Puppu Darling Of 3 Temple Road (Part 2)

What you read in part-1 of this story was only half of what Puppu did. He did much more, as we shall soon see. Before proceeding further, some amazing facts require mentioning about Temple Road where our house has stood since the 1930s.

An historic road

Temple Road was named thus to honour a Sikh Gurdwara built in the memory of the sixth Guru, Har Gobind (1595-1644), whose reign, known as the ‘Gurdwara Chhati Badshahi’ (the sixth reign), lasted for thirty-seven years.

When Emperor Jahangir (1569-1627) arrested Guru Har Gobind’s father, Guru Arjan, Mian Mir—the Sufi friend of the Guru—lobbied for a royal pardon, whereas ultra-orthodox Shaikh Ahmad Sirhindi cheered at the execution of ‘infidel Arjan’. In the years to come, the son would fight four wars against the ‘oppressive tyrannical foreign rule of the Mughals’.

Until recently, the above facts remained unknown to me, and when I complained to my mother for keeping mum, she replied in an exceedingly relaxed tone, “Haw-hai. You never asked me!”

There is no denying, we Pakistanis take great pride in memorising exaggerated romanticised tales about invading foreigner Muslim Generals yet suffer from collective amnesia at the mention of indigenous heroes of resistance who belonged to other faiths.

This is Radio Pakistan

Mr Chaudhry Bashir Ahmed and family lived two flats away from us in number four. The gent worked for Radio Pakistan, popularly known as raydway station. I feared one day Mr Bashir would place a skinny hand over my shoulder and soberly announce: This is Radio Pakistan. The sad news read by Bashir Ahmed.

Mr Bashir had just stepped out for some fresh air that day when Puppu took to imitating Radio Pakistan’s famous newscaster, Shakeel Ahmed, whose legendary news bulletin, broadcast during the Indo-Pakistani War of 1965, went thus:

“Abhi abhi khabar aee hay keh Pak Fizaya kay bambaar tayyaron nay Halwara kay hawai-adday par hamla kar kay dushman kay bohat say jahaaz tabah kar diaye…”

(The news just received: Pakistan Air Force’s bomber aircraft attacked Halwara airfield and destroyed many airplanes of the enemy…”)

To hear what Shakeel Ahmed sounded like, click HERE.

I cannot say with certainty if it was Puppu's loud public singing or this particular prank which made Mr. Bashir ignore his natural vocal talent by never arranging for an audition at Radio Pakistan.

Mr Bashir’s three sons never associated with the ‘riff raff’—in plain words: all the boys of our lane 3. One of his sons, Farrukh Bashir, was known as Chutki (finger snap). He received seven-years of sitar lessons from Ustad Sharif Khan Poonchwaley and eventually became a producer at Pakistan Television Corporation.

Several decades later on 11 March 2008, terrorists launched a massive suicide attack on the Federal Investigation Agency’s office located on Temple Road. Mr. Bashir was at home when the deadly shock-wave caused a door-frame to fall over him; within weeks the head injury brought his life’s bulletin to a sad end.

Where art thou, Ejaz?

There lived a few docile boys on lane 3 but one named Ejaz took the proverbial cake. His drill-sergeant daddy suspected the precious boy habitually escaped to the jungle outside, and to check on the whereabouts, he frequently yelled, “Ejaaaaz!”

No matter what the location, the dutiful son immediately responded with an equally loud and reassuring, “Aaya jeeee!” (coming).

Puppu soon began to take special delight in copying the two hollers. Whenever Ejaz walked by, Puppu called, “Ejaz!”, and the omnipresent boy-chorus of lane 3 responded, “Aaya jee!”.

Giggles naturally followed but Ejaz never reacted to what was life’s observable fact.

Many years later I found Ejaz in Jeddah working as a ground staff member for the Saudi Arabian Airlines. Whenever we met, he tried to convince me with a vice-like handshake that yesterday’s pussycat was a macho-man.

Ramzani drummers and postmen

Although Muslims generally relied on mechanical alarm clocks to wake up early for fasting during the month of fasting (Ramadan), drum-beaters made the scene more musical for the faithful.

Puppu could not outdo the drummers because they arrived at a time when both man and beast enjoyed deep sleep. We never found out if Puppu got up to please The Almighty with fasting or preferred chasing after pretty film heroines in dreamland.

Each drummer marked an area in whose streets he played a large drum (dhol), and repeatedly paused to give loud pious calls: “Roza-daaro, utho, roza rakho” (O, those who will fast, wake up for fasting).

Fasting entitled believers to religiously exceed their bellies' natural capacity by speedily consuming oily parathas dipped in gravy dishes. The activity abruptly ended when a nearby mosque's mullah announced from a loudspeaker: “Khaana peena band kar dein. Namaz ka waqt ho gaya haaaay!” (Stop eating and drinking. It’s time now for prayers).

Soon afterwards, a deafening call for congregational prayers woke up the very young from deep slumber. My mother thought the sound level was ‘enough to wake up the dead in the nearby Miani Sahib graveyard’.

Shell-shocked by the call, children woke up to enquire from sehri-fatigued mothers, “Bhaoo aya?” (Has a djinn arrived?).

They were told, “Nahin! Allah Mian kehtay hein so jao!” (No! God says, go to sleep).

The festive Eid day arrived at the end of Ramadan to thank God for liberating starved stomachs. After the morning Eid prayers, the first to appear in the neighbourhood would be the drummers. Looking fresh and attired in brand new clothes, they collected cash gifts (Eidy) from those whom they had dutifully roused for thirty consecutive early mornings.

A few days before Eid, the postmen astutely indulged in postal blackmail by not delivering letters. On Eid day they arrived wearing patent khaki uniforms and upon receiving cash Eidy, respectfully handed over a letter or an Eid-card as if it had dropped from heaven that very moment.

 
The transgender dancers

Puppu was an advanced amateur singer who laughed off all competition except the professional dancing transvestites known as khusraas, heejraas, and Khawaja-saras. They magically appeared at people’s doorsteps in small groups to dance and sing on festive occasions, such as, the birth of a child—especially that of a son.

Boys who dared to insult faced vile curses which oozed from a khusra's mouth. Hearing swear words sometimes sounded better than music. The lads eventually discovered that the ‘Ph.D,’ label assigned to them by the oppressed was not the abbreviated form of 'doctors of philosophy' but rather pakkay haraam day (Punjabi for: positively born out of wedlock).

To provide musical accompaniment, the two-piece band of the eunuch khusraas used a battered harmonium and a punch-packed dholak. They clapped more boldly than qawwali-singers, danced more wildly than mad dervishes, stomped the feet harder than soldiers to activate the musical brass anklets (ghungroo), and sang popular songs at a volume which silenced the ‘hello, testing, 1-2-3-4’ of the nearby Hall Road’s loudspeaker vendors.

Living in a ‘trans’ world

At 6 p.m., a giant called black-and-white television woke up to hypnotise the colourful population. Before regular transmission commenced, viewers were free to stare at the static insignia of the station to find meanings where there were none, and listen to a short non-raga melody which droned in the background for several minutes.

Much like a book read from cover to cover, viewers stared at the television from 6 p.m. until the ‘brain programming’ ended at 10 p.m. when the Pakistani flag fluttered on the screen to the tune of the national anthem. Pondering over its incomprehensible Persian lyrics worked better than a sleeping pill.

Unbelievable as it may seem now, there was no television on Mondays but we had live transgender-vision that featured khusras in flashy makeup.

During short performances the onlookers showered the dancers with bank notes which they efficiently stuffed inside pairs of pointed chest-mounted money-bags.

Compared with adult eyesight, children always see things differently. Precocious boys noticed that the members of the third gender frequently adjusted something under their dupattas; that something was liberally-padded fake femininity inside pointed brassieres that were fashionable during the 1960s. Since today’s fashionistas are—ooh la-la—so concerned about global-warming, terrorism, and pandemics, this pointed fashion stands no chance of returning.

Those were my wonder years. A naughty aunty described a brassiere thus: “Beta, these pointed fabric bowls are sown together; one is for salan (gravy) and the other for roti (bread).

Such sensitive information increased my appetite and put me off regular dinner plates until the truth behind the undergarment lay itself utterly bare.

The bored housewives of our lane always carved out time for khusra-shows. My mother still fondly recalls, “Oh, how joyously the khusraas danced at your birth! Even several years after that event, the same dancers continued to appear at our doorstep to bless you!”

Today I feel positively blessed by not only both the sexes but also the one that lies in between, and which appears to be benefiting from global mainstreaming efforts.

Mrs Davey takes a direct hit

In 1969, the movie, ‘Nai Laila, Naya Majnoon’, was showing at the Plaza cinema hall across the Charing Cross police station on Queen’s Road. The heroine was Nasima Khan from Dhaka—then East Pakistan, now Bangladesh. The comic hero was Syed Kamal—perceived as ‘Pakistan’s 'Raj Kapoor’.

For this film, a Pakistani composer efficiently copied Muhammad Rafi’s song ‘O Hasina Zulfon Wali Jane-e-Jahan’ (Teesri Manzil, 1966) and turned it into a duet: ‘O Meri Mehbooba’. Puppu meticulously copied the parts of Ahmed Rushdi and Mala Begum, and sang for our listening pleasure.

One beautiful Sunday morning Puppu sneaked out on uncle Ajji’s 1961 model Vespa 150 (VBA). This Italian 150 cc scooter was immensely popular in those days because its front design guarded the legs, a flat area between the rider and the handlebar accommodated a child in standing position, a small compartment stored personal items, and a spare tyre on some models graced the rear of the passenger seat.

I was then in class-IV. On a fateful day my teacher, Mrs Davey, affectionately known as ‘moti mem’ (fat lady), was seen returning after having attended the Sunday service at the grand church of St. Anthony's High School on Lawrence Road.

From a distance, I heard Puppu singing ‘Tu Hay Laila Nai, Main Hoon Majnoon Naya’, a hit from ‘Nai Laila, Naya Majnoon’. As he passed by, the head moving from side to side, he changed the vocal radio station to the duet ‘O Meri Mehbooba’.

The translation of the male singer’s part:

O my beloved!
Tell me, what has happened?
From garden to garden, like a butterfly
Where do you fly off to?

The translation of the female singer’s part:

What shall I tell you has happened?
My heart is lost
Is it you?
Who has stolen my heart?

It was too late to warn Puppu. Oblivious of pedestrian traffic, he crashed into Mrs Davey’s hindquarters. The lady, built like a Sherman tank, did not fall but Puppu and the scooter did.

The singing suddenly stopped. The Vespa’s accelerator revved up as Puppu tried to maintain a grip over it. The engine produced a wheeeeeooonn sound and fainted after several mechanical hiccups. The rider lay flat on the back in the dust of the unpaved road of our locality (mohalla), and the dark sunglasses rested diagonally across over a face that had the potential to launch a few civil Vespas if not a thousand non-existent ships of Pakistan Navy.

Mrs Davey understood all the Urdu that had until then oozed out of Puppu’s very Punjabi mouth. She was nobody’s imaginary beloved (mehbooba) but there was reason to believe she imagined herself a butterfly (titli).

Red in the face and foaming liberally at the mouth, she shouted, “You loafer chokra-loge, don’t you bloomin’ see where the hell you’re goin’?”

Chokra is colloquial for boy, and loge for folks. Such words coming out of an Anglo-Indian mouth took on a derogatory meaning. Nobody called a decent boy from a good family chokra.

Puppu apologised profusely. The 45-rpm record (tawa) of his tongue got stuck, “Auntie! Aa…aa…auntie…aa…aa…auntieeee!”

“Shut up! Idiot!” she thundered like the heroine in the song that Puppu was singing a while ago.

With the sunglasses now hanging from one ear, Puppu got up to dust his clothes and then, perhaps out of sheer innocence, did the same to Mrs Davey’s rear end.

“Bugger off, you rascal! Don’t you bloody do that!” she screamed.

Clayton, Mrs Davey’s eldest and wildest son, having heard the clamour rushed to rescue mummy in distress; he sounded like another stuck record, “Mummy…mum…mum…mummeeee!”

The aunteeee-mumeeee duel ended in a quick draw after Clayton took pity on Puppu’s apologetic face that was by then redder than a ripe tomato.

It was rumoured Mrs Davey complained to Puppu’s father and uncle Ajji. In the weeks that followed, our singing sensation suffered a ban imposed on aimless Vespa rides, and demotion to the rank of foot soldier (paidal march).

A hero without a heroine

Puppu was a hopeless romantic at heart, in love with God knows who. None claimed to have seen him broadcast ballads for a beloved perched over a terrace. He teased none of the neighbourhood ‘sisters’, stayed away from every precocious maid-servant (nokarani), and never stooped to having a sweeperess (chuhri, jama-daarni, bhangan) cure his aching back.

Puppu sang because he was a nightingale, a rare rose without thorns. These qualities endeared him to the members of the fairer gender who understood he was not a threat to modesty or chastity.

Sometimes when my jovial mother saw the crooner pass by the window with a hit song on his lips, she enquired, “Puppu darling, where is your puppy?”

Interestingly, there lived two sisters in the house next doors, Puppy and Nanni. They were just beginning to take classical dance lessons. Years later they joined Pakistan International Airlines as airhostesses.

On a serious note, my disciplinarian father saw Puppu as a leader of all loafers ('lofaron ka sardaar')—a title gladly bestowed upon the undesirables those population he suspected was rising rapidly.

Fade to black

Several decades later I met with Puppu’s real puppy. His wife and children were at the funeral of Mirza sahib’s son, Shah Jahan, who lost the battle of life to cancer.

Old neighbours had by then mostly moved to foreign lands to take oaths of allegiance to faithfully serve other governments. Shah Jahan’s younger brother, naughty Raja, was a British national.

Puppu’s family lived in some corner of Lahore where our singing sensation met a quiet end. It remains a deep regret that I was unable to pay my last respects to a man who filled with so much music the hearts of the entire population of Temple Road’s lane 3.

The gloomy atmosphere at Shahjahan’s funeral did not prevent old neighbours from talking about bygone times and characters. Puppu’s children were clueless about what their deceased father meant to the old neighbours, and thought I was joking when I narrated several funny episodes from his life. It was this meeting which prompted me to write about Puppu for posterity.

Viva Puppu!

By today’s elitist standards, my childhood might seem strange and deprived but it was culturally super-rich. Life today in the DHAs and the Bahria Towns of Pakistan is quite dull. The moneyed children of generation-X live in sanitised ‘gated communities’ and like farm-chickens, seldom experience rough-and-tough desi life.

Today's affluent ladies prefer going shopping with armed guards in humungous vehicles. The teenaged sons of rich daddies drive expensive sports cars or ride noisy super-bikes that cost millions of rupees each. None wait or save to buy anything because everything is available on-line or on credit.

Courtesy of Puppu and other daredevils, I experienced the swinging 1960s under liberal laboratory conditions which produced street-smart children with naughty genes. Within the walled city of Lahore, you will still find such youngsters.

Religious texts indicate that God Almighty possesses hosts of angels who sing His non-stop praises. Puppu is resting right now but I am sure he will one day be gainfully employed in heaven to make only holy joyful noise.

An urban dictionary defines puppu as someone who is ‘typically mean, smells bad and looks funny’. The Puppu I knew was nothing of the kind. If you looked at different human races living in so many lands, each will have its own version of a darling Puppu who might be living just around the corner.

- - concluded - -

© Tahir Gul Hasan, 2020

To enjoy part-1 of this story, click HERE.

Puppu Darling Of 3 Temple Road (Part 1)

Once upon a legendary lane of Temple Road, there lived a musically gifted young boy named Puppu. As the resident-singer of the amazing area of Lahore where this writer was born and raised, Puppu’s sole joy in life was being full of it.

Singing in the lane

Growing up without the luxury of air-conditioners, we Lahore-conditioned children knew how to deal with sizzling summers when the mercury kissed forty-five degrees Celsius. The ventilators of the sixteen-foot high ceilings of my missionary St. Anthony’s High School and all public offices kept the temperature bearable inside.

Once when I complained during an electricity breakdown, my father encouraged me with a unique revelation:

“Hell is hotter but those who do well at studies will go straight to heaven.”

To me, having heavenly friends in a hellish missionary school was a slice of heaven.

Heated evenings brought restless Puppu out of the hole. With the shirt’s three top buttons open for ventilation and a proud display of a chest that was beginning to show traces of manly hairiness, he paced up and down the lane like an unfortunate lion caged at the Lahore Zoo (Chirya Ghar, 1872). During incessant rains, our singing prince rolled up to the knees the leg openings of the trousers and turned into a croaking monsoon frog (tarrata hua barsati maindak).

If one asked Puppu a question, he preferred replying with a song but was equipped to outdo any woman associated with the business of chatting. The genius was four years older to me; the difference felt monumental. I do not recall ever seeing his parents. He did have an uncle called Ajji, and a younger brother named Puttu; the latter walked with clenched fists and thumbs sticking out as if ready to hitch a double ride.

Alumni of taat-school?

I suspected Puppu played hooky thereby avoiding sticking his nose in a book. He never carried a schoolbag, never spoke of stressful studies, and probably attended the school of hard knocks were homework and classwork were unknown phenomena.

Was he old-school, no-school or a student of an unknown school of thought? From the razor-sharp mind of my father oozed another quotable gem:

“If Puppu were to aim for higher education, he would go to cow college to become a danngar daktar!” (veterinary doctor).

Interestingly, the College of Animal Husbandry (established 1882) was nearby and when I asked my mother about it, she lay bare the truth behind my father’s quote:

“Any man who studies at that Ghora Haspitaal will become an animalistic husband”.

In naturally-selected parts of our family, satire and humour evolved much differently than an ape that turned into Charles Darwin.

Snack-time all the time

Shopping for meat and vegetables at the nearby Safanwala Chowk was Puppu’s daily chore. With a plastic basket (tokri) swinging in the air and the duet, ‘Ae Baharo Gawah Rehna’ (Saiqa, 1968), on his lips, our home-spun Elvis Presley could get a vendor to sometimes hand out gratis smaller portions of the commodities. The money thus saved enabled him to snack on HICO choc-bar—when he felt Divinely privileged like the English—or lick creamy local ice-cream (malai-wali kulfi)—when he thought himself a local (desi).

He had other seasonal choices as well: water chestnuts (singharay), roasted corn (makai kay danay), sweet potatoes (shakarqandi), or sugar-cane cubes (ganderian). The juiceless remains of the last-mentioned item he ejected from his mouth at regular intervals like a lion urine-marking his territory in the wild, except that he did it while singing the lyrics that sounded mmm…mmm… slurrrppp… aannn…oonnn... slurrrppp…

In November of 1964, Lahore became the first Pakistani city where black and white television arrived with a big bang. The preferred modes of entertainment suddenly rearranged themselves in this order: television, radio and Puppu.

The youth was a walking radio station that required no electricity to broadcast, presented more variety than Radio Ceylon’s Binaca Geet-Mala, and outshone the dull Urdu Service of All India Radio. As if amused by the punctuality of the BBC, Puppu came on the air without ever synchronising his body clock with the Royal Observatory at Greenwich.

Matters of faith

In an older story, The Things I Did For Mrs Davey, I described what our residential area looked like but providing additional details will be of immense historical value to mankind.

We were blessed with a mosque at the end of our lane. It was financially supported by Mr Zameer, a large gentleman who drove a bluish grey Mercedes Benz, owned the famous Syed Bhais Private Limited Company that manufactured electricity meters for WAPDA, and later became the proprietor of a cinema-hall (Sanam) located at the junction of Queen’s Road and Ferozepur Road. As his neighbours, we felt honoured to increase his bank-balance by always paying to watch films.

Puppu normally wore shirt and trousers but come Friday and his holiness (hazrat) donned starched white shalwar-qameez and a cotton cap to look seriously religious.

The mosque’s prayer crier (muezzin) was a very old toothless gent called Baba Natthay Khan. After each prayer, the Barelvi Baba led the faithful to sing loud and lengthy praises of the Prophet.

During winter, he wore a full-face woollen cap (kann-toap) and thick socks. To earn extra money, he knitted woollen accessories for others.

Whenever Puppu saw Baba Nathay Khan, he teased with ‘Baray Miyan Diwanay Aisay Na Bano’ (Shagird, 1967) or sang the provocative ‘Mujhay Dunya Walo Sharabi Na Samjho’ (Leader, 1964). The irritated old man reacted by labelling him the devil (Shaitan).

Not many congregated five times daily to pray but the mosque—thank God for Friday—attained a greater 'house full’ status than the local cinema-halls. Less religiosity of those days kept the mullah-genie firmly inside the Rooh Afza bottle, and newspaper advertisements of whisky did not endanger any faith in any way.

Opposite the mosque lived a few Christians families; none were converted by any proselytiser from Raiwind. Interestingly, two attractive young European missionaries, who bicycled all over Lahore to sell their version of salvation, did make unsuccessful attempts to convert my mother into a Jehovah’s Witness. Their illustrated story-book is still in my possession and shows harmless doves, Mr and Mrs Adam, having an apple-pie party with the wise serpent playing the host.

Mr Jinnah’s double

Puppu’s loud singing was considered ‘disturbing’ by a quiet old neighbour, Mr Ashraf Falahi, who was a colleague of my father.

The old bachelor was a walking talking copy of Mr Muhammad Ali Jinnah, the founder of Pakistan. Occasionally he told the boys just one thing using just one finger out of twenty:

“Be thankful to God for giving you Pakistan. You don’t realise how bloody the partition of India really was.”

Whenever Puppu saw Mr Falahi, he switched to singing ‘Aay Qaid-e-Azam Tera Ehsaan Hay Ehsaan’. This always made Mr Falahi smile and temporarily enter the boy’s name in his mental good book. No sooner did Mr Falahi vanish out of sight, Puppu reverted to airing what my father labelled ‘loafer-type of songs’.

Merry go round the ‘two-ell’

Behind the mosque stood a tube-well—pronounced ‘two-ell’ by the poorer children. It was enclosed within a brick-structure and supplied water to the entire community. Whenever the two-ell malfunctioned, an elderly plumber called Mistry Jee from lane 5 and his sons, Mushtaq or Khushnood, were sent for repairs down the dark spiderweb-laced steps.

Right between the mosque and the two-ell existed not the land of the fairies but rather the water-bearers (maashkees, bahishtees) and the laundrymen (dhobees). The first group washed everyone’s dirty laundry in its backyard (dhobi-ghat) while the second lot supplied water in sheepskins during severe water crises.

An old toothless fairy (dhoban) did our laundry at the per-hundred rate (sainkara). Nothing could beat on Eid day the feel of her hand-pressed China silk (Boski) shirt worn over a fully starched (kalf, maya) cotton shalwar (latthay ki shalwar).

At the lane’s dead end, less affluent neighbours occupied smaller houses which, until a few decades ago, housed the servants of Khan Bahadur’s family (Mr Zameer’s father). In one such humble dwelling lived the boy whose name graces the title of this piece.

As for Mr Zameer’s children, they studied at the elitist Aitchison College on The Mall Road and never mixed with us because we misspelt it ‘H…E…sun’. The rest of us mixed freely amongst ourselves to attain the heights of delightful street-smartness.

Winter ogle Olympics

Winter evenings were always great fun. Staying inside meant dealing with fatherly rebukes but stepping outside involved playing hide and seek as all-weather children.

Some boys preferred staying indoors to consume pine nuts (chilgoza) with the ladies at home but the bolder ones stepped out with pockets loaded with peanuts (moong phali) that helped them go almost totally nuts.

To remain warm-hearted, the older boys indulged in an activity that was much hated by super-strict fathers: congregating at the locality’s gateless entrance under a Ficus Religiosa (Pipal tree) for an irreligious activity: chatting while watching passer-by girls.

The oglers were experts at casting sideways glances who possessed eyes that auto-focussed and panned to follow chosen subjects much like a movie-camera, wore sneaky smiles, employed better-than-Wi-Fi mental communications, and charged their loving hearts faster than modern cell-phones.

The boys had an endless variety of terms of endearment for the watched: chooza (a young chic), dana (grain), tota (a piece), afat (trouble), cheez (a thing), maal (merchandise), mashooq (beloved), popat (pretty doll), chikni (smooth), shay (thing), dame, etcetera.

Puppu fan club

Puppu was gifted with a loud voice that seemed suitable for a military parade ground but it was the melodiousness that saved him from becoming a cadet. While singing duets, he expertly imitated female singers’ parts, and for tunes that required yodelling, he did a better job better than the Swiss.

Sometimes he thought of himself as Rajendra Kumar sans Babita while singing ‘Aa Meri Rani Lay Ja Chhalla Nishani’(Anjaana, 1969).

When he sang ‘Aasman Say Aya Farishta’ (An Evening in Paris, 1967), he thought he was Shammi Kapoor ogling at a bikini-clad Sharmila Tagore.

Puppu’s greatest feat was singing the duet ‘Chand Zard Zard Hay’ (Jaali Note, 1960) that featured some amazing whistling in it; he did all three parts to perfection.

Nobody ever physically checked Puppu if he had an off switch—today they have a name for it: OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder). We wondered how the family dealt with him at home because he strolled at the oddest hours with a head held high, singing mostly Muhammad Rafi’s Indian movie hits such as ‘Khoya Khoya Chaand’.

When he sang the ohhhhh part of ‘Khilona Jaan Kar Tum To Mera DIl Tore Jatay Ho’ (Khilona, 1970), Mrs Davey’s pet dog, Nehru, joined in with a loud aaooooo.

The little ones loved it when he sang the inspirational ‘Nanhay Munnay Bachay’ (Boot Polish, 1953).

Of mothers and sisters

In the dim street lights of winter evenings, Puppu’s breath became visible steam as he started an unstoppable musical programme accompanied by finger-snapping.

Vendors appeared with pushcarts lit by bright pump-action gas-lamps and shouted, “Karari rayori…mong-phali” (crisp sesame seed confectionary and peanuts). At their heels came sellers of boiled eggs whose familiar sales pitch was, “Aanday, garam aanday” (hot eggs).

One evening when a beauty passed by, Puppu’s song-memory evaporated and he uttered the unthinkable: “Aanday, garam aanday”.

Offended, she swiftly turned around but slapped a boy who was not the real culprit. Later, a laughing Puppu pacified our wounded soldier by awarding him an edible gallantry medal: garam aanda.

Watching the watchers

At the lane’s fiery gate, a younger boy like me only played the role of a neutral U.N observer who noted that the idle watchers got countless evil eyes from the fairer sex but miraculously caught no eye diseases.

I had, until then, neither studied male philosophy nor female logic and, therefore, found incomprehensible the popular question which occasionally slipped off an irritated girl’s lips:

“Tumharay ghar maen koi maa behan nahi hay?” (Don’t you have a mother or a sister at home?).

Nobody ever answered; they collectively suppressed their smiles because all had over-protected female relatives at home.

Things have changed since then. Now this ‘objectionable sexual harassment’ is a punishable offence that makes top dogs lose their tails because of occasionally unsubstantiated accusations of the ‘me too’ kind but the street romance of the 1960s did lead sometimes to happy marriages and happier children.

- - to be concluded - -

© Tahir Gul Hasan, 2020

Coming soon: Puppu Darling Of 3 Temple Road (Part 2). Do return to this space to enjoy Puppu’s pranks and to find out why he was called ‘darling’.

***

Urdu words and sentences explained

1. Taat-school: an ill-equipped school for poor people which does not have any furniture and where the students sit on jute-mats placed on the floor.

2. Ghora Haspitaal: ghora is horse and Haspitaal is hospital.

3. Ae Baharo Gawah Rehna: O spring season, bear witness

4. Baray Miyan Diwanay Aisay Na Bano: O old man, don’t be mad this way

5. Mujhay Dunya Walo Sharabi Na Samjho: O people of the world, don’t take me for a drunkard

6. Rooh Afza: A famous summer drink whose name means, that which refreshes the soul

7. Aay Qaid-e-Azam Tera Ehsaan Hay Ehsaan: O great leader, it’s all (meaning creation of Pakistan) a favour from you

8. Aa Meri Rani Lay Ja Chhalla Nishani: O my queen, take my ring as a souvenir (of love)

9. Aasman Say Aya Farishta: an angel has come from heaven

10. Chand Zard Zard Hay: the moon is red

11. Khoya Khoya Chaand: the moon (appears) so lost

12. Khilona Jaan Kar Tum To Mera DIl Tore Jatay Ho: You break my heart thinking it’s a toy

13. Nanhay Munnay Bachay: a very small child

British Clouds With Silver Linings

Lest old age begins to interfere with memory, I must recall events that proved to be lessons about fairness and honesty in public dealing; they helped me compare the actions and the reactions of ‘unbelieving’ (kafir) ‘westerners’ with those of ‘believers’ in our part of the world.

Silver lining

“Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past.”—George Orwell (the novel, 1984)

While mankind shares established ideas of integrity, honesty and sovereignty, Pakistanis live in a unique fantasy world of militarism and vengeful politics. Take for example the recent violent attack by lawyers on doctors and patients at a hospital that resulted in several deaths, numerous injuries and great damage to property.

Any honest Pakistani will genuinely feel agitated seeing dishonest and aggressive countrymen (and women) give a bad name to the religion and the country. Because history-sheeters continue to make history, our collective future will remain bleak. If the ‘west’ must be bashed for policies that disturb global peace and exploit weaker nations, Pakistani attitudes too deserve a hard spanking.

Life is not as simple as the school textbooks would have us believe and common knowledge is most uncommon. I gained the following experiences in British towns whose streets were not paved with gold but their skies did have traces of clouds with silver linings.

The dog that died for 911

Those were such happy times, back in the early 1990s. I was in England to purchase a recording console (audio mixer) for my home recording studio. English-made consoles are still considered the best on the planet.

I found commuting expensive in England but was fortunately chauffeured around by K. D Khan, a close Mirpuri friend. He owned a model 1990 Porsche 911 Carrera, white in colour and with a fully manual floor-shift transmission.

One afternoon he displayed great lion-heartedness by vacating the driver’s seat, “Here, speedy Gonzales, you drive her!”

To know more about K.D Khan, read Mangoes For Django

The feeling of accelerating from 0-60 mph (0-97 kmph) in 4.8 seconds still remains indescribable in words; every Suzuki Alto owner in Pakistan who achieves the height of personal success by purchasing a Toyota Corolla must experience a Porsche's ride.

Khan’s voluptuous German rocket was a pedigree sports car with a very low centre of gravity. The 205 width, 16” diameter tyres allowed me to negotiate sharp corners as if a djinn were holding me down in the leather bucket-seat.

While the Police were not looking, I touched 150 mph (241.4 kmph) on the motorway. The steering was so sensitive at that speed that even moving it by a hair’s width meant getting dangerously out of the fast lane.

Bless dear Khan, he taught me not to honk and never to flash my headlights, “This is not a free country like Pakistan. Honking here is like abusing someone and flashing headlights is considered very rude!”

The next day after lunch, Khan took me to various high-end boutiques of London. He tried several suits but they just would not fit. Prosperity had caused the girth of his waist to increase with immensity.

We were chatting loudly but driving slowly down a narrow lane when a dog suddenly attempted to cross us diagonally from the front.

“Hey, watch for that son of a —”, my warning remained an incomplete sentence.

The poor animal hit us with a loud thud. The Porsche came to sudden halt. Hearts pounding away, afraid of its owner’s reaction, we got off the car. The impact left the indicator assembly bloodied and shattered to pieces.

The owner, leash in hand, appeared as if he had been chasing the dog. The man was in a state of shock as he looked at his dying dog. Khan and I felt large lumps in our Pakistani throats. What would it be, we thought? A hefty monetary compensation for the dog’s owner or a lawsuit in case we argued?

Khan resorted to immediate damage control, “So sorry. We couldn’t stop in time. The poor thing just appeared out of nowhere!”

I noted how Khan first apologised and then explained—the exact opposite of what is done in Pakistan where excuses and blame comes first and sorry never.

In true English way, the dead animal’s owner showed quiet desperation by shaking his blonde balding head. He duly noted the damage done to the sports car and then uttered the unexpected, “It’s not your fault. He just ran uncontrollably”.

This was the Queen's Great Britain. After a few moments of speechlessness, Khan thanked him profusely for the forgiveness.

Driving around with a broken indicator meant breaking English traffic laws so Khan had the assembly immediately replaced at the nearest Porsche workshop.

Now had the same thing happened in Pakistan, a trigger-happy owner might have whipped out a weapon, or an uncouth one resorted to heaping verbal abuse for sheer negligence, or a brute might have resorted to a mindless exchange of physical blows.

A late-night analysis of the incident brought us to one conclusion: Pakistanis remain most unfamiliar with three words that are considered indispensable in any civil society: please, thank you, and sorry.

A free dinner

The plane landed at Manchester after an eight hours long flight. I reached the hotel around 6 p.m., took a hot shower, and stepped out for a walk and a quick bite.

The air was so crisp and clean I breathed deeply to fill the imaginary spare tyre placed between the lungs for later use in environmentally polluted Pakistan. Passers-by, both male and female, made friendly eye contact instead of looking away, and smiled without having the pleasure of knowing me.

Vehicular traffic was beginning to thin out, the shops were closing one by one and the lone eatery, Café Nero, was also preparing to close. I stepped in to search for a sandwich that would have a very important word on its pack that is considered most important to both the Muslims and the Jews: halaal (permissible, legal, or kosher).

The cash counter clerk looked up at me. He counted the money while his colleague fervently mopped the floor as if God Almighty were expected to descend for an inspection the next morning. Considering that the men had worked the whole day, impressive was their English energy.

Now compare the above with what many poor Pakistani shopkeepers do as a matter of habit every morning:

1) Open their businesses wearing more or less the same clothes they did in bed.

2) Avoid shaving or trimming their facial hairs, and waste no money on smelling good.

3) In the presence of customers, have a cleaner raise a cloud of dust with a bamboo broom.

4) Forgetting the dunya (world), they focus on the aakhirah (hereafter) and whisper prayers or listen to pious recorded sermons.

5) Deal with multiple customers simultaneously while giving none undivided attention. 

6) Glued to television sets which distract them from doing proper business.

7) Proudly display religious verses in the shops as talisman to attract business and to drive away Satan disguised as a customer.

8) Blame the government or unseen enemies for ‘slow’ business when in fact it is their own attitudes that are blameworthy.

With the above comparison going on in my mind, I picked up a tuna sandwich and approached the counter to pay.

The cashier spoke with a Polish accent, “We’re closed now and I can’t…”

Before he would finish, I requested him to make an exception for me.

“Sure, take whatever you like. I can’t charge you for it because we're closed now”.

Such truthfulness seemed like disguised charity. I insisted on paying.

He explained, “It’s okay; we’ll throw away what’s left any way. Can’t sell it tomorrow!”

I thanked him profusely and left the café. Nibbling away at the sandwich and sipping foamy cappuccino out of a paper cup in loud slurps, I took a most serious note of the strange experience. My thoughts turned to how a Pakistani shopkeeper might have acted under similar circumstances.

1) Would not have displayed the shop’s business hours at the door or used an OPEN-CLOSED sign.

2) May have attempted to sell me the sandwich and pocketed the money without any regard for a closed cash register.

3) Would not have thrown away the eatables or given them away for free.

4) Might have displayed expired items from the previous night and readily sold them as fresh.

It was impossible not to wonder. Was I in the right country or the country I was born in had gone all wrong? How could Pakistan be a wobbly moon orbiting around an unstable planet? Why, it must be the tuna causing my head to spin.

A lack of sneakiness at Nike

In old London town, I stopped by at a sports store to pick up a pair of Nike trainers for my sister.

Carefully I checked the size, paid for the pair and headed back to Pakistan only to find that the sneakers did not fit her well. My heart sank; the trip to Nike and the money spent on the gift seemed to have been wasted.

Luckily, another business trip to London came up after two weeks. Hoping for an English miracle, I carried the sneakers back to the Nike store for an exchange.

Quickly the staff helped me find the right size. A tomboyish salesgirl at the payment counter announced, “Sir, there’s a sale on. These trainers now have thirty percent off on them. Would you want your balance five pounds or prefer buying some other item?”

My jaw dropped to touch the vinyl floor. All I could say was, “On this happy Satch-er-day, it is a plyy-err which I cannot myy-err! Please accept a bundle of thanks from the bottom of my heart and also from my lady sister.”

She immediately understood from my accent that I was from Pakistan, the land of pure bundles and systematic hurdles. From my exaggerated pronunciation of key words, she gathered I was an ex-serviceman, whereas I was not—not even in my dreams.

Experiencing honesty as the best policy, I decided to kick-start the sagging British economy by purchasing a pair of trainers for myself.

The only entity with whom I could share newfound happiness in Britain was God Almighty. I addressed him before it was time for the midday prayers, “Did you see that? Can we have such honest businesses in 'the land of the pure'?”

There was no answer from above but it was understood that sooner rather than later, He would move in mysterious ways to address my deepest concerns.

Imagine, had the same shopping mistake been made by me in Pakistan, a salesperson would have—without initially having given me a receipt—demanded the proof of purchase, never revealed the new reduced price, and never offered to pay back the difference in price.

A cold dinner on a hot evening

It was unusually hot that evening in Manchester. The sun was expected to set at 9:03 p.m.

I strolled about lazily on Market Street, then sat in the park to watch the musical fountain with coloured lights. A massive Ferris-wheel rotated over my head, spinning away almost like my mind which worried about finding halaal food.

Between myself and the nearby bus stop, I noticed a Thai restaurant. Every time its door opened, fragrances of boiled rice and seafood entered my nostrils to intensify the hunger. Once inside that establishment, I satisfied myself reading all the detailed explanations of far-eastern dishes. The stomach spoke, “Bless this pork-less place! Go for vegetable rice with saffron sauce and grilled fish.”

“That’ll be seven pounds ninety-five pence. Please take a seat. It’ll take about ten minutes”, the cashier-girl announced.

A heavily tattooed man with a chef's cap over his dreadlocks simultaneously handled the preparation of several orders; to me he seemed like a Hindu god with multiple hands. Orders appeared piping hot at the other end of the open kitchen and from where customers loaded into their trays steel cutlery and hot sauces of choice.

The food was tasty but not as hot as I had imagined. Hunger forced me eat first and complain later. Immediately the girl at the cash register apologised and offered me something which I was not accustomed to being offered in Pakistan: a free meal coupon.

“The next time you’re here, dinner will be free!”

I returned to Manchester on a business trip after a month. With a free-meal coupon still in my wallet, it was time to put an English promise to test. With rapidly batting eyelids and with great courtesy, the same girl promptly brought up to my table the same dish, steaming hot this time.

Had I complained in Pakistan, no apology would have come my way, the mistake never admitted, and I made to feel guilty for complaining. The staff never would have offered me a free meal coupon but rather washed off their hands by stating, “Next time, inshAllah (God willing) you’ll get your food very hot. Today we have too many customers.”

My perpetually hopeful countrymen (and women) might claim, “Pakistan is changing and things are getting better.” My question is, is this ‘change’ due to our own pious efforts or is it because of international practices introduced by tidy multi-national food chains?

A hungry ticket-machine

I walked up to the nearest Metrolink station of Manchester to catch a tram to the suburbs. The tram seemed like a pretty petite lady, she swayed on the rail tracks and occasionally spoke in a soft musical tone.

I stood at a station that had no boundary walls or barbed wires, and there were no security gates or uniformed men pointing guns at anyone. It was Inglistan, not Askaristan.

To purchase a return ticket, I sought the help of a bystander to operate an ATVM (automatic ticket vending machine). Despite several attempts, the machine refused to produce a ticket and finally digested the three coins of one-pound denomination each that I dropped in.

Help all around proved futile. When the tram arrived, the on-duty staff encouraged me to take up the issue through the telephone helpline.

The easy way out was to stop worrying about the lost money because I was not a U.K resident. I called and a female helpline voice advised me to email the complaint to Metrolink which I did as follows:

Dear sir/madam:

While attempting to use the Metrolink tram from (station name) on (date), I encountered the following problems at around 1 p.m.:

1) When I inserted two coins (GBP 2+1 denomination) for a return ticket for Ladywell station (one adult), machine no: 462 did not produce a ticket.

2) The money I put in was also not refunded to me. I called the HELP line twice and a lady asked me to email you regarding the problem. An on-duty Metrolink staff member was unable to help me much.

The Lady is a tram(p)

3) I finally used machine no: 461 and got the desired ticket after paying additional GBP 2.90

Kindly refund me GBP 3.00 that Meterolink owes me. Thanks in advance.

I received the following reply:

Thank you for your email. Can you please provide a postal address for the cheque refund to be sent to you? Best Regards.
I wrote back:

Thanks for the reply; very impressive indeed! So, how do we get this HUGE sum of GBP 3.00 back where it belongs? A cheque sent to me would cost GBP 10 to recover! Regards.

Another swift reply:

Thank you for your email.

Considering the situation that we are in I think the best solution would be the next time you are in Manchester and you would like to travel on the Metrolink, we will be able to offer you a complimentary journey to travel on the tram. You will be able to do this by either calling us on the day before or same day of travel on 0161 205 2000 or by sending us an email quoting the reference number above. I hope this will be of a solution to the situation. Best Regards.

All those swift replies and offers came as major shocks. It meant that unlike Pakistan where businesses always blame customers and disbelieve complaints, the English system did not stoop to accusing but instead treated a complainant as honest and innocent until proven guilty. Being in a charitable mood, I did not pursue any further the matter of recovery of the lost three ‘quid’.

What has happened, I thought? Have they all converted to true Islam to become honest and fair? I reverted to being hopeful about Pakistani Muslims becoming so believable they would not have to settle all matters by swearing upon God Almighty’s Holy Name.

Not Rihanna's umbrella

The temporarily lost umbrella

English women say, 'an Englishman never leaves home without an umbrella'.

I left the hotel room with an umbrella but as a Pakistani man, forgot it at the ticket counter while purchasing a train ticket. By the time I got out of the destination station, it was raining.

Upon returning to the departure station, I noticed that the shift had changed, nevertheless I exercised my right to enquire about the precious umbrella.

“Sorry love, I don’t see it here in the office”, an obese lady replied affectionately after looking around in her boxy office.

I knew that an opera ain’t over until the fat lady sings. The next morning, while a few hours remained until check-out, I made another attempt to recover the umbrella. At the ticket office, I briefly described the lost item and within seconds a slim lady produced my umbrella like a magician would a rabbit out of a hat.

I thanked her from no other place but the bottommost compartment of my heart. I was so elated I attracted undue attention by opening the umbrella on a perfectly sunny Sunday morning.

Not match-making but price-matching

It is customary in Britain and several other countries that a business will attempt to offer the lowest price, and if a customer finds the same item cheaper elsewhere, the shop will immediately lower the price to match it.

In this regard, our Pakistani formula is simple: if one even dares to suggest that another shop is cheaper, a shopkeeper will boldly declare, “Then go buy from him!” This viciousness refuses to go away because in most cases, a customer will end up buying from the same insulting shopkeeper.

I was at a store in Birmingham, ready to pay for the merchandise when I mentioned to the salesman the lower price I noticed elsewhere for the same item.

“No problem!”, he said and checked the price on the internet. Then without a word he lowered his own price to please me.

When CNN interviewer, Becky Anderson, alleged, “A third of Pakistanis wish to leave their country”, recall the disgraceful reply of ousted Pakistani Prime Minister Yousaf Raza Gilani: “And why don’t they leave then; who is stopping them?”

Watch this video from 03:15 and seek God Almighty's Protection, if not foreign citizenship.

Expect no grassroots movement to ever change anything in Pakistan because the nauseating mindset of the ruling elites trickles down to the masses on a daily basis.

Reserved hi-fi headsets

I needed to buy a pair of stereo headsets whose price had been slashed from pounds forty-nine to thirty-nine.

I emailed my favourite hi-fi shop in Manchester to enquire about the SALE item’s availability. Since the headsets were IN STOCK at a far-off branch, I was offered them at the location of my choice. When I told them about my arrival date in Manchester, they told me they would hold the item for me until a certain date.

A week later I was at the Manchester shop.

“Oh yes, you were expected!” the in-charge recognised me and pointed at the coffee machine, “Help yourself please. I’ll get your stuff”.

Soon he appeared with the AKG headsets whose box had a stick-on note that read: Hold until 24 February. That date was still three days away.

To reward the British economy, I made some more purchases but being in no mood to let twenty percent tax end up in Her Majesty’s Treasury, I requested that a VAT-refund form be filled. When I noticed a lovely porcelain mug with the shop’s name emblazoned across it, the salesman gifted it to me. As always, it was a pleasure doing business there.

Now, had I been in Pakistan, the story surely would have been quite different. I encourage you to fill the imaginary details yourself and post that in the comments section. I need to find out how many more Pakistanis know what I know, and if there are very many, we must stand together with folded arms and watch each incompetent government topple herself.

Back to ‘the land of the pure’

“Don’t tell me what possessions you have; tell me what lands you’ve travelled to!”—a saying attributed to Prophet Muhammad

Greater mobility sometimes increases criminality but it also widens the horizons. The reason why our politicians and citizens, many of them having travelled widely, are unable to transform this country is that do-gooders have debauched themselves to doing good only unto themselves.

Scores of Prime Ministers and military dictators have failed; we now have the incumbent Prime Minister and his crowd of advisors working to transform a naya (new) Pakistan into medieval Medina. I suppose, one need not expect positive results from effable waddle.

Rule of the angootha-chaaps

My hometown is one of the topmost environmentally polluted cities on the face of Earth. Since we live in suspended animation, breathing suspended heavy particles in the air presents absolutely no danger to our lungs.

A few days ago, Lahore’s AQI (Air Quality Index) went deep into the ‘extremely hazardous’ zone, or beyond 400 for 2.5PM (2.5 micrometre Fine Particle Matter). Elsewhere, London—once notorious for its fog—registered an amazingly low 22.

Will you now please stand up to listen to our smog anthem? All I need is the air that I breath and to love you.

We have idealists, realists, day-dreamers, busy courts, rioting lawyers, expensive lawsuits, jailed politicians and entertaining ministers of the ruling clique who appear ad nauseam on television. Never lose hope. We are so self-sufficient in all of the above, the government ought to declare these thought-products as worth exporting.

©Tahir Gul Hasan, 2019

DISCLAIMER

No one must misconstrue my personal experiences and observations as disinformation or insults. If you disagree, do so with courtesy and decorum by posting in the comments section.

Inglistan is a well-known name for a real island while Askaristan is an imaginary place.
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