sparklingway
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I came across this wonderful blog yesterday. It's a blog by a young Indian couple, Lamat and Rezaul Hasan who are working as journalists in Islamabad. It's not a political blog or dedicated to social commentary, it's just little pieces of their everyday lives but makes a really good read. From stories of their "bhai" intelligence guys following them everyday from markets to offices to nice little stories of cultural assimilation.
Here's a link to the blog :- The life and times of two Indians in Pakistan
Please avoid commenting on their biases toward us or any prejudices that they might have sprung up in their commentary.
Two sample posts:-
Like most Indians in Pakistan, I guess we have a love-hate relationship with our omnipresent shadows, who are now so much a part of our routine that we take them for granted. As my wife and I walked into a hotel’s parking lot for the Republic Day bash hosted by the Indian High Commission this year, a smiling man greeted me with a cheerful “As-salam-alaikum, kaise hain sahab?”
My wife couldn’t place him and asked who he was, since he obviously knew us. She wasn’t very pleased when I told her he was one of the “senior” shadows who usually oversaw the guys that stayed parked outside our gate, morning, noon and night irrespective of whether it was summer or winter.
Some of the James Bonds are more tolerable than others. Tariq was one who quite endeared himself to us. (I use his name as I am sure that’s not what his mother calls him.) He came up to me the first day he was posted at our home in Islamabad and greeted me.
“Sir, Tariq naam hai mera aur aaj se aap ke ghar par meri duty hai,” he said with a hint of a smile. I was a little taken aback as we were new in town then and most of our shadows kept a respectable distance. I returned his greetings and mumbled something about him letting me know if there was anything I could do to help him.
Well, Tariq certainly took me up on my offer. One day I got out of my home without Tariq realising that I was gone. When I returned several hours later, a sheepish Tariq came up to me and asked: “Where did you go, sir?” When I told him where I had been, pat came the reply: “Aur kahin to nahin gaye the?”
When two bulbs blew out in our home on a bitterly cold winter night, I decided to go to a nearby market and get replacements. I love walking, and as I made my way through the foggy night, a red motorcycle stopped next to me. It was Tariq. “Sir, where are you going?”
Feeling bad for the man, I told him I was only going to the market to get some bulbs. “Aur kahin to nahin jaa rahe hain? Koi party-sharty?” he asked. I assured him I had no such plans. “Achcha, thik hai sir. To phir mein jaa raha hoon,” came the reply.
It wasn’t exactly a one-way street with Tariq. My wife has a habit of wandering off while we are out together, and on one such occasion, she disappeared into a row of shops in a market. As I scanned the shops one by one, I realised someone was standing behind me. Tariq again. “Madam is in that shop,” he said, before slinking away.
Tariq isn’t the only shadow who endeared himself to the Indians. An Indian diplomat’s son once came home from school with an unusual assignment – his teacher wanted him to take photographs of himself with various objects and persons, including a policeman and a donkey. The diplomat was flummoxed as he had not seen a donkey anywhere near his home in Islamabad.
The diplomat made inquiries with his shadow, who offered to lead him to a place where there was a donkey. So, for a change, the diplomat’s car followed the shadow’s motorcycle, which led the way to a ‘katchi abadi’ – the Pakistani name for a shanty town.
The shadow assured the diplomat there was a donkey within the shanty town. But a new problem arose here – the diplomat’s son refused to wade through the refuse-strewn lanes of the katchi abadi. No problem, said the shadow, he would get the donkey out.
Soon, the shadow emerged from the shanty town, leading a donkey, and one very happy diplomat and his son soon went home with a photograph of the donkey and the kid!
Perhaps more surprising was the case of a defence attaché, who was greeted one day by one of his former shadows with a warm handshake and a greeting. The attaché asked the shadow why he was so happy. The reply truly stunned him – “Sir, I did such a great job of watching your home that I have been promoted and posted to the High Commission in London!”
“Paidaishi Musalmaan hain, ya shaadi kar ke ho gayeen?” he asked me at a dinner meant to welcome us to Pakistan. Without any trace of embarrassment, he continued, “I asked because aap ke yahan to sab chalta hai na… (referring to mixed marriages in India).”
“By birth,” I replied, staring at his drink. He changed tack. “In Islamabad we use gas heaters,” he said, pointing towards a gas-fired water heater outside our home.
Our Muslimness has been subjected to post-mortem scores of times since. Most Pakistanis usually have that shock-and-awe look when it dawns on them that we are Muslims: “Par aap to India se hain na?” or “Aap lagti to nahin hain.”
Some others give us a warm hug, “Arrey aap to hamarey Musalmaan bhai hain” (that one truly makes my husband cringe); and many break into the predictable rant: “Musalmaanon ki haalat India main achchi nahin hai, hamein unki bahut fikar hai”, or worse, “Aap pehle se Musalmaan they, ya yahan aakar huye?”
If that wasn’t enough, the ‘bhais’ from the intelligence agencies often scale us on our religiosity – trying to find out if we read the namaz, keep fasts during Ramzan and drink (that’s over and above their all-important dossiers on our favourite veggies and pulses compiled by following us on each and every visit to the grocers).
In India, religion never propelled our associations, neither did anyone make us so aware of our Muslimness. Of course, I got told plenty of times that I don’t look Muslim, mostly thanks to my gene pool (my rather unusual name is also confusing), but it never sounded like an accusation.
I am unusually high on patience and usually smile my way through such chatter, telling most people that there are more Muslims on the other side of Wagah. But my husband doesn’t.
Once I heard him tell the anchor on a TV show: “India has had three Muslim Presidents, one of the richest men of India is a Muslim, and of the two Indian journalists posted in Pakistan, one of them (my husband) is a Muslim, so we really are doing fine.” I found his argument quite convincing.
I had thought I had seen it all till I was referred to Islamabad’s biggest privately run hospital for suspected appendicitis some time last year. After the doctor saw “Indian” on my form, she announced, “Ajmal Kasab Pakistani ho hi nahin sakta…”
Then she saw my Muslim surname and said, “Muslim?” I said, “Yes.” “We worry about the Muslims in India. Look at the Muslims in Gujarat…” she said, breaking into a long monologue, oblivious to the fact that I was wriggling with pain and hoping she would get on with her examination.
Here's a link to the blog :- The life and times of two Indians in Pakistan
Please avoid commenting on their biases toward us or any prejudices that they might have sprung up in their commentary.
Two sample posts:-
James Bond – Part II
Since my wife’s post on “Our James Bond” went down so well with people who follow this blog, I thought it was time for a Part II on the sleuths who are so much a part of our daily lives in Pakistan.Like most Indians in Pakistan, I guess we have a love-hate relationship with our omnipresent shadows, who are now so much a part of our routine that we take them for granted. As my wife and I walked into a hotel’s parking lot for the Republic Day bash hosted by the Indian High Commission this year, a smiling man greeted me with a cheerful “As-salam-alaikum, kaise hain sahab?”
My wife couldn’t place him and asked who he was, since he obviously knew us. She wasn’t very pleased when I told her he was one of the “senior” shadows who usually oversaw the guys that stayed parked outside our gate, morning, noon and night irrespective of whether it was summer or winter.
Some of the James Bonds are more tolerable than others. Tariq was one who quite endeared himself to us. (I use his name as I am sure that’s not what his mother calls him.) He came up to me the first day he was posted at our home in Islamabad and greeted me.
“Sir, Tariq naam hai mera aur aaj se aap ke ghar par meri duty hai,” he said with a hint of a smile. I was a little taken aback as we were new in town then and most of our shadows kept a respectable distance. I returned his greetings and mumbled something about him letting me know if there was anything I could do to help him.
Well, Tariq certainly took me up on my offer. One day I got out of my home without Tariq realising that I was gone. When I returned several hours later, a sheepish Tariq came up to me and asked: “Where did you go, sir?” When I told him where I had been, pat came the reply: “Aur kahin to nahin gaye the?”
When two bulbs blew out in our home on a bitterly cold winter night, I decided to go to a nearby market and get replacements. I love walking, and as I made my way through the foggy night, a red motorcycle stopped next to me. It was Tariq. “Sir, where are you going?”
Feeling bad for the man, I told him I was only going to the market to get some bulbs. “Aur kahin to nahin jaa rahe hain? Koi party-sharty?” he asked. I assured him I had no such plans. “Achcha, thik hai sir. To phir mein jaa raha hoon,” came the reply.
It wasn’t exactly a one-way street with Tariq. My wife has a habit of wandering off while we are out together, and on one such occasion, she disappeared into a row of shops in a market. As I scanned the shops one by one, I realised someone was standing behind me. Tariq again. “Madam is in that shop,” he said, before slinking away.
Tariq isn’t the only shadow who endeared himself to the Indians. An Indian diplomat’s son once came home from school with an unusual assignment – his teacher wanted him to take photographs of himself with various objects and persons, including a policeman and a donkey. The diplomat was flummoxed as he had not seen a donkey anywhere near his home in Islamabad.
The diplomat made inquiries with his shadow, who offered to lead him to a place where there was a donkey. So, for a change, the diplomat’s car followed the shadow’s motorcycle, which led the way to a ‘katchi abadi’ – the Pakistani name for a shanty town.
The shadow assured the diplomat there was a donkey within the shanty town. But a new problem arose here – the diplomat’s son refused to wade through the refuse-strewn lanes of the katchi abadi. No problem, said the shadow, he would get the donkey out.
Soon, the shadow emerged from the shanty town, leading a donkey, and one very happy diplomat and his son soon went home with a photograph of the donkey and the kid!
Perhaps more surprising was the case of a defence attaché, who was greeted one day by one of his former shadows with a warm handshake and a greeting. The attaché asked the shadow why he was so happy. The reply truly stunned him – “Sir, I did such a great job of watching your home that I have been promoted and posted to the High Commission in London!”
Kya aap Musalmaan hain?
On our very first day in Islamabad, a Pakistani official, who had just returned after a stint in New Delhi, was surprised to hear that I am Muslim.“Paidaishi Musalmaan hain, ya shaadi kar ke ho gayeen?” he asked me at a dinner meant to welcome us to Pakistan. Without any trace of embarrassment, he continued, “I asked because aap ke yahan to sab chalta hai na… (referring to mixed marriages in India).”
“By birth,” I replied, staring at his drink. He changed tack. “In Islamabad we use gas heaters,” he said, pointing towards a gas-fired water heater outside our home.
Our Muslimness has been subjected to post-mortem scores of times since. Most Pakistanis usually have that shock-and-awe look when it dawns on them that we are Muslims: “Par aap to India se hain na?” or “Aap lagti to nahin hain.”
Some others give us a warm hug, “Arrey aap to hamarey Musalmaan bhai hain” (that one truly makes my husband cringe); and many break into the predictable rant: “Musalmaanon ki haalat India main achchi nahin hai, hamein unki bahut fikar hai”, or worse, “Aap pehle se Musalmaan they, ya yahan aakar huye?”
If that wasn’t enough, the ‘bhais’ from the intelligence agencies often scale us on our religiosity – trying to find out if we read the namaz, keep fasts during Ramzan and drink (that’s over and above their all-important dossiers on our favourite veggies and pulses compiled by following us on each and every visit to the grocers).
In India, religion never propelled our associations, neither did anyone make us so aware of our Muslimness. Of course, I got told plenty of times that I don’t look Muslim, mostly thanks to my gene pool (my rather unusual name is also confusing), but it never sounded like an accusation.
I am unusually high on patience and usually smile my way through such chatter, telling most people that there are more Muslims on the other side of Wagah. But my husband doesn’t.
Once I heard him tell the anchor on a TV show: “India has had three Muslim Presidents, one of the richest men of India is a Muslim, and of the two Indian journalists posted in Pakistan, one of them (my husband) is a Muslim, so we really are doing fine.” I found his argument quite convincing.
I had thought I had seen it all till I was referred to Islamabad’s biggest privately run hospital for suspected appendicitis some time last year. After the doctor saw “Indian” on my form, she announced, “Ajmal Kasab Pakistani ho hi nahin sakta…”
Then she saw my Muslim surname and said, “Muslim?” I said, “Yes.” “We worry about the Muslims in India. Look at the Muslims in Gujarat…” she said, breaking into a long monologue, oblivious to the fact that I was wriggling with pain and hoping she would get on with her examination.
