Micheal Crain had always been a big critic. That was
primarily why he was a reporter by profession. He worked for BBC news, and his
favorite pieces to run were always related to the troubles of Pakistan. He
didn’t have anything personal against Pakistan; he was just a staunch believer
in the all the reports of Pakistan being a country overrun by terrorists and
corrupt officials, and he hated them for blaming all their troubles on America.
Thus the extra dose of criticism from his side when covering a report on
Pakistan.
Which was why he was none too pleased when he was told by
his chief editor to make a trip to Pakistan and make a documentary on how life
there is for the people.
“Are you crazy? You want me to go to that hellhole and
DIE?!”
But his chief had been adamant, and Michael had reluctantly
agreed. The only positive aspect in this ‘ridiculous charade’, as Michael liked
to call it, was that his chief had not laid any imposition on him regarding the
nature of the documentary.
A few days later, Michael found himself emerging from the
Allama Iqbal International Airport, and out onto the sun-drenched streets of
Lahore. The air was humid and sticky, the glare of the sun unbearably bright
and piercing, and rivulets of sweat were running down his entire body. It was
something he didn’t immediately register at first, for the sight of Lahore was
too much for him to grasp at first. People in the hundreds were thronging about
in the streets, amongst scores of cars, rickshaws and motorcycles; it was all a
seething mass that Michael didn’t exactly relish getting caught up in.
Footpaths cracked and the roads broken at places, and overflowing gutters were
a common sight. And the noise! Angry drivers honking their horns impatiently,
the indiscernible babble of people mingled with their shouting and laughing,
street peddlers shouting out to people, the annoying drone of the rickshaws, and
the even more annoying buzz of flies around his head… The entire place struck
him as one of utter confusion. His loathing for this country deepened.
However, only two days later, he witnessed an event that
forced him to feel otherwise. He had been sitting in a café with a cold
beverage in his hand, staring out to the street, which an old woman was
crossing, a bundle of cloths under her arm. Even as he watched, she swayed, and
held up a hand to her head. She seemed to be growing dizzy by the heat. And
then she crumpled to the sidewalk. For a few heartbeats she lay there, and then
a young boy approached her lifeless form, and prodded her gently. When she did
not stir, he started shouting in alarm. Immediately several people nearby
rushed to them. They lifted the woman, and carried her to the café where
Michael was sitting. All work around him ceased as she was laid on a table, and
the staff gathered around as she was slowly revived, and fed a cup of cool
water. The fact that the people chose to care for a poor old woman who nobody
knew out on the street touched him in a strange way. After watching this event
unfold before him, he started feeling his hate for this country (and Lahore in
particular) ebbing away, giving way to something he had never felt for this
country before: admiration, and respect. And before he knew it, he was head-over-heels
in love with the place which had been the focal point of his criticism for many
years.
Lahore was a dirty, crude and rough place on the surface, to
say the least. The roads were too narrow at times and there seemed to more
people on them than cars, so driving here was a nightmare. It was too
congested, and gave him a feeling of oppression. Traffic jams seemed to crop up
every other minute, and no authority to dissolve them. The buildings were old
and cracked. Most places were devoid of even the most basic technological
facilities. Yet it was under the veil of this coarse surface that Michael found
the true beauty of this place. Lahore was home to a whole CULTURE. It had been
65 years to Pakistan’s independence, yet the traditions, rituals and art here all
bore witness to the history of hundreds of years ago. It was most evident in
the architectural designs of most buildings, the bazaars, the small, dirty
streets, the tongas, the food, the dresses, the furniture; it was everywhere,
down to the smallest detail. And yet, Lahore was a very modern place too, with
huge shopping malls, cinemas, sports stadiums, the airport and the housing
society nearby and whatnot. It struck him as a contradiction. Lahore was a
conflagration of new and old, modern and historical, village and city, and he
had never quite seen a place like this.
But it was not just Lahore that held him entranced; it was
the whole of Pakistan. There was Karachi; a city apparently controlled by
terrorists and plagued with target killing, kidnapping, robbery, rape and so.
Yet it was also the city of lights, the most modern city of Pakistan, and a
more alive place Michael was yet to come across. It was a concrete jungle, but
the presence of the sea nearby gave him a feeling of openness and freedom.
There were the northern areas of Pakistan, which was an entirely different
world altogether. The breath-taking beauty of range upon range of huge,
sprawling mountains, lush greenery, gushing waterfalls, streams of
crystal-clear water originating from the top of snow-capped mountains and
winding down the entire length of the mountain, fast-flowing rivers winding
through the mountains, sometimes blue, sometimes green and sometimes
milky-white, crashing upon boulders with a thunderous sound and spraying up
foam, the fields of every fruit and vegetable imaginable; it all held him
spell-bound. The deserts of Pakistan held a different beauty altogether; there
was nothing but dry deep sand, high dunes that rolled away under a low,
brooding sky. There was no sign of any living thing for miles, and he had never
felt so alone before. And then there was the capital of Pakistan, Islamabad.
It’s very existence was a contradiction to the image of Pakistan that had
formed in his mind over the last couple of days, for here was a city that
reminded him most of back home; a planned, modern city where people were caught
up in their work and seldom had time for one another. Yet it had the Pakistani
touch, for Islamabad was not a concrete jungle; here was modernism intermingled
with natural beauty; a city set against the backdrop of the Margalla Hills. Putting
it all together, Michael felt like he had seen the beauty of the entire world
in that one week, and yet it was all here in one small country.
The thing about Pakistan that truly won him over though, was
its people. Pakistan was not just another country; it was a conjunction of
versatile cultures, each with its own customs and historical backgrounds. But
the people chose not to associate themselves as Punjabis, Sindhis, Balochis or
Pathans, but as Pakistanis. And their warmth and care astounded him. If anyone
was in trouble, a whole contingent of people would rush to help him/her. One’s pain
was all’s grief; one’s joy was all’s elation. Despite their busy schedules,
they always seem to find time to spend with their families and friends,
something he had hardly ever chanced upon back home. It made him realize that
the Pakistanis were not just a nation; they were truly a brotherhood. They were
groups of people who hardly had anything in common, but they chose to put their
uniting factor before that: love for their country.
It was something that puzzled him greatly. Despite all the
wonderful things he had discovered about Pakistan, he could see that this was a
greatly troubled place. Suicide bombings, loadshedding, depletion of natural
resources, no sense of security, corruption, absence of justice; all were
dragging this country deeper and deeper into the depths of illiteracy and
ignorance. So why this mindless patriotism? Why choose to live a difficult life
in this country? Why not seek a life abroad, if possible?
He knew he would forever remember the chills that had run
down his spine when a youngster, no more than fifteen, had answered this
question for him:
“Pakistan to love hai. Hamara jeena, marna, sab is kay liay
hai. Ye zindagi to sirf do, chaar din ka khail hai. Agar ye bhi hum apnay mulk
kay liay qurban nahi kar saktay to hum kis qisam k mulki hain?”
Pakistan is love. Our life, death is all for it. This life
is a play of just two to four days. If we can’t sacrifice even that for our
country, what sort of nationals are we?
You might feel that I went overboard with optimism at
places, and chose to ignore our tribulations completely. But in these harsh
times, we often end up needing a reason to justify our love for Pakistan. At
times, we need to let go of our harsh criticism, forget our troubles and focus
on what is positive. This article was penned down with this very intent.
Happy Independence Day. Long live Pakistan.
