The Prestige

Pakistan Today, Monday, 19 Dec 2011

It is the year 2008. It has been over 300 days since the passing of the great Benazir Bhutto. In Garhi Khuda Buksh, the final resting place of the Bhuttos, a mass of humanity is gathered. As far as the eye can see are mourners; men, women, children, young, old, short, fat, etc etc ad nauseum ad infinitum. In short, there’s a whole lot of people there. To one side, reporters are busy combing back their hair, preparing for the next in a series of live TV appearances. Farther down, satellite engineers manning their DSNG vans are wiping the sweat off their brows as they struggle to find that ever-elusive sweet spot where both audio and video signals are clear as daylight. In their ears, annoying producers seated in air-conditioned control rooms somewhere in the heart of Karachi or Lahore are yelling incoherently. Cameramen and photojournalists are at the head of the herd, jostling for position and lifting their tripod mounted appendages over their heads in the hopes of getting a clear shot of the dignitaries shuttling in and out of the mausoleum. It is a momentous occasion, as the grieving widower, Asif Ali Zardari, is expected to address the nation. He and BB’s progeny are currently inside the elegant triple-domed structure, while outside, a nation waits with baited breath.

In the midst of this expectant exuberation, a lone journalist stands tall. He has managed to find himself a platform where, if he tilts his head just the right amount of degrees to the right, he will be able to catch a glimpse of the man himself when he comes on stage to make his speech. As he is checking his camera to make sure he has enough memory, a shiver of excitement runs through the crowd: he is here! Hurrying through his pre-flight checks, the journo in question turns to look at the stage and sees his subject, Asif Ali Zardari, standing at the podium. He is about to begin, and a hush descends upon the multitudes that have gathered. Zardari steps up to the microphone and, drawing a deep breath, lets out the rallying cry “Jeay Bhutto!”

The sea of humanity echoes the cry in unison, and for some strange reason, our hero feels the need to reach around to his back pocket and pull out his wallet, ostensibly to throw 5-rupee notes in the great man’s general direction – as a sign of reverence, of course. As he pats his back pocket, a chill runs through his spine. Doing a double take, he looks back at the podium, where the ruler of his country still stands. On his face, the signature grin, from ear to ear and self-assured as ever. Dejected, he turns to the journalist standing next to him and exclaims exasperatedly, “Ten percent my ***! The first time I see Zardari in the flesh and my wallet disappears. How apt!”

The 470-word anecdote above should serve as an effective setup to the joke I’m about to tell you: the man is no ordinary man; he’s a magician with a panache for making things disappear!

Seriously though, is there nothing that can faze El Jefe? Memogate, Veenagate, MQM-at-the-gate-threatening-to-leave, Zulfi-hand-on-heart-gate, Osama-gate, Saleem Shahzad-gate, Dr Rehman Malik-gate, Shah Mehmood Qureshi-gate; all of them combined have had zero effect on the president’s health. Zero, that is, if you do not count psychotic episodes. In fact, the president’s current troubles remind me of the fate of another egotistical megalomaniac (no, not Imran Khan), Tony Montana. The cocaine-snorting strongman of Hollywood, who felt himself invincible with each passing day and each successive challenge, was brought down by his own deranged sense of right and wrong.

In Scarface, Montana paid the price for having morals; he refused to kill women and children after butchering many an innocent. In the same vein, Zardari will have to pay several prices for his good deeds: for trusting his friends; for grooming his son to take over the reins of government in his absence; for standing up (or sitting down, doesn’t matter really) to the army that has a country; for finalising an NFC award that benefits other provinces, not just Punjab; for orchestrating an ordinance that will allow the political leadership of the country to launder their dirty undies; and, most of all, for trying to keep a democratically (sic!) elected government to complete its mandatory five years in office.

The magician’s greatest moment is known as ‘The Prestige’. It is that point in the act when, after having wowed the audience beyond belief, he/she proceeds to knock their socks off and reaffirm their faith in the supernatural. For El Jefe, that moment is now. If after braving all of this and still managing to make things disappear; such as the entire Clifton Seafront neighbourhood in front of Bilawal House (now a registered mansion), Zardari is meant to go out without a bang, then there is no justice in the world. For better or for worse, he was the conjurer that was chosen to mystify the masses that we call satra crore awaam. If he can be allowed his prestige, then maybe, just maybe, I’ll think about reaffirming my faith in the supernatural. If he is kicked out unceremoniously after all, I will be forced to continue praying at the Khaki altar.

Closet corruption

Pakistan Today, Monday, 1 Nov 2010

It has become commonplace to hate on the government of Pakistan. But dont think for one moment that this means the individuals running said government are the ones being blamed, Oh No Siree! They are, in fact, paragons of excellence, beacons of hope and saviours of the downtrodden. Its just that they're quite busy with matters of the state to fully understand the problems of their subjects, that's all.
In any self-respecting country that is not run by monkeys or mussels, it would be easy to place blame for any departmental fudge-up and ministerial faux pas, since everyone knows who was responsible. But in Pakistan, the doctrine of collective (or even individual) ministerial responsibility is overshadowed by the more effective whodunnit, idunno doctrine. This is because our language, Urdu that is, has two separate words for the government and the governors, i.e. hukoomat and hukamraan. So, while to us the hukoomat is a flagging, corrupt, flea-ridden, moth-infested, good-for-nothing burden on the taxpayer, the people who govern us are squeaky clean, courtesy the new Vim with active lemon enzymes. This, mind you, is despite all the hatemongering by those meddling kids (also known as journalists) who try and try and try to remind the 17-or-so-crore rabbits of our country every 9PM that all is not well in our fiefdom. But the only voice that seems to reassure the masses is the periodic Jaagtay rehna, saa-day te na rehna (accompanied by a traditional phata hua dhol) emanating from parliament every once in a while.
History has taught us not to trust polls. And Transparency International has taught us that perceived corruption is far deadlier than actual corruption. Please try to keep up as I lay out their logic in three simple steps.
Firstly, if corruption is seen to be done, it is far less detrimental to the system. This is because corruption, much like other idiotic notions such as chivalry, honesty and integrity, is an abstract thing. It is very difficult to put your finger on a particular instance of corruption. Admit it, if you were ever so close to an act of corruption that you could put your finger on it, chances are you'd opt to put your whole hand in and take a piece of the pie itself. Then, putting just your finger on an instance of corruption would clash directly with your own personal interests. Therefore, if corruption is seen to be done, its no big deal.
Secondly, in order to eliminate corruption, you must first eliminate the system that fosters it. This is because corruption, like the Ebola virus or any garden-variety parasite, becomes an integral part of the system it invades. When I say invades, I mean is invited in for a cup of tea. And don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. Tell me you've never slipped a Rs 1,000 bill to a chaprasi just to get five minutes with his boss. Tell me you wouldn't slip the boss the keys to a brand new Civic if he cleared your shipment of Columbian Mocha (known to the native Columbian as Cocaine ala mode). Say it isn't so, so that I may be less bitter and can sleep better.
Thirdly, and now I'm talking to you yes, you in a Gucci suit with the Armani cufflinks and the Silver Jag. You, who were until yesterday a mere controller in the Customs Department. But today, every mother from here to Loralai wants her daughter to marry a man like you. A man with money, style, panache, and above all, a natural knack for landing commissions on every tender he grants. So the third point is that today, corruption cannot be done away with because it has become a status symbol, nay, a necessity. If you vehemently disagree, try explaining to your little boy why daddy (who is a grade-20 officer in the Forestry Department) can't buy him the new Knight Rider he wants because he turned down the lucrative logging contract that would've given him a lump sum payout bigger than his ego. Or better yet, try explaining to your pretty little munchkin why mommy doesn't take her to the mall every other day like the other mommies take their corrupt little offspring. Do you detect malice in my tone? Because I do.
Seriously though, I don't blame our leaders for being corrupt. I mean, they're also people. Regular folk, who have to eat, dress up and go out. It's not like Dolce and Gabana are opening up a factory outlet in Lahore any time soon. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. Otherwise, his old age will be filled with regrets and chances are hell die of a heart attack (and disappointment) when he hears the fruit of his loins say to his friends, Mera baap baqi logoon kee terhan paisay kyon nahin kha sakta tha? Kya uss ney meray future kay baray mein kabhi nahin socha?

The myth of public service

Pakistan Today, Monday, 12 Dec 2011

I have often been accused of being a Punjabi supremacist. This is not surprising, given that I have lived most of my life in Lahore, a city that is as removed from the rest of Punjab as Beirut is from the rest of Lebanon. After having been brainwashed and spin-dried in Lahore for the bulk of my meaningless existence, I tried to eke out a living in the grand city of Karachi. This was my second biggest mistake, because Karachi is so far removed from the rest of Pakistan, let alone Sindh, that any generalisations made on the basis of Karachi experiences hold up just as long as a kulfi does in the blazing Jacobabad sun.

I have come to realise the hard way that Urban Pakistan is actually a myth; a bubble conjured up by ‘PhD-in-Anthropology’ candidates, the MQM and members of the Free and Fair Election Network (FAFEN). This imaginary construct was erected to facilitate complex mathematical calculations, much like the existence of that other imaginary construct, the Equator, facilitates companies that sell GPS equipment. However, Urban Pakistan is a generalisation that is too wide to be applicable to any one urban centre, and is therefore as fallacious as saying “Interior Punjab”. This does not mean, however, that people do not employ such fallacies as common parlance.

One of the generalisations that is currently doing the rounds is that only Punjabis apply for, appear in and consequently monopolise the CSS exams. This is often cited by armchair intellectuals as the reason for the disdain that most people from Sindh, KPK and Balochistan harbour for the bara sooba. Their accusation is that Punjabis hog all the good seats in departments such as DMG, Foreign Service and Customs and leave all the menial jobs, such as Railways and the Postal Service, to their lesser brethren.

As you can well imagine, being a supremacist, such idiotic assertions make my blood boil. Such conversations usually go like this:

Me: So why won’t you apply for the CSS exams?

They: Because the Punjabis will get all the seats anyway.

Me: But there is a quota system. If you make the grade, they HAVE to give you a seat.

They: No, there is too much favouritism, we won’t even pass the exam.

Me: Really? Have you tried?

They: No, but my great-great-grandfather did and he didn’t make it. The British deemed him too rural to serve them.

Me: Arghhh!

Obviously, such conversations are the reason why I do not have hair on my head anymore. But there is a deeper, more tragic method to all of this madness. You see, due to the presence of a vibrant private sector in the city, people from Karachi usually tend to prefer to work in the corporate environment. This may not be a universal norm, but it is prevalent enough for me to be making this assertion. The Punjabis, on the other hand, can do only three things: grow stuff; package stuff and eat stuff. Equipped with such a diverse skill set, the only professions that can accommodate such nawabs are agriculture and industry.

Fortunately, we have a lot of that. Unfortunately, both sectors aren’t as manpower intensive as they used to be, therefore, middle-class Punjabis (since the only people who can be associated with either agriculture or industry in today’s world are the ultra-rich or the ultra-poor) are left with no other option than to apply for competitive examinations. And while they may not test very well, these fat cats are exceptionally good at finding out who will be grading their papers and then paying off that person in order to secure a good grade. These are people who have usually not worked a day in their lives and would require the services of a naib qasid or forty-two to change one lightbulb. Hence, we are left with a bureaucracy made up of cheats and crooks.

But hold on, you might say, aren’t all bureaucracies like that? Doesn’t every form of government service, no matter where in the world it may operate, seek to perpetuate the conventions and principles of duty, public service, honour (or a lack thereof) and frequent pay-raises for civil servants? I mean, has no one seen ‘Yes Minister’?

But people don’t seem to care. Instead, they stick to the preconceived notions that have been instilled in their minds for generations, all thanks to the British ‘Divide and Conquer’ strategy. That we are still as divided as the day the Brits left us is a tragedy that would have even AC Bradley in tears. And yet, for some reason, we choose to perpetuate this myth. 

Se(x)ationalism

Pakistan Today, Monday, 5 Dec 2011

Do you think Veena Malik googles herself? If she were to use Google in the way it is commonly used, she would not be wrong to assume that people in Pakistan think of her only in two ways: as a girl they all wish they could get with; and as a human piñata just waiting to be sticked and stoned into submission. Not too surprisingly, it is very possible for both sentiments to coexist simultaneously in one human mind. Such minds are often allotted to those out in the streets, vociferously decrying Veena’s epicness and proclaiming her infidelity.

Secretly, they all want to be there at the airport when Veena Malik arrives in the country and is being led off the tarmac in the midst of a media circus. It is there that these predators want to be, just so they can discreetly cop a feel in the heaving and panting mass of humanity that will result as the wee lass tries to make her way out. But before you can say “You pigs! How dare you…” allow me to play the devil’s advocate and tell you that such misogynistic minds are the ones that will eventually save our heroine from certain death and disrepute. This is because these people, who would otherwise commit the foulest blasphemies against women’s rights and basic human values in general, have a very strong sense of fidelity. Let me explain.

After the success of “Mufti Sahab – The Remix” and “Ah-Ah-Ah-Aaashwin!” (Gesundheit), Veena’s public portfolio has been flaccid, to say the least. That is to say, she hasn’t been in the news for some time, what with Memogate and Nato attacks eating up airtime on news channels. Ratings are at an all time low, especially since Meher and Kashif decided to tie the knot. Now that she’s married, Meher Bukhari is obviously off-limits for oglers. The same goes for a variety of other good-looking TV show hosts, such as Sana Bucha, Najam Sethi and the canned laughter girl from Hasb-e-Haal. There has also been a downturn in the number of times Sheila ki Jawani and Munni Badnaam are plugged into news bulletins nowadays. This is why, in recent weeks, average TV viewership in the country has fallen by nearly 17 percent.

All of this is good for journalism, you might say. Now that news channels have been weaned off the Jhankaar Studio-style of reporting, you might be tempted to think that reporters and editors everywhere would’ve heaved a sigh of relief. Now, you may think, there will be space for some actual news stories and hard-hitting investigative journalism looking into more seminal concerns, such as the correlation between our forex reserves and trade with India. I take great pride in telling you that if you agreed with all of the above, you would be dead wrong in your analysis.

When was the last time that you watched a whole TV news broadcast? Not too recently, eh? Why then, pray tell, should news broadcasts be tailored to what you want to watch? The whole point of the mass medium is to give the people what they want to watch, innit? By that logic, TV news should be catering to the aforementioned misogynists who want to declare Ms Malik a scarlet woman (look up this reference) in the daytime and fantasize about making her their scarlet woman at nighttime. Hence, Jhankaar Studio-journalism is born and Ms Malik gets to make a living (or killing, as the case may be).

Before you think this diatribe insensitive, let me remind you that TV is all about target audiences. Veena’s target audience, i.e., the people who make sure she keeps making a killing, are the same ones that are currently playing Ghairat Brigade. It is a vicious cycle, one that media barons have learned how to exploit all too well. What else would be the point of pitting her against Mufti Sahab in an epic battle of the wits, engineered in a way that she would be seen to have come out on top and Mufti Sahab be left gasping for air (pun intended)? Why else would Veena do a risque shoot and then spew forth hellfire and brimstone on local TV when it emerged that the pictures were causing an uproar back home?

That which you call vulgar may be art to Veena, cash and ratings for media moguls, ammunition for radicals and some good alone time for the aforementioned pigs who want to greet Veena at the airport upon her return. So you see, it is in no one’s interest to see Veena go anywhere. We need Veena to maintain the precarious balance in our oh-so-hypocritical society. We need Veena to show us what’s good, what’s bad and what’s worth suing for. And above all, we need Veena to make sure that the pigs don’t get up to other, more violent and explosive mischief at weird hours of the night. I say God save Veena Malik, our national security depends on it. 

Hash-bowls on the frontier?

Pakistan Today, Monday, 28 Nov 2011

Disclaimer: The purpose of this fictitious reconstruction is to call attention to the cowboyish and brazen attitude of US forces operating in the highly volatile and sensitive area that is the Pak-Afghan border. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental, although not necessarily accidental. To those who laid down their lives to protect our state’s frontiers from foreign invaders, we salute your heroism.

A group of trigger-happy gunslingers (‘Taliban insurgents’) have smoked a couple of hash bowls too many. They become rowdy and end up shooting up the local tea stall where they have been drinking qahwa and getting high. Meanwhile, US Marines, on a routine patrol nearby, hear the sounds of gunfire emanating from the tea stall. Hoping and praying that it’s another wedding ceremony and the sounds of gunfire are Pashtuns celebrating after a round of h’attan dancing, the patrolling troops radio HQ and head towards the source of the noise. “Dibs on the bridesmaids,” jokes one private. Giggles all around, until a stray round from an AK-47 pointed heavenward zings through the roof of their armoured Hummer. “Oh, it’s ON now!” exclaims the Staff Sergeant as he brandishes his night-vision goggles and focuses on the source of the commotion, a couple of clicks down the road.

By now, the heightened hearing of the fully-baked gunslingers has picked up on the Outkast song blaring from the Marines’ Hummer and they make ready for a good old fashioned Mexican standoff, Kunar-style. Tables are overturned, sharpshooters take positions on windowsills and the group’s commander takes up position on the rooftop, barking orders to his men below. As the Marines pull up outside the tea stall, Outkast still going strong, the gunfight begins.

In a span of nearly two minutes, approximately 17 clips of 7.62mm bullets are buried in the armour of the modified Hummer. Even Outkast have shut up now. Seizing the opportunity, the ‘insurgents’ high tail it out the back door and make a bee-line for the border, where they know they will be safe. They are certain of this because their dope dealer hangs out near a Pakistani FC checkpost, not too far from their current position. “Besides, these tizaanan (farts) will never follow us into the most dangerous country in the world,” the ringleader shouts over his shoulder. His brethren chuckle, and it’s whoops-a-daisy over the imaginary line into Pakistan.

Cut to the sounds of firewood crackling at a nearby FC checkpost. Outside, huddled around a small fire, sit a couple of soldiers, clutching their blankets and cursing the harsh winter. The third round of scalding-hot midnight tea, the only luxury available for miles around, is about to be served when gunshots ring out. The ever-alert guardians of the world’s most troubled (and porous) frontier are jolted out of their reverie and, grabbing their weapons, come running out of their sleeping quarters in nothing more than thermal underwear, their eyes struggling to acclimatise to the darkness beyond the dim campfire. “We’ve been flanked,” the soldier on night duty thinks to himself as his eyes frantically search the horizon for any signs of a threat. Images of his friends, family and comrades-in-arms flash before his eyes.

Quickly, he shakes off the vision and his body stiffens, alert to the sound of rustling bushes and hushed, urgent whispers. He recognises the sounds immediately and with a loud yell, opens fire into the direction of the intruders. He is immediately joined by other personnel, rubbing their eyes, locking in their magazines and trying to pinpoint their targets. The night is now alive with the sound of gunfire and bullets fly like fireflies through the night. When, after a few minutes, the volley dies down, the border guards pause to listen for the telltale signs of enemy casualties. They hear nothing. They wait another couple of minutes and pick up a mechanical humming noise, growing louder by the second. “Quick, before their reinforcements arrive!” is the cry as a series of magazines lock and load and are then fired on full auto almost simultaneously.

“Oh s***!” is the reaction from the Marines in the Hummer, who have just realised that they are now in Pakistani territory. The telecommunications officer riding shotgun yanks out his handset and starts yelling incoherently, “Delta Company in pursuit of insurgents. Taking heavy fire from hostiles four clicks inside Pak territory. Need reinforcements. Send in the goddamn cavalry!” And before you can say ‘antiaircraftgunners’, a squadron of fighter-bombers and Apache gunships is hovering overhead. One of the Marines pinned down in the Hummer takes an infrared scope and ‘paints’ the target in front of him. “Target is painted. Take ‘em out!” is the order. Seconds later, a large chunk of the mountain goes up in a huge balloon of hellfire and brimstone.

Back in HQ, radar operators celebrate the successful firebombing of another bunch of towelheads. One man though, looks very worried. In fact, he’s turning white as a sheet. With the slow gait of the bearer of bad news, he picks up a printout from the office LaserJet and slowly makes his way into the office of the base commander, who has already popped open the bubbly. The GPS technician enters the commander’s office, and as the door closes behind him, we hear a muted squeak, “Sir, we may have an international incident on our hands.”

What's in a leak?

Pakistan Today, Monday, 21 Nov 2011

Apart from unsavoury bodily functions, the term generally refers to the unwanted discharge of something from a channel otherwise thought secure. Obviously, leaks differ in magnitude based on their proximity to you. Therefore, a leaky faucet in your kitchen is bound to be far more troubling to you than, say, a Wikileak. Unless you’re name is mentioned in a Wikileak, whereby you become an overnight celebrity. Similarly, a leak in the undersea oil pipeline is not as big a deal as the discovery of a leak in the White House. This is because nobody is going to check the oil pipeline (until it is too late), but everyone checks the morning papers.
It should be obvious by now that leaks of a political nature are far more sensitive than those that are apolitical. However, both forms are job-threatening for those who drop the ball. Radiation leaks are a grey area, since they are job and life threatening as well, and their effects are far more wide-reaching than those of a standard leak. This is also why there is no real punishment for people who let such leaks slide, because poetic justice will be served anyway.
However, the current ‘Memogate’ episode is more than just your average case of bad plumbing. Here, there has been a deliberate effort to release noxious gases, ostensibly to relieve the pressure from the bowels of our highly constipated leadership. But while the world is preoccupied with finding out who did what and why, everyone seems to be missing out on the real story i.e., why now.
Let’s put things in perspective. The memo was allegedly crafted and delivered in the wake of the OBL incident. While the contents of the memo suggest that those who crafted it were apprehensive of a backlash from the military, many analysts have pointed out that at the time, the foot was on the other boot and the civilian government was actually in a better position than the army, given the scale of the embarrassment which had been inflicted upon it. Another key aspect of debate has been the choice of channels: why would Zardari (if he was the one that sanctioned the memo) employ Mansur Ijaz, when there were other, more credible channels available to both, Zardari and Haqqani.
The revelation of former National Security Adviser James Jones as the actual go-between is also significant, but so is the candour with which senior US officials are volunteering information regarding this incendiary memo. Why would a senior official like Admiral Mike Mullen go to the trouble of digging up a piece of correspondence which he (allegedly) did not treat as credible and had already said he did not remember receiving? His spokesperson took pains to clarify last week that the admiral did not act or even think of acting on the memo he had confirmed receiving. Saying this about a document that was delivered by a former member of the president’s kitchen cabinet is like saying that human rights groups such as Amnesty International are not credible sources of information on war crimes committed in, say Rwanda. You have to be pretty cracked, or pretty confident, to be saying such things. And I don’t think Admiral Mullen is a crackpot. At least I hope not.
Another major problem when dealing with such cases is the burden of proof. While Mansoor Ijaz has done his worst and supplied each and everything, from BBM conversations to emails to credit card statements and his kitchen sink, in order to help incriminate the incumbent envoy to Washington; it is still a case of “your word against mine”. BBM conversations, to the best of my knowledge, are not really kosher evidence as they can be tampered, as are email records. The lack of a proper paper trail makes substantiation of any claims very difficult on both sides. What it does is that it damns the honourable envoy in every possible way and improves his chances of returning to his tenured professorship at a Boston varsity.
This is a game of strategic interests. The players involved are some of the most skillful proponents of underhandedness that you will find anywhere. However, all is not as it seems. Those who stand to benefit from this may end up with nothing at all, while those with nothing to lose may end up losing everything. This is not just about sovereignty anymore, it’s about survival: of the state, its citizens and its institutions. If the paranoia-brigade is allowed to overtake us, we will be pushed back another couple of hundred years in terms of political development. Our systems will be crushed and adhocism shall prevail once again. Such a non-system is beneficial only for people in army boots. But people in army boots are not beneficial to any system, and that’s the awful truth.

Valued at cost price

The few friends that I have left have now all but sworn off PTI-related discussion. This is because every time we start talking about Imran Khan’s chances in the next elections, someone looses a limb. It is also advisable not to bring up the subject of Imran Khan during high pressure situations, such as paintball matches, where one stands to lose more than just an eye. Generally speaking, steer clear of any PTI-doublespeak and you should be fine.
A lot of people are writing, ranting, raving and regurgitating hackneyed witticisms about how Tehreek-e-Insaf is just another bubble and that all the coyotes signing up are the same farm hands that have milked us dry in the past. There are also accusations that the party is merely an establishment tool; that they do not have a strong policy guideline on any issue; that they are suspiciously soft on the Taliban and unnecessarily hard on the US, and so on. Then there are the cautious stoics, who advocate the asking of ‘tough questions’ from the PTI high command – tough questions that are designed to extract real answers to burning questions, not meant for rhetorical purposes but policy decisions.
A lot of people have tried to reason with these Insafians, or PTI trolls. But the consensus seems to be that there is now a clear ‘us and them’ divide in contemporary Pakistani society: Those that are ‘with’ Imran Khan and those that will be burnt at stake when the PTI hordes sweep the next elections. This narrative is disturbingly prevalent among the people I hang out with, so I might have to move to Barbados and change my middle name to ‘Johnston’ if the hordes do ascend to power. I hear Reporters Without Borders will soon be issuing an advisory and before we can say “Big Brother is a Pathan from Mianwali”, we will hear that the US is granting asylum to writers such as the right honourable Waqqas Mir because a post-jalsa Pakistan is not a safe place for any PTI-skeptic. Gone are the days when bold journalists spoke out against injustice or corruption or the establishment or irregularities within the armed forces; now anyone critical of Imran Khan is considered brave.
Such dogmatic disdain for constructive criticism would be troubling if not for the fact that this is Pakistan. Indeed, anyone who dares to speak against the rising tide of public opinion/ignorance should be prepared for reprisals. Fellow revolutionaries may remember Habib Jalib’s epilogue to his iconic reading of the epic ‘Mein ney uss sey yeh kaha’ (available with subtitles on YouTube), where he recounts a meeting with the poet Hafeez Jallundari, who was then adviser to despot-extraordinaire Ayub Khan. The British social scientist and filmmaker Adam Curtis also refers to the supplanting of one autocratic social order with another revolutionary one in his tour de force ‘The Trap: What Happened to our Dream of Freedom?’ The clear and present danger here is that the mob which will rally behind Imran’s so-called revolutionary manifesto might end up creating and perpetuating the same inequalities that they are campaigning against. It happened in the French Revolution, what’s to stop it from happening here?
Speaking of asset declaration, a neat little trick that many rich and famous people pull when trying to evade taxes or too many questions, is the valuation of immovable assets at cost price. This means that if a particularly wealthy scion wants to write off his 20-acre mansion, which daddy built him sometime during the early 70s, he will value said property at a ridiculously low Rs 1,000 per acre, or something like that. This is especially true for land that has been obtained on 99-year leases or other similar deals. So even the great Khan Mansion in the swanky (and rural) Islamabad suburb of Bani Gala can be valued at next to nothing, since it was “a gift”.
There would be nothing wrong with this, if the average Joe on the street were also able to do such things. Unfortunately, those who work hard for their money also have the disadvantage of buying things at full price. This means that even if I wanted to write off that house my dad brought in 1999 after having worked for 25 straight years, I couldn’t because my dad, not being a scion of a feudal family, did not acquire it on a 100-year lease at Rs 50 per year.
Come to think about it, this is exactly the kind of inequality Imran Khan says he will be fighting against. And I for one support him in this noble endeavour. I’ll just go now and get my papers ready, so when the mob sweeps into power, I too will have the right to value my Suzuki Cultus at Rs 20,000, because that’s how much I pay for it… every month.

Like a tiger

Pakistan Today, Monday, 31 Oct 2011

Thanks to the wonders of Search Engine Optimisation, the PTI’s cyber army (or the Insafians, as they like to call themselves), will make sure that the online version of this article is defaced, discredited and, incidentally, a hit! You see, I happen to know that nobody, and I mean nobody, reads my articles. This is due to the simple fact that I do not aim to deliver hard-hitting journalism, only mildly offensive toilet humour. This, I understand, is not everyone’s cup of tea. Therefore, it is a gratifying thought that if I put the words ‘I**** K***’ in an article, it will boost my audience by at least 400 percent. But I will have to resist that temptation.

With the US presidential elections just around the corner, jalsa fever is sweeping our country too, in a way never seen before. Last weekend was all about street power. The cycle began with a recitation from Habib Jalib, continued into an orgy of curious liberal fascist youths and uncles who wanted to relive their 70s glory days; and culminated in a solemn sit-down on the streets of Karachi. That none of these public gatherings degenerated into violence is a great victory for democracy indeed. But what is the ‘truth’, as many armchair pundits like to ask? What is really going on in the minds of Super Sharif Jr, Big Bhai and the wrathful Khan? Like many of you, I would also have to confess ignorance. But that does not mean we cannot speculate.

For a good two years now, the Super Sharifs and their cronies have been in the closet about their anti-Pee Pee Pee ambitions. From being a friendly opposition serving up lollipop full tosses to the likes of The Babar Awan Ballistic Missile, the Noon League has arrived at a point where they have made outright demands for the departure of El Jefe Zardari and his merry men. The Khadim-e-Ala himself led the Minto Park symphony orchestra in a tune that would’ve put a smile on the face of Abu Hamza bin Musharraf himself. Sharif Jr’s overtures hinted at a psychosis that manifests itself as thus: the land of the pure needs to be cleansed of the ills that afflict it; we have the cure and you are the disease. What the man fails to realise is that thanks to the countless ‘intelligent’ decisions his party has made over the past year or so, they are no longer even an all-Punjab party. This does not bode well for leaders whose delusions of grandeur surpass even their own appetites for desi food.

King Khan, on the other hand, most definitely stole the show with his Sunday brunch-cum-rally. The reason for his success is that his gatherings cater to all audiences possible. While only members of the Dead Poet’s Society could be seen at the Sharif jalsa, the PTI party was rocked by young men and women, uncles who had come to see what the young men and women got up to, enterprising food vendors and aspiring musicians who wanted to get noticed, and anyone else who was still ambivalent about whether to go cast their vote or not. Nobody (in their right minds) was there to actually see the man himself. But they definitely heard him coming. In one of the most succinct and coherent speeches he has ever given since the final of the 1992 World Cup, PTI’s spiritual leader showed the world that he was more than just a reverse swinger with a charm irresistible to women who had entered and passed puberty.

The Big Bhai convention, on the other hand, was business as usual. Bored out of their minds and eagerly awaiting the promised Rs 1000/head they were promised in exchange for wasting an otherwise unproductive Sunday, the hordes at Bhai’s khitaab were not all voluntary attendees. While the same can be said for nearly all of the other jalsamongers, it must be said that the spectre of an untimely demise did not really hover over those who refused to attend the PTI rally.

The political rally, historically, serves a dual purpose. While it is most definitely a show of strength and a flexing of muscles for both the newcomers as well as the old guard; it allows the sheep (who are the electorate) to decide which wolf they would rather sleep with. While the jury is still out on who had the best Wolf costume this Halloween, it is painfully obvious that the sheep are going to get eaten, either way.

BISE nukaat-i-agenda

Pakistan Today, Monday, 24 Oct 2011

Are you one of those people who worry about evil computers taking over the world? Do you feel that basic pen-and-paper record keeping is far more preferable to computerisation of records? Do you ever get the feeling that something bigger than yourself is going on around you and yet, you have no idea what it is? If you’ve answered yes to any of the questions above, chances are that you’re an employee of the Board of Intermediate and Secondary Education, also known as BISE.

BISE is a peculiar animal, in that it is headed by a former chemistry teacher and consists entirely of balding, middle-aged men who have nothing better to do all day than to play Dangerous Dave on their circa 1980s 386 desktop computers, which were rendered obsolete as soon as electricity was invented. Since the BISE is based in Lahore, any electrical appliance installed there would be useless to begin with, so the balding, middle-aged men don’t really care. As long as they have Dave and porn is still accessible.

However, in the Year of our Khadim 2010, these bloated, corrupt (only morally) and bald men received the shock of their lives: a computer upgrade. In his all-seeing, infinitely wise way, Super Sharif Jr had mandated that all students must register for exams online, ostensibly to wean the children away from online dirt and divert their attention towards more constructive pursuits i.e., dreaming up ways to hack into the poorly-firewalled BISE mainframe. But since this is Pakistan and not every Intermediate student is flunking out, no such creativity was witnessed.

This threw a spanner in the Khadim’s works, because he desperately needed an untraceable protégé to hack into the Pee Pee Pee’s central database of evil. Foiled again, he did the last thing one could’ve expected him to do; he ordered the computerisation of the entire Intermediate examinations procedure in such a way that all of the results could be made available online. This accomplished nothing, save costing the Punjab government oodles of rupees and sending shivers down the spines of the perverts hiding behind mountains of question papers in BISE offices across the province. This is probably how that awkward conversation went:

BISE Fat Man: “Computerise? How can they? We’ll have to sift through all of this and then (cringe) burn the lot!”

BISE Bald Man: “Worry not, my friend. I have a cunning plan that will put an end to this computerisation business.”

Amrish Puri: “Mogambo khush hua! HOOHOOHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Alright, so I may have made up the part about Amrish Puri coming back to life, but you get the idea. This whole episode was just the clerks’ way of keeping their jobs safe. Who cares about transparency, fair play and polishing the future of the country anyway? What good can possibly come from computerising the most decadent and obtuse system of grading in the world? This will only dent union membership, because a single computer operator will replace at least four not-so-highly-paid-but-still-living-comfortably-off-kickbacks clerks. This could’ve proven catastrophic for the economy of Punjab, which is already running on overdraft. Besides, everyone knows that your average student doesn’t ever pass an exam without some palm-greasing by his/her parents. So, these sad old men thought, let’s give these newfangled computers a run for their money and see how well it works out. What, they reasoned, could possibly go wrong?

Apparently, a whole lot. You see, while the clerks were busy messing up procedures, throwing away answer sheets and mismatching candidates and their marks, trouble was brewing in parliament. And as the Inter-gate protests struck the streets of Lahore, Gujranwala, Faisalabad and Multan, it was painfully obvious that the Khadim’s enemies were exploiting the situation to its fullest. The battle, as Gandalf would say, was joined. The Pee Pee Pee and its cohorts, who are always ready to pounce on Super Sharif Jr, had a field day with protests so synchronised they could qualify as an Olympic event.

In the midst of all this chaos, one lonely former chemistry teacher sat in his room and pondered the fate of his crumbling empire. He was in a contemplative mood because he was now cornered. Having had no part to play in this entire saga, he knew that he would be condemned to take the blame for his staff’s self-serving activities. According to some accounts, he knew about the misappropriation of results beforehand, but chose to remain silent. Silent, even when students from his own alma mater committed suicide. Silent, even when they came with bricks to break his windows. Silent, because he knows that heads must roll. His silence will be his undoing.

I’m not one to laugh in the face of a man condemned. But somehow, the opportunity just lends itself. Kashmiri Saheb, grow a spine, please. And come clean. That’s all we ask.

Money for nothing

Pakistan Today, Monday, 17 Oct 2011

“Free” is the most ironic word in the English language, simply because it never means exactly what it is supposed to. Trust me, anywhere you read the offending word, be it on a beverage container or emblazoned in red on the signboard above a 24-hour clinic, there are always strings attached. You may not always be able to see these strings, and you will most certainly never hear about them from the people who are ‘selling’ you this so-called free stuff, but they are always there. Anyone who has ever tried to avail a ‘Free Trial’, be it an untested drug or a pornographic website, has always regretted falling for the oldest trick in the book.

This rule holds true for both the private and public sectors, but both go about implementing it in very different ways. In private enterprise, where products must be sold at all cost, it helps to use the offending word at least once on the packaging to make the consumer feel safe (in a “I’m-not-getting-ripped-off-too-much” sort of way). There is also always an asterisk* next to said word, which leads down to a ton of fine print. This kind of extra-small font text usually contains references to horrible things such as “a slow, painful death” or “massive financial liability”, as the case may be. You may not know it, but with each purchase of something as minute as a contraceptive, you can be signing over your future children to the estate of DewyCheatemandHowe, without batting an eyelash But you can be sure that no such organisation would ever be held accountable in case of a disaster, all because of that bloody fine print.

In the public sector, where accountability reigns supreme and (dis)information is a matter of life and death, the rules are slightly different. In the interests of transparency, any information that is deemed unfit for public consumption is simply left out. That’s right, you heard me; edited out, glossed over, ignored and omitted. Their logic is eye-ball numbingly simple, what you don’t know can’t bite them in the posterior. This practice is popularly known (in Karachi, mind you) as topi-baazi.

However, do not be deluded into thinking that this is some sort of malpractice, or that these faithful public servants have anything less than the best interests of the people at heart. In fact, it is in the pursuit of public happiness that ordinary sheep like you and me are kept ‘out of the loop’. Confused, allow me to blow your mind.

You see, the government is currently in the process of running a few cash grant schemes with hopelessly unachievable goals such as poverty alleviation, restoration of livelihoods and disaster-risk mitigation. These cash grants, which are essentially free payoffs to voters in any given constituency, are administered at the federal level by an organisation that has all the answers and shall hitherto be referred to as Big Brother. Big Brother, being the all-seeing mastermind type, also has all sorts of rules, mostly drafted to exclude genuine recipients and replace them with cronies, neighbours, friends, mistresses, friends’ mistresses and so on. But even this all powerful uber-sibling can’t be everywhere at once and needs to delegate. But in doing so, he has to do business with an unruly younger brother, who resents Big Brother because he feels usurped. With me so far?

Now the alienated underling feels that once authority has been devolved down to him, he can do pretty much what he wants to under a universal license to make a killing. Said license is then used against the hapless masses, who are then excluded from the original cash-grant scheme on the basis of ridiculous criteria. Under these criteria, anyone can be excluded, whether it is a disabled person, single-parent family, juvenile or a 16-year-old one-legged single mom from Muzaffargarh. Such heartlessness would put even Dick Dastardly to shame.

But the tragedy doth not endeth here. Under pressure from the pugnacious younger one, Big Brother caves in and lets him have his way. In doing so, he allows all his other siblings to flout these papier-mâché laws like so much trash. This benefits all the members of Big Brother’s family, down to their man-slaves from Dadu. The only people who do not see a single cent are the ones whose houses were destroyed by a force of nature so terrible that it makes all of the weapons in Big Brother’s arsenal look like pea shooters.

All of this brings us back to the duplicitous nature of the word “free”. Did you know that there is a place on this earth called “The Free World”. In this mythical land of fairy tales and elves, corruption, lies, deceit and videotaped intercourse are not totally unheard of. But life still goes on, far better than it does in our burnt down neck of the woods. But if merit ruled the world, they would call it the “Fair World”. But they don’t. And there’s a good reason for that. 

No good men

Pakistan Today, Monday, 10 Oct 2011

Forming alliances is a tricky business. If you’re a politician, you have to be careful not to say anything unpleasant about anyone who has more seats in the National Assembly than your party. If you’re a law enforcement official, you cannot afford to say anything unpleasant about other officers with more stars on their shoulders than you; people with a lot of seats in the National Assembly are also untouchable. For civil servants, it is unheard of to say anything contrary to the interests of the bureaucracy, lest one incur the wrath of (cue Phantom of the Opera music score here) ‘The Permanent Secretary’. In short, everybody has a hierarchy that they must pledge loyalty to and obey strictly at the risk of unemployment.

But if there is one establishment (pun intended) in this country which does not have to worry about such insignificant details it is most definitely NOT the military. In a culture where merely-muttering-under-your-breath-somewhere-in-the-vicinity-of-the-commanding-officer’s-sleeping-quarters is grounds for trouble, discipline must be maintained at all cost. Abstract concepts such as honour, integrity and transparency are disallowed because they cause freethinking, which is kryptonite for the four-star big brothers wearing bigger army boots. Apparently, the first half of ‘A Few Good Men’ is compulsory viewing for everyone in GHQ and its branch offices.

However, if they had ever bothered watching the rest of the film, they would’ve noticed that Jack Nicholson’s character – obviously the role model for some in the top brass – had a great fall at the end and could not be put together by Humpty Dumpty, his king or all of the king’s men. Sadly, since watching said movie beyond the halfway point is still grounds for summary execution by firing squad under the Armed Services Act of 1895, no serving army man will ever be able to learn any lessons from said motion picture.

This is decidedly unfortunate, since most of our country’s problems with the US, Afghanistan and the Taliban are straight out of other, more popular Hollywood blockbusters. The current tug-of-war over the Haqqanis is a prime example. While the US and its friends are hell-bent on proving that Pakistan actually owns the Acme Ammunition Company – the notorious black-marketers who have, in the past, supplied arms to villains such as Colonel Gaddafi, Saddam Hussein and Wile E Coyote – Pakistan has tried its best to prove otherwise. Everyone, from the head of the Inter-Services Propaganda Repository to Haqqani’s spokesperson have issued denials and threatened libel suits against journalists and states who have insinuated that the ISI has any contacts with the Taliban, the Haqqanis (in DC or Tora Bora) or, indeed, Road Runner himself. But anyone who’s ever followed the news, here or abroad, knows that the word “denial” in press statement doublespeak should always be preceded “a state of…” in order for the whole context of the story to be established.

But let’s stop regurgitating semantics. The military has been for too long acting like a kid who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Their side of the story is simple. Any day now, the US is going to pack up its sprawling compounds and ship out of Afghanistan faster than you can say “Gulbuddin Hekmatyar”, and before you know it, the Taliban are going to stage yet another comeback. When this happens, and the military believes it will, they want to make sure that there is at least one actor in this ridiculous game of ‘Risk’ who is not out to skin them alive. Since the Karzai-led government has not proven itself the most reliable of allies, the Haqqanis and their franchises across the war-ravaged country are the most likely of friends.

But that’s the long term strategy. In the short term, they figure, the US is going to bomb the hummus out of Pakistan if the military keeps up its shenanigans. Their logic is simple: the enemy of our enemy is our friend. This is why it is important that we not be seen doing business with the ‘bad guys’ (the definition of which, in the US, changes as often as presidents do; we’ve all seen the photos of Haqqani dining with Reagan in the Oval Office). However, now that the jig is up, the best option we have is – and this is the clever bit – to shelve our plans of enjoying a nice honeymoon with the Haqqanis, at least until the US clears out of Afghanistan.

The military has a habit of putting things on hold. If only they could muster up enough grey matter to wrap their heads around this one: The US doesn’t like Haqqani. The US doesn’t like us having anything to do with Haqqani. The US also has us squirming by family jewels. If we, temporarily even, stop associating with the Haqqanis, we could save ourselves a lot of trouble. But the unfortunate truth is this: the Haqqanis are like a bad case of syphilis – we don’t want anyone to know we have them. But when we’re partnering up with so many actors, somebody’s bound to find out that we’re infected too. And that’s not nice honeymoon conversation.

Something's missing

Pakistan Today, Monday, 3 Oct 2011

I have a migraine. It’s not the most comfortable feeling in the world, but one can work through it, given the right mix of dopamine and other crazy painkiller-cocktails that doctors prescribe. But these cocktails only provide momentary relief and the effect is temporary. To get rid of the problem altogether would require expensive, untested and extremely risky exploratory surgery on my brain to determine whether these migraines are a result of a deep-rooted medical condition, such as Inter-Cranial Hypertension, or induced by proximity to morons.

Our country faces a similar dilemma. The masses collectively suffer from amnesia, concussions, tooth decay and even the odd sexually-transmitted disease. Senile dementia has beset most of our rulers and the bureaucrats suffer from responsibility-deficit disorder. Ministers and most public representatives are mostly dyslexic (given their twisted and sordid exploits, more of which are becoming public everyday), while those in the opposition suffer from attention-deficit disorder (meaning they can’t handle taking a principled stand on more than one front at a time). The police suffers from chronic muscle damage and is hence permanently incapacitated, permanently living off disability allowance. The military has developed what can best be described as ‘Ghajni syndrome’ (also known in the West as ‘Memento-itis’) and has trouble distinguishing friends from enemies. With such a bedridden social structure, it is a miracle that life goes on at all in our fair backwater state. But somehow, somewhere, someone is working to make sure that the show goes on.

This lethargic disdain for permanent solutions and our penchant for quick fixes is also what is eating away at the heels of our feet, like a particularly nasty case of Athlete’s Foot. Rather than trying to better ourselves by overhauling the system and all the ills associated with it, we prefer to play it safe and resist change wherever we can. In cases where it is unavoidable, we aim to make the change as smooth and uncontroversial as possible, which means essentially no change at all. Take the question of who will be the FIA chief, or the 60-rupee-Pepsi fiasco; in both cases, no one is prepared to take responsibility for the harm that has been caused to the fabric of society at large.

Around the country, we have people who believe they can get away with bribing their local FIA officials just because the same happens at the top. Similarly, shopkeepers are taking advantage of the multimillion dollar ad campaign launched by that beverage company to sell all sorts of products for Rs 60. So for the price of several thousand 1.5 litre bottles, you can get yourself a weapon, a fake license for said weapon, a brand new identity for you and your 19 children and an all access pass into the Red Zone in Islamabad. Not a bad deal at all.

So it is small wonder that whenever a new disease, be it God-sent or manmade, inflicts itself upon the Pakistani condition, the witchdoctors, hakeems and quacks immediately attribute it to a lack of faith among the populous and ask everyone to become more pious and pray for the salvation of our doomed souls. In the meantime, mosquitoes, civil servants and other vermin continue to suck the lifeblood out of life-saving measures.

Take the recent floods in Sindh. After waiting a whole month before asking for international assistance, the government is now embroiled in controversy over issues as insignificant as transparency, corruption in the aid delivery mechanism and disputes over which bureaucrat’s offspring gets to fly in a helicopter over Mirpurkhas. In any other country, such questions would’ve been settled by an inter-departmental inquiry committee, which would’ve taken its sweet time to establish that there is, in fact, no corruption whatsoever in the processes involved and that the government is doing a darn good job of keeping its head above the water. In contrast, we have no such procedures whatsoever and positions such as Director General and Executive Director are created and handed out like ration packets to people with the same last name as a sitting minister or top bureaucrat.

You may say that such practices have been the norm for as far as one can remember, and you may also go on to add that if it weren’t for nepotism, nothing would ever get done here. This is, unfortunately, quite true, but that does not mean that we should accept these evils as an inherent part of our system and continue as if all is well. There must be a sea-change, where we do away with the old and usher in the new. Say no to stiff do-nothings and replace such monuments with younger, more energetic (and upright) individuals whose prime objective in life is not to make a quick buck.

But please, for the love of God, don’t tell me that Imran Khan is the solution to all this country’s problems. That’s like saying dopamine is an effective remedy for decapitation. You may not feel the pain, but you will know that something’s missing. The light-headedness should be a dead give-away.

Caught in the current

Pakistan Today, Tuesday, 27 Sep 2011

There is probably a special place in hell for ministers, secretaries, under secretaries and other irrelevant socio-crats who are a burden on the national exchequer. Especially those with the nerve to shirk their official responsibilities during times of crisis. Let’s face it, the few government employees who remain committed to working diligently during our darkest hours bring the rest of the civil service a bad name. It is unsportsmanlike and against the basic principles of bureaucratic camaraderie to embarrass one’s fellow man by making him seem incompetent by doing more work in one working day than one’s autocratic brother may accomplish in a working week. After all, according to Sir Humphrey’s edict on civil service protocol, a humble public servant must not overly tax himself, as the fate of millions rides upon his ability to discharge his duties in the most relaxed and cool-minded manner. I mean, imagine, if in the heat of the moment, one fell stroke of an overworked undersecretary’s pen relegates the population of Badin to the recesses of the aidless pit. Imagine the repercussions, the reprisals and the horror when the noblemen (and women) of that area discover that their constituency, the same place where they get their votes from, has been left unaided! You can be sure that there will be hell to pay for such over-efficient-ness.
El Jefe Zardari too has had it with these efficient do-gooders, which is why he chose to wade into the floods himself rather than having a lowly minister do it on his behalf. That would’ve been impersonal, un-leaderlike and expected of him. But El Jefe is anything but predictable. Guile is his middle name and like his namesake from the critically acclaimed Street Fighter series, Senor Zardari is a precision-oriented fighting machine capable of defending himself on multiple fronts at multiple platforms, almost simultaneously. So when the president moved camp to his humble Clifton abode and led the faithful in prayers and meetings so long that more midnight oil had to be imported from Dubai, it was all but obvious that not much would be accomplished. But what good are accomplishments if no one is keeping minutes? In the spirit of good governance and transparency, El Presidente allowed the media unprecedented access to his personal meetings and monitored the situation from his personal chambers inside the heavily fortified Bilawal House, at great personal risk I might add (anyone who has seen Clifton after a major deluge can vouch for the perilous and foolhardy nature of the president’s actions).
But as it is wont to do, the media overstayed its welcome and had to be shooed out after asking too many impertinent and impetuous questions that cast shadows of doubt over the aid delivery mechanism and the criteria for selected areas to target, mostly because the civil servants who were supposed to have the answers were at Sindh Club, having tea and scones. And as can be expected, the headlines in the next day’s newspapers were hardly flattering. One right wing publication went as far as to insinuate that the president was “unhappy” with the government of Sindh and had, in fact, moved camp office to Karachi because he could not “trust” the dopey officials in charge to do a good job. Of course, none of this is actually true and Qaim Ali Shah (a native of Mohenjodaro circa 812 BC) has done his best to deny any such “trust deficit”. Instead, he has overplayed the importance of the recent visit to India by the venerable Makhdoom of Hala, terming it “a clear indicator of the wizened man’s loyalties”. But whatever his allegiances, it has to be said that Makhdoom Sahib has got the right idea: since it is India that is causing the floods, they can stop them too. But in doing so, they would be able to complete the Kishenganga Dam, aka Operation Starve Pakistan! Thankfully though, this nefarious design has been stamped out by the International Court of Arbitration (at least for now). At last, Pakistan’s lawyers can celebrate winning an actual case rather than just a bet on a cricket match.
You may ask what is wrong with any of these things, and the answer is, simply, nothing. There is nothing wrong with doing anything wrong. It’s just wrong to get caught. And we have ministers for that sort of thing.