No more romancing the last sunsets

The last sunset of 2007 went down uncelebrated by newspapers. The annual ritual of publishing pictures of the sun going down on the last evening of the year was quietly dropped and in the first issue of the new year the god of the planetary system must have been disappointed not to find his crimson face on the front page. I happened to watch its descent on the horizon driving towards F- 10. It was an uncharacteristic anaemic orb over the dusty haze into which it was trying to hide its pale repentant face. Was that the murder of the Daughter of the East which had drained all the blood from its blazing western aspect, or some ominous portent darkening its brow?

Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before.

Thomas Campbell’s famous lines that ring true in all our seasons but we have become such poor readers of omens and portents for their unchanging predictability as if our history were an old hag’s boring striptease. Weeks before, all knew the emergency was coming, all knew the judges will be shown the door and we all knew even if all the members vacated the assembly hall, the empty chairs would elect the president and the president knew what the old judiciary would do and so he knew what he must do. But this crude monotony of expected happenings had blinded us to the impending blow.

Notice the faces of party men sitting on the stage at Liaquat Bagh. They are all a dull lot. They are not looking around to spot any suspicious movement in the crowd while their leader is addressing a huge rally in the open. It does not look improbable now that there were several would be assassins in the rally waiting for the chance to strike, shadowed by bombers like the shooter and his alleged companion on the road outside who pulled the job in unison. During movement of leaders in Western countries and their public appearances the accompanying partymen and sleuths are all keeping vigil on the surroundings looking for any suspicious character or doubtful movement. Here they sit unaware of the potentially dangerous situation or cling physically to the vehicle like they were some kind of a shield. Out on the road it is amazing that the killer’s extended arm with the gun in full view remains visible for considerable seconds to the camera’s eye but no one sees him or makes a move towards grabbing the culprit while he stands virtually cramped in the midst of a sizable crowd. According to the wounded DSP who has now spoken the crowd had appeared from ‘nowhere’. Does that mean the killer was among friendly company?

Not possible. So many people would not knowingly be part of such a plot. Did the killer know he was to die in the blast? No. His hand was too firm for a man who knew he would die the next moment. Did he actually die? No one knows; no one shall after the washing.

The unexpected had happened near the end of the year 2007 during which all the bad things that came about before the shocking tragedy had happened according to expectations and the sure and certain experience of the people. It wasn’t Salome’s seven veil dance in the court of the Roman consul but the macabre peeling of masks that only revealed known faces. At each exposure one said, you see, we told you. There was no need to look for signs, omens and portents. But sunsets were losing their colour and hills of the Margalla range remained blurred behind a grey haze. Village thugs, cattle rustlers, crooks, clowns and charlatans thronged the court. Wisdom was sought in their crude innuendoes.

Then a metaphor of hope appeared and disappeared in the dust of an afternoon: Benazir’s radiant face — marching to her death seconds before the shooting — is all smiles, without the slightest shadow of an inkling what the next minute has in store for her.

The sun dipped unceremoniously that evening behind the foggy Margalla hills. The old practice of romancing a year’s going in sunsets was allowed to rest. There was no need for an explanation.