PSL 2017 Final in Lahore. An analysis.

March 3rd, 2009, started as just another spring day in the vibrant city of Lahore; the city of gardens and schools and of hearty people. Spring in Lahore is an exciting time, just like anywhere else. In Lahore, it means many things ... but mostly it means flying kites and playing cricket.

And that was exactly what the Pakistan cricket team was doing with the visiting Sri Lankan cricket team ... playing cricket ... not flying kites.

It was the third day of the second test match and the Sri Lankan cricket team was on its way to the stadium when the terrorists hit the bus they were riding. Six Pakistani policemen and two civilians were killed but they managed to save the lives of the cricketing guests who managed to escape with minor injuries. Ahsan Raza, who is a Pakistani former cricketer and was an umpire of the match, took two bullets and was rushed to the hospital.

The terrorists flew, leaving behind rocket launchers and hand grenades and the Sri Lankan team was rushed back to Sri Lanka in a plane.
International cricket in Pakistan however was the biggest casualty on the day. It never happened anywhere in Pakistan again. The reason? Pakistan was not considered safe enough for it.

Pakistan adopted UAE as its home ground and started to play visiting teams at the Ring of Fire in Dubai or the Sharjah Cricket Stadium. Thank you UAE.

11 years and as many military operations later, the world had once again started to recognize Pakistan as a country that had finally landed on its feet and was headed again in the right direction.

Fast forward to Feb 9th, 2017. In the opening ceremony, of the Pakistan Super League held in Dubai, there was a very pleasant surprise. The government of Pakistan, had announced that the finals of the game could be held in Lahore in Pakistan. The same city in Pakistan where it had all stopped.

This was the best news that cricket fans in Pakistan could ever hope for ... not so much for the enemies of Pakistan though.

On Feb 13th, just 3 days after this announcement, the terrorists struck Lahore again. A suicide bomber blew himself up close to a police contingent that was monitoring a peaceful protest in Charing Cross killing 15 and injuring 87.

On the same day, in Quetta, an Improvised Explosive Device blew up killing two professionals who were trying to defuse it.

Feb 15th, another suicide attack killed two and injured seven in Peshawar. Another attack on the same day in Mohmand Agency saw 5 people killed.

Feb 16th, a suicide bomber managed to sneak past the security inside the tomb of Lal Shahbaz Qalandar in Sehwan killing 80 and injuring 350.

This was a clear message, all four provinces and administrative areas of Pakistan were hit following the finals' announcement. The terrorists were talking in the only language that they knew.

Speculation naturally followed:
Will the finals be held in Pakistan now?
Should the finals be held in Pakistan given the new string of attacks?

Today, after much deliberation, the government announced that the answers to those questions were "Yes" and "Yes".

I am divided on this decision, just like the nation. There are other things in math that are much more unifying ... There is addition, there is multiplication all good things. Hey there is Integration! Why can't we do THAT math for a change? Yet, here we are dividing again even on this one.

Part of me feels great...
Take that Mr. T! Here is a big fat middle stump ... please have a seat!

Another part of me though can't help but analyze the situation.

So what is to be gained from holding the finals in Lahore?
Well, when a terror attack happens, the indirect damages are far greater than the loss of life, limb and property that are lost in the event. The terror that follows results in loss of morale, businesses suffer, the creative process stops, the nation gets bad press and all this hits us where it hurts us the most; The Economy! When a nation remains resilient to terror, and just keeps going, it is hard to beat. Nothing causes terror in the hearts of the terrorists other than a nation that just refuses to be terrorized.

And what could go wrong? What could we lose?
There is plenty to think about, everyone seems to be focused on the primary event, the match, and I have no doubt that the law enforcement agencies are well equipped and competent enough to secure the place.
What about the rest of Pakistan though? Are we equally sure that we will be able to prevent any attacks anywhere else in Pakistan while the match is going on or even soon after? And if something like that happens, what happens then? Would it not cause just the opposite of what we are trying to achieve by holding the finals in Lahore?

I fear that there is a greater game in play that we have not thought through yet ... the battles that might follow.

The cricket match is to be played on March 5th. A week to go, but I have not seen any preparation for the other battle that might follow. No campaigns to converge opinions, to harden people's resolve and to prime them to spring back up in the face of anything that our enemies could throw at us. I am hoping that all that starts to happen right away.

The optimist in me whispers to me that Pakistan is a land of miracles and that the very creation of this country was nothing short of one. We are at our best in situations that others see as impossible.

Even if we are still trying to master the art of delivering on miracles, we are getting better at it.

So here is to the impossible ... it only makes us stronger ... thank you!

یہ تو چلتی ہے تجھے اونچا اُڑانے کے لئے

Sharjeel

Dubai, Feb 27, 2017

Junaid Jamshed Khan

1964_2016

He refused to be ordinary. Ever since I had known him, he lived larger than life. We were in the same class but it was him who always shined. He was the Head Prefect, started every school day with a recitation from Quran in the school assembly, was always front and center in school plays and na'at events, contributed actively to the school magazine and was the teachers' pet. In the fabled words of Sir Hashmi, he truly was "Model School ka Model Bacha". Everyone in the school knew him and looked up to him.

And then he was Junaid Jamshed, the Nation's pet. The lead at Vital Signs, the young man who gave us our anthem; Dil Dil Pakistan. He gave us songs that a generation would sing fondly.



At the peak of his stardom, when his heart turned and he decided to not sing anymore, he created a hugely popular clothes label that went International. He was the man who preached Deen on TV, took teams for Hajj and gave talks on Islam globally. And then the World knew him and respected him.


Today, he died as he had lived... Larger than Life. Not in his bed but in a plane crash on his way back from a tablighi mission to a place he called paradise in his last twitter.

Everyone dies but only few really live. In his own words;
"Hum kiyoon chalain us rah par, jis rah par sab hi chalain
Kiyoon na chunain woh rasta, jis par naheen koyee gaya"

Junaid Jamshed, rest in peace my friend. Until we meet again.

Sharjeel and the class of 80
PAF Model School
Sharae Faisal, Karachi

Junior Model School Mianwali

I was born in Lahore but my father owned a bus system based out of Mianwali so we moved to Mianwali and my earliest education started there.

I don't quite know what it looks like now, but Junior Model School in those days was a typical small town Pakistani school. It was the ONLY "English Medium" school in the city. They took me in in class I, directly because my mother, an obsessive and strong willed young woman at the time had taught me a little too much for my age.

Mianwali was a very simple town in very simple times.

We had a car but cars were not used to drop kids off to school. Instead, a tanga or a horse drawn carriage came to our house early in the morning and picked up me up for school. There would already be a few students in there and the fun journey to school started. I don't exactly remember what we did on that journey except that the tanga driver would keep asking us to behave and to sit still. Of course we would do anything but! We would envy the bigger kids who were allowed to stand on the step like the boy in this picture. One day, when I grow older, I will stand on that step like that, I thought to myself.

Just short of the famous Mianwali canal, the tanga would turn left and arrive at the school gate where many other tangas would be dropping off other students.

The school assembly was a typical "lab pe aati hai dua" to quomi tarana affair and then the classes would begin.

I learnt English at school. We did not speak English in the house in those days ... we spoke Urdu. I refuse to speak English to my kids in the house even today. My early English education was in that school. I remember my parents were very amused when I translated the phrase "well done" to "کنواں کیا ". If you cannot read Urdu (pity), it was the other "well", the noun, the one with water. Don't laugh I was only 4.
Then there was the takhti writing. Takhti was a wooden tablet that you practiced your Urdu calligraphy on. I was really bad at it. Still am. Never could learn calligraphy. My father was so good at it. He tried to teach me but I just could not get any better at it.

Preparing the takhti was an intricate affair. You would wash it, and then cover both sides with a very thin and even coating of fine clay mud and then let it dry. You would then use reed pens dipped in ink to write on it. When you went home, one of the things you had to do was to wash out the clay and therefore the writing on it and re-coat your takhti with another layer of smooth fresh clay. I can almost smell the Multani clay even as I write this.

Takhti was also used for practicing your swordsman skills after school. I ended up breaking mine at least once a week in those sword plays.

In the half time (break) we played kho kho. It was a game which involved two teams each trying to catch a player from the other team and put him in a jail guarded by a couple of men. A player from the other team could break out his fellows by dodging the guards and touching the captured players while shouting "KHO!!!" We debated if it was "go go" and not "kho kho". Where ever the name came from, the game was a lot of fun and it was the closest thing to a game of tackle.

In the evenings, one of my uncles, Chacha Anwar, Chacha Aslam or Chacha Afzal would take me for a walk to the main bazar. I was full of questions and very inquisitive. We would grab some faloodah and then walk to the station chowk. We would time it so we could catch a train crossing the town. I loved mall garis (goods trains) because they went on for ever.

By the time we got home, I would be tired and ready for bed. We slept indoors in the winters and in the court yard in the summers where a couple of strategically placed pedestal fans would keep us cool during the night. I remember that even in the summers, the nights would be cool and we would need a thin sheet to sleep under.

The night sky was bright and vivid. Full of millions upon millions of stars. My father knew his stars. He would teach me and my brother Ali about the Great Dipper and the North Star and the Venus and the Milky Way. My father was very good at science and maths and he taught me my foundation sciences.

As I close this, I can't help but wonder why life was so much happier in those days when there were such fewer needs and people were so much simpler. Why was riding to school on a tanga more fun than the drive to work in my Cadillac Escalade today? Why did a reed pen on a wodden tablet feel so much smoother than my Motegrappa today? Why did the faloodah of Mianwali main bazar taste so much heavenlier than the best gelato around today? And why did sleeping under the night sky with a couple of pedestal fans bring so much more peaceful a sleep than my central air-conditioning today?

I am not certain of the answer but I suspect it had to do with the person I was and the people that I used to be with. The tanga journey would be nothing without my friends. The pen on the wooden tablet and the night sky would be nothing without my father. The faloodah would be nothing without my Chacha Anwer or Chacha Aslam or Chacha Afzal and the pedestal would not bring on a peaceful sleep if it were not in the knowledge that I was sleeping safe between people who loved me to bits.

Goodnight ...

My Resume on a Wordle

COCK KI BALL

I was considered very brave by kids my age, to be playing with the older kids who played with a hard cricket ball.

If I remember correctly, a cricket cork-ball aka "cock ki ball" cost Rs. 15 in the mid to late 70's.

Rs. 15 was a lot of money especially for a kid at the time. Everyone playing would pool in to buy one, but someone had to take it home after the match; everyone wanted to be that someone.

Then it would get old, and oval, and spongy ... in that order ... and then the stitches would start to come off, and that was a sad moment, but cricket went on, and we played with a ball which looked in-flight like a nucleus with its electrons coming in and out of existence in a probability cloud around it.

Specially proud would be the person who played the shot that finally split the ball into its parts , an uproar of laughter over the confused fielder who couldn't decide what to chase; the two leather halves or the cork core?

There would be a good laughter as everyone high-five'd and celebrated a good end of a good cricket ball but then there was a somber silence when someone pointed out that we needed a new cork-ball. A moment of silence, not in memory of the cricket ball but in realization of what it meant for us.

After the fateful shot, everyone would walk home silently but resolute, to ask for money from their mothers to contribute to a fresh pool of Rs 15 for a new ball... A shiny shiny new ball. Oh boy the way it felt in your hand. 

Luckiest and proudest would be the fast bowler who got that first over with that shiny new ball as the opening batsman stared in horror at the incoming projectile that looked like a glowing red dwarf in the reflected sunlight.

/Slash

Hello World

Well old habits just won't die ... Ijust created this blog to experiment with blogging and what is the first post that I make?

"hello World!"

What Else! Once a programmer always a programmer.

I am already wondering what in my life could be so important that i trouble others to come read about it?

Nevertheless, the experiment must go on.