Karachi, Kamal Hassan and Kheema

We had guests for dinner on Sunday and among them was a couple from Karachi and their cherubic 2 year-old.

I am usually chilled as I’ve creased out the dinner-for-dummies schedule. This time I went into doubt.”Is it appropriate to bring out a bottle of wine? Should I replace it with lemonades and sodas? Push the South-Indian vegetarian menu, I cheat at, off the table? Order in a biriyani? Do I tog out in a sari? Remove the chubby Krishna Mysores off the wall-too Hindu, willy-showing and all? Say something, no”, I clucked. 

“Let me get him Dalrymple’s book as a gift”, Mister said, ever-at-ease, ignoring my squawking.

Mir, (for convenience sake), sported a salt and pepper beard. His handsome visage indicated his Pathan ancestry, a terrific nose, chiselled mouth and piercing Afghani eyes and a friendly demeanour. He pressed a huge bouquet of flowers into my hand and downed his single malt with practised ease. His Begum looked very much a Delhi Muhajir and was in a Fab India ensemble, sleek Dolce and Gabbana spectacles, sported a chic bob and preferred a, “Vodka with Coke, please”.  

At our feet, sat their junior, saying “Whirrrr” to an assortment of toy cars and the Begum,  in a Mother Hen fashion, periodically shoved in a spoonful of pulav and dal into his mouth.

My run-in with the old-enemy-country folk, in the past, had been freezingly polite.

The first brush had been more than a decade ago in Germany, with a Pakistani working out of Berlin, who was part of our professional contingent. He was polished, spoke flawless German, and some Hindi. We did hang out one afternoon at the Zeughaus, the German Historical Museum, when we were at a loose-end from work. He showed me around the place, marking out the sights and answering my questions patiently.I had found him friendly, well-mannered and courteous, but equally wary and distant. We didn’t exchange numbers while saying our goodbyes.   

A couple of years later, we were at a conference in London and the conglomeration was graced by a nephew of a Pakistani premier. He refused to look at us group of Indians  and his colleague, a lady lawyer from Islamabad, condescended to share the sub-continental table with us. Her only comment during the luncheon session was how, “We ladies would never dress your way or drink this way”, jutting her chin at our trousers and jackets and skirts. We had choked silently into our glasses, unsure of retorting, while B had shot back:”Yeah, who wants to wear a sari in this blighted cold”. 

In retrospect, those were pre-bus rides times; when cricket matches were gladiatorial, and neither country had the smugness of acquired nukes or made efforts to ease the pressure at the leadership and commoner levels. Raw, unsure and impatient, we held on to our collective native prides and kept a frosty distance away from each other for the rest of the conference. The only thing that helped keep my prejudice down was a chance run-in with the half-Pakistani writer Hanif Kureshi.But then, bowled over by his works as I was, I considered him more a cosmopolitan Londoner of the 1990s than a true-blue Pakistani writer.

Mir Jr toddled up and hopped trying to scale the walls.”He wants to touch the glittering work”, Mir laughed, pointing to the portly cherub Krishna holding aloft a butter ball. “Egg”, lisped Mir Jr and we laughed. “The Sri Krishna is beautiful”, the Begum complimented. My bleeding heart bled further.

They ran us through their itinerary. Visiting family in UP, (”Our family homes on either side of the border are preserved”), and meeting with friends, and more friends. Assorted chachas, chachis, nanis and dadis lived on either side and have been lost to each other. Young ones, who managed to procure visas, like them, come by at odd intervals. Partition?”A needless division of families”.

What were they doing on the night of Benazir’s death?

“He was hard at work; and she kept vigil at home over family, bolting doors as there was mayhem oustide. Despite her many faults, she consistently resisted the military establishment and was a thin hope for some semblance of a democractic set up”, Mir said, adding, “Unlike you, we have not had a functional democracy for ages”.

What is the night life in Pakistan like?

“Swinging”, grinned Mir, and proceeded to give us details of the many mujras of their high streets that made our Bombay dance bars look tame. 

They tucked into the kheema curry and kuler achar and rotis with relish and asked, “Did you cook all this?”

“No, I didn’t”, I replied.

“She’s  a vegetarian”, A, our friend, supplied with a chuckle, “She’s from south where they are strict about it”. 

Will they catch up with Bollywood while here? A Jodha Akbar perhaps?

“Nah, I want to watch Om Shanti Om, I adore Shah Rukhji“, the Begum said, turning dreamy-eyed.

“And which part of the south are you from?”  Mir enquired.

“Madras”.

“Do you make movies there, like Bollywood?”

“We sure do. Some of them have acted in Bollywood too”. I hummed the Sadma song ,’Ei zindagi gale laga le’.

“Oh, I think I know that one. The heroine is cuckoo in it. And this same hero sang an English song with a heroine in a lift in a strange accent…” (thanks SPB) “and later fell off a cliff into the sea with his girlfriend because they were star-crossed lovers”.

She hummed back, ‘teri mere beech mei’.

“That’s Ek Duje ke Liye and he’s our top star, Kamalahasan,” I never sounded prouder.

“Hasan? From our mulk?” Oops, no, but ever listen to A. R.Rahman?

We closed the night with the Begum doing a fantastic impersonation of Musharaff strutting his stuff; A took off on Pranab Mukherjee’s  Bonglish; R on Laloo’s itchy and scratchy one-liners, and yours truly did a J.Jayalalithaa.