Two Nation Theory

This article appeared in The Friday Times in their April 27-May 3, 2007 issue under the above title.

Each morning I take a bus from Sadr Kecherri to Royal Artillery Bazaar, or RA Bazaar as it is commonly called. The scene at RA Bazaar is a busy one. Buses honking at full blast announce their arrival on one side and line up neatly inside the bazaar. This is a major stop on their route; they wait here for a few minutes and then leave for their various destinations. I take the 5 number daewoo to Lalak Jan Chowk in Defence .
It rained last night and the road inside the bazaar is covered with mud. People pull up their trousers and shalwars as they cross the lane towards the stop. As usual the stop smells of urine. Men and dogs have been at it again.
The Daewoo arrives after thirty minutes, and the boarding becomes a scramble to see who gets on first. The scene inside is quite different. The air-conditioner is switched on and the radio is tuned to one of the FM channels. The ride to my stop takes around 15 minutes. The bus drops me at Lalak Jan, from which the university is a short walk.
The university where I study is abuzz with the talk of the Chief Justice trial. My friends and I discuss how the military establishment keeps discovering new ways to undermine the Constitution. The conversation takes a shift and we begin sharing our future plans. Some of us, myself included, graduate in three months. Most have already begun looking for prospective employers.There is an on-campus presentation almost every day by a multinational or a prominent local business house. Many students have also applied for higher studies. Those admitted will leave for graduate school this fall. No one seems worried about the future. Success is somehow guaranteed, or at least that is what most of us assume. The conversation tapers. We have class in five minutes. I buy a cup of tea and rush to the lecture hall.
On my way home after my university lectures the bus is crowded as usual but I the wait is not long. It takes twenty minutes to reach RA Bazaar. As soon as I've disembarked I see that the Number-26 to Sadr Kecherri is ready to leave. I board quickly and find a spot to stand. There I wait for the voice of Sana Makki. He usually gets on the bus from the Old Airport stop near Girja Chowk in Cantt. Sana sells a panacea stuffed inside sweet tablets packed with the punch of kalaunji or onion seeds. He recites various traditions of the Prophet (pbuh) exemplifying the qualities of kalaunji. The medicine promises to cure a chest burn, stomach-gas, a heavy head and general uneasiness among other things. Nobody questions Sana 's dubious claims. He is selling the pills at a discount on the bus. A pack of ten sweet kalunji-packed tablets for five rupees. I, like many others, buy a pack and put one in my mouth. It's sweet but I doubt it will cure anything. Sana Makki has sold a few packs and knows he can't sell any more. He takes a seat among the passengers and looks out the window.
After a while Shahid gets on the bus. "Ladies and Gentlemen, Brothers and Sisters, your humble servant is on the bus to share with you his secret of success. It is the English language, speaking which makes one successful." Passengers are enamoured with his command over the language. Here is one of their brothers who can speak the language that we all want to learn. He takes out a book from his bag and starts to explain how it can teach you the "language of power" in a matter of few days. "Mein nahi kehta keh yeh aap ko puri zuban sikha de gi laiken at least it will teach you the basics that we all need to know." He, also, is offering a special discount for passengers. The book is otherwise priced at Rs 25 but for the passengers it is only Rs 10. I buy my three day guide for success. It is a useful book with some of the basics of English grammar.
Meanwhile, a passenger is haggling with the conductor. The conversation is quickly turning into a heated argument. One of the passengers is short of money and can't pay his full fare of Rs. 12 to his stop. He wants the conductor to take Rs 10; he doesn't have the extra two rupees. The conductor is unmoved. He wants the passenger to either pay or get off the bus. Before it gets rowdy other passengers intervene and try to calm both. Perhaps this is the umpteenth time this has happened to the conductor today. He is edgy now. He moves on to the next passenger."Haan ji, kidher kaa ticket lain ge, " he says while looking at his tickets. The passenger clears his throat. The conductor looks up. It's a policeman in uniform. The conductor moves to the next passenger. The transport company has forbidden the conductor to charge policemen anything; he tells the other passengers. Some of them look at the man in the uniform and swear at him under their breath.
The university lecture halls and the cramped corridor of the number 5 seem disconnected, centuries apart from each other. The raw confidence with which fellow university students express themselves sometimes baffles me. Their assuredness seems so distant from the conviction with which Sana Makki and Shahid sell their goods. In the buses I see the tired faces of labourers, peons and office clerks. I see people without enough money to get back home, people selling panaceas that everybody knows do not work . The "success guide" that Shahid sells hasn't brought him the success that he promises. But the citizens of the bus world seem helpless in changing their circumstances. Every day they are pushed further away from the citizens of the university, to a place where they have even less money to go back home to and where the "success-guides" take longer than three days to bring results.