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Don`t cry for me Pakistan: The Hindustan Times
New Delhi, Mar 07: On Wednesday the cricket team will arrive in Pakistan. Although some of them have been there before, for many it will be their first visit. I envy them. The first time you go somewhere is always special. The memory never fades.
New Delhi, Mar 07: On Wednesday the cricket team will arrive in Pakistan. Although some of them have been there before, for many it will be their first visit. I envy them. The first time you go somewhere is always special. The memory never fades.
In my case I was 24. It was March 1980 and the Red Army was ensconced (but far from welcome) in neighbouring Afghanistan. Its forced entry had made Pakistan a frontline state and the country’s military dictator, General Zia, a man who bore an uncanny resemblance to the British comedian Terry Thomas, was in the process of transforming himself into an American ally. In India, meanwhile, Indira Gandhi was back in power, the Emergency forgiven if not also forgotten. Whatever the rest of the country made of that, I came from a family still shaken by her restoration.
To my surprise, I found Pakistanis admired Mrs Gandhi. Her name bubbled through their conversation and they were keen to learn all about her. When I voiced my dismay at her re-election they were perplexed. They would gather around and rise to her defence.
“Dekhoji” I was told in Punjabi. It’s a far more common language across the border than at home. “Haar ke te hutgaee te jit ke lauti. Sadde General Sahab te bethe rehe!”
However, it wasn’t just Pakistani admiration of Indira Gandhi that took me aback. The way they related to their own rulers was a pleasant surprise.
During the Emergency Indians had felt cowed down. We talked in hushed whispers, fearful that walls might actually have ears. In fact, one of the reasons Mrs Gandhi got away with it is because we so readily gave in. Not so, I discovered, in Pakistan. There, although Zia’s martial law was in force, the Pakistani population was far more defiant. Students blithely ignored armed guards on Government College lawns, whilst shopkeepers in Anarkali firmly told policemen to shove off when their presence started to irk them. Perhaps because they were more accustomed to it, Pakistanis seemed to stand up better to authoritarian rule.
But it was a different sort of rebellion that I found most startling. I had thought Pakistan would be a colourless, regimented, austere country. I was terribly wrong. After dark the ban on alcohol is cheerfully and commonly flouted. Of course, they only drank scotch, wine and beer being unobtainable whilst gin and vodka were simply inconceivable. Chivas Regal was thought to be the smartest drink in the world.
“I’ll pick you up at seven” Farid, Tiger Pataudi’s brother-in-law, said when I rang him in Lahore. “That will give us ample time for lassi.”
My heart sank. We had never met before although I knew a lot about Farid from my cousin Ashok. Decades earlier in Oxford they had spent their time carousing together. Their binges were legion. I was therefore prepared for anything — but lassi?
It turned out to be Punjabi code for whisky. Prohibition had not stopped consumption. Simply changed its name. I stumbled out of Farid’s car at 4.00 in the morning. The hotel staff helped me to my room. Heaven alone knows how he got back!
Our cricketers will find that in some respects things have changed only a little. There’s still a general in power except he’s now called Musharraf. Alcohol continues to be banned but is drunk in copious quantity. And Pakistanis don’t give a damn about their leaders whilst, I suspect, they admire one or two of ours.
But I’m prepared to bet the biggest impact on the team will be the warmth of their reception and unceasing hospitality. I notice it on every visit.
If anything, it feels warmer and more embracing each time. However, there is a paradox here: whilst in the last quarter century we, in India, have become cold and suspicious of our neighbour they, on the other hand, have become more open and welcoming of us. Even the most recalcitrant Indian is soon won over. And it doesn’t matter if you’re not Punjabi. Pakistani charm can woo Bihari and Tamil hearts as effectively!
A word of caution, however. Pakistanis are carnivores and they don’t understand the word vegetarian. Not just samosas and pulao, even their daal has meat in it. Like their fast bowlers, Pakistanis like hunks of meat. Several varieties will be on offer simultaneously. And if you ask for subzee what you’re likely to get is Simla mirch or bhindi stuffed with keema or, even, aloo-gosht!
To my surprise, I found Pakistanis admired Mrs Gandhi. Her name bubbled through their conversation and they were keen to learn all about her. When I voiced my dismay at her re-election they were perplexed. They would gather around and rise to her defence.
“Dekhoji” I was told in Punjabi. It’s a far more common language across the border than at home. “Haar ke te hutgaee te jit ke lauti. Sadde General Sahab te bethe rehe!”
However, it wasn’t just Pakistani admiration of Indira Gandhi that took me aback. The way they related to their own rulers was a pleasant surprise.
During the Emergency Indians had felt cowed down. We talked in hushed whispers, fearful that walls might actually have ears. In fact, one of the reasons Mrs Gandhi got away with it is because we so readily gave in. Not so, I discovered, in Pakistan. There, although Zia’s martial law was in force, the Pakistani population was far more defiant. Students blithely ignored armed guards on Government College lawns, whilst shopkeepers in Anarkali firmly told policemen to shove off when their presence started to irk them. Perhaps because they were more accustomed to it, Pakistanis seemed to stand up better to authoritarian rule.
But it was a different sort of rebellion that I found most startling. I had thought Pakistan would be a colourless, regimented, austere country. I was terribly wrong. After dark the ban on alcohol is cheerfully and commonly flouted. Of course, they only drank scotch, wine and beer being unobtainable whilst gin and vodka were simply inconceivable. Chivas Regal was thought to be the smartest drink in the world.
“I’ll pick you up at seven” Farid, Tiger Pataudi’s brother-in-law, said when I rang him in Lahore. “That will give us ample time for lassi.”
My heart sank. We had never met before although I knew a lot about Farid from my cousin Ashok. Decades earlier in Oxford they had spent their time carousing together. Their binges were legion. I was therefore prepared for anything — but lassi?
It turned out to be Punjabi code for whisky. Prohibition had not stopped consumption. Simply changed its name. I stumbled out of Farid’s car at 4.00 in the morning. The hotel staff helped me to my room. Heaven alone knows how he got back!
Our cricketers will find that in some respects things have changed only a little. There’s still a general in power except he’s now called Musharraf. Alcohol continues to be banned but is drunk in copious quantity. And Pakistanis don’t give a damn about their leaders whilst, I suspect, they admire one or two of ours.
But I’m prepared to bet the biggest impact on the team will be the warmth of their reception and unceasing hospitality. I notice it on every visit.
If anything, it feels warmer and more embracing each time. However, there is a paradox here: whilst in the last quarter century we, in India, have become cold and suspicious of our neighbour they, on the other hand, have become more open and welcoming of us. Even the most recalcitrant Indian is soon won over. And it doesn’t matter if you’re not Punjabi. Pakistani charm can woo Bihari and Tamil hearts as effectively!
A word of caution, however. Pakistanis are carnivores and they don’t understand the word vegetarian. Not just samosas and pulao, even their daal has meat in it. Like their fast bowlers, Pakistanis like hunks of meat. Several varieties will be on offer simultaneously. And if you ask for subzee what you’re likely to get is Simla mirch or bhindi stuffed with keema or, even, aloo-gosht!