Despite the easy access here in California to exemplary creature comforts, I miss and miss badly the sights, sounds and smells of the homeland, of Pindi/Islamabad in particular where I lived, worked and enjoyed life for over two decades. The nostalgia becomes more profound on the 14th of August every year, as memories of the past half a century come rushing to mind -many happy and invigorating with some sad and depressing.

The first two decades of the country’s history were marked with remarkable attainments against numerous odds. The third decade witnessed the dismemberment of the country and nationalization of basic industries in the name of social justice. Thanks to the charisma and rhetoric of Bhutto, the common man remained buoyant and kept his head high.

The fourth decade found Pakistan engulfed in a proxy war with a super power. The collapse and disintegration of that super power speaks volumes for the valor of the Afghans and the excellent support provided by Pakistan. There is, however, no victor in a war: the defeated is a bigger loser than the winner. The rewards for Pakistan of the war were the Klashnikov culture, widespread informal economy, drug barons, smugglers, and a spurt of violence and crime because of easy access to war surplus weapons.

The fifth decade and the period thereafter till today, has seen the leadership of the country falling into the hands of two puny leaders who were too incompetent to put the nation back on the tracks. Power was, instead, used by them for personal pelf.

Major events of this entire period come rushing to mind when I reminisce today about Pakistan. The mosaic of memories carries some amusing patches too. These immediately occur to mind perhaps because I miss them here. Let me share them with you.

Believe it or not, I am nostalgic for the various forms of pollution: streets caked with animal wastage, and oozing of clogged sewers littered with the overflow of uncollected garbage piled on the sidewalks. The emanating stenches might be a nasal disaster for a Western visitor but for the locals they are the cure for many mental ailments, arrogance for one.

Even ghosts and poltergeists do not haunt houses in the vicinities of such stench-making dumps which are fast becoming ubiquitous -the number may vary from area to area but they adorn the sights everywhere. You become so used to them that you start missing them should the municipality in one its fits of efficiency clear your familiar dump. The odor reaches all regardless of rank or address. No barrier can shut it out; no social distinction can save one from it. I miss that leveler, that equalizer!

Perhaps it was this odor, which expels even ghosts from haunted houses, that sent Benazir on 25 foreign jaunts in as many months of her rule.

There are more cars here in just one city, Los Angeles, than in all of Pakistan. Yet, there are fewer accidents. A bruised, dented and accident-damaged car is seldom seen. Traffic is well regulated and the ‘meek’ drivers religiously obey the traffic rules. The traffic jam, a monster spawned by civilization, has been largely brought under control here. It is so colorless, so prosaic.

I miss, therefore, this multi-faceted, enormous monster in the cities of Pakistan. Cars, buses, wagons, horse carriages, motorbikes, bicycles and pedestrians all melt together in one agglomerate mess. Everyone seems to be driven by some frantic demon of haste in total disregard of traffic rules, if they exist. Even the stray dogs and cats appear supercharged as though late for an appointment. Total chaos is the stuff of the traffic jam.

In the middle of this mess could be seen three or four traffic constables blowing their whistles and shaking their arms in all directions. Theirs is no mean contribution to this mess. Some give them total credit for it. I have never seen a situation so dismal that a policeman of Pakistan couldn’t make it worse!

Caught in a traffic jam, you are buffeted with the fumes of unwashed bodies and the stench of ‘niswar’ mixed with wafts from the adjoining gutter overflowing on to the road. You keep turning your head from side to side till your nostrils get used to both and your brain becomes numb and insensitive to time and space. Probably, you reach the mystique elation of the Mansehra faqir whose blessings are reported to have been sought by four prime ministers of Pakistan –two interim and two regular. It is also reported that two of them lost their august position within days of supplication with the holy man!

History tells us how Moses crossed the Sinai with his people, how Caesar crossed the Rubicon with his men, how Sultan Muhammad Fateh crossed with his armada the strip of land to reach the Basphorous and conquer Constentinople (Istanbul). A pedestrian who manages to cross the street in such a traffic jam deserves no less a notable place in history, provided of course he does manage to reach the other side alive.

At ‘rush hour’ -a self-contradictory term since the crush of traffic precludes speed and consequent rush -conductors load as many as thirty passengers into a wagon designed for fifteen. The build up of pressure inside the vehicle forces much of this human baggage through windows and door openings to cling to the sides like squids to a rock.

I miss also the rags and riches paradox -tenements huddling pitifully in the shadow of mansions, splendors of the posh localities sneering at the filth of shantytowns. The poor living close by the rich and the contrast in their housing embarrassing those of sensitivity, troubling those of conscience and mocking those of faith. Their counterpoints of squalor and luxury appear like a lady with diamonds round her neck but her toes sticking out of torn, shabby shoes.

I long and hunger for such sights; I am nostalgic for them.

Many happy returns of the Independence Day.