When I get my copy of the New York Review of Books I often find myself straying to the back and reading the classifieds first - ads relating to personal services (try figuring out what this means), international rentals, and so on - before getting serious and reading any of the articles, as my slightly guilty conscience tells me I should.
Some of these personals are very smart and, quite apart from what they offer or seek (for lonely hearts apply here as well), a pleasure to read. Take this one offering, I take it, some kind of superior relaxation treatment: "The Incredible Lightness of Touch. Private, safe, tasteful. Greenwich Village." As good an example of useful brevity as one can find, saying it all without the need to be explicit.
Or this from a high-spirited lady: "Before I turn 71 - next July - I would like to (meet someone) I like. If you would like to talk first, W. B. Yeats works for me." Going past 70 and still going strong, passionate about life, eager to squeeze the last drops of excitement from the great adventure of living.
A woman in our climes touches 40 and everyone around her thinks retirement age approaches. Exceptions of course abound, ladies forever young, perennial sources of joy and laughter. But I am talking of the norm defining our society.
Another one of similar kind: "Actress, member Screen Actors Guild, writer, over 70, (soul is 39); Gentle disposition, many interests, loves animals, seeks congenial gentleman." Get my point? Over 70 and still full of life. And it's not only women here who face the problem of premature aging. Look at gents who retire from the civil service or military and who the moment they step out of office get a vacant look about their faces. You can hardly blame them either because what are they to do?
There are no music halls to go to, no theatre, no concerts, we hate the idea of travelling except to England and the United States, missing every country in between, and even then our preferred mode of travelling is to visit friends and relatives. And of course, no personal ads please, we're Pakistani. It's not the done thing.
So what do we do instead? We go into the property business like there's no tomorrow, the army with its defence housing authorities leading the way, wealth, no matter whether properly or improperly acquired, the last status symbol, the only badge of honour left.
Whenever I ask a retired gent what he's up to and he says "God is kind" my suspicion is immediately aroused because experience tells me that folks talking in this manner have either been on the take when in service or, having retired, are into a good deal of property.
In many ways we haven't outgrown our mediaeval roots. When kings ruled India, you amounted to something if you were a part of the darbar, in the inner or outer ranks of the king's courtiers. Out of this circle, you were nothing.
This explains the clinging-to-office phenomenon in our arid climate, no matter whether the office is political, bureaucratic or military. You just want to go on and on, even if you have to make a monkey of yourself seeking preferment, because the alternative is stark: moroseness, occasional depression, a sense of inadequacy. And no one is to blame because what on earth is one to do? Writing books is not the fashion in this country. Reading is not considered a virile enough pastime. The memoirs that get written are mostly of the self-serving sort, low on self-criticism, high on personal spin. You'll never catch a Pakistani mandarin or general confessing to his faults or saying that as part of a malign set up he was accessory to the crimes or follies committed.
No point in taking names. Go through the entire gamut of Pakistani memoir-writing and there will not be one which is not self-serving. But if book-writing is an industry in need of a boost, column-writing has come into its own, a whole army of retired personnel, civil and military, making newspapers their happy hunting ground. Looking at newspapers doesn't it sometimes appear as if there are more columnists than readers in Pakistan?
This explosion of comment and analysis should serve the cause of enlightenment. Does it?
Former luminaries writing for the popular press in a country whose history has been as accident-prone as ours serve a useful, indeed indispensable, purpose when they are self-critical, admitting to their own part in past follies, or when they judge the present in the light of the past, again not shirking personal responsibility. But it is a moot point what they achieve when, for the most part, what they display is the art of saying nothing, or very little, in so many column inches of newspaper space.
Robert McNamara, Pentagon chief at the height of the Vietnam War, writing of his stewardship and in the process contemplating and musing over the wreck of American hubris. That's the kind of stuff officials should be doing. But the knack for that kind of introspection has yet to arrive at our doors.
The chap who led our northern troops during the Kargil engagement, far from contemplating his navel for his role in that unmitigated disaster, has become grandee of training for senior civil service officers. What wouldn't I give to hear an edifying lecture from him on the need for national introspection?
Two more ads (promise, no more) which caught my attention: (1) "Destitute retired male teacher, 72, without television, e-mail, and cell phone, struggling to survive on a harsh diet of reading, writing, exercise, attention to good causes, and a bit more; wants shallow, unscrupulous, grim, dull, vain woman or, perhaps, her opposite."
(2) "I enjoy travel, theatre, cabaret, jazz, good restaurants, and I don't want to do it alone! Extremely youthful older woman seeking company to do the things I love."
Zest for life and high spirits come through clearly in both ads. But what is a Pakistani to make of the list of things mentioned in the second? We don't enjoy travel, not of the adventurous kind in any case.
We are a geography-bound people, not travelling much to Afghanistan or Iran, travel to India opening up a bit only now, and towards the sea in the south no one much interested in deep-sea fishing. As for theatre, cabaret and jazz, where the hell do you get them in Pakistan?
The international rentals advertize - let me take a look - apartment spaces in Paris, studios in London, flat in Florence, privately-sited, beautifully-restored farmhouse in Dordogne, France, charming, cozy, totally-furnished one-bedroom apartment in Rome, etc, etc.
What does this indicate? First, the common strands of culture tying America and Europe together. Second, the spirit of roving adventure which makes an American at home in New York as in any European city (and vice versa of course).
This type of closeness, for understandable reasons, we don't have in our part of the world. I should be able to live in Tehran, Kathmandu, Bombay, Chennai, Goa, or Dhaka if I choose (provided I have the cash) without compromising my Pakistaniness. But this is not going to happen any time soon - which just shows the distance we yet have to travel.
You don't tap the wellsprings of creativity by being orthodox and conformist or staying prisoner in self-created shells. There is more genuine culture in Pakistan than in a hundred Dubais. Yet Dubai is a more desirable destination because it has opportunity and social freedom while we have seen to it there should be none here.
Five thousand years of history have shaped our culture. We are a more ancient civilization than most others in the world. Yet instead of rejoicing in this fact and making the most of it, we have pushed all the exuberance and vigour of our culture into the darkness. That's where it remains.
Why have Pakistanis become such thorough cynics? Not because they derive pleasure from self-inflicted pain but because when they perceive the gap between what is and what might have been, between promise and reality, their anguish is overwhelming.
TAILPIECE: In the death of Air Chief Marshal Zulfikar Ali Khan, Pakistan has lost one of its most distinguished and upright soldiers. Those who knew him will miss him dearly. May his soul rest in peace.