Malicious Gossip Read online

  Abbas Mirza has a mischievous smile on his face. “I don’t know about an ageing Sikh,” he replies, “but I can tell you what an ageing Mussalman would like to do.” Within an hour the Pakistani Muslim Abbas Mirza and I, an Indian Sikh, have become brothers. Mirza’s favourite takia kalam for anyone he likes is “down to earth”. He finds me very earthy, I find him very likeable. This two-nation theory that the Pakistanis swear by is a lot of hogwash. And they know it.

  Karachi airport gets bigger every year. And every year too small to cope with the increasing load of traffic. This time, as the cliche goes, the confusion is worse confounded. 35,000 Pakistani hajis are returning from Mecca and a part of the airport had burnt down a few days ago. Airport officials rescue me from the milling mob of pilgrims and escort me to the air-conditioned luxury of a VIP lounge. A few minutes later I find myself in the embrace of Begum Para and her lovely sixteen-year-old daughter, Lubna. An hour later we are in the Midway Hotel.

  A Sikh continues to be a curiosity in Pakistan. A Sikh with a film star like Begum Para is a sight no one can miss. And the two with half a bottle of Scotch inside them are a grand spectacle. We make quite a display in the crowded dining room. Para is nostalgic about Bombay. She breaks down and cries. Then she hears about the eminence achieved by her niece, Meenoo, alias Rukshana Sultana Sahiba, and the success of her brother-in-law Dilip Kumar’s Bairaag and roars happily. To complete the performance, we get up to leave, she misses her step and twists her ankle: she howls like a child. I rub her damaged foot. A crowd gathers round—not solicitous but curious. They recognize Begum Para. But what is this weird-looking foreigner doing with her?

  As I am turning in, there is a knock on my door. A young Sub-Inspector of Police strides in uninvited and makes himself comfortable on the sofa. He lights a cigarette and demands: “What is your name?” I tell him. He is not impressed. “What do you do?” I tell him about the Weekly and its circulation. He is not impressed. “Who was the lady with you?” I tell him. He knows but wants to know more. “What is she to you?”

  My temper flares up. “That is none of your business. I’ve been invited to Pakistan by your Prime Minister (which is not strictly true). I am seeing him tomorrow in Islamabad. If you do not get out this instant I will report you to the authorities.” It works like a pin stuck into the fellow’s bottom. He leaps up from the chair and salutes. “Ap koi Minister-vinister hain?” I wish him a very curt “adab arz” and slam the door behind him.

  At 5 a.m. the bearer brings tea. I greet him: “Assalam Alaikum.” He replies: “Sat Sri Akal.”

  At six I am back at the airport. The crowd and the chaos! Lots of policemen armed with rifles and pistols sauntering about and gossiping. I join a mini-queue and find myself wedged in between bearded hajis loaded with bed-rolls and steel trunks. Alongside us is a parallel line of Europeans with another quota of hajis—fore and aft. Neither queue moves forward as people who know people go behind the counter and get checked in.

  I try to rouse an old greybeard to protest. “Why are you getting so worked up, Sardarji?” he admonishes me in avuncular tones. “We will all be in the same plane. They won’t get there any quicker.” I hold my peace. But a foreign lady who has been there before me does not. Somebody’s bed-roll tumbles and knocks against her legs. She gives it a vicious kick backwards. This time the Pathan pushes the bed-roll with his hands, walks up to the white lady and with his hands demonstrates what he will do to her posterior if she dares to kick his belongings. She now holds her peace.

  At long last I manage to check in. We are an hour and a half behind schedule. I am cheered by the thought that there is at least one country where discipline is worse than in my own.

  The plane is full of hajis. God-fearing peasants who have blown a substantial part of their savings on the pilgrimage. They are allowed US $ 500 (Rs 4,500) each and more than 35,000 Pakistanis go to Mecca every year. What does that add up to in foreign exchange? However, it is none of my business. It is their money and they are happy. Besides they are a friendly lot taking turns to shake my hand and welcome me to Pakistan in Pushto, Pothahari, Punjabi and Hindustani.

  Breakfast is brought in trolleys. It should be hot. It is not. I swear not to be so critical of Indian Airlines in the future. Coffee and tea follow. They are piping hot. I retract my promise and decide to tell Indian Airlines of the better service on PIA. In India the non-smoking section is in the front; in Pak planes it is in the rear. In Indian Airlines they take the non-smoking rule seriously, in the Pakistani, they don’t give a damn. No sooner is the “No Smoking” sign switched off than half-a-dozen men in the non-smoking section light their cigarettes. The steward admonishes them. The hajis obey. The Sahib log ignore the steward. He pretends he can’t see them.

  We arrive in Islamabad on a cold, grey morning. People are in overcoats or have shawls wrapped about their shoulders. The Murree hills are capped with dark clouds. O.P. Khanna, Press Counsellor of our Embassy, greets me. We ride in a large Mercedes Benz to Hotel Intercontinental in Rawalpindi.

  The road is full of foreign-made limousines, mainly Japanese and German. Why don’t they buy from us? We could sell them our Fiats, Ambassadors and Heralds at one-fourth the price they pay for these foreign makes. We could also give them steel and the knowhow to make their own cars. I wonder if Buraq (the flying horse which flew the Prophet to Paradise and back in a split second) would make an acceptable name for the first Pakistani car.

  A pile of documents awaits me. I am one of 200 delegates from thirty-eight countries of the world invited to participate in the centenary celebrations of the birth of Quaid-e-Azam Mohammed Ali Jinnah. Amongst the gifts is a Jinnah medallion, a marble inkpot and tray (courtesy PIA) and—believe it or not—a Jinnah cap with the request that I should wear it at the inaugural ceremony.

  I take a quick look at the room. It is like any other in any five-star hotel in the world. I notice that the toilet paper and matchboxes called “Double Happiness” are of Chinese manufacture. Indian toilet paper is a little rough but our matches could certainly outmatch the Chinese. Why don’t they buy from us?

  I decide to have a look at the venue of the Congress. My hotel is in Pindi; the conference is to meet eleven miles away in Islamabad. (Rawalpindi has hotels but no conference facilities. Islamabad has conference facilities but no hotels. With the petrol they have wasted to-ing and fro-ing between the two cities, they could have raised a third one.)

  After a brief reconnaissance of the flag-bedecked modern capital, I call on our Ambassador K. Shankar Bajpai. He has found himself a lovely house and moved some of his collection of Gandhara sculptures and miniature paintings. Of the many Indian ambassadors’ homes I have visited round the world, only one lived in a style which combined Indian culture with European sophistication. This was B.F.H. Tyabjee.

  And now we have Shankar Bajpai. Paintings, carpets, food, wine, music, down to the pair of selukis brought from Holland, everything has an aura of class. No brass Natarajas or reclining Buddhas, no autographed photographs of Presidents and Prime Ministers in silver frames, no pervading stink of onions and stale curry smothered in agarbatti smoke. Young Shankar has a lot of his father, Sir G.S. Bajpai, in him: the same objective clarity of thought combined with a gently insinuating speech. We could not have chosen a better ambassador to send to Islamabad.

  The inaugural session of the Quaid Congress is held in Parliament House. As the clock on the wall registers 4 p.m., the Speaker announces, “Gentlemen, the Prime Minister.” Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto, followed by Hafeezuddin Pirzada and Vice-Chancellor Dani, makes his entrance. The three men take the throne-seats on the dais beneath a massive portrait of the Quaid. Bhutto is a strikingly handsome man; so is Pirzada, sporting his Jinnah cap at a slightly rakish angle.

  Their speeches are mercifully short, well phrased, well-delivered, but not particularly exciting. Also, Mr Bhutto’s references to the “wrongs” committed by the majority community (Hindus) in pre-Partition India against the Muslims strikes
a jarring note in my ears. How long will history continue to cast its baneful shadow on both our countries?

  Another thing that makes for discord between us is the appeal to religion which one constantly hears in Pakistan. Pakistanis, particularly the Punjabis, are incredibly warm-hearted and effusive in their expressions of friendships. And though most of the upper class are indifferent to the tenets of Islam (in this Islamic state liquor flows like the waters of the Indus), they never cease harping on the fact that they are Muslims. It makes me feel as if being non-Muslim was a misfortune visited by Allah on kafirs like me. In the next four days I am often exposed to this combination of racial and religious arrogance. I tell my Pakistani friends how I feel.

  The Prime Minister has hosted a dinner for the delegates. Will he give me a drink before the meal? I ask everyone I meet. Everyone says: “Not on the Quaid’s centenary.” It’s no use telling them that the Quaid never bothered about such silly things. My drooping spirits are sustained by flattery (I sign several autograph albums) and the warm embrace of old friends.

  There is Hamida Khuhro, daughter of M.A. Khuhro, once PM of Sind; Shaukat Hayat Khan, friend of my college days; and S.N. Qutb, who spent many years in Delhi. There is General Tikka Khan and General Akbar Khan who, as General Tariq, led the tribal invasion of Kashmir in 1947-48. And there is the poet Faiz Ahmed Faiz. Sir Penderel Moon, H.V. Hodson, once editor of the Sunday Times, and Ian Stephens, once editor of the Statesman. While I am embracing one, I am talking to the other.

  Mr Bhutto arrives with Pirzada and an ADC. He shakes a few selected hands. I am one of them. A few minutes later enter a posse of towering Pathans bearing trayfuls of Scotch and soda. What more does one want of life than sweet words, celebrities, and good Scotch to quench one’s thirst! And no sooner have I had my first gulpful than the ADC informs me that the PM would like to talk to me.

  I like Bhutto Sahib and sense that he does not dislike me. I ask for an interview. He replies: “Here I am. Ask me what you want.” I plead that I do not have the questions in my head and there is too much liquor in my belly. He smiles. “Okay, I’ll tell the ADC to give you time. Also come to the National Assembly and hear what I have to say. But aren’t you happy at the turn of Indo-Pak relations?”

  I say: “I am delighted. The friendlier the better. I have always believed that friendship between us is more important than friendship with other nations. But why can’t we step up the pace? I know from experience that the people in both countries are willing to fall into each other’s arms. Why keep them back?”

  He replies: “In such matters it is wiser to go slow. Ayub tried to force the pace at Tashkent and see what happened! We have plenty of time to build relations slowly but surely. On our side we have no inhibitions about India.”

  “India has no inhibitions about Pakistan,” I state with equal confidence.

  “If you see your PM, convey my best wishes to her. You can repeat my invitation to her to visit us in Pakistan. I have asked her many times but she has not responded. I have two reasons to invite her; one because of the enormous respect I had for her father. The other is personal. I feel it would help me with my own people. On my side I have done all I could to generate a feeling of goodwill. You will recall that when your emergency was declared, we made absolutely no comment. Even though Piloo Mody, who is one of my closest friends, was arrested, I said nothing which would embarrass your Prime Minister. I did so because I respected her judgement and did not want to jeopardize the relations between our two countries.”

  At dinner a gentleman beside me asks me about the late D.F. Karaka’s encounters with Hazarat Ali, about which I had written in the Weekly. He is a Shia and has had similar experiences. He is compiling an anthology of the occult. I tell him of Governor Ali Yavar Jung’s response to Karaka’s writing on Hazarat Ali. But, alas, the Nawab Sahib is no longer there to give him the details.

  At the Quaid Congress, there are Bangladeshis, Malays, Sinhalese, Koreans, Arabs, Africans, Americans, Englishmen, Iranians—and of course a large number of Pakistanis. Three Indians were invited: only one made it. I wonder if the papers are going to be objective and academic or an exercise in hagiology. The opening speech by M.A.H. Ispahani, the industrial magnate, a close friend of the Quaid and later Pakistan’s ambassador in England and India, ends with an impassioned declaration: “I have lived for Pakistan. I will die for Pakistan.” I can guess what will follow. And it does.

  The only assessments which, despite the eulogy for the Quaid, could be described as objective are read by the White participants: Sir Penderel Moon, H.V. Hodson and, above all, Betty Unterberger, who makes a lively and witty resume of the American press reporting on Mr Jinnah and Pakistan.

  The papers of Pakistani scholars are full of the “machinations” of the “majority community” (Hindus) and reassertions of the two-nation theory which compelled the Quaid to demand a separate sovereign state for the Muslims. They overlook or explain away the most significant speech that the Quaid made to the Pakistan Constituent Assembly in 1947.

  I quote the relevant passage which refutes the two-nation humbug: “If you work in cooperation, forgetting the past, burying the hatchet, you are bound to succeed; if you change your past and work together in a spirit that every one of you, no matter to what community he belongs, is first, second and last a citizen of this state with equal rights, privileges and obligations, there will be no end to the progress you will make...we are starting with this fundamental principle that we are all citizens and equal citizens of one state. You may belong to any religion or creed or caste—that has nothing to do with the business of the state. I think we should keep that in front as our ideal and you will find that in course of time Hindus would cease to be Hindus and Muslims would cease to be Muslims, not in the religious sense, because that is the personal faith of each individual, but in the political sense as citizens of the state.”

  There is enough evidence to prove that Mr Jinnah never wanted nor foresaw the exchange of population that followed Partition. He wanted India and Pakistan to be like Norway and Sweden. He retained his house in Bombay for several months hoping to come back to it every year.

  I am in a fix. I am notorious for my bias in favour of Pakistan and am proud of it. But my pro-Pak leanings come from the conviction that friendship with Pakistan must take top priority in India’s international dealings because an inimical Pakistan not only retards progress in both our countries but also slows the pace of integration of Indian Muslims into the mainstream of Indianism. I am convinced we can win the goodwill of Pakistan by showing more understanding of their problems and anxieties, by showing more respect to the memory of people like Quaid-e-Azam who means the same to them as Mahatma Gandhi to us. I never accepted the two-nation theory but strongly supported the rights of Muslims in defined areas to self-determination—i.e., Pakistan. I am convinced I am right and those who disagree with me are utterly wrong.

  I have paid the price for airing my views by being dubbed by stupid people as a Pakistani agent.

  The paper I read is a kind of resume of my views on the genesis of Pakistan and the aftermath in India. I say that going to Pakistan means to me what going on haj means to a Muslim (applause). I pay tribute to the Quaid whom I had met a few times and whose ability and integrity I had rated as high as Gandhiji’s and Nehru’s (applause). I say that there was no one in India who questioned the soveriegn status of Pakistan and did not wish it peace and prosperity (applause). I end with the affirmation: “We never have, nor do today, nor ever will accept your two-nation theory. But this does not prevent us from wishing Pakistan Zindabad.”

  They are kind to me, pay me many compliments—then proceed to lambast me. “If you do not accept the two-nation theory, you do not accept Pakistan,” says one speaker after another.

  One point I make in my speech is the progressive improvement in Hindu-Muslim relations and the increasing employment of Muslims in all sectors of our industry. Never since independence has the lot of Indian M
uslims been better than it is today. I give the credit to those to whom credit is due; it was the blood of Gandhiji and the sweat of Nehru which fertilized the soil in which Indira Gandhi planted the seeds of perennial communal harmony. I tell them about our Muslim Presidents, Muslim Chief Ministers of states where Muslims formed no more than five per cent of the population, of Muslim Generals and captains of industry; of joint Muslim-Sikh celebration of Eid and the Guru’s birthday, and so on.

  Not to be outdone, a Hindu member of the Pakistani Parliament affirms that the lot of non-Muslim minorities (three per cent of the population) is better than that of the Muslims in India. And he too reels off names of Hindus, Christians and Parsis in Pakistan’s diplomatic and civil services. I am delighted.

  The next evening I attend the joint session of the two Houses of the Pakistani Parliament. The contrast with our Parliament strikes me very forcefully. The majority of the Pakistani parliamentarians are younger (thirty to fifty years) than ours; most of them immaculately dressed in European clothes and wearing Jinnah caps. And most speak in English with the affected accents heard in Oxbridge debating societies.

  Except for Maulana Qausar Niazi and Shaukat Hayat Khan (a new entrant in the ruling PPP), the only people clad in the traditional shalwar-kameez and sporting turbans and beards are the handful of members of the Opposition—mainly from Baluchistan and the North-West Frontier Province. And of course there are the eight women members in saris, distinguishable from Hindu ladies only by the absence of the bindi on their foreheads. Parliamentary tributes are also heavily loaded against the “Hindu-dominated Congress” and “the so-called nationalist Muslims”.

  A lighter side is provided by the Speaker’s interruption. After twelve members have quoted Iqbal—

  Hazaron saal nargis apni beynoori peh roti hai Badi mushkil sey hota hai chaman mein deedavar paida.

  (A thousand years does the narcissus lament her sightlessness