Everything the Stranger Saw

When Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay finally managed to reach the top of the Mount Everest, they found a cow sitting there before them. Hillary couldn't believe his eyes and thought that maybe he was hallucinating after the gruelling climb. But, when the cow walked up to them and, after inspecting Hillary from head to toe, winked at Norgay who replied with a pat on its forehead, Hillary could not come to terms with this reality and almost choked on his "wtf" and could've literally been both the first man living and dead, on top of the Mount Everest. The cow stared at him for a while, then made a sarcastic face and uttered a mocking "moo". Norgay, who was classically trained in Cow, turned to Hillary and translated: "Sir, she's saying 'Suck on my udders, bitch!'"

Well, Hillary and Norgay might deny this encounter but I'm pretty sure it happened this way... Ok, ok! I wish!

Because everytime I've gone hiking or trekking along the northern regions of Pakistan, I have found them cows at the weirdest of heights. You know hiking is not easy for a fat, slouchy git like me and then, there are those slopes that you die climbing, sweating in your undies and all, and when you finally reach to the top, two things happen:

1. You see another even-more-steep incline straight ahead
2. You see cows.

Now, the first part can be forgiven because Mother Nature didn't create those steep mountains expecting overweight tourists to come one day, bouncing gleefully with their fancy cameras going tik tik tik everywhere, and exclaim "oh my gaawwwd, it's so bootyfulll" and then kill themselves while climbing the slopes that initially looked like a 'piece of cake' to their delusional selves. But what about the second part?

C.O.W.S.



It's like the omnipresent cows are there to rub it in for all of us out of shape, unhealthy, dairy-loving fatsos. They graze on the grass and then shit on it and they do it everywhere! It's a simple programming routine, really. Graze, shit, repeat.




Now, annoying as they might be, they are extremely useful for the domestic industry. Apart from the dairy products, the cow patties are burnt to power cooking stoves, so that's some indigenous energy production right there for you. No kidding. I might rant againt them but the cows don't give a shit (even though they do excrete copiously).

"Moo-yah!" they must look at us and say.

It's 3:17 am here... oh well, time doesn't matter! It's June the 10th and there is just one day left before the FIFA World Cup 2010 begins, maybe more, but I'm not in the mood for doing the maths right now. The fact that I had completely forgotten about it, is bothering me. I only remembered now because one of my seniors from university, who is a mad-cap football lover, has been piling up all those crazy fanboy status updates on his facebook recently and they have become so frantic now that they couldn't escape my notice. Reading his proclamations about his favourite team has made me kinda nostalgic about the team I've supported ever since the first world cup I remember watching and it has made me a little sad too, because I don't have a friggin' clue as to what has been going on with this particular team in the build-up to the tournament.


It started in the summer of '94. The World Cup was being played in the United States so we were getting late night transmission on national TV in Pakistan. Football was new to me at that time and in a nation still basking in the glory of the '92 cricket truimph, I watched these tiny creatures running frantically on the old grainy screen of the Russian television set with avid amazement. I have always had a sleeping problem and the World Cup was the best available cure for the lazy summer vacations of a seven year old.

Now, many would remember FIFA '94 as the end of Maradona's playing career



or the end of Escobar's living career





but I would, forever, remember it for the not so tall footballer with an athlete's body and a firm jaw who gave me both my first real joy and heartbreak of football. Oh, and who can forget the hairstyle!

For three matches, the fans prayed for him, urged him, begged him, made fists and fingers at him but he didn't budge. His tally of goals, a simple zero. A void as lifeless as a barren womb. But he remained stolid, not a frown could be seen on that wide forehead. He was supposed to be their shining star, their salvatore. The team scrapped their way through and they looked away from him, knowing full well that they'd require him in the most crucial of times but not knowing that the fate of the entire tournament rested on his rigid shoulders.

And then, when the Eagles had put them in to a corner and time was running short, he couldn't bear anymore. This was his moment and no one could take it away from him:



and:



The Divine Ponytail had arrived!

and from then on, there was no looking back.

Spain had no answer to his coolness



and Bulgaria, who had been surprisingly good uptil then, tried their best but in vain



But you see, it's not over till it's over! Twelve years before Zizou lost his head on another Italian's chest, one man had stood in the heat of the battle, his veins injected with painkillers, and looked at the goal. He had carried them that far. He took his run and



It was his tournament, and no one could have taken it away from him... except himself!

And at that moment, I realized that if you ever wanted to tell someone what true happiness was, you could just show them a footballer's reaction after he had scored a goal and if you ever wanted to show someone utter agony... well, just show them one who had missed a penalty.

Roberto Baggio stood alone on that ground, a mere human, his hamstring pain replaced by one far greater, the pain of defeat. He stood alone in that stadium of 90,000 as the samba boys danced all around him. For a long time, no one came to console him maybe because not even his team-mates could've felt the same agony as he was experiencing. Maybe there is no way to console someone who had just mis-kicked a World Cup away. I could taste the disappointment on the tip of my tongue right out of my television screen as Romerio and Bebeto cried with tears of joy. It was bitter and from that day on, I have always associated a miss as the natural outcome of a penalty kick to help me get rid of that bitterness.

I imagined myself in his place and in his shoes, my first thought was about committing suicide. Could one live with oneself after this? That was the response of a spectator. For players, it is extremely important that they consider defeat as a part and parcel of the game and Baggio returned to play some fine football. The curse of penalties continued for Italy, and it had to take true love's first head-butt to remove that, but not for Baggio. He even made a bloody commercial for Johnny Walker about it



That's my man!

I don't watch football too critically and my allegiance to football clubs and teams is purely emotional so I wouldn't harp about Italy's style of play, their defensive outlook and their tactical acumen. My support had already flown to Rome long before I could reason about football's strategies. Last year, while I was being interviewed by an HR official of a private firm for a job I had applied for, she asked me who my favourite football team was? and I said, "Italy."
"Because they won the World Cup?" She asked and I could only laugh and say, "No! because of Baggio."

There have been many impressive names in Italian football since then but I cannot discuss them at length here. The present team, however, seems quite lackluster on paper. Del Piero, Totti and Inzaghi are gone from the last Cup. So are Nesta and Materazzi. Cassano's been left out! I really don't like Iaquinta. He just can't score. Quagliarella must deliver. Slim chances of getting past the quarterfinals (the first round even) especially if they come to face Spain! So, let's see what happens as the Azzurri fight to defend their title.

Meanwhile, Five Rupees has done some great posts leading to the World Cup. Do check them out and I'll leave you with Shakira! Arrivederci!



PS: DO NOT IGNORE 2:38 !!!

It's on days like these that I feel ashamed at my being human, that I feel it's not worth living this life anymore.

I cannot say it better than it has been written here and here.

We are all murderers! We are all complicit in yesterday's events!

For people, who slept well last night and are of the opinion that those who are upset by this atrocity are wrong in being extra-sensitive about this issue, I'd say: "Come and see the blood on the streets"

Oh, and yesterday was also the day Pakistan went nuclear twelve years ago. Call it karma but days like these are never good for humanity!

I have decided to henceforth celebrate April 22 as "Catch-22 Day", for the rest of my life! I finished reading the book on April 22 and cannot think of a better celebration to bestow upon this day. Yes, even for the US, "Catch-22 Day" is better than Earth day!



What an amazing novel! Sometimes, as I struggled to breathe during the fits of laughter stimulated by the sharp witticism and intelligent satire of this fantastic book, I felt myself being oddly irreverent to the works of Douglas Adams, maybe because time and again, I was reminded of Adams by the sheer quality of this satire. But I don't think the two writers ought to be compared here. Anyway, Catch-22 stunned me with its sharp mid-air maneuvers, nose-diving from the peaks of the absurdly funny to the depths of dark tragic humour, leaving me in moments of utter despair, only to rise again like a crescendo of laughter. What amazing characters, and what amazing themes. From the anti-heroic, unashamed unpatriotism of Yossarian to the capitalism of Milo to the dilemmas faced by the Chaplain, Joseph Heller has covered the most unusual themes through brilliantly created characters (upon characters) with quirks both subtle and wild. From the inefficiency of the bureaucratic military officers to the questions of faith to the sanity of being insane and the crazy, absurd antics of each and every character conjuring up their own mayhem around the horrors of war, Catch-22 was a treat to read.

I'm going to check out the movie now, partly because I believe it's a really, really mean feat to film this non-linesr mammoth and partly because Alan Arkin playing Yossarian has to be awesome!

It has long been a dream of mine to travel and now that I'm writing about it, I feel amazed at the immense capacity of this six-letter word. From the back alleys of my city to the ruins twenty miles north-west of it to a highway snaking its way down the map, southward-bound, cities upon cities unfurling alongside, plains, deserts, all flowing down, towards the inevitably mysterious sea, all this can easily be encompassed in this tiny word: travel. And if you feel a bit dissatisfied by my claim, you're always welcome to add a little (s) at the end because it doesn't end there. Beyond the sea, another country, another world beckons! From a hike to a journey, from a trip to an adventure, the associations are numerous and their effects, often, indelible. Entire legends revolve around travel.


To me, travelling is about experiencing the hitherto unknown, understanding the history and diversity of the places you visit and confronting life with a sense of unbridled amazement. It is also about freeing oneself or perhaps getting lost, (accidentally or on purpose, one may argue!) like Ibn-e Insha wrote:

نگری نگری پھرا مسافر
گھر کا رستہ بھول گیا

Although if you're not interested in any of the above, it can be equally boring as well. Don't get my point? Imagine Daewoo on the motorway to Lahore! yaawwwwnn!



For the most part, I have lived in a small city that only upgraded from a 'town' while I was growing up here and is still looked down upon by those bullies among cities, those metropolitans. Had it not been for the planned serenity, beautiful even if dead and receptacle of political abominations, our beloved Federal Capital, my city would have just been another dusty stop for tourists on their way to one hill station or the other. So, maybe my wanderlust derives from living here, from the need to expand my horizons beyond what I could grasp from my rooftop.



I came upon this quote a good time back while watching a slideshow that boasted of winning some kind of award. It read,

"The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one's own country as a foreign land."

I didn't really understand it until one day I stumbled upon a part of the city that I had never been to before. The narrow streets, the oddly built houses exuding certain shabbiness reminiscent of impoverishment and strange looking shops oozing out of every corner were quite resemblant of the general scheme followed elsewhere in the city. To top it, the area was quite polluted which indicated that it was yet another neglected locality. But despite all its commonness the fact that really struck me was that just moments before it had not even existed for me and now here it was, in its entirety, and this was simply fascinating. I realized that this place wasn't alone. There were countless others like it that I had over looked and ignored as I went about the city. Perhaps they were unimportant, perhaps they still are but they made me understand the quote.

When I saw our country, I never really saw it with the eyes it deserves to be seen with (and I'm only talking about the geography, although it might be true for the sense of denial on our political scene as well). I didn’t see it with fascination and I feel there are many who don’t either and it's probably only natural to take it for granted. I don't really count it as a fault but to develop that fascination and curiosity towards our land is definitely a feat worth applauding.

Some would argue, however, that we have our fair share of local tourists flocking up to the northern areas, we all admire and know about our landscape, however little that might be, we all brim with an otherwise missing national pride when we read about the arts, crafts and culture of our country, when we marvel over our folk music. But all this has never compelled us, at least not me, to go visit these places. What compelled me were a sense of adventure and happiness that came with travelling and the stifling smallness of my city. Now, that’s exactly why the Northern areas are the prime location for tourists, and not Multan or Thatta with all their fascinating sights and sounds, because the scenery in the North just cannot be associated with anything bad in our minds unlike Multan’s heat or Thatta’s remoteness. The mountains are relaxing and beautiful, the weather makes you happy and all vacations spent up there become fond memories. Despite 'Destination Pakistan 2007' being an epic fail, the historical monuments all over Pakistan attract considerable attention each year but I have always seen the sense of discovery missing from the Pakistanis visiting these places. Besides, travelling for the love of travelling and vacation tourism, although under the same umbrella, are somewhat different in nature.

Travel is about experience and just as we humans tend to steer clear of bad memories similarly while imagining or dreaming, we associate only the ‘positively grand’ with our plans. That's exactly why when someone like me dreams of travelling, they picture exotic foreign locations in HD and not the dusty broken roads that lead to enchanting but forgotten villages and the strange wilderness in our own country, not even the smaller cities we have so often heard the names of but never bothered visiting because all we ever truly believed was "Jinnay lahore nai takya, o jammya nai" and lest we forget, Tariq Tafoo considered it thoughtful to remind us, as he walked down Trafalgar Square one sunny afternoon:




So only recently, I realized that I hadn't even completely discovered my city yet and since then, although I've retained the original reasons for my love for travel but the places I have been wanting to visit have grown more diverse and real.

These days, I take a different route to work each day and try and explore different parts of the city I didn't know before. Trying to look out for their peculiarities and uniqueness, something that would let them stand apart; as distinct as the well known commercial centres, if not as famous. I'd like to really document them one day, pretty soon I hope, but all that for another post.


*Rawalpindi's aerial shot courtesy of Saad Asad Cheema

If you are in Pakistan and alive, hope you survive the bomb blasts this year too!