As a nation, we’re fortunate to have had our culture enriched by the works of legendary artists like Anwar Maqsood. But it is time we look forward to a new crop of artwork that doesn’t insist on shackling us to the past.
The master humorist’s latest play, Siachen, brings us more of the same; not necessarily an unflattering thing to say, as Maqsood’s classic witticism is precisely what his audience seeks. There is charm in the ‘old ways’, but for a lot of people, the past wasn’t quite as appealing.
Siachen is a play about the lives of Pakistani soldiers stationed at the ‘roof of the world’. The setting makes it convenient to sideline female characters, as the army chawki is strictly a place for men. When the character of a female journalist/filmmaker does appear on the set, a baffled soldier remarks, “Allah ki qudrat! Siachen mein aurat?”
This represents a recurring problem with Anwar Maqsood’s productions. The female characters are tragically one dimensional, serving either as mothers and sisters of male protagonists, or stereotypical ‘modern’ women who enamor the male characters on stage, or get enamored by them. In other words, under no circumstance must a woman appear upon the stage without her gender being absolutely essential to the act she’s about to perform.
This is not the first time ‘un-Pakistani’ ethnicities have been caricatured by Maqsood. In an old ‘Loose Talk’ sketch, Anwar Maqsood interviewed the renowned comedian Moin Akhtar, the latter appearing in blackface as a Bangladeshi cricketer; satirizing not just the cricketer, but the Bengali people in general and their outré cultural practices.
The subject matter comes with an expected nationalistic overtone. There are no political complexities, and no middle ground up on the Siachen glacier. It’s just ‘us’ and ‘them’. We fight to defend our mothers and sisters. They fight because they’re the enemy. We’re reminded, as always, of a political construct where the life of the selfless soldier who toils up there in an icy oblivion is secondary to the honor of the state.
The production is supplemented with crass ethnic humor. The enemy captain is fittingly a ‘Singh’, therefore an opportunity to amuse the audience with a hackneyed sardar joke. A ‘pathan’ joke explicitly or implicitly follows every appearance of a Pakhtun character.
More distressingly, a “Bihari” minstrel, of sorts, wanders onto the set, offering ample comic relief between the more somber moments of the play. With dark facial makeup and a thick Bihari accent, the ‘enemy’ character flounders about centre-stage as Pakistani soldiers decide his fate. You won’t notice the irony if you’re not familiar with Pakistan’s history with the Bihari people.