Nothing is permanent – Not Even Happiness
I’ve heard it before and so have you….the only thing permanent is, you’re going to lose. Nothing is permanent – Not Even Happiness…I was so struck with this observation I took the next flight to Kabul and stepped in to the welcoming sound of sniper fire. War zone, peace zone, arm’s market or flower markets had learned to live and flourish…..all for that one moment of happiness in between death and commerce. For that one period of grace before collective conscious of a nation was buried in the sands of intolerance and distorted history……we promised happiness from a box, gift wrapped even before it was full & shipped out of Washington DC to the strife torn parts of the Planet Earth.
But then I’m stuck in Kabul amidst anarchy and delirious in being a spot reporter I search for piece of action I can watch from the sidelines. The concern for my own safety could never be reconciled with the higher ethics of journalism. Gather news or become news as you die! That’s war-zone reporting!
So we are back to the genesis of an AFPAK policy that has seen many a master in the guise of helpful intervention. Since the days of the Silk Route or for The Road to Tashkent many a merchants dared the trails amidst the hills of tribal Afghanistan. The British did their bit and left hoping the Afghans would keep “the chin up” and blunt the next interventionist as efficiently as they had circumcised the British Empire.
Not to be outdone, India as an extension of The Raj hangover, keeps venturing every now and then, testing the waters from the geyser of ethnic pride that is the Afghan mindset. Barter, cunning and wholesome killing take pride of place in that tribal war zone. Loyalties shift faster than the dunes in the dessert. Gunfire becomes the song of awakening to a tomorrow that seems never to change. Nothing seems permanent anymore except for the gunfire. I wonder if they know whom they shoot at or is it just a trigger happy exercise in futility to keep the hands warm. Most having worked as mercenaries of one sort or other there is a constant confusion to remember which master we currently serve.
In the confusion prevailing inside such a pot only trouble can be brewed and agony in terms of loss of lives can be vaguely imagined. Policy makers in Russia and the United States have gambled wealth both in terms of money and lives to bring this wild landscape that many feel God has abandoned, under control. The picture is further tainted by religious fanatics of different hues and disposition drawing blood to gain control over a population that defies all suzerainty. It appears that the tribes of Afghanistan see only one master…themselves ruling their patch of green on mother earth.
Into such a scenario I found myself with a pass for curfew and a rucksack across my back and a pencil in hand figuratively speaking. I had a cameraman in tow, forever complaining about the good times we had left behind and listing the many instalments yet to be paid for the Car, Fridge and TZ. I thought of telling him welcome to the club. Let’s send out the call for the victims of plastic money to unite. Even Citi going broke didn’t provide any serious or comic relief because they never sleep. Or did they?
But then come back I must to my Afghan Story where nothing seems to be permanent. The rulers change along with the change in the uniforms of the invader. Only the blood on the highway sports the same colour. Red. A sad commentary of dying in a godforsaken place, fighting for an abstract thought “Freedom” without defining what it would buy here, where the currency was blood guts and treachery.
In the midst of gloom and doom I came to value basic traits and human emotions like trust, love, and faith and embraced loneliness in the shadows of ancient rocks. I wondered how fleeting this thought of freedom was. How fragile this concept was when tribal loyalty born from the fires of the middle ages still flickered. I pondered on why men transported across continents and time zones needed to unnecessarily die for a war that was never declared, in pursuit of an enemy forever in hatred of his masters.
Truly this was a monumental mistake where statesman never learnt from the lessons of history. The definition of wants and desires has never been so starkly distinct between the East & the West. The cause for war and the reason for peace both were lost as none factored the happiness of an entire country divided by fragmented clans controlling their patch of green and calling it a country.
Time stands suspended. History sweeps a nation at war with its future. The line defining friend & foe is blurred. Afghanistan as always remains at the crossroads of commerce. Somehow the trails to trade seem to pass through this country. With commerce comes the quest for scarce raw materials. The richness of metals, the dirt-tracks we call a highway and who knows an oil or gas pipeline here and there; all attract the adventurous. The geographical terrain lends itself to hidden motives and undercurrents that run in its belly.
Human happiness is almost non-existent in the western sense. Survival and domination are pre-occupations of living. Into this smouldering cauldron we have chosen to transfer Fundamental Rights, Empowered Woman, Democracy, Adult Franchise & with a touch of Eco-Green labelling the mix Freedom. And for this we must all die. The soldier and many a scribe who may never have their moment in history will stand testimony to misguided endeavours to control the happiness of a people, naturally cunning, untamed, and wild with a strange sense of loyalty. Their happiness is this moment and not the moments to come. None see a tomorrow as it is said it never comes. I can only say as the ‘copter touches down “thank goodness I am alive for I know not what tomorrow may bring and whose column you may read in the coming days.
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