Sheikh Hussain
FULL MEMBER
New Recruit
- Joined
- Aug 15, 2015
- Messages
- 51
- Reaction score
- 0
- Country
- Location
He told his friend Anwar Sheikh: “I’d like to visit Pakistan. I’ve heard so much about it from my friends in Saudi Arabia. Before I return to Riyadh, a few days in Pakistan would be nice. I’d like to see for myself if dissent has been stifled there as much as these Sahitya Akademi writers say it has been in India.”
Anwar patted his friend on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Suleiman, I have contacts in the Pakistan High Commission. They’ll arrange your visa in a jiffy.”
Anwar was true to his word. Within a week, Suleiman found himself at the Wagah border. He wished his friend Anwar goodbye at the border crossing and promised to be back in a few days. The journey through to Pakistan was quick and trouble-free.
Suleiman’s cousin, Fayaz Khan, lived in Lahore. He was happy to see Suleiman and invited him to stay at the family’s sprawling bungalow in Lahore’s posh Defence Housing Authority (DHA) area during his visit.
On his first day in Lahore, Suleiman was struck by how clean and beautiful the city looked. “Where are the terrorists,” he asked Fayaz.
Fayaz, who published a local newspaper, looked at him indulgently. “Suleimanbhai, they are in Balochistan, Karachi and Khyber Pathunkhwa. In Lahore we only have Hafiz Saeed, one of Pakistan’s biggest philanthropists. He runs hundred of charities, schools and hospitals and gives free food to the poor.”
Suleiman was surprised. Why then have the Americans put a $10 million bounty on his head, Fayazbhai?”
Fayaz’s face hardened. “It’s those Indians. They say Hafizbhai masterminded that little incident in Mumbai – you know, what they call 26/11.”
Suleiman was perplexed. “Fayazbhai, more than 165 people died in that terror attack. And Hafiz Saeed and Zakiur Rehman Lakhvi still roam about free in Lahore? Back home in Saudi, if they’d done something like that, they’d have been beheaded by now.”
Fayaz changed the subject. “Look, Suleimanbhai I’m having some friends over for dinner this evening. There’ll be people from the media, civil society, writers and even a few retired military men. You’ll enjoy their conversation.”
The guests began arriving at Fayaz’s bungalow at 9pm. A teetotaler, Suleiman watched with interest as Scotch flowed freely. Fayaz introduced him to one of the guests, a ramrod straight, clean-shaven man. “This is Major-General Majid Niazi. General saab, meet my cousin from India, Suleiman Khan.”
Suleiman shook the General’s hand, wincing slightly at his powerful grip. The conversation soon meandered towards terrorism. “It’s our common scourge,” growled General Niazi. “India and Pakistan are both victims of terrorism. I’ve appeared on Indian TV channels and told them so – when the anchors let me speak.”
Suleiman took a sip from his glass of fresh orange juice. Saudi Arabia had taught him abstinence. “But General saab, isn’t Pakistan a victim of your own terrorists? As Hillary Clinton said, if you hadn’t kept poisonous rattlesnakes in your backyard to bite India, they wouldn’t be biting Pakistan instead today.”
General Niazi seemed to suddenly lose interest in the subject. “Suleiman, it’s a pity we won’t be playing cricket with India in Dubai this December,” he said coldly. “Next year perhaps. Our Shahryar Khan is a persistent fellow. And he has important friends in your government.”
Suleiman looked down at his feet. “But General saab, how can India play cricket with Pakistan, and rescue the Pakistan Cricket Board (PCB) from bankruptcy, while terrorists continue killing our villagers and soldiers on the Line of Control (LoC)? ”
General Niazi’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me,” he told Suleiman. “I need to refill my glass.”
Suleiman wandered over to Fayaz who was engrossed in an animated conversation with an elegantly dressed lady. “Ah, Suleiman, meet Mehzabeen Ahmed. She is the consulting editor for one of our leading daily newspapers and also anchors Pakistan’s top-rated current affairs TV show.”
Suleiman nodded as Mehzabeen smiled and offered her hand. Suleiman shook it gingerly. He thought to himself, these Pakistani ladies are so modern. In Saudi we dare not shake hands with their ladies. In India of course, the ladies even kiss us on the cheek.”
Mehzabeen broke his reverie with a question: “So what brings you to Pakistan, Suleimanbhai?”
“Oh, I live in Saudi Arabia – been there since 1976. I visited India for the first time since I left it as a 21-year-old. My friend Anwar arranged this trip to Pakistan for me. I wanted to understand if democracy and dissent are as much in danger in Pakistan as they seem to be in India.”
Mehzabeen looked at him incredulously. “Dissent? Democracy? Suleiman bhai, I’d give my entire collection of Hermes handbags and all my Jimmy Choo shoes to have in Pakistan a fraction of freedom of speech and democracy India has.”
Suleiman was taken back. “But… but,” he stammered, “Indian newspapers and TV channels say dissent in India is being throttled, there’s no freedom of speech, people are being lynched for eating beef…”
Mehzabeen cut him short with a wave of an elegant hand. “Suleimanbhai, don’t be silly. In Pakistan we murder Shias, Baloch and Ahmadis by the dozen every week.” She looked at him and lowered her voice. “Suleimanbhai, to tell you the truth, I’m originally from Sindh. I was born in Karachi. In the old days it was a cosmopolitan city, vibrant, like Mumbai of old. Now it’s dangerous to step out after dark. The Pashtuns and Mohajirs of the MQM are locked in a bloody feud. Revenge murders take place every day. India is heaven compared to this.”
Suleiman was fascinated by her eloquence. “Really,” he asked, lost for words as whiffs from Mehzabeen’s Chanel perfume enveloped him.
“In Mumbai, all your Shiv Sena does,” Mehzabeen continued, “is throw black ink on other Indians at book launches and at beef party hosts. In Pakistan, we deal in bullets not ink.”
A slap on the back and a hearty laugh interrupted Suleiman’s conversation with Mehzabeen. Suleiman turned around to see a smiling gentleman dressed in a pathani suit. “Fayaz tells me you are his cousin from India,” he said. “My name’s Wazir Malik. Welcome to Pakistan. How do you like it here?”
Suleiman shook Wazir’s hand, nodding to Mehzabeen as she turned to talk to another guest. “It’s been very nice,” he replied politely.
Wazir seemed a garrulous sort. He spoke in a heavy Punjabi accent but at rapid speed, the words tumbling out. “I was part of the Aman ki Asha project,” he said. Suleiman nodded. He’d heard about the back channel initiative between peace loving members of civil society in both India and Pakistan. “How’s the project going?” he asked Wazir.
“Not so well,” replied Wazir. “Your new prime minister, Modi, and your NSA, Doval, they don’t want peace. They don’t want aman.”
Suleiman looked at him thoughtfully. “They say, stop terrorism. We can’t hear each other over the gunfire.”
Wazir took a sip from a glass of what Suleiman, tutored lately by Anwar in the ways of high society, imagined was the finest single malt Scotch money could buy. Where did these rich Pakistanis get their money from, he mused. Drugs? Land? America?
Wazir interrupted his thoughts. “Suleimanbhai, you take this message back to India. We in Pakistani civil society are ready for peace. But you Indians must reciprocate. If we stop sponsoring terrorism, in return you must give up Siachen and demilitarise Jammu & Kashmir.”
Suleiman was flummoxed. “But Wazirbhai, if we demilitarise J&K, your terrorists will just walk in, followed by your army in mufti. Kashmir will become a province of Pakistan.” He added as an afterthought: “Like Balochistan.”
Wazir shot him a strange look. “Never mind, Suleimanbhai. And do convey our warmest regards to your wonderful journalists who write such nice things about Pakistan despite our terror attacks on India. Many of them are regular visitors to Pakistan. You must come more often too. All expenses paid.” His eyes glinted.
Wazir began to edge away from Suleiman as Fayaz came up to the pair. “Dinner is served,” he boomed. “Mutton biryani, Suleiman, and beef steak. You’ll enjoy it after the silly beef ban in India.”
Suleiman smile weakly as he walked towards the buffet table groaning under the weight of a dozen meat dishes, the room filled with the aroma of tender cuts of beef.
Sliding up next to him was the elegant Mehzabeen. “I’m dying to come to India,” she said to Suleiman. “I’ve heard your literary festivals are a blast. And I can’t wait to meet your politicians – Kerjriwal, Lalu, Nitish. They are all so fond of Pakistan. We love them!” She nibbled delicately on a kebab.
Suleiman filled his plate with biryani and sat on a sofa, surveying the room. You could never tell, in this pleasant, friendly home, he thought to himself, that just a mile away in another part of Lahore’s upscale neighbourhood lay Hafiz Saeed, probably tucking into kebabs himself, planning new charitable hospitals and the next terrorist attack on India.
Back home
Two days later, Suleiman returned to India. He was greeted by Anwar at the Wagah checkpoint. The two friends took a bus to Delhi. During the short ride, Suleiman described his impressions of Pakistan. “Nice people, Anwarbhai,” he said reflectively. “But they think differently from us.”
“How so Suleiman,” Anwar asked.
“Well, they treat terrorism as a way of life. Kidnappings in Karachi, murders in Balochistan, suicide bombings in Khyber Pathunkhwa. And the Sindhis, Baloch and Pashtuns don’t like the Punjabis who dominate everything: politics, army, culture, even terrorism.” He paused.
“Go on,” said Anwar, prodding his friend.
“And they envy India’s freedoms. They are fascinated by our media that abuses the government daily and our opposition leaders who do the same. In Pakistan, journalists who criticise the army or government get shot dead. In India, they get Padma awards.”
Anwar smiled thinly. “Suleiman,” he said a slight note of exasperation creeping into his voice, “let me introduce you to some senior editors and politicians in Delhi. They are celebrating at Kapilbhai’s house tommorrow night.”
Suleiman was puzzled. “Celebrating what, Anwarbhai?”
The beginning of Congress’ comeback. Rahul and Arvind will join hands in the next government. This one will be gone in 2019.”
Suleiman shook his head but said nothing. After two weeks in India he had learned the ancient wisdom of silence.
Source: IDRW
