The first text message I received upon landing back in Lahore was this ominous one-liner: “Say No To Corruption.” Sender: NAB (which I hope is the National Accountability Bureau and not a stalker’s abbreviation for ‘Need Another Body’). It sent me into a tailspin of sorts, wondering if I had been kept under some kind of global surveillance program and been caught doing something so illegal that NAB itself was waiting for me when I landed and will now jail me for life without TV. But apparently everyone in the country got this text, a feat I didn’t really think was possible. Did you? If you didn’t you should seriously reconsider the meaning of your life. That said, I wonder if it actually worked.
Imagine: an overweight, underpaid and fed-up man handling a wad of stolen public funds in dirty 1000-rupee notes sits in a dingy room with one light bulb. He is at the end of his tether and about to do some serious corruption when - Ding! - the phone goes off. He debates whether to check his screen or simply continue his spiral into the hell of unaccountability. But a voice inside him makes him waddle over to the green glow of his phone and there he reads the simple, life-changing mantra: ‘Say No To Corruption’. The mood shifts; we see the smiling faces of his children. “You know what,” he says, sitting down again and speaking directly to the dirty pile of money, “they are so right. I’m saying no to you. Do you hear me, Corruption? I say no to you! NO I SAY!” He throws the bills into the air and leaves the room, not corrupt another day.
End scene.
The idea that the whole country got the same text is in its own way quite heartening. It conjures up the idea that we are all in this together, and that there is at the very least a text message affirming that we know Good vs. Evil. It is the same kind of camaraderie that came over us like a wave of nostalgia when the awful news hit that a PIA ATR plane from Chitral had crashed, killing everyone on board. This included the former popstar-turned-preacher-turned-fashion merchandiser Junaid Jamshed. It was a tragedy that the people on that plane had such an awful end to their lives. I can’t imagine how their families must feel and hope that I never have to experience that. I watched the coverage with a certain amount of interest in how the country would remember JJ. Death has a way of absolving people of their contradictions. Their memory is easier to worship than their reality. Many people “chose” to remember him as the fresh-faced star of the optimistic early 90s Pakistan, and not the bigoted misogynistic proselytizer he came to be. Hardly anyone mentioned when he fled the country to London after he himself was accused of blasphemy a few years ago.
Repeated SMS messages from the National Accountability Bureau caused much amusement on social media and amongst the general populace
I debated myself how his death affected my memory of him. I too grew up listening to Vital Signs, though I much preferred Strings. The truth is I’m sorry for anyone to have met that end and this truth sits next to another i.e. that his end did not make his beliefs any more palatable. So I remember him as he was. Flawed, talented and human.
Talent is thankfully something this country has in spades, which is what this past weekend proved to me again and again. I was first invited to an exhibition by MAS Architects, a newly launched consortium that was displaying a series of what I can only describe as Light Sculptures. Think of architectural elevations rendered as lamps, and add a dose of amazing. The exhibition was in a cavernous, raw space on M.M. Alam and the event was well conceived and deeply chic. Each piece was made of concrete, which itself is no small feat and I was so intrigued to see the lines between the functionality of architectural design and art merged so seamlessly that I have become mildly obsessed with them. Look them up, and you will too.
The next day I went to another artsy event, the opening of Zohra Rahman’s latest jewelry collection. I’ve been following her progress for years now, mainly because her work is less jewelry and more wearable art, and in a market dominated by weddings and anniversaries, her clean-cut modern aesthetic stands in sharp and welcome relief.
The weekend also marked my birthday, which longtime readers will know is not my favorite time of the year (“wrinkled, wrinkled, little star…”). So this year I decided to do something about my melancholy and threw a party for myself. I can’t remember many of the details, but suffice it to say that the event went so well that there are no pictures, which is when you know that - to quote the social pages - “a good time was had by all.”
