18th July (Second day in Izmir)
Connections will find their way across maps, ride through deserts, swim past oceans. They will fade and be reborn. Differently maybe, but still there. Sometimes noticeable, sometimes misinterpreted, sometimes skittish. But always there.
'What is the caste system in Pakistan?'
I hesitated. How to answer such a question? The sun beat down in the Agora, my family stood around, taking pictures and walking on ancient Greek archways. The Izmir tour guide looked at me. Worlds away from Karachi.
I began 'Well....the flag is mostly green. Except for one column of white. The green represents Islam, the white represents other religions.'
'Ah. All are equal'
I paused again. How to explain what is the most fundamental problem in my country? Not the economy or backstabbing politicians but difference.
'No' I said shaking my head. "All are not. Most cleaners are Christian. If they are slightly more educated then they become secretaries. Muslims scorn Hindu temples. We are not fair with them'
'But the Muslims are surely united.' He asserted. I nodded. Because to explain would have taken someone far more patient, far more articulate and perhaps even more intelligent than I. It seemed too complex to explain thecountless dividing lines within the Muslim community. Sunni vs Shia. Punjabi vs Balochi. The rich vs the poor. The generation gap. And then the outcasts. The eunuchs, the refugees and perhaps now (once again) the Ahmedis. Too complex to explain when the sun shone this furiously and there were excavation sites to explore.
How could I explain to him that like Mehta's Bombay, Karachi too is schizophrenic? It has multiple personalities, it struggles to understand itself. Unable to pick it's battles, it chooses them all. All are opposed. All begrudged.
This was a different world. He would't understand.
'And then' I went on, unable to stop myself for some reason, 'There are those who own land. And those who work for them. And the landowners.....'
'Enter politics' He finished. My turn to nod. Here too? I wondered. In this little city of less than three million near the Aegean Sea? Surely not.
Later, at the archaeological museum, I spot a statue of a lion. The label underneath reads 'Aslan.' A memory stirred somewhere and I asked the guide whether Aslan was Turkish for lion. He shook his head, telling me it was Persian and that 'Sheyr' was actually Turkish for lion.
And there again. Sheyr was lion here. Sheyr meant lion in classrooms that were a six hour flight from here.
A man walked up to the guide, cigarette in hand. He smiled. 'Aatish?' I guessed what he mean even before the guide pulled out a lighter.
Had we kept talking, I realized, there were probably a thousand words we had in common. A thousand connections we could make with our Izmir tour guide right there in the museum of that ancient little town. Had we kept talking, I may have told him about Pakistan, about Karachi as it truly was. And he may just have understood.
