Author: Jay Bhattacharjee
Publication: The Pioneer
Date: May 24, 2002
Unlike the typical Anglo-Saxon host,
whose happiest moment is to see the retreating tail lights of his guests'
cars, this particular Indian will be most sorry to see you go, Ambassador
Qazi (you see, I still cannot reconcile myself to the awful colonial resonance
of High Commissioner, which also takes up seven more spaces).
In fact, as your aircraft wings
its way to Islamabad via some Middle Eastern watering hole, the crumbs
from whose Emir's table contribute a healthy percentage to Pakistan's GNP,
I will be glum and crestfallen. Into purdah I will not consign myself,
because that would be ersatz and not top drawer, as both of us would like
to be perceived.
I do not really want to strain your
memory, particularly since your social circle in Delhi stretches twice
around the equator, but I wonder whether you remember the first time we
met. It was in mid-1997, just after your arrival in Delhi. The venue was
one of the capital's five-star hostelries and the occasion was an eminently
forgettable lunch hosted by one of the minor Western European countries.
Your good wife and you happened to share our table along with a vacuous
Brit and a clueless Teuton-who was counting his remaining days in India.
Your wife and mine chatted perfunctorily
until the topic of discussion veered around to the Tata industrial group.
The Begum Sahiba (I do hope this is the right nomenclature, since I have
a limited knowledge of Mughal court nuances) stated that she had only vaguely
heard of the Parsis and did not really know how these exalted Iranians
decided to make India their home.
With considerable trepidation, I
related to Madam Ambassador the history of the arrival in Gujarat of the
Zoroastrians from Iran, fleeing from Islamic persecution. That is when
I saw the hard glint in your eyes, although your smile and your charming
banter continued effortlessly. And I knew then that you were an adversary
worthy of my attention. By this time, the two Northern Europeans had got
into the act: When one of them referred to the Indus Valley civilisation,
I quipped that present-day Pakistan should not be allowed to claim any
credit for Mohenjodaro and Harappa. This was because your country refused
to acknowledge anything that had taken place on this subcontinent before
the Arab invasion of Sind. You had the grace to join the laughter around
the table, but I knew your mind was working out the ramifications of the
discussion.
Since then, I have marvelled at
the supreme ease and panache with which you had the Indian elite eating
out of your hands. This included not just the capital's greasy hoi polloi
nourished on Vitamin M, but also the jholawallahs, dhotiwallahs and the
mandarins. Not only did you have them running around in circles like headless
chicken, but you also made sure that they thanked you afterwards for their
elevating experience. Now, this , I said to myself, is chutzpah of a high
order, nay, of the rarest variety. The mystery underlying this sublime
talent was soon made known to me.
The capital's diplomatic mafia disclosed
your Irish antecedents. As it so happens, this was the secret that everyone
in Delhi was looking for. Come to think of it, it might even have been
the Brits, who let the cat out of the bag. The English have colonised and
exploited the Irish for 10 centuries, but could never reach the cerebral
levels of their poorer western neighbours.
That is when I marvelled at the
ingenuity of your Foreign Office: To let your Irish blarney take the mickey
out of the odious Hindoos was surely a touch of genius. Now, do not get
me wrong. It is not that a denizen of the West Punjab or the Frontier cannot
attain such transcendental heights, but there is such a thing as the laws
of probability. Even you, in all fairness, will agree to my thesis.
The other variable that was so cleverly
factored in by the Pakistani counterpart of South Block is the Delhi oligarchy's
obsession with Whites. You were almost an honorary White in their eyes,
but the best part was that you could supplement this attribute with the
elaborate Urdu-Persian gobbledygook that goes down so well with the kabab-kathak
brigade in the capital. The Irish charm and the Mughal veneer was a combination
that made the Indian establishment look like a Bhagalpur bhaiyya.
When you sermonised to us about
democracy, peace and secularism, we listened to you in rapture. This was
rich, coming from a country that constitutionally enshrines values totally
opposed to these three principles. Your magic wand made almost everyone
forget that Pakistan's mullah-Brigadier-drug lord State fabric depended
on anti-Indian rhetoric for its very survival.
My friends and I enjoyed your antics
while they remained at that stage. It was good to see the Indian mandarins
with egg on their faces. It was fun to see how the Delhi establishment
fell over themselves at your celebrated tea party last July when your President
visited our shores. Do you remember how you took almost the entire Indian
Fourth Estate for a ride during that notorious breakfast meeting in Agra?
Some people spoke about dark plots, but knowing your Irish magic, I was
prepared to give you the credit.
However, deep down, I always knew
that your agenda is a much grander one. It is the vivisection of this country
and the restoration of the Mughal Empire in Delhi. When it comes to this,
it is goodbye to your Irish persona and a return to the fundamental Kipling-like
traits that motivate you and your confreres in the corridors of power in
Islamabad.
These driving elements in your psyche
include a pathological contempt for all things Indian (and non-Islamic),
a fervent belief that you lot are physically and psychologically superior
to your Eastern neighbours and a burning desire to seek revenge for the
humiliation of 1971. Many Indians who took part in that war still recall
with amazement the mindset of the average Pakistani officers whom they
encountered. Even as your glory boys were surrendering in droves to our
troops, they kept on prattling about their martial qualities.
Now, your President, being less
adroit than you are, let slip his guard some time back. He spoke of the
trauma of 1971 and how it still affected (and propelled) the Pakistani
armed forces and establishment. You haven't yet taken off your mask, but
there is little doubt that you will do so once you return to your backyard.
That is why I will miss you; in these days and this age, where can one
see such a nimble trapeze artiste as you? In the history of international
revanchism, you will surely have earned yourself a place.
That is why there is the faint hope
in my heart that your Irish half will assert itself at some stage, override
the mullah-Mughal mindset and induce you to convince your bosses and counterparts
in Islamabad about the madness they have embarked upon. It is no longer
brownie points that we are talking about; your lot has upped the ante so
much that anything can happen.
This may, of course, be hopelessly
naive of me, but one lives and hopes. That is why, Mr Qazi, I am sad to
see you go. If and when a deranged West Punjabi version of Dr Strangelove
does press the fateful button and we all go up in smoke, you will have
contributed a fair share. And I trust you will remember it is Bhattacharjee
with two 'e's and Jay with an 'a' and not 'o'.
