Did Imran get the money?

Imran Khan licked the tip of his thumb to remove the last traces of kebab grease. He was using his fingers to eat. That perhaps remains my most memorable observation of that evening. It was the fund-raiser for the earth-quake relief efforts by the Pakistani community at the US Silicon Valley Capitol Club.

I have a mental block regarding fund-raisers. There are a few reasons for it:

Personal guilt: Invariably, these occasions are deemed ‘formal events’, for which you have to dress appropriately. You are listening to the most heart-wrenching stories as your table covered with white linen is laden with goodies. That isn’t the real problem – people near the affected areas too get on with their lives and eat and party after a while -- the real problem is that the guilt too is superficial. A nervous laugh, an, “Oh gosh, did I have to wear this colour…”, and that’s it.

Only money: Several years ago when a fund-raiser was being organised for an institute I was involved with, I had raised objections to a ‘cocktails-dinner followed by a rock concert’ event. My ‘logic’ (they called it stupid idealism) was that the villagers were talented performers and surely wouldn’t those who felt for the cause cough up money to watch them? The answer was No.

Being seen: Let us face it – we are ‘entertained’ by tragedy. It becomes our catharsis and comfort zone; we are not in it. Our giving is charity; it isn’t commitment. It is the reason we want to be seen to be giving. It goes a long way if Ferragamo can legitimise our evanescent fervour.

And our one minute of silence is not even a whole minute. As we sat there prepared for 60 seconds of remorse, we were snapped out of it in less than half the time. There was other business to be finished, and not all of it facetious.

The clippings shown on the screen were taken from CNN. The photographer who came up to speak was an American as was one of the volunteers.

Then Imran Khan spoke. He started with, “I was the first politician to go to the affected areas…” He talked about false official figures in the initial stages. Had he done away with these bits, the politicisation would not have been so evident. For, he had his facts; he had the desire to do something. As winter sets in the hilly terrain, and people are burning the donated clothes to keep them warm, his organisation has come up with shelters that cost just $ 350 and 85 per cent of the material is reusable for later.

The floor was thrown open to questions.

“How are these tents made?”

WTF. Someone sitting in the Bay Area wants to know how these tents are made? Will he be building them? Does he want to run through his calculator to get a breakup of cost-efficiency? Is this some techno-savvy mela? Why were questions entertained at all? There are several websites for information, and hundreds of thousands of donors.

The ones that need to be commended are those who took part in the silent auction.

The stage auction was a farce. A signed bat by Imran started with a bid of just $500. A blue-chip celebrity, a blue-chip audience and a genuine cause were all reduced in that one moment of indiscretion. “Oh, okay, since it is a signed by Imran, let us make it $1000!” It was closed at $4000 with a ticket to the World Cup in the West Indies thrown in. Everyone was in a hurry to get it over with. The target for the evening was $1 million; they collected $300,000.

It prompted Imran to comment that this did not seem like an audience that was interested in cricket. He did praise the efforts of the Pakistanis at home who had taken their cars and trucks with essentials.

The Pakistanis in the US have garnered a lot of funds, anyway. Money does go a long way, but how many in that gathering would volunteer? He appealed for that kind of help. Just as suddenly, the announcer declared, “Now you can all go home.”

As we trudged out, Imran stood in the foyer posing for pictures. He is Pakistan’s greatest celebrity. I was not overwhelmed by the sight. What made an impact on me was the space Indians and Pakistanis shared and the admiration the latter expressed for some of the big Indian names present there.

I wanted to voice the question that had been playing on my mind: “Could an Indian volunteer?”

“Of course, many Indians are doing so,” said Imran.

“What about visas?”

“That should not be a problem. You just go to the American Embassy.”

“I am a visitor to the US, I don’t live here. I am from India.”

“Oh, a lot of Kashmiris are there…Yaseen Malik and his group are helping out a lot…”

“Kashmiris are different. I am…”

“Oh, so where are you from?”

“Bombay.”

“Uh… 221; Pause. “I am sure you can try.”

“Hmm…” Indians are not allowed in the Northern areas just as Pakistanis are prohibited from visiting some parts of India.

He knows that. I know that.

In this conspiracy of silence, does waking up for a calamity not amount to a mere cosmetic moment? Why do we sleep through the ongoing tragedy of illiteracy, malnutrition, infanticide, child marriages, dowry deaths, honour killings, farmer suicides? If each day was a fund-raiser or a volunteer day, then Imran Khan would not have been a tired man flying to auction balls and bats in a country where only pugnacious games have cheerleaders who too need to earn their stripes.

Do only white coffins have to qualify as peace flags?

ChowKuote: A veteran Chowkie who was present there clicked a photograph. It is in the Inbox with the subject line reading, “Chowk Goes Mainstream?” The email is short, “The Radicals now hobnob with the famous?”

I smile at the question marks at the end of both the quotes. For now, suffice to say that ‘radical’ is how you think; ‘mainstream’ is what you do (not necessarily being what everyone is), and ‘famous’ is what others make of you whether you are radical, mainstream or neither of these.

In my very small way, I believe true success happens when you create a mechanism so good that you yourself become redundant. If one thinks like that, then there will always be a sense of deep contentment where you do not need to fight wanton straw arrows. The true seekers always find something. Even in the cinder, there is bound to be a burning piece of coal.

“Raakh ko bhi kureid kar dekho
Jalta hua ho koi pal shaayad…”