I never lived in Pakistan, but I lived close enough. Dubai, at least in the 80s, was hardly occidental in its influences, although it wasn’t Pakistani either. I think the Pakistanis living in Dubai in the 80s feared their children would succumb to an Indian influence, rather than a western one. Us Dubai kids weren’t like the Amreekans. We didn’t really speak in accents, we weren’t exposed to public displays of affection, a free sex society, bikini-clad chicks on the beach or really anything that we see as “vices of the white man”. We were the retarded middle-children lost in a desert expanse of Bedouins, shawarmas, Arabic subtitles, blacked-out cleavages in magazines, mosques with deafening loudspeakers, Young Times and yet everything seemed to have a certain Indian touch to it. And this isn’t an accusation. The very numbers that these people were in relation to the rest of the population dictated this. My father, like many other Pakistani fathers, although not opposed to Indians on the whole, feared a swarming in of Indianism into his son’s persona.
In an effort to infuse patriotism as well as a general love for Pakistani values into my veins, my father set out to toss in the word Pakistan wherever he could. Whether it was his incessant cheapness, his love for his country or his basic belief that Pakistan really was best at everything, I do not know, but thanks to him, I spent a large part of my life believing that Pakistan did make the best products in the world. Leather products – belts, wallets, shoes, jackets – were apparently ALL made in Pakistan. To lessen the generation gap even further, he went on to claim that the jacket Michael Jackson had worn in the Thriller video was made in Pakistan. Rice – fuck the world and its paddy fields, because all the best rice is grown in Pakistan. Sports gear, books, linen, cotton, wool, mangoes, cricketers (and this is before 1992), all the way to the best airline in the world – all Pakistani. Now, I’m not saying none of these Pakistani products are good, because they are. But to say that they are the best in the world can arouse a challenge of intellect, and has to be supported with evidence. To my young, innocent mind, though, it settled in without question and stayed for a long time. This was my childhood, and he was molding me into something that would be exactly like him.
And that’s how I turned out. Whether I believed in the Pakistani product or not, I chose it over any other. By mere geography and nothing else, the top contender for competition would be the Indian product. And I naturally overlooked it in preference of the Pakistani one. I chose Pakistani meat over Indian meat. Pakistani pickle over Indian pickle. Pakistani textile over Indian textile. Shopping at a Pakistani store to an Indian store. I’m not racist, nor am I anti-Indian. My wife is from Mumbai. But as far as anything tangible that I could purchase is concerned, I chose my country. And it wasn’t just an irrational patriotic preference. I figured that I would rather have my money go make profits in my country.
And right when I was deep in the midst of exploring my Pakistani-ness, something happened.
On a trip to the local supermarket with my dad, as I was about to ask the butcher to chop up the usual 2 kilos of Pakistani mutton, I was stopped. My dad looked at the butcher, and said “Indian mutton, please”. I looked at him, more out of concern than anything else. He understood, pointed at both shanks of meat simultaneously, and asked “Which one looks better, at first glance?”
I had to admit it. The Indian mutton did look better. But it was Indian, I thought, not Pakistani. What had happened to my father? A few other things sprang to mind, suddenly, like flashes, as I scanned him. His shoes, for starters, weren’t EBH. More flashes. He’d bought a lot of stuff in Dubai, lately, to take back to Pakistan. Stuff you could get in Pakistan pretty easily anyway. He had bought a kurta in Dubai. He lives in Pakistan and visits here a couple of times a year. Yet, he bought a KURTA in DUBAI! From Roop Milan. Indian store. My father, my hero, had changed sides!
For a man in his mid-sixties change does not come easy. Yet, he had changed. He was not rejecting the Pakistani good. Well, not really. All he was doing was choosing quality over patriotism. Years of working the other way had brought him nothing. A proud Pakistani, he still is. But an irrational consumer, he isn’t. Born in India, and brought to Pakistan at age three, my father is a first generation Pakistani. He was alive when Pakistan was made, and he came to Pakistan. True, he probably had no choice, but he did cover the journey, along with the rest of his family. But in spite of that, his natural preference now was not necessarily Pakistani.
It is a sad truth. The extreme, almost comical level of patriotism that once existed in this man has waned over the years. Perhaps these years have made him realize that his dream of Pakistan, is not Pakistan’s dream any more. I can not point a finger at him. He’s lived more than his fair share of patriotism. From investments, to property, to insurance, to any product he could find, he chose Pakistan first. But no more. And where does that leave us. Especially the ones enjoying life out here. Our patriotism was infused by our parents, and not out of a love for the land. Because we didn’t live in the land. We lived here. Another place where patriotism brings you nothing. Because this isn’t ours either. My cousins in the US are better off. They love at least one, if not both lands, to death. And me, personally. I have nothing but a strange desire to stock my shelves up with Ahmed Achar, and Mehran Rice and to wear only Servis shoes during sport activities, that too Cheetah, because Afridi features in the ad. And I have nothing else. Short, infrequent visits to Pakistan to meet my uncles and aunties does not make me a Pakistani. Not a patriotic one, at least.
A truly sad middle-child indeed.
