A Journalist, a Fake Linguist, and the Death of Research

Since I belong to that tribe of journalists who, even in this modern age, are still waging a jihad against ignorance using the blunt weapon known as “research,” I consider it mandatory to verify any news that reaches me—whether from a “reliable” or an unreliable source.

So it happened just a few days ago that the most senior editor of our newspaper called me and instructed me to go to a certain address where a lady lived who, according to him, had done extensive work on our provincial languages. I was told to interview her and submit it for publication.

Before going there, I did what I always do—picked up my traditional “blunt weapon,” research. And through this research I discovered that, indeed, such a learned person does exist—but not a lady. It is a gentleman, living in a village almost two hundred kilometers away.

When I presented this “gender-based academic discrepancy” to my senior editor, he flew into a rage, scolded me thoroughly, and ordered:
“Do exactly what you’re told. Don’t argue.”

Obeying the royal decree under the principle of the ruler’s command is the death of reason, I reached the given address at ten the next morning. At the gate of a magnificent mansion stood the “master of the house’s” trusted aide, holding a bouquet and wearing an artificial smile to welcome me.

He escorted me—while saving me from several aggressively barking dogs—into the drawing room, which was decorated with bookshelves. He commanded me, in a regal tone, to sit down and went off to summon the “lady of the house.”

Seated on a soft sofa, I began examining the paintings on the walls. What struck me most was that every painting bore the signature “Begum Shakeel-uz-Zaman,” reinforcing my impression that the lady was indeed an intellectual.

Soon after, a woman arrived carrying a large tray laden with bakery items, dry fruits, and tea. She placed everything neatly before me and silently withdrew.

As I sipped my tea and tried to untangle the questions in my mind, the lady herself entered—staggering slightly, supported by two female attendants—advancing with such grandeur that it felt as if a queen were entering her court.

I stood up respectfully. Once she was seated, I too sat down cautiously, maintaining the posture of utmost decorum. With a subtle gesture, she summoned another attendant, who immediately appeared with a bowl of siri paye. In an instant, a tablecloth was spread, and a brimming bowl of curry along with buttered naan was placed before her, which she began to eat with great ceremony.

After some formal pleasantries, I moved to the actual purpose of my visit—the interview. While eating, she adjusted her shawl, removed her glasses, handed them to an attendant who polished them delicately and placed them back on her nose—thus completing the pre-interview ritual.

“When did you develop this interest?” I asked my first question.

She smiled and replied:
“Since childhood. I loved siri paye so much that even on Tuesdays my father would force the butcher to slaughter an animal just for me. The servants cooked it lovingly, and we all enjoyed it greatly.”

I felt as if I had received an eleven-thousand-volt electric shock. But her companions enthusiastically applauded:
“Bravo, Begum Sahiba! Wonderful answer! Such command over language! What elegance! SubhanAllah!”

She responded modestly with repeated “Much obliged.”

“Excuse me,” I said carefully, “my question was about language.”

She looked puzzled and gestured to her companions as if asking, What is he asking? One whispered something into her ear.

“Oh! Right. That. Okay. Now I understand,” she said, clearing her throat, and then—between spoonfuls of siri paye—delivered her scholarly insight:

“Look, language is language. Some people have tongues a yard long, while others seem to have no tongue at all. Some speak as if tearing a shroud from the dead, while others speak so softly they can’t hear themselves. As I say:
‘God, do not grant us such divinity,
That nothing is visible except ourselves.’”

Her attendants erupted:
“Bravo! Bravo! What diction! What delivery! What eloquence! Repeat, repeat!”

She shyly hid her face like a bride, while I sat there stunned, watching this spectacle.

“Begum Sahiba,” I ventured, “what do you think is the reason for the linguistic diversity in our region?”

She instantly flared up, glared at me with bloodthirsty eyes, and snapped:
“What kind of idiotic questions is this man asking? Where is the slip?”

The word slip made my forehead tingle—I had no idea what kind of “material or immaterial slip” she meant. As I reached for an almond to buy myself time, one attendant swiftly removed the tray and snapped rudely:
“Stop.”

She got up, returned with a piece of paper, and thrust it into my hand. When I unfolded it, I found a list of questions such as:

• What is the secret of your successful diet?
• How many hours do you sleep and how many do you stay awake?
• If a cat and a mouse fight, who will win?
• Did biryani originate in Hyderabad or Delhi?
• How many hotels between Lahore and Karachi serve mutton karahi?

I looked up at her. She said sharply:
“I stayed up all night memorizing these questions. I neither ate nor slept, and now you show up asking questions outside the slip.”

Before I could respond, she dialed her phone, put it on speaker, and complained to my editor:
“What kind of uncivilized fools have you hired? It seems you no longer need my funding for your newspaper.”

My editor asked:
“So he didn’t ask questions from the slip?”

She nearly wept as she narrated her ordeal. Immediately, my editor ordered me to leave and reassured her:
“I’ll send another journalist—one who understands the situation and sticks to the slip. Please eat, relax, and rest.”

I left, returned to the office, and endured a thorough verbal cleansing from my editor.

Long story short, the very next day her entirely fabricated interview was published in the newspaper’s color edition—where she was guiding readers on the diversity, structure, and history of Pakistan’s provincial languages