In 2007, Benazir Bhutto was murdered in Rawalpindi, shrouded in mystery. The murder was claimed to be political in nature. Almost 4 years later a close party member, a follower and one of the inner coterie members of PPP was killed in Islamabad.

Both assassinations were different. Their execution having a different anatomy but their cause was somewhere same.

In the last decade Pakistan as a nation has emerged into two distinct groups. Bifurcations may not be entirely true, but they make sense when we look at the political landscape. There is an emergence of a politically right wing attitude, and a liberal mind set.

This has been fuelled mostly by the poverty gap in the last decades. Pakistan has struggled with democracy, economic and political stability and then extremism rising through the core of the society.

Most societies and countries have people with different opinions. Presence of a strong right wing or left wing is not a unique phenomenon. Even in west there are strong right wing parties with religious agendas. But in case of Pakistan this story has gone entirely wrong.

Left wing parties or left wing approach is nothing new for a country created in name of Islam. The ruling party PPP had always a left wing agenda. The main slogan of the party was communist inspired. A promise to provide basic necessities to the people of the country. A promise that not only tarnished a dream but also a generation.

Pakistanis kept on dreaming. When there is dictatorship they pray for democratic government. And when there is a coup they celebrate in streets. Corruption nepotism and injustice are incessant problems.

This feeling of deprivation has given way to the so called rightwing philanthropic organizations. Unlike their left wing counter parts these organizations work on grass roots. They exploit poverty blaming it on the western masters of the government.

Hence a large part of Pakistan conceives that their left wing government is responsible for the malice.

Now what triggered these murders. These political assassinations.

Salman Taseer was not killed because he was supporting a forlorn Christian woman. He was killed because of mistrust Pakistanis have on the system. Because of the prevailing injustice where mob psychology rules and people want to take law in their own hands.

He was killed because when people live in a society without any social structure they feed themselves on divine ideas of grandeur. They seek help and solace in an imaginary life here after.

They would do any thing to get their so called imagination of the word justice.

Salman Taseer was killed by the mentality of a nation. By a crumbled society. By people who are trying to find a way out of misery and pain.

We do need to stand up for injustice for which Salman stood. He was brave enough to speak in a society where people get killed on having opinions. But most of all we need to have a sense of justice and civil society.

Where we know that there are courts to deal. Not men..

Until then we will have fallen heroes and martyrs. And no one will be there to help us out of this misery.

These days Times of India and Jang group of news paper are running an interesting media campaign. Most of the Pakistanis might have noticed a colorful message with Amitabh Bachchan and kites on major news channels. “Amitabh” smiles then reads a poem, (well, at times you are unable to tell the difference

between hindi and urdu) he is speaking Hindustani for sure, because the lines reflect all the seasons of Indian subcontinent. The reference to dholak, “Tapee”, Mehndi and kites depict a certain tone of happiness. He then refers that you can divide the land but you can never divide the sky. You can never restrain the music from traveling across border.”

The lines are catchy, they are emotional and they are powerful. “Amman ki Asha”, is running on both sides of borders. Romantics like me and many others look at the kite filled sky and imagine a happy ending to a brutal story which was started 67 years back.

Will it ever happen? Will we be able to give the new generation a peaceful and happy India and Pakistan? Or will this long feud end, like the old saga of Mahabharat.

Over the last few decades there had been constant efforts by the civil society groups on both sides of the border. They have lightened lamps on the eve of independence on both sides. They have organized youth conferences and media campaign and yes they were successful in some way. From the last 67 years the major problem of India has been Pakistan and Pakistan has always quoted India as its problem. Both countries have spend a huge amount of their already deficit budgets to safe guard the borders. The key priorities like health education, and clean drinking water had been marred by the clouds of the lingering war.

More than 4 times in the last 68 years, both armies have stood against each other. And yet the issue is still not resolved. Our enmity did not stop on the borders. We brought it into our drawing rooms. The cricket match between India and Pakistan is nothing less than a war. The tension, the pressure, can be seen on the faces of the cricketers to the fire crackers that are the aftermath of the match. But during the last few years, all these ugly realities were being replaced by new economic dreams. The open trade, IPL, Pakistani singers performing in Bollywood to meager investments across the border.

But then again, the prospects of long term peace were replaced by terrorist attacks on both sides of border. The Mumbai episode, Lahore bombings, firing on control line, all contributed to the new aggravated situation. Pakistan itself is fighting terrorism. There is no difference is pain of a woman losing her son in Mumbai blast to the newly wed girl who lost her husband in Peshawar. The human aspects of pain are same. Again the involvement of governments is a question mark?

Can Pakistan afford to have any new confrontation with India, when it is already fighting in northern areas?
Does it make any strategic sense? Are people of Pakistan happy on the attacks in Mumbai?

Absolutely not…

But yes, today many Pakistanis are angry on the IPL decision for not taking any Pakistani cricketers. After years it felt that people of both nations can play as a team. IPL was another dream come true. The corporate reality might stay there, but the game allowed cricket lovers to see different cricketers from different backgrounds playing as a team.
Peace incentives are still there. “Amman ki Asha”, is not only dream of few people. But yes, where peace lovers like me are not happy today there are many who are happy to celebrate this setback.

But then, you can never stop the music crossing the borders. And love has its own language. Hindi and urdu, lose their definitions when they are spoken by people to communicate.
Hope… is always there

Luke saw her first time outside the “Sydney Smith” hall. She was standing on her toes trying to peep inside the wagon selling French Fries, through the high narrow window, waiting for the wagon guy to hand back her change.
That evening the unpredictable weather of Toronto was showing its rea colors. Sun and the clouds were playing hide and seek. Luke, would play with shadows by placing his feet on the darker side and then reverting back on his steps. It was a tough day. There were noises of first years leaving one classroom and running to the next. He was on his way to “Bora Laskin” law library. There were readings to be finished, assignments to be completed. And right there he was mesmerized by the pair of green eyes.
She looked towards him, as if it was a child’s play. Eyes mocking, lips smiling and inviting. “Hey you!”. He shouted without thinking. “Wait, Are you Anita’s friend?”
There was no Anita. Out of 204 seats, there were only 4 brown in his JD class. But still there was no harm. He wanted a friendly random conversation.
“Oh which Anita? The PSF one?Are you talking about Anita Sheikh?”
“Yeah, yeah, that one…” The stone had hit the target.
“So, you have midterms”?
“No I am done”. She smiled back…
The man in the wagon now shouted. He had finally found 50 cents and was eager to hand it back.
“Wanna have some fries?”
“This place sucks but I like fries…”
“Indian”? “Pakistani”? “Bengali”? “Hispanic”?
It was hard to tell from her face.

She had tied her hairs neatly in a ponytail, and was wearing T-shirt
with a random slogan pasted all over it.
“Define naughty”. The words on the t-shirt matched the twinkle in her eyes. She was full of life and happiness.
“Probably a senior 4th year student?”.
Luke made a rough guess…
“So you have seen me with Anita right”? We did this dance number o the annual fundraising thing?”
She was talking without any pause.
” yes… I remember”. Luke murmured.
Wait.. sorry I have to run for my class… she picked her backpack from stairs and vanished into the building”.
Luke stood there staring at the random encounter.
In the evening when he left for his small dingy apartment in annex, he went over the details. “Did she understand her glance, her undertone.”
Will he be able to find her again in this mammoth campus?
Does she have a boyfriend?
Is she conservative?
Then he laughed thinking that he was chasing a shadow. Like the shadows of the clouds.
The girl with green eyes disappeared behind the never-ending pile of assignments and work. He was looking for serious clerkships that summer. The April wind, her eyes, the hair piled up on the head, all went into oblivion.
Luke was not a chaser. He chased money, ambition, a good job on Bay Street but not women. He had learned that women chase men with all the above attributes. He had one high school relationship and one university affair on his record. Women were not a permanent thing in his life. Perhaps one day when he would have a proper job and a car, he would look for that woman. Woman who would carry his child. Listen to Beethoven and Chopin with him. Drink red wine with him, and would use his mother’s silver cutlery. A proper woman with soft manners. Now he added green eyes in that picture, smiling at him from the clouds hovering on his head.
Luke was a success story. Very few of his friends were aware that his permanent address was on Rosedale. He had gone to Upper Canada college and had done his undergrad from a small secluded liberal collage in America. His father was a partner in a major law firm on Bay Street.
No one knew what happened between them. One summer he packed all his belongings and moved out.
April turned into May and then June. The city dwellers stripped themselves out of their windbreakers. On sunny days, young girls running on the tracks became a common sight. And then he saw her again…This time in a student bar. Alone ,aloof , angry…
“Hey, you, naughty.”
He was also slightly drunk…
“Sophia”…
“Sophia DeSouza”
She repeated it…. in her own drunk voice.
That evening they randomly walked on the College street. They counted the stars. “Well there were no stars that night, just another illusion”. They walked towards Sydney Smith Hall to revoke that story. And sat there on the stairs.
“so …”
“I am in JD/MBA”. Luke said with a glint in his eyes. “Oh! you are the nerd. Wow.” Sophia murmured.
“I am third year math major, university college. And I want to teach physics. Wait, I want to Correct physics when I grow up.” That is how it started….
The university affair. Luke and Sophia DeSouza. She claimed that her green eyes were a gift from her English great grandmother, who was saved during the great mutiny by her great grandfather. She pronounced Mumbai , rather than Bombay. She was an international student, who had come to Canada to finally settle down.
“See, it is hard to get permanent residency in USA or England. But it is easy in Canada.”
Luke would wonder about that English great grandmother. There was nothing English about Sophia, except her name and her colonial English. She still used patrol pump other than gas station. She always fetched groceries from the dickey rather than trunk. And she drank chai rather than coffee.
“colonial… so colonial…”
Luke was enthralled. Mystery.. alive history…
They would go to concerts together. Luke was music major in his undergrad, then they would eat from any random place, stealing kisses here and there. It never went beyond that point. Kisses, hugs, phone calls….. And Luke hated it. He was used to women who would throw themselves at him. What kind of girl is she? “catholic”… Will they marry? How would their kids look like? Then Luke imagined curries instead of turkey on his table.
His friend would throw innuendoes at him.
“Is she playing a game?”
“Is there a boy friend…”
Probably she would have an arranged marriage, with funny makeup and heavy saris.
Probably he was just an experiment like her physics experiments.
He would wonder. Here and there. Bleeding with desire.
Summer came to an end. And Thanksgiving, came near..
He would hate Sophie and then would suddenly call her. Sophie….
“why are we waiting.” He raised the question one evening….”waiting for…”? she smiled at him.. Teasingly..
“you know what I mean”.
“You know I am catholic”. She answered him back…
It is 21st century… and I want you…he was stern and argumentative …
“it didn’t happen that night. Not even after that night…
It was again a drunken spree. They had gone out for bowling. One shot led to another. He had taken Sophie to his one room apartment.
“Now…?”She shouted at him , stripping teasingly .. And then… Luke stood there…
The young nubile body of the woman he supposedly love.
His father… there in his parents room, his nanny… green eyes… nakedness.. and that smile”.
His own washroom, him, the nanny.
Luke felt nausea. Past demons… He opened the door and moved into the balcony…some one was still smiling at him with green eyes.

It was an old house, with old trees and old ghosts. There were myths and stories
like all other stories. Most of them were a result of fertile imagination of the people living within the four walls other’s tales like all other tales. I only remember the blue gate, the rough stairs, over grown unkempt grass in front lawns, Bougainvillea covering the left wall and the 8 trees.

Why 8?

Why not 10?

My memory fails here. I only remember 8… only 8..

The first 4 were of Jamun, a cousin of mulberry found in that part of world, 2 of dates and other two of mangoes. They were distributed equally here and there around the house. Old, exotic and sometimes frightening. Old trees are like old relics. They memorize the things around them. Quiet witness to change and agony.

I wonder if trees have eyes? Or if trees have memory?

Can they see and feel things around them. Things dying and growing old. But things remain things only life dies. Or life grows? We were scared of trees. In those days we were taught that genies lived on trees. Not in bottles.And that they can occupy the body making soul redundant, dead. Whatever was the truth, the only thing I knew was the fact that trees were a soul to that house.

Mesmerizing, giant powerful. In evenings when “amman” will place the chai tray in lawn you could see birds flying towards the trees. In monsoon we would have a swing attached with one of the older mango trees. That would later bend because of the weight. Mangoes are not meant for swings.

They are fragile. Another lesson I learned fast.

The date tree was at the end of the house. In a dark corner. It was really tall. Tall enough to give me goose bumps. There was something strange about the tree. It had bricks attached with the stem. Almost 5 feet higher than the ground. Bricks don’t grow on trees?

Do they?

It was another mystery in that old house.

It was the same house when I discovered “Apu”. I have no idea why I called her “Apu”. She was just 3 years older than me. Slighly thinner and much taller.

And she had more stories to tell..

Elaborate.. long ..mysterious stories.

For she believed that there is another world under our world. Where small people lived. People size of our thumb and if we dig the earth we can reach them.

In those humid evening we would dig the earth to find those small people. All of us got worms in the end..

Reality is stranger than imagination.

“Apu” was lonelier than me. She would stand in front of the tree and would talk to it. The date tree..

And she would talk when no one was looking at her.

“you talk with the tree”.

I shouted one evening after our fight.

She became frightened as her secret was out , sucking her left thumb more violently.

She was a thumb sucker, I nail eater.

We were lonely kids in a huge family…

“She is my friend” she smiled

“Who?” I asked again..

“The date tree..

She talks”

I was now more silent..

After the small people I had lost faith in her stories. But still….

There was something there…

We tried to talk to the tree, in our own rituals.

Silent starring, beating at its stem, shouting.

Writing letters to her and burying it under the stem, but nothing happened.

And then she went away. On a white plane like she had done before.

I went on living in that house.

We met again and again.. In her home across the planet, in dreams, on phone but never under that tree…

I always thought that she had some strange powers. She believed that things could talk.

Then she got married. We met again one summer , for sisters are always there to give a shoulder to cry.

“Do you remember that date tree”.

She asked me during our meeting…

“Do you remember the house”.

She was asking in a curious tone as if I had a record of her insanity.

She was now different..

Lady in the white coat. Slightly angry on life.

“why it happened with me? She looked at my face”.

“you need to cry mourn and pray, I said silently”.

“DO we mourn for the unborn?”

She asked me with a straight face,

“lets go back”…

It was a plea..My plea…

That summer we went back to that house…

House that was ours and was of our people.

Silent, dead old house…

In the flight she was silent and depress..

We entered the house. Every thing was same, but new.

Except the talking tree was not there…. It died when we left….

And that day I saw her crying!!