My encounter with Ardeshir Cowasjee
Saher Baloch
Karachi: Memories of my first memorable meeting with Ardeshir Cowasjee came flooding back to me as soon as I learnt of his death on Saturday. The encounter took place in August 2009 courtesy a colleague at Newsline magazine, where I worked at the time. She had come back to Pakistan from the USA on a one-month visit to make a documentary on the minorities living in Karachi, focusing on what they felt about growing extremism in the country.
Being new to journalism and annoyingly eager to learn, I was given the task of being the camera person and, on occasion, to drive my colleague around the city, as she was new to Karachi’s erratic traffic. Of all the many names selected for the interviews, Cowasjee’s was the only name which was chosen without any opposition or second thoughts. He was after all an authority on issues related to Karachi and a prominent member of the city’s Parsi community.
We set out for his home one afternoon, nervous and excited, not knowing what we were in for. That meeting remains one of my most cherished memories. And hilarious too, let me add.
One of his nieces also accompanied us and casually mentioned on the way, “thank God, uncle won’t be cranky today,” as we headed to his place. If I was confused by that comment I didn’t show it as frankly, this was the first time I was meeting Cowasjee.
Outside his home in Bath Island, we were greeted by a bunch of cheerful policemen, who were quick to grant us entry as his niece had inquired about him. As soon as we settled in his grand drawing room, Ardeshir Cowasjee walked in dressed in shorts and a thin vest. After shaking hands with all three of us, taking in a quick glance at the camera, he quickly remarked, “But I’m not dressed as yet!” and went upstairs.
Within a minute, he was back, in the same shorts and vest, but wearing a red robe wrapped around himself, and announced, “Now I’m dressed.”
Sitting comfortably, my colleague told him what the interview was about, in detail. If the details were serious, Cowasjee did not seem to care or notice. For every serious question she asked, there was a funny, and what seemed to us a flippant, retort.
Starting off, my colleague innocently asked him about rising extremism and the level of fear among the minorities. Cowasjee quickly retorted, “So, what do you want me to do? Ask them to be happy?”
In the same breath, and with a straight face, he added that the minorities should leave Pakistan. “In fact all of us should,” he added calmly. It did not take me a lot of time to understand where the interview was going. And if I felt like laughing, I controlled the urge to do so. After all, that was my first job as a ‘serious’ journalist.
Slightly changing her question, she asked him, again, whether the minorities feel threatened by the clerics and the apathetic role of government. Smirking and looking directly at the camera, he asked me instead, “Tum ko kya lagta hai? Mullah se darna chahiye? (What do you think? Should we fear the clerics?). I nodded my head to say no.
Nervously, my colleague looked at Cowasjee’s niece for help, any help, to get a quotable quote out of him. But all her efforts failed. Cowasjee told his niece, in no uncertain terms, that he is not a kid, and knew what he was talking about.
Within seconds, he started describing to my friend the present situation of Pakistan and what to expect in the future in his own inimitable style. Within a minute, there were profanities galore, aimed at everyone from the extremists to politicians, to the clerics and the state of the nation. No one was spared his tongue lashing. Speaking about the threats he faced on a daily basis from Karachi’s land mafia, he said: “They won’t kill me. Saala, yeh kaam bhi ooper walay say karaaingay — ke buddha mar jaye jaldi, kahein iss ke wastay mehnat nahi karna paray…” (Even this job they will ask God to do. They will pray that this old man dies but not work to achieve their aim).
It was not over yet. Coming back to the question about clerics he said that, “Government kyun kuch karay, karna aap ko hai. Mullah se masla hai, usko usi ki kahi hui baat main ghumao.” (Why should the government do anything, you have to do it. If you have a problem with a cleric, twist him in his own words…).
If I had any qualms about journalism being uninteresting, this interview proved otherwise. I had never laughed so much. Even as we packed our stuff — myself with a big grin on my face and my colleague with the most mournful face possible — he did not let us leave so easily. Orange juice was ordered and in the meantime he showed us his paintings, some perched high on the walls, some lying around with brown paper torn from their sides.
Over the years, I have thought a great deal about what he said that day. I realised that what he said in jest, with an added dose of profanity, was more serious and true than a lot I have heard since. Despite being a bitter critic of present-day Pakistan and those who have ruled the country, he did not leave Pakistan and settle in a calmer, saner place despite advising everyone else to do so. He was not one to take a bait during an interview and neither did he play to the gallery. He was always true to himself and spoke his mind. Whether people agreed with what he was and what he said was never his problem.
I met him three times after that. And every time I met him, his home was always open to me, and he was always the same: warm, blunt and very funny indeed. He once showed me a 100-year-old tree in his backyard, which he said he had brought home as a sapling after some “Khacchars” were throwing it away.
Though he loved playing the enfant terrible, he’ll be missed the most for his outspokenness and his fearlessness — as a man who cared for his city and country but didn’t give a damn for what others thought.
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