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.   

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. 

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

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.