paid well was television. I have always been good at storytelling. So, I came up with the kind of stupid idea a twenty-something maverick would be capable of: the script of a long play in which the Quaid-e-Azam comes back and leads a movement to improve the country.

Once it was finished, I had to offer it to TV networks. One low-hanging fruit was PTV, still in the entertainment business, where I had worked before. The other was the country's largest private media empire. I had managed to extort the email address of its entertainment head from a friend. I sent the script to PTV, and a one-line elevator pitch to the private channel executive, mentioning only the idea of the Quaid's return. The response was radio silence; I was soon to learn why. The executive liked the idea and hurriedly commissioned the country's best-known humourist and playwright. The writer decided to bring back Allama Iqbal and, I think, Mohammad Ali Jauhar for good measure, and stranded them at an airport. By the time I saw the end product, I was seething with rage. The end credits included the name of the very same executive as the executive producer.

PTV's story was even better. I was invited over by the head of the entertainment department for a meeting. When I got there, the gentleman told me he really loved my script, but he had a problem. Showing the Quaid in corporeal form could generate a backlash. So could I please work around the problem? You realise this was my unique selling proposition that I was being asked to work around. In my head, Ibne Insha's Bahadur Allah Rakha was playing in Zia Mohiyyedin's voice. If you have not read or listened to it, do so. Nothing could be more relevant to my predicament. In a sinking voice, I asked him what he proposed could be done with the "problem". His answer was simple. We could show a phantom. I asked him if the phantom could wear a Jinnah cap for identity. He said that would be a dead giveaway. Heartbroken, I took his leave, left the script with a recycler, and never pursued the matter further.

I soon got a full-time job. But even with my work schedule, I was quietly working on another project. Two habits have never left me in my adult life: ferocious reading and writing. I was a big fan of The Economist, and after reading its foundational prospectus, an idea had seized me. If we could create something similar for the Pakistani audience, it could usher in a golden age of journalism, knowledge and think tanks. So, I burnt the midnight oil and created a prospectus of my own. Like The Economist's 1843 prospectus, still available online, I infused the pitch with policy recommendations. Some of these, like linking Pakistan's Gwadar port with China through a corridor and establishing close cooperation with the Central Asian Republics, were great. Others not so much. But I had no seed money. Where should I send it?

I had learned that one senior official was very close to General Musharraf, occupying an office that has, very recently, been abolished. I had a nodding acquaintance with the man, and I had heard he had been given resources to establish think tanks in the country. So I sent it to him. To my delight, within a few days I was called over for a meeting. His personal staff officer greeted me enthusiastically and told me he had introduced the text to the gentleman. I was invited in. I sat across his huge desk. After pleasantries, the official told me he liked my proposals and wanted to clarify certain points. I noticed that, instead of my prospectus, he had before him a typed text. He did not seem interested in my pitch, only in policy proposals. One by one, he went through all the major points and asked me to explain. I kept explaining, and the PSO took copious notes, while the senior official listened intently. After we were done with his list, I thought I should pitch my idea too. I was in the middle of my pitch when he smiled, offered his hand to shake, wished me luck, and the next thing I knew, I was being ushered out.

I never heard from that office again. I could see two things. One, some rudimentary implementation of the stronger points of my proposal. Two, some immediate efforts by India to block the implementation. It was plain to me that, whatever the nature of the plan, it had leaked to India, and it was trying to sabotage it. There was nothing outlandish about this. A few years ago, India Today had published the Hamood-ur-Rehman Report, still classified in Pakistan and treated as a state secret. Over many decades, we have been leaking secrets regularly, and India has been benefiting. Old news.

During the PTI government's time, even my bad/redundant proposals started surfacing with attribution to other people. It was too much. Although I had no creative control over them, I did what I could to explain in the public domain that, being their original author, I had learned through experience that they were deeply flawed.

One more anecdote. On 10th October 1999, the political economy section of a noted English daily carried my piece titled "Devolve Power, Save Federation". The piece was a rebuttal of the prevalent idea of creating provinces on ethnic lines. I had proposed that existing divisions could be given that status. Two days later General Musharraf took over, announced devolution as a priority, and tapped STH Naqvi to head a think tank to deliver on the promise. I was invited to his meetings but never allowed any creative input.

I know the world doesn't revolve around me. Two different people can have the same thought. But in my thirty-year-long writing career, I have learned that people liberally borrow from your ideas and never give credit. But what I resent the most is the loss of creative control over my ideas. Ideas should evolve along with their sources.

Even though I have shared my vision for both India and Pakistan in a piecemeal fashion, I know the conjoined elite of the two countries have something else in mind. So here is my counter. You do what you like. But when it all goes to pieces, as it will, come back to me and give me total creative control and the power that comes with it. I still hold the updated versions of these ideas; nobody else does. I only want what is best for both countries.

Word to the wise: even if you feel the sky is falling, keep your nerve for three months, and you may find the world has changed for the better.