The Bezels of Wisdom

Five Good Reasons To Contemplate Resuming A Blog

2006-08-24T21:40:00.000+05:00

1. I have a sexy new Vaio. So sexy that it lies in bed alongside me gleaming in the dark.
2. Sarah wants me to. She reminds me at least once every quarter.
3. Sin has left the country and become an investment banker - so I will never know how to shift it onto another site.
4. All the people who know me must have stopped visiting this site for updates.
5. I remember my password.

Farewell

2005-10-11T12:55:00.000+05:00

Dear Friends,

I used to have some idea of who you were, but ever since I allowed anonymous messaging on my blog, I am a little fuzzier. Nevertheless, its been great writing here and receiving your responses. I have made many friends and my world is all the richer for it.

The reason this blog started was too let off a little steam and to be able to write in as uninhibited and honest a manner as I could. For reasons -some within and some beyond my control-I will not go into now, this has now become impossible as many emails, text messages and replies on this site have made it clear that my identity is known. I ignored the first few, but the stream continued. This blog was never addressed to my friends - it was intended as my own space, where I could write secure in the knowledge that I couldn't offend anybody. That, unfortunately, has become more and more difficult. There are days I have wanted to write, but have had to either edit or restrain myself altogether for fear of accidentally causing hurt. As a result I've had to resort increasingly to book or film reviews where I could be less personal.

In these circumstances, I have no choice but to sign off this blog for now. I am convinced that the itch will get to me eventually and that I will reinvent myself on cyberspace. But until that happens I must thank all of you for reading the bilge that I produced over the last couple of months. For your reactions, your humour, your jokes, your critiques and -above all- the caring. Strangers have written to me so often that I feel I have known them all my lives. To this extent, this blog has been positive and I cherish the fact that I ever started it in the first place. Finally, to anybody I may have offended- I apologise unreservedly.

Take care..

My House Speaks To Me

2005-10-11T11:45:00.000+05:00

It seems my last post was pre-emptive. Ramzan started with the right, positive spirit as far as I was concerned. Struggled to wake up Saturday morning, 4 am, munched an apple, drank a litre of water and smoked a Montecristo. I even managed to finish the last chapter of Maya Jassanof's "Edge of Empire" and then rolled over and returned to slumber. I was awoken again just before 9. I had the distinct feeling that somebody was going through my cupboards. I looked over my shoulder to see all three wardrobe doors flailing open. Then it all broke loose. The bed shook, the fans swayed. The paintings started to shudder. The old brain went into auto pilot mode. Earthquake. I charged down the stairs remembering only to pick up the mobile and the Beast. On reaching the garden I looked up to see scores of crows cawing manically. I could still feel the ground beneath my feet moving. Minutes passed. Not many but it seemed like an eternity. Eventually the crows stopped cawing and settled into the trees. The rumbling stopped. It seemed to be over. Five minutes later the entire scenario repeated itself. This time round I heard the house groan. Houses have voices, I thought all the way.

The true enormity of what had happened struck me a little later. For the unitiated, Islamabad is in an earthquake zone, so the odd tremor is not an unusual occurrence. In hindsight Saturday's tremors were much worse than those previously experienced. I think I was trying to normalise them all along. Instant television (especially the amazing Geo network in Pakistan) started to relay the news and the true enormity of the quake began to filter into our consciousnesses. A block of flats- a self-styled "tower"- had come crashing down and provided the world's television with a ready image to zoom in on. The Tower was part of an apartment block that had been permitted to be constucted in the mid 90s. The consensus of opinion is that the construction work was shoddy. After all Government housing (which by definition equates with bad construction) survived. I spoke with two friends in the immediate neighbourhood. Both told the same story: they had charged downstairs in their pyjamas within the first few minutes of the first few tremors. By the time they arrived in their car parks, the Tower had crumbled into a series of ugly concrete slabs. The house-of-cards analogy was scaringly accurate.

Every tragedy has a positive side. Some heroes perhaps. This one was no different. I spent Saturday afternoon with a Designer Person from Karachi. As the image of the collapsed Tower played itself out repeatedly I decided I couldn't take it any longer. I marched Designer Person into a car, drove to the supermarket, picked up as many cartons of water and biscuits as we could fit in and drove off to the site. ("Our own Ground Zero" said our very predictable press.) On getting there (no mean feat) I was amazed to see civilians in control of the okace. University students were diverting traffic and residents were physically carrying away rubble. The rudimentary equipment there belonged to the private sector. The police and the khakis were there, but apart from establishing a "presence" for the benefit of television cameras or scratching their balls, they seemed to do little else. ("Hey. It took the Americans ages to get their act together for Katrina- give us a chance" they reacted outrageously.) The other set of heroes are the truly amazing British rescue teams that have managed to drag no less than 26 people out of the wreckage days after the event.

Every tragedy has its jokers. It is amazing how seemingly intelligent people can panic in these circumstances. After my Ground Zero expedition I went to have a much needed coffee with a friend. I could hear his wife talking to friends on her cellphone: "Yes. The Met Office has predicted two more earthquakes at 12 a.m and then again at 3 a.m." I froze. Met Offices the world over have no control over tectonic plate movement. Yes, they have a better idea of hurricanes. But to the best of my knowledge nobody has accurately predicted an earthquake. Another fashionista-cum-bad-taste-event-manager called Designer Person at 9pm. She had no idea that an earthquake had even happened and wanted to discuss a fashion show. Hmmm. I usually con myself into believing that I may be a little more intelligent than some people around me. Now I think I am normal and some people are just incredibly stupid.

ps: Thank you to all of those who messaged, replied and emailed asking about me. I apologise for not replying earlier.

Ramadhan Mubarak

2005-10-06T10:22:00.000+05:00

Ramadhan Mubarak! Mubarak and greetings to everyone - the fasters, the cynics, the rationalists, the post-religious, the sheepish, the indifferent, the jaded, the confused, those who believe, those who don't, those who won't, those who will, those who can't and those who can, - much love to all of you. Mubarak mubarak mubarak. May your month be filled with light...

She Works Hard For The Money

2005-10-04T20:15:00.000+05:00

Put the word "sex" into the title of a book, put a Rubenesque nude onto the cover and subtitle it: "500 years of adultery, power, rivalry and revenge and you're sure to have a bestseller on your hands. Sex with Kings is not for the serious historian- or even the sex afficianado. It is, however, a highly amusing, lighthearted romp into the world of mistresses. Well European mistresses actually. Naturally, the French come out tops in all of this with the English coming in a respectable second place. The Germanic states manage alright but Southern Europe gets a right drubbing. If Ms Herman is to be believed (and that is a tough call) then the Spaniards and Italians spent several centuries producing dour, rosary clutching princesses who were invariably married into the royal houses of Europe and therefore, effectively begged the Kings in question to take mistresses.

This is a gossipy account of history and I'm not sure Ms Herman has quite the right credentials for it - she was a publisher for a NATO related journal in a previous incarnation. Nevertheless, her slightly shaky rendition of history is not without its moments. You don't even have to read the book (just see the pictures) to learn that you do not have to be beautiful to be a mistress. That role model of mistressdom- Madame Pompadour- looks positively dumpy. Clearly looks were not of prime importance in being selected as a mistress. Apparently, the women in question had minds-or at the very least the ability to keep their monarch's minds engaged and away from the dreariness of running a kingdom. We also learn that many of the women were not sex godesses. Madame Pompadour was actually frigid. Her successor, Madame Dubarry, was an accomplished prostitute, so perhaps she made up for this deficiency.

In order to qualify as a vaguely succesful royal mistress, one would have to have the ability to communicate and sympathise with one's monarch. Camilla Parker-Bowles'success may have stemmed from her having a sympathetic ear for Charles (avec a gin and tonic) while Diana was puking down toilet bowls. The French "regularised" the role of the mistress- she had a title, a stipend, royal apartments and a role to play - from the usual patroness of the arts to (in some cases) a role in the cabinet or even on the battlefield. The job description isn't quite as laid back (pun intended) as it may seem. There was a fair amount of work involved in all of this though not without its rewards. Mistresses were rewarded with jewels and estates, though some fared pretty badly. Lola Montez (the mistress of Mad King Ludwig of Bavaria) escaped but forgot to take her goodie bag with her. The Brits seemed to have had a penchant for performers-Nell Gwynn, Lillie Langtry- who generally got a raw deal.

In many cases, mistresses arrived with husbands who had to be given jobs, which kept them as far away from the royal court as possible. Others arrived with children and then produced more "bastards" given the general state of contraception. It seems about as far away from the sordid Lewinski world we live in today. Camilla, perhaps, is the last classic mistress in the true sense of the world. And her great great grandmother (Alice Keppel) was also a royal mistress. The French-as always-got the last word. President Mitterand kept a mistress for the longest and produced a daughter while he was at it. And there was no great mystery to it either. The French just thought it was too boring to make an issue out of it- while the Americans rabbited on about some dodgy stains on a blue dress. Sex with Kings is recommended for any wannabe mistresses- I'm waiting for the definitive frothy history of gigolos now.

Nicotine Dreams

2005-09-30T14:11:00.000+05:00

There's a huge debate raging in Bollywood which raises some interesting questions. According to the Times of India the central government has imposed a ban on scenes in Indian cinema which show the characters smoking. The response has been mixed with Mahesh Bhatt challenging the directive in a court of law. Comment rages on the Indian press with people saying that a classic like Satyajit Ray's Shatranj Key Khiladi (The Chess Players) could never have been made if the characters were not allowed to puff away liberally at their hookahs. In fairness to Bollywood, smoking has never been such a big deal and most recent films at any rate refrain from characters lighting up. If anything, smoking has been portrayed negatively as something only bad guys do. Think of the villain lighting up a cigar or cigarette replete in his dark glasses (in an indoor shot) with his trademark chinese silk dressing gown. Or the vamp (the glorious Helen) with her blonde wig tossed back, cigarette in one hand and some garishly coloured liquid in a wine glass. Good guys only smoke if they're intense, confused or just plain off-the-wall. In the 60s and 70s Indian cinema (especially that of the "art house" variety) borrowed from its western counterparts and entire films were shot through a haze of smoke. The commercial hit of the 70s, Hare Krishna Hare Ram (with its drug infested soundtrack) could never have been made. That trend has since diminished as "healthy" actors and actresses have taken centre stage. Smoking doesn't quite fit into their clean living, gym toned, sugary sweet worlds. Put simply, its just not cool any longer.

But does all this need a government ban? First things first. What is the role of cinema in society. Is it to depict an aritificial Utopia or to hold a mirror up to society, warts and all? If cinema shouldn't encourage "bad" things, then surely smoking is only the tip of the iceberg. What about violence, terrorism, rape, alcohol...err chewing gum? Where do you draw the line? Second, there historic authenticity. Would it be possible to make a real film about Mr Jinnah without showing his trademark pipe? Or to show nawabs in 19th century Oudh not smoking a hookah? Third-and I think, most importantly-is the role of the state in relation to art. Should the state be the custodian of its citizens in matters such as these? There is now near global consensus on the harmful effect of cigarette advertising on television, but this argument is circumscribed by the logic that young children have easy access to this medium and may be seduced. Can it be said that young children have access to cinema on television (there are at least four or five cable channels devoted exclusively to Bollywood) and the same logic extends. I think not. The role of the State needs to be defined and minimised. I'd sooner have public pressure to get me to stop smoking-not Big Brother.

Lets personalise things a little. My father smoked till about a decade ago and my childhood memories are peppered with his 555 boxes and cartons. I abstained till I got to college. All my friends smoked and I succumbed to the temptation. Yes, I am an adult and I know it's bad for me. I've read the health warnings, watched the documentaries and coughed and choked my way through it all. So what would make me give up? A health scare- been there done that. Negative social pressure? It works. I don't smoke in front of my parents (though they know) or in houses where the hosts would prefer I didn't. I don't smoke in Clients' offices or in some restaurants. I never smoke where there's a No Smoking sign. Yes, the pressure is mounting and I may give up pretty soon. But I'm not going to give up or resume simply because Bollywood thinks so. But then I'm never the target for any of this. *sigh*

Gramatically Purrfect

2005-09-29T16:05:00.000+05:00

The readfest continueth. There are times in life when books take over completely. There are others when books lie forlornly on my bedside table begging to picked up. There is no method to my reading madness. I can devour stacks of books in a go and then there are dormant weeks where even flipping through Vanity Fair seems a chore. I have tried to gauge how it works, but there are no determinants. It just happens.

Next on my reading list was Kamila Shamsie's Broken Verses. Ms Shamsie writes well and I have read pretty much everything she has written. Her backdrop, invariably, is Karachi - a city I remember with terrific fondness. She writes about a world of which she has first hand knowledge- Karachi's elite Defence and Clifton areas, the people who inhabit them and the political background of Pakistan at the time. She has no qualms about not creating characters beyond this charmed circle and I laud her for it. There are writers who visualise life "across the bridge" and rarely (if ever) do they get it right. Broken Verses tells the tale of an England-returned thirty one year old woman with a dramatic past. Indeed, so dramatic that it threatens to take her over completely.

Aasmani Inquilab (an unreal name if ever there was one-it means celestial revolution) works in a private television company and dwells on the life of her mother (an activist/feminist during the Zia regime) and her mother's lover (a revolutionary poet) both of who have disappeared in mysterious circumstances. Aasmani relives the past when her mother's friend (a "retired" television actress) revives the past by returning with coded messages and a television performance which is based on her mother's mannerisms. I will not give the rest of the plot away, though I must confess that by the end of it my willing suspension of disbelief was hanging by a hair- and that too at the latent lesbianism running through the end.

My only problem is that each time I read a Kamila Shamsie novel, I come away feeling horribly jealous that I do not belong to her Karachi. For one, her characters (even the peripheral ones) are grammatically perfect. And they are all so clever. Their jokes are all about Gingko Biloba being a character out of Lord of the Rings. Their relationships are tortuous but they are endowed with the power of articulate self revelation. Even their fights are upmarket- they huff and sniff but never really let their guard down. They play word games, mind games and generally seem like the kind of people I'd like to meet (but never do) at a cocktail party. They only ever talk to each other - domestics waft around like lost spirits. They occasionally freeze themselves so badly that the sexual tension is unbearable. Is this the Karachi I knew? At many levels it is. But at others it doesn't suceed. For one, the wonderful cultural mix that is Karachi is Moulinexed into a bland puree. The eclectic speaking styles of the many "tribes" that make up Karachi are lost in a unified Karachi-Grammar-School-meets American-University-voice. The "Mummies" and "Daddies" have dark, hidden secrets which come tumbling out like toys from a cupboard. Having said all of this, Ms Shamsie writes with a studied passion. And I shall be there in the queue when her next book comes out.

Magyk

2005-09-26T13:46:00.000+05:00

I've just been on a massive readfest. Clearly the superficiality of "events" I've been attending has been getting to me. I started Johnathan Strange and Mr Norrell two weeks ago and ploughed through its thousand odd pages with rapt attention. It tells of a battle royale between two magicians in England during the 19th century. I was initially put off by its description as a "Harry Potter for grown ups". Clarke writes in the manner of a latter day Austen or a Thackeray. She has an incredible imagination but writes intelligently-and restrainedly-about beliefs in magic over the years. There's a Dickensian feel to her London and she does manage to pepper her narrative with real life figures- The Duke of Wellington and Byron among others. It's not a kid's book by any stretch of the imagination though its not great literature either. What did fascinate me was the "western" view of magic when compared with our more "desi" variants. Both views of magic have an uneasy relationship with religion and can be downright sinister. The big difference is that magic in the "West" is now toned down to UFO's or the "unexplained." There are still large chunks of humanity in this part of the world who continue to believe in the power of magic. Even in a country like Malaysia, with its skyscrapers and other symbols of affluence and modernity, the talk would eventually turn to spirits, demons and black magic as part of an everyday reality.

The characters in Louise Brown's The Dancing Girls of Lahore certainly believe in magic. Maha, the central character, is convinced that she is the victim of black magic because the first wife of her husband has cast a series of spells on her. Several trips are made to shrines in Sindh and in Lahore to rid herself of these and to cast equally venomous spells on the first wife. Brown writes affectionately of Lahore and the women of the "Diamond Market" - the red light area. The problem is that the characters she befriends are anything but affectionate. Apart from the odd spark of genuine emotion they come across as a bunch of manic crones intent on making the best of their lives. Yes, these are women who have been dealt a miserable hand and it would be unreal to expect them to shine through. Brown is an academic and tells her story without being patronising, judgmental or vaguely romantic- the sordidness of it all comes through in her graphic descriptions of rats running through houses, excrement all over the place, drug addicts and public urinals. There is a sense of history - the older prostitutes in discussion of how the profession has fallen to .....well, a profession as opposed to a time honoured series of arts in which young women were trained. Her friends include khusras who are either transexuals or transvestites but are not homosexual in the modern sense of the word. They are effectively substitute women. The sad part of it all is that there is no way out. The men and women portrayed here are trapped in their little walled-off city with the luckier ones making it to Lollywood or the Gulf States. Sigh.

Event Mismanagement

2005-09-26T12:33:00.000+05:00

It's Monday morning and the first rushes of caffeine and nicotine are begining to take effect. The weekend is now panning out in its true perspective. It has had some highlights and many many lowlights I'd prefer to forget. Among the latter is an "event" I was coerced into attending. What is it about fashion shows and the South Asian psyche? In all my years living away from Pakistan I was never ever (not even once!) invited to a fashion show. To my mind, these were specialist events where clothes horses, serious buyers, students, journalists and fashionistas mingled. On my return to Pakistan I gravitated towards a crowd of designers because they were "interesting" and, I must confess, because they were gay. We had a strange camaraderie given that my work is light years removed from the heady, tempestuous and often superficial world of fashion. I suspect that most of my friendships within that celestial galaxy have survived because I don't belong to that world. I have survived years of intergalactic battle by simply remaining silent and ducking the odd laser missile. My friends (and their shows) continue to thrive because the fashion-show-as-entertainment-syndrome is too deeply embedded to be discarded.

Anyways, back to the "event." I keep calling it an event, as what I witnessed defies more precise description or definition. A few days before I was invited by the chief designer and I tried to shrug him off by demanding an exclusive table. "I don't want to sit at the arse end of the room with a pillar or flower arrangement or a begum bouffant obstructing my view." My hopes were dashed. "But ofcourse, darling. You shall have the most exclusive table there. Just make sure that you bring the Transylvanian Ambassador and his wife." Damn. The Devil does wear Prada. And in exchange for a good table I had to bring an irrepressibly dull diplomat and his wife. I roped in Lady M for good measure and for good moral support. "This is going to be disastrous. It's not even C grade. I'd give it a D minus" she hissed in the car. This did not augur well.

We walked in through the usual slipshod security arrangments and were guided to a table right next to the catwalk. I could have reached out and tripped a model had I so desired. Well this was exclusive. Actually it was so exclusive that there was no one else on the table. We were in Social Siberia. At an adjacent table sat a group of men with high pitched voices and eyebrows to match. "Who are they?" I enquired. "Fashion journalists" I was informed. The show started. The clothes, in all fairness, were yummy. So were some of the models. The fashion journalists shot out their Nokias and began taking pictures. Damn. I thought they would have used old fashioned ring bound notebooks and pencils. I am so passe, I thought. The odd shriek from their table signified assent of the highest order while a collective frown of pencilled eyebrows meant the opposite. Hmmm. This wasn't quite so bad. Even Lady M was on the verge of upgrading this from a D minus to a C plus. Then it all went horribly wrong.

An MC (or "compere" as they're known in these parts) took to the stage. "I want CRAPPING" he implored. "There is not enough CRAPPING here." The Transylvanian Ambassador shifted uneasily on his chair. The MC then leapt off the catwalk to begin interviewing bewildered members of the audience for instant reactions to the show. Wisely, he kept away from the Valkyrian journos and tackled a few benign begums instead. "We lurved it" they gushed effusively. Having done the rounds, he then hopped back onto the catwalk and announced the arrival of a special guest from "across the border." Wow. I thought of all my favourite beauteous Bollywood types. Saif? Hrithik? Even Shahrukh would do at a pinch. No such luck. An unknown entity dressed not unlike a Lahori hooker took to the stage. Hang on. She wasn't dressed like one. She was one. For the next thirty minutes we were rivetted by her hip jerking/boob thrusting/crotch lurching/lip pouting/eyebrow raising "performance." Lady Transylvania leaned over and whispered "What kind of dance is this? Classical?" "Well, yes" I replied. "It is classical in a sense. It's a classic prostitute number." Errr. "Prostitute?" she asked as though she had misheard. "Yes. Prostitute. Hooker" I added by way of clarification. Silence.

The table conferred (well, all four of us really) and decided that a diplomatic exit was called for. My host caught us on the way out. Disappointment was writ large across his face. "Was it really bad?" he asked. "Nope" I said with a half smile, "It wasn't merely bad. It was horrendous." I couldn't lie. On the way home Lady M asked what I disliked most about the "event.". I thought about the plethora of defects I could chose from. "The hooker, I think." She asked why. "Dunno. I found it distasteful that a bunch of young people would resort to hiring a prostitute, tarting(!) her up and passing her off as an across-the-border import. I found it deeply offensive. These are the same people who rabbit on endlessly abourt womens' rights. And there they were crapping through it all." She looked at the receeding lights in my rear view mirror. "Let's give it an E minus then."

Closets

2005-09-23T13:24:00.000+05:00

Its been yet another rough week. Yes, I know it sounds boring when you put it into words, but that is essentially what the working life is about. The sad part is that what seems so utterly consuming during an extended office day is of little (if any) interest to anyone in the outside world. Plus if the work you're doing is confidential, you can't really gas off about it to all and sundry. So when people ask "What do you do during those twelve hour days" you just grin inanely and come up with a half baked baguette. My mother asked me incessantly why it was necessary for me to come straggling home well after midnight. I had no answer. She assumed (incorrectly) that I lived in a parallel universe of which she was not a part.

Getting home late means that one's social life is curtailed and the options are limited to scowling at the dog (animal cruelty) or watching television (human cruelty). As I prefer to retain the Beast's sanity (or what passes for sanity) I decided to switch on one of the hip new private channels. I found myself cast into a programme for men. The usual grooming tips, fashion, accesories etc were trumpeted. And then the programme went into a "conversation" section with a bunch of ostensibly intelligent men and women babbling on about heterosexual relationships- the usual, tired, variation on the Mars and Venus routine. Suddenly the camera zoomed in onto one of the more vocal participants. "That man's a raging queen" I choked. "What's he doing on air talking about men and women?" The conversationalist in question had bust his closet majorly leaving a trail of splinters in his wake. I recall him being aggressively determined in his pursuit of men including, incidentally, his boss. (The boss succumbed and he was fired in due course. Talk about sleeping your way down.) And now I had to face the Faerie Queen talking about his relationships with women!

I know several gay men who are unable to openly talk about their sexuality or their relationships, except perhaps for some very close friends. That's fine. I also know many gay men who have had to grudgingly get married being unable to stave off social pressure. Ok. This is a tough call and will have to wait for another blog. But then you have people who are ardently, openly gay who surround themselves with women ("beards" as they are unflatteringly called) and pretend to be straight. In this case on national television. While I agree that people have a right to privacy they have a corresponding obligation not to project a completely false version of themselves. Or don't they? I do believe that stuffing your sexuality into someone's face is unwarranted. Sure there are tough moments where you may have to be "economical with the truth" if you want to. But to put yourself onto prime time TV and insinuate your heterosexuality is downright dishonest. And that is not a good place to be.

Stop Thief!

2005-09-15T12:47:00.000+05:00

What is it about Intellectual Property Rights that gets people so inflamed? Living in Pakistan, where IPR's are about as unknown as a duck billed platypus, there are some interesting views floating around. My first personal encounter with IPR's came about a decade ago when I approached to Microsoft to buy "real" software from them. It made no sense to work at an office on bootlegged stuff. The whole edifice could come crashing down any minute-client records, correspondence, forwarded jokes. The price that was quoted to me was so preposterous that I gave up almost immediately. "I'm trying to help" I floundered "but at these prices you're inviting piracy." "Sorry, there's nothing I can do" replied the dweeb. Well. I tried.

A couple of weeks ago, I decided to plough through a feasibility report that a friend was putting together for a music recording company. The figures were interesting. Record royalties were unknown in Pakistan. The bootlegged sales eventual took over. The real money came from concerts. However, India was a different ball game altogether according to the study. There everyone seemed to pay the regular price for a genuine CD. Ofcourse, India has its own prices which are half those of the regular Dollar price. Why can't these guys do something like that over here. If I did encounter "real" music or software at a "real" price I would buy. If prices can be revised to cover a huge potential audience in India, then why not in Pakistan.

Last night I was at my favourite CD haunt. As with all other shops in Pakistan everything here is bootlegged. Not a single genuine article in sight. As always, the bulk of shoppers there are expatriates. French, German, American, Chinese. It is the United Nations of the bootleggers. "These are the people who write reports on IPR violations" hissed a friend audibly. She's not wrong. Sales are now so extensive that the shop has baskets into which illicit CD's are heaped by the dozen. At around two Dollars a DVD that's not as extravagant as it seems.

At a moral level, there's the whole question of theft. The information stored on CD's is after all the property of the author. In many cases the "authors" (say Mr Gates or Mr Spielberg) are pretty rich after all and wouldn't miss the few cents they would have received had my sales been legit. Or that royalties on such products are exorbitant? But these are quantum issue which detract from the underlying morality. Had I been a Marxist I would have argued that all property is theft, but sadly I don't quite fall into that league either. In fairness to myself I can say that I buy the real product whenever it is on offer. But what do I when it's not? Do I forego the next season of Desperate Housewives because it is stealing? Or do I argue that I would have bought the real McCoy if the idiots who owned it bothered to give me the opportunity to buy it? If I were to draw up a Powerpoint pie chart (on genuine software!) I think most of what I buy is real and royalties do end up with the authors. But how many people can afford to shop online in Dollar terms? Can we all dine at the Ritz? So many questions. So few answers.

Moderate Enlightenment

2005-09-13T13:00:00.000+05:00

An old friend sent me a dinner invitation for last night. He's an interesting guy. Quiet, polite, well read, well spoken and well-everything-else. He's achieved much in life, based on sheer talent, and has finally "arrived" in Islamabad. Dinner was in honour of an Important Person. I groaned inwardly, but decided to make the effort for my host. Dressing up in a suit, driving to the other end of town, getting frisked and being deprived of my cellphone are not promising preludes to dinner. What the hell. I decided to go anyway.

Upon arriving, I spotted a handful of uberdynamic women waiting in the queue to get in. We struck up a conversation. One of them blushed when I recalled that I had seen a Nat Geo documentary which featured her and some amazing work she was doing for women. The queue trudged along and we entered the dining area. Just as I was about to ask my friends to join me, a voice perked up "Ladies, this side please." Oh No. This was a segregated dinner. The "ladies" looked at me. I looked at the usher. "But they're professionals. And they don't want to sit there. They work every day with all the men on that side of the divide." "I"m sorry sir. I have orders."

Orders? From who? It cannot be our host. He's just not that sort of guy. "Well" said the young usher blushing "it's actually the Important Person who decreed that the dinner be segregated." Yuk.

For the rest of dinner, I gazed at the women caged off like colourful birds of paradise. I wrestled with a moral dilemma while sipping at my non-alcoholic drink. If I am invited to someone's house, I assume that as a guest I am supposed to respect the customs of that house. So, for example, if I see no ashtrays (or other people smoking) I will not light up. In any case, smoking is bad for one and there's the whole never ending passive smoking debate. But what if one's host does something one disapproves of? Say, if he behaves badly with a guest or (for the sake of argument) hits someone. I guess I would be disgusted enough to leave. Fortunately I know few, if any, people who lead me to situations such as these. I once left a dinner when the sparring host couple threw copious quantities of food at each other. (In a surreal twist, the servants proceeded to hose down the walls with water.) But that was a long time ago. What do I do now? Don't get me wrong. There are occasions where one puts up with some kind of segregation. Some weddings and some funerals customarily require enforced segregation. If these are the beliefs which people require of others, should I stand up and protest? Some more "modern" people have a half hearted segregation allowing the sexes to mingle in twilight zone somewhere on the gender-border. But tonight was positively martial in the enforcement of sexual separation.

Throwing caution to the wind, I walked over the "divide" separating the sexes and tried to enter the zenana. "Sir. Please. Go back to the other side." The little usher was now positively cringing with embarassment. So was the host. This was proving to be useless. I guess I had the satisfaction of knowing I had tried. I used the opportunity to slip out and head home. As I made myself a soggy cheese sandwich in the kitchen I had the miniscule satisfaction of knowing I had done the right thing. The only other alternative would have been to start a sexual revolution right there and then. Somehow I don't think the Bastille would have been stormed last night.

No Comment

2005-09-13T12:33:00.000+05:00

Slo Mo

2005-09-09T18:04:00.000+05:00

I've just returned after another two day trip to Karachi. The horrendous state of Karachi's traffic continues unabated. Roads have been unceremoniously dug up and the city's innards are on display. I'd reached a stage where I decided to avoid going out simply because it would mean hours of waiting on choked roads. Mobility became a luxury to be judiciously used. People (well, journalists really) often describe roads as "arteries." In Karachi's case these would be better described as "veins" as they should, theoretically carry bad blood. This is not the case. On one occasion I drove by watching miles of stalled traffic in the opposite direction. The faces trapped in cars were calm, placid-as though awaiting beatification. In many other cities, road rage would have taken over. I was told (the morning after) by a local resident that my perception was incorrect and that people do engage in horrendous road battles. I prefer my own theory - that there is an inner resignation to the apalling state of Karachi's traffic and that people prefer to retain zen-like composure as an alternative to reaching out for the revolvers stowed away in their glove compartments.

This train of thought synched with the copious Japanese anime films I've taken to watching over the past week. One of them - don't laugh- entitled Mobile Suits Gundam tells of an incredibly complex series of gang war, with the pro/antagonists wearing special suits or sitting in their cars to provide them with protection against the enemy. Watching Karachiites bubble wrapped into their cars gave me a clue. Perhaps sitting in a car is not unlike a return to the womb. Its safe, most cars are now airconditioned and there's music to while away the hours. Perhaps this engenders a sense of complacency or (at best) some kind of neo-nirvana. Stare into the middle distance, watch traffic inch its way forward and remember a better world where the sun shines, children play and cars move at a normal speed. My friends talk stoically about waking up an hour earlier so they can get to work on time. I assume that schoolchildren do the same. Gosh. I feel like an ingrate living in a city where everything (and I mean everything) is no more than ten minutes away.

Scarier still, nobody seems to know when the agony will be over. No two people I spoke to had the same time estimate of when all this would end. Six, eight, ten months. More maybe. There's been political change at the local government level, so perhaps even these figures will change. "They don't care about us" said a columnist friend. (Nearly all my Karachi friends now write columns.) "Who's they and who's us" I enquired gingerly. "They" is the new political establishment which lives over at the other end of town. "Have you been there?" he asked. "Once" I replied, "ages ago. I think I may have lost my way." "Ah well. Go back again. They make sure everything works there." Hang on. But isn't this the ...well... rich end of town. Where you can buy a 100 dollar jar of Estee Lauder moisturiser, rambutans and tubs of Hagen Dazs in one basket? "Fat lot of good our money has done us. We're stuck with bad traffic forever." Sad. Where's the political will ? Zilch. Karachi, despite having some of the most politically aware people ever to the walk the earth, becomes flaccid on these issues. There's none of the civic pride which Lahoris have. Forget roads, people aren't even willing to clear garbage from their front gates. There's a belief that this is Government's job and Government has failed. Self help doesn't seem terribly high on the list of priorities. Strange.

My trip to the airport usually takes thirty or forty minutes. This time round I am on the road for an hour and twenty five minutes. When I do take off, I feel a sense of palpable relief. I have lived away from the city too long and I do not share the bottomless pits of patience that my friends have developed. Airborne, the tailbacks look even scarier. This was a city on the go. When arteries are blocked, the body tries to develop new shortcuts to keep the routes open. When that fails, the system packs up. I hope that My Favourite City doesn't meet the same fate.

Rhymes of Passion

2005-09-09T11:06:00.000+05:00

These are entries to a Washington Post competition asking for a rhyme with the most romantic first line but the least romantic second line.

Love may be beautiful, love may be bliss
but I only slept with you, because I was pissed.

I thought that I could love no other.
Until, that is, I met your brother.

Roses are red, violets are blue,
sugar is sweet, and so are you.
But the roses are wilting,
the violets are dead,
the sugar bowl's empty
and so is your head.

Of loving beauty you float with grace.
If only you could hide your face.

Kind, intelligent, loving and hot;
this describes everything you are not.

I want to feel your sweet embrace
but don't take that paper bag off of your face.

I love your smile, your face, and your eyes,
Damn, I'm good at telling lies!

My darling, my lover, my beautiful wife:
Marrying you screwed up my life.

I see your face when I am dreaming.
That's why I always wake up screaming.

My love, you take my breath away.
What have you stepped in to smell this way?

My feelings for you no words can tell
except for maybe "go to hell."

What inspired this amorous rhyme?
Two parts vodka, one part lime.

The Tower of Babble

2005-09-02T16:08:00.000+05:00

I've been following the horrible, horrible trail of death and destruction come out of Hurricane Katrina. Yet even the horror does not spare bureacratese from operating. Consider this statement in today's papers:

"We are open to all offers of assistance from other nations, and I would expect we would take people up on offers of assistance when it’s necessary,” said spokesman Scott McClellan.But asked whether this was a request for foreign aid, McClellan sharply replied: “No.”

Does this mean "we're not asking, but if we get something, we'd be grateful?" But then if you're not asking does it mean you need it? Or does it mean we're too proud to ask? (Hence the "sharp" response.) A tragedy is a tragedy. Asking for or offering or receiving help should be straightforward.

Let The Games Begin

2005-09-02T10:48:00.000+05:00

Why do people compete with each other? Athletes do it, but they're trained (and paid) to do it. Students do it, because the exam based teaching method encourages competition as normal and healthy. Lawyers do it in courtrooms but they're just faking it-most of them are good friends offstage. Businesses do it as part of the great capitalist ethos. But what happens when friends do it? Let us begin at the begining.

I first met Peroxide (he became a blonde much later) through a friend. Although we had little in common I was still going through my "if-he's-gay-then-he-must-be-good" phase. Imbecilic. Puerile. I've since learnt that classifying people on the basis of sexuality and making sweeping generalisations based on this is disastrous. Hence my dislike of that great event-the gay party. Back to the story. Peroxide and I continued to meet periodically. He would show up for weekends (usually with some hapless boy in tow) and we would chat-with his Latest Mistake glowering gently in the background like a petulant agarbati. I remember feeling incredibly low each time he would leave. Hormones? Sleep deprivation? None of the above. With the advantage of hindsight, I now realise that my lows came from having been run down by Peroxide for hours at a stretch. This would usually take the form of a series of innocuous remarks. Stuff like "Nice shirt, though green isn't quite your colour." Or "God, you've become fat since we last met." "How come you've been single for so long?" Nothing major. But lots of minors do become a major major once you've amassed a cumulative series.

The denouement to all this came on a Sunday afternoon. I'd been chasing what I thought at the time was an Object of Beauty. (Let's abbreviate that to OOB). OOB had not the slightest interest in me, but I was at that stage where I was determined to succeed. When all else had failed, I decided to invite OOB over to meet some friends over brunch. If he saw how wonderful my friends were, perhaps he would see how wonderful I was. Curious logic, but its something we've all done. Peroxide invited himself over and arrived with his trademark tresses flopping all over the place. I went into what my friends call "hostess trolley" mode, running to and fro from kitchen to dining table. In between my treks, I got the distinct (and gnawing) feeling that Peroxide was cosying up to OOB. Ah well, maybe he's just trying to get him at ease I thought flaccidly. On my fiftieth trip from the kitchen I peered through the glass partition. The truth stared me in the face. Through the triangular piece of glass I could see Peroxide dipping strawberries into cream and popping them into OOB's mouth. I froze.

The rest is history and geography. I moved away from town, from Peroxide and from all that he stood for. He called once to ask why I'd frozen over. I let him know. "Oh. But you're being protective over someone who doesn't give a damn for you." "Yes, I know. But its my life and my business. And will you PLEASE find someone else to run down." I got my final lecture on what a shit I was. I listened patiently swearing never to get into this sort of relationship again. Years went by. I was out for dinner in Karachi last week and over the buzz of conversation in a shi-shi su-shi joint, I heard a familiar voice. I looked over. The discrete overhead lighting lit up a peroxide head with his Latest Mistake in tow. We looked at each other and nodded politely. Neither of us made an effort to get up and talk to each other. Closure. Phew.

CK Fk

2005-08-29T14:46:00.000+05:00

In addition to Lite Lit I've survived the weekend on a diet of outrageously good looking men For example, I've spent the friday night with Richard Gere, who I encountered when he was much younger (and so was I) in Paul Schrader's terrific American Gigolo. I went to see the film twice (on consecutive days) in London, once with my mother in tow. On Saturday night, I decided to stay in for a QNI (quiet night in) with Ashton Kutcher. He's an interesting kind of guy once you rid your mind of the perennial nerd in That Seventies Show. He's a pretty awful actor, but you get the feeling that he's trying really hard. He has an interesting, almost androgynous face, bow stung lips and skinny legs which he's not afraid of showing. And to round off this hat trick of delights, I encountered Martin Vartan late on Sunday night. He's kind of scrawny rugged (unless that's an oxymoron) fortunately playing a character in his thirties. He has a great smile and a face with a ....history. His best lines are on his face-not his script.

The films in question seem to have been designed with a female/gay audience in mind. I have been told not to refer to them as Ch**k flicks as the term is derogatory to women. I agree and I shall desist. Having started with a PC qualification all these films are derogatory as well-to men! Why did I watch them. Well, they looked light enough for a weekend. (My Bergman collection is, therefore, still in its original wrapping.) The cast looked attractive-as though beauty may-just may-compensate for some crap scripts floating around in there. The triumvirate of beauty tried their damndest, but the crap won out at the end of the day.

Shall We Dance, is outrageously bad. It stars (if that is the right word) Richard Gere as a New York probate lawyer who chances upon a seedy dance school. Jennifer Lopez plays the objet of attraction. She actually shines through as her script has been sensibly pared down to a series of monosyllables. She ends up doing what she's good at - dancing and looking Good. Gere is so outrageously bad, that I had to hold a cushion to my face. Even asphyxiation didn't work. A Lot Like Love was treading in wannabe When Harry Met Sally territory. Ashton K together with Amanda Peel "star" as strangers who meet (and shag) on a flight. A relationship (or something like it) develops over the years. No prizes for guessing what happens. Monster in Law has Vartan and Jennifer Lopez (yet again) playing star crossed lovers unsuccesfully kept at bay by his mother-the indefatigable Jane Fonda (doing Joan Collins on a bad hair day). This time Lopez is unable to fall back on dance and grapples with a script so unutterably bad, that the highlights come from physical comedy- mother and daughter sock it to each other Laurel and Hardy style.

So what does one deduce from all this froth. Well for one, men are beautiful but generically stupid. If that ain't sexist, what is?! Two. Jennifer Lopez should stop making films. Three: Life always has a happy ending. Four: Women are obsessed with finding the right man-never the other way round. Five: If the script becomes really bad fall back on song and dance to keep it going. Six: I could do with another dose of froth-but at least a month later.

The Hungry Tide

2005-08-28T15:27:00.000+05:00

It's been a long gruelling week. Work, work and more work. The kind of week where thinking saps the marrow out of you and you return weary, dissolate and a little frayed. And if that's not enough, the tail end of the monsoon is eking out its departure. The air gets so thick sometimes I think I can see it. These are days where if you read (and we do all read, don't we?) it is time to turn to something which will not unduly tax the grey cells and will yet not stoop to the level of of the epidemic Dan Brown sorts. Amitav Ghosh is one writer who is ideal for days such as these. His prose is swift and precise but not belaboured. He has a story to tell and he tells it reasonably well. One glides through his books thinking, what happens next ? And a great deal does.

In The Hungry Tide, Ghosh returns to his native Bengal. His new novel is set in the Sundarbans, that part of the subcontinent which is substantially delta, where land and water are so deeply intertwined that the high tide submerges what was terra firma a few hours ago. Only the mangroves provide some sense of rootedness in this highly deceptive geography. Ghosh is a master of mixing fact with fiction or, more precisely, science with fiction giving his work a curious credibility. Piya is a non-resident Indian and an expert on river dolphins (related to the blind dolphins of the Indus river) who arrives in the Sundarbans to undertake her research. Kanai is a jaded fortysomething linguist who she meets on her way there. Ghosh flirts with the possibility of romance- will they or won't they. I won't give the ending away. These urbane representations of India are brought face to face with a variety of characters representing other strains. Kanai's uncle Nirmal, a disilllusioned marxist, who has left behind a manuscript for his nephew. His aunt, an "NGO type" and a realist who lacks her husband's idealism, but shares his drive to protect and develop the fragile ecosystem they live in.

And then there are Ghosh's "desi" (or should I say "deshi"?) characters. Fokir the boatman who comes painfully close to a modern day "noble savage". His mysterious mother Kusum who acquires an iconic presence as the novel progresses. She becomes at once symbolic of the land and the dangers that go with it. Add this assortment of characters onto a series of boats and you have a Bengali version of The Heart of Darkness. The voyage, ostensibly to chart the migratory movements of dolphins manages (to me) to allegorically chart the human journey in the 21st century. Ghosh's unspoken arguments pit science against the environment, man against beast (the Sunderbans are home to the Royal Bengal Tiger), man against myth (the inhabitants follow a homegrown series of religions combining Islam and Hinduism) and, ultimately, man against the elements. The most effective descriptions seek to equate the shifting and "hungry" tide of the title with equivalent shifts among the characters Ghosh peoples his novel with. It's not "great" literature, but immensely involving-especially when you've survived the mother of all weeks. Oh yes, there's a haunting quote from Rilke (Kanai's Uncle Nirmal reads the German poet in Bengali) which came back to me from a place "far ago and long away" - a time when I still read good poetry and wrote appaling poems: It reads :

"Look we don't love like flowers

with only one season behind us; when we love

a sap older than memory rises in our arms; O girl

its like this: inside us we haven't just loved some one

in the future, but a fermenting tribe; not just one

child, but fathers cradled inside us like ruins

of mountains, the dry riverbed

of former mothers, yes and all that

soundless landscape under its clouded

or clear destiny-girl, all this came before you."

Slow is Beautiful

2005-08-24T14:05:00.000+05:00

It is not often that I think I am going to die. One of those moments came about a decade ago, when I was awoken with a sharp pain in my chest. Despite the passage of much time, I still remember the sensation. At the time I thought it was not unlike molten metal dripping onto me. A quick call was made to some friends. I was rushed to hospital. The pain became even worse. The doctors couldn't make up their minds. Fortunately one of them decided I needed a shot of morphine. People often talk of cutting through pain, but I could feel the morphine cutting through. Hey I could begin to enjoy this stuff.

After ten days in hospital (with the doctors no clearer on what had happened) I returned home to try and piece my life together. Through the haze of prescribed sedatives, I discovered no less than fifteen boarding cards in my bedroom- all of them issued within ten days of my hospitalisation. I had apparently been to London, Karachi, Milan, Dubai, Amsterdam and a host of other cities. Epiphany. I decided I would never rush to anything again. Ever. It's a promise I've breached often enough, but I know I'm doing it. There's a deep inner voice telling me to slow down. Last time round there was none.

With this frame of reference, I set about reading Carl Honore's In Praise of Slow. I must point out, at the very outset, that this is not a self help book. Honore is a journalist with a story to tell and some interesting anecdotes to spice things up with. There's no road map telling one how exactly one should practice what the book preaches. What does Slow preach? That there is a growing emphasis on moving faster. That faster does not always equate with better. That, in many instances, faster equates with worse. In my own working life, I've seen time take over from quality in many instances. When I first started working there was neither email nor fax. (Yes, I am that old!) A rickety old telex machine (manufactured by the Karl Marx Telex Company of East Berlin) would churn out the odd international message, but there was a limit on the amount of information it could contain. With the advent of email, I am now expected to react to volumes of information in no time at all. It just doesn't work. The best I can do is acknowledge receipt and give a reasonable time frame to react. If I am pressed to react faster I will, secure in the knowledge that I am giving a second or third rate product because of the time constraint.

Honore looks at the disastrous consequences of speed in several facets of life. Work is the most obvious. Then there's "slow food" which entails cooking real food with real ingredients which have grown in a real (and therefore slow) growth environment. No force fed chicken or genetically modified lettuce here. Interestingly enough, he confesses to getting a speeding ticket on his way to a slow food conference. Then there's slow sex. I've always thought my sex was slow enough (if not of Tantric slowness) so I glossed over this one. And then there are "slow cities", "slow architecture" and even "slow" days. There's even "slow music" where Honore debates whether modern conductors of classical music have really figured out the tempo at which the music was originally intended to have been played.

One of Honore's observations on the cult of slowness is the recurrence of pastimes which were once considered passe. These include (gasp!) reading which he classifies as a "slow" activity as opposed to, say, video games which are, by their very nature, "fast." He cites the Harry Potter phenomenon as illustrative of the return to books. I've often cribbed that it takes me ages to finish a book. To me, the process of reading consists of chewing over, ruminating, rereading sentences and chapters, mentally noting anything worthwhile. I am intrigued by people who effortlessly turn page after page of their books. (Actually, I'm intrigued by people who bother to read in the 21st century, but that's another story.) I suppose much has to do with the kind of book one is reading. Poetry, I would imagine, is slower reading than prose. A thriller is a "page turner" while a tome on philosophy or metaphysics requires a little more reverence.

Honore's epiphany came when he thought of ordering "one minute" bedtime stories for his children because he became impatient with the long stories they asked him to read-or reread. Mine came when I ended up in a hospital bed on a morphine high. Having transformed myself from Uberhare to Ubertortoise I'm in no tearing rush to change that.

On The Beach

2005-08-23T15:52:00.000+05:00

Going to the beach is an indelible part of my Karachi experience. It all started when my father decreed that he would go en famille to a company "hut" on what is now (for unfathomable reasons) known as the French Beach. Those days were mildly enjoyable. The parents would bicker on the way to the beach, while we were there and then back all the way again. Conceptually, the beach to them was an extension of the home. Leisure was an abstraction. I would take my latest Blyton blockbuster and sit on a rock chewing sandy chicken sandwiches while following the infinitely more interesting adventures of precocious children in rural England. My parents would play Scrabble (bickering in between turns) and my creative sisters would design sand towns that would put Corbusier to shame.

As a young adult, the experience was a little better. A bunch of friends would traipse out to the beach. I would join them in slathering Hawaiian Tropic all over myself (having decreed that my natural tan was insufficiently sexy) and we would lie out with Heineken's, books and a boom box. The idea was to get away from the hustle of the city, to stare endlessly at the horizon and to chatter ceaselessly with ones friends. Oh yes. The sandy chicken sandwiches were still on offer and provided a link with my earlier beach experience.

The years rolled by and I moved away to Islamabad. The beach became an abstraction. Once I remember opening some old bags and my yellow beach espadrilles popped out, replete with Karachi sand. Unfortunately, my Karachi trips were never long enough to accomodate a trip to the beach. Friends tried to organise something for a decade and a half but we never made it. My parents had decided it was easier to bicker in the airconditioned privacy of their bedroom and their beach experiences faded into sepia. So it was with some excitement that I allowed myself to be talked into a trip to the beach. "We'll be there in the morning, right?" I asked with breathless anticipation. "No you idiot. Nobody goes to the beach in the mornings any longer. We meet in the evenings for cocktails, followed up by a good barbecue." Ouch. I didn't dare ask about tanning. Maybe the health warning had finally filtered in to the Karachi demi monde.

The first apparent change hit me on the way. The shanty towns and cardboard "soft drink" stalls were now concrete structures. Hideous electricity pylons boasted the arrival of modernity. A flyover under construction announced the importance of this part of town. Further on, "green" signs advised against intefering with the sand turtles which breed in the area. The beach "huts" looked the same. Dilapilated, corroded and unfit for long term habitation. I had thought that Karachi's trademark conspicuous consumption would have worked its way into five star huts. Nothing of the sort. Maybe the well heeled enjoy the thought of slumming it for a few hours, safe in the knowledge that real comfort is only an hour away.

My spirits came crashing when I saw the sea. It was black. And it was angry. The waves crashed against the rocks periodically spraying us with a fine salt mist. I tried walking barefoot in the sand hoping that the tactile experience would bring my childhood back to me. It didn't. The sand was polluted and the soles of my feet hurt after a few steps. The sight and smell of fresh camel dung assaulted me every which way. Yes, the sunset was pretty. But the sun set behind a nuclear reactor which some demented scientist had placed on the prettiest part of the beach many decades ago. Worse still. The sandy chicken sandwiches had been replaced by canapes, salmon rolls and chi-chi cocktail kebabs. I tried hard to put on a brave face for the benefit of my hosts, but deep within I was desperately disappointed. I wanted to go home. Right away.

What is about places? You yearn for them endlessly, think about them, recreate them and (as I am doing now) write about them. Yet when you finally arrive, there is an underlying sense of not wanting to be there. The beach looked the same (from what I could honestly remember) so the change must lie within myself. Perhaps I had whitewashed the camel shit, the dirty sand, the stray dogs and the hordes of visitors in my mental drycleaning of the place. Maybe my addled brain had muddled it all up with several other, sexier beaches I've visited before. Or maybe a decade and a half in the hills had altered my aesthetics. On getting home, I plunged into a hot shower desperate to get the sand out of me. I do not think a visit to the seafront will rank highly on my next trip home.

Club

2005-08-18T12:51:00.000+05:00

I’m not really a club kind of guy. Clubbing is really about batching people in sets based on perceived similarities. I tend to relate to people individually not as part of a group. This means my going into a wild flap when I have more than a dozen of them around for dinner. Having met them one-on-one, I agonise over whether they will get along with each other. They invariably do (or pretend to do so) and I relax until the next lunch or dinner comes along. As for book reading clubs, I’ve never been part of one, though a bunch of (women) friends tried their damndest to get me involved in one.

Reading “Lolita” in Tehran is a fascinating novel by Azer Nafisi. It tells of an Iranian academic who was unable to continue teaching literature because of the increasingly repressive policies of the university she taught at. Reading Lolita tells of a book club that Nafisi established at her home, where six other women (largely former students) would assemble to discuss books, including some which were officially banned. The books themselves (ranging from Pride and Prejudice to Washington Square to Lolita) are largely incidental. It is the juxtaposition of middle class Iranian women to eighteenth and nineteenth century literature which is fascinating. Reading Lolita goes a step further. It is an allegory of the role of literature in society, of the power of books to open the mind even in the most trying of circumstances and of the willingness of people to defy the odds regardless of the political systems they are born into. The chilling background (Mad Mullahs, Liberals in Drag, Forced Marriages) gives Nafisi not only a fascinating canvas to work on but also shows the universality of good literature in the most unlikely of situations. The eagerness of Nafisi's students in defying the odds and truly wanting to know about books and about themselves shines through.

The Jane Austen Book Club by Karen Jay Fowler also tells of the power of the club, but is about as different from Nafisi’s narrative as chalk is from the chador. Five men and a woman meet in California to discuss the novels of Jane Austen. Each of us has a private Jane Austen, maintains Fowler, and her six characters are created to connect to each of the Austen novels at a different novel. Unfortunately, California rears its expansive head early on into the narrative and the book club members break into what can only be described as first-person-psycho-therapy-posing-as-novel. I found the novel had more to do with the quirks of its particular characters and less and less to do with poor old Jane who seemed more like a clumsy device to hold a bunch of very disparate peopletogether. Nafisi’s club was truly interested in the novels they read each week (often relying on tattered photocopies and not books) and how they could apply them to their lives. The Californians on the other hand just talk about themselves and their not very interesting lives, with bits of Austen trivia thrown in to add some much needed authenticity to the plot. Sadder still, the passion of Nafisi's students feel for their books appears nowhere in California. Yes, they kind of like Jane Austen, but that's about it. Their preoccupation with their lives, dogs, children, lesbian daughters and parents take centre stage. For her less well educated readers, Fowler adds a brief summary of each of the Jane Austen novels at the end of her book. Yikes. I’d sooner read Pride and Prejudice in Tehran than in Sacramento.

Mata Hari

2005-08-17T19:45:00.000+05:00

I am all aflutter. I have just returned from a never ending meeting, to my mobile telephone-which I accidentally left behind. I have no less than six text messages asking : Who is she? At first I had no idea what they were all about. Now I know. According to the BBC the British High Commission at Islamabad has removed its Defence Attache because it has "lost its confidence in him." No, this has nothing to do with misplaced dossiers. It appears that the man in question had an "inappropriate relationship" with a female Pakistani spy. According to the Beeb, the man had been "tricked into a close friendship with the attractive woman." Wow. This is hot stuff. Apart from the female-as-temptress cliche I wonder who she is. Could it be the super chic woman in the car ahead of me at the petrol pump? Or was it the dowdy one in the supermarket? And what were the "tricks" she used? They could prove to be useful. Finally, I live in a city of intrigue.

Best Served Cold

2005-08-17T14:07:00.000+05:00

Revenge is sweet. And it is a dish best served cold. Deliciously so. Some of you may recall the episode (in my "Snub" blog) where I was made to feel like nothing, simply because I had the gall to call an Ambassador's office to ask about the status of a visa. I had mistakenly assumed I knew the ambassador as he had been over to my house several times and had stayed at the Retreat. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that the Ambassador had never heard of me. Licking my wounds, I withdrew, distressed and embarassed.

"They'll be there" said Lady M, raising an arched eyebrow. "Who?" "The Ambassador and his wife. At dinner. You sure you want to see them?" Hmmmm. "Ofcourse I do" I said defiantly " I have nothing to hide. I'm not the one who was rude." "Ok. Just remember I warned you." The hell with them. I would ensure that I got my message across. And a genteel Islamabad dinner party was just the occasion to do this. I rehearsed about a dozen scripts in my head, but then decided to let my instincts lead me. I just hoped they wouldn't let me down.

I breezed into the dinner party fashionably late. The key players had arrived, about a dozen guests. Perfect. Enough people for everyone to listen in onto a conversation. In another quick judgement call I decided that Mrs Ambassador would have to be tackled first. Women are generally more socially refined and prone to remembering social slights. (Does that make me a woman? An honorary one, maybe.) Men (especially after a few drinks) forget it all the morning after. "A strange thing happened to me. I was trying to call your husband all of last week." She looked up. "Really. He's been kind of busy." "Who is the gestapo woman he's hired to take his calls?" I asked. "Gestapo? What did she say to you?" The "gestapo" word had several bystanders look up, including a rival ambassador. "Well, she told me that he'd never heard of me and implied that I was an imposter of some kind." By this time I had the undivided attention of most of the room. "I'm amazed," I sad, borrowing a line from my blog, "that with people like her in the world of diplomacy,World War lll hasn't broken out as yet." Bullseye. "Darling" she called out to her husband across the room, as red as a tomato in a sauna. "Have you heard what happened? Your assistant has been awfully rude."

I smiled. Lady M sidled up to me. "That was brilliant." "Well. It wasn't the man, it was his assistant after all" I said. "Assistant" huffed Lady M. "You mean secretary" she sneered pronouncing every syllable of the word. Shouldn't the Gestapette have received proper secretarial training I thought.? Later on the ambassador himself shuffled over as I was waiting for my turn at the dessert table. "Now. What exactly happened?" I instinctively knew that repeating the whole story would ruin it. "Ask your wife. She knows it all. Would you like some trifle?" The rival ambassador shuffled up as well with a twinkle in his eye and whispered "They're all the same you know." "The same what?" I enquired. "Racists" he whispered and plodded on. I decided to skip dessert. I'd had sweet revenge already.

9 Jazz Vocals Everyone Should Own

2005-08-12T13:38:00.000+05:00

A curious process has taken place in the world of Jazz and the Blues. What started life as the music of extreme poverty, blatant discrimination and (in many cases) drug abuse has now ended up as the music listened to by an upmarket, trendy, selective niche group of listeners. If you walk into the Jazz section of any good music shop, the difference is palpable. The browsers are somehow different, older, smarter. In a feeble attempt to redress this imbalance, I am putting forward a highly arbitrary list of my favourite Jazz standards. If you have them already (in which case you are truly civilized) you can forget about the rest of this entry. If you don't, I beseech, implore and beg you to buy, steal or illegally download these songs. In random order, here goes.

Fever - Peggy Lee

This has got to be one of the sexiest and craziest songs ever written. It is also the only song I know of which uses the word "forsooth" in its lyrics. The background use of strings and percussion is unmistakable and distinctive. Peggy Lee doesn't sing- she purrs her way through the song. And (unlike many jazz standards) there's a sense of humour at work. Not to mention literary influences. Romeo and Juliet. Pocahontas. Madonna did a passable rendition but cut out many of the most imaginative lines.

I Get A Kick Out Of You-Frank Sinatra

Nobody sounds like Sinatra. His voice is his signature- one that nobody has ever been able to forge. Picking a favourite Sinatra song is not unlike asking a child to restrict himself to one piece of candy. The choices are unlimited as Sinatra continued recording till the day he died. I Get A Kick Out of You is the choice I was compelled to make from scores of other songs because it showcases the swing in Sinatra's voice to perfection. Cole Porter's lyrics are romantic without being overly mushy. Oh yes. The older versions of this song contain the line " I get no kick from cocaine." Champagne eventually replaced cocaine as the vice of choice.

My Baby Just Cares For Me - Nina Simone

Nina Simone is brilliance on the edge of a carving knife. I saw her in Brussels eons ago where she had arrived to launch her Baltimore album. She was apparently on a cocktail of some very potent drugs and alcohol and was literally carried to the piano by hefty bouncers. Once she got her bearings (which took a little time) she was pure magic. Her voice is deep, low and wicked. My Baby Just Cares For Me was an obscure little song in her amazing repertoire until it featured in an advertisement for Chanel No 5. George Michael did a fun cover version where he slyly replaced Nina's trademark (the Lana Turner smile) with his own (the Ricky Martin Smile).

Sway - Dean Martin

Sway is my current favourite Jazz vocal. It evokes the dance clubs of the 50s with some of the most romantic words ever written. ("Like the lazy ocean hugs the shore/ Dance with me, sway me more.") Dean Martin was not the greatest jazz singer ever, but he manages to marginally redeem himself with this song which has since spawned a host of cover versions. Most recently, it features in the truly dreadful Shall We Dance, featuring Richard Gere and Jennifer Lopez. This is the kind of music which makes me regret not knowing how to tango.

Summertime - Ella Fitzgerald/Louis Armstrong

I've cheated a little here by giving two of the greatest Jazz stars ever a single billing. Fitzgerald has a voice which sounds like honey flowing down a smooth surface. Armstrong's trademark croak is diametrically opposed to this. The combination is magic. Summertime is from Gershwin's Porgy and Bess and has an amazing sense of irony wrapped into some of the most delicious lyrics ever written in the style of -wait for it- a lullabye. ("Your daddy's rich, your ma is good looking/ Now hush little baby don't you cry.")

Stormy Weather - Lena Horne

Lena Horne was one of the victims of an amazing campaign of discrimination. She was of mixed parentage in an era where even a hint of black was enough to disqualify your music from being heard in white establishments. Stormy Weather is the kind of song you listen to when you're low and you want to wallow in it for some time. It keeps on raining all the time.

Southern Fruit - Billie Holliday

Billie Holliday's life is even sadder than her music. There is, literally, no such thing as a happy Billie song. They range from the mildly sad (Don't Explain) to the downright tragic (I Cried For You). She charts the lowest depths of sadness and at points in my life I have had to stop listening to Billie simply because I feel she wants to drag me down with her. Southern Fruit is a strange song as it is not based on love (or its absence) but instead on the lynchings which took place across the Southern United States, where blacks were fatally assaulted and left hanging on trees. Hence the grisly reference to "fruit" in the title of the song.

The Girl From Ipanema - Stan Getz, Tom Jobim and Astrud Gilberto

Latin jazz has got to be one of the most happy jazz forms around. Even if you don't speak the original Spanish or Portuguese in which most of this genre is sung, the happiness and gaiety is almost infectious. The Girl From Ipanema is slightly different in that it is not in fiesta mode, but has a quiet, sad (but not tragic) melodic quality to it. The lyrics (sung in English) are about unrequited love. The Girl from Ipanema is beautiful, "but when she walks she just passes by. How can I tell her I love her?" Sounds familiar?

My Funny Valentine - Chet Baker

It is only recently that Chet Baker has acquired something of a reputation as a singer. His voice is strangely wispy, almost feminine. This is in stark contrast to the masculine notes which exemplify most male jazz singers. My Funny Valentine has got to be one of the rudest love songs ever written - "Your looks are laughable. Unphotographable". Yet it remains one of the most endearing. On a superficial note, Baker was one of the more photogenic jazz stars (that's his picture above) which may have something to do with the cult status he has acquired.

Love, Literature and Lying

2005-08-11T12:11:00.000+05:00

I am not particularly happy about classifying literature as either "gay" or "straight". In my world, a work of art is work of art devoid of any sexuality. It is in this vein that I become really paranoid when I am presented a work of "gay literature" (or "queer lit" as it is fashionably known) by a friend to read. I generally avoid the gay listings on Amazon for this reason. The classification of literature into gay or straight follows no known logic. For example, Allan Hollinghurst, a gay English writer (and winner of this year's Mann Booker Prize) writes extensively on gay life and yet his work is never classified as Gay Lit. Perhaps, the classification is intended to apply to only those writers who never really manage to move beyond an exclusively gay readership. The most amusing effect of the sexual classification of literature came home to me at the swish Kinokuniya bookshop in prudish Singapore. A huge section coyly labeled Alternative Literature was actually home to gay and lesbian literature by the ton.

It was with these thoughts in mind that I tackled David Leavitt's novel, Martin Bauman. Leavitt's previous work includes The Lost Language of Cranes a soppy coming out- drama which the BBC (in a fit of sexual equality?) deemed fit to serialize. I later read England Needs Me Leavitt's highly stylized account of gay life in the England set during the Second World War. Martin Bauman is a cut above the earlier works. It tells the coming of age story of an aspiring writer in New York in the hedonistic 80s. Although Leavitt's protagonist is gay, I get the feeling that Leavitt wants us to read this as a serious novel and not merely as a "gay" one. The narrative unfolds biographically with Baumann living under the (wretched) influence of his teacher Seymour Flint. There follows a mildly entertaining account of demi monde life in Manhattan with a Dickensian cast of minor characters keeping the action afloat. Given the brilliant work that has been done on tearing the Manhattan establishment to shreds (Truman Capote, Tom Wolfe to name just two) Leavitt is treading on thin ice.

What I did find interesting about Martin Baumann was the treatment and exploration of sexuality despite Leavitt's apparent desire that this be treated primarily as a novel about literature and literary brilliance. Heck. Why lie. It was the gay bits that drew me to the novel including the details of his relationship with his lover Eli. And this is where Leavitt (and others of the Queer Lit ilk) succeed. Although I sincerely hope that I am proven wrong, I have yet to come across a heterosexual writer who can paint an accurate (and intimate) picture of gay life, love and relationships. The odd gay or lesbian character may crop up in such literature but he or she is not the focal point of the book. Usually (and unfortunately) the gay characters who do leap off the page are stereotypes guaranteed not to interfere with the predominantly heterosexual world in which the action is set.

So, what is the verdict? One, Leavitt has improved his writing by leaps and bounds. Unfortunately, his brilliance (for me) comes from the gay world he describes. Second, the gay characterization is nothing short of brilliant. The gay men and women who people his highly sophisticated world do face problems which are unique to homosexuality. It is at this point that I hear a collective sigh with a chorus that states : Well, people are people, gay or straight and the problems they encounter in relationships are basically the same. Yes and No. Yes, because the similiarities outweigh the differences. No, because, (for example) most heterosexual people do not live in a world of secrecy from the majority of their friends, parents and associates at work. Most heterosexual people do have well defined roles- sexual, personal and social-set out for them. That they may choose to flaunt these is a question of choice. Differences such as these (and many others) distinguish homosexual life from heterosexual life. And these must necessarily steep over into fiction - queer or heterosexual.

The Tower of Babble -2

2005-08-10T14:51:00.000+05:00

According to the BBC the word "Lollywood" has made it to the latest edition of the Oxford English Dictionary. It means (surprise, surprise) a reference to the Pakistan film industry based in the city of Lahore. So what if we produce crap films. We've made our foray into the English Language. Something to be proud about. Finally.

Little Town Blues

2005-08-08T12:35:00.000+05:00

"Oh how quaint. This is sooooooo like Toytown. You have one of everything here" exclaimed my friend Mad Seema. Yes, that is the general impression the world has of Islamabad. I remember leaving home in the early 90s. Karachiites were more forthcoming in their views. "Islamabad? Are you MAD?" For most dwellers of that city, the height of domestic travel is a trip to the not-so-French beach or a dirty weekend in Lahore. My instinctive reaction to my new home was the singular lack of people. The night silence became so insidious that I contemplated a new fascination with heavy metal. A city that could look so beautiful by day was completely black by night. No mountains, no trees and no flowers. Nothing was illuminated barring the odd street. Even the paan shops shut at midnight. I recall spending hours one night with a friend looking for cigarettes. We finally had to drive to the airport to find them.

A decade later, things are infinitely better. Sinatra crooned about moving to New York and watching the little town blues melt away. I often wonder if I have acquired the Little Town imprint. I wonder if my smart Karachi friends whisper about my acquired provincialism- even though (technically) I do not live in a province. I do not really live in a suburb either as there is not outlying "urb"to which we look for support. Deep within there is a kind of small-is-beautiful ethos at work here. Does it convert itself into small town meanness or inquisitiveness so beloved of television script writers. Well, for one, given the sheer minuteness of things, people do tend to know what you're up to. My previous house was way too central for comfort- people constantly called to ask what I was doing up so late on Wednesday night? (Nothing. Invariably.)

This line of thinking emanates from two extended viewings. The first of these is the much touted Desperate Housewives. Yes. I confess. I watched fifteen episodes over the week. Did I enjoy it? At a very basic level, yes. There is a vaguely adult humour at work and the use of Little Town as background is effective. Deep within though I was vaguely uneasy. Suburban life has its own horrors which cannot be laughed away quite so easily. I feel deep adrenaline unease when I drive through little towns like Okara or Sahiwal or Gujrat. What on earth do people do here to keep themselves busy? At best there is a derelict cinema or a run down games arcade. People look positively glazed. Is it habit which keeps them there? Or do they drug the water supply? To return to Housewives. I laughed at all the right moments but felt deeply uneasy about doing so.

On to Bunty Aur Bubbli(y). This is the latest offering from the legendary Yash Chopra and stars Bachhan Senior and Junior and the ubiquitous Rani Mukherjee. In a word, the film is awful. It tries (unsuccessfully) to ape the standard Hollywood tale of a Little Town couple who move to the Big City intent on a life of deception and fraud. Think Bonnie and Clyde; Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid; Thelma and Louise. These are tall standards and B&B fails to meet them. Why? For one negative protagonists rarely work in Indian cinema. Second, Abhishek and Rani are unconvincing as small towners. The clothes, the accents and the attitudes belie Big City. Third. The morality angle rears its ugly head. B and B have to get married first in order to sleep, cheat, lie and extort with each other. This detracts from the plot totally. Who wants to watch a safely married couple at work ?

Back to Little Town then. What is the verdict? None really. I love the Big City with a passion even though I do not get there as often as I would like to. And I love the comfort of everything being just five minutes away in Toytown. As usual, I prevaricate. I have the best of both worlds for now. And I'm not giving it away.

Black

2005-08-05T13:34:00.000+05:00

Sanjay Leela Bhansali is a strange bird. He has made a number of Hindi blockbusters (Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam, Devdas) which are more than a cut above the standard fare coming out of Bollywood. His films are distinguishable by their staggering budgets, their amazing sense of colour and production design and by -well- the sheer orientalness of it all. Costume, ritual, motif and a deeply embedded aesthetic ensure that the millions of rupees spent on an SLB film are worth every paisa of it all. His other forte lies in extracting perhaps the best possible performances possible from his leading ladies including the likes of Madhuri Dixit, Kiran Kher and even the remarkably wooden Aishwariya Rai. He has had less luck with his men. Getting Shahrukh Khan to emote in Devdas could have been no mean feat. Likewise getting a performance out of Salman Khan must have been akin to getting a sirloin steak to dance on one's plate.

And then Bhanasali goes and breaks all the rules he has spent so long making. He makes Black. This has got to be one of the strangest and yet most involving Hindi films I've seen in a long time. First the basics: Like its Hollywood predecessor, The Miracle Worker, Black follows the tale of a blind young girl,Michelle Mcnally,(Rani Mukherjee) from childhood onward. The focus of the story is the relationship that develops between Michelle and her alcoholic, down-at-the-heels teacher, Debraj Sahai (Amitabh Bachhan) over a period spanning decades. Yes, a blind protagonist is screaming for tear jerking melodrama and Black does not disappoint on that score. It does, however, have a number of reality induced redeeming features. The sexual tension between pupil and teacher for one. The lack of soppy sentimentality when Michelle flunks her exams four years in a row. ("You are a failure.") The slap across the face when she refuses to respond satisfactorily. And the avoidance of that ghastly euphemism- "special people."

So what sets Black apart? The number of anomalies it raises for one. Bhansali abandons the path he cut out for himself in previous films. Gone are the riotous colours. Black is shot entirely in hues of blue. Gone also is the orientalness (orientality?) of previous films. Although Black is set in India (Anglo India to be precise) the characters are garbed in "European" dress throughout. Not a single sari, dhoti or shalwar crosses the screen. Nor are there any dabkas, zardozis, paisleys or jamawars. Everyone wears sensible plaids and checks. The mood is European although the faces are brown or, at best, cafe au lait. One possible reason for the occidentalisation of Black could lie in not having to deal with generally retrograde South Asian values to blindness and, more generally, physical disability. Somehow, the tolerance levels towards blindness weave in more smoothly with the western ambience in which Bhansali sets his film. The sad fact of life is that physical disability is something with which the South Asian mind has yet to grapple and come to terms with. How many of us have friends who are blind or disabled? Or how many such people are we likely to come across in everyday life. Very few, I hazard to guess.

Finally, there's the grand Mr Bachhan. To apply a quotation, he didn't get any bigger- it's just the films that got smaller. Having achieved every success conceivable in Bollywood, AB has proven to be an anomaly at best and a liability at worst in several recent films. With his jet black hair and snow white goatee, he has been doomed to play Kareena Kapoor's father or some surreal underworld don in a string of mediocre or outright bad productions. In Black, he finally encounters the kind of role he should be playing. Does he succeed ? Well, he's certainly less irritating than he's been in most other films even though he adopts an English accent from hell. He is entirely credible, however, and that credibility sets Black apart from most films coming out of Bollywood. Oh yes. There are no songs at all. Not even in the background. And unlike most Bollywood productions, Black clocks in at around just under two hours of playing time.If that aint trailblazing, I have no idea what is.

The Tower of Babble

2005-08-04T14:03:00.000+05:00

I am amazed by the amount of meaningless prose that finds its way into the media. And I intend to document a very small part of it. Today's entry is focused on a statement from the European Union on relations with Uzbekistan. (Yes, I do read the papers!) The EU states that is to "suspend further deepening" of a cooperation treaty. I wonder if the italicised words mean "Do Nothing"?

Dorian Gay

2005-08-04T13:20:00.000+05:00

It has been a long twenty four hours. The debris from many relationships has found its way onto my doorstep and beyond. Not too long ago somebody working with a swish bank proferred a visiting card. The job designation (which then brought a smile to my face) read "Relationship Manager." I'm now begining to feel I need one of those. Let us begin at the begining. X and I have been friends for some time. We met in comic circumstances over the internet and agreed to connect in "real" life. "I'm the tall guy with the moustache" he informed me a few days before our meeting. In the intervening days he forgot about his description, shaved off his distinguishing feature and had me sizing up every moustached man at our designated meeting point. He came up bashful, apologised for the missing 'tache and (to quote Claude Rains in Casablanca) this was to be the begining of a beautiful friendship. Or was it ?

In retrospect what bound our (Platonic) relationship was books. X's job involved long spells in places so distance that I feared they had been forgotten by time, man and (sometimes) God. He would arrive, pick up a dozen books, return the last dozen he had borrowed and discuss them with me over lunch or dinner or good old potato juice. His work entailed a conservative appearance, short hair and nothing overtly gay. This somehow added to the charm of the situation. Eventually X acquired a lover and the three of us would meet from time to time over the years to discuss life, the universe and -invariably-books.

All of this changed when X announced he was quitting his job. I agreed. The constraints were begining to tell. He was terse, edgy and basically unhappy. We agreed that he needed to take some exams and head out of here. A dose of life in a foreign country would do him a world of good having survived years in the middle of nowhere. In the meanwhile he would move to the city, get himself a place and settle down with his lover for a few months. Ideal. Or so I thought. Having lived on the periphery of "civilisation" X now decided it was time for an Extreme Makeover - in every sense of the word. No subtle shifts here. We're talking tectonics. The hair grew to queeny proportions and acquired alarming hues. The mannerism became effete. And worse still, the crowd was now mainstream gay. The kind of people I have avoided because I share so little with them. My last vision of him was at a "G" party - hair down, embedded deep within a crowd of hysterical shrieking queens. I put my glass down within an hour of getting there and headed home. The quiet dinners, the literary banter, the camaraderie all became a distant past.

Until yesterday. An unknown number rang on my cell phone. It was X with a litany of grievances. "Why have you become so cold, so distant and so unresponsive to my many messages." I gulped. There was a nanosecond of doubt, before I decided on the Truth. "Can I be brutally honest?" "But you must." And so I embarked on my rendition of the events summarised above. "But did you really think I was like them?" he asked plaintively, voice aquiver. "Yes. After a point I did. You seemed so comfortable in there, it would be foolish to think anything else." "Why didn't you tell me?" This was a tough one. The truth is that I did feel uncomfortable telling him that I thought he'd sold out even though he deserved a break from his former life. In my oyster, we make choices and we bear the consequences. His oyster requires the caveat of an explanation. An emotional footnote if you like. Perhaps the truth lies somewhere in between. "Why didn't you call me, when I withdrew?" I asked. "Well after calling so many times, my sense of pride came in the way." Gulp. "P-R-I-D-E" he spelled, in case I hadn't heard.

In reflection late last night, I figured I live in a world where people don't really change. There is a dull comfort in relying on life's constants. Yes, people may change superficially but the kernel remains unaltered. So what happens when there is change? Are we entitled to re-form opinions we've held about people for so many years? Do we close our eyes and hope this is just a phase. Or do we move on ? I suppose the realist in me must answer that we acknowledge change and then rework our lives to fit it in. The romantic in me yearns for the other, older persona, the long lunches, the books, the debates and the flow of 'tato juice. At last reports, the head and the heart remain deeply conflicted.

What Lurks Beneath

2005-07-30T13:55:00.000+05:00

My friend Lady M (she who is all knowing) swears that you can tell all you need to know about a man by looking at his shoes. Be they trainers, brogues, sandals, oxfords or any other known form of footwear. Save yourself unnecessary heartache – just check his shoe closet and all will be revealed. My own – less scientific- theory has to do with what he wears beneath it all- his underwear. This can reveal tomes about the wearer. The only problem with my theory is that by the time you get to the last layer of the onion, it is usually too late (and very impolite) to beat a hasty retreat.

The statistics are divided between those who do and those who don’t. This is consistent with my theory that many Pakistani men simply don’t – wear any that is. This is empirically observable on a windy day and by the amount of unwarranted genital scratching that can be observed by any junior anthropologist. (No dummy –it’s not the starch.) Ofcourse, a conscious absence of undergarments can mean that the wearer is truly liberated, does not believe in restriction (constriction?) and enjoys letting it all hang free.

Of those who do, there are boxer men. These are largely confined to the imagination of admen who dream up these dreamy, soft focus black and white nymph-like creatures in elaborately crafted fashion shoots. In order to carry off boxers you need (nay, must have) an absolutely flat abdomen. Flat. To test if you have one, fill a wine glass with dry Bordeaux and leave it on your tummy for an hour. If it hasn’t toppled over, then you have passed the boxer test. The rest of you (us?) are doomed to fill in the other categories. Boxer Guy is a “dude” in every sense of the word – cool, casual, not afraid to let it all hang loose and as flat as the Pampas.

There is then the brief guy. I (and others of my ilk) fall into this category. I have kept at least a years’ supply in advance of my cotton M&S briefs. I’ve worn these since I was a kid and feel desperately insecure in anything else. Lately, my friend D has almost persuaded me to switch to Calvins. These include the long john versions which tuck everything in nicely. He has even found a dinky little Chinese shop that does amazing knock offs. I hate the thought of someone else’s name on my waistband, but must confess that these are incredibly comfortable. Brief Guy is safe, neatly tucked in and middle of the road.

Finally there is Y-front guy. These are the mainstay of the underwear industry and are characterized by the upside-down Y (depending on your angle of vision) that serves no apparent purpose. Millions of mothers have decreed that these are right for their little boys. And little boys, as we all know, are creatures of habit. Y front Guy is to be trusted, conservative – heck, just an ordinary guy or (in the gay context) a Fruit of the Loom.

What about the warning signals: synthetics (cheap, nasty and smelly). Patterns (especially slogans, teddy bears, hearts and the like) best avoided. Thongs, strings, dental floss: (kinky). Holes, frays (drop immediately or send to Queer Eye). Beware of underwear with no label – this has been acquired by the kilo off a cart at Juma Bazaar and denotes thrift. Finally, never trust a man over 18 who don’t buy his own.

Das Box

2005-07-28T14:03:00.000+05:00

One of the hidden advantages of my protracted throat virus has been the oodles of television I have been able to watch. I must start by confessing that TV is my least favourite medium. I have come to learn that I am not the target audience that most producers have in mind. I am not part of the great American middle class. Nor am I a housewife with a penchant for soap. I do not have a life which allows me to be in every Wednesday at 8 pm to follow the next episode of whatever is on offer. The only reason I have a television in my room is for me to absorb another, more intelligent medium : cinema.

Back to TV. Let's begin with the phoren stuff. The "entertainment" channels (as they have dubbed themselves) mostly have B or C grade serials which wouldn't merit prime time in any other part of the world. For example, it is not unusual to have an episode from the first series of "Friends" running on any three of them. There is the usual dose of gore and violence. The film channels are devoted exclusively to "Arnold" and "Sylvester". As I am not a Bicep Buff, these hold little (if any) charm. Unfortunately, the Turner Movie Channel does not run any longer on my cable networks and I am deprived of good queenie doses of Garbo, Hepburn, Bacall, Davis and Crawford. (No, that is not the name of a law firm.) There is the divine Oprah (where would we be without her worldly wisdom) and the truly ghastly Jerry Springer (white trash as art form?).

Onto the local stuff. Desi entertainment is, in short, one long soap opera. This usually perpetrates some of the ghastliest stereotypes in the guise of a good long weepie. The centrifugal force here is provided by the Mother/Mother in Law (twitching eyebrows, dark lipstick, a smile from hell) and the less-than-innocent Daughter/Daughter in Law (peroxide hair, tight fitted clothing and a voice to grate parmesan with.). The men in these productions are good looking drones with great profiles, tight buns and no personality. Clearly this a female dominated medium (the "dramatists" are invariably women) in which women rule and men are ruled. There's obviously some subliminal fantasy playing itself out here.

And then we have the local "hip" programming. This usually consists of music videos, some exceedingly good (dubbed "superhits") and others atrocious. The latter consist of handycams capturing some prepubescent, acne-ridden soul warbling on about unrequited love. There are several "segments" (as they are called in the trade) which deliberate about fashion, makeovers and the "celebrity" interview. The hostess (invariably called "Tina" or "Neeni") is a California Blonde with with a spray-on T shirt and platform shoes from a Swedish porn video. The one I watched had a tennis prodigy sit in a deep chair, well formed thighs splayed wide apart, crotch at camera level, while he went on about how much he loved his mother. There's hidden sex oozing all over the place here. And then there's the fashionistas flouncing across the screen bragging about their latest offshore acquisitions. ("Here's a furrrrrrrrr I bought in New Yorrrrrrrrrrk.") Little "aunties" with heads covered cook fictitious food in a sponsored cooking medium. ("And here we have Battered Chicken in a tomato ketchup-mayonaise-pineapple sauce cooked in high cholesterol Sunshine Oil.")

So what is the verdict? Is television really about having people in your living room whom you wouldn't normally have in your house? More loftily, is it true that "television knows no night. It is perpetual day. TV embodies our fear of the dark, of night, of the other side of things." More Banally: Does the sun always shine on TV? After my brief flirtation with the medium, I think I'm happier living without it. Except for Oprah.

Snub!

2005-07-26T17:12:00.000+05:00

Humiliation is not an emotion I take to easily. It is probably because it is the most difficult to talk or reason oneself out of. Everything else can be tackled with a degree of logic and a large pillow into which one can drown one's sorrows. Humiliation hurts somewhere at the back. It prickles, resounds, echoes and dies down very gradually. Let's start at the begining. Many months ago, I gladly agreed to give a farewell dinner for Diploman, a good friend. I requested (and promptly received) a list of friends he would like to see invited for the event. This included an Ambassador and his wife. I dutifully trotted out the invitations and (surprise!) even got RSVP's. The Age of Etiquette is not entirely dead. The Ambassador and his wife would be delighted to attend.

Come the dinner. All goes well. There are subsequent invitations to and from His Excellency including a request that they be allowed to take visiting friends up to the Sanctuary. I have no problem with this. Nor, apparently, do Their Excellencies. I gladly assume that I am an "acquaintance" in the grand scheme of things. Back at work a summer intern has a problem. These are young budding professionals who want to acquire some kind of experience before they leave for college. The young intern in question has applied for a visa and has submitted all the required documents. Unfortunately his visa request is declined because some of the documents are incomplete. He submits a revised set of documents but is met by a stony silence from the Embassy which continues for over two months. The days go by. His panic levels increase. Eventually he musters the courage to inquire whether I know the Ambassador in question. It is the self same one I had invited earlier. I promise no surprises but agree to call. That is when it all began.

After trying a dozen times to reach the Embassy, the menial operator has the temerity to ask why I am calling. "I need to speak to the Ambassador. It's about a visa." "The Ambassador does not give visas," responds the snotty S.O.B. "I am perfectly aware of that. I just need some help."

"Wait" he interjects. After twenty minutes of muzak I am put through to H.E's secretary. "He's a very busy man. He cannot be disturbed for something as trivial as this." "Well. Err. He is a friend and....." "FRIEND" she bellows, seizing on the word. "How can he be a FRIEND of yours." By now I am blushing. "Well, he's been over for dinner with his wife. And he's stayed at my place." This cuts no ice. "Call back in a few days."

I do call back in a few days. The summer intern is now feverish with anxiety and has been spotted walking into closed doors more than once. The Wardress of Belsen is put through to me once more. "I have spoken to the Ambassador. He has never heard of you." I am stunned. Even if I am unworthy of recognition it would have diplomatic to state, at the very least, that he couldn't immediately recall me. If this is the calibre of people running international diplomacy then we are very lucky to merely seen only two world wars. I decide to avoid being personal. "Listen. This had nothing to do with me. There's a hysterical kid out here who needs to know whether he's going to make it to college. He's not related to me, I have no personal stake in his future. I merely happen to be human." There's a long pause. I hear a breath on the other end. At least I know she breathes - occasionally. And then I get the information I had requested a week before.

What is it about Diplomatic services that instils an immediate sense of superiority? Is it the fact that they think they are truly a cut above the rest? Or do they live in such rarefied climes that speaking to someone they perceive as a lesser being is a nuisance? Surely the art of diplomacy involves the ability to cut across a swathe of cultures and people and to be able to communicate with them all. If a simple request requires a snub and half a dozen calls to be answered, I shudder to think how more complicated matters of state are handled. I am now convinced that the mess the world is in is partly due to the quality of the people at the very helm of affairs. Oh yes. I am still puce with humiliation. Peace.

Notes on Lust

2005-07-25T16:45:00.000+05:00

It is several weekends ago. Lady M, Dimples and I are back at the Sanctuary for a long grape sodden weekend. Spirits – all of them- are high. The air may be thin at ten thousand feet above sea level but this adds to the breathless exuberance of it all. If there ever had to be a case for a lack of oxygen, this is it. Between whiffs of grapeshot and Earl Grey we luxuriate in just being.

I forgot to mention the downside of a lack of oxygen. This manifests itself in a gradual lowering of inhibitions which are so marked at sea level. The conversation drifts, meanders, turns the wrong block and ends up in a cul de sac clearly marked Former Relationships. We giggle mindlessly at our past follies and our past passions. “How could you go out with him? He wore tight white polyester pants.” “He did? I thought they were cotton.” “Oh no, they weren’t. I accidentally dropped a match on him and he would have exploded if he hadn’t been so busy imploding.” And so it went. Until Lady M remarked “But that wasn’t love darling. It was Lust.” I scratched my head. This did not compute.

Lust, to a male mind, is sheer attraction without the added baggage of much emotion, responsibility or (if possible) thought. It is what lawyers call “a reckless disregard for the consequences arising therefrom.” Lust to a gay male mind is another trip altogether. I have seen gay friends perform lust ridden antics which make them cringe to this day. Don’t take my word for it. Walk into the back room of any gay club worth its salt and take a look for yourself. Have I been guilty of lust induced acts? I would be lying if I said I had not. In recollection, this usually takes the form of “What could I have been thinking of?” accompanied by a blush. I am therefore I lust. Or, (more realistically) I was and therefore I lusted.

So what happens over time? Well, for one, pure undiluted lust becomes somewhat dull. This is when the conveyor belt of emotional baggage enters the picture. Call it old/middle age, a lack of testosterone/estrogen or a refining/dulling of the higher/lower senses. The sense of lust is lost in these multiple choices. Other emotions kick in. I am forced to confess that I am sometimes more electrically charged watching a fully clothed man in a crowded cafe than I would be if he were lying across my bed with nothing between us – not even his Calvins. I am pornographically challenged. Do I mind? No. Am I weird? Probably.

Cut to the Sanctuary. Close up on Lady M. “Did you say lust. You went out with somebody for two whole years in the name of lust?” “Yes,” she responds defiantly, “men don’t have a monopoly on lust, you know.” We most certainly do not. But could I sustain myself on two years of lust? Lust, in my personalized lexicon, is quick, transitory, for-the-moment. I try challenging this assertion, but I am shooed away with “What would you know about women.” “A great deal more, given that I’m not sexually involved with them.” “Hah. That’s what you think.” I am now truly perplexed.

Do women lust? And, if so, do they lust in much the same way we do? I have yet to come across many women who confess to sleeping with someone just for the heck of it. Guys do it all the time. Gay guys do it habitually. At the risk of splitting hairs, women claim to be “attracted” to men – and sometimes to other women. But is this attraction just lust in drag? And is it the same emotion men feel? Perhaps, without the dumb assed things men do to satiate themselves. Common emotion different reactions ? Damn. Maybe I don’t know that much about women after all. Back to the drawing board.

Ten Reasons To Temporarily Cease Blogging

2005-07-25T15:26:00.000+05:00

1. The nagging fear that you are being a crashing bore.
2. The additional nagging fear that you are repeating situations.
3. A pernicious attack of flu which has impaired your ability to string a decent sentence together.
4. The absence of something which moves you and which you can write about.
5. A dreadful choice of DVD's not worth reviewing
6. Ennui.
7. Periods. Yes. Men do have them. Just differently.
8. The continuing breakdown of internet services (well, for last week only.)
9. What if Mummy comes across this site - accidentally ?
10. Love, actually.

Normal service will resume shortly.

Dis-Connect

2005-07-07T19:28:00.000+05:00

It's not for nothing they call it the World Wide Web. Webs are deceptive. Gossamer like. Strangely resiliently. Primarily intended to trap. Easy to rebuild. And inhabited by strange, creepy, crawly creatures. When the Web collapsed in Pakistan it rendered many of these analogies redundant. Others were reaffirmed. I’m not sure quite how to react to internet failure. On the one hand there are important emails which need to get through. On the other, I am spared gigabytes of spam promising to enlarge my penis or to get me a better credit card rating. I am frustratingly unable to reach the BBC site to check and see what has happened in London this morning. I vaguely know that bombs have exploded in a city that was and ( in an emotional sense) continues to be home to me. La Tempesta, a friend, has just texted me to let me know that the blasts were terrible but that she and our mutual friends are well and alive. Internet breakdown has also meant that posting on this blog has been an absolute nightmare. Yes. I have mixed feelings about net failure.

All this disconnected thinking does come together in the strangest way possible. I am busy in a meeting entirely focused on the job in front of me. My mobile telephone rings. Damn. It is La Tempesta from London. “I’m busy. Can I call you back?” “Most certainly NOT. Get OUT right now. Who is this weirdo you’ve gotten to call me.” “Err. Me ?” I struggle, conscious of a dozen eyes staring at me. “Yes, YOU, Idiot.” “He wants to be exorcised and needs my help.” I stare palely at the other participants of the meeting. “Excuse me gentlemen. I will just be back.”

Cut to 1994. I am obsessed with the internet. I lamely believe that it is the best thing to have happened to me. I can now meet intelligent, good looking, talented, single men. They will fall out of cyberspace right into my lap. Oh Joy. And I don’t even have to dress up for a cyber date. I can look like a dog, not bother to shave and still have them pursue me. Events proved otherwise. For many years cyberspace provided me with deep and dark disappointment. In one comic interlude I remember running as fast as my legs could carry me, because the undying object of my cyberaffection all month long turned out to be a bald, ill dressed midget with body odour and a stammer from hell. For me the net was doomed to be dotted with losers of all shades, hues, tones and genres. I did not want to be confused with them. I gave up.

Artboy was different. Or so I thought. We chatted online in the early 90s. We met briefly in Karachi at a cafe. There was no electricity. Not even the tiniest kilovolt of passion. Nevertheless, there was a sense of decency that prevailed. Email addresses are exchanged. We never meet again, but connected once in a while on the internet. Years go by. One day in the course of an internet conversation La Tempesta’s name crops up. Artboy would like her number. I assume this is in connection with his budding interest in writing. I ask La T and she agrees. The number is passed on. I guess all is well. Until I get The Call.

“Exorcise?” I mutter. “Yes. He called once. And then his mother called again. Shit. I’m going to have to change my number.” “Chill. Why on earth would he want you to exorcise him?” “Well," she said, with a deep sigh," I wrote a disturbing article on the subject fifteen years ago. And he seems to remember it all these years later.” Damn. “I told him that it was a long time ago. That I really did not remember it. And that, quite honestly, I did not want to remember it. It was disturbing enough when I was researching it.” I gulp. “I am sorry. Truly deeply sorry. I had no idea that someone would be looking to you for an exorcism. It was the last thing on my mind” I mutter.

The point of the matter of the fact is that the net is a strange place. On the one hand I have met some wonderful strangers who have gone on to become close friends. Lovers even. On the other hand there are people like Artboy. I suppose the problem lies in the nature of the web. The rules that regulate us in everyday life are momentarily suspended. You can be who you like. And more importantly, you let people slip in unnoticed relying on their net personas to guide you through it all. And that can be a very dangerous thing.

Decaffeinated Society

2005-07-05T14:55:00.000+05:00

Here's another cheat blog. The Op Ed pages of most Pakistani newspapers are as dry as a week old baguette. So when I came across something which didn't have to do with politics, gang rape or water distribution I sat down and read. Hey, this guy writes well. And he has a point to make.

Quote:

Let the good times roll!
Out of my head

There's always been celebrity gossip. But now we've got more and more of our local newspapers and magazines devoting more and more of their pages and photographic space to capturing the event-attending lives of not only the rich and the famous -- the glitterati -- but , increasingly, of the wannaberati -- the wanna-be rich and the wanna-be famous.

I used to be irritated by this waste of precious column and page space. Who really cared what these people were up to? Did it really matter that Bopsie threw a "GT" for Poopsie's birthday which was attended by so-and-so; that Buggles had a "pre" at his place before the MALCOGSOC Winter Ball and so-and-so showed up; that Cuppoo had a "post" after the LRBTARIAN Club Nite; that there was much revelry at the mehndi of Magsoo and Salsy at which who wore exactly what? And who were these Bopsies, and Popsies and Buggles and Cuppoos and Magsoos and Salsys in the first place? And exactly what had they done in, and with, their lives? And if they actually had done something constructive or substantial or creative then why weren't we reading about their accomplishments rather than what party or function they'd attended? Why were these non-events being given so much coverage -- in glorious colour, no less? Weren't there more weighty matters to discuss and actual achievements to celebrate?

I wasn't questioning the right of these people to party away their lives -- hey, I love a good party as much as the next person, and if you've got the time, money, and energy to be a happy and willing passenger on the social merry-go-round, then more power to you -- but I was certainly questioning the need for all this hedonistic revelry to be splashed all over the newspapers and magazines. When people are starving and women are being gang-raped and inflation is at a full gallop, surely the power of the press could be put to better use? I couldn't understand the undeniable growing popularity of these pages.

But somewhere along the way, I had a change of heart. Just like I did in the case of professional wrestling on television, which I couldn't stand to watch in the beginning. Being a big sports buff, I couldn't figure out the charm of something so fake. But then I realised that this wasn't sports but "sports entertainment" and I had to take it as something like a soap opera. From then on, I admit, I became an avid follower for a while. So, just as I came around to watching the World Wrestling Entertainment on a regular basis, I've realised the sheer entertainment value of the society pages littering our newspapers and magazines.

I mean this stuff is almost as good as P.G. Wodehouse. The British humorist found rich material for poking fun at the English upper classes and their foibles through his brilliantly named characters such as Monty Bodkin, Clarence Threepwood, Galahad Threepwood, Gussie Fink-Nottle, Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps, Bingo Little, Oofy Prosser, Bertie Wooster, Major Brabazon-Plank, Honoria Glossop, Tuppy Glossop, Pongo Twistleton, and so on. With the Bopsies, Popsies, Buggles, Cuppoos, Magsoos, and Salsys of the society pages of our newspapers it's like a P.G. Wodehouse novel come to life. You couldn't pay to find funnier stuff than that.

Hold on. It gets even more hilarious. You can't find such an entertaining cast of characters all in one place anywhere else: idle young playboys and dirty old men; interestingly (ahem!) dressed debutantes and celebutantes; painted starlet-slash-models and even more tinted, dyed, highlighted and colour-lensed formidable-looking aunts of the high society set; corporate executives on the rise and rotund businessmen on the make; fabulous fashionistas and even more fabulous (ahem!) fashion designers. And what their smiles for the camera say is this: "Look at me, I've arrived! I'm somebody! Love me! Look at the exciting life I lead! Envy me!" This need for approbation (why else would you allow total strangers a peek into your private lives?) is just about the funniest bit of all. Sometimes, though, the humour is hilariously black as in the case of some wannaberati being labelled "and friend" or "and guest" in the captions under the photographs. Oh, the hilarity!

Apart from the glitterati and wannaberati, various groups in this cast of hundreds include the following: the flitterati (the idle rich, given to dilettantism and flitting from one party to another); the pseudorati ("famous" only for having their photographs appear regularly in the society pages); the organiserati (event managers of uncertain leanings); the flatterati (mutual admiration societies); the matterati (men and women given to material excess, probably the largest class of all in this set); the titterati (the giggling classes); and the twitterati (resembling titterati, though dumber). Sometimes you also catch a member of the bitterati (the cynical elite) looking on in the occasional photograph.

So, may the society pages flourish for all the mirth that they provide the reading public. Let the good times roll.

Unquote

My Brother Nikhil

2005-07-05T13:17:00.000+05:00

It has a been a long fortnight. Longer still without a regular internet connection to the rest of the galaxy. Much longer with the frenzied heatwave that has continued unabated. Imagine, for a moment, starting the day with warm toothpaste. When perspiration overtakes inspiration, one is better left alone. It was in this frame of mind that I arrived at my local DVD shop armed with a credit card and absolutely no idea of what to pick up. As Vin Diesel and Arnold are not particularly high on my list of priorities, I gravitated towards the alphabetically arranged Hindi section. There, between Mere Mehboob and Mrityudaad was a sole copy of My Brother Nikhil. A month before, every gay man (and some women) with my email address had forwarded some kind of review of the film. I am wary of Bollywood's flirtation with gay issues including some half baked ventures like Bombay Boys and Fire. I dutifully bought a copy of MBN, but decided that its viewing priority was a notch below the rest of my selection, which included The Interpreter, Kinsey and (gasp) Swades. I was mistaken.

My Brother Nikhil is primarily a film about being HIV+. The film is set in the late 1980s when AIDS awareness was at an all time low- it is still perilously low in South Asia. Nikhil Kapoor (admirably played by Sanjay Suri) is an Alpha Male, destined for success. He is a swimming champion egged on by his pushy father (Victor Bannerjee). Mother (brilliantly portrayed by Lillete Dubey) is cast in the classic mould of the South Asian Mom unable to resolve her own issues with her husband-. ("I love you son, but do I have what it takes to tackle your father head on?) A chirpy Juhi Chawla is cast as Nikhil's sister. The film is set in documentary mould with flashbacks from Nikhil's life as seen through the eyes of his friends and familiy. Goa (as always) provides an exotic background.

The HIV theme is predictably handled. Yes, there is horrible discrimination and ignorance and a lack of subtlety about HIV in this part of the world. My Brother Nikhil does a reasonable job of conveying the private and public torment of coping with contagion in an highly unsympathetic environment. Let's not get totally carried away with all of this, however. There are high levels of concern in India and Pakistan on issues involving disability and disease. The perception problem with HIV/AIDS stems from the stigma that arises from the fact that most people assume it as being derivative of (in a word) S-E-X. The Pakistan designer scene and the charity czars are willing to jump onto any bandwagon. Eyes, kidneys, livers and cancer are "respectable" causes. They have given AIDS a miss, however. Why? Because it has to do with Sex. Gay Sex, sometimes. Prostitutes. (I refuse to call them "sex workers.") And that's just not dinner table conversation.

But I digress. Back to the film. My Brother Nikhil goes a step further. I had correctly assumed that the film would fudge the issue of how Nikhil became HIV positive. It doesn't exactly answer that question, but halfway through one of Nikhil's "friends" Nigel is shown to be far more than just a friend. They are actually lovers. I was momentarily dismayed. This was going to be another well intentioned hatchet job on homosexuality. My first reaction was to note how stilted the interaction was among the gay couple. On later reflection, this was not correct. It is probably how most young gay men would react when their intensely private relationship becomes visible to the world at large and (more importantly) to their incredibly callous and self-involved parents. It would be out of character for South Asian gay men to go into therapy (assuming this was available at all) in this situation. Suddenly my assessment of stiltedness was out of the window. MBN strolls perilously through scenes which the local censor boards would not approve of. In one telling moment the lovers superimpose their paint daubed handprints over each other as an alternative to the physicality that would normally have accompanied such intimacy. MBN is not a perfect film but it grapples more successfully (and bravely) with issues than previous efforts in this direction. And it must be lauded for that.

Tales From Middle Earth 7: Delhi Part 2

2005-07-01T13:05:00.000+05:00

The harem looks glum. So do I. It has been a week in Paradise and hard reality faces us. We have decided to transit in Delhi for a day. The visa saga plays itself out again, but this time the immigration officers know us all by name. I am offered a chair and a cup of sarkari (official) tea. Delhi is still boiling. I tell the harem that I am willing to accompany them anywhere as long as it is airconditioned. They agree reluctantly. We find ourselves at the MG Centre which boasts most of Delhi's designer labels. I saunter into the Rohit Bahl shop. The attendants smile, when they discover I am from Pakistan. They giggle when I tell them that RB dragged me to dance floor the last time I was in Delhi. ("You're from Pakistan? Dance with me. Now.") I leave with bags of merchandise.

Jewel and I have tickets to see Parineeta, the new Bollywood blockbuster. I am thrilled as it has been years since I have been to a cinema. There is a security check and my matchbox and Orbit gum are confiscated. "Err. What's wrong with my gum?"I ask the guard. "Well you may chew it and stick it onto the seat in front." "Hmmm. Do I look like the kind of guy who would?" Well you never know. A stranger in the queue tells her friend "There are hardly any men in the audience. That should tell you how good the film is going to be." They look up at me, discover they have been overheard and giggle nervously. Jewel with her X Ray vision spots one of the delegates from the Bhutan conference among the few hundred people in the audience and runs over to kiss and hug them all. I take my seat.

Parineeta is delightful. It is based on a Bengali novel set in Kolkota in the early twentieth century. The director has set it in the 1960's. Shekhar (played by the new, improved Saif Ali Khan) is an Angry Young Man in the Devdas mould. Lolita (played by the strikingly attractive newcomer Vidya Balan) is the love interest in his life. Indian cinema has a number of set motifs and this one, to put it crudely, falls into the rich-boy-poor-girl category. What sets Parineeta apart is director Pradeep Sarkar's ability to convey the financial disparity (and the ensuing power play) between the protagonists with remarkable subtlety. As with all good Hindi films there is a triangle. Enter the truly awful Sanjay Dutt (he should be consigned to cameo appearances) who plays the crude London-returned Girish. The triangle works its way through a number of beautifully produced sequences. Saif Ali Khan has finally proven his ability to act plus his recent rise on the cuteness quotient (CQ) has done nothing to harm his popularity. His English public school accent creeps into the dialogue once in a while, jarring his credibility as the scion of a Bengali family. The boat scene is reminiscent of his mother's acting in Amar Prem - another Bengal based blockbuster of many decades ago. It all ends happily in good Hindi film style Jewel and I are transfixed to the screen for three hours.

We reunite with the rest of the Harem and make our way to Olives, a Mediterranean restaurant. The girl at the entrance asks where we are from. Pakistan ? Give them the best table in the house. The manager arrives shortly to make sure we are comfortable. "It is an honour for us to have guests from Pakistan." It is an honour to be there. The food is good. The Californian white goes well with our orders. We crawl back to our rooms a little later. Our sojourn in Middle Earth is now truly over. There is a quick pit stop at Haldiram's to pick up some sweetmeats. And then it is time to go home.

Tales From Middle Earth 6: Mind

2005-07-01T11:59:00.000+05:00

Cut to Islamabad last week. I am sitting at dinner with two young friends discussing spirituality. "Do your friends think you're freaky when you discuss these things with them ?" "Oh, yes. Definitely" they reply in unison. There is a disconnect in modern Pakistan when one confesses to being "spiritual" or "mystical." Despite living in a country with a strong spiritual tradition, most modern Pakistanis find it difficult to relate their spirituality to everyday life. I am not speaking of the citified fundamentalists or the new age "amreekan returned" sunflower seed spitting variety of people. Just ordinary people with an interest in matters of the soul.

Back to Bhutan. The soul melds brilliantly with the life that surrounds it. There are significant reminders of Buddhism all around one. From the saffron robed novices and monks to phallic symbols on walls to monasteries around one. Yet the connection between faith, people and territory is so seamless that there is a sense of perfect unity at work. As with everything there are downsides. The Buddhist emphasis on the sanctity of life means there are hordes of stray dogs everywhere. And flies. The Californian chef smiles when I mention the profusion of flies in the dining room. "Nothing I can do about it" he shrugs. Oh yes, there is no fly spray on sale either. I had to improvise a fly swat with a stick and last month's GQ.

One early morning I stray into a monastery. The novices are not unlike Pakistan's madrassah children. The kids gather around me and we conduct a disjointed conversation in broken Hindi. I look up and see an older novice staring at me. I blush and look down. And then up again. This has to be the most photogenic monk I have ever seen in my life. I walk through. He follows. I take pictures. He knows he is being photographed but pretends not to notice. Eventually the tension within me rises to a pitch. I break the ice. A conversation ensues. I tell him he is good looking. He looks confused and shakes his head. Did I offend you?" I enquire. "I am a priest. These things do not matter to me." For a moment I feel suitably chastened - cut down to size. I see him later walking down the city centre, entering a shop. Damn. He does look like Brad Pitt in the right lighting.

On another occasion I stumble into another monastery. There are dozens of penises painted all over the walls. Dozens of them in wood hanging all over the place. Nonchalantly, I assume the air of a man who can tackle a couple of hundred dicks without batting an eyelid. "What do these mean?" I ask a priest. "They're meant to ward off female demons" he replies. "Ward off? Wouldn't female demons be attracted to these?" He looks at me as though I've lost the entire novel, let alone the plot. Who could possibly be interested in these ghastly things? Pricks. Dicks. Cocks. More than anyone could ever want. I get a free dick to carry home as a souveneir. I am petrified of Pakistan customs and find that it fits snugly into my Nikes. A size 11 dick.

My spiritual reverie comes to a close. It is time to pack and leave. I feel a deep sense of sadness. I haven't really done a great deal in the last few days. Before I left, I asked a Nepalese friend what I should see in Bhutan. "You don't have to see anything specific. It is so beautiful that everywhere you walk, there's something to see." Her mantra proves itself. Many days later, I am unable to respond properly when I get banal questioning thrown at me. "So what did you do? What did you see ?" "Nothing really." That is not the truth. Bhutan has entered my soul. And it shows no signs of leaving in a tearing rush.

2005-06-27T18:31:00.000+05:00

The Bathtub at the End of the Universe

Tales From Middle Earth 5: Body

2005-06-27T18:30:00.000+05:00

The Conference is over. There is much revelry on the last night. The other delegates have decided to take the early morning shuttle back to Delhi. Uber and his harem are alone at last. I try sleeping but the incessant birdsong coupled with the shrieking airbus have awoken me. There is a gentle tap on my door. I open the door and the person on the other side sizes me up in my red tartan pyjamas. I equally size up his black pinstripe frock. "I'm your guide for the next three days." Oh oh. The last thing I need is another guide. I have learned that the Bhutanese are nervous about letting foreigners run free through their carefully preserved society. They must shudder inwardly when they think of the tangled mess of South Asian life which surrounds them.

Time to change, organize the harem and then move on to pleasanter climes. We arrive at the Uma just in time for lunch. We have agreed to move here for the Hedonistic Phase of our holiday. The Uma is a boutique hotel owned by the King's uncle and leased to Christina Ong a Singaporean businesswoman with a flair for designer hotels. My room is dreamy and the bathtub (pictured above) is the apogee of luxury. I seek ways of unscrewing it and taking it home with me. The hotel is terribly New Age. Funky music wafts through every room. Aromatherapy reigns supreme. The food is terribly terribly good. Jewel and I endorse the low carb menu. This is sublime. Six star sublimity actually.

I pore over the massage menu while the others leave for some absurd trek or the other. I decide that my body needs TLC and the Uma spa is just the place for it. In the next three days my body is scraped, kneaded, pulled, tugged and pummeled into shape by a team of men and women. I am to be immersed in herbs I have never seen before. Hot pebbles are to glide all over my sinuous back. I will be clingfilmed in mud, leaves and other substances with origins I do not want to get into. The overall effect is orgasmic. Or so I recollect. I trudge up each evening in my dressing gown, crawl into bed and disappear into a world of dreams. I never switch on the television in my room barring one night when I feel my disconnect with the outer world is getting out of hand. The Michael Jackson jury is about to render its verdict. All this could be coming from another planet. Bhutan is the real Neverland.

The next few days are sublime. I am taken to the archery club and given a crash course on how to deal with a bow and arrow. Archery is the national sport of Bhutan and they manage to muster a few medals at the Olympics. There are long drives on snaking roads. At times we are driven up so high that breathing becomes an effort. On other days I walk aimlessly down High Street, taking pictures of people. I bribe children to pose for me with packets of Lays Crisps and bottles of Thumbs Up. I try shopping one day, but there is really not a great deal to buy. The harem is devastated. I believe this must be the first time they have have ever had to survive on minimal shopping.

I chat with the girls at the front desk. One of them is emboldened and asks me if I am a film star. I blush and reply I am not. "Ah but you look like one." Blush again. "Really, how would you know?" "We have many here." "Ah such as ?" "Well Cameron Diaz was here last week. And Mr De Niro comes in next month." Is that cool ? A tall West Indian man drifts by one day with a blonde girlfriend. I have no idea who he is, but he exudes star quality. He nods at us each time we meet and I secretly think he expects us to request an autograph. It transpires he is an English footballer called Sol Campbell. Alas. Soccer is not high on the list of the Uber's priorities. Or those of his harem.

Tales From Middle Earth 4: Dreams of Paro

2005-06-24T15:05:00.000+05:00

Bhutan is a riddle wrapped in a mystery enfolded in puff pastry. Most of the cliches you've heard about it are true. It is stunningly beautiful. It is cut off from the rest of the world. The men do wear frocks. You cannot buy a diet Coke over the counter. You cannot smoke anywhere. The television channel broadcasts for an hour a day. Virtually nothing is made here apart from the very basics. Everything comes from either India or Thailand. The local newspaper comes out twice a week. The Indian Rupee is legal tender. Everybody speaks English and Hindi. The King is married to three sisters. It is all true.

First impressions have to centre on the ring of mountains that surround Paro, the second city of Bhutan. Through half closed eyes these look like our version of the Himalayas, except much higher and, curiously, much nearer. Then there is the riot of colour that hits you smack in the face. Sunglasses are advised not for ultraviolet protection, but to keep you at bay from the kaleidoscopic colours that swathe the architecture, the costumes and the interiors. For example, the Bhutan High Court is painted Surf box yellow with red, pink, green, blue and orange ornamentation. Then there are the sounds. Cheesy as it may be, one actually wakes up to the sound of birds chirping. And there is the river which has its own soundtrack. The assault on the senses is complete but cloyingly pleasant.

I am given a cottage at the state owned hotel where we are to stay for the first three days. This is not unlike the PTDC cottages dotted through northern Pakistan but infinitely cleaner. The conference (the ostensible reason for my visit) is scheduled to open soon and I charge down to register. It is clear that nobody is here to listen to tedious papers on development. There is a clang of cymbals and troupe of Buddhist monks enter chanting in sonorous tones. Speeches. Yawn. Meaningless words strung together. Then there is tea. I decline Bhutanese tea (which is laced with butter) and opt for boring old Liptons. The delegates (all from South Asia) eye each other curiously. "Jolly" says a pudgy pleasant faced man extending his hand. "Very jolly" I reply, extending mine. "Err. No. That's my name actually." I squint at his lapel card. It reads "S D Jolly." Oops. The Jolly's and I are destined to become good friends. Their three sons have never met a Pakistani before and I am deluged by a barrage of questions. I suspect that one of the Jolly boys may be a little "jollier" than meets the eye, but I leave this train of thought uninvestigated.

I return to the cottage to discover that Jewel (who has a cottage adjacent to mine) has hit the Australian shiraz. We imbibe in silence watching the view. Time to head down for dinner. We are treated like royalty. Bhutan produces every which kind of alcohol -an exclusive Army monopoly. I think of the ramifications if this were to happen at home. I ask a minister why it is so difficult to enter the country. "We have our traditions and we wish to preserve them." He looks over his shoulder, lowers his tone a few decibels. "We don't want to end up like the Nepalese. All those scruffy drug taking hippies with long hair." He is right. I never encounter any of those in the week I am to spend in Bhutan. Not a single backpack. Not even Prada.

Jewel and I totter back to our cottage. I look to see if anyone is watching and then light up one of my Delhi Havanas. Bhutan is a no smoking country. It is an offence to smoke in a public place or to sell tobacco to anyone. If tobacco is a no-no then drugs are beyond the pale. The next few days will see Dimples and myself looking for strategic smoking spots. Ban notwithstanding, people do smoke. There are cigarette butts all over the place. My Bhutanese friends tell me there is a thriving black market in Indian cigarettes. I sip my Shiraz. The combination of Druk vodka, Bhutanese scotch and Australian wine is beginning to tell. I climb the precarious hill and eke out just enough energy to fall into my miniature bed. Another Day in Paradise.

Tales From Middle Earth 3: Mid Air

2005-06-24T01:58:00.000+05:00

I hadn’t banked on the potency of the cucumber daiquiris. I hadn’t bothered to move my watch a half forward to sync with Indian Standard Time either. The thundering cannons in my nightmare translated to frantic knocking on my door. I charge out of my bed to open it, only to discover the Uberharem standing there- each of them dressed to kill. “The hotel van is ready to go” they chime in chorus. “But there’s still half an hour to go” I plead. “Oh no there isn’t” the chorus respond. Damn. I had intended to adjust to local time- the damned daiquiri got in the way. My beauty routine was slashed in half and I entered a van of very grouchy looking people. Attempts at polite conversation were futile. I had kept them waiting and Delhi heat caused them to resemble heads of lettuce in a sauna.

On to Delhi airport. Why oh why does one of the world’s sexiest cities have to have one of the unsexiest airports ? Delhi airport manages to make “Islamabad International” look good – and that’s no mean feat. There are no lifts, the wiring has come apart, the floor boards stand uprooted, the duty free shops are basic and the least said about the restaurant the better. The only saving grace (for me) was a large cigar shop. Having procured my Cohibas, I discovered I could only light up at the bar. Dimples and I ordered coffee as a group of delayed Keralans stared wistfully into their Kingfishers. Time moved ponderously. I stared at our tickets. Druk Air. “Dimples, have you ever heard of this airline?” “No. Never. Ever.” “What do you think “Druk” means?” “It means “Dragon” darling. I’ve done my homework.”

Time to board. Another flash of microwave heat. The transit bus weaves its way through an unending maze to arrive at one of the smallest aircraft I have seen. Its belly rises a mere yard above the tarmac. My stomach churns. Strange, because I haven’t eaten since the cucumber daiquiri. The harem smiled weakly. I rose and they followed me, Saudi style. I crouched and entered the jet. Jewel and I agreed to sit together. I looked around for my the other half of my seat belt. It didn’t exist. The crew looked distinctly underage. The jet shudders and –miracle of miracles- rises. The coffee trolley arrives jangling an odd assortment of drinks. I opt for a stiff vodka and tonic. “But its only eleven in the morning” Jewel pleads. Ignoring her I ask for a swift refill. Adventure flying can be fun.

Flying on a Stoly haze, I finally mustered the courage to stare out of the window. The view is, literally, breathtaking. Snow capped peaks rise through the clouds and seem near enough to touch. An Oz accent comes on and points out Everest on the right hand side of the jet. My instinctive reaction is to register the sheer loneliness of the peaks. Wow. There are places more isolated than Islamabad. The hissing silence is punctuated by the sound of a hundred digital cameras rising to the occasion. The view is dutifully captured. A stray voice says “Preeti did you get the south face.” “Yes Daddy, I did.” The jet does a nauseating bank so the audience can get a better view. My vodka tonics swirl anti clockwise. What the heck. Druk Air may be an awful airline but nobody can ever accuse them of not obliging their passengers.

More Stoly. The underage crew come around and ask everyone to remove all bags on the floor for stowage above. An Australian accent comes on imploring the passengers to fasten their seat belts and cautioning us not to be scared of the landing. The jet rises slightly and dips in to a nosedive. The brakes come on mid air. We lurch. Jewel says a vague prayer. The cabin shudders. I slip my feet out of my loafers. Damn. I should have had another drink. The silence becomes positively pregnant. The engines perform an aria from La Traviata and we enter the narrowest valley I have seen. Another massive drop and the jet banks awkwardly to the left. I look out of the window to see the wing tip move a few feet away from the mountains. I instinctively closed my eyes. There is a dull thud. This could either be a landing or a crash.

The Harem breaks into spontaneous applause. I open my eyes. The door slides are “disarmed” and I step out into a world that could only have been designed by Disney. The men wear knee length skirts. The women longer skirts. The overarching sky is connected by a series of mountains which reach forever into the sky. There is a profusion of smiling faces. I am dazed and confused. Is this Shangri la ?

2005-06-21T12:47:00.000+05:00

Cucumber Dacquiri - courtesy my Nokia

Tales From Middle Earth 2: Delhi Part One

2005-06-21T11:44:00.000+05:00

With the first visa imbroglio behind me (three more will follow) I traipse out into Delhi. The dry heat delivers a mean left punch. I feel my jacket wilt and the rest of my clothes will follow suit shortly. It is marginally hotter than Lahore. It has been many years since I have visited Delhi. The most perceptible change that has occurred lies in the fact that one can breathe again. The last time I visited Delhi, the pollution had been compounded by the post Diwali fireworks. I recall having to rush into airconditioning to be able to breathe properly. Thankfully, all that is history. A bunch of brave lawyers (tadaaa) and an enlightened judiciary have allowed a city to breathe again.

My travelling companions are a delightful and somewhat varied bunch of Pakistani women. Regular readers will have discerned that my life is delightfully occupied by women as I have (almost) written off the drones who pass as Pakistani men. The UberHarem consists of Dimple, who we encountered in an earlier blog; Jewel, an urbane Pakistani businesswoman undergoing a messy divorce; and last (but never least) there is "She" (as in the Rider Haggard novel) an exuberant lawyer who has just begun to discover the joys of Younger Men. The Harem and I traipse into the Intercontinental and the jets of airconditioning are bordering on the orgasmic. The gals fancy some shopping. Delhi, like an enthusiastic mistress, tries to lure me out onto the streets. Two flights, the visa fiasco and the all encompassing heat make me tetchy. I strip, throw myself into a cold shower in the kitsch 60s bathroom (green onyx ...sigh) and collapse on my bed.

After a seeming eternity of deep sleep, I am awoken by Jewel. We met for the first time earlier that day and she invites me out for dinner. We assemble in the lobby and make our way to the Imperial, one of Delhi's truly "Grand" old hotels. The interiors are "olde worlde" colonial and some of the vistas are stunning. The designers, however, seemed to feel they were onto a good thing and didn't quite know when to stop. The end result is a kind of Colonial overkill - brilliant in some parts and overdone in others. The Silk Route is our destination. Jewel insists that we start with cucumber dacquiris. I am initially hesitant but accede to her request. In a word, they are brilliant. The food is great. The visa officers seem a million miles away. We return and I sink into a truly deep sleep.

Tales From Middle Earth 1: Form(s) vs Substance

2005-06-20T13:20:00.000+05:00

Hello Earthlings. I have returned. It has been a long and eventful twelve days and I am not sure quite where to begin. Telephones are always good places to start. "Sir. You will need to send us six original copies of the visa application." Me: "Six originals ? Photocopies aren't good enough?" "No Sir. Six originals." Ah well. There goes the lunch break. The six originals with six photographs are duly despatched to the Indian High Commission. No news for days thereafter. The night before I am scheduled to leave my passport arrives with four of said six forms duly stamped and scribbled with all manner of hieroglyphics. Phew. The ordeal is finally over. Or so I think.

On board my forty minute Lahore-to-Delhi hop I am filling in the usual disembarkation cards when I notice that on my handwritten visa somebody has overwritten the word "multiple" on top of the word "single". I need multiple entries as Delhi is a transit point. Ah well. Just another mistake. Oh yes. The immigration form states clearly "For Indian Nationals only." I point this out to Pakistan International. "Sorry sir. Those are the forms the Indians gave us." Hmmmm. Curiouser and curiouser. I clamber out at Delhi Airport (more about it in a later blog) join the queue only to discover that I have to fill out another set of forms - this time only in triplicate. My passport is first checked against a Dickensian ledger (to ensure that I am not a member of any jihadi organisation ??) and then I join the queue again. It is much longer now as six flights have since arrived. The new forms state that they are issued under the Foreigners Act, 1947 and ominously state "For Pakistan nationals only." The myriad of other nationalities there do no qualify as "foreigners."

"Next." I march forward and flash one of my dazzling smiles at the immigration officer. She smiles back. "Welcome to India." "Delighted to be here." Her smile freezes and then disappears. "Somebody has overwritten this visa." "Yes. But its not me. The overwriting is in the same ink and the same handwriting." "I'll have to check with my superiors." She disappears for what seems an eternity. The other passengers in the queue eye me suspiciously. Perhaps they do think I am a jihadi in drag. The number of passengers dwindles. She returns finally. "I'm sorry sir. You'll have to talk to the Assistant Commissioner about this. That way please." For some awful reason I think of the first ten minutes of Midnight Express. The return flight to Lahore has left. Yikes.

Mr Chauhan could easily substitute for one of his counterparts across the border. He is wearing the de rigeur safari suit in one of those indistinguishable shades of brown. "Confidence building measures" he snorts. "I have no idea what these politicans are up to if they can't issue a proper visa." I heave a sigh of relief. "Neither do I." "I will let you go this time, but I am warning you that this problem will repeat itself each time you pass through." I am scheduled to pass through Delhi three times in the next week. The prospect of negotiating my way through does not sound promising. Nevertheless, two hours and forty five minutes after my flight has landed I am free to leave. I head for Duty Free. "Two large bottles of Chivas. And can I swig a shot here ?" Duty free boy smiles back. "Drink all you like. I have no change. Can I give you Kit Kats instead?"

Mr Chauhan is not wrong. The scene replays itself another three times. This is not merely sad-it is tragic. Delhi is the one airport in the world, where I can pass through customs and immigration and come out speaking the same language. The banks of goodwill I am to encounter in the next few days are immeasurable. All it takes is a bunch of civil servants to ensure that the road to everlasting peace is pasted with ridiculous forms. I am sure that Indian nationals suffer as much when they cross the border as well. The time has come to join hands and burn as many forms as we can find. Do I have any volunteers ?

Only Connect

2005-06-06T11:47:00.000+05:00

I start this post by letting my faithful followers know that I am going to be away for the next few days. This should not normally pose a problem as there is usually access to an internet connection and, therefore, the possibility of a blog update. However, the country I am going to has just opened its first internet cafe a few months ago, so I'm fairly unsure about my connectivity. I haven't received my passport from the Embassy involved, so I'm not so sure about travel plans. In brief: if you don't see an update here for about ten or twelve days: DO NOT PANIC!

Back to more important things. At the risk of sounding as though I've been blogging since birth, I once wrote a piece here about how being gay in Pakistan had certain inbuilt advantages. One of these lies in being able to cut through the cliques and groups which constitute Pakistani social life. Married people are usually the biggest defaulters here preferring to cling to school friends and work colleagues. Being gay doesn't mean having to write off the considerable luggage that comes with being Pakistani (third cousins twice removed) but it does allow you to peek outside the confines of The Rules. If you're truly brave, you can even step out.

This line of thinking has its roots in the intermingling that has recently taken place between many of my straight and gay friends. Like many around me, I have compartmentalised my life into "gay" and "straight" boxes out of fear of causing offence. I have tried to shield my gay friends from never ending monologues on the importance of the right school or the best family holiday destination. Likewise, I have tried to protect my straight friends from an off-colour conversation on oral sex or the best crusing joints in town. Sometimes, I have had to protect some of my gay friends from other gay friends. At one dinner, I hosted there was outrage when an outspoken friend went up to a straight woman and said "What does it feel like to be married to the only heterosexual man in this room." The hostility generated by that one remark produced enough energy to light up a large town.

So, given this background, I was practicing some kind of apartheid. And, apartheid, we now know is terrible. I have, therefore, decided to tear down as many barriers as I can. My experiment has been a resounding success. "Who is this guy?" "He's amazing!" "How come you've kept him away from us so long." And so on. I guess the best policy is just to lie back and let people figure things out for themselves. People have to discover their own abilities to connect. If they fail that is their problem. I simply have to stop being quite as protective as I have been in the past.

Back to "connections." E. M. Forster used "only connect" as the tagline (sorry EM, you'd never have used that word) to many of his novels. A theme based around people and cultures struggling to meet against the odds. This cuts against the grain when it comes to the complacency of Pakistani social life with people meeting within rapidly diminishing circles-within-circles. You must remember that there are no bars here or similar meeting places where people can drop their reserves and connect with complete strangers. I often challenge my Pakistani to friends to ask when they last spoke to a complete stranger in a social setting. Heck, when did you last flash a smile to a complete stranger ?

As with all urges, the urge to connect needs to be tempered with patience. One of the most endearing moments this week came from a friend with whom I've been talking, but we've never actually met as yet. In connect-mode, I rushed to make some hasty plan which involved my dashing to see him in between connecting flights. I was politely reassured that we would meet, but that not connecting at all was better than connecting in those circumstances. That he was not running away and that we would meet, when we were both comfortable with it. Deep Breath. He's right.

Living High's Meme

2005-06-03T13:13:00.000+05:00

I've never done this before. Sin (www.venialsin.com) once nominated me but the questions went on forever. Living High (http://livinghigh.blogspot.com/) has done it, but the questions are much more self contained. Here goes.

1. Total Volume of Music on my computer: 2997 songs.
2. The Last CD I Bought: Omara Portuondo: Buena Vista Social Club
3. Song Playing Right Now: Right now silence. Last "song" heard was the opening to Beethoven's Ninth.

4. Five Songs I listen to a lot or that mean a lot to me: Phew. Tough. In no particular order: Sway -Dean Martin(mush). I Don't Love You Any More-The Eurythmics (schadenfreunde music). I Want You - Marvin Gaye or Madonna or Robert Palmer (hope music). La Boheme-Puccini-Barbara Hendricks(The kind of background music I assume they play in heaven.) Don't Explain -Billie Holiday (music that reminds me that I'm human). Meda Ishq Vi Tun - Abida Parveen (for the hidden spiritual in me). That's six-but who's counting!

I pass this on to Sin, Sarah, TDH, Mac and anyone else who feels so inclined!

Viva Gay Pakistan

2005-06-03T12:06:00.000+05:00

Here's an interesting article which a friend wrote up. Some bits I agree with. Others I don't. The most immediate (and facile?) response is: if things in Pakistan are quite as hunky dory, why don't you reveal your name and identity ? Do we have another Deep Throat in the making ? Read on:

Quote:

Gay Pakistan - 'less inhibited than West'
Throughout South Asia, homosexuality has been a taboo subject. But there are signs in some areas that gay people are now becoming more open in their behaviour. In this column a gay man in Pakistan talks about the advantages of being gay there compared to the West. He prefers to remain anonymous.
It is all too common to hear examples of the repression of sexuality and oppression of sexual minorities in South Asia.

Open displays of straight and gay sexuality are taboo in PakistanBut the problem with sweeping generalisations about sexuality, or anything else for that matter, is the exceptions.
I am one such exception - a gay man who grew up in Pakistan, became aware of his sexuality while studying in the US, had most of his early experiences of love and sex there, and yet decided to come back home to Pakistan. It will surprise many when I say that I actually feel more comfortable about myself while living here than I was in the West. It was not always so of course. Before my return, I felt quite aggrieved when my straight brother downplayed my apprehensions about being gay in Pakistan.

I cannot remember a single occasion in almost 10 years that I have felt threatened with regards to my sexuality in Pakistan It really was not a problem, he suggested. How insensitive and naive of him, I thought. My brother has won the point since though. While I maintain discretion in many respects, I have come out to most of my family, with their loving support.
I have also come out to all my friends, and rarely meet anyone aggressively hostile to gay individuals. I have lived with a lover independently without anyone raising an eyebrow.
I have attended gay parties more uninhibited than any I have seen in the West.

'Differently configured'
In fact, I cannot remember a single occasion in almost 10 years that I have felt threatened with regards to my sexuality in Pakistan. An entirely unrepresentative experience to be sure, as far as the experience of a majority of Pakistanis is concerned. But there is no representative sample that I can think of.

Pakistan has 'conservative religious and cultural attitudes'Sexuality itself is so much more differently configured in Pakistan than in the West - which is where the language of the sexuality debate comes from. This is especially true in terms of people's perceptions of their identity and behaviour, in terms of class, with regards to family and religious obligations.
I would not for a moment suggest that it is easy being gay in Pakistan. Homosexual acts are illegal, and conservative religious and cultural attitudes mean many gay people are afraid to openly acknowledge their sexuality. They face ostracism by their families if they do. But in a sense the American military's approach of "don't ask, don't tell" is applied throughout this society.

'Taboo matter'
True, there is a fine line between discretion and suffocating silence. But being straight is not that much easier, and is in fact sometimes more difficult when it comes to physical relationships.
What is perhaps closer to the truth is that overt expression of sexuality itself - both gay and straight - is a taboo matter in Pakistani society. But whereas heterosexual courting and coupling is all too obvious, gay socialising can take place without attracting as much attention - with brazen abandon in a society where many forms of overt physical and emotional intimacy between members of the same gender are tolerated and even admired. The opposite holds true for such public expression between members of the opposite sex. Just as everywhere else, however, things are changing, driven by the exposure to information via technology. The internet, satellite television and films all combine to give a new generation of gay men and women context to their emotions, a sense of identity, an outlet for expression and perhaps most importantly, the ability to communicate with each other.

No wonder, then, that I met my boyfriend on the internet.

Unquote.

My Right Foot

2005-06-02T19:17:00.000+05:00

I don't know if you've ever been incarcerated for a long time in a bed. The static views really begin to get to you. I've been staring at my offensive right foot for so long, that I thought I'd share the view with you. I knew camera phones would come in handy one day. I feel like Cary Grant (or was it James Stewart) in Rear Window. Maybe I can see someone commit a murder as I stare out of the window. Till that happens, I will memorise evey grain of wood in my chinese cupboard.

Engdu

2005-06-02T13:25:00.000+05:00

I managed to twist my ankle yesterday en route to the book shop. It was fine for a bit, but I had to leave (yet another) farewell dinner for Diplo 1 halfway through when the pain teetered in the red area between excruciating and unbearable. It hurt so bad I thought I would cry. But then I thought of the emotional scars that would leave on the Beast. So I popped six painkillers instead and felt lightheaded, if not better. The pain's down today and the brain is working. I tried watching some TV today. Through the maze of Hinglish/Engdu I got to thinking about the quirks of English/Urdu that we speak. What makes us be us, as opposed to others speaking the same languages. Here are some of my favourites:

1. The double adjective: This is the double use of an adjective to emphasise the point. Such as : "The black black man had thin thin arms." I think this is an Urdu device which translates into English. See see.

2. The vague adjective: The suffix "ish" allows us to any word and make it "sort of". It can be added with gay abandon to just about anything. My two favourites are "The weather is chillish today" and "That guy is so feminish."

3. English for emphasis: Here English words are used to underscore the key points of a sentence. The all time classic is "Merey father kee death ho gai hai." (My father has died.) The key words "father" and "death" appear in English. The unimportant grammatic joiners appear in the original Urdu. Another classic is "Woh bohut nice man hain." (He is a nice man.)

4. New Wine in Old Bottles: Some English words take on new meanings or nuances altogether. "Aged" just means old ...not very old. "Healthy" means "fat."

5. The death of the article: "A" and "the" have got to be the two most difficult words for a Pakistani to get right. Half my life is spent inserting or removing the definite and indefinite article into a sentence. The reason is simple. Urdu lacks articles. "Cat is sitting on wall" is perfectly correct Urdu formulation. I am waiting for someone to invent a hotkey which will insert articles into the right place in an English sentence.

6. Connectors: Some Urdu words act as "joiners" and creep into any reasonable English conversation. These include the ubiquituous "acha" (OK/alright), "leykin" (but) "aur" (and)and "phir" (then). To wit:"Acha, you're cute leykin I'm attached aur phir Mummy wants me to marry the virgin next door. "

7. Familial Matters: "Uncle" and "Auntie" (never the English "Aunt" or the American "Ant") can generically refer to any older person. One of the worst things about crossing 40 is having complete strangers refer to me as "Uncle" or (in the Punjab" "Ankill." ) I usually respond with a filthy glare or (if it comes from a child) trip it while it walks away.

8. Slang: One could write an essay on slang and street language. Some English words have totally localised meanings. Take "burger" for example. A TV show of the 80s assumed that a burger was the apogee of western sophistication. Today a "burger" refers to any westernised Pakistani (like me ?) in a derisory but humourous manner. My local radio channel has a show where anyone using an English word becomes a Burger right away.

9. Pronunciation: Although Urdu is one of the most versatile languages in the world with a profusion of sounds, some words just don't hang well on the Pakistani tongue. "Government" is "Gormint", "Olympics" are "Olumpics", "ask" is "aks", "law" is "lah" (and lawyers, therefore, liars), bomb becomes "bum" and so on.

10. Juxtapositions: As with German some words are just added on to others to create a complex noun. "Damnfoolnonsense" featured in every Pakistani film of the sixties. "Happybirthday" is another. ("When is your happybirthday?")

11. Anachronisms: On arriving in London to study ("fresh off the boat") I soon discovered that the Brits didn't use some words we did. "Thrice" is one. ("Twice" and "Three times" I was corrected.) It also took me four years to figure out the difference in pronunciation in a "v" and a "w". I still have to pause before I can talk about "Virginia Woolf's varied works." I try avoiding such sentences altogether.

12. Numbers: Double Two, Double Four Double Six Five. Very Desi. Oh yes, Double O. Oh oh!

Ofcourse all of these quirks just add to the charm of the language and its use. Some cultures just pick up some words which half lost out in English. The characters in Naipauls "Mystic Masseur" are "vexed" all the time- a word which rarely crops up in conversational English any longer. I wish more Pakistani writers wrote employing these quirks. Actually, I just wish we had more Pakistani writers.

Baby's Got A Secret

2005-05-31T21:16:00.000+05:00

This is a bit of a cheat blog. I must remind you that I'm not the kind of guy who forwards sms jokes or email jokes - unless they're pure fun. I had an email from MK in Karachi, forwarding me this website. The purpose of this blog is to get you to pay a visit to it. Secrets are second nature to gay men. Most of us end up leading strange double lives. We learn automatically to transpose pronouns. The "he" becomes a "she" as part of dinner party banter. References to past "girlfriends" are muted over with a quick change of topic. So get to www.postsecret.com and see what you make of it. Some of it is quirky. Some disturbing. Some close to the bone. Much too close to the bloody bone. And some of it is graphically gorgeous. Enjoy. I promise to return with remotely meaningful prose in the near future.

Melange

2005-05-30T13:03:00.000+05:00

The Party ended successfully. Having scraped the last remaining guests off the floor, I escaped to the sanity of my bedroom. The much neglected Beast got a major share of TLC before I passed out. The next day went by in a haze. I decided that after all this high tech stuff I needed a resort to nature, to a simpler life. Something evocative of my youth. The obvious answer was a weekend in the Sanctuary. For those of you who don't know, the Sanctuary is a house in the hills, which a friend and I built. It started off as sheer folly, but is now a welcome retreat from heat, people,work and ...well life in general. The main problem about holidays in the hills is that you have to pick your people carefully. This is not like a party where you can swan into another room or pick up your keys and leave because the guests are a pain in the ass. There are no emergency exits in the Sanctuary.

Having looked at various guest options, I decided on Diplo Version 1, because he is leaving in a few days. Myself (naturalment). The Newsman, because he is a good sport and despite odd lapses in behaviour is a fun kind of guy. Then there's my friend from Karachi - let's call her Dimples, because she sports two when she smiles. And she smiles an awful lot. I think I found Dimples vaguely attractive during my schooldays when my hormonal surges and sexual tendencies were in tumultuous conflict with each other. Oh yes. Lady M tried to get herself and the Jellyfish included. I put my foot firmly down.The four of us (sans M and the Amphibian) took off in elated spirits.

Along the way up, I kept wondering if I had picked on quite the right combination of people. Dimples didn't know the other two men and also happened to be the token heterosexual and the token woman to boot. Diplo and the Newsman were a little shaky. Newsman had refused to RSVP Diplo's last party on the pretext that he was "young and effusive" (or words to that effect) and was exempted from the requirement. Just as love means never having to say you're sorry, youth (or relative youth) means never having to RSVP. Whatever. We drove on regardless. We're stuck with each other for the next 36 hours, I thought. Maybe I can just retire from it all and pretend I have work to do.

I am glad to report that I was proven wrong. If people are basically civilised they can get along with each other in any circumstances. The Newsman and Diplo have North American educations. Dimples and I are of the Brit persuasion. Straight, gay, male, female, old, young. The spectacular view from my garden, copious quantities of grape juice and an arctic breeze ironed out whatever differences there were. Oh yes, television is banned in the Sanctuary. This means having to survive with music, books or, that long forgotten institution, the board game. For me, the most comic moments arose when we staggered in to play Taboo. For the unitiated, this is almost like charades and involves one person trying to get another to guess a word, without using certain key words. Diplo had to get Dimples to guess "Anchovies" without using the word "pizza". The exchange ran like this

Diplo: Small black, squiggly things

Dimples: Eels ?

Diplo: Sprinkled on flat round things found in chain Italian restaurants.

Dimples: Gnocchi.

Diplo: Gnocchi. Are you mad.Have you ever heard of Gnocchi Hut. Or Gnocchi Express ?

Or take another exchange where the word was "actor."

Diplo: Think Paul Newman

Dimples: Salad dressing ?

Diplo (with head in hands) : I give up!

For all my sins I got "wrench".

Me: An implement.

Diplo: What does it look like?

Me: I don't know. I've never used one.

Diplo: What does it do?

Me: I haven't the foggiest. Only real men use them. And I don't know any.

And so it went. Good clean fun. I haven't had that in a long long time. With all my clothes on.

Ps: What does one do with a wrench ???

The Pilgrims' Progress - Part the Second.

2005-05-27T17:37:00.000+05:00

I hate farewells. There's something about departures which saddens me immensely. Unfortunately, I happen to live in one of the most transient cities in the world. People come here for three year postings and take off to the other end of the universe. It's par for the course, but even after a decade of living here, I have yet to get used to it. I suppose one could try and avoid meeting diplos altogether but it happens. Diplo Version 1 (to borrow Sin's terminology) is leaving and I decided to host a small farewell for him last night. Diplo has been a good friend during his two and some year stint here and we share many interests in common. Being the multi tasker that I am, I also decided to help Lady M and the Brunette by using the farewell dinner as a mask of sorts, so they could invite their respective lust objects over.

First, the Brunette. I had decided to invite Mr Darcy to see if any chemistry could be built up. The Brunette, you will recall, had lost a shoe the last time I tried to bring them together. Mr Darcy was duly called and he accepted the invitation with great enthusiasm. Alas, the day before he called to apologise. Work was taking him to Bangkok. Hang on. Nobody goes to Bangkok on work. Is Mr Darcy just another frustrated sex tourist? We don't know. For now I am tempted to give him the benefit of the doubt.

And then there's Lady M. Alas, her objet du jour was in town and was the first person to arrive. The Jellyfish (as I shall henceforth refer to him) hasn't changed one bit. He exuded false confidence from every pore. His opening gambit was to rubbish my Davidoff cigar and suggest I smoke a Cuban instead. Pretentious twat. Beware of men who insist on consuming what is popularly perceived to be the best. Things could only get worse. And they did. One of my guests (the Princess) arrived from the other side of the Border. The Princess is pretty and bright. The Jellyfish is neither. He tried his damndest to get to know the Princess better, but if there's one thing royalty knows, it is how to deliver a royal snub. Try as he may, the Jellyfish made no headway. The Princess won hands down. Her body langauge screamed "Get away from me you oily sleazebag."

And then came the grand finale. Having failed with the Princess, the Jellyfish decided to bond with me. Big mistake. I am not an easy bonder. It takes me time to mull, muse, chew and ruminate over who my pals are. I have very few, but I prefer it that way. The bonding technique was crude to the point of ...well...a good puke. "Have you ever had it off with a north Chinese woman?" Me: "Errr. No. Actually not South Chinese either" I replied, thereby wiping off the possibility of sexual conquest with a third of the World's female population. "Great sex. And they're tall." This, I think, was an oblique reference to Lady M who is not the world's tallest person. I could feel the enamel on my teeth begin to crumble to powder. "I have a Moroccan woman in London. She looks like Angelina Jolie." Hang on. This was becoming repellant. Clearly, the Jellyfish could not have much of an interest in Lady M, if he was regaling her best friend of his Occidental and Oriental shags.

I am now stuck with having to tell Lady M the sad truth. A truth I sensed at the outset but I had to wait to have proven. The Jellyfish is an asshole of the highest order. She looked so obliviously happy last night that I was scared to broach the subject. She suggested dinner with him tomorrow and I declined in no uncertain terms. Men are complete bastards. I am contemplating lesbianism as a serious alternative. Ciao.

The Eyre Affair

2005-05-24T14:26:00.000+05:00

I may bitch, rant and moan about my parents like most other mortals, but when it comes to the habit of reading, I am eternally grateful to them. My siblings and I were postively encouraged to read at every step of the way- a habit that I've retained over the years. I remember my sister(who had become a mother very recently) once coming in asking me for a "light" book to read. "Light? How light?" I queried. "Well, as light as possible. I'm breast feeding, its a crashing bore and I need something I can balance on his head." I'm delighted to report that fifteen years later the kid who had "lite lit" balanced on his head is now an avid reader himself.

This week has been gloomy as I've been ploughed with work and I've cocked up on a project. Something staring me in the face which I hadn't acknowledged. In any case it is always good to have intimations of fallibility flash by once in a while - failing which I'm sure I'd be perfect. It was in this Kafkaesque state of mind that I picked up a book by the strangely named Jasper Fforde-that's not a typo. "The Eyre Affair" is charming and intelligent at the same time. Much better than the pulp fiction many read to keep themselves afloat. It is based on an equally curiously named detective -Thursday Next and her adventures in a surreal Britain.

The year is 1985. The Brits are at war with Russkies in Crimea. Wales has declared itself a socialist republic. The Dodo has been revived in a process of reverse extinction. One thing hasn't changed though: The Brits are madly in love with their books and their literature. So much so that a special department has been set up to protect literary works and to ensure that manuscripts are safe. Enter Thursday. She works for Litera Tec which is a branch of Special Operations that has been set up to ensure that literature remains intact. Everyday conversation among the masses involves long debates on the authenticity of Shakespeare's authorship of the plays or the works of Dickens.

Enter the bad guy: Acheron Hades. He has devised a method of seizing original manuscripts and altering the text so that ALL editions of the text are altered. His first maneouvre is mundane. Removing Mr Quaverly from the text of Martin Chuzzlewit- not a great work of art by any stretch of the imagination. He takes on the establishment when he manages to get into the text and the world of Jane Eyre. Now this is serious stuff. The Brits and the Brontes have a connection which spans decades. What follows is a roller coaster ride interspersing "modern" Britain with the world of Jane Eyre. Nothing is sacrosanct in Fforde's imaginary world. He takes broad swipes at all, including the television press, by inventing the Toad News Network and big business, in the form of the Goliath Corporation. But do not be mistaken. There is an Alice in Wonderland feel to Thursday's adventure. No lofty polemics here. My "laugh out loud" moment came when Thursday (with the help of Mr Rochester) enters the world of Jane Eyre, only to discover some Japanese tourists who have managed to sneak in with her.

What remains once the book is over is a terrific sense of humour coupled with a fertile imagination- a rare occurence in a PDB (post Dan Brown) world. The seriousness (if that is the right word) lingers in the fact that great literature is important and worth fighting for. The only other work of fiction that dwells on this subject (though in a very different manner) is Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 - subsequently made into a not-very-good film by Francois Truffaut. If great literature is worth dying for or worth saving then shouldn't more of us be reading it ? That, I think, is the unspoken premise in Fforde's work. I have the next three books and look foward to devouring them.

Talking Heads

2005-05-23T10:16:00.000+05:00

Islamabad was once a series of villages, with village people and village things to do. One forgets the origins of cities until one is forced into it. Try telling a Dubai native (a Dubaian?) that he lives in what was once a fishing village. Or an Omani about pearl fishers. People often take the concrete mass as reality while forgetting the original reality. Islamabad does have subtle reminders of its humble origins. Once you drive out of the city (about five minutes in any direction) you are accosted by wheat or cotton or mustard fields. Karachi is quainter, as absolutely nothing grows there barring the odd date palm. I was tickled when a group of Karachi friends pointed at some miniature shrubs growing there, a few feet high at most, and shrieked ...."TREES."

Back to my story. Saturday night involved a long drive on my way out to a friend's "farm" (pronounced "form" for some unfathomable reason) for dinner. The drive itself is scary enough with several miles of unpopulated terrain. I called upon the Guru and his wife for company. They were equally scared and hastily agreed. The three of us arrived at the Form and drove through wheat fields until we arrived at a citified house in the middle of nowhere. On the way we encountered a pack of wild boar, a solitary but very large porcupine and dogs who were really wolves in drag. Scary stuff.

The "party" in progress was scarier still. This was the "Country" set and talk ranged from "amreekan sundi" (American termites) to canalic irrigation. The men had ruddy cheeks, bad haircuts and wardrobes from hell. The women were just plain dumpy. Years of child bearing and child rearing in no-man's-land had taken its toll on them. This called for a triple shot of scotch on a few rocks. Gulp. Things looked no better, but I now felt I could take on the World. Or at least the Form World. I looked to nearest person for conversation. This was a large lady swathed in thaans of georgette with a husband wearing - wait for it - a safari suit. The little label on the pocket had "pansy" written on it. I tried several different opening gambits. Nothing worked. No conversation. Music streamed in from another room. "Would you like to dawnce? "she inquired. Would I like to what ? "DAWNCE" she yelled over the music. Err. No. I had just lit up my havana and didn't want her to self-combust to the strains of vintage Kylie wafting in.

Escape resulted in a walk in the garden. Well more of a field than a garden really. I spotted someone remotely interesting. How sadly mistaken I was. For the next one hour and ten minutes (I counted!) said stranger held me in his steely gaze and lectured me on Hydroponics. For those of you who don't know (which I assume is all of you) hydroponics involves the growing of vegetables in water instead of soil. In this case the vegetable of choice was tomatoes. The expression on my face glazed over and I dropped into screensaver mode instantly. This cannot be happening to me. Oscar Wilde once said something about boring people being the most dangerous. Hydroman proved it beyond doubt.

Just as I was about to drop into Standby Mode, I discovered some rustling in a distant wheatfield. On closer inspection I discerned a group of expat city dwellers smoking banned substances. As stoned as they were, I was still able to discover points in common with them. My sigh or relief punctuated the wheat sheaves. Which brings me to the point this shaggy dog story. The Death of Conversation. Why can't people learn to make decent small talk? If I had my way every party attendee would need to carry a list of Ten Interesting Things To Talk About. Leaving aside sex, religion, politics and hydroponic tomoatoes, there are a zillion other things to discuss. Heine once defined silence as a conversation with an Englishman. I disagree. The Brits (for all their failings) have refined conversation to a High Art. Unfortunately, they left behind the roads, railways, legal and tax systems, but departed with the Art of Conversation. The end result is brain dead social events which are not helped any by a staggering intake of booze and drugs.

So where did we go all wrong ? I suspect part of the problem lies in the fact that young Pakistani children are never really exposed to adult conversation at an early enough age. They are allowed to prattle on forever and are encouraged by indulgent parents to talk endlessly - never to listen. As a result they haven't the foggiest idea of how to sustain a conversation - they excel at juvenile monologues. I think parents must be compelled (on pain of death!) to get their children to be able to bloody converse in a civilised manner. To be able to tell them that grunts, "yeahs" and a synopsis of the last PS 2 game played will not make them likeable human beings. To provide them with interests (reading for one) which will make them thinking people. To gently let them know that talking is a privelege and must be exercised carefully. That boring people to death is the eighthth deadliest sin. Until any of this happens we are doomed to successive attacks of Killer Hydroponic Tomatoes.

Fan Male

2005-05-22T12:41:00.000+05:00

It's been another shitty weekend. London is becoming a distant memory. I'm sitting at the office working, putting together a report on (wait for it) SANITATION. My sanity is very clearly at risk. Without blowing my own trumpet I must confess that once in a while I do get email in response to my blog directly on my email address. This is for those who either do not have a blogger account or else prefer to write directly. Much of it is blush-inducing stuff and I try not to reread fan mail for fear that it may go straight to my head.

Today's mailbag included the following from CS which brought a smile to my face. CS: I hope you do not mind my quoting from what I think is a personal email. Here it goes:

"By the way, your friend's blog Venial Sin is one of the best I have ever read. He should collect some of his material into a collection of short stories or a series of related tableaux to compose a novella. It would be much better than David Sedaris' work. I swear reading Venial Sin's entries is like hearing some the best of Cole Porter. As for your blog, I find it succeeds best it communicating the social mores and customs -- a little like Thackeray or Austen."

Wow .....Cole Porter, Austen, Thackeray. Maybe this will not be such a shitty Sunday after all.

Peace.

Ipod Therefore I Am.

2005-05-20T12:56:00.000+05:00

It has been a long week and I apologise to my faithful readers (all three of them) for my abstinence. Abstinence leads me to theme of this blog. In the absence of sex I have found a substitute. It is plastic, about four or five inches long and about an inch thick. I concede that these dimensions may not satisfy everyone, but (metaphorically speaking) times are hard. I speak of my Apple Ipod which has lain with me in my virginal bed each night. In a word, it is brilliant. Perhaps the best thing to come out of America since the Hula Hoop or the Trampoline. Imagine all the music you ever own (or are likely to own in the next five years) being compressed into something that fits into your pocket or (for the well endowed) your Prada bag.

I'm an Apple virgin having been seduced by MicroSoft in my impressionable youth. Microsoft sex has been rough at times, but like a subdued and long-suffering wife I've taken all the shit they've thrown my way. Apple is pure lover material. It is fun and it is smart. I cannot make such claims of the men I know. The Ipod turns itself on when you insert the headphones. If that aint smart (and full of sexual innuendo) then what is ? Then there's the control ring. This is small, smooth shiny breast with a pert nipple at its centre. Controls are accessed by swirling a finger round the breast or by gently tweaking the nipple. This can be done while the Ipod is in one's pocket, thereby adding an air of mystery to the whole thing. (Be careful if you want to avoid the "sad wanker" label.) Oh yes. You can also dress your Ipod up. There's a whole range of sexy Ipod socks available. Mine is wearing lime green tonight. It gets better. The new state of the art Ipod Photo allows you to download album covers. So if you are (like me) blind without your glasses, you can peer into the IPod's generous screen and figure out what the fuck it is that you're listening to.

And now to the best part: The Music. At the risk of sounding like a geek, there is an awesome 60 GB's of memory. I've downloaded the better part of my music collection with two entire operas to boot (Bellini's "Norma" and Puccini's "La Boheme") and I've only used up 5GBs of space. This means I can continue to store music till eternity. The Ipod connects to most computer speakers. For some unfathomable reason I picked up speakers which look like extras off a Star Wars set. The force is with them - especially on high bass. And with an ITripper you can tune your Ipod into your car's FM player. Unfortunately, the anally retentive Brits don't sell these as they amount to "transmission" which is unlawful. "Transmission" being the ten inches from your dashboard to the FM Radio. Hang all the lawyers. (They need to be well hung.)

The only thing I have not done so far (apart from have real sex with my Ipod) is to organise my music into playlists. As a result, the 2974 songs that I have will usually play in random order. This can lead to odd and highly unsettling juxtapositions given the kind of music I listen to. Imagine jumping from Count Basie to Blondie to Youssou N'dour to Maria Callas to Kishore Kumar. This can be truly amusing when there are a bunch of close friends around - but highly embarassing when something unexpected comes along. Say Village People or Abba or (blush) Cliff Richard. Ok Stop sniggering. This was the music of my early childhood/youth. It is a small wonder that I've retained my sanity despite having been weaned on some truly mind numbing sounds. I have history and I'm proud to say so. In the process of storing music, I have come across at least a hundred CDs I will never listen to again (Gregorian Chants, Viva Lambada and Hot Arab Party Mix to name a few) which I will give away to the Italian. His life will never be the same again. And as for me- I'm having a QNI with my IP. For the unitiated : a Quiet Night In with My Ipod.

The Pilgrims' Progress.

2005-05-16T11:58:00.000+05:00

Given the vacuousness of my life these days, I have been living vicariously through the lives of others. I have written at length about my friends, Lady M and the Brunette. While I sailed through a succession of chameleons over Saturday and Sunday, each of my gals had an interesting tale to tell. So, in good Chaucerian fashion, I shall relate the progress each of them has made in their lives.

First the Brunette. I am terribly worried. She is pursuing a recently engaged man who has shown no sign of terminating his earlier relationship. The man in question pursues her relentlessly, calls, texts, drops in and generally makes no mystery of his interest. I fear, however, like all Pakistani men, he is going to remain engaged to a girl hand picked by psycho-mommy. The Brunette, however, is no bimbo. I fear she is playing into all of this just to prove to herself that she is still attractive to men. That, I feel, is about the dumbest motivation to have in these matters. I can understand pursuing someone for the sheer lust/chemistry of a situation, even if it's not going to end in a relationship. But pursuit for the sake of proving a point ? In any event it all culminated in near-sex on saturday night. The Brunette decided to call it a day when she got his shirt off. She put on her Manolos, picked up her car keys and departed. Maybe he had saggy tits.

And now on to Lady M. There is some method in her madness. Her objet is single, though he carries some baggage- two ex wives for a start. In any event they agreed to meet saturday night. It all started of well enough. Coffee, drinks, conversation. The talk became personal and he proceeded to discuss his baggage. All 36 Louis Vuitton cases worth. Remember, a Pakistani man would sooner flash than discuss his emotional vulnerability. She went in to make some coffee. He followed. She turned around. He looked at her. "What are you thinking of" he said with a dreamy smile. She froze. Blank. Silence is the Bermuda Triangle of sex- unless there is underlying physical activity. In this case there was nothing. Nada. Zilch. The moment came and went. The Window had shut. He muttered something and said he had to go. Fled down the steps. Then came running back to collect his phone. Ran down again. Poor Lady M had forgotten that the average man needs a little encouragement to avoid date rape/presumptiousness charges. She is smart enough to have seen the window but froze when the moment of truth arrived. She has promised to make amends.

And what, you may ask, was I doing through all this ? I was having dinner with an American, a Brazilian and a Syrian. And though this polyglot gathering I was trying to guide the girls through their evenings with SMS. Not to much avail though. I think I am becoming a homotextual.

Music For Chameleons

2005-05-15T04:38:00.000+05:00

I finally had dinner with the Ghecko tonight. The Ghecko is a many flecked creature. He is everything to everybody. The Man Without Qualities. Pleasant. Good looking in an ambient sort of way. Never one to cause offence on the slightest pretext whatsoever. Blandness reigns. Life is ecru. Maybe life is switched onto an easy listening channel forever. Nothing bad can ever happen in Ghecko world. I am bored. Stiff. Why have men like the Ghecko been invented ? I suppose in a zen-meets-chips kind of world GheckoMan can exude a kind of dull happiness over all he surveys. Presumably GheckoWoman lies in wait for him, blending seamlessly into her environment waiting to entrance her Blah equivalent.

It was in this state of insufferable equilbrium that I returned home. Kicked off my shoes. Threw myself onto the bed. I needed a dose of emotion, to undo the eternal equivalence the Ghecko had induced. And I found it. A song I'd played on the show. "Dance Me To The End of Love." By someone called Madeleine Peyroux. It hadn't quite registered at the time as more than a nifty tune. Then I flicked on my Ipod and among the 2361 songs I'd randomly transferred, I found the original Leonard Cohen version. Quite simply, they don't write lyrics like this any longer. Bland prefabricated songs have stopped me from focusing on words. Bland prefabricated men have stopped me from focusing on emotion. L. Cohen. Dance Me To End of Love.

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin

Dance me through the panic ’til I’m gathered safely in

Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove

Dance me to the end of love

Oh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone

Let me feel you moving like they do in babylon

Show me slowly what I only know the limits of

Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on

Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long

We’re both of us beneath our love, we’re both of us above

Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the children who are asking to be born

Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn

Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn

Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin

Dance me through the panic till I’m gathered safely in

Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove

Dance me to the end of love

The Inn of the Sixth Happiness

2005-05-12T14:58:00.000+05:00

I did it. I finally mustered the courage to walk into a brothel. But purely for academic purposes. The brothel in question officially passes as a "killub" of the far eastern variety. I drive by it a dozen times a day. Its infamy is well known and it is regularly busted once a month. It survives tenaciously and continues relentlessly. The Italian and Tham (he lisps) popped by yesterday and the killub cropped up in conversation. I told them I had never been there ...indeed I had never been into a brothel before. What are we waiting for ? Let's go now. And so it started.

The killub has all the accoutrements of a nice safe chinese restaurant. Dragons, paper lanterns and chinese characters. The biggest dragon is the bouncer at the gate. "Pakistan national" he asked in some undecipherable accent. "UK National" said the Italian before I could tell the truth. We were whisked in with unseemly haste. As my eyes accustomed themselves to the low lighting I could make out a bar, a dance floor and a billiards table. There were mysterious Chinamen lurking round the place. Professional lurkers. The clientele (barring the the three of us) was largely Arab. This seemed to be a meeting space for the two easts: Far and Middle. The women were wannabe Chinese. Chinky eyed but of the Central Asian variety. Vaguely Chinese in the wrong lighting. Not unattractive, but wary. I'm sure they were much older than I made them out to be.

Later in bed (alone, in case you're wondering) I thought it through. What makes men do the brothel thingie ? Many of my straight, "happily" married male friends have confessed to visiting Houses of Ill Repute in Karachi, Lahore and Dubai. Is it just the thrill of instant sex ? Is there power play that goes with it ? Or have I left out some vital ingredient. Most of my gay friends are pretty cool about promiscuity - I am reliably informed that every one night stand has the potential to grow into something more permanent. None of my gay friends have actually confessed to paying for sex. Except for the Guru, but he's weird anyway. On the other hand, lets not get to finicky about definitions here. Some gay relationships teeter-like bad stilletos-on the thin dividing line between Love and Paid Love. What about the Canderel Daddy who pays the rent, cellphone bill and airline fares ? Theoretically, not much difference between him and the fat paunchy Shaikhs I saw last night. Or did the Beatles get it all wrong. Money can buy you love. Is it OK to go for someone because she has big tits or because he has a big dick, but-totally, wholly, completely immoral to go for a big bank balance ? So many questions. So few answers.

Ten Things In Every Metrosexual Fridge

2005-05-10T21:25:00.000+05:00

1. Perrier
2. Lemon
3. Ice
4. Eye Pac Masque
5. Mixers (tonic/soda/ginger)
6. Brie
7.Condom (Just in case)
8. Apple (sin symbolism)
9. Lindt Extra Dark (90%)
10. Absolut Kurant

G Boyz

2005-05-09T00:23:00.000+05:00

I live in one of the most stratified cities in the world. Islamabad has more sectors than Berlin ever did. There is a grid system at work which was designed by a man who was also experimenting with the cannabis that grows wild in these parts. Broadly there is an "A to Z " which runs from left to right and and a 1 to 1oo which works from up to down. This leads to stuff like D 89 (which doesn't exist-yet) and F16 (which is not a military fighter plane.) The residential bits generally run from E to H and getting someone's sectoral coordinates will give you a fairly good indicator of background, bank balance and social desirability. Not sexuality, but I'm working on that one. (E7 has shades of Little Castro to it.)

Of all the Sectors at work, the G's have a rough time of it. Apart from G6 (which is about as old as it gets - the Plymouth Rock of Isloo) the rest of the G's are borderline, aspirational but never inspirational. Architecture by Bosch on acid. From Bauhaus to ...well, nothing actually. My flamboyantly Queeny Friend was distraught when he moved from an F to a G. The Horror. The Shame. You will come to see me won't you? Ofcourse, I will. Can we keep an eye on my car to make sure the wheelcaps are still there when I come out. Or the car for that matter. You get my drift. Right ? Can I have my mail forwarded to your office. But ofcourse you can. Darling.

G Boyz are a breed apart. They wear rip-off low rise high maintenance Diesel pants (via Bangkok) sport bandanas and shiny Nikes. They wear Thai t shirts with Dadaist slogans. ("Drink More Milk" or "Pleasurable sunshine be yours on Phuket beachfront".) They have an endearing turn of phrase: "Lesbians" become "Lebanese" or "Limousines" and Bisexuals are known as "Taxis" - because anyone can hop on. Geddit ? They insist on speaking English (or something like it) drive white altos and travel in packs of six. Six packs ? If there is attitude anywhere in the city, G Boy has it .

My friend the Adman called in a flurry. "Check your email. NOW." Ok. Said email revealed an amateurish collection of pictures of a cafe au lait man, striking only those poses which showed off his torso and biceps to pleasurable perfection. The email admonished me for my overdrawn celibacy and recommended that I call the subject of the "artwork" immediately to put me out of my misery. I dwelt at length about my inherent superficiality. Is a nice torso all it takes ? Surely I need someone with something more? What if the torso came with a Ph.D in French Cinema ? Do I need another brain around me ? Surely mine's enough for two and then some? Damn. The angst of frustration. To cut a long story short, "Studley" and I were to meet Chez Moi at 7. I usually never meet strange men at home, but the adman assured me that Studley was "safe." I still decided to hide my new Nokia behind a cushion. No chances were being taken.

The anointed hour arrived. Shock. This was not the man in the pictures. This was a...a... G BOY. Too late. Gulp. Where were the biceps ? I could figure out matchstick arms through the denier of the T shirt. And the legs were skinny to boot as well. The outfit was G Boy classic though. The haircut was an overgrown ducktail- a tough old duck at that. The voice hit a high note the moment he entered. Cafe au lait was really Nescafe. Studley was Dudley. The photographs had clearly been doctored. The prototype bore no connection to the man I had slavishly drooled over. I was paying the price for my lasciviousness, my superficiality and my sheer stupidity. This was textbook Adobe PhotoShock. The next hour went by in a haze. I tried imagining him in different lighting or maybe even on a different planet. To no avail. The skinny G Boy refused to remorph to my bidding. Even my otherwise fervid imagination gave in. This was an unmitigated disaster. I think I am going to renew my vows of celibacy at St. Peters in London, the next time I am there. Cross my heart. And my legs.

The One With A Hole In It

2005-05-06T14:17:00.000+05:00

My "phoren" aura is wearing thin. Last night I was invited to two ghastly official dinners. The things I have to do to keep my job going. The second one was particularly nasty. It was hosted at the residence (they don't call em houses) of an Ambassador. Two particular facets stand out: the architecture and some of the female guests. The men were inconsequential (as are most Pak men) and don't merit further reference.

First the architecture. The reception room was round and had a round atrium dead centre. You got it. It was a giant polo mint. So rather than walk from one end of the room to the other, you went round and round in circles -literally. Strangely, the flow was anti clockwise. Nobody dared to switch directions. I tried once, but the host positively glared at me from the outer circumference. The Hole (so to speak) was an empty black void. I think it aptly summed up the sheer horror and nothingness of the evening.

Second, the women. In his brilliant Bonfire of the Vanities, Tom Wolfe describes an entire subset of Manhattan women as the Lemon Tarts. These are the bleached blondes, pushing (heaving ?) fifty who are stretched taut like dry canvas across a frame. My candidates are also blonde, but of the bottle variety. Don't get me wrong. They are incredibly beautiful women. Its just that they have a blonde thing going. In deference to Tom I shall call them Gulabi Barfees. They are all twenty somethings, recently married to bankers and brimming with exuberance. The dress code is highly inflammable. To wit, the Barfee on my right wore thaans of shocking pink polyester with twinkly spangly things all over. Each time she lifted a wrist to cut into her roast beef, a million sparkling reflections lit the room. Multiply that by the twenty other Barfees present and you have the disco scenes in Saturday Night Fever to a T. Alas my sunglasses were miles away or I could have done a fairly convincing Ray Charles impersonation.

And then there's the Hair. Great hair actually. But all of it golden yellow. Yards of tresses cascading around the table like a glittering daisy chain. More blonde than on a Californian beach. We are talking industrial quantities here. I recall the one time I was foolishly persuaded into dyeing my tresses. It took ages, cost a fortune, stank forever and black puddles formed at my feet during each shampoo session. Worse still, the white shone through with a stubborn persistence. Never again. Jamais. So I happen to personally know that it must take some doing for these glistening beauties to hit the peroxide so regularly. Why do they do it ? Do their Gentlemen prefer Blondes? Hardly. They'd have to be hit on the head with a blunt object to vaguely emote anything. Or does every erection have an equal and opposite erection ? I don't know. I'm still trying to figure it all out. I think I'm ready for another phoren trip soon or else I may lose even more of the plot.

Wimmin!

2005-05-05T14:53:00.000+05:00

The Brunette and Lady M popped in for a drink last night. This became dinner. I hastily rustled together scrambled oeufs avec smoked salmon with a green salad and a bone dry white. They looked low and comfort food was called for. I refuse to succumb to fast food (my last Big Mac was consumed in the early 90s) so this was going to have to do. After they left, I got thinking. What is it about Pakistani women (of a certain age and background) that makes them oh-s0-hesitant with making The First Move.

First a little background. Lady M after much pushing, nudging, cajoling and a kick where it hurts had decided to pursue a slightly younger man. He is not worthy of a sidelong glance, but if he turns her on, who am I to complain. The Brunette, on the other hand, has been foolishly encouraging a younger man who has just announced his engagement- to someone else naturalment. I know. I know what you're thinking. And I agree with you. The purpose of this piece is not to trash my friends' choices. That can wait for another occasion. I'm here to look at strategy.

What do I do if someone registers as a blip on my radar ? Being the idiotic research oriented ass that I am, I try doing some homework. This involves casually questioning common friends (easy as we all know that there are only two degrees of seperation in Pakistan), checking out Google (it works!) and generally snooping unabashedly. The next step usually involves enlisting the services of a close common friend to contrive an "event" where the two of us "coincidentally" land up. If all goes well by then (and it doesn't always) I move to step 3 which involves the dinner invitation. And if get by that obstacle with grace, panache and isstyle, then the rest is textbook stuff.

Lets apply my framework to the men being chased by Lady M and the Brunette. The gals have done their homework. Aided and abetted by moi, they have also managed to contrive social situations in which the men in question have been invited over. The problem arrives with stage 3. I have discovered that neither of these swish, dynamic, intelligent women is willing to invite a man alone for dinner. These are women who work, who tell male employees what to do every day of the week. The men in question haven't popped the question and weeks have gone by. Does one drop a man because he isn't taking the next step on Uber's 3 stage seduction plan ? Does one wait interminably forever? The Brunette eventually confessed to going on a drive with her swain where they held hands. Hang on. Held hands? Yikes. Isn't that the kind of thing one did at fifteen ? What's a grown woman doing holding hands in the 21st century ? Or is it just me that's out of sync.

The real issue here is that my friends' are of the considered view that asking (or hinting to be asked) by a man is ...errr..well cheap. Nice girls don't ask guys out. Nice guys do the asking. I think I'm closer to the core of the centre of the nucleus of the problem now. Quite simply: Most Pakistani men don't have what it takes to carry this through. I think, in each case, they like the girls in question, but they don't have the social skills. I hate generalisations but Pakistani men are decidedly wimplike when it comes to these situations. I cannot, for example, think of a good pass that has been made to me by a Pakistani man. These generally rank on a Richter scale of crudity. They (we?) are not bad guys. Just socially deficient. Given these depressing paremeters I am convinced that the only way out of this impasse is for the girls to take a deep breath and suggest dinner. Failing which, they will be holding hands forever.

The Trouble With Hari

2005-05-04T03:47:00.000+05:00

It is 2.40 am. By right, tradition and precedent I should be slumbering. Sleep should be around the corner or, if I am lucky, the next one. Nothing of the sort. My body is traveling at a height of 10,345 metres, at a speed of 784 kilometres an hour with gentle headwinds of 45 mph. I am spiritually somewhere between Bratislava and Bishkek. This is not a bad place to be if the spectre of going to work early tomorrow morning didn't haunt me quite so much. Who said the work ethic was purely puritan ?

It is in this continuum lacking space and time that makes me believe I am truly the Global Soul. Apologies to Pico Iyer whose title I have ripped off. And whose picture I have ripped off as well. The receding hairline alone is enough to get me to vote him for a Booker Prize. With a cheesiness that belies belief I picked up a copy of The Global Soul at Kuala Lumpur airport. That was the day, many years ago, when the Americans decided to start bombing Afghanistan. I arrived at Dubai airport with all potential flights cancelled, but secure in the knowledge that I could read through Iyer. The Global Soul tells of a world of airports, controlled lighting, multi racialism and, highly relevantly, sleeplessness. Generally a world of the human construct. Can humanity exist, let alone survive, in Terminal 3 en route to Utopia on UA 377 ? I think it can.

On my last flight back, I discovered I was the only passenger in my section. Ok, First Class. My only steward ( I think "flight attendant" sucks) was Harry. Or Hari as I later discovered. Cute. Fair. Stocky. Hmmm. "Dinner sir ?" "Its 3 am". "Drink then? " "Water." "No Champagne?" Nope. This was an inauspicious start. I took the seat as far back as it would go. It went further than most people I know. Ouch. My reverie was shattered by some pretty scary turbulence. Hari happened to be strutting by to discover a man who had declined his offer of Dom Perignon but was scared shitless by a little bumpiness. "Everything OK?" "Sure." "You look a little scared." "Well, yes just a little." "There's only one cure. Get out of your seat and come to the galley." This could well have been the beginning of a gay porn flick, had I not been quite so queasy. I was offered the jump seat with Hari leading the way. Chill. I do this every day, I kept repeating to myself. The mantra was working.

He sat beside me. Punched a finger onto a computer screen. The lighting dimmed. This was heading towards Emanuelle meets Star Wars. Hari looked at me. I looked back and grinned apishly. I slipped a hand onto his thigh. Gulp. "I could lose my job" he whispered. "Me too"I retorted flaccidly. There was a slight snog. "Islamabad" he said. Heck. Was this a signal ? "What?" "Islamabad" "What about it ?""Never been there."But you're on your way there now.' 'Yes. But we spend ninety minutes there. Turn round. Never been there." Ah. I was getting it. "How come ?" "Indian passport. No visa." I nuzzled his neck. This was becoming positively illicit. "Islamabad." Oh no. Back to that again. "What's it all about. Islamabad." Errr. "Well think of Delhi without the Mughal architecture, but with hills." Bite on my earlobe. "You're nice." "So are you?""Are all Pakistanis like you ?""Some are. Others aspire. Some aren't" Thud. Bump. "One sec. Flight announcement."Seat Belts.

And so it went. We chatted. Musharaf. Sonia. Kiss. Borders. Nuzzle. Islamabad. Mumbai. Loves. Lifes. Touch. Champagne? Kiss. Yes. Nice hair. You 2. Is it always this deserted ? Yes. At this time of night. Mmmm. Blanket ? Nope. Do you have a thing about men in uniform. Nope. I could make an exception. Can you ever come back ? Nope. Visas. Borders. Visas. Borders. You're sweet. You too. Ruffle. Nuzzle.Mummy knows I'm gay. Really ? I think mine does too. All this flying ? Do you normally chat men up at cruising altitude ? No. This is the first time I've done it. I could lose my job. Me 2. Borders. Visas.

I walked through immigration with a Cheshire grin on my face. Anyone ready for Track 3 Diplomacy ? I'd like to think I'd almost crossed the Line of No Control.

London Calling - Part the Second

2005-05-02T20:23:00.000+05:00

I did so not want this piece to be a travelogue. I fear it is plodding in that direction. At last call, I was safely ensconced in the Temptress' boudoir. For those of you who think this was a junket, I did have work to do. I shall not bore you with the tedium of my medium. The Temptress was busy with unfinished business, so I decided to have an emotional reunion with the Burmese Belle. BB and I were at school when were about a dozen years each. Remarkably, we've kept in touch ever since. BB has had an interesting graph, and is now on her second marriage. She is fatally (read very fatally) attracted to gay men and has reason to believe that all was not kosher with her choice of husbands. We met with much unmixed emotion. She told me I was looking good, that the years had been kind to me. I tried to resist with the usual half mumbled platitudes, but eventually ended up agreeing with her. Why lie ? After a brief session alone, we rushed off to a french restaurant for dinner with Husband the Second. He is an utterly charming kind of guy. If they ever bring out a gay version I shall be first in the queue. I'm hopeless with french food, but the moules looked great. And they were.

The next day was spent in a bee line for the Armani shop on New Bond Street. For the unititated, I am an Armani junkie. I bought my first piece (we don't call them clothes) when I was 25 and had it not burnt to smithereens in a fire in Nathiagali I would still have had it. Since then, I have decided that I will not invest in tons of junk. Just one piece of GA every six months. That sounds fair, doesn't it ? Alas, fate had something else in store for me. Everything at the store was in a regular (a.ka. midget) size. I tried pretending that the cuffs were not too short and that a hint of ankle could just be the Next Trendy Thing. Even my half closed (clothed?) eyes couldn't fool me. This called for action. The store manager was summoned. "You do know that to be an Armani catwalk model one has to be over six feet tall ?" "Si, si." "Then what are these short clothes doing all over the place. Have you chopped the ends off ? " Eventually it was agreed that I could email the great man and let him know that although his designs were divinely delicious, his sizes were un peu screwy. For those of you who may need to take similar action, complaints should go to giorgio.armani@armani.com.

My other enduring memory of London is food. I have eaten enough calories in the last week to sustain a small sub Saharan republic. I've written up Oxo already. I was taken to Chutney Mary by BB- this is an anglo-indian restaurant in Knightsbridge, which was, frankly, a tad disappointing. The lines between fusion and con-fusion are fuzzy at the best of times. The highlight of the trip was Yuacha (sp?) a funky chinese dim sum place in Soho, which was done up in shades of cobalt and pink. Yes. The food was to sublime. Yes. It is possible to go all orgasmic about dim sum. There was also Thai food. Although the Temptress insisted I was getting the once-over from a man across the restaurant. I had duck in cherry sauce at Balans, which was also divine. I have sworn never to eat again. But tomorrow, Miz Scarlett, is another day.

London Calling-Part the First

2005-04-29T22:45:00.000+05:00

This is the first chance I've had to put my aching feet up. Its been a long haul but London has eventually lived up to its reputation. The begining was luxurious though not auspicious. Qatar has a fabulous airline. The seats stretch go all the way -and that's saying more than most people I know. I was able to stretch my six foot frame out flat and - for the first time ever on a flight- I actually managed to get some shut eye. I may even have had the odd dream. Flying will never be the same again.

On arrival, I was "fast tracked" through immigration. The chubby-good natured-gay visa officer even cracked a joke. He could teach his surly French counterparts a thing or two. Hopped on to the Heathrow express and then took a cab to my "hotel." This is where the feelgood factor came to an abrupt end. I went through an umbilical corridor and located my room. This was a damp, flea infested, gloomy chamber with a single bed half the size of my first class seat. Depression overcame me like a spilt espresso on a white table cloth. Time to hit the duty free Chivas.

The next morning was the conference I had arrived for. I tried ignoring the room, changed and fled from it as fast as I could. I hit the first of many coffee places I could find and knocked back a triple espresso on the rocks. More about the coffee invasion of London. Apart from the ubiquituous (and yukky) Starbucks, there are now more coffee joints than loos in this city. I have never had some much (and such good) caffeine in so little time. This is a far cry from the London of my day. The conference was uneventful. My paper seemed to go off well. The Chairman, a Pakistani bureaucrat, even resorted to some T S Eliot. April, according to him, was the cruellest month. This was an allusion to the bucketfuls of rain that were spilling all around us.

I got back to the dungeon and decided I couldn't take it for much longer. I fled and started calling friends at random. International roaming has to be the next best thing to sliced pancetta. I got a hold of one of my formerly marxist (but now new Labour) friends and we agreed to meet at Gray's Inn. I started walking over, vaguely conscious of the fact that I could lose my way. My homing instincts are better than my homo instincts. I made it there in no time. Auto pilot continues to work in my head - I cannot vouch for the rest of the hard disk. On getting there, I discovered I was early and that my feet hurt. They still do as I write this out. I am as out of shape as a bean bag. I sat in the picturesque surroundings and tried to recall the many days I had spent in those very buildings as a struggling student. As I sat there reminiscing, a solitary and very aged figure walked over. Emrys (as he introduced himself) has an invented name and was in the army, based in Karachi in 1942. He went on to become a judge and has roomed at Grays ever since. We chatted for the longest, complete strangers, united by the fact that we were in the same profession. The mouldy hotel room was becoming a distant memory.

The Marxist came struggling up, hauling a bunch of papers. She was having a bad hair day, but seemed none the worse for wear. The bar was closed as it was out of term, so we decided to hot foot it to the Oxo building - Terence Conran's restoration on the South Bank. Despite the absence of a reservation, we got a brilliant table for two looking along the river. The crowd was decided of the champagne socialist variety. Committed, but loving the money. The view was stupenduous. London has certainly cleaned its act up. The buildings have been scrubbed clean and floodlit. The Thames was once the grimiest river in Europe. It may still be as polluted but it looks good. The Marxist and I reminisced about old times. She is besotted with a Judge before whom she appears. Being attractive and "asian" makes her a moving target and she is convinced she will be a marked woman if she takes the plunge. All this is familiar territory. Islamabad is not the only bell jar in the world. I try my damndest to persuade her to jump in. I tried the "we-have-one-life-lets-live-it -to-the-fullest-bit." I'm not so sure it worked, but what the heck. Good food, good wine, good view.

The next morning came with marked resolution. I had warned the Temptress that I was moving into her place the next morning. Either that or I would check myself into the nearest hospital. "Be there at 10" she said. I checked out of the Bastille at 8.30 and was standing outside her flat at 9. She rolled out of bed, bade me a sleepy Hello, rolled back in. Her flat was amazing ...small, but functional, cheery, books, music, magazines and the best coffee machine in the world. My trip had taken a sharp turn for the better. God agreed. The sun came out for the very first time.

(To be continued)

Post Script

2005-04-24T23:35:00.000+05:00

The Beast knows I am leaving. He has sulked all day. Nibbled on lunch. Refused dinner. Just in case my plane crash lands somewhere, will someone assume ownership ? He has difficult tastes, eats Lays (Pringles are for plebs!) and likes his water ice cold. He likes his monthly shampoo - but only cold water and Johnsons baby shampoo. "No More Tears". His eyes need to be swabbed once in a while. He sleeps on the bed for a bit, but then marches over to his anointed spot- right in the line of fire of the air conditioning. If only lovers could take his cue.

The day has been a haze. Positively so. I woke up with the distinct sensation of having my toes sucked. It wasn't Hrithik alas. Just the Beast. Next, I checked my phone for text messages. It appears that I promised to write a monologue for an amazing female actress I met last night (when I wasn't ejecting people from the party). And there's nothing like a cold, damp nose to get the creative juices flowing. I did write the piece. Writing a blog is pure pussy. There's something else about text which has to be spoken. The words need to resonate. I am sure that my mono(homo)logue will be rejected. (It commences with "I love balls") but it is better to have monologued and lost than to never have monologued at all.

Finally, there are only two degrees of separation in this country. The best looking man at the party last night (and, in case you want to know, he was not thrown out) was the brother in law of the man I lusted after two years ago. Clearly, I am in desperate need of a bigger canvas.

Crash!

2005-04-24T11:11:00.000+05:00

Last night I caught a glimpse of my ugly side. We were all at a friend's birthday party. Yes, some people persist in celebrating advancing age! It was all 30 or 40 something, well organised, plenty of music, dancing, conversation and what passes in these parts for Beautiful People. Everyone there had been invited and the guests had been meticulously chosen. The Brunette called up the night before panic stricken about the perilously low number of single men on the list. That half of them were gay (or potentially so) didn't help much either.

Come the night of the party. There I am dancing madly (or as madly as my creaking joints allow) when I notice that there are some people who look as though they do not belong there. This was not quite the hip-hop crowd, yet there were about a dozen kids with baseball caps and t shirts and pierced body parts queueing impatiently at the bar. The Brunette arrived panic stricken. "Crashers. We have to get rid of them. Help." Damn. I've had some weird jobs in my time, but being a bouncer doesn't rank among them. Our first approach was civilised. Three of us politely went up to the Crashers and inquired if they had been invited. If so, by whom ? No replies were forthcoming. They marched off with their drinks. Hmmmm. This was not working. Civility had lost the day- or the night actually. More desperate measures were called for. I pulled the plug on the music.

Silence. A friend stepped up onto a table and said "Will the crashers please leave the party." On that cue, commando style, five of us circled the intruders and marched them out single file. The leader of the gang, pleaded that he was the cousin of one of the guests. Tough. The music resumed. The kids left. I peeked out of the gate and saw another thirty lolling about outside. Jeez. And I thought I didn't have a life. I looked back and saw a Mock-Manhattan crasher on her cellphone: "Hey, yaar. This is a great party. You guys have to get in somehow." That's when I lost it.

"You fucking bitch. How dare you stand here uninvited, trying to sneak some more of your pals in. Which fucking slum do you live in? What's your name ? And what do your parents do? Do you have parents? If you don't get your fucking ass out of here in the next fucking two seconds, I'm going to fucking throw you over the fucking gate." To put this prose (?) into context you should know, that I'm the kind of guy who uses the "F" word once a month-if that. Clearly, I'd blown my annual quota in a few sentences.This was blind rage. Ms Mock Manhattan charged out as fast as her stilletoes would let her.

Later that night, I wondered what it is that makes people barge into situations where they are not required. Heck, I call my closest friends to make sure they're free before I land up. 21st century recreational time is a precious commodity and I'd like to decide how I spend it. I would never dream of going where I have not been invited. If I'm taking an uninvited friend over, I call and clear it with my hosts. Yet, there is a generation of imbecilic freeloaders out there, who assume they have a God given right to enter any place on the basis of a tenuous relationship with one of the guests. I can understand the poor crashing weddings to eat free food. But this is the Honda Civic/FCUK/Diesel/D&G crowd. Even scarier, they have crash techniques worked out. The idea is to enter two at a time so that the hosts do not detect a sudden influx of unwanted guests. Yuk.

On a brighter note, I'm off to London at the crack of dawn tomorrow. Hopefully, greater civility lies in store for me there. I'm not lugging my notebook there, so (for my four faithful readers) this blog may become a little erratic. Fear not. I shall return.

Never Let Me Go

2005-04-23T11:59:00.000+05:00

Kazuo Ishiguro is not the kind of man I'd like to be seated next to for dinner. I first encountered his Pale View of the Hills many moons ago. It is a haunting tale set in post-atomic Nagasaki, which happens to be his hometown. (He moved to England at the age of 5). Next there was the truly weird The Unconsoled which can best be described as a child going crazy with a remote control. The action moves unchecked through time, characters appear, disappear and reappear as though lost in a dream. Then there was The Remains of the Day about life "downstairs" at an English country estate, subsequently filmed with Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson.

Never Let Me Go is Ishiguro's new novel. To label it "futuristic" would be a misnomer. It is set in Hailsham, an imaginary establishment in rural England. Languorous descriptions of pastures, trees, cows and vegetation dictate that this is not Arthur C Clarke territory. Nor is this quite Huxleyland. The venue is a cloning farm, where parentless individuals are reared as future donors for organ transplant. The characters have no surnames, because they have no parents in the strict sense. As with all good novels there is a triangle at work. Tommy, Ruth and Kath (the narrator) are residents at Hailsham. Tommy and Ruth are an item. Kath and Tommy have chemistry going. Living as a "donor" embodies certain rules. One of these, requires the characters to give up their creations (art, poetry) to the establishment for display in a "Gallery." I will not give the rest of the plot away.

The novel works at different levels for me. At one, it is the story of memory. Of childhood. Of the tenuousness of recollection. Kath, the narrator, reads The Odyssey and Tales of a Thousand and One Nights, both classics of rendition. Unfortunately, the subjects of memory and recollection encroach upon Kundera territory and I have to confess that MK does a much better job of it. At another level, there is a statement about the value of Art. The characters are imbued with a sense of having to donate their organs to others and face certain death. Their donations to the Gallery represent the giving up of their souls. Or do they ? Does the artist give up just a little bit of himself when he parts with a work of art ? How representative of the artist is the art ? Is it a mere contrivance ? Or something more ? So many questions, so little time.

If one has to use a common adjective to describe all of Ishiguro's novels it has to be the clichéd but accurate "haunting". In "Never Let Me Go" what is haunting is the submissiveness with which the characters face their ultimate fate. There is only a hint of revolution when a teacher at Hailsham fails to incite a rebellion and leaves. For the rest, it is Business as Usual. There is not a trace of the horror of one's ultimate fate. At one level, there is a fatalistic nihilism at work. At another, there is a statement of the callousness of the human soul. I was going to add "in the 21st Century" to the last sentence, but then I remembered that there is nothing in the novel to give it a sense of time or history. Incidentally, this is not a novel about the ethics of cloning. Ishiguro sensibly leaves that question unanswered.

The title sequence involves Kath listening to a song with the lines "Baby, baby, never let me go." Her 12 year old mind assumes the song is about a woman with a child which she is reluctant to leave. To an unseen observer, the scene reflects the inability of the child to let go of the world that is destined for her. Haunting.

20 Hours From Home

2005-04-21T13:43:00.000+05:00

My head aches. And, yes, there is a drowsy numbness as though of champagne I had drunk. I left town on Wednesday afternoon. Caught a shuttle to Karachi, only to discover en route to the airport that I had been booked on economy as that is what my clients were traveling. With me, traveling anything below business is purely a human rights issue. I do not fold over into pieces like a paper doll. My legs do not fit into seats designed for “normal” people. Unbeknown to me, salvation was at hand. The private airline was one I had helped create many years ago. “But, Sir, you cannot travel economy.” “Alas, I must. My cheapo clients are packed in there already.” “No question. Here’s your first class pass.” And so it goes.

Cut to Dubai. I get there at 2 am in the morning. Life is full of second chances, and I think it fair to give Dubai one too. My 20 hour stopover did not give the city enough time for a fair hearing. But sometimes broad brush strokes are a better indicator of opinion than studied response. First, Dubai has changed. The sheer tackiness I had encountered on previous visits seems to be toning down. Yes, there are instances of shrieking bad taste, but these are visible throughout the world. The Emirates Tower(s) where I had my meetings were “handsome”. Second, (possibly first) there is an amazing tolerance, which is a rare commodity in the Muslim world. I am not talking about the overt signs (booze, Ukranian hookers et al) but the manner in which people from all over the world are given a fair employment opportunity. And they look none the worse for it. Had we employed even half the number of Keralans, Tamils, Philipinas, South Africans and Koreans in Pakistan there would have been an outcry beyond belief. Our inherent xenophobia would have frothed to the surface like a surly cappuccino.

On the downside, Dubai has been taken over by crass (read Western) commercialism. There is virtually nothing to remind you of the city-state’s origins, no matter how humble. The focal point in my life seems to have been a gi-normous Lancome poster which I saw everywhere I went. There is a twee attempt to arab-ise: the odd palm tree or camel depicted in neon. There are few, if any, locals to be seen. Apart from immigration at Dubai airport (which seems to be run by fifteen year olds taking a break from prep) you never see an Emirati. This is unsettling. Should they be preserved like the Panda ? On the other hand there is a profusion of Global business types and Essex-style Juicy Lucy clones running all over. I can take them in London ..but in the middle of a desert ? Or (more likely) in the middle of dessert ?

On the positive side, my Dubai appetite has been whetted. Emirates (business of course, darling, there’s no first to Pakistan) is a pretty good airline. Three hours go by in no time on a diet of just champagne. Oh, yes. There’s enough eye candy in Dubai to last one a few days at least. I did tell you I was fickle.

Getting Out

2005-04-18T17:28:00.001+05:00

I feel horribly pompous cross referring to my earlier blogs (all two dozen of them) but I did once write that Pakistan was a difficult country to leave. Today proved it. I applied for a Schengen visa on the fifth of this Month. Thirteen days later (today) I was given an appointment. I got there at 9 am and was told to take the bus which “officially” brings visa applicants to the Embassy. But why should I drive around the block when I can just walk in? The policeman smiled and let me through. Hey, this could be my lucky day. An hour later a person bearing an alarming resemblance to my “fruit wala” (not just en visage- clothes, demeanour, everything) arrived with a list. I discovered I was number 43 and my turn arrived at 11.30. Shit. I drove home had some freshly brewed coffee, lit up a numero duo and went through the papers.

On returning, there were even more people there. The bulk of them were either hapless Afghan refugees or students looking for a way out. The numbers had moved into the twentysomethings. Not fast enough. The office closed at noon. Affirmative action was called for. I marched through the gate (security guard chasing me) and held up the official list. “This says 11.30. It is my turn NOW.” The Pakistanis on display behind the gate were prime specimens of our carefully cultivated underclass. Shabby, rude and inefficient. Eventually, after shuffling through several metal detectors I was allowed into the Holiest of the Holies.

In true Gallic manner, this was a small Genet-esque cell, with three chairs, some form of air conditioning and black one way glass. A tiny aperture opened to reveal an attractive but disembodied male Gallic face swimming in a sea of ether. “Bonjour/Good Afternoon” I chirped in my best “bi” accent to the displaced visage. “Bonjour” replied the glassed in features. I could see eyes, a nose but no hair or ears. This was beginning to seem like one of those funfairs at which freaks are trapped in glass cages. “Listen, Monsieur,” I continued, I need my passport back soon as I am in Dubai for a day tomorrow.” “No problem. We will give IT to you today.” That’s where the English language showed up its deficiency. I thought the “it” referred to my passport avec visa. He meant it sans visa. He also decided that he need photocopies of my passport. “It doesn’t say so on your website.” “Well, we still need them.” “Is there a photocopier here ?” “Yes, but you can’t use it.” “Can I pay for it?” “Non.”

I returned to the Embassy for the third time that day. This time I brought oranges for the cops. One good turn deserves another. Another trip and we'd have been on first names, if not closer. On getting in, past the smelly outer periphery, I was back in the middle circle of Inferno. Worse. There was a Pakistani sitting there. For those of you who haven’t discovered this already, nothing is worse than a local working for a foreign mission. These are people who believe they are not just on their way to acquiring nationalities but also white skins, yellow hair and blue eyes. “You had a Schengen visa in 1996, why didn’t you go ?” “Err I changed my mind.” Disbelief. I had allowed a visa to lapse. A bit like pissing on the Mona Lisa or farting through Mahler’s Fifth. It was then I was informed that I would get my visa but no earlier than when I had planned to return. I will get it just to spite them.

HOw Uber Got His Groove Back

2005-04-15T14:21:00.000+05:00

I am finally beginning to discover the dying art of self assertion. In an earlier blog I sounded off about F, a friend who treated me shabbily. Or should I say I had allowed myself to be treated shabbily by F. Things are now hunky dory. I played “cold” for a couple of weeks. The penny has dropped. He’s been calling every day this week. I’ve been returning late from work, and last night there was a big bowl of the most scrumptious strawberries and whipped cream to boot, all with the compliments of F.

If only life were that simple. You solve one problem and then create another. Last night a bunch of us were invited to a tedious diplo drinks do in a lavish ambassadorial garden. The sort of thing one grudgingly attends to prove that one is alive. We had agreed to leave the event no later than 8 pm and decided to meet at an anointed spot. I strolled in and mixed till I was ready to drop. Just as the old smile muscles were ready to call it a day, a divine stranger walked up to introduce himself. Let’s call him the Charmer. In the course of conversation, I discovered that the Charmer was Hopelessly Heterosexual (surprise, surprise) but available. I decided to introduce him to my sexy female friend (the Brunette). She was caught unaware and hastily devoured a large fish finger. Licking the mayo off her lips, the Brunette stuck her hand out to the Charmer. For reasons which still elude me, her stiletto shot off and landed in the middle of our “space.” There we were. The unshod Brunette. The Charmer with hand out. That’s when trouble appeared.

“IT’S WELL PAST 8. WE AGREED TO MEET OUTSIDE. WHAT ARE YOU STILL DOING HERE.?” That was M, one of my closest friends. I balked. The Charmer and the Brunette looked at me sympathetically. I muttered something, excused myself and left. Later, outside I said, “You will never address me in that tone of voice in public.” “But you were late.” “Yes, I was fifteen minutes late. You could have whispered something to me instead of embarrassing me.” “You’re too tall to whisper to.” “Heck, I haven’t grown overnight.” I refused to give up. The upshot: a message of apology (or as near to an apology M can give) on my telephone.

So where is this leading to ? To put it mildly, I’ve allowed myself to become a wimp- a doormat of the lowest order. I come from a family of arch-confrontationalists and, as a result, I have developed a phobia of scenes, drama, trauma and whatever else constitutes normal family activity. This has led me to accept behaviour from my closest friends, which really should have been nipped in the bud. There has to be some balance to all this. I do not want to recast myself as the Mother Of All Ball Breakers. On the other hand I think the Day of the Doormat has come to an end. Phew. I feel so much better now.

Ps: I am still working on getting the Charmer and the Brunette together. Watch this space.

Urdu and Me

2005-04-11T21:58:00.000+05:00

This piece has been prompted by a fragment of Urdu poetry on a friend's website. My relationship with Urdu has been fragile at the best of times. I was born into an age of post colonial inferiority. Although I recall speaking some form of Urdu at a fairly early age, the really interesting things seem to be happening in English. I was actually given an English nanny, though she seems to have faded away pretty quickly. Urdu was a prosaic footnote on a very English page.

Just as I was settling into this vaguely uncomfortable bilingualism, I was taken to Dacca (as it was then spelt) where Bengali entered my life. I am told I had a passable speaking knowledge of the language. I cannot remember a word of it. Then it was on to London as an eight year old, where English rooted itself firmly in my soul. So firmly, that it would be impossible to uproot it. Like acid on an etching. I entered the world of Beatrix Potter, Enid Blyton and Beano comics with a vengeance. English was here to stay.

Then it was back to Karachi. That's where it all began. I discovered to my horror that while I could speak some form of Urdu, I had no idea what the kids were writing. Worse still, the books opened the wrong way round. I will never forget the shame of being handed out a qaeda (primer) while all the other pupils sniggered. They were reading text. I was reading alphabet. The horror. The horror. In those days Urdu books were printed on blotting paper. Black text on smudgy newsprint. The content was even less inspiring. Pithy essays on personal hygiene, the Mughal Emperors and the horrors of masturbation. (Kidding.) Concurrently, my English books were opening up new worlds for me.

Crisis point was reached when I discovered I needed to pass my Urdu 'O' level (or whatever they call it now) in order to get my certificate. Having barely passed every Urdu exam, I knew that action was called for. I bought my first Urdu dictionary. I tried reading Munshi Prem Chand. Halfway through I discovered I was really reading Hindi. Ooops. I switched to the essays of Patras. This was easier.. For the next year I slept with the dictionary. I would learn three new words a day and endeavour to use them. I got through the exam. With a straight A .My Urdu teacher was apoplectic. Hey, this wasn't beginning to look so bad after all.

Fast forward. I have since tried reading (and have immensely enjoyed) bits of Ghalib and Iqbal. It is all very slow and tedious. I have to understand each word. Somehow, the enjoyment of it all is enhanced with this effort- when one savours every word. Unlike English, where the image of the word enters one's consciousness surreptitiously, through the scullery - Urdu knocks politely on the front door.

Cut to Delhi. I am part of a delegation milling around the stunningly impressive Presidency. Suddenly a compact man emerges, puts his arm around my waist and engages me in conversation in the most flawless Urdu imaginable. I gulped. I was talking to I.K Gujral. The Prime Minister. Deep breath. I think I did a fairly good job. Nowhere near him in fluency and diction. Still not bad.

Today I speak Urdu with a level of unease. It's not as bad as it was. Sometimes the words come exactly the way I want them to. Other days, I struggle and resort to English equivalents. Urdu and I seem to have made our peace.

(bad) Joke

2005-04-11T20:42:00.000+05:00

Did you hear about the schizophrenics' convention ?
Anyone who was everyone came.

Another Country

2005-04-11T13:41:00.000+05:00

My undying love for Karachi has been dented a little over the last few days. Karachiites out of their natural habitat are not unlike Henry James’ Americans fumbling their way through Mother Europe. There’s a strange glassiness that infuses into them. Is it the glut of chlorophyll, oxygen, ozone or just mere displacement? I have had the pleasure of the company of no less than three Karachi friends in almsot as many days. Here follows a top ten of some of their more memorable reflections. Gentle Reader, treat this not as a harangue. I do still love them dearly.

“Islamabad is sooooo suburban.” Err Yes. But doesn’t a suburb presuppose an “urb”?
“I couldn’t possibly live here.” Nobody’s asking you to.
“What I really mean is, how do you manage to live here?” I do. I kind of enjoy being in a city with four seasons, utilities that work, and a fairly literate population. That doesn’t stop me from hating it at times.
“Where’s the traffic?” There is traffic. We just have more miles of road per person than you guys do.
“The houses are kind of …err small.” Conspicuous consumption is looked down upon by many people.
“This restaurant wouldn’t survive in Karachi.” It’s not planning to travel there.
“Do you think Vinny is prettier than ZQ?” Who are these people ?
“Dubai is so much closer to Karachi than Islamabad.” Yes. But how much black-and-gold Louis Farooq can you put up with?
“I could do with a Big Mac right now.” Cool. Fancy driving 400 kilometers to Lahore?
“The men here are so much better looking.” Yes.

It's A Little Bit Funny - This Feeling Inside

2005-04-08T04:32:00.000+05:00

Years ago, I was working with a project team which included H, a young banker. He was not my “type” – to the extent I have one. He was way too short for one. The ‘tache was bothersomely Fauji. The manner was a shade too aggressive for my liking. But there were some plus points. A great body – gay men have x ray vision when it comes to these things- and a smile to die for. One day, he screwed up majorly on some documents. For reasons which I have yet to fathom, I stepped in to rescue him. That, as the line in Casablanca has it, was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Anyone who has had the energy to plough through this blog will by now have deduced that I am fatally attracted to men who are Hopelessly Heterosexual. Alliteratively, H was HH. I did my damndest to create an “interest”. This included introducing H to the fine art of wine drinking – his iron constitution never allowed him to get drunk. I also gave him the mother of all reading lists – he read as much as he could. I tend not to despair in these situations. Mere attraction is enough to keep me fuelled. Or as the advertising slogan had it – Getting There is Half the Fun. To cut a long story short, H eventually left for a series of countries eventually arriving in London. I heard some tale on the grapevine about his getting married (damn) and then divorced (phew). We lost touch.

Till last night. I was on my way out for dinner when he materialized on my doorstep. The Prussian ‘tache was no more. More profoundly, there was a new personality lurking beneath the skin. Many years in London (arguably the most civilized city in the world) had changed him beyond recognition. Like me, his bank had fallen in love with him. An English tutor had been hired (at 300 pounds an hour) to improve his English. His clients had introduced him to the opera, boat races and fine dining. His dress sense had shifted from Jinnah Market to Bond Street. The smile was still as piercing as ever. I relented. Dinner could wait. We talked and talked and talked. Ok. I’m not as truly, madly and deeply attracted as I was during the last round. Still, there was the odd ember which I had forgotten to stamp out. He goes back to London very soon, but has offered his flat to me while I am there. Do I take up the offer? Or just write it off as yet another fantasy/delusion which I should rid myself off? Is it just the same old HH in a new wrapper ? Ah well. At least there’s something to think about before I go to bed tonight.

Rouge Trade

2005-04-06T15:58:00.000+05:00

I barely made it to the last performance of Moulin Rouge in Islamabad last night. I got there at five minutes to eight, but couldn't see a single vacant seat. Nor could the dozen odd friends I was with. In a fit of extreme good nature, we agreed to sit in the aisles. This is torture for bony bottoms like mine. Lots of legroom but(t) tough.. This was an "interactive "production with actors strolling over the theatre, so we'd have to shift occasionally to let people through.

It takes a brave man to put up a musical which has (not very long ago) been the subject of a successful film and a pretty good soundtrack. Braver still, to tackle this with a cast of 18 year olds (or thereabouts) and a very limited budget. There was one static set and one costume change at the very end. Not the makings of great theatre, but I must confess that I truly enjoyed the production, sore butt notwithstanding. First, amateur theatre has come a long way since I trod the treadboards. Some of the dialogue would have excised by self imposed censors. Heavens - there was also something approximating a kiss. Second, the youthful cast tended to ham their way through many of their lines. But its OK to ham one's way through Moulin Rouge. Indeed, almost mandatory. The film's dialogue was so cringingly Godawful, that I had to hit the forward button to be saved by the next delicious musical number. Third: Teen Spirit. There is something to be said for youthful exuberance when one is surrounded by jaded, faded, degraded fortysomethings.

The director (the oddly named Shah Sharabeel) took some liberties with the script, which could have been cut by at least another twenty minutes. This is clearly a case of the aching butt ruling the head. The musical numbers were largely taped but this became less of a problem as the show went on. Not a bad way to spend two hours. Not bad value for money at five hundred rupees a ticket. And there is some kind of theatre in the city - no matter how rudimentary.

The only horrific part of the evening were the long directorial speeches. One at the beginning asking the audience to go to the loo NOW. And one at the end introducing each extra, cue reader and actor by name. The pain in my butt was excruciating now. I stood up. A bouncer tried to get me to sit down. "My ass hurts. And if you don't let me out now I'm going to piss all over you." The crowds parted. Like Moses I glided through. A day later I'm still aching. I was flipping through the cast of characters today. The delightfully beautiful Franco-Pakistani actor playing Christian was called - wait for it- BUTT.

Natural High-ness

2005-04-05T17:56:00.000+05:00

What is it about pageantry that keeps us so preoccupied? I have already sounded off on the March 23 parade. Different grand events are streaming into my living room: the Pope's grand funeral (pity they have no subtitles for the Latin bits) and the not-so-grand wedding of Charles and Camilla on Saturday. Our friends the Americans, not to be left behind, have the Michael Jackson trial which (courtesy Fox TV) has its own peculiar rituals. Do we admit that we are still deeply fascinated by the accompanying visuals even though we profess to live in the age of liberte, egalite and fraternite? I vow never to watch this stuff and yet I do so compulsively - a slave to my baser instincts.

I was in Lahore many moons ago to chase up yet another failed relationship, but also to watch a world cup polo match. I was accompanied by A, an Amreekan friend who was horrified as I walked into the VIP enclosure with no tickets in hand. (The trick lies in keeping your nose in the air.) During the break, he pointed to an amazingly beautiful grey haired, sari-clad lady checking her lipstick in a compact. (Do compacts still exist?) It was the Maharani of Jaipur. "Gee. A real maharani?" Yeah. As real as they come.

It was in this mode that I tackled Maharanis by Lucy Moore. It's been a rough week so far and I needed something that would not fray the old nerves any further. Ms Moore has picked on the Maratha royal houses (who gave us wonderful titles like Gaekwad and Holkar) with the spotlight on Baroda, Cooch Behar and Jaipur. The tales are entertaining enough, the narrative bursting with adjectives and enough colour and spectacle to keep the most ardent royalist enthralled. But where's the substance? Sadly, there isn't any. Once the party's over (and for some it ended fairly quickly) there was a bunch or sad, well-dressed, not-very-intelligent people left over who were neither representative of the "native" peoples they ruled over, nor of their British overlords of whom they were faded dusky representations. Moore is at pains to point out how involved the Nawabs and Nawabettes were at the forefront of the independence movement, the establishment of schools and hospitals, the emancipation of women etc. I think she overstates the case. Come on. These self same people were keeling over with champagne poisoning.

There is no shortage of displaced nobility in Pakistan. One of Moore's sources lived in Islamabad till he died a few years ago. I have yet to meet anyone quite so disconnected from reality-quite so delusional. There was a true born-to-rule mentality at work- not to mention the accoutrements of the past: royal titles, seals, a sense of precedence and, above all, sheer superority. "Stupid. They are all stupid" he would intone whenever something disagreeable was encountered. The Indian branch of his family resigned themselves more readily to the decline in their fortune.

As always, what kept my interest in all of this is the intermingling of cultures. The memsahibs come off-stereotypically- as a bunch of shrieking vultures. (In a hilarious interlude, Lutyens is quoted as saying that one of Vicereines would have put bay windows into the Parthenon given half a chance.) The evolution of the sari is another case in point. The local Nawabettes took to wearing petticoats in imitation of the Colonialettes. The "modern" sari was tied to look as much like a ballgown as possible. And the first chiffon saris were scandalous - akin to wearing diaphanous underclothing. Trivia aside, there is little to recommend in Maharanis. Indeed, I felt an indescribable sadness when I put it down. Time to find something really trashy to read.

I Love Italics

2005-04-05T13:44:00.000+05:00

I Love Italics
I Love Italics
I Love Italics

Radio Daze

2005-04-03T23:25:00.000+05:00

Co-hosting a radio show, I am discovering, is a bit like having sex. Just a teeny weenie bit. It gets better over a period of time. As I haven't had sex in more than a teeny weenie time, I am relying on recollection. The show started off as joke - and I am glad it has remained a private joke. We were asked to critique the content of an FM radio station. I kind of -sort of - implied-insinuated that all radio in Pakistan was white, rock oriented, red (wheatish?) necked, and whiter than white. Uhun. So what's the solution ? "You need soul. Jazz. Blues. Music that speaks from the soul. Not from the sound lab." "Can you do a demo ?" The rest, as they say, is geography.

Trying to do radio in the twenty first century is not as easy as it sounds. The studio here is microscopic - the leg room is positively economy plus minus some. The walls are the shade of rotting tangerines. Soundproofing chemicals make the eyes water. The equipment is fancy and sexy - OK, I know I haven't had sex in some time. Even the flat screen displays are beginning to look erotic. The trax (as "we" call them) are heard over the week. I now have over a hundred hours of music on my notebook. (Windows occasionally reminds me that it is malfunctioning as I have too many files out there.) I also have brilliant friends (where would I be without them?) who supply me with inspiration, cds, ideas and all else.

And then there is my co-host. We fight, squabble, bitch, gripe and - sometimes- debate what should or shouldn't go into the show. The process is becoming typical - I listen to music the week through. If I like a track I hit a magic button and it goes onto a hot list. About a dozen of these are culled and sent to Co-Host. We meet Sunday, about an hour or two before we go live. Over mugs of tea, angst, family dramas (hers, not mine) we decide what goes on. A quick playlist is prepared. The rest is all chemistry. For sixty minutes we have to figure out what to say in between. People think we script the show. We don't. Yes, once in a while, she or I will say "What do we talk about next?" The other replies, "Chill. something will happen."It does. Always. Without realising it, we have comfortably slipped into the cool personas inhabited by our songs.

The highlight of tonight's show was a jazz standard called Bye Bye Blackbird by Rachell Ferrel. Live. Skat. Jazz at its best. I sit behind my enthusiastic (but not terribly efficient) sound engineer. The track started. Rachell's live/impro/skat reached orgasmic proportions. He reached out for his headphones. Swung his swivel chair back. Stuck his arms out. His expression said it all. He felt good. One down. Another hundred and some million to go.

In The Company of Cheerful Ladies

2005-04-03T20:47:00.000+05:00

If memory serves me -and it does so decreasingly- Jane Austen once likened herself to a Chinese miniaturist working painstakingly on a small piece of ivory. When you think about it, her novels are really all about women in search of the right guy. Hmmm. That means Jane and I are roughly on the same trajectory. WMD = Waiting for Mr Darcy. Having extracted that kernel of truth, it is easy to see how Emma became the basis of Clueless. The novels of Alexander McCall Smith are similar. For one, they are all set in Botswana. Not a country many of us would claim to know much about. They are not corny epics of the Uhuru or Zulu variety. Despite their cheesy covers, the novels (while being rooted in Africa) successfully transcend the exoticness of their location.
As with Austen's piece of ivory, AMS has a fairly limited canvas. His protagonist is one Precious Ramotswe, a Botswanean lady of "traditional build" who drives a "little white van." She is married to one JLB Matekwoni, the proprietor of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. Precious was previously married to Note Mokoti, a jazz musician and, therefore, a cad, a rake and a bounder. Her father (Daddy Ramotswe) was an expert in cattle - Botswana's largest export being meat- and taught her a thing or two about human nature. Precious also happens to be the owner of the Ladies No 1 Detective Agency - the subject of the first novel. Her partner in (the solution of) crime is Grace Makutsi, a graduate of the Botswana Secretarial College- having passed with 97%- and the owner of the Kalahari Typing School For Men - the subject of a later novel.
This may seem like a load of unnecessary drivel. In fact, it is the framework which drives McCall Smith's novels. The books themselves deal, on the surface, with small town crime - what the blurbs call everyday domestic drama. In fact there is a fine moral tension which acts as a driver. So fine, that if you blink, you may actually miss it. McCall Smith, being a lawyer, (ahem) knows the subtle difference between moralizing and morality. He plays the point subtly and with great humour. There is the yearning for an earlier time, when life was much simpler, values (supposedly) more evident:
"Mma Ramotswe was horrified when she read in the newspapers of people being described as consumers. That was a horrible, horrible word, which sounded rather too like a cucumber, a vegetable for which she had little time. People were not just greedy consumers, grabbing everything that came their way, nor were they cucumbers, for that matter. They were Batswana. They were people."
The tone wavers from the downright domestic to the positively revolutionary:
"It was a strange feeling, she had always thought; feeling the breathing of another, a reminder of how we share the same air, and of how fragile we all are. At least there was enough air in the world for everybody to breathe; at least people did not fight with one another over that. And it would be difficult, would it not, for the rich people to take away all the air from the poor people, even if they could take so many other things? Black people, white people: same air."
Ok. It's not Lawrentian prose. But after you read the kind of stuff I do all day, it is refreshing to not have to dabble in pretentiousness. Anything that makes you smile in the age of passport columns has got to be good. Right?

People I Would Like To Be

2005-04-02T17:02:00.000+05:00

It is not often that I am envious of other people’s lives. I think I have found my own niche, my groove or my rut – depending on my line of vision. Last night I found myself in the company of two men with a life (as opposed to a “lifestyle”) I truly envied. (As Neil Simon aptly put it in California Suite “I have a life not a lifestyle”.) My hosts, A and F are two friends who live “out in the country.” For the uninitiated this means any place which is more than a six or seven minute drive – that being the time it takes one to get most places in Islamabad. Having psyched myself for a long (read twenty minute) drive to get to dinner I set off. The roads in that area have been repaved (even though there is nothing for miles around) as several very very very very important people have bought land in that territory. Wild horses – yes, even studs – wouldn’t get me to shift there. Islamabad is barely “citified” on my scale. I am told that the guests of honour are "exotic."

John F is a Californian archaeologist. George M is an Australian architect based in London. I have no idea what the nature of their personal relationship is, though there could be more to it than meets the eye. They have collaborated on a number of ventures and have around thirty books to their credit on Amazon, including several on South India. They spend a quarter of the year in John F’s Manhattan apartment. The next quarter is spent at George M’s flat (there are no apartments in London!) which opens right on to the Opera House in Covent Garden. The third quarter is spent at a house in Goa coupled with visits to various sites in India. The remaining time is spent taking tourists through Central Asia and India or on special assignments. The special assignment which brought them (in transit) to Pakistan was a trip to document whatever Islamic architecture there is in Urumqi and Kashgar in Xingiang Province. Yes, South China Airlines has a rickety service which connects scintillating Islamabad to humming Urumqi.

All of this brings me to the very static nature of my life right now. I have been unable to get to Karachi for the last six weeks, while there are people gliding through continents with the frequency of my trips to the local supermarket. Part of the problem is the Little Green Book which nobody wants to affix a visa onto.(Who cares how many columns my passport has, when nobody is interested in reading it ?) My Brit Visa took around two months to acquire. My Schengen is coming via a recommendation from Europe. I refuse to risk a random application. What is the world coming to? Pakistan is a notoriously difficult country to leave. And other countries are now becoming notoriously difficult to enter. An old school friend lives in London and is determined to see as many countries of the world as possible. She has visited 47 (or was that 57?) already and called from Gabon last week. She has a Little Blue Book, however, which makes these random fantasies materialize. My wanderlust will have to take a back seat for a while.

Despite all this moaning I am still on track to leave for London and Paris in the near future. Will I make it? Watch this space.

Mix

2005-04-02T02:12:00.000+05:00

I am very allergy ridden these days. I spent decades in Karachi inhaling sulphur dioxide and lived to tell the tale. Then I arrived in Islamabad and discovered the kind of havoc a little stray pollen can wreak. This year has been particularly bad as pollen counts have reached record highs. I am sorely tempted to buy those surgical masks that the Japanese wear. Alas, this is where vanity kicks in. They are really nasty looking and come in three colours: white, baby-boy blue and baby-girl pink. I will have to wait till Burberry begin designer masks.

D was over from Karachi and we did two reasonably quiet dinners, both of us being inundated with work The first involved D, me, a Pakhtun banker from Peshawar and a journalist formerly from Karachi. Dinner 2 involved D, me, an Italian Pakistani, a South African economist and a Karachi businessperson. All these men are gay. The wonderful thing about homosexuality is that it cuts through the various divides that exist in Pakistan and brings together an eclectic mix of people. Considerations like age, province, social class, educational background etc. become fairly meaningless. Sexuality is the common denominator, the glue which brings it all together. The mix can either be a mélange or a biryani depending on how you blend the basics.

The sexuality-as-glue formula has pros and cons. The big pro is that I end up meeting people I would “normally” never have met in my work or my social life. My metro hetero friends are always going on about the “interesting” people I have around me. The big downside of the sexuality/common denominator is that sometimes it takes a little more than being gay to bring you closer to someone you really like. Gay chalk and gay cheese still retain their essential otherness. In the long run, I’d sooner take the risk and have the possibility of meeting new people.

Urban Pakistani life tends to work in a series of bell jars. There is really no café culture at work (though Karachi is bravely on its way there). Bars are out of the question. Strangers rarely strike up conversations with each other. Hey. People don't even smile at each other. There is a social complacency at work – married couples being the worst offenders. Decades later, many continue to hang out with school friends. A bit like having one’s youth lacquered or bronzed- the school yard dynamic crazily foisted onto a much later era. Hang on. It is in this sense that gay life has distinct advantages. Social freedom prevails. Things like this put the happy into gay. Peace.

RSVP

2005-03-31T13:31:00.000+05:00

Health warning: This is going to be a gripe-ridden, whingy, whiny, humourless piece. I've been friends with F for a long time. Its been completely platonic, although we are both gay men of "a certain age" - as the French put it, with diplomatic savoir faire. I've been through many things with F and I'd like to think that I've been a fairly good friend through it all. So has he. Till recently, things have been good. All of this seems to have changed earlier this year. F acquired a new lover. OK. The lover is not one of "us", but I have made every effort to be sociable and understanding. So far so good. The Lover lives in another city so that has meant long absences from home. OK. Not a problem. We all have long distance involvements at some time or the other- I wonder if the airlines have discovered "Frequent Lover Miles" as a marketing gimmick yet.

The problem has arisen in the cavalier treatment I feel F is dishing out to me. It may sound petty, but it is really begining to piss me off. Each time I invite F I am fobbed off with some absurd excuse. This usually has its roots in the Lover being present in town or - more usually - in his inability to wake up in time to get here for lunch. On one occasion he arrived for five minutes and then took off with one of my guests. On another he called at 5 pm to apologise for not showing up for his lunch invitation. Last sunday he called at 7 pm to apologise for not waking up in time for lunch - this despite six missed calls and as many text messages.

At the risk of sounding like a Cosmo quiz, I have a limited number of options. (A) : I continue to co exist in this situation. He's too good a friend to lose. (B) Not everyone has my refined sense of etiquette. (C) Speak to him. I have. It doesn't work. (D) Do nothing. Right now I'm in D mode, but I have no idea how long it will last. This sleeping dog has lain around for long enough.

Ok, I know I said this would not be a humourless piece. But getting all this negative karma out of my system (and into yours!) has reminded me of the wonderful Alicia Silverstone piece in Clueless - guess who's not coming to dinner!

"So like, right now for example. The Haitians need to come to America. But some people are all, "What about the strain on our resources?" Well it's like when I had this garden party for my father's birthday, right? I put R.S.V.P. 'cause it was a sit-down dinner. But some people came that like did not R.S.V.P. I was like totally buggin'. I had to haul ass to the kitchen, redistribute the food, and squish in extra place settings. But by the end of the day it was, like, the more the merrier. And so if the government could just get to the kitchen, rearrange some things, we could certainly party with the Haitians. And in conclusion may I please remind you it does not say R.S.V.P. on the Statue of Liberty. Thank you very much. "

Homofriendly

2005-03-30T13:39:00.001+05:00

My Best Friend has decided to continue with her pursuit of M. I had written earlier about how M had left me stone cold and what I saw as some of the differences in the objects pursued by women and gay men. A subtle dinner was contrived last night where M had deigned to attend. Blissfully, we were spared M for much of the time. His flight was late by several hours. There are times you can bank on PIA to deliver. While there, I ran into S whom I had not seen for eons. We hugged and repaired to the deepest recess of Best Friend’s post-modern, pre-whatever dining room and spoke and spoke and spoke, with chilled chateau margalla plonk to keep us going.

S, for the record, is one of the few Pakistani men I have met who has no problems with gay men. He is friendly, effusive, good looking and hopelessly heterosexual. Yet at the same time he thinks I am “cool”, that being gay is not really such a big deal and that despite our closeness it is highly unlikely that we are going to sleep with each other. S was formerly a pilot but has none of the machismo or the conservatism associated with the armed forces. We met at a shi-shi costume party in Karachi many years ago. Costume, in those days, allowed my gay friends to dress in drag. S went off to dance with an attractive woman with something vaguely akin to a lampshade on her head. Halfway through the dance a friend of mine discovered that Lampshade Lady was really Lampshade Boy. He went running to warn S of what lay in store. S simply shrugged his shoulders. “Who cares?” I have had a soft spot for S ever since the Night of the Lampshade.

Pakistani men of my generation do not have an overt problem with my homosexuality. It’s the little things which add up. I have heard them laugh at or ridicule some of the more outré gay men I know. Well, I’ve done so myself so they cannot be blamed alone on that front. I have heard them complain of being felt up or sized up or scoped by gay men. That’s a tough call. Yes, gay men can behave outrageously at times. On the other hand straight men can be anally paranoid. A handshake that lasts a nanosecond longer than necessary can be construed as a pass. Mistaken eye contact converts itself into a come-on. I have learned that the best way to avoid all of this is to minimize touchy-feely behavior with a straight man unless I am sure that he has the balls to cope with it.

S has the balls. I can touch him or hug him or feel him all over and I know that there will be no repercussions. Coming back to the dinner party where all this started, the dreaded M did finally arrive. By this time S was exuding so much heterosexual confidence in himself and our mutual friends that poor M was sidelined. The hapless M sat sullenly, smoked furtively and watched as S and I discussed the fallen (and tripping) women in S’ past, my hand on S’s thigh, his elbow on my shoulder. The contrast between the two men was glaringly evident. My Best Friend looked subdued. “Can’t figure out what’s happened to him” she murmured looking over at M. “Nor me” I replied. Ok. I lied.

Living To Tell The Tale

2005-03-29T14:46:00.000+05:00

Gabriel Garcia Marquez has to rank on almost anybody's top ten (five?) list of living novelists. Living to Tell the Tale is the first part of Marquez's autobiography covering his life from the beginning (1927) till the date he proposes to his wife (1950). Do not be mislead by the neatness of this scheme- there is nothing linear in Marquez's time narrative which shifts effortlessly from one era to another in the space of a sentence.. He narrates his college days, and then comments on something Bill Clinton witnessed and then moves back to the April 9 riots in Bogotá resulting from the Gaitan assassination. Although his life lacks the drama of, say Hemmingway (no Spanish civil war, bull fights et al), there is enough material in there to keep one riveted. Be warned though: there are large doses of Colombian literature and politics.

In some respects, Living to Tell the Tale, has the classic ingredients of a writer's life - the relative penury; an absent father; the predominance of women in early life; social and political revolution; literary influences -everyone in Colombia seems to have been a poet or writer. It also seems that everyone is Colombia was shagging incessantly. GGM's father sired a number of illegitimate children who ultimately came to live with their eleven other siblings. Marquez's own encounters with women are as casual as lighting up a cigarette - redeemed only upon being discovered in bed by a husband or machete wielding lover. Like some of us, his parents forced him into becoming a lawyer (he failed the exams) while his friends led to him journalism as the next best thing to being a writer. His heart remained in writing and the genesis of many of his characters and the legendary town of Macondo are traced in some detail.

As with any literary autobiography, what is interesting is the creative process which leads to the finished product. Although the period under review predates the better known novels, Marquez does provide the background to his brilliant but later Chronicle of a Death Foretold- I told you there was no time narrative at work here. On a personal level what fascinates me about Marquez is his "magical imagination".I assumed -wrongly - that this arose from Catholicism (miracles and the like) and the native Indian influence (belief in the supernatural). The answer seems to be much simpler and less pretentious: Marquez has a fantastic natural imagination. His dreams and (more frequently) his nightmares are powerful sources. He cites A Thousand and One Nights as one of his early literary influences - the power of imagination to spin a riveting magical story. Other inspiration came from the Americans (Steinbeck, Faulkner) - Colombia being a "natural continuation" of the American/Atlantic coast. Borges was spinning magic at the same time too. The ultimate inspiration came to him from Colombian life around him expressed in a series of truly eccentric friends and family - legitimate and otherwise. In a wonderful interlude, he describes taking a bus in Cartagena, and swears that he saw a faun board the bus, sit with the other passengers and get off many stops later - indeed he smelt the faun. Predictably, nobody believed him.

Where Living to Tell the Tale does succeed is in evoking, in the least complicated terms, a life of tireless pursuit, frustration, poverty and political turmoil in honest and unsentimental terms. Unfortunately there is much less about the novels here than I would have liked, but then again, there's always the second volume to look forward to.

The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie

2005-03-28T13:03:00.000+05:00

The New York Times does it again! In a story printed on March 23, their correspondent did a piece on Karachi entitled "Pakistan is booming after 9/11 at least for the well-off". The last five or six words made me a little uncomfortable, but what the hell. I read on. The article begins with a reference to Limoncello, one of Karachi's new, smart restaurants. References are made to "Italian-inspired fine dining spot with lemon-colored walls and a kebab-free menu that features arugula and Norwegian salmon." Hey, this is becoming a journalistic rarity. A good piece on Karachi.

Too good to be true. A few lines later this emerges: "Dinner for four - not including wine, since alcohol is banned at public accommodations - came to $70, substantially more than a Karachi housemaid's monthly salary." Hang on. Has anyone told the writer that dinner at an upmarket Manhattan restaurant costs significantly more than a Puerto Rican maid's salary ? There then follows the usual trotting out of statistics, a visit to a slum, interviews with several extremely poor (and hard working) individuals. I have no problem with the article on that front. Yes, Karachi (like Manila, Washington DC, Berlin and Delhi) is a city with sharp divides between the rich and the poor. Undisputed. Having given a description of poverty and divides, there is no prescription at all for removing these. This is characteristic of the descriptive (as opposed to prescriptive) whinging and whining that adorns the op ed pages of any Pakistani paper. Don't take my word for it. Just read any and you'll get my drift.

But now to what's really bugging me about the NYT article. There is an implicit theme running through it - that restaurants such as Limoncello are an obscenity and should not exist in the face of such glaring poverty. Further, that the making of money is somehow wrong and should be discouraged. That, in some kind of utopian fantasy, there should be an immediate redistribution of wealth. Yes, capitalism of the kind practiced in Pakistan or most other countries will produce inequities. You don't need a ph.d to figure that out. Yes, we need to figure out ways and means of lessening such inequities. Its just that I don't see too many articles stating that Prada should be closed down because there are inner city problems in South Washington DC or homelessness in Detroit. The idea is to create guilt in the creation and spending of money in the lesser developed countries. At the same time, having scrubbed other options (the Marxist alternatives) the self same newspapers will support moves to increase foreign direct investment which buttresses the growth of capitalist enterprises. Confusing, huh ? Will someone tell me if its alright to make (and spend) money legitimately ?

On a more positive note, someone forgot to tell the NYT that Pakistanis rank among the most charitable/giving people on the planet. This is not a fiction, but the result of detailed research by the Pakistan Centre for Philanthrophy- an independent NGO. Yes, much charity is ill organised, but it does exist. So there is some consciousness of social inequality. In the meanwhile, can the rest of us get on with our lives ?

ps: the NYT article can be accessed on http://www.nytimes.com/2005/03/23/international/middleeast/23pakistan.html?oref=login. (site requires registration).

The X Factor

2005-03-28T02:02:00.000+05:00

Oh yes. Spent the whole day in a workshop with X. I sat up front (as always). He snuck into a row behind. Somewhere along the line, in a (flaccid but) impassioned defence of some useless situation he used his height (6.4) to get out of it. "But I'm 6.3 " I asserted. Later, we chewed on tasteless sandwiches and diet cokes and I went up lamely to compare heights. The asshole is an inch taller. I'm sure I'd have measured up if I'd used a better hair product. And so to bed.

Vanity Unfair

2005-03-27T01:46:00.000+05:00

I have been cleaning up my bathroom and I have discovered I use an inordinate number of products. Each morning involves most of the following:

Shampoo: Nicky Clarke Ultra Shining Hairomatherapy
Conditioner: Neutrogena-60 second Therapy
Shower Gel: Dove- Ultra firming Age Defying(!)
Face Cleanser: Clarins Doux Nettoyant Moussant (All skin types)
Clinique For Men Face Scrub
Toni and Guy Moisture Injection
Edge Shaving Gel (Aloe Extra Gentle)
Distilled Witch Hazel (Generic) Post Shave
Johnsons PH.55 Deodorant
Johnsons Buds for ears
Clinique Eye Gel
Estee Lauder Time Zone Moisturiser
Plax Anti Tartar Mouthwash
Aquafresh Ultra Clean Toothpaste
Vetiver Cologne/Lanvin or Herrera but usually Guerlain.

Ok ok . I know it looks like a lot. Actually I don't really consciously think I'm using all this stuff. Its just instinctive. I pretty much reach for it all in roughly the order I've listed. And it doesn't take me all that long to get ready so I must have perfected it all. Does it make me look any better? I don't know. You'll have to see me to figure that out. Does it make me feel better ? A million bucks. Infinitely better than the E or K or whatever that my Karachi friends are popping, the coke that my Lahore friends are snorting and the dope that my Islamabad friends are smoking. Infinitely better than botox. Hic!

Nirvana

2005-03-26T08:09:00.000+05:00

I feel wonderful. I have just paid my masseur the GDP of a small African country to pummel me into a mass of writhing flesh. There's a fresh espresso on my bedside table. I am entranced by the Marquez autobiography. There's a new stack of jazz CD's from a friend in Beirut. The Beast is in his basket fast asleep, tail quivering occasionally. I can see a big bar of Lindt extra dark chocolate from my vantage point. I cannot really think of anything missing in this frame. Or can I ?

Mango Republik

2005-03-25T02:16:00.000+05:00

All those of you who do not live in Islamabad have no idea what the rest of us have to put up with in the name of the March 23 parade. In the old days, the parade was held in the safe confines of Rawalpindi, which is an army cantonment town and better equipped to handle such things. Some wise guy must have seen the equivalent parade in India (at the Rashtrapathi Bhavan complex in New Delhi) and have decided that we too must follow suit. The difference here is that the facilities in India were built by the colonizers to allow parades of all shape, size and colour to be watched (in amazement) by the natives. The modern designers of Islamabad had no such motive. Hence the incongruous sight of tanks and juggernauts rolling down streets lined with Dunkin Donuts and Mobilink Jazz and next week's production of Moulin Rouge.

This year was no different. The army band has been housed in a large park very near my office. I have had to bear them practicing milli naghmas while focusing on other things. Preparations start weeks ahead with the city paralysed the last few days as dress rehearsals take place right in the centre of town, dislocating traffic for miles. Finally comes parade day itself.. Unfortunately, my new house is about twenty yards away from the main parade ground. It all starts with my bedroom rumbling as tanks roll by down the road. My dog (a.k.a the Beast) does not stir even though he can hear a wrapper of Dairy Milk being ripped opened at least a hundred yards away.

When the rumbling becomes unbearable, I finally decide to go to my terrace (dragging the Beast in tow) to read the papers, while sipping my coffee and nibbling on French toast in my stripy red pyjamas. I hear a strange noise and look up. Parked stationary right above me is a chopper with two javans dangling on a rope waving the Pakistan flag. In military terms, I can see the whites of their eyes. In other circumstances I would have been quite happy to have commandoes over for breakfast. The ludicrousness of it all hit home just then. Me, PJ's, coffee, toast, chopper, soldiers and the chand tara fluttering madly.

Finally, on a PC note: Wouldn't it make better sense to disband the parade and put the (taxpayers) money which is funding it to better use - say Pakistan Day schools to be opened with the money saved. Leaving aside the inconvenience, such parades have now become the preserve of tinpot banana republics. Apart from the French (who are contrary in every respect) no self respecting Country displays its hardware quite so shamelessly. The Brits keep a handful of elaborately costumed guards on display to keep the populace and hordes of Japanese tourists happy. These are much prettier (and cheaper) than Hatf 3 and Ghauri missiles which all look the same anyway. Nahin ? Pakistan Zindabad.

2005-03-22T14:45:00.000+05:00

Ali and Nino

The Occidental Tourist

2005-03-22T13:28:00.000+05:00

When I was a precocious teenager (see the Bookstore blog below) I bought a copy of a book called Ali and Nino by someone called Kurban Said. The paperback had a schmaltzy cover and the blurb shrieked “Guaranteed to knock Eric Segal’s Love Story off the bestsellers charts.” A and N is well crafted love story set in the Caucasus and tells a Montague and Capulet version of Muslim-Christian love at the turn of the century. One day, having returned from university in London, I ran into Anatol Lieven who was then posted as the Times correspondent to Pakistan. He mentioned that he was being relocated to cover Central Asia. I mentioned Ali and Nino and that was the last I saw of my copy.

Cut to 2005. I am rummaging at my local bookstore and I come across a copy of a book called “The Orientalist” by Tom Reiss which purports to tell the story of Kurban Said. And what a life it was. Kurban Said, it transpires, was really Lev Nussimbaum, a European Jew whose family settled in modern day Azerbaijan. Nussimbaum senior was an oil man (oil being more readily available than water in that part of the world) and did fairly well by all accounts. Lev’s hometown Baku is situated on the fault lines of several worlds – East and West, Orient and Occident, Muslim and Christian. These divisions rocketed Lev into a world of revolution. Each city he arrived at seemed to be on the point of disintegration: Constantinople, Paris, Berlin, Vienna, and (via a brief stint in New York) Positano on the Amalfi coast in Italy where he died at 34. Either his luck was out or his choices extremely poor or, perhaps, that part of the world was in utter turmoil. In this time, Lev populated a world of luminaries (the Pasternaks and the Nabokovs are close friends) and wrote over a dozen books – of which Ali and Nino survives as the most well known. The new edition thankfully deletes the Segal blurb and has a respectable introduction by Paul Theroux.

What fascinates me about Lev’s life is his decision to take on a Muslim persona. This was in part derived from living among a predominantly Muslim population in Baku and partly to avoid extermination in Hitler’s Germany. However, a large part of this stemmed from Lev’s highly romanticized vision of Islam – white chargers, daggers, turbans, opium, baggy pants and all the rest of it. Perhaps this romantic picture made life seem more exciting in troubled and revolutionary times. Perhaps the image gave him exposure he would never have had as a little known novelist - the streets of Berlin were lined with unpublished manuscripts. Lev's assumed Islamic persona fell apart on occasion when zealous journalists would expose his (far less romantic) Jewish origins. Lev made a career of being a professional Muslim in terms of the trappings rather than the substance. This is a far cry from the less-than-romantic trappings available today : a scraggly beard, shalwar flapping way above the ankles and a firearm replacing the ornate (but deadly) dagger. Reiss is at pains to point out that there was a breed of “Jewish Orientalists” who insisted on their “Asiatic” origins as providing them with identity – Palgrave and Disreali among others. Lev refused to join their club, preferring the mystique which came with his fabricated Islamic identity. I recommend this as a quick but fascinating read. Available now at your local bookshop – if you have one!

Frigid Jones Diary- The horrors of Cyberdating

2005-03-21T16:23:00.000+05:00

Number of Profile Views: 3,672.
Number of Profiles met: 0
Number of Profiles wanted to meet: 2
(but didn’t muster the courage)
Number of messages received: 1321
% of these from unattractive types: 95%
% of these from friends too lazy to SMS: 5%
% of responses from “bottoms” 50%
% of responses from wannabe tops: 50%
%of responses seeking instant sex: 97.5%
Most common words used: “sincire” “verstyle” “LOL” “hahahahahaha”
Most common body part photographed: schlong
Most common favourite book: The Da Vinci Code
Most Common Description: “I am simple boy.” “I hate liers”
Most Common Favourite Actress: Julia Roberts
Most Common Favourite Actor : Bread (sic) Pitt
Most Common long term Goal : Relationship
Most Common immediate Goal : One night stand
Picture source: GQ/Esquire/advertising
Resemblance to picture posted: 0%
Most repeated introduction: "Hello Dear"
Usual Intro: ". i prefer to meet any white man who is living if ur instrusted in an goos relationship or friendship with me u can msg me i will reply to u ... one thing there ae som thing that i need u should be ..romantic,flexible bit hunk and in 22 to 30 ... i am into younger guys only. i like bondage ,kinkysex and otherstuff. (sic)

The Death of the Bookshop

2005-03-19T04:31:00.000+05:00

The first bookshop I have a conscious memory of is Ferozesons on the Mall in Lahore. I remember being taken there often as a five or six year old with a quota of one book to buy. I recall the smell of new books and the sound of the press working in the background. It took me ages to figure out that not all bookshops came with presses attached to them. Ferozesons started my rip roaring affair with bookshops- an affair that I have managed to conduct and sustain with considerably more success than some others.

The next bookstore recollection has its roots in Karachi. The Pak American and Greenwich bookstores on Elphinstone Street (sadly renamed since) and Thomas & Thomas were haunts to which I was inexorably drawn. My parents eventually decided I was old enough to select my own books and the quota system was abolished. Having read through most of the Classics by the age of 13 I decided to embark on an “adult” reading career. This led to me a great deal of literature I, perhaps, should not have read so early on. I am still convinced that I was the only precocious 14 year old in Karachi to have consumed Gore Vidal’s transsexual fantasy “Myra Breckenridge” with a lascivious passion. As if all this was't enough, my siblings and I were members of the British Council library at Pakistan Chowk and the USIS library in the (now deserted) American Consulate.

Since then I have encountered numerous bookshops – Foyles and Dillons in London, Heffers in Cambridge, Blackstones in Oxford, Barnes and Nobles all over American, Kinokuniya in Singapore and Kuala Lumpur, Borders in Manila and innumerable others. When my young (then younger) friend M was going to college in DC many years ago, I couldn’t recall the name of any bars or clubs. I could remember the name of the nicest bookstore/café in town. He sent me a postcard to let me know that he’d located Kramerbooks and was working there.

Many years later I am amazed that Karachi – a city of 15 million people- does not have a single decent bookshop. My friends confess to buying books in malls and supermarkets. Some resort to Amazon or foreign trips. Islamabad fares a little better. A two floor bookstore has recently opened here and it is packed most evenings. There are also several second hand bookshops with an eclectic selection of titles. When I am at a Pakistani airport I am amazed to discover that I am often the only one among hundreds of people reading a book while waiting for a flight to be called. A few read newspapers. Most others just stare vacuously into the middle distance.

So what went wrong ? People just stopped reading books. And because of that people just stopped selling books. A quick look at web pages of the Orkut or Friendster variety shows that most Pakistanis either don’t have a favourite book or else there is a (proud) declaration that they don’t read. This is confirmed by visits to houses where the only book for miles around is a telephone directory. Clearly, there is an entire generation out there which has no intention of reading. I concede that books are expensive and are not within the reach of most Pakistanis. Ok. Point taken. But what about people who can afford to smoke Dunhills and still don’t read ?

I admit that these are all elitist arguments. They do not, for example, take into account reading habits in Urdu which may (hopefully) exceed English readership. All the major papers have literary reviews and “books” sections so I must assume that somebody reads. What disturbs me is that there are no visible signs (bookstores, libraries, readers) of a reading society. I desperately hope that anyone reading this trashes my views, shakes me out of my complacency and tells me that I’m totally wrong. I wait eagerly.

The Weakest Twink

2005-03-18T07:36:00.000+05:00

He’s done it again. My bestest friend has acquired himself a brand-new-state-of-the-art Twink. A twink, for the uninitiated, is a boyish boy or sometimes even a boyish man. The classic twink is usually this side of twenty-five, a high school or college student and homosexual. This year's model is sylph-like, has eyelashes that you can grab in a fist and bee-stung lips.

In the Pakistani scenario, twinks are usually well proportioned, good looking (somewhere between the merely decorative and drop dead gorgeous) with a budding penchant for the finer things of life. This covers everything from a perfume tester to an Armani jacket. Most twinks want to be "mo-dels" and carry their bulging portfolios around with them. Textbook twink has cultivated petulance and caprice to a degree of refinement hitherto unknown. This manifests itself in carefully choreographed expressions: The Mood, The Scowl and the The Pout. On a bad day, all three. The height of fun includes an evening at Pizza Hut, some sex and –if he’s been a good boy- an extra hour on PS2. Twink parents are notoriously negligent. Twink mom is oblivious to her son’s rapidly increasing designer wardrobe. Twink dad somehow overlooks his long absences from home –often to other cities. Finally, even the average twink knows that his indispensability is based on his youth. You will be constantly reminded of this by repeated references to the exams he is taking or the lecture he has to get to tomorrow morning. He is begging you to confess that the last time you did homework was in the early 80s.

It takes two to tango. Every Twink needs a Patron. Yin and Yang. The classic Patron is usually older (35ish upwards) with a strong sense of insecurity flowing from his fading beauty and prowess. He is amazingly bright but feels that his friends will satiate his intellectual yearnings sufficiently. He has enough intelligence for two people and is therefore willing to overlook brains in his significant other. He also has a deep yearning for youth and even deeper pockets. To him a twink is a trophy, a prize, a statement that he is still desirable despite the weathering effects of age. Play it again Bosie.

The whole Twinkology scene leaves me stone cold. Nothing can be worse than an evening where one is foisted with a twink for company. The twink usually arrives with bi’s, tri’s, ab’s and thighs testifying to a life spent in a sweaty gym. Invariably the Mood, Scowl and Pout appear when he discovers that I have no music by Maroon or Nine Inch Nails. (“What are we doing with this boring old man when we could be eating a Chicken Extravaganza with extra cheese?”) Attempts at conversation crash-land with the Patron invariably stepping in to rescue his protégé. You are regaled with stories of how brilliant the infernal child is (“He just got accepted at the LSE.”). If the blurbs are anything to go by, junior is all set for a Nobel, a Pulitzer or an Oscar – in 2072.

Twinks have inspired some great art, so all is not lost. Thomas Mann's "A Death in Venice" and Lucino Visconti's luscious film of the same name are paeans to Twinkism. On a less lofty note the Pet Shop Boys wrote a wicked song called "Rent" presenting a twink-eye view of life:

You phone me in the evening on hearsay /You bought me caviar/ You took me to a restaurant off Broadway /To tell me who you are /We never-ever argue,/ we never calculate/ The currency we've spent /I love you, you pay my rent

Don't get me wrong. I do not mean to trash all younger men in the process. Indeed I love younger men. I have been out with many truly fascinating younger men. It’s the dynamic, the power play, the money and the sheer Humbertishness of the twink-Patron relationship which scares me shitless. Fran Lebowitz (author of the definitive “Notes on Twink” in “Metropolitan Life” )said “All of God’s children are not beautiful. Some are barely presentable.” I rest my case.

The Bezels of Wisdom

Five Good Reasons To Contemplate Resuming A Blog

Farewell

My House Speaks To Me

Ramadhan Mubarak

She Works Hard For The Money

Nicotine Dreams

Gramatically Purrfect

Magyk

Event Mismanagement

Closets

Stop Thief!

Moderate Enlightenment

No Comment

Slo Mo

Rhymes of Passion

The Tower of Babble

Let The Games Begin

C***K F***k

The Hungry Tide

Slow is Beautiful

On The Beach

Club

Mata Hari

Best Served Cold

9 Jazz Vocals Everyone Should Own

Love, Literature and Lying

The Tower of Babble -2

Little Town Blues

Black

The Tower of Babble

Dorian Gay

What Lurks Beneath

Das Box

Snub!

Notes on Lust

Ten Reasons To Temporarily Cease Blogging

Dis-Connect

Decaffeinated Society

My Brother Nikhil

Tales From Middle Earth 7: Delhi Part 2

Tales From Middle Earth 6: Mind

Tales From Middle Earth 5: Body

Tales From Middle Earth 4: Dreams of Paro

Tales From Middle Earth 3: Mid Air

Tales From Middle Earth 2: Delhi Part One

Tales From Middle Earth 1: Form(s) vs Substance

Only Connect

Living High's Meme

Viva Gay Pakistan

My Right Foot

Engdu

Baby's Got A Secret

Melange

The Pilgrims' Progress - Part the Second.

The Eyre Affair

Talking Heads

Fan Male

Ipod Therefore I Am.

The Pilgrims' Progress.

Music For Chameleons

The Inn of the Sixth Happiness

Ten Things In Every Metrosexual Fridge

G Boyz

The One With A Hole In It

Wimmin!

The Trouble With Hari

London Calling - Part the Second

London Calling-Part the First

Post Script

Crash!

Never Let Me Go

20 Hours From Home

Getting Out

HOw Uber Got His Groove Back

Urdu and Me

(bad) Joke

Another Country

It's A Little Bit Funny - This Feeling Inside

Rouge Trade

CK Fk