By Karan Thapar

What makes England special? That was a question put to me the other day as I sat watching the World Cup. It immediately caught my fancy and since cricket is a tiresome game that I only watch when there’s nothing else to distract me I found my mind wandering in search of an answer to this intriguing enquiry.

I suppose there could be a thousand plausible answers. Each anglophile must have his or her own. And then there’s the possibility that there is, in fact, nothing special about the old sceptred isle but I, at least, find that so risible as to dismiss it altogether.

No, England is special in two senses. No other country, particularly none of such geographical insignificance, has a history of world domination that has lasted so long and that will continue for the foreseeable future. In the last century the sun never set on its empire. Now that it has the peoples of the world can’t stop speaking or wanting to learn its language.

Yet it’s the other sense of special that appeals to me. The English have a sense of humour like none other. They’re not strictly funny. They don’t really laugh at jokes. But they are exceptionally witty. They play with words and ideas to change their meaning and produce clever results. It’s more funny-peculiar than funny-ha ha. If our cricket team and the other visitors keep their eyes open they’ll pick it up. Keeping their ears open won’t help because the accents will undoubtedly throw them.

Let me give you a few examples. In 1975, when Sanjay Gandhi first entered politics, although he wouldn’t admit it and no one in India dared ask any question for fear of his mother’s Emergency, The Economist captured the essence of the situation with a headline that was unbeatable : “In India the son also rises”.

A few months later when Prime Minister Callaghan’s son-in-law Peter Jay was appointed British Ambassador to Washington, with shouts of nepotism and cronyism resounding through Westminster, The Economist found the perfect way of alleging corruption without actually saying it. The magazine’s front page carried a picture of Peter Jay with the caption “Britain’s Son Jay”.

However, my favourite examples come from the early 1980s. At the time there was – as oddly there is again today – a battle royal between the big papers. At both ends of the spectrum, broadsheet and tabloid, there were fights to the death under way. It inspired the best advertising slogans I’ve ever come across.

With The Times, then under Lord Thomson, shut down for thirteen months, leaving its loyal readers in the lurch, its arch-rival The Daily Telegraph hit upon the ad of the decade. It produced a picture of a golden-haired little girl, tucked up in bed, sleeping safely and securely, with her arm wrapped around not a teddy bear but R2D2, the loveable robot from Starwars. The caption at the bottom read “Times change, values don’t : The Daily Telegraph”.

Even better was the punch delivered by the tabloid Evening News to its competitor The Evening Standard. As day after day the paper failed to steal The Standard’s readership, in desperation it plastered London with posters which sought to cleverly quash its opponent. “When you’re tired of the standard approach it’s time for The Evening News”. It was brilliant but, sadly, it did not work. The Evening News died within months. The Standard, now alone, is today London’s afternoon paper without rival.

What these headlines and ads have in common is that they are clever yet pertinent, they make their point but they are not cruel and because they make you smile you also remember them. Only the English use their language to such great effect. In fact, I’m not sure if you can pun in Hindi at all. For me its this wit – so different to the loud humour of America or the laboured jokeyness of the French – that makes the English truly special.

And if you don’t agree with me then permit me to suggest a term borrowed from the annals of the good Reverend Spooner by which I would be happy to be known. Just call me a shining wit !

Don’t they sound like us?

Pakistanis and Indians are more alike than we care to admit. Of course, we share the same food, language, swear-words and lifestyle but all that you know. What you may not have realised – or accepted – is that we also share the same

dog-in-the-manger attitudes and the same spoke-in-the-wheel bureaucrats. And we have the same crab-like quality of pulling down a good man.

Let me put it like this : If I were to tell you that an excellent ambassador had recently been embarrassed in his host country by his own foreign office who had needlessly and thoughtlessly leaked one of his confidential (albeit controversial if accurately reported) telegrams, which country’s diplomat would you think I was talking about? It does sound suspiciously like one of ours, doesn’t it? But it’s not. I refer instead to the Pakistani High Commissioner in Delhi. His story proves my point.

When Najam Sethi, a senior and outspoken Pakistani editor, criticised his country at the IIC what would you have expected Ashraf Qazi, the Pakistani High Commissioner, to do? Sit silent and forget about it? Or defend his country and inform his government of what had transpired?

Quite understandably, Ashraf Qazi did the latter. So too would have G. Parthasarthy, our man in Islamabad, or any other ambassador in any other capital. That, after all, is what ambassadors are meant for. It’s what the foreign office in Islamabad did that turned out to be surprising and ended up reminding me of our own boys at South Block.

You might have expected Islamabad to do one of two things : either take silent note of Najam Sethi’s critical speech and strike him off their list of favourite journalists (but that would have required a restraint they might not be capable of) or to claim to the world that Mr. Sethi and his critical speech were proof that Pakistan was a democracy where people were free to say what they please (but that would have assumed a sophistication they are not known for). What you would not have expected – nay, even dreamt of – is that Islamabad would proceed to arrest Mr. Sethi and then compound its folly by releasing to the press its own High Commissioner’s alleged letter as justification for its high-handed behaviour. Yet that is precisely what Islamabad did.

The consequence is four serious errors. A journalist who impressed Indian audiences with his outspoken if surprising critique of his country has been arrested thus completely wiping out the favourable impact of his candour. An opportunity to prove to the world that through its tolerance the government in Pakistan is committed to democracy has been thoughtlessly squandered. Ashraf Qazi’s telegram, sent in confidence, has been made public thus breaching all the codes of professional conduct. And, finally, a damned good high commissioner, one whom the press, politicians and his peers alike respect, has been compromised.

The only loser of this ridiculous outcome is Pakistan. The only people responsible for it are its own bureaucrats. And the only reason why this has happened – and here I guess but I bet I am right – is that someone somewhere in Islamabad wanted to foot-fault Ashraf Qazi and in his eagerness to do so tripped-up his own country as well.

Now – and be honest – what does that remind you of? No doubt nothing identical has happened in India but it does sound as if it could have. Change the names and could not the story be about an Indian ambassador and his own colleagues at South Block? Of course, that’s no consolation to Ashraf but it does seem to prove my starting point. Fifty two years later India and Pakistan are not just similar but all too often distressingly the same.