Accidental Blogger

The following story was written by a friend (may be published online soon) and he agreed to share it like this.

 I dont take it as a prediction, but as an exercise in imagining what the logical consequences of certain trends could be…it wont actually happen because no trend continues in a straight line. Countervailing forces develop, the dialectic kicks in and the synthesis rarely looks like the thesis…

in any case,  if we project a different set of trends forward in time, then in the actual 2022 we may see Chinese businessmen protected by security guards pushing their way into a special "Chinese first" line at Lahore airport, while Imran Khan complains about the way Chinese interference is ruining our previously sane society (by then, Chinese drones will be bombing the tribal areas, so the Chinese will not be as well-loved as they are today).. 

 
 

A trip to Lahore in 2022..

It was Sunday night. My father called me from Pakistan , unexpectedly. He sounded terrible on the phone. He called from the hospital. I’d not seen him in the longest time–I’m talking about twelve years. I’d met him last in Lahore in the year 2010, on the day the Governor of Punjab was shot dead by one of his own security guards.

I’m coming to see you,” I said. I could tell from the sound of his voice that he was indeed very sick.

“Don’t come here–You may not be able to get out,” he said. “The doctors say I have a bout of pneumonia–they say I’ll get better in a few days.”

I’ve to go see him. I don’t care what he thinks or feels about my visit.

Next morning, I purchased a round-trip ticket for the Business Class on PIA, the only one available. Luckily my face had a three day old stubble–I don’t shave on the weekends. By the time I’d land in Lahore , I hope my beard to be long enough to fulfill the criteria for entry: the hair length, of at least half the beard, has to be the size of a rice grain.  

I packed a Jilaba in my carry-on bag, the mandatory dress code. Most passengers would start changing their attire a couple of hours before landing. ‘The pilot’s usually kind,’ I was told, ‘to go over the list of items, the requirements for your own safety, before you’d get clearance for entry’.

The flight was completely booked. As I entered the plane, a burqa clad air-hostesses gave me a stare with her big black eyes, a pair of sparkling diamonds. Her stare made me dizzy. I froze in my steps, until a nudge on my back made me move again.

Eyes could be so powerful, I’d no idea. I showed her my boarding pass. She looked at my boarding pass, and without moving a muscle, pointed towards the Business Class, again with her eyes. Reluctantly, I moved towards my seat looking back every couple of steps down the aisle, hoping to catch another glimpse of that deadly force. The unforgettable pair of eyes were, however, busy welcoming the next passenger in line. As I tucked my bag in the overhead compartment, a waft of fresh Jasmine hit my nose. I turned around. A white blond girl stood right behind me. She must be in her early twenties. She wore the airline cap, her long golden locks flowing over her sleeveless shoulders. She wore a glossy red lipstick and a real short skirt. By the time she spoke the eyes of the burqa clad hostess of the economy class were already a distant memory.

“I’m at you disposal, my lord,” she said, softly touching my back.

“What’s going on here…?”

“I know your confusion my lord. This isn’t the first time, I have to explain. You must be going to Pakistan after a very long time. Right?”

Yeah—Right! I said, feeling dazed.

“My lord, this is Business Class. Burqa wearing hostesses are for the economy class.”

“But aren’t we all flying to Islamic Ummah of Pakistan,” I said in a whisper, swinging myself into my seat.

“Slave girls don’t have to cover up, my lord,” she said. Her lips almost touching my ear lobes.

“But isn’t that all Muslim women have to cover up?” I said, feeling bewildered.

“My lord, I’m not a Muslim. I’m from Latvia . We are hired by PIA in a batch, as slave girls, we serve only Business Class,” she said. “What would you like to drink? No alcohol, though.”

“Anything–But what’s going on here is not right,” I said, looking around to see if our conversation is being overheard by others.

“Are you by chance a Shia, my lord?” she said.

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, if you are, you can register for the marriage for the duration of flight, if you want to be 100% kosher–14 hours is a long time. I can bring you the register if you like; we keep it in the cockpit. Usually the Co-pilot carries it along with other navigational charts.”

“I’m neither,” I said.

“What do you mean my lord?”

“I’m not a Shia, neither I’m a Sunni.”

“Well, my lord, for the duration of flight you have to be either one or the other,” she said, giving me a wink.

“Choose for me, please,” I said, giving up. “Would you help me decide?”

“I personally don’t like paperwork,” she said.

“Then, let’s fly Sunni,” I said.

“That’s a good choice, my lord. Once we take off you are invited to cabin 424 for relaxation and massage.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

————————

The flight was wonderfully comfortable–no air pockets, no shaking. Just silky, smooth ride all the way to Lahore . I slept most of the way after using room 424, and awoken before landing, finding my head in the lovely Latvian’s lap. I was dressed in a towel Jilaba, with PIA embroidered on its front. I’d no memory of dress change.

“My lord, you may now change into your own dress,” she said, getting up. “We’ll be landing soon.”

—————–

At the immigration counter, I was made to enter a booth where a beam of blue laser measured the precise length of my beard.

“You can’t enter the Islamic Ummah of Pakistan. You’ve to be quarantined for three days at least, or till your growth is satisfactory,” the immigration officer said with a heavy voice. Except for his eyes and forehead, his face was completely covered with jet black hair. The tip of his beard covered my picture on the passport held on the counter in front of him. “Or unless you want to pay the fine.”

“I’ll pay the fine, sir, I said. “My father is very sick. I must see him as soon as possible. How much is the fine.”

“One hundred Dirhams for each day your hair will need to grow to the legal lenght–so for you it would be 300 in total.”

I had no choice but to pay him the cash.

As I came out to collect my luggage, I noticed it wasn’t the same airport it used to be 12 years ago. It was a different place, altogether. There were all kinds of signs in Arabic hanging from the ceilings and painted on the walls. In good old days, at least they had the courtesy to put translation underneath the verses, but since the official language was now Arabic–a switch that had occurred five years ago–they’d stopped doing that. A Quranic recitation filled the hall.

At the customs, a fiery looking officer looked at me from head to toe.

“Carrying any thing in your suitcase we need to know?”

“No sir,” I said. “Please feel free to check it out.”

He had me open my suitcase, and then he started fumbling around my clothes. He grabbed my shaving kit and opened it. Taking the razor out he held it in front of my face. “What exactly is this doing here?”

I’d packed my shaving kit without thinking. God, I should have paid attention to details.

“Did you keep this shamelessly petite beard just to show us?–To enter the Islamic Ummah of Pakistan?” He plunged his hand in my kit again and brought out Colgate Tooth Paste tube, half used. “Do you know this contains alcohol and some pig’s fat?”

“Sorry, sir. Please feel free to throw these things away. I apologize.”

“Recite the fifth Kalimah, then third, then first and then sixth–in this order.”

“I know only the first.”

“100 Dirhams for each kalimah you don’t know or remember–700 hundred Dirhams in total.”

“How many total Kalimahs we are talking about here, sir,” I asked, putting my hand in my pocket to get my valet out.

“1000 Dirhams in addition to the 700 hundred–for you don’t even know how many Kalimahs one’s supposed to know by heart.”

After losing 1700 Dirhams at the Customs, my valet had lost most of its bulk. I came out of the hall, rolling my suitcase, hoping next I’d be looking for a taxi. The place looked dramatically different. A large crowd had gathered to my right, under a flashing neon sign: ‘The Judgement Day Bar’.

Holy Cow! What the hell is this bar about?

Curiosity took the better of me and I slowly strolled towards the crowd; about a hundred men, everyone with a beard, thronging the entrance of the bar.

“What’s this about?” I asked a young man with a long flowing beard.

“Today, after a long time, we’re going to have both stoning and beheading at the same time, under the same roof–usually it’s one or the other, he said shoving himself in the crowd.

“Good Lord! Why at the airport?” I said.

“Can you think of a better public place than the airport. In Islam you must watch people getting punished, and this is the best way to set the example,” he said, looking at me suspiciously. “Did you just say, ‘Good Lord’?”

“No, I said, mashallah–Alhamdolillah, I’m a Muslim–Jazakallah,” I said in quick succession. “I think I’ll go now.”

“What kind of Muslim are you? You are not going to watch the beheading–the preferred way of killing of the infidels in Islam,” he said, giving me a piercing look. “Stay! It will make your faith strong.”

“I’m in a hurry. My father’s very sick,” I said. “Actually he has booked front seats for Friday hand-chopping ceremony at the Charing Cross .”

“On Friday, actually they do hangings after the Jumma prayers–Man where have you been?” He rubbed his chin, puckered out his lips and eyed me curiously.

“Yeah, you’re right, I’m here after a long time. It’ll take a few days to get fully tuned,” I said, turning around. Rolling my suitcase, I quickly got out of the hallway, towards the taxi stand.

The light was dimming out from the sky. I almost fell in a state of shock when I saw hundreds of camels standing where Taxi stand used to be. I stopped a passerby.

“Do you see what I see over there?” I said.

“That’s the Taxi Stand,” he said.

“That’s not what I meant. I mean, do you see what’s inside the Taxi Stand?” I said.

“Taxis,” he said, looking at me as if I’m out of this planet. “They are taxis.” Shaking his head he walked away.

It was only when I got closer I realized that they were indeed taxicabs. Each taxicab had a Camel’s head, neck and the hump festooned to the rooftop. An eager looking man in a deep orange Jilaba took my luggage from me. He pulled the latch on the camel’s hump on top of a taxicab; it swung open revealing the luggage compartment.  He threw my luggage in there and clicked the hump shut.

“Sir ji, where to?” he said.

“ Faisal Town .”

The first thing I noticed, as we were out of the airport area, that all the billboards with pictures of women were replaced by those with men.

“Sir ji, when was the last time you visited Pakistan ?” the driver said, lighting up his beeri. He swung the taxi on the Airport Road , heading towards Fortress Stadium.

“More than ten years,” I said looking at the billboard where a man with a long salt and pepper beard was standing tall, his arms folded under his muscular chest. He was surrounded by four burqa clad women. He looked very familiar. “Who is this guy?” I pointed towards the billboard.

“Sir ji, don’t tell me you don’t know who Imran Khan is!” he said.

“Sorry! but who are those women around him?”

“His wives. Who else? He is a model Muslim. This poster is hung everywhere in the country. Now most people here marry three or four times.”

“Why?”

“Men are in short supply–you will know soon why.”

“How many kids he has?”

“I don’t think anyone knows the count, if you ask me.”

 

———————–

 

We stopped at the traffic light. The driver turned the stereo on; a Bollywood tune filled the air waves. He had a pair of powerful woofers in the back; the car shook with the bass waves.

“What’s your name?” I said, shouting.

“Wali.”

“Wali, I thought the music is not allowed in Pakistan any more, specially the Indian music,” I said, bringing my lips closer to his ear.

“Sir ji, pay attention to the lyrics. It’s not what you think; it’s a naat.”

“What did you just say?” I said.

“It’s a naat,” he said, turning the volume down.

He was right. It was indeed a naat.

“Oh, so the music is allowed as long as it’s in the praise of Muhammad,” I said.

As soon as I uttered the name, Muhammad, Wali kissed the tips of his fingers, and started mumbling a prayer, his eyes shut, his face serene and then slowly assuming increasing tension. Soon foam appeared on his lips. The traffic light turned green, but, oblivious to his surrounding, he kept his eyes shut, his lips moving. Cars honked in the back. The next thing you know that he yanked the door open, jerked himself off the seat and stepped outside, leaving the door ajar. Ignoring the now incessant honking, he knelt on the ground and went intosajda. I looked back anxiously, my heart pounding. The cars immediately behind us started to go in reverse and then the traffic started to move again, passing by our parked vehicle. By the time Wali came back and sunk himself into his seat the light had turned red again.

“What was all that about?” I said, meekly.

Without saying a word, he opened his glove box and took out a knife–clasped. The blade snapped open as he pressed the end of it. He turned around and grabbed me by the collar, his eyes two balls of fire. He put the cold edge of steel on my throat. It felt sharp against my skin.

“Wali, are you OK. What happened to you? Take it easy buddy. I just got here,” I said. The whole thing was just too quick for me to even start experiencing the shock.

“You have uttered the name of You Know Who without the salutations; and, and–this is a crime punishable by death.” He pressed the blade further down my skin.

“Wali, come back to your senses. What’s wrong? Man, let’s move–The light is green. Let’s go. Please–Let’s have a talk on a cup of tea in the Fortress Stadium–I can explain.” Sweat appeared on my forehead.

“I’ve beheaded four nincompoops like you right here where you sit on your dumb ass, and you will be the fifth,” he said. The traffic light had turned red again.

“Aren’t you done then–I mean four is a pretty decent number–Come on now. Let’s cool it buddy,” I said.

“Mufti Sahib says, if I can get seven in total, my place is assured in the highest heaven,” he said, deliriously. “It’s been getting more and more difficult to encounter enemies of Islam like you.”

“Wali–Please, have mercy. I’ll do anything you say. Remember that old hag…”

“Shut up!” He grabbed the nape of my neck in his free hand, pressing the dagger into my skin. “What old hag?”

“That old hag which used to throw trash on You know Who,” I said. I felt the cold edge of steel cutting my skin.

The pressure suddenly got lifted. He looked into my eyes. The fury in his eyes melted like ice.

“So you know the story?”

“Yes I do–I know a lot of stories.”

“You damn well know that the story has cost me the seventh heaven?”

“Fifth,” I corrected him.

“You gotta get to fifth first before getting to the seventh?” he said, folding his knife and putting it back into the glove box.

“On what level you get the virgins?” I said.

“I’ve to ask Mufti Sahib about this,” he said. “But I suspect you start getting them right after you drink the sweet water directly from the hand of You Know Who. I heard Mufti Sahib says, they come flying around when you have drunk enough water and your thirst is gone.”

“Can we start driving please?” I said, fixing my collar. Faisal Town seemed worlds away. “Do you remember where we are heading–I mean in this world?”

“Fortress Stadium?” He said. “Don’t forget the cup of tea you’ve promised.”

The signal turned green. It seemed we’d been standing still for eternity.

“Sure, I’ve time. Perhaps you can help me buy a present for my father,” I said. “I feel bad, since I left in such a hurry, I couldn't get him anything from the US .”

The night descended faster than I expected. I noticed almost all cars have replaced their roof with a camel minus its legs. I was not sure if it’d be the right thing to ask Wali about the camel-tops cars and taxis.

“Wali, please don’t mind asking me: what made you do sajda after I mention You Know Who?”

“Sir ji, your knowledge of Islam is so depressingly poor that a believer would have no remorse killing you right at the spot after listening to a stupid question like that–and you call yourself a Muslim?”

By the time Wali turned into the road leading to Fortress Stadium’s shopping area it was already dark. The shops, lining the boundary of the stadium, were lit up by gas lamps. Wali parked his cab by one of the gates of the stadium. I remembered the place well. This used to be a spot for college student to hang out after dark, for families to eat out and shop in some of the nicest boutiques of Lahore .  

“Now remember this and it may save your life,” Wali said. “If anyone ever utter the name of You Know Who, you should immediately close your eyes and quickly send a blessing, and you should know what I’m talking about: I’m talking about drood.”

“Yeah–I know that part,” I said.

“But what you don’t know is that right after doing that you do a sajda and recite thirty three times the first kalimah–it’s the law now, and if you get caught ignoring it, you will be killed at the spot–people have been mulling about third or fourth heaven for ages without breaking into the higher levels, and they will not hesitate a bit beheading you—that’s how it goes here.”

“Understood! You are a true friend.” I patted his back. “Is there anything else people do here?–I mean besides ascending into the higher level.”

“Your views kill me. I don’t know why the hell I liked you?” Wali said. “What could possibly be better than the next world” I mean do you really believe this world is worth living?–Do you think any thing of this world should hold any attraction for a believer?”

“No! Certainly not!” I said.

We got out of the cab. An eerie silence permeated the air. I saw hordes of people entering through the gate into the stadium. The stadium, from inside, was lit by powerful flood lights mounted on the poles. A massive cat dashed by me chasing a decent sized dog. It caught the poor dog and started mauling it with its paws. The dog’s squeaked in pain as the cat sunk its teeth into its throat. It held on it till dog laid lifeless on the sidewalk. The cat dragged the limp body of the dog into a dark corner and began taking its skin off.

“Only in Pakistan !” Wali said, a note of pride in his voice. He seemed to be having fun watching me in amazement at this uncanny reversal of Nature. It was then I realized I’d landed in a very very strange place, and why my father had been reluctant for me to visit this place.

The crowd entering the stadium seemed to have swollen considerably.

“Night Cricket, I guess?”

“Much more thrilling than cricket,” Wali said, locking his car. “Let’s grab a cup of tea and go inside. I promise you’ll have fun.”

“I think we should move on to Faisal Town ,” I said, sensing a knot in my stomach. My father didn’t even know that I’d landed.

“Not so soon, Sir ji–your father is not going any where,” Wali said, grabbing my shoulder.

We strolled towards the tea stall passing by a line of shops. I stopped by a sign: SALE . I wanted to buy something for my father. I remembered seeing, in old times, restaurants and carpet shops in this very area. The sign detailed the list of merchandise being sold in the store: Martyr Vests On Sale –Buy One Get One Free–we sell only Mujahid Brand; Remote Control Detonation Made Easy. Ultra Light Weight–Exterior made of genuine leather. A Compact and Beautifully crafted Vest filled with stainless steel nuts, knuckles, bolts. Buy One and get a Free Mobile with 1000 minutes. All Credit Cards Excepted. Dogs Vests available here. Martyr Vests for Children. Graduation Gifts–Self Exploding Toys–Come Try Our Painless Transition Devices. For Live Demonstration Call In Advance–Precision Controlled Explosions:Dial the number of people and the radius and get the results you wanted: Yours only reliable Outfit to the Other World–A World ahead of the competition.

The sign above the store read: Marble Pellets for Quick Stoning. Our light weight stones make it effortless to throw from a distance. Ask for our new item: Stones with a Handle for those with arthritis. Reusable stones–buy a dozen and get the other dozen for half the price. Colorful Stones for initiating children into divine laws implementation stepwise strategy: please ask for the booklet. Singing Stones: You throw the stone and it will recite the Quranic verses, activated by airspeed-iimpress your neighbors–two AA batteries free. No Refunds after use. 25% restocking fee for all opened boxes. Exchange possible on case by case basis.

“Let’s find some good item for your father,” Wali said.

Before I could talk to Wali, he disappeared inside the shop.

Ahmed Asif