Of Gur, Google & Greatness: Dispatches from a Nation That Mistook Soap for Civilization
Welcome to Absurdistan
Once upon a republic—far too familiar to be fictional—a elite elders mistook soap for gur and swallowed soap cubes with the same confidence with which he later swallowed ministries. Another, when asked in court to recite the English alphabet, paused not in embarrassment, but in intellectual hesitation:
“Should I start with big ABC… or small?”
This is not satire. This is statecraft.
Welcome to Absurdistan, where Google is consulted not for research but for regretful clarifications; where degrees are printed faster than party manifestos; and where greatness is measured not in ideas, but in decibels—of slogans, sycophancy, and scandal.
The Great Colonial Clean-Up
Long before hashtags were mistaken for houseflies and Wi-Fi for wives, an older, quieter absurdity played out beneath Queen Victoria’s imperial gaze.
It was 1877. The British Empire prepared for the Delhi Durbar—a grandiose display of colonial choreography. As India's feudal elite made their pilgrimage to the imperial court, the British, ever obsessed with order and olfactory discipline, issued a final, urgent decree:
“Be clean.”
Soap—brown, unfamiliar, and fragrant—was distributed to the invited nawabs, maliks, chaudharies, and khans. But in the outer provinces of Empire, where grooming was still a whispered rumor and soap an alien artifact, the guests beheld the brown bars and asked no further questions.
They ate them.
Mistaking soap for gur—the earthy sweetness of cane sugar—they swallowed modernity. Literally. By sunrise, they arrived at the court not bathed but bloated, gurgling with imperial civility.
And so the Durbar began—not with dignity, but dyspepsia.
This tale would be hilarious—if it weren't still being lived.
Democracy on Detergent
When Ministries Are Laundered, Not Earned
In Absurdistan, merit is not a ladder—it’s a laundry line. Hang a degree on it, no matter how unwashed or unverified, and you're ready to govern.
Ministries are not awarded based on competence, but on seniority in sycophancy. A man who cannot sign his name might still be asked to draft national policy—provided he can chant the party slogan on cue.
Here, detergent does the work democracy should. Whitewashed resumes, bleached scandals, spin-dried manifestos. The nation runs not on institutions, but on industrial-strength denial.
Incompetence isn't a secret—it's a selling point. Like branded confusion.
The ABCs of Absurdity
Literacy, Leadership & Laughter in the Land of Logic-Less Lore
A Supreme Court judge asks an MNA embroiled in a fake degree scandal to recite the English alphabet. The lawmaker hesitates.
“I know it,” he says solemnly, “but should I recite the capital ABC… or the small one?”
The courtroom chuckled. The nation exhaled—sharply. He was not removed. He was reelected. Because in Absurdistan, sincerity is optional, but audacity is constitutional.
One minister, asked to write “Seen” on a file, returned it signed with the Urdu letter س.
Another, delivering a tribute at a youth football tournament, declared:
“I hope next year you’ll hold my memorial tournament too.”
He was very much alive. Still is. So is his political career.
Of Data, Delusions & Diplomas
Degrees are acquired the same way mangoes are: ripe, soft, and preferably imported.
A federal minister was asked about Pakistan’s GDP. He replied:
“I haven’t Googled it recently.”
One hoped the economy wasn’t buried in his browser history.
Another, quizzed about Article 6, responded:
“Mein ghar ja ke poochta hoon.”
(I’ll ask at home.)
And who can forget the genius who asked:
“Wi-Fi aur wife mein kya farq hai? Dono signal pakar leti hain.”
(What’s the difference between Wi-Fi and wife? Both catch signals.)
Policy by punchline. Governance by gaffe.
Then came the golden reel of rhetorical ruin:
“Corona kaatt’ta kaise hai?” (How does coronavirus bite?)
“Chup ho jao, azan baj raha hai.” (Be silent, the muezzin is calling for prayer.)
“Pakistan mein saal 12 mausam hotay hain.” (There are twelve seasons in Pakistan.)
“Hazrat Isa ka history mein koi zikr nahin.” (Jesus has no place in history.)
“Germany aur Japan ke border miltay hain.” (Germany and Japan share a border.)
“Jab Pakistan bana to abadi 40 crore thi.” (Pakistan’s population at independence was 400 million.)
But the pièce de résistance?
“Hamārī corruption ka hamāray mukhālifīn ne baīrūn-e-mulk itnā shor machāyā ke jin mulkon ko hamārī corruption/bhrashtāchār kā ilm nahīn thā, un tak bhi hamārā naam pohnch gaya.”
(Our opponents made such noise about our corruption abroad that even countries unaware of it now know just how corrupt we are.)
Two men at that press conference became Prime Ministers.
One of them still is.
The Republic of Recycled Farce
Where Yesterday’s Jokes Become Tomorrow’s Ministers
Here, history doesn’t repeat—it’s simply forwarded. The scandal breaks, the resignation is offered, the portfolio is reassigned. But the face remains the same—slightly more moisturized.
― Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot
Ignorance is not disqualifying—it’s ceremonial. Parliament resembles a wedding hall: crowded, loud, and no one knows who’s paying the bill.
One man’s absurdity becomes another man’s qualification. In this circular satire, incompetence becomes institutional memory.
And so the soap is served again. Perhaps this time with sprinkles.
We bite.
We choke.
We applaud.
Because in Absurdistan, memory is short, theatre is survival, and democracy runs—on detergent.
A Bitter Dessert
If nations are built by minds and steered by hands, then ours remains in the grip of those who cannot tell gur from soap, signal from satire, or fact from theatrical farce.
Once, we mistook brown soap for sugarcane sweetness.
Today, we confuse credentials for credibility, and confusion for charisma.
The scandal is no longer that a man can’t recite the alphabet.
The scandal is that we clap anyway.
We vote. We venerate.
And then we vanish—into indifference.
But history, like bad digestion, always returns.
The soap now comes wrapped in nationalism and marketed as reform.
But we are still chewing what was never meant to be swallowed.
Until we dare to demand more than theatrical incompetence,
we will continue to be ruled by those who bite into the soap—
and with bewildering pride, call it dessert.
