A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever

It was back I those days when we (my parents and me) used to come to Pakistan for our annual visit to friends and family. Since friends and family were scattered across the length and breadth of Pakistan, the trip usually consisted of one month of extensive traveling starting form one end of the country and ending at the other.
One fine morning during one of those trips as we were heading towards Mirpur and Mangla cantonment, (to visit an uncle and an army cousin who were posted there respectively) that I looked out of the window from the back seat of the car and saw mustard fields in full bloom. I watched open mouthed as acre after acre of brilliant yellow flowers sped by.
Coming form the land of sand dunes this was something I had not seen before. Besides I thought my sand dunes were pretty terrific. Any body who has witnessed the majesty of the desert will agree with me. It is a sea of shimmering, glittering gold as far as the eye can see. Sometimes the metal road on which you happen to be traveling in a desert is the only reminder of civilization, while every thing surrounding you is probably as primitive and unchanged as in the days of mother earth’s own infancy. How could anything compare with the mesmerizing effect of that?
I was wrong.
The mustard fields not only compared but topped the desert sands by a hefty margin.
Unlike the pure gold of the sand dunes this was a vibrant, joyous shade of yellow resting on a bed of emerald. It was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen in my life. I have seen a few since than that have stayed with me but those mustard fields were the first. If there were any before that, I was probably too young to remember them.

The mustard flowers were once again in bloom along the sides of the road when I went to Islamabad a few days ago. Though these were only a few sorry patches grown in between the wheat crop and were neither lush enough nor widespread enough as my original vision, still they reminded me of a long ago road trip when the boredom of traveling was suddenly replaced by an awesome sight that has managed to stay with me even after all these years.

This one's for Johnny; who ever he was, poor fellow

I just read something in M.M.Kaye’s Golden Afternoon that made me double up with laughter. I thought I would include it in my blog (though I seriously hope I don’t get into trouble regarding copyright issues for doing it).
Ah well, it is hilarious enough (at least I think it is) to be worth the risk.
While reminiscing about the Raj years Kaye writes about the Horse Show Week in Delhi (circa 1929, I believe) which at that time was the greatest among all the “Weeks” that were held through out India during the cold weather. Here are a couple of incidents, in Kaye’s own words, that took place at that time.


“To give an example of their unique entertainment value, there was an occasion when a friend of ours, one McCandlass (better known as ‘loopy Mac’), whose enthusiasm for riding was not matched by his skill, when competing in an owner-riders race sponsored by the business community, came tearing into view on the first lap and, to wild cheering from his supporters, a full two and a half lengths ahead of the field. Unfortunately there was a narrow side track ahead of him - possibly for the benefit of any rider who had lost a stirrup or otherwise come to grief and wished to retire from the race. But since his horse was in fact bolting, and not even faintly under control , it made straight for the side track and tore off down it - followed by the entire field, who either thought this was the correct way round, or whose horses had also got the bit between their teeth and intended to forge ahead or else….. The whole lot followed Mac’s lead, shot off the course and disappeared with the speed of diving ducks into a fairly dense patch of wooded land, which at that time bordered one side of the course. After lengthy but unknown adventures, they eventually emerged, looking exceedingly sheepish, wreathed in strands of creeper and assorted greenery and brushing twigs and bits of bark out of their hair.

There was also a more dramatic occasion when one of the amateur jockeys parted with his mount a mere yard or two from the winning post, and crashed to earth among a forest of hooves. At which point a girl rose like a rocketing pheasant from her seat in the stand, and, shrieking his name over and over again, fled down the aisle and across the grass, scrambled over the rails, and, still screaming, flung herself down on his recumbent form yelling , ‘Speak to me, Johnny! Speak to me!’ whereupon his wife broke the deathly silence that had fallen upon the stands by turning impatiently and remarking in a carrying voice: ‘Silly bitch! He’ll never forgive her for this.’ I gather she had got used to her husband’s frequent straying and come to terms with it.
You didn’t get those sort of dramas included in the price of the tickets during Ascot week or Newmarket.”


I couldn’t agree more, even though I have never been to either Ascot or Newmarket and missed the Raj years by a good quarter century or so.
But at least I can read about it and that is almost as good as being there in person.

An Affair to Remember

I recently watched a movie that was being shown on one of the cable channels (or half watched it to be more precise). Since I had to run an errand somewhere in the middle of it, I missed a considerable portion before I could manage to get back and see the conclusion. The movie was called “The Thomas Crown Affair" (the remake; starring Pierce Brosnan & Rene Russo).
“What a clever way to a steal a painting and an even better way to put it back.”
That is what I recall thinking after having watched the bits and pieces of the film that I did.
Because I had missed a major chuck of the movie, I decided to get my self a DVD and see the whole of it in one go .
This unfortunately did not turn out to be one of the better decisions of my life.
The icing on top of my blunder cake was that I even told my kids that they could watch this cool robbery film with me if they liked. Fortunately my son had to study so he skipped the family movie session (Thank God) but both my daughters (including the little one who is rarely interested in any film that does not include the name Barbie or something similar in the title) decided they had nothing better to do than accompany their Mama in watching the film she had brought home.

So there I was with almost my entire brood gathered around me for collective viewing when it suddenly dawned on me that there was a reason fate had intervened making me miss the middle part of the film. And that was because it was meant to be missed.

To be honest I don’t know what the kids found funnier, the fast moving obscenity on the screen or their mother’s desperate attempts to block it from their view. I sat with my thumb literally glued to the fast forward button for more than half the duration of the film. To cut the long story short, I ended up watching exactly the same parts of the movie as I did the fist time round; the beginning and the end. The rest went past in a blur of fast moving images, (though not fast enough judging from constant eruption of giggles from two highly amused young girls).

I checked the back of the DVD afterwards to find that it was rated R (Restricted viewing) not that it would have done me any good if I had checked it before buying the damn thing. I never did have any idea what those alphabets that denote ratings ever meant .
But I most certainly do now.
I guess it serves me right for buying a film without checking out its ratings and more so for inviting my children to watch it with me with out having watched it first from beginning to end.

Bachey Humarey Ehed Key Hushiar Ho Gaye

Now that we are on the subject of fairy tales, did anyone ever find any of them weird as a child? I certainly never did. They seemed like perfectly normal children’s stories to me. Full of fairies, giants, princesses, castles, dragons and witches etc. My seven year old, however, sees a lot more in them than just these things.
A few days ago I was reading Jack and the Bean Stalk to her at bedtime. Every thing was going well till I reached the part where Jack sprints off with the giant’s gold, hen and harp. At that point my daughter looked up at me and asked very solemnly,
“Isn’t Jack stealing from the giant”?
“I guess he is”. I said
“But stealing is bad, than how can jack be a good person if he commits a sin"?
My seven year old realized the injustice prevalent in the story, something I was not able to do when I was a child. Maybe I was the product of an age when things were accepted as they were without much questioning. Then again, maybe I was just plain dumb
It never occurred to me when I was a kid as to how a common thief can be the good guy in the story if he continues to go back to steal someone else’s stuff while the giant is labeled as the antagonist, when all that he is trying to do is get his things back and teach jack a lessons for pinching them in the first place. (There is another less popular version which states that every thing Jack took had belonged to his father at one time. The giant was the thief who stole from his Jack’s father so Jack was only bringing back what was rightfully his inheritance. But that is just poppycock; it does not even make sense. For instance, where would Jack’s father, a mere mortal, get his hands on a magic harp and golden egg laying hen to begin with).
This moral dilemma occurred with disturbing frequency in several of my childhood stories ranging from Jack and the Beanstalk to Puss in Boats.
What I never realized back then was that these children’s’ stories actually depicted European mentality at that time, which more or less stated that you have a right to claim as yours what ever takes your fancy and if the owners object, it is perfectly justified to kill them, subjugate them or get rid of them any other way you see fit. History is full of living examples of this. Colonies were set up all over the world based on pretty much this very principle.

Perhaps that is why I appreciate the concept of motion pictures like Shrek. So what if you are an ogre, ugly and even bad tempered. No one has the right to kill you or throw you out of your place as long as you are minding your own business and harming no one. I am glad that this is the message which is now being conveyed to children. Perhaps that is the reason they have a better understanding of the realities of life than we, their parents did as children. They are sharper, cleverer and more perceptive.
I got a hefty doze of this keen awareness of theirs when I made up a story of a boy who played computer and video games all day long; a concept that was instantly rejected by my young daughter.
“There is no way he can play all day long”. She scoffed. “He has to stop during load shedding hours”.
I did not know weather to be delighted because my child was clever enough to take note of this technical flaw in my story or be devastated because to a seven year old, load shedding had become such an integral part of every day routine that life with out it , even in make belief stories could not be accepted.
Bottom line is, you can’t fool these kids. “That is how things are” and “you just have to accept it as such” are no longer appropriate answers. Children nowadays want answers that make sense, which can satisfy their ravenous curiosity. And I am ashamed to admit that I do not have satisfactory answers to more that half the questions my kids throw my way.

The fogs of Lahore part II

I looked out of the window this morning and felt I was living in the top turret of a fairytale castle in the clouds.
The entire world outside had disappeared behind a thick veil of white.

And Thou Shalt Drive

A lady was once asked by a traffic warden,
“Why do women park in front of the ‘No Parking’ sign when they know very well what it means?”
To which the grand lady replied,
“kyon ke jaga hi wahan khali hoti hey bhai”
(Because that is usually the only vacant spot)

If you think the above quoted is a joke then you couldn’t be more wrong.
This was an actual answer given by a lady who had come for her driving test at the NOC Police lines Thokar Niaz Baig.
Incidentally that is where I also went to get my new driving license, or to be more precise, for my driving test which would determine if I was capable enough to be issued one.
Even though I passed the test and was issued the much coveted license months ago, I had promised in one of my previous blogs that I would write about my driving test experience. So here it is.
Despite the fact that there was over a two hour wait, which included one hour of scheduled load shedding in stifling heat, my experience was not altogether a bad one (or maybe after an appalling one at NADRA and a harrowing one at the local passport office, a visit to the police lines seemed almost pleasant. At least they were polite, that is more than what I can say for the official and non officials at both previous establishments).
There was however, one little irregularity that did occur when the names were being announced for the test. My name did not appear to be among the first few.
Since I had arrived first thing in the morning (exactly at eight o clock) to avoid long queues, subsequently becoming the second person to submit my test file and have my name registered, therefore, in the test order also, I should have been placed at number two.
Alas it was not so.
After seven names had been called out including the names of two aspiring drivers at Number 2 and Number 3 who had not even bothered to show up. (How they managed to submit their file with out even turning up would have been a real mystery question in any other country, but in Pakistan, not so. One of the beauties of Pakistani culture is that anything is possible around here).
My objection (though I was careful not to mention the absentee ladies) left the warden speechless for a moment. It also provided the cue for another early arrival whose name had also not been called out till now to lodge her complain as well.
Well, to be more accurate, I was the one who lodged the mere complain, the other lady attacked with a vengeance. Oh boy! I would not have liked to be at the receiving end of her whip lashing tongue. Hearing her go on and on I could not but help feel sorry for the poor wardens who were trying their best to pacify the situation.
All during this commotion both our files were dug up from underneath a pile and the Number 8 hastily scribbled across the top of mine. I am presuming something similar was done to mollify the other fire blazing virago. This did not go well with the guy distributing the files whose entire routine had been upset by two interfering women.
He had defiantly lost most of his charm and some of his temper when he muttered,

“Kutch logon ko shikaiteen lagane ki addat hoti hai”
(Some people have a habit of complaining)

Even though he kept glaring resolutely into the stack of files in his hands as he said this, there was no confusion as to whom he was referring. I guess I should have been offended at that statement. But I wasn't. It was just too darned funny to see a grown man pout like that.
As for the test itself; it was a walk in the park. The traffic warden (who gave us a few pointers before the test was about to start) was not joking when he said that they usually took it easy on women. All women drivers were required to do was to start the car, move forward and backward a few times and that was it. The whole test did not take more than a few minutes at the most. The sign identification test was even simpler.
So much for my three days of parallel parking practices.
I have a confession to make. Even though I have been driving for over a decade, I CAN NOT parallel park.
Whenever I do attempt it, the result is that while every other car in the row stands perfectly aligned, mine is jutting out at an angle of 35 degrees from the curb.
A disgraceful thing for someone who has spent so much time in France.
The French are the best parkers in the world. They can park their cars in spaces that are even smaller than the length of their own cars. They wedge themselves in between the parked cars and nudge the one behind and in front to make enough space for their own. They do it with such expertise and precision that none of the cars receive even the slightest of scratch to show for it. The owners of the cars also accommodate fellow parkers by leaving their parking breaks off. This is something that I have not just heard about but have actually seen done by the experts i.e the French themselves and yet I still do not have the confidence to even try to copy them.
That is why I often leave perfectly good parking spaces (more than length of my car) and go park in a wide and vacant spot miles away and then walk back to the place where I am supposed to go. For this reason solely, (though I have never done it myself) I sympathize with the lady who parks in front of No Parking signs).
All that pre test anxiety and subsequent practicing sessions had been initiated on information provided by a cousin of mine telling me about a friend flunking his driving test thrice in a row despite having a decade of driving experience ( like me) to back him up.
Well there was no danger of happening that to anyone the day I went for my test and the main reason for this was that it was Friday and Friday being reserved for ladies, the rule of the day was leniency.
That is not so for any other day of the week.
The driving test instructor admitted that the whole thing is usually over by midday on Fridays whereas on regular days (men’s) the tests go on till late at night.
So if you are about to appear for a driving test yourself, here’s my advice to you.

Chill if you are a woman and beware if you are not.

So all is well that ends well. I passed the test and was told to collect my ready license from the thana near Zillah katchery coming Monday morning.
Oh! And by the way, guess who went in place of the absentee Number 2 and Number 3 during the test.

Yep …. The very vocal Number 8 and Number God Knows What, who had big mouths and a habit of complaining ;-)

The mystery of the missing store boy

I went grocery shopping yesterday.
An appropriate comment to that statement would be “so what”, people go to buy groceries all the time.
Well as it happens my shopping experience yesterday turned out a little different form the rest.
The store I went to provides carrier service from the cash counter to where ever your car is parked. Though mine was very conveniently parked just out side the store entrance only a few feet away from the cash counter I nonetheless allowed one of the store boys to carry my bags for the sole reason that there being quite a few of them and all put together were rather heavy to carry.
This turned out to be a big mistake.
The brief time span, in which my attention had been focused on paying the bill, the store lad carrying my stuff seemed to have disappeared. A thorough search for him ensued but failed to produce either the lad or my shopping.
Where could he possibly have gone? The remaining store staff and I were equally baffled.
As we were having company for dinner that night, the menu for the evening was lasagna, crisp fried chicken with French fries and Garlic bread followed by Ice cream topped with multicolored jelly and mixed fruit. Most of the stuff I had bought comprised of the ingredients for my evening meal which was aimed to provide us with a scrumptious feast but would have been pretty much useless for someone like the boy carrying my wares.
Even if he had taken them home he would not know what to do with more than half the stuff in those bags.
Another motive could be Reselling it perhaps?
The whole shopping cost me close to two thousand rupees, which in my opinions was not enough money to worth loosing your job over, even one as lowly as that of an “odd jobs boy” at the store. But like I said, that is just my opinion, the lad may have a different point of view altogether.
After nearly twenty or so minutes of exasperated waiting, the embarrassed store management agreed to give my money back since several things that I had bought, like French bread etc, were currently irreplaceable because I had picked up the last available pieces from the shelves. Just as I was being handed the due amount there was a triumphant cry from one of the "look outs" posted outside that the errant boy had been finally spotted hurrying back towards the store.
And indeed he was.
He arrived huffing and puffing from several hundred yards away.
Apparently the poor boy had mistaken the shopping to belong to another lady who also happened to be standing next to the counter while I was paying for my stuff and followed her out.
The lady in question after exiting the shop went about her business in the market and for the next twenty minutes the mute idiot carrying my groceries followed her around with out having the common sense to address her even once. Had he done so the confusion would have cleared up instantly.
It was only when the lady finally reached her car and the boy tried to put the shopping bags inside it, did she exclaim that they were not hers. The highly flustered chokra then rushed back at full speed towards the store and arrived with my grocery bags dangling on either side of him only just in the nick of time.
I was pretty annoyed to have been kept waiting for so long but after looking at the exhausted boy my annoyance changed to pity. They whole of my shopping must have weighed 10 to 12 kgs at the very least and imagine having to carry that around for nearly half an hour in a fruit less chase across the market.
So in the end I did make every thing I had on the menu except ice cream which had to be abandoned in favor of kheer brought in by my father (which though delicious, unfortunately does not keep for long even in the refrigerator).
One little mistake nearly changed our evening plan because frustrated by all that waiting, I had, at one point, decided to take up my father’s offer of taking the guests out to dinner instead of cooking for them at home.
I would have done just that too had the boy arrived even a minute later than when he actually did.
Just goes to show how important a well timed arrival can turn out to be.