Classified Information From Pakistan

“Well, we are not concerned with your mazhab. Police verification is necessary for all faiths from India,” he retreats sternly into his corner. Aided by forms in triplicate and pictures in Polaroid, I become an entry in a dog-eared register.

Yusuf, my chaperone, whisks me on a tour of the sites. An ex-Army man, his eyes flit back and forth over the rear-view mirror. Photography has to be done from the moving car since sinister men in mufti have heckled him for visiting the Indian Embassy once too often. The halls of Lok Virsa, the cultural museum, are deserted except for a family licking ice-creams as they contemplate Baluchi jewellery. A drive through salubrious forests winds up to the placid waters of Rawal Lake. Boringly Badhkalesque, it is obviously a popular spot with a local populace starved for imaginative recreational options. Families chatter animatedly about the beauteous locale while a couple of non-resident Pakistanis analyze comparisons with Lake Tahoe.

Fading silhouettes of the Shah Faisal Mosque and the Saudi Pak Tower herald twilight. Yusuf is unhappy that we Hindus burn our dead and that despite his zealous rhetoric he has failed to convert me.

“There’s this cool party on tonight,” my cousin offers. But isn’t this alcohol-parched country where women mingle with men like sugar mixes with cold water? Yet, politely I express enthusiasm. Islamabad at Night begins. First stop is the feudal lord’s bungalow. Reclining in his study, bristling with shelves stacked with books on guns, he dismisses Romeo and Juliet cigars as `rather pedestrian.’ From behind the rosewood bar, his wife produces Polish crystal and Scotch Whiskey with consummate matter of factness.

“I am sorry, we don’t have rum,” she pleads, taken aback at my request. “Don’t be difficult,” my cousin scolds and continues to discuss the Argentine ambassador’s skills at trap shooting. Have you been to India, I ask their pretty daughter? “No,” she gushes, “Actually, we haven’t been anywhere east of Pakistan except Hong Kong.” She’s so well brought up that she manages to sound apologetic about it.

The lord declines to join us for the main fare of the evening. Later, my cousin tells me that he’s gone to a different kind of party. One with lots of men and a few dancing women. The scene of our affair is a silent screen playing MTV, crisp techno music from the basement dance floor and an open air bar which would put a Bollywood party layout to shame. Islamabad is as dry as Haryana during the Prohibition. Our cool party gets cooler with the passing minute. Robed in a shimmering evening gown and waving her Marlboro Light, the middle-aged hostess with an estate in the English country enthralls me with her passion for designing fashionable furnishings. The football shaped candle on the table and the mushroom shaped stool with an electric bulb in the seat are her latest. The Chagai Collection, dahling.

The crowd filters in and I try hard not to ogle at some of the sveltest women in red jeans, halter tops, tight skirts and oh-so-smooth arms that I’ve seen on either side of the border. However, all, but theGovernor of Sindh’s comely grand daughter are married. And what a coincidence, she’s just been to India! India is truly happening in this ripping gathering.

Vincent, the barman waxes eloquent about two blissful months in Chandni Chowk in the scorching heat of June. He was so bowled over by the heady combination that he never ventured south of the Red Fort. It is an evening of many firsts. I get to meet my first Pakistani celebrity, the lead singer from Junoon, Ali Azmat, who is extremely particular about wearing blue dark glasses at night. His companion, Tiger Lily, rouged and painted, and draped in an imitation tiger skin sarong, heralds a brave new world as Islamabad’s first uncloseted gay. A solemnly drunken pledge to promote Indo-Pak friendship with a scion of Pakistan’s prominent publishing family marks my first step into cross-border joint working groups. With two plucky comebacks from inebriated retirements behind her, our swaying hostess grips tenaciously on to her rum and coke when she finallyslurs us goodbye.

Next morning, I seek to cleanse my sins of the evening in the hushed silence of the Shah Faisal Mosque. Indecently attired in bermudas, my cousin has to wait outside. An awesome calm resonates under the spectacular chandelier of the prayer hall but my reverie is broken by the maulvi’s firm direction to leave my camera outside and then bring myself inside for namaaz. Instead, I wander off to watch a group of beefy Afghans playing soccer in the shade of the sleek contours. Losing track of time in the immensity of the structure, I stroll out to find my cousin donning a pair of trousers to come looking for me.“Thank God, I thought they grabbed you.”

Banighala is Islamabad’s Chhattarpur. It is a land of ghastly farmhouse mansions and dusty wakes blown by gleaming Pajeros. Taking over the wheel, I breeze down on country tracks, glowing with the petty thrill of breaking their law. An achaar gosht lunch only fuels the appetite for nihaari at the Aabpara bazaar. Clad in brand new Peshawari sandals, watching the sprawling triangle of the twinkling city from Daman-i-Koh viewpoint in the warm dusky light brings up the panoramic finale.

On the way to the airport, my cousin’s son inadvertently gives away the truth behind their greatest weapon. Practising with a cricket ball wrapped up in scotch tape is the technology behind the reverse swing, he reveals. And contrary to allegations, it is totally indigenous. Armed with this bit of classified information, I hasten back to the saffron corner.