How tweet, hain ji, of the faujis to finally accept government’s authority. It is la of tribal lands: an eye for an eye, a tweet for a tweet. This is turning point in Pakistan’s journey to democracy, meray aziz humwatno, make no mistake. Quaid-e-Azam Muhammad Ali Jinnah is known as Father of Millat. Quaid-e-Awam Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto is known as Father of Democracy. I will be known as Father of Civilian Supremacy.
But last week was a different matter when Sajjan Jindal was here. What a storm in teacup! But I damn care about naysayers. I decided we had to make Jindal feel right at home. So, we were all extra sensitive about his food preferences, and we were also terribly politically correct. Fust, I said no crockery and cutlery – only thalis and eating by hand. And if Mr Jindal asked if we always ate in thalis, I told the staff to say, like the Indians do while wobbling their heads, “yes, yes, we’re like this only.”
I also told everyone that the minute Jindal steps off the plane, we’re going to smash coconuts against the Murree house, like they did in Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thhee.
Then for lunch I ordered a thin-si, soupy-si daal with white rice and mutter paneer. No nihari, qorma, palaak gosht or kebabs. Sadly, none of us could eat it. Frankly, even the servants don’t eat things like this.
One bearer forgot not to serve meat to Sajjan Jindal and brought raan roast. “Chhee chhee!” I protested loudly. Jindal really appreciated the soupy daal. Even I had to eat it, sitting cross-legged on the floor. I thought he would leave at teatime and then I could have a nice tuck in (aloo gosht & desi murgh pulao) – but he stuck around and asked for more soupy daal. “What about you, Mian Saab, won’t you have some?”
“No”, I said, “I’m now on a fast until I establish civilian supremacy”. By now I was beginning to feel faint. Finally, he left and I heaved a sigh of relief, ordered naan kebab, nihari, koftay and haleem, and ate to my heart’s content.
But last week was a different matter when Sajjan Jindal was here. What a storm in teacup! But I damn care about naysayers. I decided we had to make Jindal feel right at home. So, we were all extra sensitive about his food preferences, and we were also terribly politically correct. Fust, I said no crockery and cutlery – only thalis and eating by hand. And if Mr Jindal asked if we always ate in thalis, I told the staff to say, like the Indians do while wobbling their heads, “yes, yes, we’re like this only.”
I also told everyone that the minute Jindal steps off the plane, we’re going to smash coconuts against the Murree house, like they did in Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thhee.
Then for lunch I ordered a thin-si, soupy-si daal with white rice and mutter paneer. No nihari, qorma, palaak gosht or kebabs. Sadly, none of us could eat it. Frankly, even the servants don’t eat things like this.
One bearer forgot not to serve meat to Sajjan Jindal and brought raan roast. “Chhee chhee!” I protested loudly. Jindal really appreciated the soupy daal. Even I had to eat it, sitting cross-legged on the floor. I thought he would leave at teatime and then I could have a nice tuck in (aloo gosht & desi murgh pulao) – but he stuck around and asked for more soupy daal. “What about you, Mian Saab, won’t you have some?”
“No”, I said, “I’m now on a fast until I establish civilian supremacy”. By now I was beginning to feel faint. Finally, he left and I heaved a sigh of relief, ordered naan kebab, nihari, koftay and haleem, and ate to my heart’s content.
NS