the gathering

"Lacking the independence of life and mind that comes from having a solid grounding in primary experience, many modern professors are little more than intellectual brokers...

The brokering style-repressing one's convictions and withholding judgement in the interest of forging profitable relationships"

---E.S. Reed, The Necessity of Experience.

Strange day of extremes. In the afternoon, after tea, discussing Islamic law with an academic here..he has all the nuances of an academic: cautious thinking, sees all sides, carefully mulls over the arguments, is careful to leave room for ambiguity, knows the source material, knows the literature, the "classical" position, the modernist interpretations. And yet..what? What is it? Why so uneasy, b? Prejudiced?

In the evening I, the well-adjusted Aitchisonian, meet up with my old class-fellows, some of whom I haven't seen for twelve, fifteen years. They greet me, the hermit, in the familiar way: "bhen-chord [sister-fucker]...where have you been?". Fair to say that academics don't have much of a standing in this crowd! The Urdu-speaking friends are strangely quiet (no-one dominates like a Punjabi!). H, a mild-mannered sufi is laughed at and the only person to mention religion is met with howls of derision. This is how it was in the old days of Lahore. No-one can give a fuck about anything. Amongst the rabble are two failed politicians, a film-director, landlords and businessmen. I'm considered an "intellectual" because I haven't shaved and my hair hasn't been combed for three days.

The conversation turns to familiar themes: drink, prostitutes, lady-boys, peep shows etc., etc (you get the picture). An old friend, who remembers me as "collie bear" wants me to sit with him. Slightly fairer kids were always the favourites when it came to the mock homo stuff (probably the real stuff as well). Must ask T.

One rather plumpish and lecherous chap recalls how he tried to bribe the Islmaiyat teacher (a notorious homosexual) to tell him what was in the final exam.

A: Sir, just write down the verses for me.

R sahib: It is not possible.

After much of the same and lots of pleading A finally says: Sir, shall I wear my tight shorts?

Raz tells H: "I always see you at book shops and around that crappy art stuff". H is too polite to say anything. You know, they're the best places for picking up sophisticated women. A different class altogether."

Another recounts his conversation with a Russian prostitute (he called her an escort girl but no-one knew what that was)from Bukhara.

"But I'm Bukhari, me Bukhari, from Bukhara originally!", he says excitedly. "My forefathers were from there"

To which the Russian replies: "you had four fathers?"

"No, no, my an-cestors"

"No understand. Your sisters?"