‘Khush-hali’, Fatherland style

‘Khush-hali’, Fatherland style

By Kamran Shafi

WE have been regaled by expensive television advertisements for months now telling us what wonders the Punjab government has wrought: first in aid of the Commando’s election for another five-year term in the presidency (which leads one to ask why billions, I kid you not, were spent on the ads when he himself is on record as saying, ‘I will be elected at any cost!’?)

And now for the elevation of the younger scion of the House of Zahoor, Pervaiz Elahi, to prime minister, heaven have mercy (which leads one to ask why billions are being spent when the Commando himself has announced that the next PM will be from the King’s Party?)

Well, I have just returned from a short trip to the once great city of Lahore. Where I did what I always do: walk in the Lawrence Gardens with my young friend Ati; visit Zahid who makes the best puri-bhaji-halva in the world at his lean-to on Beadon Road; and pick up harisa, again the best in the world, from Shafiq ‘Puppa’ who plies his trade as did his grandfather Baba Sadr Din Butt and father Mohammad Ramzan, at ‘Ganda Engine’ in Gawal Mandi.

‘Ganda Engine’, means literally ‘Dirty Engine’, Lahore city’s first and only incinerator built by the Brits but now out of use for 50 years and more. Which is not to say that the area is any the cleaner; you just have to go there to see the state of the inner city.

But before we see Lahore itself, getting there tells you just how much khush-hali stalks the land. The approaches to and off the motorway hit you where it hurts, first off. Whilst we are located in Wah and use either the Brahma-Bahtar or the Burhan interchanges you could be anywhere and have the same experience.

Both our interchanges are approached via the GT Road which, on either side, has been under construction for three years now — all 15 kilometres of it, I kid you not!

The approach road to Bahma-Bahtar was destroyed by rains in February and work has started on its repair only a month ago, forcing us to negotiate potholes the size of our car on the school run to Islamabad the Beautiful five days a week. And this in Attock District, the equivalent if you will, of the Royal County of Berkshire, for our District Nazim may the good Lord bless him, belongs to the Chaudhry clan, Punjab’s present royalty.

But this is Attock — go to Lahore indeed, of which the ‘pride’ is none other than Moonis Elahi s/o Pervaiz Elahi his-self, soon to be elected with heavy mandate to the National Assembly and the Punjab provincial assembly. Get off the motorway and there it is, the ubiquitous pothole and the broken road: Canal Bank; Wahdat Road; the Main Boulevard; the Cantonment; The Mall, you name it and the roads are in a shambles.

A little tour: from the Lawrence Gardens you go to Gawal Mandi via the Montgomery Road where the country’s largest motor-car spare parts market is located and where business and trade worth many hundreds of millions of rupees is conducted every single day. I’ll bet a hundred rupees there is not a dirtier, filthier, uglier sight anywhere in this universe.

From household rubbish in leaking and torn plastic bags, to empty cartons to discarded spare parts to smashed windshields, these last just thrown on to the road to be crushed under the wheels of passing vehicles, you name it and your choice of garbage is there. Prompting you to ask what in heaven’s name is wrong with us? Mark reader, this is Lahore, the capital of the Mother of All Provinces we speak about … what then about the rest of the Punjab? Some khush-hali!

I have already introduced the idea to my readers that ours is a truly unique country; our people a truly unique lot in many more ways than ninety-nine. On Friday last, I went to my bank in Rawalpindi to cash a cheque, and stood waiting my turn at number six in line.

I was number three from the head of the queue when a young lady in her very early twenties sailed right past me and stood next to the second person in line. I cleared my throat deliberately loudly hoping she would notice a man more than her father’s age standing waiting his turn and back off.

No way; she ignored me completely and moved a bit closer to the counter. Just then she was joined by another young woman. Being in a hurry, and having stood in line for nearly 25 minutes, I decided to intervene and asked the teller if it was bank policy to allow women to advance to the head of the queue regardless of how long men had been standing in line?

He mumbled something to the effect that ‘they’ had instructed that women should be served first. ‘Why doesn’t the bank then have a women’s counter?’ I asked. The poor chap had no answer so I let it go. Another five minutes later I finally made it to the head.

As I was counter-signing my cheque I noticed a hand sneak past my right elbow and offer a cheque to the teller. ‘Mein havildar (I did not catch the name) hoon; General Sahib, garhi mein baithay hain,’ said a voice. I turned around and saw a man obviously an army-driver, wearing the namazi topi Ziaul Haq put army soldiers into instead of the smart and elegant karakul cap which was part of the Jawan’s mufti in the good old days.

The long and the short of it is that the havildar was lying, there was no ‘General Sahib’ outside, and when he was told this he smirked: ‘Ghar peh baithay hain.’

The car was a green Mercedes Benz, 90-ish model, registration number RIZ 605. It is now up to the Adjutant General/Provost Marshal to find out whose car it was and take cognisance of the matter in the proper manner.

Bushism of the week: ‘As yesterday’s positive report card shows, childrens do learn when standards are high and results are measured.’ — President George W. Bush, New York, Sept 26, 2007

P.S. My friend Ati suggests the blurb about khush hali enunciated by Pervaiz Elahi in every ad henceforth be: ‘Har kadam khush hali ki janab – apni!’

kshafi1@yahoo.co.uk