Delusional Punjabis

Delusions. They’re what keep us going here in Pakistan. Our survival instinct kicks in and [apparently] happily accepts what it being thrown our way, whether we agree with it or not.

We, Punjabis, are the most despised ethnic group in Pakistan. We are the majority. We wield the most power. We are the rulers, the feudals and the military. We have managed to isolate each and every ethnic group of our country. They all hate us. And I don’t blame them.

I don’t want to launch into a long list of Punjabi wrongdoings. It would eat me up with guilt and will take up lots of time since the list is, unfortunately, endless. Needless to say, we, the Punjabis, have managed to usurp most of this country’s resources. We have promoted only ourselves. We have developed Punjab and left all the other provinces in the margins. Most of Balochistan is a barren wasteland. We exploit their resources, such as gas, and, in return, do not even grant them access to what we are taking from them. Sindh and the Frontier have similar grievances against us.

I propose that the problem isn’t just about exploitation, but also about honour and ideology.

Punjab has been through numerous rulers and kingdoms over the years, just like most of the subcontinent. The Indian sub-continent was never united; it was a conglomerate of kingdoms that constantly warred with each other. A rich and fertile land like Punjab, with her five flowing rivers, abundant harvest and tolerant culture, was never part of one kingdom for too long. We, the Punjabis, are as old as the Indus Valley Civilization itself. One of the most ancient cities in the world, Harrapa, is found here. Punjab was too tempting for anyone to resist. Anyone who came close wanted a piece.

Because Punjabis had to live with constant disruptions and new rulers on a regular basis, they learnt to adapt as best they could. Punjab’s numerous crops were to be protected. So instead of fighting, Punjabis tended to come to terms with their new rulers. This, in my opinion, was actually a pretty smart move- far better than waging wars for centuries. This also made Punjabi culture quite tolerant. There were hardly any forced conversions in the land since it was already quite multi-religious. Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Buddhists, Parsis, Christians etc all lived together very peacefully. In fact, Islam was not spread by the sword here. No, it gained popularity because of the numerous Sufi saints, such as Bulleh Shah, who preached that God was love. Punjabis learned to reach an understanding with any others who walked amongst them. Punjabi culture is extremely hospitable, and people were welcomed to Punjab with open arms. Instead of resisting and fighting the latest conqueror, Punjabis accepted and worked with their new leader. Wise choice. Wars and chaos would destroy Punjab’s goldmine: her fertile crops.

The Islam of Punjab is quite different than the Islam of the rest of our provinces. Sindh’s first converts were born out an invasion by Muhammad bin Qasim, an Arab. The hermeneutics of the Islam practised in Sindh, NWFP and Balochistan is a syncretism of the tribal cultures of those lands, which are a blend of traditions from earlier religions and cultures. The tribal system of honour is a code that is deeply entrenched in the psyche of these ethnic groups, and is inseparable from their practice of religion. One example of this is the belief that honour killings are divinely sanctioned. What I am saying, and what I am going to get a lot of flak for, is that the Islam and culture of the tribals is different from that of Punjab’s. Whereas the tribals believe religion to be inseparable from honour, the Punjabis do not see it that way because of the tradition of tolerance in the Punjab.

The tribal ideology consists of fierce loyalty to the clan. This, in turn, leads to a strong sense of honour. Indeed, it is a grave crime to dishonour the clan in any way, shape or form. Honour killings are an excellent example of this because when a woman’s sexuality is illicit, it doesn’t just damage her reputation, it brings dishonour to the whole family, and thus the clan. This is why so many innocent women- including rape victims- end up meeting their death. Even the slightest accusation is reason enough to believe that one’s honour is threatened. Similarly, if a member of the clan converts to another religion or marries a member of the rival clan, the honour code- and loyalty- is threatened. This certainly was not true in pre-partition Punjab where many families, including my own, had Hindu, Sikh and/or Christian relatives. My paternal great-grandmother, much like the vast majority of my family, was a Brahmin covert, and my mother still has many Hindu relatives across the border. Punjabis, like I said before, were a tolerant people who lived peacefully side by side despite differences in religion etc. (I say “were” tolerant because we are now too influenced by intolerance and extremism that is plaguing our society.)

This is a very crucial difference between the Punjabis and the tribals. To them, and to the many ethnic groups who moved from India, we are seen as weak people who sell out to anyone who rules us. We seem to have no loyalty to our tribe or clan. This makes us seem like we place far less importance on honour than the others. Our acceptance of others is also not exactly seen as a positive step. Our ideology, which is to tolerate and work with whoever is in power, is seen as a sign of weakness. We are not ready to fight for what we stand for like they are. We also are not as focused on being Punjabi as say the Pathans are about being Pashtuns. We do not defend our culture to death like most others do. We don’t even teach Punjabi in schools here! Perhaps it is because we are the majority, and thus are not threatened. Our rich land and the fact that we are the majority of the population certainly doesn’t help give us more credibility.

Punjab today, however, has certainly delineated from its tradition of tolerance. Sadly, this was one of the worst influences we could have adopted. Also, the fact that the state has split the country along lines of ethnicity has only lead to resentment against the Punjabis, and quite stupidly, we are becoming their self-fulfilling prophecy of oppressive, hegemonic rulers. This is why the next Prime Minister of Pakistan cannot, and should not, be a Punjabi. In a country that is bitterly divided along ethnic and sectarian lines, this would a disaster akin to civil war. Sindh, which displayed its awesome and crippling strength of agitators in the days following Benazir Bhutto’s death, will not accept a Punjabi leader. A Punjabi can no longer stand for the federation; they will only be seen as yet another symbol of Punjabi dominance. Unfortunately, since the elections are most likely to be rigged, not only will we have a Punjabi Prime Minister, Pervaiz Elahi from PML-Q, but we will also have a powerful Mafioso man, and immensely corrupt feudal who will illegally return to power, and loot and plunder the country like he has been doing for years. As responsible citizens we have to ensure that this doesn’t happen. If it does, there is a real danger that we will break up. And if that happens, India will also have a vested interest in the region because of our nuclear arsenal. This is yet another reason why we need to have free and fair elections. Those supporting Musharraf blindly, like Sajida Hina Khan are in fact doing the biggest disservice to this country. Those who claim that their families have fought hard for this country should finally stop putting their foot in their mouth and do something. If they don’t, they’ll be as responsible for the chaos that ensues as the corrupt leaders they support.

Polka Parlour

I keep thinking of Polka Parlour, which used to be on Main Boulevard. It was one of the only ice cream parlours in town and my siblings and I were addicted to it. They were the only ones who had yummy waffle cones and they topped their ice creams with real whipped cream and caramelised nuts. My siblings and I always picked the same thing. My brother, Kamil, and I always had a double scoop of chocolate chip and my sister, Abeera, used to have a single scoop of coffee ice cream. I remember begging the waiters to cover every inch of the ice cream with whipped cream and nuts. Although Kamil and I would devour the cones whole, Abeera used to eat like a bird and her cone would inevitably end up in a puddle on the floor.

I remember frequenting Polka Parlour after spending as long as possible in Fun Land, which was in the basement of the same building. My brother and I used to let out our aggression towards each other through the bumper cars. I remember the motorised horse race, which was actually one of the main attractions. I don’t think I can ever forget the shooting area where you aimed at targets and they squirted water at you if you hit them. I remember there was a (not real) man with a gun and a hat. When he was shot at, he got up, picked up his gun and shot back, but with water. I remember being very scared the first time I saw the game. A few years later they also installed a bouncing castle and then that became our new favourite game.

I remember Kamil buying one rupee lottery tickets from Fun Land, convinced he was going to win. He didn’t…

I remember the Main Boulevard that Polka Parlour was on. It wasn’t the palm tree infested, wide open road it is today. It was a small, but long street. I wish I could picture it in my mind but I keep drawing a blank.

And for some odd reason I remember the anticipation of going to Fun Land and Polka Parlour. I remember the excitement we felt before going. When you grow up in a town where there isn’t much to do (other than eat), you learn to cherish the small things like an evening of bumper cars and ice creams.

I remember the smell of Fun Land- a damp basement smell, almost musty. And I remember the inside of Polka Parlour- everything was very shiny and inviting.

I remember begging my mother to take us to Fun Land and Polka Parlour. Eventually she became so sick of it that she just gave us money and sent us off with a servant.

Polka Parlour and Fun Land then shut down to make way for large offices and ugly buildings that look like someone threw up on them. Today there is no Polka Parlour and no Fun Land. Today, instead of Polka Parlour we have Marble Stones, Hot Spot and Gelato Affair but no one will ever compare. Good bye Polka Parlour and Fun Land. I never did say good bye before. Adieu and thank you for the memories.

In memory

There are few people who have left me with memories that I will always recall fondly. Deep within these are hidden blessings and valuable life lessons delivered with exquisite humour. For these I thank you now. Although I shall never be able to tell you this in person, I need to put this down in writing for myself.

Memory, 7 years old, Lahore.

I’m fascinated with a large golden key in our drawing room. It lies amongst all the usual decorations but it strikes out because of its size. Abbu and Ajji Chachu are sitting on the sofas chatting and I am constantly interrupting them because I want to know what the key is for. In my seven year old universe all keys have locks to go with them. It’s a law of nature. Yet I can’t figure out what this particular key unlocks.
Abbu and Ajji Chachu look at me solemnly and I know that they know. I know that if I pester enough I will get it out of them.
And I do.
“This key,” I am told by Ajji Chachu, “is for your mother.”
“I use it on her every morning,” Abbu reveals to me, “without it she won’t start.”
I believe them and guard the key. I can’t imagine a world where my mother won’t start. I become almost paranoid about the key, checking to see if it’s in its place numerous times a day.
I was convinced my mother had a secret lock in her back which was needed to start her.
Of course, months later, when I finally reveal to her that I know the secret of the key, she laughs at me.
I have been fooled.

Memory, 8 years old, Kuala Lumpur.

Ajji Chachu’s new name for me is kukar phaar. I can’t stop eating chicken. I practically live on KFC, refusing to eat anything else that is offered to me.
Abbu and Ajji Chachu are in one of their moods. They’re my real life Laurel and Hardy. And I am usually the best victim because of my gullibility.
I wonder aloud how people grow. I can’t figure out why I’m always being cajoled into eating horrible green things, and why I am made to drink milk, which I hate even more than salad. How can they make me grow?
“You see child, you’re not normal,” Ajji Chachu tells me with a straight face.
I am informed by Laurel and Hardy that I require extra help to grow. Every night as I sleep they take me outside and hang me on the washing line. And then stretch me. That is the reason for my growth. If it wasn’t for them, I would never have grown. I would have remained baby sized.
I am thoroughly bewildered and remain convinced that they are right. That they are the reason why I grow at all. Later when I tell my mother what I have found out she laughs at me again. I fell for it again.

Memory, 17 years old, Lahore.

I have just finished my O’ levels and am on my way to UWC in Wales. I’m terribly excited. Never in a million years did I think I would end up with a scholarship to college. Abbu and Ajji Chachu are in sitting in the drawing room and I am informed that my presence is required.
When I walk in both Abbu and Ajji Chachu look solemn. I am asked to take a seat. I am confused at their behaviour and the formal atmosphere that permeates the place.
“Nabiha Meher,” (pronounced Nabiya Mer in true Punjabi fashion) says Ajji Chachu, “we’re getting you married. You’re not going to Wales.”
My father agrees with him and I stare at them in shock wondering what came over the only two Pakistani men who I know that support feminism. I’m on the verge of tears. I know they’re joking but they look so serious. I ask them to stop messing with me but Ajji Chachu calmly tells me that it’s not a joke. He continues to tell me over and over again that I have to get married and that they’ve already consented on my behalf. The wedding is to take place in December.
I really lose it now. I’m screaming. But Ajji Chachu calmly persists. I have to get married.
I am convinced they’ve lost their minds. I am about to run crying to my mother when they crack and start laughing hysterically.
Again.

Memory, 20 years old, Lahore.

Ajji Chachu comes over for dinner the night before I leave for Islamabad for two days.
“Why don’t you go in one of my trucks. You can ride with the rest of the animals!” he kindly offers.
You see, Ajji Chachu is doing something brilliant. He’s left his job at ICI and is now working with a Chinese company. They’re reusing the old silk route for trade. I am fascinated. I am in awe of my uncle for taking such a risk and for using a historically important trade line.
Months later Ammi calls me up in Toronto and tells me Ajji Chachu has been promoted to head of his company. I am excited but sad because he told me he would be moving to Beijing.
I express myself to mother who pisses herself laughing on the phone.
“CHINA,” she screams, “why on earth do you think he’s moving to China?”
“Because of the new Chinese company…”
“What new Chinese company?”
“The one he left his ICI job for.”
“Nabiha,” my mother is saying slowly as if talking to an idiot, “Ajji works for ICI.”
I insist that he doesn’t. I inform her he told me about the silk route etc.
She pauses to let it sink in before saying, “he never left ICI. He was just pulling your leg as usual.”
I am twenty years old and yet I believe anything Ajji Chachu says to me because he says it with a straight face.

It’s hard to believe that he’s gone. I know I won’t realise it fully until I go back to Pakistan and notice a large gaping hole in my universe. Ajji Chachu knew me from the minute I took my first breath. He was one of the first people to welcome me into this world in his large open arms. A silent promise to love and protect me was made. His love as the most fun man in the whole big world increased with each passing year. With the doll bigger than me given to me on my first birthday. With bear hugs and words of encouragement when I was unsure of myself. With support and kindness that reassured me of humanity, and lead me to believe that in myself and those around me. He put up with my temper tantrums, usually encouraging them so I let them all out. And he pulled my leg over and over again to cheer me up and make us all have a good laugh.

Now I see emptiness and all I am left with is a lifetime of memories to help me in my journey. Now I see darkness at the end of the tunnel instead of the light that emulated from Ajji Chachu. Now I wonder why. Now I question God again. Now I lose faith. Now I need him more than ever.

But he is gone.

I often lay awake at night and wonder about death. I’m grieving in a foreign land, like I have done before. Yet, never before have I felt a loss so deep, a loss so profound that it sucks life out of me as I howl with confusion over his death. Why! I remember screaming to my empty apartment when my mother’s calm voice declared “Ajji Chachu has died.” Why! I screamed over and over again while staring at the ceiling as if imploring God. How could you take him? I never had the chance to say goodbye. I never had the chance to tell you I love you. I never had the chance to tell you how much you mean to me, and how much I need someone like you around for the sake of my sanity.

Ajji Chachu is in China with a golden key holding a piece of KFC while interviewing my future husband.

I want him to knock on my door and tell me it was all a bad joke. I want to wake up from this nightmare and find him sitting next to me to comfort me.

I hold a purple amethyst bracelet made of gold. It’s the one Ajji Chachu and Lubna Khala sent me when I graduated from college in Wales. All of a sudden it has more power, more meaning, and more memory. All of a sudden it’s the only thing I have that reminds me of him materially. All of a sudden all I can think of is him.

Grieving in a foreign land that doesn’t acknowledge death and loss. Grieving in Toronto on Sentinel and Finch hoping that writing will ease my pain. Grieving away from everyone else. Crying alone desperately wanting a hug. Crying while hugging a stuffed cat.

I’m pickling my memories in foreign land. I’m placing them in a jar in my head, allowing them to change and gain more flavour with time.

Never will the death of any biological uncle affect me as much. Obligation and duty to family never touched my soul as much as Ajji Chachu’s love did. No “real” uncle ever believed in me. No real uncle ever took me seriously. No real uncles cares as much as Ajji Chachu did and I believe still does.

I can imagine the pain everyone else who knew him feels. He touched everyone just by his presence. Those of us who knew him love him unconditionally and we always will. From now until I see you again I know I will miss you and nothing will ever replace the hole in my heart. If I die tomorrow I hope you, Dada and Dado are there to welcome me. I hope you’re all stretching out your arms and leading me through the next life. You were all there when I was born. I know you will all be there when I die.

From now on… everything is in memory… Azhar Malik 1951-2003. On 11th June the world truly lost a great man.

I honour you and your life. I hope I can make you proud.

Love,
Nabiha Meher