On Identity, growing up in Lahore and subjects off the beaten path

This post is not about the latest infrastructure project in Pakistan, or the newest startup out of Lahore. I am not going to be talking about the usual things I focus on here at Tech Lahore. Today, for some strange reason, I feel an urge to go a little bit deeper than usual and share with you some musings on identity. My identity. What it is to me, what it does for me and why it is the most important thing I have.

To start off, I am incredibly lucky. I was born to a privileged family in Lahore, Pakistan. I attended the best schools around (Yes, a proud Aitchisonian!) and was exposed to people from all parts of the world at a very early age. My parents were more focused on making sure their kids got the best of everything – including their own time – than on anything else. They always had time for us. My father would spend hours upon hours painstakingly explaining arcane concepts to me, narrating ancient history, telling us stories from the Quran or explaining mechanics, physics and math for which I really had no grounding. But because I asked, he humoured me. And I did pick things up.

My mother encouraged me to be as curious and creative as I wanted. Even in the days when the latest LEGO sets were hard to come by in Lahore, she would have a friend or an acquaintance somehow arrange to send my favourite pick from the catalog; even if it had to be shipped from London. Yes, like I said, I was (and am) extremely lucky. My childhood was, in many ways, absolutely amazing because it was so comfortable, stimulating and love-filled that I really never even dreamt about wanting to be in someone else’s shoes. And it was this feeling… of NOT wanting to be in anyone else’s shoes, the sense that I would never ever want to change who I was or where I came from, that was the seed of a sense of self, and a sense of identity that I have built myself, and my life around.

Some of you might relate to what it was like growing up in Lahore in the early 80s. Your mind will probably be filled with pictures as you read the next few paragraphs. For the others, I hope I can provide enough to at least create a minimal context. I lived in Gulberg, which was one of the more established residential localities. A fair number of our relatives lived within walking distance of our house. I would go off to play with my cousins whenever I wanted to. There were no formalities like calling ahead, or checking to see if they had time. There was always a cricket game going on at our place or at a cousin’s. Or a softball game. Or four-corners, Carrom, Pithoo-garam, Badminton…

I often used to accompany my Grandmother during her weekly shopping trips. She had been shopping at the same department store since much before I was born. And it showed. We were given VIP treatment the moment we walked in. I remember, back in the mid 80s, Pepsi had launched a massive ad campaign starring Imran Khan. They had come out with an Imran T-shirt that was (obviously) in very high demand. This was, of course, before Imran chose to descend into politics. At that time he was still a much-loved cricketer. Anyway, I asked the department store folks if they could get me one of these Imran Khan T-shirts. We hadn’t been able to find them anywhere. They were all gone and no one knew when the next batch would be coming in. The store owner immediately dispatched two of his stock boys who eventually returned from their Mission Seemingly-Impossible with T-shirt in hand.

Whether it was the local auto mechanic, the department store owner, the bicycle puncture repair shop I used to go to, the local soft-drink and Pan ‘khokha’ owner, or even the musician who would come by and sing qaseedas… they were all known to me. And it wasn’t just a sense of community – I don’t even know how to explain this – suffice to say, I really did NOT expect to ever run into anyone in the city of Lahore who would not have some connection back to my family or friends. That knowledge – of always being around people that knew me and my parents – meant that I really never had any reason to distrust or fear anyone. My default assumption was that people were friendly and good and wanted to help out in any way they could. And,  other than a few of my Neanderthal classmates (:-)), this was not far off the mark!

When I got to be a little older – around the time I was doing my O/A levels -  we were allowed to go out with friends on our own, without supervision. Many of my friends were allowed to drive solo . I was a little younger than most of my classmates and, while I was driving, I was not quite yet allowed to take the car off on my own. But that was not a problem because my friends could, and did. My best friend at the time used to swing by our house almost every evening. We would usually kick the evening festivities off with a visit to the local market where we ate pan and drank Pepsi. Once all this was done, we would then engage in a variety of ridiculous, inexplicable and what now seem like absolutely rogue, shameful escapades For instance, one involved scrunching up our O’level class notes into little paper balls, cruising down an isolated, dimly lit street  that had maybe one or two pedestrians walking on it,  turning off our car’s headlights and letting the car cruise in neutral so no one would know we were there, and then, once we were right behind the luckless pedestrian, turning the lights on, revving the engine real loud and chucking one of these paper balls at the poor soul. This act was typically accompanied by some very creative, incredibly loud, self-engineered sound effect. It was our version of shock and awe. The first few seconds were usually priceless as most people who are struck with a tightly wound paper ball in a dark street react with a mix of shock, awkwardness and utter befuddlement. Once they realized what was going on and had gotten a grip on themselves, they would predictibly launch a verbal onslaught involving some of the choicest, juiciest and most creative Punjabi insults known to man. This last part was probably more enjoyable than even the initial slapstick that had resulted. By the way, if any of you reading this were ever struck with a tightly wound paper ball while walking down a dark street in Lahore during the early 90s, I probably did it and I now offer my sincerest apologies. I’ll blame it on my adolescence and will happily send you a box of chocolates with a, ‘I’m frightfully sorry. I don’t know what came over me’ card, if you email me.

Anyway, that was embarrassing enough to write about so I suppose I won’t be getting into the minute details of eggings, rikshaw-chukki and other novel sports we were indulging in back then. No one ever got hurt, and now that I think about it, it was probably because the most dangerous object used in any of these adventures was… an egg. Fun was had within limits and we never felt we had to cross them. Our guts were already hurting from the laughter that resulted from pranks of the “within limits” variety. There was really no question of us being able to handle anything more!

These limits, they weren’t just set by our parents or dictated by society. They were principally induced by our own minds and set by a commonly respected, unspoken code. All we wanted was a laugh (Ok, MANY laughs), but we cared enough about those around us to not really have any desire to hurt or cause harm to anyone at all. That this was the case is a profound realization for me today. Now that I think about it, this was probably because we had a very deep sense of ownership. Of Lahore and of Pakistan. I still do.

As most Lahoris who did their O/A levels in the 80s or very early 90s will tell you, the Os and As were the part of your life when you found yourself inevitably dumbstruck by the radiant, incalculable beauty and grace of your first love. Cambridge Univeristy may as well have added “Romance” as a required O’Level exam. You were going to have to pass or fail it at this stage anyway.

And when it came to being struck within an inch of death by your Helen of Troy’s thunderbolt, as such things usually go, it typically wasn’t planned. More often than not, it went something like this… Boy sees girl at English, Urdu or Math tuition. Sharam takes over and nothing is said. Boy starts listening to depressing Roxette love songs until his compadres have had bloody enough. At this point, the Boy’s buddy, who somehow knows the girl or one of her friends, delivers the “message” to her. The Girl then acts coy for several days (unless she has no interest, in which case the messenger delivers the bad news back to the Boy and all you get is more Roxette love songs). Ultimately, if things were meant to be, the Girl sends her phone number back to boy who then has a few windows during the day when he can call her at home. The conversation is completely innocent and involves setting up a rendezvous perhaps at some school drama, or at a play at the Alhamra Amphitheare (which had just been built back then).  The rendezvous, of course, meant several of her friends would be around, as would several of the guy’s buddies. They would all get to know each other and maybe have dinner together at Salt’n'Pepper, perhaps with an ice cream afterward at Yummy’s 36. The HIGH point of the year was the school carnival – whether at the Lahore Grammar, or the Convent – depending on where the object of your affection studied. This was the one legit place you could go meet with her and have a good time, typically around a bonfire!

And lest this might begin to sound stifling by today’s standards, trust me, it wasn’t. It was actually a character forming experience. You knew that when you were courting someone, you had to do so decently. And it really was a courtship, not a driveby hit-and-run! At the end of all of this, whether it worked out or not, everyone typically walked away with their respect in tact, and still respecting the object of their erstwhile affection. These seemingly quaint mannerisms and now-ancient-sounding practices are a part of my identity because this is what I thought was normal when I was growing up. This is the filter through which I look upon all that happens around me now. And the current state of affairs feels awfully jarring at times. Don’t want to have much to do with it. It is as if the innocence and sweetness have been bartered away for an unparalleled crassness.

I can go on and on. And part of me wants to. Because I’m enjoying myself right now, reliving my childhood as I recount it for you. But I’ll get to the point lest I bore you to death! The point is this: All the experiences of my childhood, the love my parents gave me, the discipline that was inculcated in me by my Headmaster at Prep School, the kindness done to me by dozens of people – whether in going out of their way to get me an Imran Khan T-shirt, or giving me a super-extra-meetha-pan when I had paid only for the regular one – and the sense of pride I had in my family, my school, my city and my friends are the things that, today, define me as a person. They are concrete and they are strong. They remind me of who I am and where I come from. They are my shield when a frustrated immigration officer at a foreign airport looks accusingly at my green passport. I am proud of who I am and no amount of CNN and BBC stories telling me what Pakistan is “really like” will ever make any difference to my self-worth and self-respect. I only wish a few of these tasteless CNN/BBC hacks had experienced a childhood in Lahore, half as fulfilling as mine! Alas, they haven’t, and the loss is theirs. As for me, I take Lahore and Pakistan with me wherever I go. I carry the memories of my childhood in my heart, to be relived, one pleasant day at a time whenever the bitterness of the present compels me to do so.

As I said right at the beginning, I am incredibly lucky. My identity is, for me, an unending reservoir of hope and strength. It has armed me with contentment that will last a lifetime.