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

As an Air Force wife who saw her combat pilot husband through war operations and a highly charged flying career, my mother witnessed many fatal air crashes. Abbi, my father, landed safely night after night but many of his comrades did not, leaving behind an uncertain future for their young wives and small children. Through numerous personal and communal misfortunes, Ammi remained true to her Rajput spirit and a military wife’s commitment to duty. Mrs. Air Marshal Ayaz, a close friend of Ammi’s, reminded me once that through peace and war, whenever a tragedy occurred, Ammi was invariably the first one to arrive at the stricken household and could be found holding the young widow’s hand, hugging her recently orphaned children, looking after the fallen flyer’s aged parents while their traumatized daughter-in-law gathered her bearings. Everyone who knew Ammi as a young Air Force wife recollects the strength and compassion she brought to the community of air warriors amongst whom she lived. 

So, today as we step into Naya Pakistan with hope and resolve, I dedicate this tribute to the air warrior’s wife, she who marries into a role that is singularly demanding but one she embraces with heart and soul – Shani and Anjum, Naseem and Ida, Jean, Mehernigar, Nayyar and Saira and Samina, Ruby, Riffat and Bilquis – and a few hundred others, widowed or thankfully not, each of who deserves acknowledgment for her silent contribution in ensuring this independence we so cherish. 

Most of all I dedicate this to the quintessential Air Force wife, my mother.

Ammi was in her early twenties when her father, Col. Dr. Mohammad Sharif, OC CMH Mardan, accepted a marriage proposal for her from Capt. (Retd.) Mohammad Ajaib for his son, Flt. Lt. Rais Ahmad Rafi. Her father favored education for his daughters and encouraged them to adopt professions, but theirs was a conservative Punjabi family. Abbi fondly told stories about the “rishta” process. He had never seen her and once, when he visited Mardan after their engagement, he was told by a well-wisher trying to arrange a "sighting", "do larkiyan abhi college ke liye ghar se niklein gi, aik lambi hai...wohi wali hai". He forgot to mention that they would both be in burka, so the eager groom-to-be was bitterly disappointed although he noticed that his intended bride was indeed tall with a graceful and stately form. Abbi reminisced often about the first time he saw her face, through the mirror during "arsi mashaf". He said he was spellbound, never having seen eyes so beautiful. Ammi was characteristically less expressive and all I ever got out of her was "my sisters told me he has blonde hair and grey eyes...angrez lagta hai....but I didn’t believe them. Then I saw him when he visited us in Mardan. Haan, bilkul angrez hi lagtey the". Matter of fact, to the point - the Ammi way.

Burka-clad and tearful, Ammi boarded the train from Mardan to travel with her dashing young pilot husband to Karachi. She left a large and close-knit family to find a new life and make new friends in his Air Force world. Abbi regaled us with stories about the train journey. "Across four stations she wouldn’t stop crying, nor talk to me. Then, tears well-shed, she wiped her face and took charge. She secured the luggage which I had randomly placed across the floor, spread the bedding out for me on the sleeping berth, then asked me to order tea”.  “That was so Ammi”, I thought. Tea was her go-to strategy to tackle every crisis in life.  She said she could think better with a tea cup (never a mug, always a cup) in her hand. “Tears and home forgotten, she has been in-charge since" Abbi chuckled. 

Abbi had lied to her that he had a flat allotted. The Air Force has a complex process of “points collection” for allotment of housing to junior officers.  The more points you have, which are based upon myriad criteria not all having to do with rank and seniority, the better chances of securing living quarters.  Abbi, sheepish and defensive, told his new bride he didn’t have enough points and therefore had no place to take her.  “Tussaan pehlaan nai dassiya!” Ammi gave him an accusatory look and rightfully objected, implying she would happily have stayed with her family a few months until living quarters became available. “Her father had asked me” Abbi would admit while recalling the event. “Barkhurdar, you have housing allotted I hope?” my Nana inquired, one military man to another. “Haan jee, all is ready Sir, please do not worry" lied the unremorseful young man, all too aware that awaiting points could last months, years sometimes. “Jhoot bola tha!" Ammi would exclaim during every re-telling of the story, never having forgiven this first breach of trust. Upon arrival at Karachi train station, they were picked up by Abbi's cousin, Uncle G.A. Khan, also a PAF officer and their host for several months while PAF Station Mauripur was made to feel pity and urged to allocate a flat to the homeless newlyweds. “It was the done thing then”, Ammi recalled “Hamarey paas bhi kaee couples aa ke thehrey the….we were family, all PAF. Ab nahin hota”. They were finally allotted a flat across from the “Jhooley Bagh” - Children's Park - in the old RPAF barracks. Ever the efficient homemaker, Ammi turned the old flat into a warm and comfortable home. I was born while they lived there. Of course, I don’t remember the place but I have seen pictures of it - Abbi in his coveralls on the balcony with my brother and I in his arms. I must look for those gems in her “petiyan” lying silently at our home in Islamabad, awaiting exploration. Ammi was a picture-taker…. I’m sure she would have been a selfie queen were she alive today.

Ammi discarded the burka at Abbi's suggestion but of her own choice. Abbi often said that the Air Force transformed her. She learnt to drive on the then wide and well paved roads of Karachi, from Mauripur to Victoria Road to Elphinstone Street, to the railway station and the airport (since she would be the one to pick up guests arriving in Karachi either for a visit or on their way abroad, Karachi being the only airport at the time to offer international flights). Abbi expressed great pride in helping a shy young girl discover a confident woman in herself. 

I thought Ammi was the most beautiful creature on earth. I would stand by the mirror looking at her when she dressed for parties. I cherished my job as her dress-up assistant, fixing the pins in her hair, tucking and pulling the sari so that the fall would be even and only so much skin showed. Ammi wasn’t physically expressive, did not hug and kiss me often, but when she looked at herself in the mirror and her eyes approved of my handiwork on her clothes, I felt that a warm and loving embrace had encircled me completely. I cannot imagine Ammi being shy or underconfident ever in her life. When we visited her parents’ home in Jhelum, she would don her brown burka when venturing out, and I recall a sensation of anger and frustration every time she did. Her burka was very stylish, but I did not appreciate it; in it, she did not look like my mother and that bothered me. One could not tell Ammi to not wear it, she was far too reserved to entertain personal questions. I told Abbi though, persistently, until one day I found Ammi had packed the burka away for good. I never saw it again, in Jhelum, during visits to the village, anywhere at all. She didn’t acknowledge my objection, but she listened and responded, in her own way.

Ammi and I had a difficult relationship. She was strict and reserved, a disciplinarian with an expectation of compliance and propriety. I was born bohemian, irreverent and careless. Molding myself into her preference was not easy for me, but I did it throughout my life partially because she scared the living daylights out of me, but also because I felt Abbi too preferred it that way. The only thing that mattered to me more than proving to Ammi that I could be "well put together", like her, was impressing my father. So, I became the person my parents wanted me to be, but with a softly burning hope-flame in my heart that once I was married, I could be different - less proper, more myself.

It did not happen. Razi was Ammi's choice, the one she loved, perhaps, more than her own children (since she was the first one in whose arms he arrived after he was born, the adoring, permanently connected khala). If ever there was anyone equally correct as Ammi, it was Razi. I went from being a "good daughter" to a "good PAF wife". Well, I thought I was good anyway, although I suspect my rebellion raised its impatient head occasionally because Razi encouraged me to be myself, even as Abbi had encouraged Ammi to be herself.

Ammi’s extreme discipline manifested in all aspects of life – except one. To her grandchildren – Andaleeb and Taimur, and later the rest - she was “Ammi” with a reverse profile; doting, physically expressive, playful, and uncharacteristically generous to spoil. I discovered Ammi’s anxious need for a baby when my first child was born.  I was wholly committed to parking my professional career and devoting my time to bringing up Andaleeb – until Ammi kidnapped her.  I am sure she planned it all, cleverly convincing my father and my impressionable mother in law that I was not fit to look after their newly minted, universally adored grandchild. Young as I was, and not accustomed to being housebound, I struggled with the baby as do all first-time moms.  For a week, Ammi pretended to guide and advise me. One day, as I frustrated myself and the baby with a clumsy feeding-changing-sleeping routine, Ammi barged into my room, scooped Andaleeb up, thrust a formula bottle in her eager mouth, wagged an admonishing finger at me, and together they floated away to her bedroom. Protesting, I jumped out of bed and shuffled hurriedly behind her only to find the baby sound asleep between Abbi and Ammi, their smiling faces staring adoringly at her. It was a decisive moment; I wanted to grab my child, reprimand Ammi for putting her on formula, and claim ownership. Instead, harassed and intimated by Ammi’s stare down, murderous “look”, I dragged myself away, crashed on the bed, fretted for a minute and a half, then fell dead asleep. The next day, my parents in law were asked to drive down from Murree, a call was made to Razi in Sargodha, and it was decided that I should return to work as early as possible, the baby being in the incomparable care of conspiratorial Nani and Dadi, accomplice Nana and Dada, an excitable teenage Khala, and a dozen household helpers.  Andaleeb lived with Ammi for 3 years as Razi and I moved to Karachi. In between, I returned home to give birth to Taimur. Ammi decided to be generous and let me take him back to Karachi, but my first born was returned to me only when we moved closer to Ammi. I don’t believe Andaleeb considers me her mother.  Deep in her subconscious, we are equal – Ammi’s children.     

My mother was the original liberated female, and the Air Force contributed greatly to her evolution from a burqa-clad conservative Punjabi girl to the socially confident, stylish homemaker she eventually became. With her plucky personality, Ammi took to her new surroundings like a fish to water and became one of the more popular welfare workers and hostesses of the Air Force. During my husband’s tenure at PAF Base Masroor, as I struggled with cooking classes conducted by the legendary Juma Khan, I was duly admonished by the great chef upon my disastrous attempt to raise a souffle. The rebuke - “Bibi, Aap apni Ammi ki tarah khana nahin paka sakteen; woh baat nahin hai” – was quite heartwarming. Ammi was equally popular as the Defence Attache’s wife in USA where she cooked up a storm every few weeks for international guests. Her able representation of Pakistan created much goodwill amongst the diplomatic community. Of course, Ammi never totally cast off her innate propriety. In true Rajputi tradition, she would offer her lowered head to anyone she noticed moving towards her with puckered lips. Many a State Department official kissed my mother on her head and staggered away dumbstruck. Except for her resolute refusal to receive a peck on the cheek by men despite their brotherly intentions, Ammi was often the belle of the ball! I believe it was Ammi’s association with the Air Force that broadened her mind and expanded her heart enough to encourage her own daughters to pursue careers. The spirit of adventure that she was imbued with also made her bless my daunting plan to offer higher education scholarships to needy young Pakistanis in my Shaheed husband’s name. Several children of low income families have attended the best professional colleges in the country because Ammi chose to help me give something back to Pakistan.

Speaking of Naya Pakistan, Ammi’s memorable encounter with its architect – well, not with him exactly, but close - was a story she told with relish. Imran had brought Jemima and their new baby to live in Islamabad’s swanky E-7 sector, and they took a bungalow around the corner from my parents’. The neighborhood was abuzz with talk of Imran’s new bride, and particularly concerned were the “begum” brigade and their collective household staff about the gori’s longevity in Pakistan, given the radically different lifestyle she had left behind.  Ammi fretted much, sending duas with “phoonks” of sympathetic concern across the walls dividing her and Jemima. Then one day she did what good neighbors in her world did; she prepared a tray full of goodies – samosas, haleem, kheer – placed her best embroidered tray cloth over the delectables and marched herself and her beloved companion Parveen the cleaning lady to Jemima’s home. In her version of the story, she rang the bell and Jemima “aapey” opened the door, an indication that she was utterly untutored in snooty Isloo ways. Ammi presented the “shagan” along with a discreet envelope of salami, welcomed her and wished her well.  In Ammi’s story, Jemima loved the haleem, they chatted at length, shared a pot of tea, and she departed after offering some wise words of advice. “What advice!?” we shrieked, incredulous. “Imran de baarey vich thora warn keeta si, bas.  Sohna bohat ae, kuriyan chiryan picha naeen chad diyan, that’s all”. None of us believed her, except Parveen who swears by it to this day.

Ammi’s gesture to align socially with the celebrity couple did not extend to Imran’s political play, and I find it ironic that I write about her today, on the eve of our nation’s new beginning under his leadership.  Ammi was a politically aware citizen who believed in grassroots representation and activism. Proprietors and shopkeepers with businesses in our neighborhood knew her well.  When Siddique Sweets of Rana Market was a mere startup, Ammi commissioned it to supply mithai for my wedding.  The business has not looked back since. She was one of the first locals to discover the khokha at Pir Sohawa and remained disgruntled with the sneaky commercialization of the picturesque spot. Ammi could be found in any random real estate shop in Jinnah Market, drinking tea and discussing plot prices.  She campaigned endlessly to make the Gol Market area a no-drive zone and the dusty little ground not far away a play area for the children of French Colony.  Gol Market in Jinnah Market still suffers endless traffic, but the children have a nice park on the main road. Win some, lose some.  

Thus it transpired that Ammi’s candidate during repeated elections remained Mian Aslam of MMA. I was horrified, “MMA? Ammi, what on earth do you have in common with them?” I challenged her. “Nothing”, she replied calmly, “except our community. Woh har dukandaar ko jantaa hai, har gali aur mohalley ke masley samajhta hai. I don’t have to vote for his religious alliance, I will vote for his suitability for my community”.  If ever there was a secular statement for a religiously affiliated candidate, this was it! She had another peeve, and his name was Ahmed Raza Kasuri, the hapless candidate for PTI.  “Kadi naee aya vote mangan, bas partiyan shartiyan te nazr aa janda ae”, Ammi was not impressed. Eventually, Mr. Kasuri showed up at her door one day. She was as candid as a well-mannered PAF hostess could be; welcomed him and offered tea, listened to him and finally saw him off with “tussi umeed na rakhna, mera vote te nahin miley ga, but my children intend to vote for PTI so they must vote for you”. He lost, Mian Aslam won and Ammi reminded her candidate once again about the lack of security in our sector due to the growing presence of violent, angry elements.  For Islamabad, in those days, her concerns proved prophetic.

The quiet courage of the women of my community has reverberated around me all of my life and I am now beginning to tell their story. Shani Auntie was in her early twenties when her husband embraced shahadat. In her college uniform, she looked as if she was yet to be married let alone be mother of two boys. It was a few years before my friend Lesley Ann Middlecoat received confirmation that her father was not missing in action anymore but had died in the line of duty. Her mother’s trip to our boarding school in Murree to break the news to Lesley must have been long and painful. Naseem Ashfaq is as charming today as the day she was left with a toddler by her side, a baby in her arms and no clear direction in life. A generation later, there is the spirited Ruby from whom I subconsciously imbibe the etiquette of widowhood. My mother made me aware that these are special women, simply by the way she treated me after I became one of them. Weak as she was and barely able to move, she would sit up and receive me every time I walked into her room. She had taken to kissing my hand reverently as if I were older, and bigger, than her. She would speak of happy things to me, encourage me to remain strong, tell me lies about how she was feeling better than she looked, and finally, unable to continue the pretense, would fall apart and cry. I understood her predicament; without Razi, she saw me un-whole. She was too used to looking after me and wanted desperately to continue but couldn’t. I did not spend much time with Ammi during her illness. Her helpless tears and desolate eyes were more than I could bear, and the realization that I was about to lose my other anchor in life terrified me. I was shocked that another human being felt my pain so intensely and was determined to channel it out of me, into herself. Yet, I believe Ammi understood and did not begrudge me the detachment. Of all the people who have attempted to analyze my emotional and mental state, my mother is the only one who knew exactly what space I existed in.

In the end, cancer rapidly devoured Ammi’s insides and chemotherapy left her exhausted, virtually speechless with pain. For the first time in my life I found my mother sleeping late and I recalled the advice this veteran flyer’s wife gave me several years ago, out of unbounded love for the institution into which she had married. “A pilot’s wife must awaken at the crack of dawn. Don’t let him leave without a prayer, a smile”….and she left the rest…. “he may never return home, and you may regret not wishing him”…. unsaid, as pilots’ wives are wont to do. I could never match her vigilance, but I made an effort. I wished, but sometimes….I do regret.

Ammi is no more, neither is Razi - the two people who created the greatest awe in me, but also protected and loved me most. I have eventually come into my own; independent, liberated, somewhat bohemian, highly irreverent. Ammi is not around to give me "the look" and Razi is not here to defend me regardless of how much my ways challenged his sensibilities. I had to lose them to find myself, a price too high for a return too low, sadly.

Happy Independence Day Ammi. I wish you were here today to see Naya Pakistan dawn upon us, even though you may have again voted for Mian Aslam of MMA.  I would happily have left my grandchildren in your superlative care.  I can see us – you, Ayesha and I – sitting in your beloved, pampered, lusciously green front lawn, sipping tea from proper tea cups, gossiping and laughing. We would have been good friends, I am sure. 

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.

Darling little soul,

You have arrived just two weeks ago, in the far away land of the United States of America, and we have not yet met. Your father, away from home since he was 17, is feeling emotions he says he cannot describe. I imagine, for him, your arrival is like coming home. He is ecstatic. Your mother grew more beautiful every day while she carried you, and is dressing you in her favorite florals. Two pink, flowery people! Motherhood becomes her, it is easy to see.

We have not yet met, but I can see that you are a chip off the Chib Rajput block. That face, with droopy cheeks and long-lashed, wide apart eyes, would fit right in with other little girls in the villages of Chak Natha and Balani. You seem like an inquisitive, feisty child, impatient to discover the world, eager to embrace experiences, ready to live with passion. I hope you will practice caution, but I have a feeling you will throw it to the wind first.  

As girls do, you will change and evolve as you grow and, hopefully, eventually turn out tall, slim and graceful like your mother. For now, despite the fact that feature for feature you take after your father’s paternal side of the family, I get the feeling that – well – you look like me! How fascinating is that? I watch the latest video and see you open your one-week old eyes and curl up that soft yet resolute mouth. You look straight at me and smile, and I feel like I’m looking at myself. I instinctively know what you are thinking; “Here I am, curious as hell…don’t try to stop me. I think I’ll do something naughty now”. That’s me, diving in head first, consequences be damned.

Your parents have named you Ranya – the Conqueror. It is said one takes on the characteristics of one’s name. I pray it is indeed so, and I look forward to watching you conquer life.

You will not be able to read this for some years, and subsequently you may not be interested. Children become attentive to those they spend time with, and with you and I separated by oceans and continents I doubt we will have much more than a digital  relationship. I will adore you from afar and you will know of a loving grandmother without palpably experiencing her utter devotion to you. I wanted to write this in Urdu but that would complicate matters further.  Sadly, neither Urdu nor Punjabi, nor Pashto or Farsi from your mother’s side, will become part of your repertoire. Living in the US, you will be an English speaker (as much as is possible for Americans!). It would be too much effort for your parents to help you develop multilingual skills.  I can only hope that, like Zaraan, you are able to understand your mother tongue and adorably pepper your conversation with lilting words of Urdu; “paani, dudu, ‘raam se, ganda bacha”, the irresistible “godi” and the must-learn-taught-by-me “ullu patha”.  

The first time your mother shares this letter with you will be when you are old enough to read and understand it. You may want to keep it with you and read it again and again. You may even find it fascinating and precious. Whenever I visit, you will excitedly fetch the letter from your special storage box-hiding place (or just pop it up on your ipad from the blog – digital, I forget!) and show it to me, saying “Baba says you wrote this for me…can we read it together?”  Zaraan has discovered that I am not patient with little people and, therefore, has learnt to ignore me unless the matter is about swimming, gulping down candy before his parents discover us, and of course bringing him surprises from my unending travels. You may form the same opinion about impatient me, but I promise to do my best to read this to you again and again, as many times as you would like.  In fact, I plan to write something every year for each of my grandchildren (two thus far) on their respective birthdays and leave my writings secreted here and there – folded between the pages of my books, nestled amongst pictures in an album, filed away in the briefcase that belonged to your grandfather and still carries remnants of another life (the one that Billu has instructions to grab before running in case the building catches fire – he can leave me behind but he mustn’t forget the briefcase!).  It would be like a treasure hunt not just for you but for your parents, my final game play forcing them to discover me all over again after I’m gone. 

I hope to live long enough to see you a grown woman of character, personality and learning. So proud would I be were you to become even more academically accomplished than your exceptional parents. I would like to be here when you find love and bear children. And darling child, I would rest most peacefully knowing you have evolved into a generous, courageous and fair-minded individual whose presence in this world enhances rather than diminishes its goodness. 

But I may not be around that long, and yet I want to be part of your life’s journey one way or the other. So, overjoyed as I am to simply have you – Allah’s special gift abundantly making up for what He took away – I must say all that I want to say, now before it is too late. 

These are life-lessons that have been revealed to me, sometimes in a timely manner so I could benefit from them and other times too late so I can only hope they benefit my children. Consider them, sweetheart, even if you find some over-rated. 

Amujani would remind me “Allah ne hukm diya hai keh maa baap ko kabhi Uff nahin kehna”. On good days I thought “Why would I?” but most days I felt “Well if they deserve it, I will”.  Such arrogance, I learnt too late. Healthy, capable, dependable parents are too valuable to criticize, so we typically don’t. It is when they are old and feeble, somewhat irritable, less central to our existence that we lose patience and exclaim “Uff, stop, don’t, how can you”. Negativity enters our conversation and envelopes our being, rendering us a burden on earth rather than the blessing we were meant to be. Cherish your parents, Ranya. They brought you into this world because such is the circle of life, and at great cost to themselves. They will always love you unconditionally.  You must do the same, only longer, better, greater. Dismiss the option of “Uff” for your parents.

The lyrical Surah Rahman repeats a thought provoking refrain which translates as “Aur tum apney Rab ki kaun kaunsi naimat ko jhutlao ge?”.  Ponder it, recognize and appreciate the generosity of nature, people, the Divine, and destiny. I pray that your world is never dark, but if ever you despair, count your many blessings and know that more than the bad, there is good - though sometimes camouflaged and unrecognizable. Expand your heart, receive the good.  

But Ranya, a flexible and accommodating approach to life does not mean one must demand nothing.  Quite the contrary.  You must nurture an unquenchable thirst for ever more and steadfastly expect the absolute best from life - but first from yourself.   

Hold an unwavering belief that you are worthy, and strive with your entire being to be the best version of yourself. 

You will probably not read Urdu well, maybe not at all (a beautiful language, sadly devalued), but I hope your parents will introduce the great Iqbal to you.  Much is lost in translation so try to understand his poetry in Urdu. He has written equally well in English…perhaps you can start there.  Iqbal articulated the concept of “Khudi”, the confidence and worthiness of self sans ego. It’s a complex concept for the young to grasp, but if you seek it you will find understanding.  You are worthy of the best that life has to offer and you must demand it; let destiny obtain your approval before getting written! Be strong, Ranya, to chase your dreams all the way to realization and even stronger to say NO to what you judge to be wrong, what you know will cause destruction, what may harm even the most insignificant being on earth.  Most importantly, say no to whatever may not make you happy. Don’t compromise on positivity, resist negativity.  

So, my dear, respect and appreciate the opportunities that you are born into, set near impossible goals and surprise us all by achieving them. Just be sure not to step over anyone else’s advantage in the process. In that case, walk away and know that ambition, no matter how worthy, is never better than compassion. Through it all, love your parents and be a happy girl because this is the best you can do for them – to be happy.

Conquer the world darling little soul, and be the best Ranya that you can be.

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