Attempts to Understand Anglophilia

The novel 'The God of Small Things' taught me two things. The first is that anyone can write an award winning novel if they throw in enough fancy words to distract publishers, readers and judges from a vague, abstract plot. (The Booker judges, JUST by the way, always get it wrong. Where the hell is Rushdie's award for his last book?! Hmph.) The second seems less important but has nonetheless left as huge an impact. The discovery of and attempt to understand the term 'Anglophile'  


The Wikipedia definition seems simple enough. An Anglophile is a person who is fond of English culture and England in general. But no, the reason why the word struck me is because I can relate to the term on a deeper level. 


My family has chronic Anglophilia. We greet the day from between imported sheets, wash our faces with Imperial Leather and throw on shirts we brought from England last summer. We speak near-perfect English. Not Oxford variety English of course (See how Oxford got the italics? How elitist. I disgust myself at times) but grammatically correct and with enough four syllable words thrown in to confirm our foreign/imported education. We stick to Western principles we probably picked up when the British took about two centuries ago such as waking up early.  We need people to call in advance and expect them to know what RSVP means (which doesn't even stand for anything in English) We are formal with guests and curt with people we meet on the streets. No, you may not accuse me of racial profiling just right now, not at this second. I have a point here, I swear.


Understanding Anglophilia is difficult. Yes, Pakistan (then part of the Indian Subcontinent) was once ruled by the Brits and so some small traces of that rule are left (Christians that look like the rest of 'us', the side of the road we drive on, administration in certain schools) But really, that doesn't explain my family's Anglophilia. What is with this blind assumption that the Brits always get it right?  They too went through financial crisis last year and hell, a lot of them voted Conservative this year. Obviously, they're not perfect. 


I don't love the Brits. I like what they've done with the place but in all honesty; it rains too much,  strangers are rude and the food sucks (Still not stereotyping, generalizing or judging of course) But I too have become part of that community. My Urdu is terrible, I like imported soap and I go to England almost every year to shop. Oh and I'm probably in denial about my Anglophilia.  

But I still don't get it. I don't understand why my family (and many other upper middle class families in Pakistan) insist on aping and lauding the Brits. They feel that once the rest of Pakistan begins to wake up early, drive properly and speak in English, the country will fix itself. Maybe the true goal of British imperialism was to make us feel perpetually inferior. Maybe it's because we haven't seen as many Asian countries progress yet stay true to their respective national identities. Or maybe we all just need to take a trip to Turkey. 

Hunting

http://www.juancole.com/

What a find. Appreciate.

Conversation

'That makes them all crazy. I'm going to shut the world out. And lock the door'

'Swallow the key?'

'Just maybe.'

'Who is the whole world anyway?'

'The people who we meet yet who irritate us slightly, the things we do that are supposed to make us happy yet we scoff at them inwardly, the rituals we perform everyday but no longer believe in'

I'd call that dispensable.

oh and this

I'm going to exhaust myself so I won't think anymore.

More later. Promise.

Ash

Sure you're telling me this now. I'll check back with you soon. Then you'll look away embarrassedly, maybe stare at that cigarette you said you'd never smoke.

He flicked ash around for a bit, smiled and walked away.

I'm back

It's funny how when you lose something, you look around desperately to find people who are worse off and when you do find them, you never quite know what to say.

Here's to me smiling again. And here's to a summer that should be amazing despite what it promised.

Gunshot wounds. The crass colours of what some mistook for freedom. Empty condemnation. Dust was raised on the streets. Not just there but in little alleys and nooks and crannies, all full to bursting with anger and suspicion. But most of all hunger. For a while-but what is a while? A minute? A day? A year?

No. A moment in time.

So for a moment in time certain names were a curse. Certain labels just that. Ahmedi. Mussalman. Pakistani. Whatever you may.

For perhaps a longer moment in time, fingers were pointed directly at a country many miles way. More dust was raised. Tyres were burnt. Prayers were prayed for three strangers. Three brothers. They could have been Ahmedi. It didn't matter. Perhaps the word 'flotilla' was looked up in the midst of all the confusion and chaos. Screaming and tears. And yet more dust.

And for a short moment in time - a while? a millisecond? Half of a lifetime?- waves became terrifying. They prayed again. And some stood closer, laughing. Not oblivious. Embracing a moment in time within yet another.

And in some insignificant house in a part of the city where dust was never raised, a phone rang. A girl answered. A heart was broken for a moment in time that was both fleeting and lasting.

Karachi.