UPON our arrival in Moscow, a plumpy but pretty Valentina and her lanky and lean male counterpart, Luna were attached with us as interpreters. Besides being fluent in English, they spoke such pure and classical Urdu that at times we were left high and dry as to what they had just uttered.
For instance when I exhausted my supply of camera films I asked Valentina. “Where can I get films for my camera?” and she replied, with mischief in her eyes “Film? We can visit some cinema house and watch a film there.”
“I want to procure film reels for my still camera” I implored knowing fully well that she was pulling my leg
“Hazrat to phir feeta kahiye feeta”
“Ok, where can I get some feeta for my camera?”
“From Gum store which is the biggest store on earth” she said proudly.
Gum was indeed a mini-Moscow. But the services available there were terrible. A simple roll of film was not available. Instead one had to stand in a queue for hours and were given a roll of film without a spool. Then you had to stand in another queue and obtain a spool. Finally, another queue so that you can go into a small darkroom and try to feed this roll into the spool, while the door of the darkroom was battered by other aspirants.
But Gum was not all that primitive either. I saw another queue of people waiting patiently, stretching right into Gorky street. I asked “Valintina, are these people queuing for a piece of meat or a loaf of bread?”
“No Mr Tarar”, she replied seriously, “These people are queuing for something much more important, a new edition of Fiydor Doestivisky’s novel The Brothers Karamazov.”
“You mean none of these Muscovites have read this great novel so far?”
“They know it by heart Mr Tarar, like most of the Russian classics. But if a new edition of any of these classics comes out they simply have to buy it even if they have to miss a meal or two because books are more important than food”.
I bear witness to the fact that in 1957 an average Russian would have gone hungry, dress shabbily, in order to save just to be able to buy a new edition of any classic, to procure a ticket to see Swan Lake in the Bolshoi Theatre, or to purchase records of classical music by Beethoven, Wagner and their own Tchaikovsky. I really could not understand this strange phenomenon. An average British could not care two hoots for classical music or literature. Compared with Russians they were totally devoid of any aesthetics, although the British dressed better, had bars and nightclubs, prostitutes and democracy.
One of the most memorable evenings in my life took place when I had the opportunity of watching the heavenly ballet, Swan Lake, performed by one of the greatest ballerinas in the world, the legendary Galena Olanova.
Those were the times when Vladimir Lenin was the only symbol of Russian pride, revered, worshipped and honoured like a mythical god, what with the thousands upon thousands of statutes, photographs littered all over the place. So a visit to the Lenin Museum was a must and then under the walls of Kremlin in Red Square into an underground chamber, seeing the great leader face to face, personally was an historical experience never to be repeated, as the good man is not there anymore.
Again there was a queue more than a kilometre in length outside the mausoleum. But being honoured guests, we were allowed to jump this queue and were in the presence of Lenin within an hour. We also had the pleasure of meeting “The Great Father” Joseph Stalin, for free.
There was a holy hush in the underground chamber where side-by-side in separate glass cases, the two leaders who laid the foundation of world communism, rested in peace, and in war.
Stalin who broke the back of Nazi Germany, was in his uniform, his thick moustaches were still defiant, and his handsome face was pale but impressive. And Lenin, attired in his typical three piece suit, broad tie with a thick knot, bald head, eyes closed, was from waist downwards covered in black. The guards politely requested the awe-struck and at times weeping visitors to move on.
When a journalist asked Nikita Khrushchev about the maintenance of these bodies he replied, “Oh, every now and then we take the good fellows out of their boxes, polish their faces, clean their insides and put them back.”
A few years afterwards Mr Khrushchev simply forgot to put Stalin back in his box. He was cremated and his ashes buried under the Kremlin wall. Later on Lenin met the same fate.
About three years ago, I had the opportunity of seeing the great Mao Tse-tung, in the same state, in Beijing. It remains to be seen as how long his remains, remain.
Our hotel, Zolotoikolis, was reasonably comfortable and the food tents served hundreds of different dishes from all the Soviet republics. We always opted for Uzbek and Tajik foods i.e. Polau and Kebabs etc. However, there was one very embarrassing situation that had me worried. The bathrooms were communal.
The very first day when I wanted to take a shower and entered one of these, not knowing that it was reserved for bashful ladies. Upon seeing me, a male, perhaps these bashful ladies, although without any proper or improper attire, did not blink an eye and told me smilingly to go to the men’s washroom. Although they did not have any objection if I stayed on, I ran like a rabbit.
In the male section I was the only bather who was having a shower with a towel tied round his waist. In public toilets the Russians provided the same arrangement, rows upon rows of commodes side by side on which perched candidates seeked relief, and in the meantime gossiping and smoking leisurely.
Gradually we became enamoured of Moscow and its simple and friendly inhabitants. The six week ‘Teach yourself Russian’ course, which I had completed prior to coming here helped me a great deal in coming closer to the average Russian.
It was our last evening in Moscow and after the closing ceremony, again in Lenin Stadium, we were invited by the famed Tajik dancer, Tamara Khanum, to her flat on Gorky Street. The great lady who was in her seventies then cooked us all the typical Tajik dishes herself and served them personally. After dinner she performed for us the folk dances of Tajikistan. Her daughter too was an expert modern dancer.
I remained in touch with Tamara Khanum for many years to come till her death in Tashkent. She spoke and wrote beautiful Urdu.
When we bid Dasvidania, or goodbye to our Russian friends, and our translators, Valentina and Luna, we had tears in our eyes. We thought that our life would not have been complete without a visit to this great country and its lovable people. Now we would not mind if upon our return to Pakistan we were sent packing to the dungeons of Mianwali jail, it was well worth it.
UPON our arrival in Moscow, a plumpy but pretty Valentina and her lanky and lean male counterpart, Luna were attached with us as interpreters. Besides being fluent in English, they spoke such pure and classical Urdu that at times we were left high and dry as to what they had just uttered.
