These days, Moscow is a city of abandoned or discarded gods. At times a lone and die-hard worshipper stealthily places a red flower under their uprooted feet. Mostly it’s an old man -- who cannot reconcile with the changing times and cannot bow before the new gods of capitalism -- who does that. He does not receive any pension anymore and the state is not responsible for that. He might receive some rubles if he stands long enough outside a church.

The grand, golden-domed churches are the latest industry of present-day Russia -- even the Red Square now has holy icons and crosses.

I was one of those very first Pakistanis who half-a-century ago penetrated the iron curtain and witnessed communism’s heyday. I remember the then Prime Minister, Mr Suharawardy once said whenever one of those traitors who dared to go to the Soviet Union, a sworn enemy of ours, returned to Karachi from London, he would be immediately dispatched to Mianwali Jail. Back then I was a teenager whose cheeks glowed whenever I saw a female and was drunk with the bubbling wine of youth. And now after 50 years, I was once again in Moscow, an old man whose teeth are falling, who couldn’t care less even if Miss Universe passes -- age has taken its toll. I have changed, but I have the same face, though a bit wrinkled.

But all these years not only has Russia changed its face, it is carrying a different identity altogether too. Fifty years back its identity card carried the images of Marx and Lenin and declared that religion was opium for the masses. The present-day identity card of Russia carries the sole image of dollar with Russian Orthodox Church as state religion. The front page of Moscow Times displays Mr Putin reverently kissing the holy icons held by a ceremoniously decked high priest. Mr Putin was once an atheist and a KGB man.

Even the cobble stones of Krasnaya Ploshit, the red square, were staunch communists in those days and now the shadows of MacDonald’s and KFC are presenting a mime show of capitalism on the surface of these structures. The paper tigers of Mao have unleashed its most lethal weapon, hamburgers and French fries, on both China and Russia and have conquered them. Not only the system but everything else has changed drastically. Gone are the days of plump, shabbily dressed Russian maidens. Now girls in Moscow rival the dames of Paris and New York as far as dresses and makeup go. The famous Gorky street has also vanished, renamed Tverskaya, which was home to the most expansive and prestigious fashion houses of the world. The roads are packed with luxury cars. During my stay, I spotted at least two German Maybakhs that can be had for seven hundred million Pakistani rupees. The populace seems happy under the new system.

The famed Russian novelist Maxim Gorky visited New York at the beginning of the last century and penned down his impressions with a strong ideological tinge in a travelogue entitled The City of Yellow Devil. He mentioned in the travelogue that the dwellers of this city were fired with capitalistic greed and were in pursuit of the yellow devil, that is, gold, and in the process had lost their identity as human beings. I wonder what he would have called present-day Moscow if he were still around. “The latest city of yellow devil,” perhaps!

And how come I was again in Moscow, a city which has recently been declared the most expensive destination of the world? Well, I was there because Moscow State University had invited me officially to deliver some lectures pertaining to Urdu and Russian literature at its department of oriental studies. Almost 35 years back Professor Galina Deshenko, who was heading the Urdu department then, included some of my writings in the syllabus, some extracts from Nikley Teri Talash Mein, Piyar Ka Pehla Shahar and my novelette Fakhta that had Moscow as their background source material. Ever since Professor Deshenko and I have been continuously in touch and she’s been well aware of my literary career throughout these years.

The Institute of Afro-Asian studies of Moscow State University of N.V. Lomonosov was the venue of my first lecture which was delivered in English for the benefit of Hindi, Sansikrat, Tamil and Turkish language students and their professors and its subject was “The impact of Russian literature on Urdu literature”.

The second lecture was exclusively delivered for Urdu language students who quoted very extensively from my writings at the end of the lecture during the question answer session. The most memorable moment of the day for me was when Professor Galina Deshenko walked into the classroom and with her frail hands and misty eyes embraced me. She hardly comes out of her flat these days as she retired from the university many a year back and because of old age it was difficult for her to move about freely. When I expressed my heartfelt gratitude for her kindness, she said, “If Mustansar, my favourite author and long time friend, is in Moscow, how can I not meet him?” She was veryy pleased to meet Memuna whom she knew through my writings.

Professor Marina P. Mikhailova, who heads the department at present, is also an old friend. We had met frequently in Islamabad when she and her husband Alexander were visiting teachers at the Institute of Modern Languages. She has put on some weight but her enchanting looks still catch the eye. And finally walked in, during the lecture, the ever youthful Dr, Ludmila Vasalova of Faiz Sahib fame, with her sparkling eyes and a bewitching smile. Her chaste Urdu is of such high calibre that if I am born again I will enroll myself in her class to improve some of my expressions of the Urdu language. The subject of my second lecture was “Moscow 50 back and now”, which was very well received.

Ludmila, who is simply Mila to her friends, contacted me through the phone the very first day I arrived in Moscow and kept in touch throughout. The last time I had met her was in Toronto where she was invited to give a lecture on Faiz Sahib’s poetry and personality. In fact, when she came to visit me in Lahore, she expressed the desire of visiting Faiz Sahib’s grave. When we entered the Model Town graveyard she started reciting his poetry with her eyes brimming with tears; and believe it or not, she offered fatiha and placed some flowers on the grave of her murhsid.

“And when would you and Memuna find a little bit of time to visit the small abode of this humble and poor friend?” Mila’s expression was entirely Luckhnivi.

“That abode of yours cannot be that small because it accommodates a giant scholar like you,” I replied.

“I mean it Mustansar, it is a two-room flat which is so congested that I can hardly breathe -- actually it is not a flat, it is a kabooterkhana to be exact. So when can you make it?”

Ludmila was not wrong when she termed her flat as a kabooterkhana, however, the congestion was only due to the stacks of Urdu books which were all over the place and one had to make one’s way through them. On one of the shelves a youthful Ludmila was beaming beside a puffing Faiz in a faded black and white photograph. She rummaged through the books and finally found my novel Rakh. “I have managed to read only a few chapters, it is so voluminous. I wish you could write poetry, which is easier to read.”

“I am glad that Leo Tolstoy did not have friends like you, otherwise we would not have had War and Peace.”

Ludmila’s spontaneous laughter echoed throughout her kabooterkhana.

(To be concluded)