Big Brother is watching you

DIPLOMATS posted abroad, whether in friendly countries or inimical ones, know that they are being watched — at home, at work, on tour. In many countries, surveillance was not so much in your face. In Karachi, the ISI (Inter-Services Intelligence) maintained a list of targets and Indians were right at the top.

When we moved into 63 Clifton, the Indian Consul General’s (CG) designated house, an ISI tent quickly made its appearance opposite the main gate. We were told that it was for our protection, but we knew better. After a few days, it moved closer to the gate next to the boundary wall. All pretences were over. A ledger in the tent kept a record of cars entering our house or leaving it. The minute Mani Tripathi (the CG) or I (Deputy CG) ventured out, the motorcycle parked outside the ISI tent whirred into motion.

Slowly, the men in the tent became acquaintances. Then, they became friends. Each time we had a reception, a big plate of snacks would go out to the tent.

When bilateral relations took a downturn, however, the surveillance intensified. There would be crank calls at the dead of night, just to provoke and annoy us. Usually, we ignored such calls. On one occasion, after an insistent ringing, Mani picked up the phone and the voice at the other end shouted: ‘Kashmir banega Pakistan.’ Mani said: ‘Dekho bhai, raat ke barah baje to Kashmir Pakistan ban-ne se raha. Kyun apni neend kharab karte ho, aur hamari bhi? So jao. Subah dekhi jayegi (Look, brother. There is no chance of Kashmir becoming Pakistan at midnight. Why spoil your sleep and ours? Go to bed. We shall see in the morning).’ There was a guffaw at the other end and the phone fell silent.

On my visit to Peshawar, I knew we were being tailed. In the course of the day, as we shared refreshments with the occupants of the car behind, the ice was broken and soon they were guiding us through crowded streets and narrow lanes. As we decided to make our way home, we found the main operative in the ISI car asking us frantically to stop. For a moment, my heart missed a beat. He came up to my car, and as I rolled down the window, he said: ‘Janab, aap ja rahe hain? (Ma’am, are you leaving?)’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But you have not done any shopping. Peshawar has the biggest cloth market, where you get fabric from all over,’ he said. So, off we went to the cloth market (once again piloted by the ISI car), where I bought a bale of Do ghode ki Boski. Boski was a cream-coloured silk cotton material ideal for men’s shirts and women’s salwars. The most popular brand had a logo of two horses printed on it.

We turned homeward with an exchange of goodbyes. Elsewhere on the border between our two countries, a different kind of exchange was taking place — an exchange of crossfire accompanied by the relentless infiltration of terrorists. Thus, the paradox of frenemies (enemies who could be friends) continues to play itself out, time and time again.