ROUNDING into the home stretch of a thoroughly misspent life, I find myself amongst the also-rans in a race contested largely by laggards, misfits and assorted oddballs. Sad but true.

No, the outcome wasn’t fixed all along by the men in suits. A case, more likely, of throwing the fight, both wilfully and otherwise, and that too for no material gain. It was great fun though, on and off, while it lasted.

Allow me then the soupcon of cynicism, a dash of despair, that is not so much a garnish but meat and gravy to those who must amuse themselves by cocking a questioning eye at others. Or by revelling in the profundity of their own thoughts, such as they are.

The concrete jungle is no place for right-thinking people who want nothing from life but cigarette, food and rent money, and a dog or three with whom to share the odd civil moment. But stagger on we must. Along the way we somehow pick up spouses, tax liabilities and chronic osteoarthritis in the knees. Whether it becomes easier or tougher as the years roll by is not a moot question.

Consider, for a starter, the grisly pressures on a middle-aged man whose equally decrepit wife is hell-bent on a McDonald’s aquatic birthday party — for herself. This horror too will come to pass, believe me, for to put the foot down is no longer in my nature. I’ve tried, only to be cast into the outer darkness where there is much wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Besides, I owe her one from Saturday night. She did, after all, go along with the suggestion that nothing thrown up by the present circumstances could, by any stretch of the imagination, compare with the primal pleasure of sliding down the sandstone walls of the ‘Hava Mandir’ in Jehangir Kothari Parade.

It was very wet, for one thing. And then there was all that trouble with the security guards. Still, into each life some rain must fall.

The helpmeet has many sterling qualities but taking undisguised pleasure in my discomfort is not one of them. The day is still green in my memory — I can almost smell it — when I was conned into calling up a regional television station in Vermont to inquire after a programme that simply did not exist.

Never had, in fact. But for reasons that shall never be fully explained, as the late Hunter Thompson was fond of saying, I was on the spot to make inquiries nonetheless.

What’s happened to Mr Bumpy, why isn’t it on the air any more? [Hyena-esque laughter in the background, on my end.] I’m sure I don’t understand what you’re talking about, sir [Americans are very polite, by and large.] But I could hear him thinking “ignorant immigrant”, a monstrous charge for I was only on holiday.

To cut a long story short, the name of the show was ‘Bump in the Night’ and the woman knew it all along. But I can’t fault her, really, for it is her mission in life to impress on the unsuspecting that we are not put in this world for pleasure alone.

Sure. But how about a little escapism now and then? The crap hit the fan so long ago the years don’t bear counting. Things are only going to get worse, not better. Murderers are at large in Karachi, the mullahs are becoming fatter and the army owns all the choice real estate.

Want to talk about that? There’s always next week.

Enough said, for now.

imalik@dawn.com

Mr Rushdie, now Sir Salman, is not going to make it any easier for the British government or the angry Ummah by politely returning a title with thanks that is making his living days a deadly game. Another man who valued the freedom to move around would have done so already for there could be few things more pleasurable than walking to the neighbourhood pub for a pint. But it appears Sir Salman values knighthood more. Perhaps he knows the worth of his work; that it cannot assure him a place in literature that less known but more meritorious writers enjoy. One doesn’t know but it is possible he might have been working for this title all along, something that is now known to have become a possibility in the reign of Mr Tony Blair and the scandalous days of ‘honours for money’. But, the question is, could a writer afford the kind of sums the vendors of honour should be demanding. The answer is yes if the writer in question happens to be the author of The Satanic Verses. He alone could, from the savings a secluded life passed in perpetual hiding with no outdoor expenses would help one to pile up. For such an inmate of official protection there could be no better or wiser investment than buying himself a niche among the British nobility. For migrants who landed on the banks of the Thames to put a decent meal on the family table, the prospect of sitting in the Upper Chamber and supping with the landed and lauded gentry would be a dream even for a dyed in the wool Tommy. Ask our good Lord Nazir.

The House of Lords is an antiquated relic that mediaeval monarchs used to assemble for raising money from the barons for the maintenance of the royal household. It has gradually become a part of the British legislature but is increasingly being regarded as a white elephant that the taxpayer is loath to keep. The Labour Party assuming power in 1997 promised to convert it into an elected second chamber but Tony Blair changed his mind and instead called for a fully appointed body. When voted in 2003 this measure was defeated in the House of Commons. Commenting on Blair’s failure The Guardian said: now the House of Lords will remain the laughing stock of the western world. Now the chance of reform has collapsed, all due to a moment of madness in which a prime minister already accused of anti- democratic instincts has done himself needless harm. Was it the insouciance of a mind floating somewhere between Washington and Baghdad? The paper described the peers as ‘old turkeys on the red benches’ joining whom Sir Salman has managed to kick up so much dust and given his notoriety another life.

The scandal of ‘honours for money’ that somehow remained unprobed could possibly have been a route but generally speaking things do not happen like that in societies where the rule of law prevails. There is a system for everything. Now to become a member of the upper chamber or in the words of The Guardian an old turkey, an aspirant can put forward his own nomination if there is no one available to nominate him or her to the House of Lords Appointments Commission. The nominee must be over 21 years of age, a British, Irish or Commonwealth citizen and preferably a resident and taxpayer with a record of significant achievement within the nominee’s chosen way of life, with the ability to make effective contribution to the work of the House of Lords, having the time to make such contribution, possessing integrity and independence and a commitment to the highest standards of public service and being independent of any political party and its politics. The nominee will be required to report any donations made to any political party or its member. Once honoured, members receive no salary for their parliamentary duties but they may claim expenses related to daily attendance at the rate of 61 pounds per day or pounds 122 in case of overnight stay and peers may receive 51 pounds per day for office work when the House is in session. In comparison to what our parliamentarians get in cash and kind this is truly a joke because the minimum wage is pound 6 to 10 an hour for housemaids, cleaners and sanitary workers. There’s hardly any ground therefore for grudging Sir Salman his daily wage as a Lord.

Looking at his selection however and what factors may have gone into consideration, it would be naive to assume as Mr Anwar Sayyed has done in his op-ed piece last Sunday that the commission had his entire work before it and not just The Satanic Verses when it decided to make him a life peer. Whatever the commission may regard as achievement, in the eyes of the Ummah it is that blasphemous book by which he will ever be remembered. Otherwise Mr Rushdie is just another writer of fiction who writes a clever prose but whose work is devoid of that pathos, humanity and wisdom that make Gorki, Maupassant, Manto, Hesse, Dostoevsky, Quratul Ain, Hemingway and Ghulam Abbas, to name a few, great figures of literature. But since Mr Rushdie hadn’t uttered a single word in his justification or added in anyway to his error and is known to have repented if not recanted the folly of his unbridled imagination our murderous fury against him was uncalled for. Yet it would amount to losing faith in British discretion to imagine that the commission failed to take note of the mayhem its thoughtless decision would let loose in the Muslim world.

It is not difficult however to understand Mr Rushdie getting himself nominated for just this kind of effect because he must have felt that he was being forgotten, that his name was sinking into oblivion and he was ceasing to be that singular person whose neck two billion hands sought to wrench. Good or bad making a name is all that matters. One remembers when he went to America he begged for a few minutes’ audience with President Clinton in the White House. The President was reluctant but agreed to appease his liberal supporters. He met the eager writer in a corridor of the White House. The famous know how demeaning seeking fame can be. But keeping notoriety alive is a risky game.