The theory of. well. some things: Current Affairs

Showing posts with label Current Affairs. Show all posts

Dazed, I followed the crowd out of the movie theatre making my way to the exit. Back under the lights, I looked around to ensure no one was staring. Why would they be? It was just a movie and I was just one amongst a sizeable audience now walking by with no concern for the tears I was unable to hold back. I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder and turned around to find Ambreen, tearful eyes searching mine, seeking solace and offering it. I exhaled, as if this was the sign I awaited, and fell into her arms sobbing uncontrollably. There we stood, in Vox Cinema at Mall of the Emirates in Dubai, two PAF brats remembering our enchanted childhood, she acutely conscious of my melancholy, I simply grateful for a shoulder to cry on.

Bilal, my youngest, shifted awkwardly by my side. He had suffered a week of “lets-go-lets-not” indecision at my hands and was probably regretting his vote in favor. A teenage boy’s worst nightmare has to be a publicly emotional mom! We both love the movies, but we hardly ever agree on what to watch. Despite my “lame lectures” (his words) on supporting the desi film industry, never before had he suggested we watch a Pakistani film. I was grateful for the opportunity to engage him with content from home that I loved, but I found myself weak and fearful in anticipation of intense nostalgia. It is a familiar anxiety, one that pours into my being and consumes me at seemingly inconsequential instances; the thunder of a fighter aircraft flying by, a visit to a PAF base, a glimpse of the glorious blue, running into Abbi’s old buddies, meeting Razi’s coursemates at a wedding, the odd milli naghma playing on TV. For the same reason that I don’t sift through old photographs, have never watched Razi’s cherished collection of home videos, keep delaying selection of a spot to display his many trophies in our home in Islamabad, I dreaded watching “Parwaaz Hai Junoon”. I like being in control, and reminders of a life and love lost are uncomfortably compromising.

Young Fl Cdt Raja Rizwan Ullah Khan (Shaheed) winning the Sword of Honor.

Ambreen is AVM Akhtar Bukhari’s younger daughter. Her father and mine were great buddies. AVM Bukhari was posted at Risalpur when Razi won the prestigious sword of honor and best pilot’s trophy. We have much in common. Sohail, Ambreen’s husband, put an arm around Bilal and reassured him; “don’t worry, this happens when they meet – it’s an Air Force thing”. Bilal nodded in agreement, simultaneously reaching out in reflex as Ambreen descended upon him with open arms for a tight hug. I realized he too was caught up in the moment. He spent only three years of his life associated with the PAF, has vague memories and feels generally disconnected. But, every now and then, when confronted with reminders, especially those that appeal to his adventurous sensibilities as did this Pakistani avatar of Top Gun, the look in his eyes morphs into a whisper in my ear; “I remember this…he carried me there…we were playing dogfights…didn’t he say this?....I wish….” - and there it stands, suspended between us – Silence.

Thus had we the good fortune of watching Parwaaz Hai Junoon, a veritable homecoming for us, for which we must thank a progressively media savvy PAF and ISPR, production houses that deemed it a worthy investment, and the many advisors and artistes who brought to life a community of unique characteristics and peculiar associations – the Pakistan Air Force family. For all my trepidation, I am so glad we took our hearts along and went.

This is not a review in the traditional sense. I don’t aim to elaborate issues of editing, acting, background score, gaps in narrative. Indeed, there were many and one found various elements fairly ordinary. The final product was glossy and colorful as expected by an audience bred on bollywood and action heroes, but edits were jarring on occasion, dialogue seemed contrived sometimes, and musical score was wholly forgettable. I fail to understand using Azaan Sami Khan while immensely talented alternatives were available. Even if his dad helped from across the border the end-product was soul-less. Musafir fared better than others, connecting with the story’s sentiment, but Bhulleya and Tham Lo stumbled and fell despite promising catch-phrases and storyboard. A heavy-bike riding young maverick with a sun-kissed passenger, smirks and thumbs-up in upside down aircraft, and a general badass attitude by cadets, pilots, OCs and training staff …well….PHJ tried just a bit too hard to be Top Gun. It need not have. With a powerful storyline, well sketched characters, impressively researched scenarios, it had an overall ethos sufficient to endear it to an audience eager to engage.

No 8 Squadron, 1965. They were known as Haiders, and their motto was "Aik Aur Zarb e Haideri". They flew B-57 Bombers and were one of the highest decorated Squadrons in 1965, with probably the highest casualty rate as well. Abbi 4th from left, front row.

I was very young when Tariq Aziz produced an air force film titled “Qasam Us Waqt Ki”. I got neither head nor tail of it and thought that Tariq Aziz looked nothing like my father or any of his “partners”. Ammi hated the film, and I believe it tanked. Many years later, there was a more credible attempt on TV titled “Shahpar” in which Rizwan featured as OC Squadron (which he was) and was convinced acted stupendously well (which he did not). Shahpar did not impress me even though it made a valiant effort to depict our lives accurately. While the action was well filmed, the storyline of a pilot crashing an aircraft in girl trouble frustration rendered the plot unrealistic. A pilot’s fundamental training is to remain calm, objective and alert in the face of extreme stress, and Shahpar’s story negated this. It got good ratings amongst the average audience, but not within PAF circles.

Without a doubt, Parwaaz Hai Junoon towers over all previous attempts despite some anecdotal, artistic exaggerations.

Aerial shots were as fantastical as they come, pun intended. The unschooled reveled in them, the knowledgeable exclaimed ‘kya yaar…this maneuver is impossible… too much drama yaar!”, but all watched breathless, at the edge of their seats, scrambling with Hamza and Nadir, soaring in their F-16 Fighting Falcons and JF-17 Thunders, landing safely to raucous welcome and rousing Allah hu Akbars - heartwarming stuff that I have, a few times, been privileged to witness first-hand. ADA, flight-lines and squadrons are hallowed ground where trust in comrades, respect for machine and craft, and commitment to mission permeate the air and consume those who serve. I was particularly touched by the shout-out to “Griffins”, insignia of one of the oldest squadrons, No. 9 of Sargodha, in which my Shaheed husband served besides commanding the equally prestigious No. 11 and the unmatchable CCS. Sargodha, the “Shaheen’s” abode, deserves a story of its own….later someday.

The extent of artistic license taken with the environs in which Hamza courts his love, Sania, was amusing. In reality, depending upon the squadron he was posted at, Sqn. Ldr. Hamza could have been in Sargodha or Kamra, Jacobabad maybe? It looked like he and Sania were riding his bike down Murree Hills and trekking on Trail 3 in Islamabad, and his ever-present OC was fishing (alone) in what could only be Rawal Lake or something more heavenly up north. Maybe PAF bases have grown lakes, picturesque drives and treks, cute dhabas and khokhas and convenient nooks in which to romance and woo since I last visited; in my time, there were none such anywhere close! We would drive to Chakkiyan for world-famous daal roti and somewhere near bum-chowk one could sample Tufail’s delectable karahi. As for romantic spots, rare opportunities presented themselves during excursions to Lowertopa and Kalabagh, ski trips to Naltar and perhaps Hawkesbay and Sandspit. One was always amongst a crowd of squadron families so nothing much happened. Maybe Hamza visited Sania’s city every weekend, as did Razi when I lived in Lahore and he in Sargodha. It’s possible.

Come to think of it, I knew not one unmarried Sqn. Ldr. during my PAF years. Swashbuckling pilots are a high demand commodity and get taken early in their careers, the rank of Flt. Lt. spelling end of bachelor days for them. How did the hunk Hamza remain unattached to the ripe old rank of Sqn. Ldr. ? One wonders.

For me, the most entertaining sequence was at the academy, with the cadets. I grew up alongside cadets at Risalpur and Lowertopa as my father was long associated with training command. My pre-teen self fancied them heartthrobs, albeit somewhat lacking in social etiquette and with a peculiar pattern of spoken English (which I later discovered was equally odd in written form and continued thus throughout their lives). In pine-scented Lowertopa, my friends and I would watch the cadets march up and down the tree-lined path dubbed “lovers’ lane” and giggle at their somber faces. Our favorite cadet was Shigri - rowdy, hyperactive, artistically inclined, with a captivating singing voice – but “bohot shararti” in my mother’s words. One day, as we settled to watch an inter-house hockey match, a head-shaved Shigri jogged on to the field, a flush of embarrassment on his face. “Hai Allah, eh ki keeta tussi ?” Ammi, who felt motherly towards the cadets, exclaimed to Abbi. Our collective jaws dropped at ‘ganja Shigri” and we all looked to our fathers for explanation; “was this a punishment to our hero ?”. Abbi chuckled. I could never extract the complete story but there was a harmless little scandal, and this was Abbi’s amused and appreciative way to reprimand the young man for his reckless but courageous adventure. There were some beloved faces amongst the cadets who were Razi’s seniors – Rizvi, Alamdar, Shigri Bhai of course – who died young. Pilots ko nazar bohot lagti hai.

PHJ’s casting director deserves special appreciation. Nearly everyone fit the role hand in glove, with many stealing and some resolutely holding the limelight. Shafaat Ali stole my heart as the comical, generous, ultimately suspended cadet. With his extraordinary talent for mimicry and undeniable screen presence, he is a star in the making. Petite Hania Aamir shone bright, so uninhibited and spontaneous was she on screen, with expressive but understated emotion in her voice and on her face. Ahad Raza Mir was far better suited for this role than the heavies he has been playing on TV, and he navigated the dark shades of his character with aplomb. I thought Shaz Khan embodied the newly wedded PAF Officer; one instantly empathized with him and his equally well cast wife Kubra Khan. Amongst the many real life PAF associations in the film, Shaz Khan was one - through his grandfather Air Cdre. Masood Hatmi and his Uncle who is currently serving. Shaz’s mother Huma and I share the PAF bond; what a moment of nostalgic pride for her.

Hamza Ali Abbasi as his namesake officer was perplexing for me. He brought star power essential for box office success, but I wonder if his overzealous image and loud representation deducted rather than added. Truth be told, while PAF pilots’ task is formidable and they operate on high adrenalin, of the many that I have known in my life, only a few misguided ones were pompous, cocky and attention-seeking. My father’s generation, trained in the 50s and 60s, boasted some mavericks who would buzz their girlfriends’ homes or – as in his case – ancestral villages to show off to the gaggle of adoring aunts and uncles watching from below. Theirs was a young force, with the top boss below 40 years of age, serving an equally young nation, so irrational adventurism was expected. My husband’s generation and thereafter operates in an increasingly cautious and regulated environment, and the collective public persona of the PAF pilot is one of supreme confidence with control, humility, and often some social conservatism. But….”dil ke khush rakhne ko”….Hamza as eye candy for the nation’s young ‘uns was game. It worked.

There is much to be loved and lauded about Pakistan Air Force. The military is a great equalizer, perhaps the only institution where capable young people from all backgrounds stand an equal chance to compete and excel. I have known the son of a Mess waiter win his wings alongside that of a senior officer. Pilots are a unique community the world over, their shared characteristics crossing geographic borders. I recall officers of many nationalities in my husband’s study syndicate at Royal Air Force Staff College watching Top Gun during weekend GTs, guffawing at cringeworthy, over the top sequences, listening to the anthem on repeat and sharing stories. Love of flying dismisses all boundaries. Finally, while we all undertake jobs to earn a living and improve our worldly lot, some do more; they answer to a higher calling. PAF pilots are a few such. They are called “Shaheen" after the glorious bird, characterized by the great Iqbal in his poem of the same title. In my life, I have known many who were humbled by their status as Ghazi and preferred to be Shaheed like their fallen comrades. To them, the words of Faora in Superman rang true; “a good death is its own reward”. I have also known many Shaheeds who loved life and valued it greatly, but the essence of their existence lay in every PAF pilot’s favorite poem:

Parindon ki duniya ka dervesh hun main

Ke shaheen banata nahin aashiyana

Complete No 11 Sqn on the Third consecutive Win of the TOPGUN trophy. OC 11 Wg Cmdr Raja Rizwan Ullah Khan (Shaheed) in front.

This September, on Pakistan Air Force day, here is a prayer on behalf of those who love the Shaheens most – their families.

May you fly forever and land safely every time, hopefully in this material world to return to your loving families and warm homes. But if your destiny is to land elsewhere – upon “Arsh”, the domain of Allah and his angels - then so be it, for;

Urr ke pohoncho ge tum jis ufaq par

Sath jaye gi parwaaz meri

Epilogue

Shaheen (The Falcon)

by Allama Iqbal

With translation by Lt. Col. (Retd.) Harish Puri, Indian Army

Kiya main ne uss khakdaan se kinara

Jahan rizq ka naam hai aab-o-dana

Bayaban ki khalwat khush aati hai mujh ko

Azal se hai fitrat meri rahebana

Na baad-e-bahari, na gulcheen, na bulbul

Na beemari-e-naghma-e-ashiqana

Khayabanion se hai parhaiz laazim

Adaen hain inki bohat dilbarana

Hawa-e-bayaban se hoti hai kaari

Jawan mard ki zarbat-e-ghaziyana

Hamam-o-kabootar ka bhooka nahin main

Ke hai zindagi baaz ki zahidana

Jhapatna, palatna, palat kar jhapatna

Lahu garm rakhne ka hai ek bahana

Ye poorab, ye pacham chakoron ki duniya

Mera neelgun aasman baikarana

Parindon ki duniya ka dervesh hun mein

Ke shaheen banata nahin aashiyana

Give me not bread nor water, nor grain

I soar in the skies, I’ve forsaken all pain

The solitude, the wilderness, those are for me

For I am a falcon, I’ll always be free

No flowers, no spring, no nightingale’s song

No ballads of love, can ever belong

These colorful blossoms, these flowers I shun

Their seductive charms have often undone

The storms of the desert are ours to embrace

They forge our sinews, and give us our grace

I seek not a pigeon, a swallow or seed

For I am a falcon, and this is my creed

The swooping, the soaring the lunge & the dive

Just warm up my blood, just keep me alive

To East, to the West, the pheasants can fly

For me, I just crave the vast open sky

A dervish am I, no nesting for me

For I am a falcon, I’ll always be free

Title from the Milli Naghma “Ae Watan Ke Sajeeley Jawano” by Jamiluddin Aali

I feel like the mirror image of Karni Sena, and I’m not proud of it.

It’s not like me to take a right-wingish position on freedom of expression, especially when the medium is art, my beloved. At the fanatical height of the demonization of Salman Rushdie, I stood firm on “must read first” (until I read and…well…later, on that one). Add to that my utter devotion to anything Bollywood – art house, commercial, kitsch, even preposterous and outlandish. Thus, I surprise myself by passing up a Bhansali-Deepika-Ranveer iMax extravaganza which, in the past, has abundantly satiated my appetite for the magnum opus. In shopping mall ridden, brand enslaved, social climbing Dubai, desi movies are an abiding escape for the indifferent. I watch all Pakistani movies, good-bad-often pukey, because I have vowed to support and strengthen our film industry, perpetually on its last breath. I watch nearly all Indian movies, often equally pukey, because every now and then a brilliant one emerges and induces a euphoric “paisa wasool” high. Retail therapy doesn’t compare with the sublime gratification of 45 plus 50 (yes, I succumb to junk food…what of it? ) dirhams guiltlessly spent at the cineplex.

It is, therefore, incredible that I aim to give Padmavat a miss, not only at the local theatre but also later when it eventually screens at my second most favorite venue, Emirates Airlines. Having ….err….not watched the film, here are the reasons why - not and will not. The irony is not lost on me; as I said, I’m not proud of it, but I have resolved, and I remain resolute.

I cannot understand what Karni Sena was protesting. A Maharani’s exposed navel, her public pirouetting? They should have lapped up this nauseating tribute to Rajput honor, a mockery of history though it made. I was born into a Rajput family on my mother’s side. I also married into one, both my mother’s ancestors and my husband’s having been converted by the sword during the reign of the self-righteous Mughal Emperor, Aurangzeb, less than 400 years ago. Fairly recent, one would say, relative to our land’s ancient history, thus overly zealous as rookie converts are. Being Muslim did not undermine their Rajput-ness, though, and one grew up with tales of Rajput valor ad-nauseum. Drama queen that I was, I fancied myself a Rajput princess sending her prince off to war with a tilak of blood drawn from my thumb which I cut upon his fabled sword. What rubbish! The fact is the Rajputs fared miserably against invading adversaries, and their women’s sole claim to fame remains their haste to self-immolate after the men lost their lives in battle. Courageous they were, no doubt, but not very clever. If I were Karni Sena, I would have hailed Padmavati, sensually exposed navel and all, as the definitive depiction of Rajput grandeur rather than dig my heels in against it for so many months, having ultimately achieved nothing more than the emasculation – or should we say efeminization – of Padmavati to Padmavat.

Despite my Rajput roots and regardless of my faith, I – thankfully like most of us - hold the practice of Jauhar in contempt. Life is most precious and must not be sacrificed unless for an infinitely greater good, in defense of humanity. I consider Jauhar a cowardly act and remain confounded why mankind’s honor is associated singularly with a woman’s being, in fact lives in a woman’s body parts. Modern day misogyny owes a great debt to Sub-continental practices of rendering womankind the mascot of all ills in society, so much so that our collective cuss-words nearly all evoke imaginative, detailed degradation of the female. The day men’s vulnerable honor finds its way out of a woman’s crevices and into their own credence, conduct and courage will be the day women will become truly secure and need no more jump into the pyre which we continue to do -symbolically - at various stages of our contemporary lives. Women, too, must consciously discover their own identity free of society’s travesty. It is wonderfully romantic to be a mother, daughter, wife, sister but amidst these expedient roles one mustn’t lose “me”. Conversely, from the dregs of the social order – whore, tramp, slut – must emerge a respectable definition of a working woman who feeds and clothes her household in an unjust world crafted by bigotry, misogyny and dogma. Neither devi nor dasi, let her just be woman.

The Chittorgarh Jauhar, upon defeat at the hands of Alauddin, is a historic fact so cannot be argued. Truth is the best recourse, no matter how devastating. But I cannot condone Bhansali’s glorification of it in Padmavat because, subconsciously, such subtle messages are internalized by the gullible who often channel them into behavior. Such is the power of cinematic storytelling. Talk is that the climax is breathtaking, leaving the audience with their jaws hitting the cinema floor. If this is so, I wish he had presented it with less splendor, on a subdued scale. I wonder how the audience would react to a depiction of the aftermath of hundreds of women and children being burnt to death. Can we fathom the horror of such a visual, and would Bhansali’s Padmavat withstand this truth?

What does one say about Ranveer Singh! The man is a god of cinematic portrayal. Many great roles played by Bollywood veterans, if attempted by Ranveer, would be rendered greater. Amongst contemporary leading men, only Nawazuddin Siddiqui beats Ranveer Singh and, in my book, not just in talent and skill but also in looks (who’d’ve thought I’d ever go for the “maila” type but I concede, Nawaz is irresistible!). So, it must be expected that a villain coming to life in Ranveer’s head would give Gabbar and Mogambo a run for their money. Unfortunately, Bhansali’s ambition to give Indian cinema the greatest villain of all times drives him to self-immolate at the feet of ethical storytelling. The other casualty is the truth about Alauddin Khilji.

Invading Turk-Afghan armies, which descended in waves upon India, were never merciful. Their objective was invariably to loot, plunder and abscond, never to co-exist and settle with the local population in peace and harmony. Muslims ruled India for about 1000 years, and one cannot brush aside the treacherous nature of many Muslims despots. On the other hand, there were the Mughals, worthy of the jewel called India. Having purposefully converted their foreign status to domestic, they became recognized as settlers rather than invaders, and gifted India with her most glorious, peaceful and progressive chapter in history. The Mughals were great no doubt, and history tells us the Khiljis were less so.

But no amount of salt, taken in pinches or buckets full, can justify the characterization of Alauddin Khilji as conceived and sketched by Sanjay Leela Bhansali in Padmavat. Bhansali’s Khilji is maniacal, evil to the core, petty and superficial, ill-mannered and “dark” to boot. The lurking-shadows ambience in which Khilji dwells seems to suggest that not just he, everyone around him is imbued equally with the same menacing, negative spirit. In the sorcerous hands of Ranveer the magician, Alauddin Khilji comes to such palpable life that I am barely able to hold my gaze steady upon him in the teasers.

I wonder if every Muslim in this mythical Padmavat is malicious and evil by default, and every Hindu Rajput is resplendent and pristine? I am reminded of similar suggestions in old Pakistani films, far inferior in all aspects of production than Padmavat but equal in their ambition to portray the antagonist as a scourge of humanity. I was a mere child but I recall feeling uncomfortable, fearful and humiliated – not by the portrayal of evil but because of the injustice of projecting a community of people collectively as such. I never bought into the devious Hindu baniya draped in saffron with designs on the goody-two-shoes Muslim heroine, and I cannot accept a ridiculous caricature unabashedly hinting at inherent flaws in a man’s Muslim DNA.

I object to the appalling distortion of history as portrayed by Bhansali. I find it conspiratorial, agenda-based, and deceitful, intended to confuse generations of South Asians, Hindus and Muslims alike, about the reality of our shared heritage.

Alauddin Khilji was a merciless ruler, it is written. He was also the savior of his empire from Mongol armies biting at its borders, itching to break in and wreak havoc. Alauddin was an insatiable annexer of land, and the siege of Chittorgarh was for this purpose, and not because he was covetous of a Rajput Maharani. He ransacked neighboring kingdoms to fulfill his ambition to become Alexander II, but he patronized all learned and talented subjects in an environment of inter-racial, inter-religious harmony.

It seems fantastical that the greatest Sufi poet of all times, Ameer Khusrau, flourished and wrote his prolific, ageless and delicately refined poetry under the sponsorship of (if Bhansali is to be believed) a feral, demented monarch who pulled at and devoured meat as if he were a depraved Viking accidentally dumped in elegant, learned India. It is ironic that many who watch and believe Ranveer’s Alauddin, and indeed are repelled by him, would be Khusrau devotees enchanted by the bard’s powerful evocation of Hindu tradition alongside Muslim references.

I do not attempt a defense of Alauddin Khilji. I simply demand the statement of truth unscarred, uncolored by religious, political, territorial bias.

It does not matter whether Rani Padmini existed or not, nor is it of consequence that Malik Mohammad Jayasi penned his epic poem two hundred years after Alauddin Khilji’s death and probably drew his storyline from folklore rather than fact. Art is merely expression and is allowed liberties. I imagine Jayasi took these amply for his writing and storytellers over the years embellished as they chose. Finally, in the creative hands of Bhansali, in this polarized, intolerant world (of which I seem to be a part today!), a whole other level of artistic license has been claimed.

What matters is acknowledging and respecting the difference between fiction and non-fiction. Both are effective influencers of consumers’ thought process, sometimes even actions, but perhaps one garners greater impact than the other and, therefore, merits more cautious treatment.

With fiction, one may take infinite artistic leeway – create, form, deform, kill, revive any character or situation without fear of misrepresentation. After all, they are born in your head and there they exist – at your pleasure and command. With non-fiction, on the other hand, there must be a responsibility towards truth, albeit with some space for artistic rendition. Devotion to art must not mutilate commitment to truth. When lies are told in non-fiction, history is distorted and the future of the world is altered. Whatever it may eventually be, if based upon fabrication and lies, this cannot be good.

It is said history is written by the conqueror. Through centuries, much truth has been lost as the victorious chronicled themselves as compassionate saviors while brushing over the admirable qualities of their opponents. We are a direct outcome of history, truth and falsehood alike, and one finds no way to redeem what has already passed. However, one can certainly protest continuation of similar distortion which will push us deeper into the abyss of misinformation.

I don’t expect Padmavat to be banned. There are greater untruths on offer from Hollywood on a weekly basis and we never think of banning them. Audiences must have a choice to accept or reject, and be wise to determine the truth.

I have a choice…I choose not to watch, and I choose not to contribute my 45 dirhams to the now confirmed, stupendously successful run of Padmavat-i.

Several men in my FB group were shocked at my #MeToo related statement that “all” little girls are sexually abused at some point in their lives. Interestingly, none of the women expressed similar surprise. Maybe I overstated…perhaps not all, I reconsidered (although studies show that 8 out of 10 women are routinely harassed in public places and that most don’t report such incidents). But then I wondered what would be an acceptable statistic for my friends in denial; 50% of us, maybe just 1 of us? Would that make the transgression palatable and would they, then, feel vindicated and exclaim “it’s only half of ya’ll…stop exaggerating!”.

When I was at university in USA, an interesting debate was emerging on reverse discrimination. I found the premise ridiculous; a privileged group is not being discriminated against when another, less privileged one, gains the same rights. I feel the same way about reverse sexual harassment claims by men. The Demi Moore-Michael Douglas “Disclosure” style workplace role reversal may be a reality, but whatever its scale, it cannot diminish the colossal man-preys-on-woman power play. Any moment now I expect a male friend to throw a t-shirt captioned “Men are Sexually Harassed too” at me. Seriously…In Pakistan…where “chadar aur chardiwari” simply means harassment and violence within and “saat pardon mein” is merely an opportunity for oglers to stare-strip her, one covering at a time?

But the tables are turned, at least for the moment. I never thought I would be defending men against the sisterhood, but here I am making an honest effort to do so given some recent cases. It also fascinates me that social media is not just a vehicle to “viralize” but sometimes an accomplice in the original sin. Chinese whispers, rumor mills and grapevines were benign in comparison to tweets, trolls and self-propagating fake news. God help us!

I don’t know anyone who does not receive unsolicited friend requests on FB. Indeed, even though I’m not inclined to expand my friends’ circle, I’ve shot off requests on a whim to some – William Darlymple, Noam Chomsky, Arif Lohar, Arundhati Roy, Javed Ghamdi, Daljit Dosanjh. It turns out my choices have public pages while their personal accounts are masked, so the matter is amicably settled with a “Like” giving me a fangirl’s satisfaction that I am now part of their revered, albeit highly extended, circles.

I get a mass of friend requests, often from young boys my children’s age, invariably accompanied by a private message scaling the sinister-sleaze spectrum from the notorious “I waant to fraandship with you” to the sublime “Ma’am, I would be honoured…etc.” to the downright ridiculous “You have a lovely dp, you are so beautiful” (seriously…grey hair, sagging skin ‘n all? shiiiaaat!). It’s irritating, more because I worry for Gen Z’s mental and emotional state rather than for invasion of privacy or wasted time, but I don’t dwell upon it. I never accept, sometimes block, occasionally report. It’s a housekeeping process I undertake periodically and then forget about. I don’t consider it harassment for one simple reason; I am assured a mechanism which empowers me to reject the intrusion…to refuse…to protect myself.

There is one unsettling difference between Sharmeen’s sister’s case and mine; the hormone-driven, confused desis seeking my attention are not my doctors, and therein lies the profound matter of ethics. Some associations are fragile…lawyer-client, doctor-patient, teacher-student…and must be handled with care. The doctor transgressed in sending a request to a patient, he should have known better. But, unless he is a serial-requester and a repeat offender and unless AKUH has proof of earlier misdemeanors, that is the extent of his misjudgment and he should have been punished in equal measure... certainly reprimanded, mentored towards correction, perhaps suspended for a short period. Fiend or saint, to be fired for sending a friend request defies logic. The only concession one can make here for AKUH is that their zero-tolerance policy disallows halfway measures and this is a case of strict application.

But I insist, there is gross injustice in the matter, first through Sharmeen’s damning tweets and then by the reputable AKUH’s unwarranted choice of punishment. Numerous behavior patterns emerge, some subtle and others apparent. I’ve learnt new things while some earlier lessons are reinforced.

1. Sexual harassment is only incidentally about gender. At the heart of it lies the base instinct of “Power”; the powerful target the weak - be they men, women, institutions, countries or social classes. As Michael Douglas’s character learns in “Disclosure”, a woman with power can be a predator and a formidable antagonist. The unfortunate AKUH doctor discovered the same.

2. A victim is one who is not empowered to emerge equal to the aggressor. When empowerment is assured through an operative, monitored method, one can probably not plead victim. In this case, the recipient had at her disposal a phenomenally effective means of empowerment; click…ignore…delete...remove! If the requester persisted, she had yet more options; block…report. She was intruded upon, but she was equipped to ward off the intrusion. A declaration of sexual harassment to the world was unnecessary.

3. Entitlement, whether earned or inherited, has the potential to damage unless tempered with humility and responsibility. Recently, in Multan, a hapless mureed got his ears boxed for stepping on his misguided murshid’s foot by mistake. As power games go, I wonder how different that is from a woman of entitlement inaccurately projecting to the world a situation which eventually damaged a human being of lesser means.

4. Institutions and societies have human traits. When faced with a dilemma, they instinctively practice nepotism and side with the privileged. AKUH’s reaction was a surprise given their sterling reputation, so I give them the benefit of doubt, but I wonder if equally severe punishment would have resulted against a complaint by a random woman from the wrong side of the bridge.

5. Where power is concerned, animals practice greater restraint than humans. Animals exert power where they must, to survive. Beyond essential need, they pick no quarrels with fellow beings, big or small. Humans, on the other hand, exert power because they can, not necessarily to survive but to gain unfair advantage even if it destroys fellow beings. When Sharmeen tweeted sexual harassment to #Pakistan and beyond, I wonder if she took a moment to consider the accuracy of her declaration, or did she just do it because she could?

6. While propaganda can undeservedly overstate an achievement, negativity of brand can unfairly diminish it. Sharmeen Obaid Chinoy is an exceptional achiever. The stories she tells rankle Pakistanis because they expose our society’s dark underbelly, yet they are must-tell stories. That she opts not to patronize and glorify Pakistan but rather aims to tell stark, ugly truths about us is her choice entirely. One can wonder about her intentions but one cannot condemn her freedom to choose. Unfortunately, a grey smog of heavy- handedness, arrogance and hunger for publicity now surrounds her, especially after her latest faux pas, and this is damaging the intrinsic value of her brand. She may not care about what Pakistan thinks, but she obviously cares much for her international standing. This, I believe, will hit her where it hurts.

Atticus Finch is my favorite character in my favorite book. When I was little, knew nothing of the American South, had no concept of racism, I was so taken by his wisdom and compassion that I wanted to marry him. In my head, even before I watched the film, Atticus was as handsome as Gregory Peck and as gracious. I was smitten. I have read the book hundreds of times and Atticus’s warning to his children has forever remained with me; “Shoot all the blue jays you want, if you can hit 'em, but remember it's a sin to kill a mockingbird." In my world, every entitled, privileged Pakistani seems to be a kid with a shotgun looking to target a lesser, underprivileged fellow Pakistani – a mockingbird who does no harm and has no defense – just because she can.

Sharmeen may just have killed a mockingbird.

Image credit: wjalexander.com

My mother in law, “Amujani” to all and sundry, was the quintessential cricket fan. The game’s importance in her life could be gauged by the size of her television set which grew with every replacement in equal proportion to a faster, more colorful, and generally ubiquitous game, indeed an event, in the life of every Pakistani. Amujani’s day consisted of talking on the phone with her coterie of friends, sisters and cousins (whether there was anything pressing to speak about or not), cooking (whether there was someone readily available to consume her delectable concoctions or not), walking on her terrace reciting duas to the count of tasbeeh beads, and watching cricket on her too large TV while knitting yet another sweater, scarf or pair of mittens for a grandchild (this she did without once looking down at her nimble, pattern-magic-weaving fingers). Once ensconced before the TV, nothing - not her favorite grandchild seeking conversation nor a potentially juicy gossip session over phone – could turn her attention from a cricket match, rerun or live. The only way to divert her would be to recall a statistic related to the sprinting bowler or the batsman at the crease. Then, she would animatedly respond “Haan, itna graceful batsman hai, lekin run out ho jata hai…3 run outs mil chuke hain series mein” or “Bas speed meter ki taraf dekhta rehta hai…last over mein 2 wide kiye the”. Spot on she was as she shared these observations to Inzi and Shoaib when she met them at a wedding reception. Being good desi boys, both stood hands clasped, heads bowed and absorbed the reprimand; “Beta, thora wazan kam karo” and “Rawalpindi Express ki tarah patri se utar jaate ho”. She then launched into expert analysis of their performance sourced from statistics recalled with startling accuracy. Poor boys had to be rescued away.

When grandmas deem cricket a religion, what pressure the team must bear!

During the time when the gods of Pakistani cricket – Majid Khan, Zaheer Abbas, Asif Iqbal and more – ruled from the Oval to Qaddafi Stadium, I was studying in the US and the era passed me by. I wasn’t a fan and found days long test matches boring. Once settled back in Pakistan, married with two young children, I began following cricket in an attempt to demystify Amujani’s preoccupation with it. Like the rest of Pakistan, we watched the 1992 World Cup as a family. One minute Amujani was exclaiming at a dropped catch, the next she was advising the TV to change fielding positions. I remember rushing to the kitchen to expedite tea and snacks only to return and find Amujani prostrated on her janamaaz, hands raised in dua, tasbeeh entwined in fingers, tears streaming down her cheeks; “Ya Allah, izzat rakh le, bachon ki mehnat mein barkat daal, kafiron ko jahannum raseed kar merey Maalik”… and yet again she promised 1000 nafal. Her heartfelt supplication, along with the nation’s, bore fruit and Imran’s cornered tigers roared. Amujani’s words as she delivered a sajda have remained with me; “Allah ka khaas karam hai un maaon par jinke ye betey hain”. “Hmm, emo much” I thought, but I understood.

Every Pakistani of that generation remembers where they were the day the world came down and the flags went up, the day Pakistan was no. 1 and we took up the cup, when Khan was king, when our team ruled the world.

So, as I await Pakistan’s upcoming dangal with India, I wonder how today is different from yesterday, and what transcendental quality captured our imagination, especially women’s, during those heady days of Pakistan’s cricket glory, and why that prideful high eludes us today.

Throwing cherished feminism to the wind, I shall reach into the deepest recesses of my wishful heart and endeavor to articulate what a desi fangirl’s heart desires from Pakistani cricket. In this matter, Amujani and I – saas and bahu, otherwise occasionally contentious – channeled each other completely.

I want my team to be fearless. What went wrong earlier, how imposing the rival is, that we are David against Goliath – none of this matters. What matters is the immense-ness of your courage against the adversity of our circumstance. We are in this together, we must will each other to stay strong.

I want you not to be rattled or preoccupied. This is not about twitter trolls and meme-makers. It’s not about Sethi’s inability and Shehryar’s irrelevance, nor is it about armchair anchors and blame-spewing experts. Shed all burdens of political, personal affront. This is about a game, a team, and fans - that’s cricket, you and us. The three are sacred, the rest is noise.

Most of all, I want my team to be upright. Failure is not humiliating, failing without trying is so make an honest effort. Equally, winning is nothing when founded upon deceit because undeserved glory destroys the soul so reject the offer to cheat and win. Just say No…try it…it’s not so difficult, many before you have done it.

Remember that talent is only as good as practice to enhance skill. Talent sparkles when tempered with strategic planning and precise execution. There’s a method to the madness. You know it, but sometimes you throw discipline to the wind. Avoid the tantrums, lose the agendas. When you are a team we notice. When you are merely a collection of individuals, it shows. Unite and have each other’s back.

I like that my team has a sense of humor. To see you laugh at stressful times lifts my spirits. I want you to never stop laughing. After all, it’s only a game (?).

Perhaps you believe that a cricket team can only be as good as the nation. It’s true, but I wonder if you distinguish the good amongst us from the evil and incompetence that we are cursed with at some levels. We are a combination of all, sadly, so please differentiate. When you look for inspiration, choose the best amongst us and dismiss those that shame us. You know them well and they are of no consequence. Carry the spirit of survival that our nation embodies as you prepare to represent us.

Don’t stress over language. Speak in Punjabi and Pushto if you must. Speaking fluent English is not your job, playing awesome cricket is. Let Ramiz prove his Pakistani mettle at English, you focus on your game. One of these days, who knows, Urdu may become the spoken language of cricket. Then we shall see how the goras do!

Finally, never forget that when you walk out on to the ground, you carry with you our hearts and our pride. Each one of us, praying at home or rooting in the stadium, has pinned hope on you. This beleaguered nation looks to you to erase a bit of the humiliation and sorrow we undeservedly suffer every day. It’s a colossal burden, somewhat unfair, but there it is. Honor our pride in you, fight for your lives – and ours.

There, I’ve laid it out, and I just realized…

I’m a grandma now and I seem to have stepped unconsciously into Amujani’s cricket space. I have ignored piled up work and am oblivious to sehr-iftar chores. Here I sit, glued to the TV Amujani-like, nimble fingers working twitter and FB instead of knitting needles, preparing myself for the final as I watch what went down earlier.

I re-live the humiliation of our recent defeat against India and, like Amujani, mutter uncontrollably “Ya Allah inko….”… but ‘enuf said, I mustn’t pray for the destruction of rivals, it’s not sporty. I watch, enthralled, the poetic decimation of England at our hands and declare “(Achi pitch pe) Sarfaraz dhoka nahin de ga”. Then, I enter a mystical zone. I seek Javed at two down, I conjure up Waqar-Wasim the Sultans, I hallucinate the morphing of Bari and Moin behind the wicket, I follow Shoaib, arms outstretched, gliding joyously down the pitch, I pray for an avatar of grace – Zaheer, Asif, Inzi, Younus – to saunter into the ground, I squeal uncontrollably as Boom Boom lifts his arms up in victory. Finally, I wish upon Sarfaraz the leadership and tenacity of Imran and Misbah. May the experience of all the great Captains descend upon and strengthen him.

After all, I’m just a desi fangirl who awaits her oh-so handsome knight in shining armor, the collective called the Pakistani Cricket Team, to transport her to a magnificent world where a nation stands tall and proud of a logic-defying win by a mercurial, unpredictable, boisterous team. I don’t care if my knight falls and falters, as long as he gets up again…and again…and again. Winning lies as much in the struggle as in the achievement.

Eyes locked on to my hero, my trembling heart whispers “dhoka to nahin do ge?”

Then….

I wrote the first part a couple of years ago when Pakistan was debating our participation in a coalition force to attack Yemen. To the credit of our political and military leadership but essentially to the credit of the nation and opposition who registered their resounding outrage, we did not enter the coalition. People’s protest works, we just don’t put it into organized action enough.

This actually happened.

On a flight to Riyadh, a lovely young Saudi woman sits down next to me and promptly launches into a discussion: "Where you from?" Pakistan, I tell her with a smile. "You live Riyadh?" No, I live in Dubai and sometimes work in Riyadh. "Dubai very nice, Riyadh not nice (cute scowl)!". I know better than to agree with her. I am politically correct and hypocritical...Well, you know, every place is different....blah blah..... and we move on.

A few minutes of silence, then "Bakistan nice?" I know the answer to that one: Sometimes nice, other times not. "You drive Bakistan? You wear Abaya?" A relief to answer YES I DRIVE - I hate it but I drive, and NO I don’t wear Abaya....many do, I don’t because I don’t consider it part of my heritage, my lifestyle. There, I’ve said too much.

She goes back to her iPhone, manicured nails working magic, kohl lined eyes focused on whatever it is she is telling whomever she is messaging. Sent and done, she looks up and says "Bakistan friend of Saudia Arabia...very good friend, protect us, fight for us. Why you not fight Yemen? Bakistan must help."

Suddenly the dark eyes seem all knowing, menacing and accusing. For once in my life I’m hoping a woman really doesn’t know what she's on about, that everything they say about us is correct - we're ignorant. But she has zeroed in on me now, awaiting my answer, almost forcing it out of me.

Ofcourse Habibti, Wallah I go home and tell Raees Al Wuzarah and Fareeq Awal al Bakistan to haul ass and get our already over taxed soldiers to the holy land to fight yet another war that is not ours...defend we must. Geez, the pressure!

I don’t say all of that of course. Instead, while struggling with my seat belt and simultaneously pushing my laptop bag where the flight attendant can not see it, I attempt to explain why it’s wrong to wage wars to begin with. I am obviously not catching her attention and she isn’t listening. Back to the iPhone she has gone, maybe reporting on one truant Bakistani who has raised her voice against the well-considered coalition force to destroy ill-considered, imagined enemies. Shit!

Now I know exactly how our beseeching, befuddled, blundering politicians and bureaucrats feel when the benefactors visit and plant kisses on both their cheeks. The kiss of death!

Now….

The foul-mouthed, ill-advised Defence Minister is given to kindling controversies, sometimes intentionally and always foolishly. Recently, he has fabricated a headliner about Raheel Sharif’s leadership of the “Islamic Coalition Forces”, a job offered to the recently retired COAS by the death-kissers.

I am reminded of my sorry attempt to convince a fellow passenger that Pakistan takes principled stands on such matters based upon the nation’s opinion and preference, that we are not a trigger happy, mercenary huddle. Her “hmmff….snort…gurgle…seriously!?” kind of response lingers in my memory and I am forced to admit that I must be in fantastical denial. If the most respected and celebrated contemporary Pakistani, the only General in the world to bring extremist forces to their knees, opts for a leadership position of this nature barely two months after his retirement, ignoring procedure and the nation’s reserve, then I suppose the loathsome Defence Minister would be right to demand that all of us who live in la la land eat our words.

The “Islamic Coalition” is an oxymoron. It does not include all Islamic countries. Pakistan is, thankfully, not a member - yet. Chances are the coalition will be bombing countries who should, ideally, be in the coalition. There is likely to be severe lack of collaboration or understanding due to the Shia-Sunni divide which, it seems, this coalition nurtures rather than discourages. I find it incredible that in this day and age military coalitions are still raised and expectations of greater peace are attached to them. Have we learnt nothing from the sorry results of similar coalitions in the past?
I have more faith in General Raheel Sharif than I do in foreign governments, or my own for that matter. I believe that even if the good General has been offered such a diabolical position, the nation’s categoric NO is reaching his wise ears and if he has not already turned it down, he will do so soon. Pride has been the downfall of many. Let it not be General Sharif’s where he may fancy himself the healer of all ailments that the Islamic Ummah suffers. Those who suffer are not keen to heal themselves. Leave them be.

Image Source: herald.dawn.com

Phir kuch iss dil ko beqarari hai….Seena zoya-e-zakhm-e-kari hai.

I wretchedly mourn the latest tragedy in the air, precious lives lost and the complete destruction of my country’s once finest institution – PIA. May Allah give strength to those left behind for theirs is the toughest trial – to bear, collect, reconstruct and prosper against all odds. Not for the fainthearted is Sabr-e-Jameel.

But I mourn more. As I sit here listening to “O Sanama” for the nth time, the deepest sorrow grips my heart and the tears flow with abandon. I mourn the death of perhaps my last connection to youthful, romantic times – Junaid Jamshed. I could not imagine that the passing, no matter how tragic, of a man whose “conversion” I never fully reconciled with, whose sometimes thoughtless televangelism exasperated me, who somehow was no more Uncle Jamshed Akbar’s son as I knew him nor the handsome young lead singer of Vital Signs as all of us knew him, could evoke such deep melancholy in me. But here I am, feeling cheated and affronted that JJ was taken from us in the prime of his life.

I needed more time to digest his transformation, I wanted to confront him some day and ask what drove him to make the driving remark, I wish he knew that “O Sanama” reminds me of Razi, that I believe “Multazim pe Dua” was his heart’s voice, that his “Qaseeda” is the most heart touching of all, that I beam with pride when I see a J. shop anywhere in the world, that his phenomenal accomplishments are too many to encompass in a short note. Now that I have taken some time to think through Junaid’s extraordinary life, I am overwhelmed by all that he achieved at such a young age. How much more could he have done were he given some more time. Damn PIA!

Yes yes, I know, JJ would say that this is Allah’s choice and he goes a grateful, humble “Ashiq e Rasool”. Regardless, someone somewhere has GOT to ask the obvious question; why are compromised flying machines with questionable maintenance so often the carriers to such destiny?
 
For the past several years I, like most Pakistanis, have been preoccupied with his transformed avatar, the religious evangelist. Whether on this side of it or that, we have had much to say about what we love or hate about JJ. One thing has never diminished in his life; the following. Handsome young musician, gifted and business savvy designer, imposing and opinionated televangelist – he has had us eating out of his hands one way or the other.

Along the way, we seem to have put his original music aside, which is regretful. He probably preferred this, certainly he seemed happy with his newly acquired audience, equally devoted to him as were the earlier lot whom he abandoned. I cannot imagine a Pakistani whose life events are not connected with one or other of JJ’s songs. Memories come flooding back, of happier times with “Aitbaar” playing on repeat as we drove along the motorway, of full throated “Dil Dil” chorus with little Muns and Mur, of “Amreeka ke na Japan ke…Hum to hain deewane Multan ke” becoming a slogan of sorts, of “Tumhara Aur Mera Naam” being the original breakup song, and – for me, most of all – “Teri tasveerien, teri tehreerein…Ghar mein mere phaila hua hai yehi samaan” that transcribed my broken heart. Here come the tears again.

As I sit here, now moving on to “Ilahi Teri Chaukhat Par” and “Mere Dil Badal Dai” - JJ’s life-songs, I am grateful for the appreciation I feel for these gems equally as much as I did his earlier music. Indeed Allah was generous with this golden child for granting him the opportunity to remain connected with his beloved music despite the choice he made to abandon a particular kind. JJ was ubiquitous; TV, social media, designer clothing, accessories. But as I write this fangirl memoriam, all his other personas recede into the background and I recall only the Junaid of my youth, the PAF brat whom the Air Force was so proud of, who was king of our music world and whose songs Razi, our children and I loved. This is how I will always remember him – guitar in hand, brown eyes sparkling, tall and handsome, soft voice urging me along “Kyun na chunein woh raasta…Jiss per nahin koi gaya”. How many of us he inspired to take the path less travelled!

Go with Allah JJ. There was much I disagreed with you on, but there was more I appreciated about you, and yet more I should have given you credit for. I am grateful for the music you gave us as well as the spiritual lessons you so earnestly and expectantly delivered. More than your words, the pathos in your voice convinced me that you were Ashiq e Rasool, and I pray that you may be received with love by the one whom you adored.

In this world, the transitory one, I hold your words to my heart, with tears; “Aitbaar bhi aa hi jaey ga, Milo to sahi….Raasta koi mil hi jaey ga, Chalo to sahi”.

Keeping the faith.

In 2011, a few months after Egypt ousted the military ruler Hosni Mubarak, I happened to be in Cairo. Still on mild security alert, the city was pumped and euphoric. Curiosity always gets the better of me where international politics is concerned so between meetings, planning sessions and random “shai” breaks, I proceeded to do what I do best – ask questions. There was no shortage of opinions, popular sentiment being “We did it, we are King Kong, bring on another misguided military monster and we shall devour him like we did this one”. “Hmm, that’s awesome” I responded; non-committal, polite and correct because I was in their country and it was their business.

Then, some smart-ass blurted “This is Egypt (pelvic thrust to accompany). We are not Pakistan”. The derogatory insinuation in that poorly chosen remark ignited a slow boil up my spine and exploded in my head. “Damn right you’re not!” Since I had prefixed my rant with a cuss word, I figured I might as well complete the thought. “It took you decades to muster the courage to challenge a dictator, the first such accomplishment in your history. Pakistan has stared down five and we are still standing to tell the tale. There is no chest thumping though, because the beating that we endure repeatedly has taken its toll and we are exhausted. I am not sure if you will remain steadfast in your resolve to confront dictatorship, but Pakistan has proven time and again that we will”.

That was my “Tera kya ho ga Kaalia” moment in Cairo. Fast forward two years and Egypt had a spanking new coup maker, Gen Al-Sisi. So much for Kaalia.

Last month, the Turkish people conducted a defiant street fight against presumptuous coup makers, showing them who’s boss. Their President, whose popularity one is not fully convinced of - at least not in the urban centers of the country – would have this extraordinary feat pocketed as his victory and emphatic proof of his popularity. I don’t believe it was, and Turkish friends anxiously try to explain the reason why they took to the streets. “We may or may not agree with Erdogan, and we love and respect our military, but we will never allow democracy to be derailed by the military.” For their courage and resolve, they are now rewarded with a crackdown in Turkey that would put a dictatorship to shame. It’s a price the nation pays for its chosen system of government. It may be broken, but in its worst state it is better than a dictatorship, so my Turkish friends tell me.

The incompetent, ill-advised, unfortunate man named Mian Nawaz Sharif, of #MereyMulkKaPMChorHai fame, fancies himself a desi Recep Tayyip Erdogan and revels in the misconception that the Pakistani nation will rise up in his favor against a frustratingly powerful Army in similar fashion. If he happens to read this, I would refer him to the paragraph above or, if as you say he doesn’t read, I would shout so he hears me in Raiwind; “you ain’t no Erdogan, this ain’t Turkey and – puhleez – that’s Raheel Sharif you’re messin’ with!”. In short, he need have no doubt that Pakistanis will not support a military coup, but he must get his limited faculties around the fact that it would not be for the love of him nor for the slightest disrespect towards the most proficient, battle-hardened military force in the world.

Pakistanis, military and civilian alike, will reject a coup for the same reason we stoically suffer horrific train-wrecks like PPP and PMLN governments; we have understood that it is our collective responsibility to give democracy the chance it deserves to grow and prosper.

This, then, defines Pakistan for me, and this is why – in the words of my slang-slinging children – “I Feels the Dheets for Mera Watan”. Translated, I remain bullish on Pakistan, betting on a steadily maturing democracy, standing by what I believe to be the most resilient nation in the world.

So, today on August 14th, my thoughts remain with the thousands of countrymen we have lost to violence, intolerance and bigotry. My generation cannot be forgiven our failure to secure our children’s future and, as parents, we shall forever suffer this shame. But this is a new day, and I remain expectant and excited about how young Pakistan intends to steer this country.

The green shines bright, the white flutters in harmony; Salgirah Mubarik Merey Watan.