From One Chowkwala to Another

Here it is neither humid, nor warm - only the omni-present climate control keeps whirring on. Almost noiseless, but not quite. Here there is no mug of coffee and thick not paper, only insipid tea sipped from characterless Styrofoam cups, and the even more characterless personal computer clones. This is cubeville, (or CubeAbaad or CubePur depending on your antecedents), a vast faceless network of corporate cubes, the fabric walls promising a degree of privacy that is purely illusory. There are no baint ki kursi's here and the bijlee never goes...

Yes. It is nice to talk - this particular medium has a certain non-personality that is simultaneously its strength and its most crippling weakness. Yet it is all there is for us chowkwallas, so let us talk.

About the Pakistani economy, later perhaps. What I do not know about Nusrat Fateh Ali can (and probably has) filled several tomes. Growing up in Indian boarding schools, the fashionable form of music was certainly not the quawaali. We were the disco (I shudder to now recall) generation with a slight throwback from the rock-an-roll era. ABBA, the BeeGees and a bit of the Doors that was the extent of our musical pedigree. Of course, no one growing up in India is immune to the Hindi cinema and so there were also a few elements of Indian music with the ubiquitous wedding scenes featuring the occasional quawalli (albeit of a rather crude form).

I confess that I too had never heard of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan until he became famous. I was ignorant of the great traditions of quawaali, of its ancient links to Sufi poets, of its soulful outpourings of emotions in mans quest to unify with his maker. I knew nothing of the subtle variations of pitch, of the deep rumblings, of the ecstatic crescendo - of the dizzy heights to which this sufi music could be taken by a master of the art - by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. And now I too will never see him perform.

As regards Indian TV and films, I can only offer you the dubious consolation that it has been invading Indian homes long before it began with Pakistani ones. I do agree that there is not much difference between those across an essentially political divide. It does take a tremendous leap to cross the chasm created by years of propaganda and self serving (and indeed self defeating) deceit. The great sorrow of the sub-continent is that we have failed to educate ourselves. We may blame the politicians, the generals and whosoever else - but the fault lies not in our stars but in ourselves. We owed it to ourselves and to our children to provide - indeed demand to provide - a basic education to all our peoples - for I can see no other way that points to any solution. Population growth, sectarian conflict, political lunacy – will all continue, indeed thrive until we know enough to insist otherwise.

Hmm. Come to think of it I have never wondered if the other side of a cloud looks the same as the one we see. Indeed, come to think of it, I have missed out.

Though I feel obliged to confess that Descartes is a bit deep for me, I too would like to talk about Buddhism - they have evolved this notion of "Sudden Enlightenment" that I find endlessly fascinating - and perhaps hidden somewhere in there is the answer to the other questions you ask. If not there then probably in the writings of Iqbal and if not there then ……....

The joy of the moment is in the seeking, in the journey – perhaps more so than in the destination. It remains for each of us to discover and decide that for himself. And at the moment I am curious as to whether or not Winnie feels cold on his tummy……..

A little late my dear. I have professed myself a rat (with no soul - shiny or otherwise) many years ago. There does remain the faint flicker of hope though - a nagging wish that it were otherwise – I doubt I have the courage to do anything about it, though they do say that hope glows (or should that read flows) eternal...

So by all means propound those thoughts - we will listen and try to respond. And if we do not, then – the loss will be entirely ours.