WHEN PIA claimed, as it often did, that it was more than an airline, it meant that it had taken imitative that fell more properly in nation-building. The air link between East and West Pakistan, the helicopter services, the Northern Areas operations in Gilgit and Skardu fell into mainstream operations, even as they served a national purpose. But PIA had started to stretch its wings and had gone into the hotel business in a big way, and it was Nur Khan and Yusuf Haroon who had been instrumental in bringing the Intercontinental chain of hotels to Pakistan. There was PIA and the national airline had gone into the poultry business. PIA had set up its own printing press, to be followed by its own advertising agency.
But it was the setting up of the PIA Arts Academy that seemed somewhat far-out. That the national airline should be sponsoring a song and dance troupe was outlandish enough. But that it should become a department of the airline was unusual. PIA had a full-fledged sports department, but culture was a bridge too far. Imagine the Bolshoi as being a part of Aeroflot or the New York Philharmonic Symphony being a part of TWA. But it was an inspirational move. There was a background.
Through the good offices of Yousuf Haroon, PIA had organized a food festival at the Geneva Hotel Intercontinental. We had flown some cooks and to create an ambience, we had decided to send some musicians who would play during the evening. I cannot remember whose idea it was to pick Nathoo Khan, the sarangi player and Allahditta, the tabla maestro. We had no idea how the audience would react to them, in between courses of chicken korma and biryani. When I arrived in Geneva, I discovered that a right royal row was brewing. The management of the Geneva Intercontinental considered the two musicians as a part of a floor-show, that the two were cabaret artists and they were being treated accordingly, as a part of kitchen help.
They were, for instance, not allowed to have their meals in the regular restaurants. As was put to me by Nathoo Khan and Allahditta: “They want us to eat in the kitchen.” I went to see the manager and started at low steam and said that I was sure that it was a misunderstanding. He said that there was no misunderstanding and it was a part of the contract. I did not much care for his tone which suggested that he thought that I, too, was a part of the floor-show! I told him that I wasn’t much impressed by his attitude and would like to meet someone more senior. “I want to cancel the Food Festival,” I threatened him and for good measure added: “Would you treat someone like Yehudi Menhuin like this?”
He still hung on about the contract. Imagine the Swiss equivalent of an Islamabad ‘babu’. I then told him that these musician would eat in whatever restaurant they pleased, and PIA would pick up the bill. In the end, all rage subsided and the lady public relations officer of the hotel intervened and we were able to resolve matters. The lady public relations officer said something about a dress-code and I told her that Churchill had also complained about the way that Mahatama Gandhi had dressed when he had gone to Buckingham Palace to meet His Majesty George V. She had no idea what I was talking about, but it sounded sufficiently authentic to her. Cultural ignorance is a double-edged sword. It was a small victory. The big one was to come later that evening when Nathoo Khan performed.
For the opening of the food festival, PIA had hosted a gala dinner. It was a black-tie affair and the banquet hall was filled with the elite and the prominent, the beautiful people of Geneva. As soon as Nathoo Khan and Allahditta came on, a hush descended on the banquet-hall. Genius has a way of announcing itself. They played through the night and into the early hours of the morning. Not a guest left. They were transfixed. A lot of them returned, not for the food, but for the music. India had its Ravi Shankar. Nathoo Khan was no lesser star.
The first director of the PIA Arts Academy was Shamsul Huda Chowdary, then the Assistant Director of Tourism. He would, in the years to come, become Information Minister in the Bangladesh Government. With him, as his deputy, was Mrs Mehrunnisa Masroor, a talented and creative person. She was extremely hardworking and expected all others to be the same, and she had a short fuse. She was a strong person and I imagined that all creative people in the arts were temperamental. She had written a ballet called Sons of the River, a story of a people’s uprising and resistance to an invading army. The ballet was rich in symbolism but not the sort that one would expect to see performed at the Albert Hall in London. The PIA Arts Academy was housed in a big bungalow in PECHS, not far from where I lived, and I would sometimes go there to see the rehearsals.
President Ayub Khan was going on a state visit to Britain and Asghar Khan had suggested to him that the occasion was auspicious enough for a performance of a cultural performance by a Pakistani troupe and suggested the PIA Arts Academy. Ayub Khan immediately agreed. No other comparable troupe had ever given a performance before an audience that was gathered at the Commonwealth Institute, and which included Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh, Princess Margaret and the host, President Ayub Khan.
This was great news for the PIA Arts Academy but our enthusiasm was not wholly shared by our embassy in London. They had certain reservations or made them up, peeved no doubt that all this had been arranged without their consent and advice. They wanted no commercial exploitation of the performance as it was against Buckingham Palace protocol. They suggested that the name of the troupe be changed to something like ‘Pakistan Song and Dance Ensemble’. No mention of PIA. We had planned to have our air-hostesses wearing their Pierre Cardin uniforms act as ushers. The embassy suggested that this would be commercial exploitation and even recommended that the girls wear saris. And, of course, there would be no traces of any PIA publicity around.
Asghar Khan showed me the letter he had received from the embassy. I told him that we should not accept any of these conditions. We were the national flag-carrier and not some paanwalla shop. He asked me to go to London and sort the matter out.
I went over to our Embassy in Sloane Square and met the “competent” officials who simply said that they were going by protocol. I decided to contact Buckingham Palace directly and spoke to someone in the Press Office. He said he was delighted to speak to me and had wondered why no one had contacted him before this. I asked him about the protocol and he said: “What protocol?” I told him about our reservations, without mentioning the embassy. “Of course, we are aware you are an airline and you can use the performance for your publicity,” he said, adding, “in good taste, of course,” I thanked him and called our agency and told them that they could go to town and dress up the Commonwealth Institute with PIA banners. They did such a good job that Prince Philip told Asghar Khan that PIA was surely milking the occasion and he seemed to approve.
There were the usual tantrums and hiccups and panics, but the troupe was in good shape and was busy rehearsing. What struck me that there was no concern shown for security. Certainly no one with AK-47 rifles would be hanging about and there was no equivalent of the Special Branch asking to see the guest list in advance. Had we put on a show for Ayub Khan in Pakistan, the whole area would have been swarming with police both in uniform and plain clothes. I got to the Commonwealth Institute an hour in advance and there wasn’t even a traffic policeman around.
I must confess that I was nervous as we approached curtain-time and I went backstage to see if everything was okay. This was going to be the first public appearance of the PIA Arts Academy, and I hoped that everyone would hold his or her nerve. I checked with Mrs Masroor and she looked a little harassed, but in good spirits. I wished her luck.
The Arts Academy put on a really splendid show. Everything down to the tiniest detail went like clockwork. You could tell from the audience. There was no restlessness, no shuffling of feet, signs of boredom. The performers got a prolonged, standing ovation.
Her Majesty, accompanied by Prince Phillip and Princess Margaret, went backstage and met the artists. Princess Margaret said that she had enjoyed the performance so much that she would return to see it one more time when it would be performed commercially. On being introduced to Rafi Anwar, one of the lead dancers, Prince Phillip asked him what he did in PIA. And before Rafi Anwar could answer him, Prince Phillip said: “Don’t tell me that you are a Boeing captain?”
It had been a black-tie affair and when I returned to the hotel and a friend of mine came to see me, I was still in my Tuxedo and he said, by way of a joke: “Where have you been? To Buckingham Palace?” I said: “Not quite, but I’ve just met the Queen.”
Even as I recall that event and that evening, I am amazed by our audacity. First, there was Asghar Khan who came up with the idea. Then there was Ayub Khan who had agreed and finally there were the artists of the PIA Arts Academy who made it possible. The bigger the idea, the easier it is to execute it. It’s the small ideas that get all tangled up. The sky, after all, is over the horizon.
WHEN PIA claimed, as it often did, that it was more than an airline, it meant that it had taken imitative that fell more properly in nation-building. The air link between East and West Pakistan, the helicopter services, the Northern Areas operations in Gilgit and Skardu fell into mainstream operations, even as they served a national purpose. But PIA had started to stretch its wings and had gone into the hotel business in a big way, and it was Nur Khan and Yusuf Haroon who had been instrumental in bringing the Intercontinental chain of hotels to Pakistan. There was PIA and the national airline had gone into the poultry business. PIA had set up its own printing press, to be followed by its own advertising agency.
