After-work crowd on the streets. After a shower the air was cleansed, puddles not especially treacherous. Yesterday Lia reported a three hour wait for her bus out to Puturaya, where she puts up. At the stops on Jalan Ipoh and around on Raja Laut the frequency seemed much better. In this quarter only minor signs of sprucing in the office crowd.
The striking candling of a segment of the Petronas tower from the chair in front of Restoran Mehran. Unending cricket on the large screen, possibly Chappell the elder commentating in that light patter in tempo with the action. A long way from the MCG and the Boxing Day Test. Some tags indicated India and Pakistan fighting out another round of another Championship Trophy, though that didn't tally with the white contingent in one of the teams.
Guess was about right: Mehran and Ras Balouch down the road a short way divide on a regional basis. The latter catered for the Hyderabad crowd; here Karachi. The waiters were unable to provide much for distinction; as everywhere else in Chow Kit, there was minimal English. Karachi is the largest city; Hyderabad the textile Manchester equivalent, according to a fellow waiting on tables in Singapore.
The broadcast abruptly terminated; it had attracted little interest in any case. Pakistan could not have been playing. The game was replaced after a few minutes by a fresh-faced young man at a podium before another large gathering, another political rally. A few nights before there had been similar on the large screens at Mehran. (How long was it since there has been a real political gathering back home?)
Black-shirted. Camera on a crane drawing waves from the crowd in its passes.
The dough lad beside the earthenware oven wore long-sleeves under his tee. It was sticky enough watching him from a distance. Over the road at the bus-stop the crowd had thinned, the better dressed particularly. A servo on the near corner; Chow Kit LRT elevated the other side. Behind the Shell trannies awaited custom at the laneway corners, catching the lights of the cruising cars. No doubt, in the time honoured way, a full moon added benefit to the trade.
The young speaker could only have been a twenty-something, his cheeks knowing the lightest of razors. In the crowd red, black and green verticals on the flags held a central, yellow sun. It took quite a while for the wide-winged bullet-proof screen to appear—in the first 5-10 minutes the TV cameras had given no indication.
Here was a large picture of Bhutto on a hoarding behind the chap, the former PM in her fetching scarf that must have been terribly torn and spattered after the shooting. That was the answer; finally the penny dropping. The son here.
Of course, those of the region recognised the young man instantly. Put the young man in the crowd at Mehran one would never pick him.
These dynastic democracies throughout the region; throughout the world. Clan groupings and special interests; a clash of interests before anything else. Foucault was the teacher here as much as Marx. Gandhi, Bhutto, Najib (Razak), Lee, Park in a quick take—scions of assassinated elders and murderous tyrants. Entrenched power on our side was able to perpetuate itself without necessarily needing direct hands on the levers of government.
Plush red carpet to the side for the dignitaries—valueless targets evidently, with no precautions necessary for them.
The Bangladeshi behind could identify the young man, but not the city hosting the rally. Along the bottom of the screen the Urdu was incomprehensible to him. Former East Pakistan was a long distance off; the reason for the split in the first place.
Clear mention of his mother eventually. Not a mantra of any kind; simple passing mention: Benazir Bhutto. Perhaps her name failed to carry much currency these number of years later. Five years was a long time even for these dramatic matters now.
Almost not a single skull-cap visible; a relatively affluent middle-class business party, reflected by the crowd shots. Women unscarved; a population deeply riven. The men at Mehran, mostly cheap foreign labour, were without exception traditionalists.
Twenty minutes of fits and starts back and forth at the microphone in a nervous bustle, without notes. A young colt this that had newly taken to the field, yet to get his line and length right. Nonetheless, one needed to hand it to the lad; something for the future in the debut.
Relatively minor interest on the street here in this corner of the diaspora, matching the mostly unenthusiastic crowd on the screen. Nothing like the energy of the other night when the fire-brand mufti of Islamabad took to the stage. An old, robed man, well into his seventies, crowned with a white Arabic songkok. Quite a magnificent little figure—one could tell the short stature—the passion and urgency something to behold.
Thirty or forty men at the Mehran tables had sat watching reverently, heads up-tilted, soundlessly absorbing it all. Completely transfixed and motionless; passersby on the street too stopped to watch.
Initially the mufti spoke in excellent English, the denigration of nation one of his chief topics. The poor were duped and confounded; a loss of identity involved. The foulness which had overtaken the country could be sensed from the man's vehemence. One could not fail to be taken by the stirring passion of the venerable old man, waving his arms above the microphone, pointing his finger, swinging in his seat. A true lion.
Imran Khan another night in the week in a couch studio interview was not a patch on the mufti. It was Imran from memory who had tried to claim the tag of the Lion—perhaps foisted upon him by the PR people. No chance beside this chap’s command and power.
The Lahore lad from the lunch place turned up shortly after at the end of his shift (12 x 7), complaining he was unable to buy himself a single fag. The wallet pockets shown held nothing but paper scraps. For his room above Resto Mehran the chap paid RM600; over a third of his monthly wage. End of month blues. (Lia paid RM250, but that was out in the sticks an hour plus from KLCC.)
PAKISTAN
LAHORE
Even with all the documents in his possession, the young buck failed to recognise either the name of his country, or city in the English script. (Passport, work permit, &etc.) In the case of his name he could write those five letters.
AMJAD, the second syllable short, the "d" elided.
NB. Turned out the fifth anniversary of Benazir Bhutto's assassination was chosen for the launch of the son's entry into the political arena. None as yet charged over the killing.
Official statistics put the number of Pakistanis in Malaysia at something between fifty and one hundred thousand. In the newspaper Indonesians were estimated at two million, officially.