The Eagle Has Landed

Unfortunately, the much trumpeted headline did make it to the front-page, but with a twist. Erstwhile Prime Minister and hopeful yet again, Mian Nawaz Sharif was scuttled off back to Saudia Arabia on his return to Pakistan. Benazir Bhutto, the flip side of the coin of corruption - our currency of choice, has also announced plans to return to Pakistan on October 18, 2007. Interesting times lie ahead, as the country becomes a petri-dish of activity. The Islamists (sometimes the Fundamentalists, but not always as the mainstream Western media suggests) are agitating, with the hardliners still furious over the Lal Masjid (or Red Mosque issue - but nothing to do with the Commies, Senor McMarthy) escapade. Political demonstrations have become an everyday issue, with the date of elections to be announced within the next 60 days or a similar figure being floated in the papers. The legal fraternity, too, is up-in-arms. The reinstatement of the Chief Justice by the Supreme Court, after his sacking by All-Powerful-President-Musharraf has strengthened the divided and derided Opposition hope that all is not in the dual for power. And Shoaib Akhtar, the tear-away fast-bowler from the National Cricket Team is also in-and-out of the news, as usual for all the wrong reasons. The last of his notorious acts was to hit fellow attack bowler Asif with a bat. While Shoaib has aged and gained quite a-bit like Ronaldo, Asif is our latest class act. And the national team 'has performed according to form, rather surprisingly' (now this is from the cheeky pundit from Super - I can never be this smart...or daft; if you're missing the point) defeating the Aussies and the SriLankans.

All said and done, there is a lot going on. Never before in the country's history have so many diverse factors fallen together and seen ebb and flow with such frequency.

Keeping in line with the prevalent mood, I too have decided to return to frenzied activity. Return to producing prosaic thoughts, crafted with diligence, ensure digestibility, and then sell it to the highest bidder. Yeah, I am kidding, just fill column space on newspapers.

For the wheel to rotate, the potter must bury his hands in clay.

And here I come. With my hands all prepared. Like a man re-born. And remembering Rushdie, 'to be born again, you have to die first.' But his work falls mostly in the domain of magic realism and I can sacrifice a goat or a lamb, or maybe a chicken, and move towards my karmaic destiny with symbolic conviction.

Yes, not making sense, but it all will fall into place.

I promise.