Kabul Diaries-IV

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Kabul Diaries-III

With a little assistance from Ambassador Jayanta Prasad, I get a mail from Karzai’s office that the president is not giving any interviews till the results. However, as proof of his friendship for India, the President promises he would speak first to Times Now. That’s flattering, but we won’t be there till results. Now my next target is Tajik leader Dr Abdullah Abdullah, the contestant second in-reckoning for the job. The India educated Abdullah is running strong, though suspected to be American backed. The plan seems to be to keep Karzai on tenterhooks, if not to outright defeat him. After all what would be the Great Game if everyone played straight. (It comes true with Abdullah withdrawing from the race in the second face-off).

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Ashraf takes us to Abdullah’s election office. We are asked to follow a car. It takes us to a dense old city residential neighbourhood, and then we are asked to follow another one. At any other place this security drill would have been so out of place, but not when it’s Kabul. Finally, we stop at the entrance of an alley that looks like a cul-de-sac. We are at an Iron Gate and Ali, Abdullah’s assistant, guides us in. In yet another proof of friendship, Indians are not frisked. Abdullah, who has studied in Delhi, greets us in the lawn surrounded by a courtyard that connects to the building. The drawing room is small but tastefully done, even posh, with Afghan paintings and décor. Of course Abdullah himself is sophistication personified. What he says can be heard here.

***

The voting day arrives. I am at a polling booth inside Tajavur Sultan High School in one of the suburbs. Our car is checked three times – almost at every other turn – by Afghan police. Scene inside the booth just like any in India. A live is arranged and a Jordanian team is handling the logistics. In the midst of the five minute narration on air, I hear a loud boom at some distance followed by rat-tat-tat of gunfire and smoke. I call up J P Singh, the friendly first secretary at Indian embassy, to inquire if it was a case of bombing on election day. He is yet to receive intelligence, but says it’s likely.

***

The onion pakodas at Singh’s residence made by Hazara maids are as heavenly as the ones I have eaten at the ghats of Saryu in Ayodhya. But I get a much bigger catch here. The deputy chief of Afghan intelligence, Abdullah Laghmani is invited by Singh for a private meet. He obliges with a bite that Pakistan is interfering in Afghan internal affairs. My day - in fact - the whole trip is made with this news flash. Laghmani is killed in a suicide bombing just a month later in his home province of Laghman, the assassination attributed to the Pakistan backed Haqqani network.

***

On the last day there is no work. I ask Ashraf to take me around town. The rich neighbourhood of drug lords is for all to see. Each house is a fortress with all imaginable luxuries inside. In one such we go in. There are five SUVs, a pool, and most luxurious fittings. On a hill on the outskirts is a sun-set point. I go there. An Afghan cop is playing flute. Guess what, its O’ Mere Dil Ke Chain! See some kids flying kites. Try one. I become the Kite Runner of Kabul. A bunch of kids plays on top of a Taliban relic, a tank left behind on the vantage when the allied forces drove in.

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Kabul Diaries-II

I take pictures of the street corner where Najibullah, left by the Soviets as totem ruler of Kabul was hanged by the Taliban along with his five other generals. He was an Indian ally. The Americans own this country now. Young brash GIs drive the Humvees on Kabul streets with a swagger as if they are the rulers of the land and not on some assignment. These are clearly occupation forces. When their bunker cars move, most Afghans prefer to take their vehicles off the road. Ashraf explains that this is for their own safety, as American assets are targets of Taliban suicide bombings.

***

In the slow traffic I hear the next car blaring Dhan-te-nan on the newly minted FM radio Kabul. Ashraf’s car too has FM. The RJ speaks in Darri and a song goes … door door… I tell Ashraf the song is about longing of a lover for his beloved. Ashraf smirks in approval as I boast that I understand Darri. It’s actually the mix of Persian that’s a give away. As we park, the car that zips past us is playing dhan-te-nan. The number is topping all the charts here it seems.

***

Afghans are playing cricket! Am told that they would be having their own team by the next T-20 world cup. Men woefully outnumber women on the streets, obviously. But at the main bazar I bump into a jeans clad tom-boyish woman, a Karzai enthusiast who is even ready to speak before camera. Makes my day. Also the fact that this presidential election has two women candidates - Shahla Atta and Farzan Fana - in the ring. Daring. Welcome.

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Outside the Serena hotel I spot one man carrying a football in a bag. Good signs in an otherwise bleak scene overall. It would rate as a big achievement given that all sport was banned under Taliban. Things are claerly changing. First FM radio, then cricket, and now football. If nothing else, perhaps these could wean the next generation of Afghans away from the Gun. But it's too much of optimism I guess. Ashraf has been a London cabby for seven years, and might vote for Karzai too, but fondly remembers the Taliban days of hangings and floggings as being low on crime!

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Yet, saying that options of public entertainment are limited would be an understatement. The lone cinema hall in Kabul is playing some 1990's Hindi flick I can't even identify. Ashraf intervenes to say its better at their homes with cable tv post-Taliban. The K-serials are a hit, as are Sachin Tendulkar and Shah Rukh Khan. Obviously.




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The manager at Hotel Kabul Gold Star is from Kerala. Its interesting how little extra money makes him justify his dangerous existence in this war zone. The owner is a rich Afghan who himself lives in Dubai. Lenesh himself has worked all across Middle East in hospitality industry for over a decade now and intends to be back in God’s Own Country forever once his kids’ education is over and all expenses taken care off. I go for breakfast. As I collect my omlette, behind the counter the two male waiters kiss. Wallah, ye tum kya karti? It’s very casual. As the scene continues I act as if it’s not being noticed. The two vamooze into the kitchen. Now the counter is empty for me to choose all that I can from the spread.

Kabul Diaries-I

Arrive to a surprisingly cool Delhi morning for August. Straight to office and the morning edit meet. Afghanistan President election is not a TRP story. We just have to show our ground presence. Get Karzai is the only brief. Head to the Afghan Embassy for visa. Ambassador Raheen is gracious. Talks of great common heritage between Afghanistan and India. Qutub Minar is a copy of an Afghan original. The passport is stamped. On Shantipath. It was Nehru’s original of Gujral doctrine to give the most precious real estate next to Rashtrapati Bhavan to neighbours including Afghanistan and Bhutan for their embassies. Of course United States, UK, Germany, and France too get their chunks.

***

Air India to Kabul. Half the flight seems to be full of RAW types, including a woman marshal. If only she was little more discreet. Kabul airport – almost a military hardware shop with an air strip running in between. Received by Ashraf, the cab guy and our anchor during the stay. Streets look busy. Has the feel of Lucknow or Old Delhi. Straight to Roshan for mobile services. The girl at the counter speaks fluent Hindi through her Hijab. We buy the SIMs. But my mobile does not work. Ashraf takes to a shop, dingy, inside a dark lane. The man in Tablighi pyjamas does some wire transfers, connects my phone to a 486 machine. Ten minutes later it’s done. To the Afghan Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The scene undergoes a cultural transformation. Suits and ties are en-vogue, girls are professionally dressed, and the staff speaks English. All of them in chunks of 50 are being trained by the Ministry of Personnel in Delhi.

***

The phone gets activated. Desk starts calling. Lesson: whichever country you are in, desk remains same. They want this and they want that. They already know what’s happening courtesy wires APTN and Reuters. There’s a suicide bombing on Jalalabad Road. I give my first international phono as I rush to the spot. In the evening there’s a live in Newshour. It remains very basic on the mood ahead of the presidential poll.

***

The city is under siege. The Afghan police and army are still outnumbered by foreign forces even at street corners. It is a standing joke that Karzai is more a Mayor of Kabul than President of Afghanistan. Taliban are in the ascendant and there is already talk in NATO of strategically engaging the moderate Taliban at 20 US dollars a day. Karzai is not playing along as of now but seems to have little choice. Technically 90 per cent of Afghanistan still does not have central government’s writ. On the day of our arrival, the presidential retreat is hit by a rocket. So one can imagine what is safe.

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What's In A Dog's Name?

I have a friend. He is a Bapu. And though a Bapu, he is a gentleman. He comes from a village and is passionate about this fact of his life. Recently, he has built a new house on his village farm and aptly calls it a farm-house. Now a farm house on the outskirts of a village in the tribal outback needs protection. Bapu is also modern. So his search to secure his farm-house began with Google and ended with a Doberman guard dog.

Though Bapu lives a very rooted, simple life, keeping a pet is a very English practice - even highbrow - it seems. So the new member of the household has been named Archer. Bapu speaks to Archer in what else but English even as he does not forget to lapse into Gujarati when he talks to yours truly. So if Archer is to be stopped from rummaging through dirt while on a walk, he is scolded a big NO. When he is given food, he is commanded to “eat”. Once a villager spotted Bapu rushing through his walk only to realize it was Archer’s pull and not Bapu’s will! Archer just needs to learn to “wait” while on leash. In pre-Archer times, Bapu would go out for morning and evening walks. At times he would carry binoculars along for birding through the leisurely strolls. Now they are not his walks. They are Archer’s.

I am left wondering. Would Archer not obey if he is told to eat or walk in Hindi or Gujarati? Should our Bapu put Achtung outside his gates instead of Beware, the German gene that Archer is. Perhaps keeping a pet dog is a colonial legacy. Or so we think. Otherwise, why is it that we give the most English names to our pets? Guess it’s our way of avenging the “Indians and dogs not allowed” condescension of the Brit times. No wonder most pet dogs are called Tommies – a generic for a British foot soldier – or Jacky and Boxer, never Jaggu or Babloo.

Or perhaps not. Hindi litterateur Rahul Sankratayan had a dog named Bhootnath, and would speak to him in conversational Hindi. A bureaucrat friend of mine confabulates with his many pets in Gujarati and they all listen. The black one is even called Kalu to keep it straight and simple. Nawab Mahabat Khan III of Junagadh easily gave Indian Muslim names to his dogs that included in its list a Roshanara, an Umrao, and a Salim. He even arranged the wedding of Umrao with the pooch of Nawab of Mangrol. The pageantry that accompanied the occasion is an urban legend in Junagadh to this day.

The whole point is why should we think of a pet dog as an English import? Here is a disclosure. I briefly had a dog named Moti. There is an invitation from Bapu to visit his village in post-Archer times. Well, if Bapu is reading this, my only concern would be to do that before he has taught him ‘Archer, Jump!’

When Conches Fell Silent

The ideological founder of Pakistan, Allama Iqbal, traced his ancestry to the Brahmins of Kashmir. As he envisaged only North-western India as part of Pakistan, another Kashmiri Pandit delivered it exact same by sundering the eastern half into Bangladesh in 1971. That was P N Haksar, Indira Gandhi’s backroom boy. Of course, goes without saying Gandhi too had Kashmiri Pandit lineage, as does the present Chief Minister of Jammu and Kashmir Omar Abdullah. Just shows how intensely intertwined the Kashmiri Pandits and Kashmiri, indeed South Asian politics are, or have been.

Yet, Our Moon Has Blood Clots by Rahul Pandita remains intensely personal. Though the lightness with which Pandita wears his emotions in no measure lightens the travails of a community reduced to being refugees in their own land.

To a generation fed on the association of Srinagar with Hazratbal and Charar-e-Sharif, Rubia and Mirwaiz, the author introduces the Srinagar of Kshir Bhawani and Shankaracharya, Durgashaptapati and Rishis, Shaivism and the week long Shivratri festival. The Brahmin lineage of Kashmir, only a figment now – a brutalized one at that – is established by the author without a trace of malice or revivalism.

The author shows subtlety and fortitude in bringing out the tormenting internal conflict. From the difficulties of first day under Jammu heat barely 300 kms from the valley, to the charade of refugee rations, to the darkness of tracking obituaries daily, Pandita manages to bring out the Pandit’s struggle to keep body and soul together, without schmaltz.

The exodus of Kashmiri Pandits might have happened in 1990, but the build up had begun much earlier. It is this story of Kashmir that Pandita focuses on. Of how while growing up, his cricket team was called India and that of his friend Tariq, Pakistan. Of how as early as 1983, shouts of Pakistan Zindabad rented the stands during an India-West Indies match in Srinagar. Of how, for a Yasin Malik slapped by a Hindu teacher for writing Azadi on the classroom wall, there was a Rehman defiling the image of Saraswati. Of how, much before the Army rapes began, the Pandit was being lampooned – see a pandit, ride a pandit – and shot. Of how, much before grievances over encounters, not a single person got convicted in the hundreds of cases of Pandit killings. Of how, the whole brutalization process has only been matched by bureaucratic ingenuity of governments that have done everything to add to the woes, short of disowning the community.

It is remarkable how the author has compartmentalized the personal. While on a professional assignment, Pandita visits the Kshir Bhawani temple but calls the pilgrimage Mecca. It must take courage to see the present day Kashmir through the eyes of a Muslim cab driver after having suffered what the author did. Just once Pandita’s emotions betray him – when he visits his home, and finds onions on the shelf where once stood his books. He seethes, he fumes, and the diligently worn mask of detachment unravels a little. That’s when the idea that the exile could be permanent hits home. That’s when Wandhama, Sangrampora, and Nandimarg start to get loaded with meaning that is political.

Yet the composure returns as swiftly. The author brings in the fact of a Namazi doctor once saving his mother, or friend-turned-militant Latif Lone doing it earlier. Strangely, Pandita even slips in a paragraph on Gujarat’s Gulberga society and Ehsan Jafri. What is the connection of Gujarat with Kashmir? One is left wondering whether even the memoir is written under some kind of editorial compulsion.

What happened in Kashmir was a meticulously planned ethnic cleansing. Our Moon Has Blood Clots cuts through the secular myth that commoners had no role in the act. But in his fortitude, Pandita does not use the word even once. He uses the word ghetto for the first and last time on the second last page only. He ends the narrative with a letter to his brother Ravi’s friend Irshad who is now a college teacher in Srinagar. Telling him he shall return permanently sometime, and asks him to call if in receipt of the letter. Did Irshad call back? I would wager he did not. Which means Pandita’s – and the Pandit’s – wish to return might remain just a wish. Forever perhaps. For, that’s where the politics begins.