Unforgettable moments in a cynic’s life
Zulfikar Ali Bhutto believed that Salman Taseer and Mustafa Jatoi knew nothing about communism and Joseph Stalin.
anwer.mooraj@tribune.com.pk
Whenever there is a huge catalogue of disasters, I think about the scenes which are still indelibly etched in my mind. It is pure escapism.
Scene: my father’s house in Bhopal during the 1946 winter holidays. A log fire burns brightly in the dining room.
Across the road, a round silver moon cuts a jagged path on the lake. The distinguished guest is Sir Colin Garbett, a retired ICS officer, adviser to the ruler of Bhopal.
He is also the author of Friend of Friend, published in 1943, which describes his experiences as an ICS officer. By arrangement I walk in when the cigars and coffee are being served.
Handing over our copy of his book, I request Sir Colin to write a few lines on the inside cover. After doing so, the Englishman turns to my mother and says “and what will this young lad be when he grows up?”
There is a brief pause and my mother replies “the prime minister of India, of course”.
The scene: Rhodesia field in St Peter’s High School, Panchgani, on August 15, 1947. Butterflies and dragonflies buzz around and perform their aerial ballet. The clouds hold back their moisture.
The boys — English, Australian and Anglo-Indian Protestants, Polish Catholics, Greeks from their Orthodox church, Iraqi Jews, Hindus, Parsees and Sikhs, Indian and East African Muslims lustily sang “Bande Mataram”. We are one united family.
In a simple ceremony, a sapling is planted by the principal to commemorate India’s independence. The next day, a cow leisurely wanders across the field and chews up the plant.
The scene: Beirut in the early 1950s after the cargo ship on which I am a passenger docks. I turn down the Danish Captain’s offer to accompany the officers to a night club as I am obviously too young. So I head for the cinema.
They are showing Samson and Delilah with Victor Mature and Hedy Lamarr. There are French and Arabic subtitles. So one set of heads moves from left to right and the other set from right to left. I keep my head straight.
In the interval, the Lebanese-Arab who is on my right glares at me and asks if I am from Basra. As I don’t move my head sideways he thinks I am Jewish. I say I am from Pakistan which he has never heard of. The situation is becoming ugly.
I have done my share of boxing in St Peter’s but as the Arab looks as if he has just been let out of the zoo, I sprint for the exit and head for the harbour.
The scene: The residence of Abdul Hafiz Pirzada, soon to become a leading lawyer. The occasion: A dinner party at his former PECHS residence in the late 1960s.
The guests: a number of prominent citizens including Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, Mumtaz Bhutto, Ghulam Mustafa Jatoi, Rafi Raza, a businessman called Velliani who claims he is ZAB’s double and Salmaan Taseer.
I don’t remember who else is there — just this clutch of people who are going to form the backbone of the PPP. Salmaan Taseer is discussing communism with another guest.
ZAB turns to me and says “neither of them knows the first thing about communism. Since you are a Bolshie, tell them about Stalin.” I took a deep breath.
“Sir,” I said, fully prepared to be sent to the salt mines when he wins the election, ”whatever gave you the idea that Stalin was a communist?”
Published in The Express Tribune, March 10th, 2013.
Scene: my father’s house in Bhopal during the 1946 winter holidays. A log fire burns brightly in the dining room.
Across the road, a round silver moon cuts a jagged path on the lake. The distinguished guest is Sir Colin Garbett, a retired ICS officer, adviser to the ruler of Bhopal.
He is also the author of Friend of Friend, published in 1943, which describes his experiences as an ICS officer. By arrangement I walk in when the cigars and coffee are being served.
Handing over our copy of his book, I request Sir Colin to write a few lines on the inside cover. After doing so, the Englishman turns to my mother and says “and what will this young lad be when he grows up?”
There is a brief pause and my mother replies “the prime minister of India, of course”.
The scene: Rhodesia field in St Peter’s High School, Panchgani, on August 15, 1947. Butterflies and dragonflies buzz around and perform their aerial ballet. The clouds hold back their moisture.
The boys — English, Australian and Anglo-Indian Protestants, Polish Catholics, Greeks from their Orthodox church, Iraqi Jews, Hindus, Parsees and Sikhs, Indian and East African Muslims lustily sang “Bande Mataram”. We are one united family.
In a simple ceremony, a sapling is planted by the principal to commemorate India’s independence. The next day, a cow leisurely wanders across the field and chews up the plant.
The scene: Beirut in the early 1950s after the cargo ship on which I am a passenger docks. I turn down the Danish Captain’s offer to accompany the officers to a night club as I am obviously too young. So I head for the cinema.
They are showing Samson and Delilah with Victor Mature and Hedy Lamarr. There are French and Arabic subtitles. So one set of heads moves from left to right and the other set from right to left. I keep my head straight.
In the interval, the Lebanese-Arab who is on my right glares at me and asks if I am from Basra. As I don’t move my head sideways he thinks I am Jewish. I say I am from Pakistan which he has never heard of. The situation is becoming ugly.
I have done my share of boxing in St Peter’s but as the Arab looks as if he has just been let out of the zoo, I sprint for the exit and head for the harbour.
The scene: The residence of Abdul Hafiz Pirzada, soon to become a leading lawyer. The occasion: A dinner party at his former PECHS residence in the late 1960s.
The guests: a number of prominent citizens including Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, Mumtaz Bhutto, Ghulam Mustafa Jatoi, Rafi Raza, a businessman called Velliani who claims he is ZAB’s double and Salmaan Taseer.
I don’t remember who else is there — just this clutch of people who are going to form the backbone of the PPP. Salmaan Taseer is discussing communism with another guest.
ZAB turns to me and says “neither of them knows the first thing about communism. Since you are a Bolshie, tell them about Stalin.” I took a deep breath.
“Sir,” I said, fully prepared to be sent to the salt mines when he wins the election, ”whatever gave you the idea that Stalin was a communist?”
Published in The Express Tribune, March 10th, 2013.