Viewed from the United States, the image of the Soviet Union was that of a predatory power with global ambitions, determined to impose its will and enslave the people of the world. Viewed from the Soviet Union, the image of the United States was that of a gangster-nation with a military-industry complex dominated by robber-barons who, too, wanted to enslave the world.
Apart from mutual contempt, the two powers had in common the capacity to blow up the world into smithereens, and thus was the world balanced, precipitously. Somehow, I was more aware of the Cold War in Moscow than I had been when I had been in Washington DC, more aware of the KGB than the CIA. Perhaps, I had seen too many James Bond films. Perhaps, I had felt low because I had been laid low with a painful backache.
I had felt the small of my back go as I was getting ready to go to the famed Russian circus. Our manager, Shamim D. Ahmed, had sent for a doctor who turned out to a comely lady and she had felt my pulse, asked me to put out my tongue and solemnly confined me to bed, and I spent the evening contemplating the ceiling of my room. Later in the evening, another doctor arrived, far from comely and more a heavyweight, she could have been the ‘fat lady’ from the circus and she flipped me again, belly-up. She nodded and said something in Russian, and I took it to mean: “You’ll live.” By an application of mind over matter, I declared myself fit and went down to the lobby of the hotel to await the return of our guests.
There were sight-seeing trips, conducted tours and we were able to get a bus-window view of Moscow. Sometimes, we would try and engage our guide in conversation other than tourism-related. We were not particularly encouraged. In every group, there is a smart-alec. One such smart-alec complained that we were only being shown “the good parts of Moscow.” He was firmly rebuffed: “When someone shows you his kitchen, do you also want to be shown the garbage bin.” Our tour-conductor had a point.
No trip to Moscow was complete without a visit to the ballet. I was not into ballet and was not much of a culture person. When I had first gone to Paris, I had gone to the Louvre and seen the Mona Lisa, a culture-duty fulfilled, but I listened to music, to Beethoven and Mozart whenever I felt that I needed a spark of inspiration.
I did not see myself as entirely a philistine. We saw the Bolshoi Ballet Company’s The Swan Lake and I was familiar with the music of Tchaikovsky and the ballerina Maya Plissetskaya was the reining queen, a resident goddess. It was an enthralling evening and when it was over, the packed audience gave the cast a standing ovation that lasted a few minutes. Maya Plissetskaya took one bow after the other and as the audience threw flowers, she threw kisses. If one had to be introduced to ballet, it seemed a good idea to start with the best.
Nur Khan had arrived and Balwant Dass, Shamim and I had gone to the airport to receive him. I cannot recall if there was any Russian official from Civil Aviation or from the national carrier, Aeroflot, to meet him. There may have been, but it was a no-fuss arrival. The weather was not the only way of demonstrating a lack of warmth. This became evident when I encountered a man in the lobby of the hotel and he introduced himself as a journalist and told me that he wanted to interview Nur Khan. It was not unreasonable to assume that he wanted to talk about PIA. I telephoned Nur Khan from the lobby and he told me to bring the journalist up to his room and to ask Balwant Dass and Shamim D. Ahmed to be also present. The journalist and I waited for the lift and I made some throw-away remark about the inefficiency of the lift, he just glared at me. Russian eyes were certainly not smiling, and I got the distinct impression that he was not interested in small talk, pleasantries or in this case, unpleasantries. It also struck me that he was, probably, not a journalist. He was too earnest. Not a word was exchanged between us as the slow-moving lift made its way up.
Nur Khan was waiting for us. It was an extraordinary interview, if it could be called that. Not a single question was asked about PIA. Instead, we were subjected to a tirade and the tone was threatening. The Soviet Union was not happy about the thrust of Pakistan’s foreign policy, that Pakistan had become a lackey of the imperialists and the consequences of such a policy were grave. He brooked no interruption and it became a one-sided conversation, recalling what Queen Victoria had said of Gladstone: “He (Gladstone) speaks to me as if it was a public meeting.”
Nur Khan listened to him patiently. Clearly, he was delivering a message, if not a warning. He had declined an offer of a cup of tea and it dawned on me that we would not have been able to deliver even that token hospitality, as there was no room-service in the hotel. Nur Khan said to me in Urdu to get rid of him, and I got up and told him that Nur Khan had another engagement and I walked him to the door. Nur Khan looked at me: “What the hell was that about?” I volunteered the opinion that he wanted to convey a message through Nur Khan to Ayub Khan. “He could have delivered that message to the Pakistan Embassy,” Nur Khan snapped.
Nur Khan asked me what the food was like in the hotel. I told him that I had ordered a steak and it would have needed a chisel to cut it. Shamim said that there was a Central Asian restaurant and one could get shish-kebabs and naan, and it wasn’t too bad. We went to that restaurant and indeed the food was not bad. As we left the restaurant, it started to rain and no taxi was in sight. The restaurant was near Red Square and Shamim suggested that we should walk in that direction as there was a better chance of finding a taxi. The rain got heavier and we found ourselves at Red Square, taking turns to hail a taxi. There were not many people about and puddles had formed and we stepped gingerly around them. We must have been quite a sight, yelling “taxi” at every passing vehicle and getting drenched.
There is, on every visit, the small matter of shopping. It seems to be obligatory. But there was really nothing to buy. I was told that long-playing records were particularly inexpensive and I went to GUM, Moscow’s equivalent of London’s Selfridges and New York’s Macy’s. I bought a few, mainly the symphonies of Beethoven. But there was nothing else there that one could not be had at Karachi’s Elphinstone Street or Bohri Bazaar. Perhaps, I wasn’t looking hard enough.
There was also an encounter with Russian bureaucracy. A.J. Kardar was making a documentary film on PIA. He had shot a lot of footage in China. He wanted a few shots of Moscow to establish it as a PIA destination. I had asked Shamim to get permission for A.J. Kardar and his film-crew to do some shooting in Moscow. He hadn’t got much joy from the authorities. I asked Shamim what was the problem and he suggested that since I was in Moscow, I could talk to the authorities myself. One dealt with the authorities via Aeroflot. The official concerned at Aeroflot informed me that permissions take long and it would take him several days to find out which authority dealt with permissions of the sorts we were dealing with. Thereafter, they would decide, in their own time. Nothing could be hurried. Talking to him was like talking to a wall. I was willing to forgive our own bureaucrats. We never got the permission and established Moscow in the soundtrack of the film, as a commentary point.
It had been too short a trip. Moscow is a big city and has charms of its own. From the little I saw of it, it was a city that exuded power. The Soviet Union had been a beacon of light for oppressed people, it had been the first country to put a man in space, but it had become a superpower and that dims the light of any beacon. Like the Unites States, it had lost its idealistic bearings. All others were becoming like film extras, bit players.
