THE happenings of Nov 3, 2007 should not have surprised or ‘shocked’ anyone who has lived in this country and observed the quirks of its governance and workings. Such things have happened since the first partial martial law was declared in Lahore in the early 1950s when the Ahmediya community came under attack.

Since then, with remarkable regularity, martial laws and emergencies have come and gone – some staying for inordinately prolonged periods. As for this latest strike at our liberties and fundamental rights, all warning signs were flashing red since the events of March this year, but all, individuals, institutions, and civil society chose to carry on regardless.

Declarations of all sorts will continue on in this blighted republic until we manage to somehow lose our tails. As the once high policeman, former interior secretary, now turned social and historical lecturer, Zafar Rathore, puts it, we belong to the species known as ‘subcontinental monkeys’, which apt description should (again) neither surprise nor ‘shock’.

Well over two decades ago I wrote a column headed ‘Ham, Sam, Jam’ about three friends of mine – Ahmad Hameedi (Ham), Abbas Hussain Shah (Sam) and Jam Sadiq Ali (Jam), the common bond amongst the four of us being that we were capable of laughing at ourselves, at each other, and at the national antics as practised by the national species.

The first two, Ham and Sam, were civil servants, members of the old defunct once respected Civil Service of Pakistan. Both were indeed civil. The third, Jam, was a politician, and a skilfully dangerous one at that, well trained as one of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto’s henchmen. His services were sought in 1990 by President Ghulam Ishaq Khan. He was brought back from self-exile in London to be the chief minister of the province of Sindh with the mandate to keep out of power the party of Benazir Bhutto, Daughter of the East and Star of the West, that pale shadow of her father’s Pakistan People’s Party.

Jam was the first to go off to meet his maker in 1992. Sam lingered on in ill health until 2001, and my very good friend Ahmad Maqsood Hameedi died on Nov 4, the day after President General Pervez Musharraf declared, ‘I will not allow Pakistan to commit suicide’ and lobbed his mortar shell. Ahmad’s death was not unexpected, he had been stricken with cancer for over a year, but it left a large and likeable family and many friends with deep grief in their hearts and a void in their lives.

Ahmad was aptly described by a friend the other day as being an ‘insaan dost’ who knowingly neither hurt human being, animal, bird or bee. An extremely well read man, he had a vast library. His mind and memory were exceptional and his perceptions and prognoses accurate. He was a good sounding board as far as the expected actions of the ‘subcontinental monkeys’ were concerned and I will sadly miss his various predictions and analyses of characters and events. My grief over Ahmad’s loss was aggravated last week by the departure of a school friend, Hoshang Bharucha, another rare bird – a Parsi politician. He was at home with the hoi polloi, with the more elevated classes, and managed to hold his own, as a member of the provincial assembly, with the scions of Sindh. He was elected by our community time and time again.

To return to the most colourful Jam Sadiq Ali of Sindh who revelled in being a member of the political set up of his province. In those far off days when security was lax and pomp had not reached the ridiculous heights of the late 1990s and this new century, he rode around Karachi with a motorcade of ten vehicles. Hypocrisy not being amongst his many sins, he freely admitted to a taste for pomp and circumstance.

When the elections to the provincial assemblies were called in 1990, Jam rang me one morning threatening to call on me. No, no, I said, don’t disturb my neighbourhood. I will call on you at your convenience. In turn, Jam said no. I will call on you, he told me firmly, because there is something I require to be done. I had to agree, but asked him to discard his praetorian guards at the Teen Talwar roundabout and from there just come in one noiseless car. It didn’t work out – he arrived with due fanfare at 11:00 hours. What can I offer you, I asked. Scotland’s finest grain, was his answer, and what’s more you will keep me company – as far as he was concerned the sun could be poised at any angle.

What he wanted was my intervention with Bharucha, to prevail upon him to give his vote to Jam’s party. Difficult, I told him, Bharucha is as reliable as are you. I can not ensure that he will keep to his word. But, said Jam, there is honour amongst thieves and I will be satisfied if he gives you his assurance.

So, I immediately had a gentle word with Bharucha whose response was not so gentle. However, I managed to impress upon him that we could not afford to be choosy and it would be in the interests of the community were he to give his vote to the lesser of the two evils. This appealed to his practical mind and he told me to assure Jam of his support. This I did.

At 15:00 hours the same day, a very angry Bharucha rang and using the choicest of Parsi Gujarati expletives shouted, ‘Deceit, deceit. There is no honour amongst thieves. Sad, very sad indeed.’ Jam had incarcerated him. You are free enough to telephone me, I responded. Where are you? In the Chief Minister’s guest house, I was told.

Now, Jam had given me a special entry pass to his house and office. It announced that ‘Kowgi permitted to see me any time, any place. Till death. Sadiq Ali.’ I fished it out and drove off to his house. He was holding the usual meeting when I arrived, but I was let in and he dismissed all except one. Have you met Mr X, he asked me. No, I had not had the pleasure. A very famous man, Jam assured me. He has been Her Majesty’s guest in the UK for six years and now, back in the homeland, is more loyal to me than to the Queen. Unknown to Jam, it was he who had rounded up potential vote givers.

Bharucha was produced, there was an exchange of the usual Gujarati-Sindhi pleasantries, Bharucha was placated by Jam explaining to him that the other side was picking up MPAs, and if Bharucha was Shanghai-ed by them, even he, Capo de Tutti Capi, would be helpless. As he was provided with all facilities, a full bar, telephone, a well sprung double bed and bathroom, would the politically-wise Bharucha not stay put until the election was held? He agreed. He had a full-fledged party that night to which all his friends were invited.

One can but pity those unable to laugh at themselves.

arfc@cyber.com