DigiVoyager

In the ramshackle city of Quetta, once a prosperous hub of economic activity, now more akin to a dilapidated frontier town because of the devastating earthquake of 1935, life is viewed through a very narrow schism. The good old days, before 1935, before the earthquake that ruined almost all of its infrastructure, killing over 30,000 to boot, and the bad days since. Add a heaping dose of doom and gloom for every year post founding of the once Dominion, now Islamic Republic, of Pakistan in 1947. In this corner of the world, people tend to believe hope was locked inside Pandora's Box for a different reason entirely. For hope is an evil thing, just as rotten as the rest of the inhabitants of that contraption.

We now move forward in time, from the once hopeful times of Independence Day circa 1947, the hope of a new nation and better days to come, until we hit the 2010s – but we do not see any development. The economy has stagnated, and the people are worse off than they were before. There is only disillusionment and deprivation. Added to the box of despair and misery is the missing person phenomenon, state sanctioned abductions are now the norm.

We now present for your consideration, the tale of a journalist, seeking gainful employment. One Bilal Mehngal, who works as an honorary journalist in Noshki, a correspondent for a newspaper called the Independent, the kind that you won't find at a news stand, or even with a seller that carries most newspapers. The Independent did not pay him a salary, and eking out an existence per story covered was miserable.

Picture a journalist, in need of money, and picture the Pakistan army, the country's most successful business enterprise. Picture, if you can, that journalist trying to make his way out of the quagmire of poverty and squalor.....but the people of Quetta are people of few means, and life treats them just as apathetically as it does Bilal.

Picture then, his euphoria, when the army itself wanted to hire a tailor on a long term basis, the most gainful employment of all and Bilal just happened to have a background in tailoring, due to having worked with his older brother, who was a tailor. Lucky break, you would say, and you would be wrong if you were at all familiar with what happened in Balochistan.

In order to stitch for the army, our friend the tailor had to work within the garrison, an extremely secure, highly regulated environment. He and his son were the only civilians there, everyone else was from the army.

Now picture if you will, the chain of command, and the army's officer cadre. Picture if you will, a baboon smoking a cigar, and drinking whisky, picturing himself as the very height of culture. His qualifications? A useless Bachelor's, and a schooling just as pathetic. His patience? None. These people only care about results. And when something bad happens, they want a name. Failure to supply one means an end to your career. In Pakistan, everyone is a wolf, but also a sheep that hopes to survive by throwing you to the wolves instead.

Now picture, if you will, the tension in Quetta. A city where the number of abductions and missing people continues to spiral. The abductors? The ones within those garrisoned walls.

Picture our tailor, and his son, happily working at their station, when a soldier is shot at. The time? 6:30 PM.

The soldiers of the army are just as savage as their masters, only they put on no airs. A name is needed. A name is given, the name of one of the only two civilians in the garrison at the time.

The civilian was the tailor's son.

It did not matter that he was with his father in the shop, or that they had proof of his presence there, or even a register logging him as leaving the shop at 7:15 PM, and not a minute before.

What matters is what was said by one uniform to another.

And so, our tailor, once seeking gainful employment, now stands outside the Quetta press club, lost in the sea of fellow Baloch faces seeking something even more elusive than hope, justice.

45 disappeared, 48 killed. A headline for the ages in any other nation. But for the Baloch people? Just another month. August, 2022, in fact, and almost every other month is just the same.

The citizenry of Pakistan, however, may as well have prosopagnosia, for they see no difference between him, and countless others. There is a reason the Baloch lock hope away.

Somewhere in Peshawar, in a lesser known Government Hospital

Dr. Fawltea entered his domain, the forgotten Medical E ward, like a king finally bestowing his magnanimous grace upon one of those lesser-visited and more neglected hamlets. Or, to give it a more local flavor, a police officer visiting one of those streets he knew was frequented by smugglers, drug dealers, and those he hated the most: fruit vendors; but those vendors would not sour his mood on that particular day because he had gotten a brand-new motorcycle as a gift from the state. A gift, in this context, being a bike he'd taken a fancy to at the impound, removed the plates off of, and claimed as his own. Similarly, nothing would sour Fawltea's mood today; not the faulty oxygen lines, the lack of essential drugs, the misplaced crash carts or even the outdated monitors that were well past it, their green phosphorescent glow drowning out any information a doctor might glean from them.

Not even Gul Abad, the technician who liked to pretend he was a trainee from some other specialty, could ruin his day. He had been a Cardiologist, Pulmonologist, and even an Emergency Medicine specialist (a specialty that wasn't even recognized in Peshawar, such was his dedication to the role). He'd argued many a time with Gul Abad in the past, but, like others before him, Dr. Fawltea too had given up, realizing he was just one of many; there were similar characters in Surgery, Radiology, Pathology, and even the blood bank, for some reason.

“Gul Abad is not just a person, he is an idea, and these ideas often have their own clinics on the outskirts of town” had become his new go-to line whenever any new doctors asked what his deal was.

Why anyone would want to be a blood bank officer, Dr. Fawltea could not fathom, but then, dear reader, he was not aware of Gul Abad's favorite maxim: “There is always money in the blood bank.” Gul Abad's role model, a notoriously corrupt doctor who had dodged jail more times than Pakistan had had IMF bailout programs (25 at the time of writing) had bestowed this wisdom unto him. In Gul Abad's view, this saint among men would've probably cheated the IMF and led Pakistan to heights hitherto unseen. In the views of more pragmatic people, such as his family, friends, etc. he would've taken a few bad loans and absconded with the money.

While Gul Abad had been named after his father's favorite place, Dr. Fawltea was sadly not named by his father after that esteemed personage, Basil Fawlty, who managed Fawlty Towers. But he told people that anyway, making sure to look at them with a derisive eye so that they would not ask questions about why the timeline didn't match up, him being older than Fawlty Towers and all. This benevolent shepherd (or so he fancied himself—but then he also fancied himself a cardiologist, even though he had specialized in internal medicine) of that godforsaken flock, which constituted today's trainees (they did not even know how to read ECGs, the only one that had shown any interest was that annoying Gul Abad), annoyed him to no end. But nothing could ruin his mood today; he had finally managed to get his hands on the holy grail of holy grails: a VIP. VIP in this here context does not mean Very Important Person; it means Very Important Patient.

Patients, you see, had varying levels of importance for Dr. Fawltea (and many other Pakistani doctors) depending on what they had to offer. A poor patient? Pointless. The milk of human kindness, however much remained in Dr. Fawltea, compelled him to take a cursory look at those poor downtrodden and help them, but that is all. Those middle-class, annoying patients who only asked questions, on the other hand – ingrates, the lot of them – were of no use to him. He disliked them the most. VIPs, on the other hand, were patients that were connected to the halls of power; they could be businessmen, criminals (in Pakistan, the Venn Diagram of such an association would be extremely overlapping; some have tried to find that rare creature, a businessman that is not a criminal, and have turned every rock up and down for said cause, but to no avail), politicians (much like businessmen, they also overlap with criminals, and like our criminals, they overlap with businessmen too), and of course, the unicorn: a high-ranking army officer. Dr. Fawltea was dreaming of luxurious luncheons at golf courses, days whiled away driving those cute little golf carts all over the course. Perhaps he would even throw down a fishing rod or two in the water – he didn't care that there were no fish. He was due some much needed introspection.

He entered the break room, not at all surprised to find only two of his sheep there. He did not know how many there were in total; only God knew that because the system was a mess, and over half of them were ghost employees who never showed up, except when they needed to change their attendance records – a little bribery went a long way. Within the lounge, there was that new fellow who looked like he was dressed as a seller for a book fair at some old bookshop that had long since run out of funds and was hoping to glean some extra sympathy from buyers; he was talking about how computers were unfairly priced for the umpteenth time. He was perpetually on the night shift, and judging by his pallor Fawltea was beginning to suspect the fellow was some sort of lesser vampire.

Sitting on that twin green sofa across the table was that famous professor's daughter. Her father had a master's in several domains, and she too claimed expertise in said matters. Why she had decided to go into medicine also baffled Dr. Fawltea, he had seen her discuss everything but. She was, as ever, reading her book out loud, perhaps lost in the delusions of being a person of lordly caliber, much as Fawltea himself was. Dr. Fawltea wondered if she too viewed the other doctors as her flock; it certainly seemed like it. He did not like the idea of competition from a junior doctor, but, being related to not one but two brigadiers on her mother's side, Dr. Fawltea knew better than to say anything to her. A harsh word from him would lead to many harsh beatdowns in a cell. 'Sticks and stones will break my bones, and words will never save me,' he reminded himself. Feigning polite interest, for one can always do with being on good terms with someone related to the army, he smiled and asked, 'And what are we reading today?'”

The Professor, as she was affectionately nicknamed (not that she was aware they called her that), smiled back and pointed to the cover of the book dismissively, as if Dr. Fawltea was not worthy of her time. It was another one of Adam Smith's works; of course it was. Moral Sentiments or something. And all he could do, in lieu of her powerful family, was to nod and smile as she continued to read it out loud, as if this were a Class 3 (for my American audience, think third grade; for my British audience, I am not familiar with your form system rannygazoo) English lesson.

She spoke stentoriously: “It is to be observed accordingly, that we are still more anxious to communicate to our friends our disagreeable than our agreeable passions, that we derive still more satisfaction from their sympathy with the former than from that with the latter, and that we are still more shocked by the want of it.” The fellow who looked like a down-on-his-luck bookseller nodded and obliged, Fawltea was not sure if it was due to genuine interest or simply what her status commanded. Fawltea felt bad for the poor sod, it was clear he'd not slept all night, and now this. It was all Fawltea could do to keep himself from yelling something akin to “Go on, you vampire, go into the sunlight and end your torment.”

All this scene really needed – Fawltea thought in disdain – was a harsh, dissonant violin to make it more annoying, or perhaps a sad piano piece to drive home the lesser vampire's agony. “Shall we start the round then?” Dr. Fawltea asked, though it was more of a command than anything.

“After this chapter,” replied the Professor, as if she were the head consultant and Fawltea the trainee medical officer.

Fawltea sat down to drink some tea, wondering if any of the other rascals he supervised would bother showing up to today's round, when the Hardy Boyses entered the lounge as if it were their own backyard, bringing a smile to his face. He called them that because they reminded him of Frank and Joe, two characters from his favorite book series. Always together, practically like brothers, always off having an adventure. Normally, this sounded great, but when their adventures (the Hardy Boyses in a brawl with the local Snooker Club toughs was a particular favorite of Fawltea's) happened on the hospital's time and dime – that is to say, they were being paid to treat patients and not beat up hoodlums that darkened the doors of the local Snooker club, or go hunting or fishing or whatever else they found to occupy their already paid-for time – it made quite a lot of administrative trouble. But Fawltea had always idolized such adventurous lads, having been denied that feeling in his own school years. He was now living vicariously through them, much like the books had allowed him to live vicariously through Frank and Joe. If that stupid deputy sub-inspector police were going to make sure his nephew Gul Abad stayed, then he, Fawltea, would also fight to the death for his Hardy Boyses, who had taken him fishing, hunting, and even horse riding, besides the usual spot of cricket. Sadly, they did not have access to that hanging garden of Babylon, the local golf course. He could simply go and pay a rather exorbitant sum, but Fawltea had always found it hard to part with his money.

“Allo allo bruva,” said Frank, whose hair was in more disarray than the traffic in Peshawar, but not so bad as to be likened to the traffic in Karachi or Lahore. “Hey, bro,” said Joe, who had used more hair gel than a baboon would on a particularly bad hair day. Both of them fist-bumped Fawltea. This, right here, was the dream. For a moment, he too had forgotten he was their boss, and he was just one of the lads. There was a triumphant smirk on his face, and in his own mind, he was bathed in radiance, others watching on, jealous that he was a member of this exclusive boys' club. How Fawltea wished they were off in some long lost Amazonian jungle, finding lost treasures and thwarting devious pit vipers as they made their way to the top of a sacrificial altar just in time to save the world from a permanent eclipse. But before he knew it, they were gone again. Dammit, he had not gotten a chance to get any new stories from them, his daydreams were too vivid sometimes.

The Professor's sermon on Adam Smith's treatise regarding moral sentiments continued for a good while, during which Fawltea pondered many things. He wondered when exactly the heat death of the universe would occur, if today’s youth were interested in those old Doctor Who radio dramas, and why his car had such particularly bad mileage. As a matter of fact, it was because his driver used it as a taxi during the time Fawltea was busy working.

As he continued to ponder, another trainee he was afraid of entered. The first words she uttered were: “Hi Benazir, hi Hamlet. I'm well past 3000 now!” and then she made a peace sign. The fellow who looked like the world's most forlorn bookseller (Fawltea could see why he had the Hamlet moniker, it was easy to visualize the boy being plagued by several ghosts, though he would've gone with some lesser known vampire himself) mumbled congratulations. The Professor (aptly nicknamed Benazir, after the former Prime Minister who was the first woman to lead a Muslim majority government) also nodded her acknowledgment. Unfortunately for Dr. Fawltea, this trainee was not related to any army officers by any degrees of separation; she was as close to the establishment as one could possibly be – both of her parents were high-ranking officers. Why she was in a government hospital like this and not a military hospital, he couldn't fathom, but it possibly had something to do with the higher salary and the lack of consequences. All one had to do was be in the right place at the right time, and they could perform operations well outside their own domain. Fawltea himself had done a few appendectomies and exploratory laparotomies out of sheer curiosity, and had even botched a few cardiac surgeries.

While looking at her, most would see a normal girl. Not Fawltea, though. He always saw her flanked by two phantasms, both famous generals of the past, who looked at him threateningly, daring him to say anything so they could toss him into a jail cell for good, their mustaches brimming with the arrogance of a thousand suns. At least she wouldn't oppress him like The Professor, Fawltea consoled himself as he watched the girl sit down, bring out a MacBook (which, by the way, is asking for trouble in a government hospital, dear reader, as someone will invariably want to snatch it) and start watching a movie with her fancy Bluetooth thingamajigs that fit in the ear, they were called earpods or something of the sort. Fawltea did not like how they made him feel; he was an old-fashioned sort and preferred old-school headphones. He noticed she watched at least two, sometimes three or four movies at work, and he wondered just how many films she must have seen. The number must be in the thousands. One day, perhaps, he'd talk cinema with her – always useful to have contacts in the army, after all.

A cursory look told him she was watching The Breakfast Club, the irony of which was not lost on Fawltea. His own ward, once a well disciplined unit that ran with the cold, calculated efficiency of a machine when he was a trainee here, had turned into a recreational club of sorts under his own command. It seemed as if she were mocking his very being, by watching that movie.

Having given up on conducting a morning round, some but not all of his good mood soured like your typical fruit vendor's stock in the suburbs of Hayatabad, Peshawar. Fawltea had decided the hangdog bookseller would be carrying out today’s orders. He did not like to call Frank and Joe and ask them to cover their allotted beds, for he did not want to seem uncool. They would say something like, “Never figured you for a stooge,” and he would no longer be one of the boys, merely a toad, or whatever slang was hip these days.

As much as he hated that bloke who kept gabbing on about how Pakistan would have its first guillotine soon, the revolution being nigh, the bourgeoisie finally coming out and making the nation their own, Fawltea realized he was missing him today. His arguments with The Professor about Communism, Socialism, Economics, Philosophy, and the like usually ended up with the cozy, almost café-esque atmosphere so prevalent here right now going up in flames, and everyone marching out to start the round without Fawltea having to say anything. Come to think of it, this was the first day he’d been absent. Communist or no, Fawltea had suddenly become an admirer of the man, and after a few phone calls that went unanswered, Fawltea had realized that this Tartan Check sweater wearing patriot had probably been picked up for good. Others had warned the fellow not to go on posting exposés about the army’s various businesses, but he had not taken those warnings to heed. Fawltea wondered if he should perhaps ask the girl whose parents were high-ranking officers to have a word with them about Mr. Tartan Check, but then he remembered what had happened to all those people who had become missing persons simply because they were searching for another, and decided against it. He poured himself a cup of tea and drank it in remembrance, hoping Mr. Check would return alive someday.

The “café” that the doctor's lounge had become now had two happy faces on the green sofa towards the left – one reading her book out loud, the other watching a movie on her Mac with her Bluetooth thingamajigs – and two downcast faces on the right: the fellow who looked like a woebegone bookseller, and Fawltea, who was sure the former was going to print out a few posters of Adam Smith (on the hospital's dime, of course) and throw a few darts at them. As things stood currently, Fawltea wanted to do so himself; perhaps this could be a bonding moment. It would be far better than brooding at graveyards, or whatever it was this gloomy vampire undertaker did in his free time.

As for Frank and Joe, Fawltea speculated they had probably embarked on their next adventure, and had just been stopped by the police for carrying all that vodka near GT Road. Alcohol was illegal in Pakistan and usually carried the threat of jail, but even the police officer had fallen for their charisma, wanting so badly to be one of the lads that he ended up escorting them in his own car so that no one would stop them. They seemed like rich, well-off boys, so the officer knew no good would come of arresting them. He had a penchant for good vodka anyway; might as well make friends with people who could source the damn thing. They probably sang Pashto songs as they traveled to the River View hotel, where the plan was to drive the police car into the sea or some such. Yes, it seemed like the sort of thing they would do on any given day; at least, in Fawltea's opinion. Outside that world of dreams, however, Frank and Joe were just playing snooker at a newer, lesser-known club, as was their custom, so that they would not become too well known as hustlers.

God, Fawltea missed Nancy Drew, as addicted as she was to reading true crime books, she could be trusted to check up on the patients and make sure they were all getting the right medication. But she had since made her way to far off shores, and Fawltea had not been able to find anyone else with that sense of responsibility. Now she had been replaced by a Veronica Mars, who only cared about what Olivia Rodrigo was up to and the like. “They're all doomed anyway, they're living in Pakistan.” Veronica would say nonchalantly, before going back to her phone, refusing to check up on any of the patients. Were she not some higher up bureaucrat's daughter, she too would be walking the plank on his ship, but instead she was busy making all kinds of playlists for her musically uncultured colleagues.

As Fawltea continued to wallow in despair, the clock, which had struck 9 (and 8 before, and 7 before that, and so on), struck 10, and he realized he had waited over 90 minutes for Adam Smith’s sermon to end. Just then, Gul Abad entered, and the first thing he did was ask when the round was going to start. As much as Fawltea despised the fellow, he wanted to sing his praises for the interruption. But sadly for Fawltea, no one else heard Gul Abad. Before Fawltea could say anything, Gul Abad seized the opportunity and declared, “Don't worry, I'll conduct the round myself.” Did he just conjure a lab coat out of thin air? Fawltea was flabbergasted, but before he could say anything, Gul Abad had bolted faster than The Flash when he needed to mess with the fabric of time itself.

Fawltea called his Assistant Professor, wondering why the AP had not arrived. “Pakistan vs Netherlands hockey match today, mate, can't be bothered.” was all he got. Fawltea muttered more curses under his breath, wishing he were part of some military outfit — then he’d like to see how anyone would dare disobey or misbehave as they were now. Still, he had to begrudgingly give the man some credit, here he was supporting the flickering flame of a once glorious hockey empire. The jokers that sat before Fawltea had no idea how glorious Pakistan's hockey team had once been in the 70s and the 80s, winning four world cups.

“You, come with me. Don't just sit around. It's time for the round,” Fawltea motioned to the boy, who looked like a heartbroken bookseller whose wares had drowned due to a leak while he had already been weighed down by a suffocating debt. Or a vampire that had just arrived at a blood bank for a feast, only to be hit with a flood of sunlight. Afraid of getting in trouble with his supervisor, the depressed vampire started to get up, only to be chided for it.

“Sit down, you idiot, don't get up.” The Professor glared angrily at him; he was now exuding the vibe of a practically hopeless bookseller whose store had burned down, and it was beginning to look like he would cry.

Then, she shot an angry look at Fawltea, dropping her Adam Smith for the moment. This did not bode well.

“And just why does he have to obey you? We don't have to do anything you say. We're doctors, we're supposed to be independent. We'll examine patients on our own time. Why don't you stick to your job, and let us do ours? It's not like this is an office, and you're our boss.” She huffed with the kind of rage usually seen in a tiger disturbed from enjoying its usual meal of daily villager, with a side of rabbit.

As a matter of fact, he was precisely that. They were trainees, and the whole point of training was to do as you were told by your supervisor. But these new trainees weren’t even interested in following basic protocols. Suddenly, Fawltea realized just how brave the Tartan Check doctor was for taking on these establishment prats, for he could not bring himself to do the same and risk the army's wrath. Even a lowly captain could make you disappear forever, never mind someone related to brigadiers. It was all he could do to stop his hands from shaking.

Nodding and saying, “Sorry, ma'am,” because he was reminded of his particularly harsh History teacher, and because his paranoia insisted on it, he left the doctor's lounge. He was consoled by the fact that, for the gloomy insomniac, listening to more Adam Smith was a fate far worse than any that could befall him during a morning round.

Fawltea started to make his way to the private room where his VIP patient was. Always best to butter these fellows up and what not. He made his way past the main counter where over 20 people were queued up. The two doctors on duty there were playing Tekken Tag on the PC used to register and discharge patients, and the crowd of attendants in the queue seemed more interested in the match than in their own patients. Various amounts of money were exchanged, and the fellow playing Heihachi and Kuma against Eddy and Hwoarang had 12-1 odds or something of the sort. Fawltea liked Heihachi, he was a no-nonsense man, the kind that threw his own son off a cliff if need be. If only I were like him, he thought pensively.

The IT Administrator seemed to be handling the financial side of things as far as the betting went. Fawltea remembered those days when these two buffoons could be found playing Tekken 3. The queues seemed far shorter back then, interest in Tekken 3 had waned after 15 odd years of it being the mainstay government hospital videogame in Peshawar, (and all the other cities too) but now the queues were longer than ever – signing off on those new PCs had been Fawltea's undoing. The IT Administrator had tricked him into thinking it would make the administrative side of things faster, yet all it had done was gum up the works significantly while lining his own pockets. These PCs were also capable of playing Tekken 4, 5, and 6 for when interest in Tag waned. The future of the administrative side of the process looked bleak.

When he finally arrived, still a bit shaken by his brief encounter with what he swore was the Grim Reaper playing Ludo with the custodial staff, he found a nurse putting the death shroud on his patient’s face, eyes closed. “W-what happened?” he asked, his voice cracking as if his very soul – and more importantly, his hopes and dreams of free adventures on the golf course – were being cleaved out. There went his only chance of impressing Frank and Joe.”

“Dr. Gul Abad tried his best; he threw everything at uncle – adrenaline, morphine, ketamine, you name it,” said the patient's only attendant. All Fawltea could do was glare at Gul Abad, who was doing his best to look solemn while the attendant thanked him for trying so hard to save his uncle, who had been admitted for a simple case of mild pneumonia, which Fawltea had managed quite well.

They went outside the room, Fawltea fuming like a police officer who discovered the bike he had stolen from another had been stolen from him. “You did it again; you rat bastard. You killed a perfectly stable patient.” His eyebrows nearly jumped off his face, as if he were some sort of angered cartoon.

“I saw signs that led me to predict a shortness of breath, sir, and concluded adrenaline might be needed, so I acted in advance, before the bacteria could surprise us. I am still learning about why they use morphine and ketamine,” Gul Abad spoke nonchalantly, as if he were a trainee.

“Goddamn it, YOU ARE NOT A DOCTOR!” Fawltea wanted to choke him right then and there, yet Gul Abad was smiling as if they were the best of friends, like petrol smugglers in Balochistan and the soldiers that patrolled the border on petrol smuggling day.

“I got his golf club pass for you, sir; the nephew agreed to put it in your name, the paperwork is underway.” Gul Abad smiled wryly, holding out the card.

“Oh, you did...? Well, that does change things. Well done, Gul Abad; perhaps I shall teach you a few things from now on.” He smiled, all that malice evaporating faster than Pakistan's GDP crashing after the typical bust caused by bad loans stimulating useless consumption. A patient was a patient after all; you lose one, you move on to the next. Such was the spirit the country that had defaulted 3 times had inculcated in its citizens. Frank and Joe were more important, as were his dreams of golf.

“Shall we drink some tea, sir, while you teach me how to read ECGs?” said Gul Abad, as one of the poor patients in the corner rooms passed away silently, forgotten by all. In his death summary, Veronica Mars merely wrote: “Saved him from a bleak, hopeless future that would probably end in suicide anyway. kthxbai”

“Of course, of course,” nodded Fawltea happily, and they went back to that pleasant café, what was once known as the doctor's lounge. Without the argumentative revolutionary, it was certainly far more pleasant. Fawltea made a mental note to be sure to denounce him beforehand on his social media accounts, just to make sure the authorities didn't assume they were pals or anything. There was no arguing with them, one only ended up in an infinite combo of pain.

The Professor was still reading, still the most imperious of orators. Fawltea wondered if she somehow wasn't related to Mark Antony. “The first are those whining and melancholy moralists, who are perpetually reproaching us with our happiness, while so many of our brethren are in misery, who regard as impious the natural joy of prosperity, which does not think of the many wretches that are at every instant labouring under all sorts of calamities, in the languor of poverty, in the agony of disease, in the horrors of death, under the insults and oppressions of their enemies.”

Adam Smith was going to haunt this lounge for a good while longer, it seemed. The Breakfast Club was no longer playing on the Macbook; it was now Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Fawltea liked this Ferris fellow, he reminded him of his buddies Frank and Joe. Maybe it was time he took a day off, too, and went on a wild adventure. He made his way towards his classic 96 Corolla, and drove off, it did not matter where he went.

Back at the hospital, Gul Abad had noticed the Defibrillator for the very first time, and was wondering just how it worked. Now that he had surface level knowledge of electrocardiograms, it was time to put his knowledge to the test.

I have been meaning to make this entry for a while now. My first thought was to perhaps find a Fediverse instance with 1000 character limit, or something of the sort, perhaps even higher, haha.

But on reflection, I wanted to write just a tad more, making this a better fit.

Earlier, on Saturday, that is the 23rd of November, I went to my cousin's wedding. We're not that close, but generally attendance, and a small gift (money is usually the way, we do not have registries and the like) is considered mandatory at these things so I had to go. I, of course, did not take any gifts, since I assumed my parents would, being fond of my own money and all. I did not care to confirm that they did, for I wished to cover my bases, me asking may have lead to a no, why didn't you, and a negative outcome for self.

Anyways, back to the wedding itself, the old men mingled with other old men; sadly not wearing golf caps and plus sixes, no cool pipes either. They were, perhaps, talking of times long gone – times when the grass was more green than brown, the air not a near lethal dose of toxic smog equivalent to smoking 40 cigarettes in a day, and crime was the exception, rather than the norm. The invention of mobile phones has something to do with this. that most attractive and lucrative profession, phone snatching, would not be so rampant if we were still stuck with telephones. Imagine someone sticking you up at gunpoint, asking you to take them home, so they make take your telephone set – no one is going to risk it all and go to such lengths for something far cheaper than any phone.

One may wonder if wallet snatchers exist or not, the answer to which is simple. They do, but make up far less of the robber %, being that most of us walking the streets are poor, our wallets are similarly deprived of any meaningful cash for them. Thus, they have that other most attractive profession, that of robber who hangs around outside the ATM. The glint in the eyes of said robbers when they see someone vulnerable is something to behold, not unlike that of the look in one's own eyes when the PS2 finally avoids the dreaded red screen that accompanies an unreadable disc.

There are sadly not any Beyblade snatchers, though perhaps in one of the zillions of other timelines, there is a lil' DigiVoyager who turned to a life of crime, and decided he might as well get a Beyblade collection out of it, circa 2009. He probably has an account named DigiSurfer, or something to that effect and enjoys playing Grand Theft Auto 2, and only 2, because he is a hipster or something of the sort.

But back to the wedding, on the other side, the women mingled with other women, for weddings among us Pashtuns are generally segregated. There was much gossip, and nothing but gossip as my mother tells me, and people speaking of making matches between so and so's son, and this and that's daughter, while both of the aforementioned parties are enjoying university life, oblivious to this sudden axe hanging over their heads. I imagine it must be like taking a nice leisurely stroll on a nearby road, only to run into a wild leopard -also a thing that has happened to a few unfortunate souls here in Pakistan. I am told my name comes up often, first with an array of optimism – oh, he's a doctor, but then someone invariably mentions my salary; who first sourced my income, and then told the rest, I do not know, but my mother denies it so it was probably one of my aunts or cousins – then the conversation quickly turns to other names or women who are 40 and over, yet very wealthy.

Dear my aunts and cousins, I am not a gold digger, I do not know what caused you to imagine me so.

Now, there's a lot of showing off, pomp and festive merrymaking at these things, provided the festivities have been thrown by a middle class (or better) family. As we go up the economic ladder, the festivities get more and more luxurious, and segregation too, tapers off.

However, this one was a distinctly lower class affair. I am not mocking my cousin's status by the way, in case the thing may seem mean spirited or such, he and I are about the same economically as Goblin A and Goblin B in one of your role playing games, the mooks you beat up around the start of your game without even letting them get a hit in.

We sat in the tent, cold, I taking in the usual chat: Uncle A talks about how he purchased a rare WW2 rifle from so and so, uncle C reveal the rifle is a fake as he knows the seller only provides fakes, uncle A insists it must be a different fellow with the same name, uncle C opens his Facebook profile, uncle A curses, uncle B tries to sneak an extra plate in the heat of the moment, uncle D talks of how he plans on finally purchasing that dream car but his own progress in that matter is about the same as mine in getting that coveted Panda Trueno, that is to say he and I are about as close to owning a car as this country is to fixing itself.

If any time travelers are reading, I wish to know: Does he ever get the car? I can make peace with me not getting one, but I am too invested in his tale.

Back to the class matter, our weddings during winter are not ones you want to attend. We are not the class of family that rents out wedding halls, these events take place in tents, and you can probably imagine how cold it gets. For warmth, there are a few fires lit here and there, you sit down by them if you are feeling cold. If there are ever any portable heaters or the like, all of them always go to the women's side.

This is never an issue in middle class or better weddings. For photography and recording, many families hire drone photographers and the like, but here we had just one photographer, a friend of my cousin's with a DSLR. This, by the way, is a rule of getting by in Pakistan. If you know anyone with a DSLR, befriend them instantly. I wonder if these DSLR fellows ever get burgeoning existential crises where they wonder if people care about them or their camera more.

When the thing is done, there are photos at the end. The bride and groom sit on a sofa, and families go in turn to take photos with them, pretending to have a nice conversation and such. I generally never take part in these things. Many feel it is shyness, or some other reason. In my own view, the crux of the matter seems to lie in me not really being close to my relatives, it feels rather like a case of impostor syndrome, I've never really had any bonding moments with them, nor they me, and to appear in these would feel not only wrong, but also so as to be cheapening their memories. This does seem like a rather odd tangent to go off on, but I do wonder what it feels like on the other side. I imagine people just keep photos of people they like, and get rid of the rest. But do they also feel that cheapening, or is it just me?

Perhaps they are too happy, too euphoric to care, like Uncle B, sneaking off to where the rice is being made, claiming he needs some more plates for misters X, Y and Z, who remain as unaware of his deeds as they were 20 years ago.

Still, I would love to photograph one of these events one day, the raw authenticity one sees is something else. I wish to take wedding photos, and someday soon I may, if I ever get my camera. For the moment, it is about as close as Uncle D's car.

I will preface this article by saying that Blade is not the sort of game you should play if you loathe jank and that specific brand of friction found in many PS1 games that weren't always fair. Now if you are in search of that techno/drum'n'bass/jungle in a club feeling that seems to be synonymous with many of the titles found on the original PlayStation while you hunt vampires, this is the game for you. It is its own vibe, and that is one of the best compliments I can pay. This is coming from the sort of person who always contextualizes a title in the period it was made, and always gives them the benefit of the doubt. Did I enjoy playing this on my laptop (which must surely be a vampire laptop at this point, having refused to buckle to time) at midnight, whiling away the night shift? Yes. Would I recommend anyone else to play it? Maybe if you don't mind sloppily made PS1 games, and seek the aforementioned mood, play it at midnight, it's got a very different vibe. Rain helps, too.

There are some videos on YouTube about how it is an underrated game with some interesting mechanics at play, and was approached wrongly by reviewers. Personally, I feel its reception is appropriate, it is the very essence of a flawed game (it also runs quite terribly, play it in an emulator with the CPU% set higher for your own sake) – but it must be remembered flawed doesn't imply it's terrible, or worthless, merely that it has a few issues. Indeed, Blade is one of those games where if you just run around, particularly in the first two levels, you will probably get to the Game Over screen faster than the lizard oil dealers near our government hospitals dive into some unknown alley when they see the police. They are, of course, surprised to see that some policeman as a customer, merely a day later but in plainclothes.

Yes, this is a thing, Cannabis addicts found aplenty in our government hospitals and rehabilitation centers, have started to prefer these. The poor fellows having only just left Cannabis, get hooked on these instead. The economics of this business are quite sound, Lizards being easy and free to source in numerous quantities, but I digress.

The issue with Blade is a simple one, it is of balance. Some of the enemies you come across, like the Zombies, are tuned such that they do next to no damage. Others (ones armed with Machine Pistols, particularly) tend to melt through your health bar. And often, it's at just the right distance that they're out of camera. As such, the designers have applied duct tape to the cracks in the game, much like the Pakistani government has duct taped our economy by killing all imports, and causing massive inflation. Inflation in Blade's case would be the excessive amounts of health boosters and first aid kits found throughout the game. An easy solution to this issue, I suppose. And while normally, such a game would ramp up the combat intensity, that doesn't happen except for two levels, which, roughness aside do remain my favorite levels.

Blade, you see, must be played with a very “I am now travelling the streets that phone grabbing gangs also love to patrol, and they are not shy about firing the gun” attitude. Indeed, it is a vibe that can only be likened to having low HP as you traverse the dungeon, hoping the game doesn't throw a random encounter your way. And the ensuing depression that comes with a party wipe, and having a save game only at the very start.

In essence, one must move slowly, become the R1 (control type B – lock on) button's best friend, so that you're alert to any enemies hidden in the distance. One must also love the strafe button, and be ready to just peek out of a corner in this particularly unwieldy manner so as to get the drop on enemies. Move slowly, and survey repeatedly, and the game is more manageable; besides the occasional ambush that costs you 30 minutes of hard earned progress. At its core, it is an endurance game, as getting from one save point to another will require you to learn well the enemy placements, and plan accordingly. There is one issue however, the stamina meter. Blade is very slow to strafe, and back up, especially when the stamina bar (vertical bar on left) is yellow. That is why you pop Serums, to make Blade strafe and back up faster, my advice is to use them liberally as there are plenty of them throughout the game, any time it feels like a crowded fight or you need that edge, pop a Serum.

Chinatown. One of the more eye-pleasing locations in the game, there is a decent number. There are also some fun drum'n'bass, techno and such tracks in the game, but also some very odd choices.

See that gauge in the top corner? It fills when you hold the lock-on/target button, and when it reaches full capacity, it flashes for a very brief interval. Shooting as it flashes will get you a headshot, this is pretty much the key (and only) mechanic of the game. Land headshots, and you will save ammo and be rid of enemies far quicker than otherwise, making the game far harder. This mechanic doesn't matter as much for when you need to empty a clip or two of the Machine Pistol into the enemy, but it is still critical in the long run. It is a consistent mechanic in that once you have a feel for the timing, you won't mess up. The Shotgun fills the fastest, the Machine Pistol the slowest, the Handgun being somewhere in the middle. As for the money, you get it by killing enemies, and throughout the game you will find Resupply points (rarer than save points) that let you spend around $200-250 to get an assortment of random ammo and items.

Not bad visuals for a PS1 game, Blade has some nice looking environments, sadly the models are not as flattering.

Now, the strategic part of the game besides moving slowly and carefully and being ready to rain a Machine Pistol clip full of death on any enemies just in case, comes from the resource management.

You have a Katana, a Handgun (weapon of choice of our local phone bandits), a Machine Pistol, a Shotgun, and a Multi-launcher that fires Blades (think throwing stars, not the character), Bolts as well as Grenades.

The resource management comes in like so:

Handgun: Standard and Carbon bullets Machine Pistol, Standard, Carbon and Silver Shotgun: Standard, Silver + Explosive Shells Multi-launcher: Standard and Silver blades, Standard and Explosive bolts.

Now, the strategy comes from the fact that the enemies in this game are basically divided into 4 types:

Humans: Weak to Standard Monsters: Weak to Carbon Vampires: Weak to Silver Nitrate All: Weak to Explosive

So you will have to ration your ammo properly, as they are all separate pickups. Or just get a ton of headshots. That is a general rule of sorts. You will also run into enemies wearing bullet proof armor and carrying shotguns, they're best dealt with using shotguns. Similarly, there are ninja vampires who will deflect your bullets by spinning their swords, making them invulnerable. Zombies are big on the ammo drain, but instantly taken care of with a headshot. Overall, the enemy designs in this game have a few cool ideas, despite how messy the title is. Explosive shells are a boon but they damage you too, so only use them at a good distance. The Katana is a great choice for various early game grunts and Svamps, as well as a few of the brute type enemies.

It may sound like a recipe for disaster, a slow paced tactical game that needs fast decisive action at times having so many ammo types for each weapon when the character himself controls so clunkily, but here is where the Weapon Select button (L1 – Type B) comes in. Holding L1 will freeze the game, letting you take all the time you need. You scroll through your weapons with Up and Down, while you change the type of ammo with Left and Right on the D-Pad.

I found a new version of the clown and circus meme. Perhaps it is a meta commentary, on me, the player. I hope not.

When the game nails atmosphere, it absolutely nails it. Especially in the Pallatine Building, and particularly in the ritual area. This Faustina Priestess is the real secret behind Pakistan's undead economy, though buried long ago, it continues to stick around somehow.

The difficulty of Blade's very uneven, it starts out relatively calm, but there is always that odd enemy or two that will get you with the Machine Pistol, and you will often find a nasty surprise late into the game. Sometimes, an ambush of two mini-bosses will mean your ruin due to the clunky controls. The boss fights, much like the main game itself are sloppy, but they do have some ideas behind them. Sloppy, but with some ideas, just about sums up the game.

The Museum isn't bad either, there is something about baked lighting that feels really pleasing to the eye. Simple. Comfortable.

Now, in terms of secrets, one level has an alternative exit, not really a big deal. More importantly, there are hidden throughout the game various glyphs (most are easy to find) that let you read lore about various vampire clans and types. Some of the glyphs near the end of the game let you unlock cheat codes like infinite ammo.

What is interesting is the final level. Throughout the game you can pick up weapons parts, there are 4 in total, to make a UV cannon. Should you find them all, you will get a shorter version of the final level that takes place at nighttime. I much preferred the daytime version you get when you don't have all the parts, as it is a far harder and more trying endurance test. The longer stage shares the final portion of its route with the short one, but you still get two different versions of the final boss though there the day time version is lame, as you just have to run around pressing buttons, whereas the UV cannon fight is tense due to its overheating mechanic.

Even at the zenith of the final level, Blade will take his time to enjoy a view, and so should you.

Watching Wesley Snipes in Deadpool and Wolverine brought back many nostalgic memories of better times for me (Blade 2 was quite popular in my school), I hope at least some part of this review was enjoyable.

All's West that ends West

A boy named West is born. One of two brothers, in fact. Perhaps he has a promising future.

Life is good to the boy. Sunny skies and clear waters, some great days for sailing. He is going to venture beyond the horizon, he will do great things. Of course, no one wonders why the boy is rich, they just enjoy the wealth.

But the boy is not as kind as he seems. As it turns out, he is a sneak. The boy steals from his brother, East, quite regularly, and everything, in fact.

The boy, now a mighty officer in the Men in Green^tm decides he does not want to mix with the common rabble, so he creates his own walled off community. Inspired by his very colonizers, who he idolizes for some reason.

Happy Independence Day? How bothersome. As a Man in Green^tm, it is imperative that West make a show of liking East, no matter how much he loathes him. Things must look alright, after all.

The boy continues to rob and exploit his brother, but enough is enough. He is no more welcome. East is done with West, he is no longer related to him. West is sent packing, and he will never be close to East again.

Now that the free ride has stopped, West can no longer enjoy his old life. A new friend, Mr. World Bank appears. West hates Mr. W.B., because he is practical, and reminds West that money doesn't grow on trees, even though he forgets practically every hour. Silly Mr. World Bank, West knows money doesn't grow on trees, it's printed for free. All made up, he laughs.

West skimmed through The Communist Manifesto, and he has decided it is time to nationalize Pakistan. Despite the finance minister and all the cabinet warning him not to do so, West knows best. He nationalizes the industrial sector by kicking out the dirty privateers that have seized the economy, now he will seize the means of production from them. He feels a little guilty about doing so, but life must go on, you know. Russia is Red, and now so will be Pakistan. Of course, West is shocked to see, the very tiger that carried his burdens, also fell off the narrow bridge he was on. West had failed to account for the bridge's length, sadly.

His citizenry, once booming and leading happy, blissful lives, are shocked to be crushed by this thing called inflation. Where did all the money go? Why is everything expensive? West's move to nationalize everything had crushed them, quite literally. No more free money from East, and now, the organizations that had once been great money makers, were loss making entities, costing billions. They wondered why.

Of course, good old West does not feel the consequences of his actions, in his walled garden. West had this picture taken to celebrate his achievements in bringing about the demise of private capital, which was also coincidentally the economy, some time later. The headstone, and indeed the grave plot, was paid for by selling state owned assets, of course.

And even though 52 years have passed, the ghost of his achievements, and indeed the prime minister of that time (standing to the left of the headstone) still haunts Sindh (and the rest of Pakistan) to this very day, and for the foreseeable future. Take that, dirty privateers!

In the end, things ended much like they started for West, but far worse. In almost every way possible, he was worse off than he had begun.

And what of East?

East too, had his struggles, and in fact, is still struggling. But unlike West, he has a better life now, and his citizenry has a more promising future. He is happy to know they still stand up for their rights, when needed.

And finally

Life does not get easier for West's people, as they are about to be visited by many great floods, one after another. All he can do is watch since he did not plan or account for them. Who ever said water security was a thing?

Before anyone gets any wrong ideas, this post is not a dig at America (I say this because my main readership is 100% American, population: one) for I know fully well the gaps in quality of healthcare, the ethics, the difference in service availability (one tertiary hospital here in Peshawar does not even have a cath lab, and hence no angiographies and so on) difference in FDA regulations and trial standards, among other things, though we do have our good institutes, too. It is rather a simple thesis, one that I have observed both sides of. And my own view is that, yes, all people of all nations should get state sponsored healthcare.

Simply, whether you are the richest, or the poorest nation, state sponsored healthcare is the most direct, and biggest investment you can make in the people. I do not care for any arguments to the contrary, for they are not humane.

Now, you may wonder how I have seen both sides of it. Well, in the previous government, the forcefully ousted Prime Minister had a programme called Sehat Card, one that ensured free health care coverage of essential procedures for all (and admittedly, the only flaw in this project was that the rich exploited this too, and steps are being taken to remedy this.) Briefly, when the average Pakistani, that laborer who wages war against his own body to make less than 4 dollars a day, suffers from an MI (Myocardial Infarction, heart attack in layperson terms) it is no longer a death sentence because he cannot afford stents (and trust me, no laborer can afford any serious procedure, many even struggle to buy insulin, even though it is on the cheaper side here). There are other ventures too, like the flagship National Institute of Cardiovascular Diseases in Sindh where poor people can get state of the art treatment for free. The main hospital is in Karachi, and there are a further 9 satellite centres all over Sindh, with more to come. In fact, over 2.4 million patients, including those requiring surgeries, were treated free of cost at the National Institute of Cardiovasc­u­lar Diseases (NICVD) facilities across Sindh in 2023.¹

This is important because in Pakistan, governmental spending on healthcare per person, is quite low, lower than many developing countries, even Zimbabwe. Not only that, but the bulk of healthcare costs come from out of pocket spending, which means the poorer the person, the worse their burden.

Some data about it², to further illustrate just how much spending the Sehat Card curtailed (SCP here refers to Sehat Card Plus, all data is sourced from this report):

An independent evaluation team from Agha Khan University found that there was a significant reduction in medical care component of mean out-of-pocket expenditure for inpatient services for SCP users (PKR 1,006 ±9248) as compared with SCP nonusers (PKR 30,042 ±69014). As you can see here, the gap is astronomical. One is almost within the daily laborer's reach, the other is pronouncing a death sentence, almost.

The nonmedical component (transport etc.) was similar in both groups. The level of catastrophic health expenditure among households was significantly lower for SCP users (14%) compared to SCP nonusers (35%). The perception of economic wellbeing was higher among SCP users.

These tables should drive home just how impactful the programme is, no longer does healthcare have to eat the poor out of house and home. While the level of catastrophic health expenditure for all wealth quintiles and place of residence was significantly lower for SCP users as compared to SCP nonusers, note how those from the poorest wealth quintiles and rural areas especially are not incurring as many catastrophic health expenditures. Note also how those not availing state sponsored healthcare reported a more severe impact of hospitalizations.

I do not wish this to be a technical, jargon filled article so we will go back to the simpler side of things. Briefly, while there was poverty, there was also hope, promise of a future. With state sponsored health care, people need not die due to poverty, this was the easiest way of mobilizing the poor, downtrodden classes and it was working. However, after the ouster, the new government (let's leave aside the fact that they were not even chosen by the people) immediately froze the program for quite a while. Now, I have worked in the system for over a year (over two if we count my house job, which is an internship and three if we consider final year, which was spent in wards anyway) and I came into the system seeing the Sehat Card, saw what it did for people, and then I saw it frozen, and I saw the outcomes of it first hand. People with no money to pay, some were doomed to die due to poverty, others sold everything they had to get treatment (and that is in already subsidized government hospitals, where the government foots the bulk of the cost of most base line investigations – a basic panel consisting of a complete blood count, ESR, serum electrolytes, renal function tests, liver function tests among others, along with more specialized markers like Trop I, Trop T etc. – these cost the government way more, according to govt. hospital techs ) and many others simply avoid going to the hospital. Better misery and having some money than being left with nothing. The towering shadow of poverty cloaks every decision, and without state sponsored healthcare, it severely hurt socioeconomic mobility.

Some more stats from the previous document:

• Two-thirds of Sehat Card Plus KP users, at the time of discharge, did not report incurring out-of-pocket expenditure during admission. For the other one-third, the estimated mean expenditure was PKR 5,464 on medicines and PKR 3,519 on diagnostic tests.

• Average cost per admission was PKR 31,395, which was 20-40% higher in private hospitals. The KP government spent PKR 2.96 billion on 94,387 patients of which 0.83 billion (28.0%) were spent on treating cardiovascular diseases. The mean cost of treating cases of ischemic heart disease was PKR 89,919.

Now, government hospitals here often do not have all the facilities, they are also overcrowded, I myself did my housejob in one, and the chaos there is indescribable, we would be 10, 15 doctors dealing with over 400 patients in a day. I would often fall asleep in the doctor's room after being done with my shift at 8 PM, and go to my hostel room in the late midnight hours like 3, 4 AM despite it being a mere 5 minutes away. The real beauty of the sehat card lays in it allowing even the poorest citizen to get the best possible healthcare, at any facility of their choosing, even private.

Now, as per the report, there are concerns of its financial sustainability, but the health foundation is working on addressing those (the report is about a year old). They have gotten more aggressive with dis-empaneling of hospitals that try to exploit this, which is good to see, and started renovating more hospitals under public-private partnerships, which will be empaneled. They have even started working on upgrading the MIS (Management Information System) to integrate disease history, as well as financial means.

I will probably add more to this article someday, or I may not, part of me feels I sufficiently made my case, yet part of me wants to say much, much more, but alas there is no time nor energy. As always, Sayonara.

References: 1: Dawn News 2. https://sehatcardplus.gov.pk/wp-content/uploads/2023/05/Third-Party-Evaluation-Report-Sehat-Card-Plus-KP.pdf

Part 1: Wimbledon, and the privilege of playing Mario Aces at work

Tennis has been on my mind recently. Partially, because one of my colleagues talks about the Wimbledon in the doctor's lounge to all of us during our breaks, as if it were some local cultural tradition (it is not, unless you are from the 1%) and then tells us all about player X or Y's personal lives, as if they are people we have known our whole lives, then she makes us watch the morning replays on the TV installed there. It is....pain.

It has also been on my mind because coincidentally, one of our new trainees has been bringing his Nintendo Switch and plays it during his breaks (which for us, are many and frequent, thankfully). Everyone has started calling him “kiddo”, because who plays video games in a hospital? He is just a nice, harmless guy who noticed me watching him play and, in front of our other colleagues, asked me if I wanted to join him. I realized if I said yes, I too would become known as “kiddo #2”.

But then I have always been content to go my own way, and so I said yes, admittedly it also had to do with the fact that quite a few of my colleagues think I am already strange for using Mastodon and watching anime (the former is a far bigger checkmark against me, oddly enough). I wonder what nickname I would get if they find out I keep a notepad file of untranslated games I would like to play someday.

Funnily, after the incident, one of my colleagues chided me “I didn't know you were so childish too.” It saddens me to see such narrow minded judgement. I always thought I had a positive image, as a techie of sorts, because almost everyone comes to me to find out what's wrong with their laptops, but maybe I'm viewed as nothing more than the most convenient troubleshooter they have access to, probably.

Anyways, after checking out a few games, I found Mario Tennis Aces on there, and we played. One of our colleagues even made a tiktok of us “goofs” where we were flailing around the joycons, thankfully it did not gain any traction. Mario Aces is more like a fighting game in the vehicle of Tennis, if that makes sense. There are lots of different mechanics at play, every character has enough idiosyncrasies to make them somebody's favorite. Were it not already so well known and written about, this article would be just that, me gushing over Mario Aces. But to be brief, I am a fighting game head, I love fighting games, and Mario Aces scratches that exact itch. I have tried Virtua Tennis too, as well as Top Spin (there may be another article on those, someday) but trust me when I say, Mario Aces is different.

Alas, Mario Aces has been gushed about far too much, and I do not personally own a Switch to play it as much as I would desire. And so, I began a journey. I was already familiar with the Gameboy titles, and I did not simply want to reexperience those.

So I did what any unreasonable man would do, and played every tennis game on the original PlayStation. It will surprise you to know, outside of one specific series, they were all horrible. Actua Tennis, Tennis Arena, Roland Garros French Open and many more. I even tried the Prince of Tennis game, which has some very interesting ideas, being a tennis strategy game, but is ruined by one simple fact, the game has zero flow, none at all.

Konami's Prince of Tennis, PSX

Briefly, there's a grid, though you don't move around on it, your player does so automatically, the arrows indicate where the ball will land, then you have a very short time window in which to react and move a marker/cursor to where you want to hit the ball. There's a very detailed Tennis Academy too, that teaches you about the ins and outs of say, net-play, or even basics like bringing someone in closer so you can lob them. It's a shame it hasn't been translated, because the academy contains some great nuggets of information, but the game overall is pretty awful, yet it remains interesting.

Anyways, let's talk about the main focus of the article, the only good series on the PSX, Namco's Smash Court.

Part 2: Smash Court, a Mario Tennis for the rest of us

I did not live the PS1 era, I started gaming during the PS2 era, playing older titles, mostly PS1 and SNES via emulation. But I can empathize with someone who did, imagining for a second someone who really wants to play Mario Tennis but cannot, in this case it would be Mario Tennis 64, a game with surprisingly satisfying ball physics, interesting characters with their own quirks and lots of ways to have fun.

But supposing that someone had a PS1, and bought every Tennis game? And almost all of them turned out to be mediocre? That's how sad things were, and it is in this context that one begins to understand just what made Virtua Tennis so famous.

What's not as well known, is Namco had a really good Tennis series on the PS1. Smash Court – the successor to their lesser known SNES Tennis game, Smash Tennis, also a fun title in its own right. Smash Tennis itself is linked to four other games, Namco's World Court arcade game (and its sequel) as well as Namco's Family Tennis for the Famicom, and it's Super Famicom remake titled Super Family Tennis. In other words, Smash Court has quite the storied pedigree, being essentially their 6th game.

Namco's World Court.

The second Smash Court game was localized as Anna Kournikova's Smash Court Tennis. Get past the ugly graphics and you will find a surprisingly fun tennis game, though not one with as much depth or as many things to do, admittedly. Even today, you can have a good time, either playing the PAL version through an emulator setting it to 60 Hz, or the Japanese version (I myself have confirmed the PAL version is slower than intended, and it hurts the game feel a little)

Heihachi Mishima is not dead. He just got fed up of fighting, and went to play Tennis instead.

If that other guy looks familiar, it's because he is. That's Eddy Gordo, every button masher's best friend.

The ball physics is fun here, and it's extremely easy to get into. Whilst an arcade game at its core, positioning matters, placement matters, and you can't play stupidly and get away with it, like say in Virtua Tennis. I've had tighter games here than in VT, funnily enough, though one can obviously argue which one feels better, and certainly, VT takes the cake there, this game can have awkward hitboxes sometimes, besides the obviously rougher feel but it is also classic Namco at its finest, the stages have the sort of aesthetic one would expect from their fighting games, and soundtracks to match. Most of the stages ooze personality, and the ones that don't still have catchy tunes. My only issue with the game is how awkward the power shot feels, due to the time it takes. That's something they fixed in Smash Court 3, where it charges up very quickly making it viable, but still keeping the risk of using it intact.

Pakistan, circa 2030. The elite have blocked the roads so they can play some tennis.

This game is pretty much a celebration of all things Namco, you'll find art that pays respect to their older titles, easter eggs in stages, and of course, characters. Besides being a silky smooth, arcade quality tennis game that carries Namco's signature sense of style, it's also chock full of characters from their other games.

Police commissioner Pac Man got word that some people were playing Tennis on his roads, of course he also had to join in, it was his civic duty. Damn the people and their obligations.

Also included in the roster is Yoshimitsu, again from Tekken 3. Reiko Nagase from Ridge Racer, and Richard and Sherudo from Time Crisis also make an appearance.

A brief overview

Smash Court is, all in all, a game that can be quite fun for a few hours, though more multiplayer inclined. That doesn't mean you can't enjoy a good game versus the AI, but like many other titles, the lack of SP content is apparent. You do have some incentive, winning tournaments unlocks new characters, but I feel the entire process takes too long, and the characters you want are towards the tail end, like 4th win of tournament X and so on. There's also gear for you to unlock in Grand Slams.

The series found itself being reinvented on the PS2, as a more serious arcade/sim hybrid, a middle ground between Virtua Tennis's satisfying arcade gameplay and Top Spin's more simulation oriented gameplay, keeping Namco's trademark high quality arcade style feel and gamesense.

But what became of the original Smash Court style games? Well, they made one last title, and it did not get localized. I do not mean Smash Court 3 for the PS1, but Family Tennis Advance for the GBA, the last classic arcade style Smash Court game.

Family Tennis Advance is very underrated, it's basically Smash Court 4 (the original style) on the GBA, it plays as you'd expect and while barren on content, it is supremely enjoyable. Besides Pacman, you will also find Klonoa, Rick from Splatterhouse, Valkyrie and many other lesser known classic Namco characters. Along with some fun stages.

One stage has a gimmick, a car may pass every now and then

Well, that's about it for Smash Court, or at least what I have to say about it.

Sayonara! And remember, it's not Tennis without Heihachi.

Recently, I have been looking into the inflation crisis of my country, and my deepest gratitude to my old school fellow for his patience and succinct explanations of everything as well as valuable data. He currently works in the office of the Accountant General of our province doing audits and the like – that province is Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, formerly the Northwestern Frontier. A province that is more like Afghanistan, in contrast to our other provinces. Punjab and Sindh, for instance, are far closer to India, both in culture, language, ethnically and so on. Then we have Balochistan which is perhaps even more of a separatist entity, their culture being strongly Iranic. This digression is merely to paint a picture of how diverse Pakistan is, essentially it is at least 4 major countries in one, and KP, formerly, NWFP has been historically wronged and deprived of much needed development, with funds going to other places, whilst our dams are the most valuable source of electricity for the nation.

Anyways, as for our inflation, it has been a thing since 1971, when Bangladesh split from Pakistan – formerly we were two, West (where I am) and East Pakistan (Bangladesh). As for their splitting, it is most justified and I am happy for them, but it would be too lengthy to go into here. We have been saddled with corruption, inefficiency and incompetence, and plain ineptitude for multiple decades. It started with the stupidity of nationalizing all the industries, and further corruption meant this nation has been in perpetual beggary since then. Foreign investors do not want to invest a penny here, and rightly so. The constant meddling of the (Men in Green, shall we say) in overthrowing governments for their own reasons make this a most volatile place to invest, would you put your money in a bank that was constantly changing all its employees, and you had to deal with a different manager and different biometric systems every time? Most of our bureaucrats are dinosaurs and they do not understand the first thing about doing business or making things convenient for the general public, every process here is a bureaucratic nightmare, perhaps by design to create a false sense of need for these bureaucrats but that would be giving these dinosaurs too much credit. In fact, they are too old and too out of touch.

And speaking of dinosaurs, one would be remiss to leave out our biggest dinosaurs (my sincerest thanks to the most kind Men in Green for giving him so many chances to utterly ruin this nation, despite being its so called custodians, lol)

See those two guys in the middle? Orange and blue? In just one term, both of them doubled our national debt, just like that. And guess whose parties are in charge again, against the will of the people, an undemocratic government. These two guys (insert roaring applause from my non-existent audience here)

Still, at least the man in orange was dealing with crazy amounts of terrorism, and his finance man kept our economy relatively stable in tumultuous times, until the famous Bin Laden debacle, where he was found in a house suspiciously close to an academy where they train men to become the next generation of the “Men in Green” so they too can play golf and lounge around talking about real estate, that's what all Men in Green are born to do, after all.

Mr Baldilocks, in blue on the other hand, is exemplary. Suppose there was a man who you gave your money to, to invest. He lost it all once. Fair, you'll never trust him again. But you're not the Men in Green, and they love him. They gave him the keys to the bank again, and he defaulted the nation again. Screw you and your money, they don't care.

And then, you couldn't bring him back a third time because you removed him to bring your other project to the fore, so you bring his brother instead, and his daughter who is about as qualified for CM as Team Rocket is to teach an Ethics course.

So, Mr Baldilocks' party defaulted the nation twice, and his party has been brought back again for a 3rd time, by force.

“If you are Pakistani, screw you and your vote” – Not me, but the Men in Green say this (they literally burned them and flipped the results anyway)

There's something special about how the Men in Green play golf and lounge around, talking about how they are going to bring an agrarian revolution and save the economy. This is akin to an insane man setting your house on fire while you are at work, and when you return he offers you a cigarette, and tells you “Don't worry, things will be okay, we will build better houses”

Then he leaves you with a cardboard box and a paper that says I.O.U (He owes you one making you disappear for good)

Of course, the Men in Green and the well off also love to tell people that they are being dramatic, and overreacting, and being thankless, and many other things. A common defense given is: It was always this bad, Pakistan was always poor and inflation was always a thing. This, of course, is classic gaslighting, and one that the stats disagree with. As this Consumer Price Index chart shows (and below, I will explain why even this number is actually a cooked underestimate, on the ground things are even worse) 2023 and 2024 are the worst years in Pakistan's economic history when it comes to inflation in the last 43 years.

Worse than almost every one of its 77 year history, in fact the only other time Pakistan had inflation like this, was when it split in two, and Bangladesh went its own way. The next 2 years had similar figures, but that was in the midst of a war, and a loss of various valuable industries. This time, there is no war, only a cavalcade of buffoons running the country.

Of course, the nation has not grown as expected, either. Pakistan always cycles between periods of artificial (cooked) growth – the booms – and the bust, negative growth or contraction. Pakistan has been struggling with boom-and-bust cycles for decades, leading to 22 IMF bailouts since 1958. Currently, the IMF is the fifth-largest debtor, owing $6.28 billion as of July 11, according to the lender's data.

Things are so bad, that almost everyone that can, is trying to leave. Yours truly is stuck here till the end sadly, perhaps he will be buried a ways down the road someday, if he is not taken by a flood, and perhaps many years later his grave will also become part of one of their golf courses, as is the way. When that happens, I will be sure to haunt them.

Addressing the earlier point about inflation figures being cooked, one of my rant loving colleagues revealed that our government's statistics bureau measures inflation by:

1. Calculating utility prices based on the lowest tariff, which is subsidized for electricity and gas. Note that due to consumption, no one is ever billed on the lowest tariff, they will almost certainly exceed it.

2. Prices of essential items are taken from Utility Stores, where the government subsidizes many products. Even if the products are unavailable, not of passable quality or even expired. Indeed, expired.

So when you read “Inflation went up so and so or down so and so” it is all data fudging done to make the really bad numbers look just a little more acceptable, most data from Pakistan is worthless, dishonest, cooked.

Now, the funny thing about all this poverty? Pakistan's problem is easily reduced significantly, if not solved, if one were to implement real estate taxation reforms. In this case, there is a very simple treatment, but this treatment would hurt the Men in Green's real business, their main source of income, the real estate market that is essentially a giant black hole for money laundering. The cartels and those of influence do not like being taxed, but even they cannot avoid it occasionally. The Men in Green, on the other hand, hold the leash. They can.

Now imagine a poor nation where the minimum legal wage isn't even paid to most of its people, your average guard working at a Government Hospital (which should be obligated to pay this, no?) makes 15,000 Rupees when the so called minimum is 32000. That's $54 a month, to make ends meet he does two shifts, one with my hospital at night and the other at the Gov Hospital during the day. Altogether, he makes $120. After bills, he is left with barely nothing, and we doctors often donate to these guards to help cover the rest. As a side note, one of our guards was suffering cancer quietly, he decided to use up what remained of his body (he had Stage 4 CA, we did not know) to work 3 shifts and never even sought treatment after his diagnosis.

To quote my old blog “It was only today I learned he had Stage 4 cancer, and he did not choose to seek treatment for it. The time he did spend here, he knew his diagnosis, but he wished to earn whatever paltry money he could for his family, rather than spend time getting treated.” Today in this context was well after his demise, sadly, may he be happy in heaven. I had been rather blunt about the outcomes of Stage 4, not knowing he had it, my apologies again.

The full article is here Link to my blog

This is mainly to drive home how desperate people are. Rather than implementing reforms on real estate (their piggy bank) and uplifting the nation, they are kicking more people into poverty daily.

To quote: “The poverty in Pakistan increased within one year from 34.2% to 39.4% with 12.5 million more people falling below the poverty line of $3.65 per day income level, according to the World Bank. About 95 million Pakistanis now live in poverty.”

Imagine so many more people being pushed below, that is Pakistan for you, or rather the Men in Green.

Source

This is from last year. Things are even worse now.

Note how the line is $3.65 per day, now we are at the really important stuff. 39.4% people were there in 2023, there are even more now, but let us stay with 39.4 for argument's sake. Have you ever worried about the cost of one liter of milk? If you have, you are now in the right mindset. If you haven't, picture it, you're the average Pakistani, part of the 39.4%, your daily wage is less than $3.65 (which is now more like $3 due to devaluation)

Ultra-high temperature, or UHT, milk now costs 370 rupees ($1.33) a liter in supermarkets in Karachi (one of our biggest cities). In Peshawar, where I am for my training, it is going for 390 PKR ($1.40). That compares with $1.29 in Amsterdam, $1.23 in Paris, and $1.08 in Melbourne, according to data collected by Bloomberg. An 18% tax was applied to packaged milk as part of taxation changes approved in the national budget last week. Previously, it was tax-exempt. Source: Bloomberg

Now imagine you make less than $3.65, and your family needs milk. No, people have just stopped buying it, what else will they do? That, by the way is milk. Similar things have happened to almost every food staple. All this in the midst of a world record heat wave, when basic essentials and utilities are now more expensive than ever.

Life is unlivable, government hospitals are full of those afflicted by poverty who ended their life, this gets even darker when one realizes Islam has explicitly forbidden it, for a Pakistani to take his life (and most are brainwashed by Islam to a radical extent, such that they would suffer rather than end it) things must be dire. Data for suicide rates here is lower than the ground reality, due to various reasons. Sometimes, families ask those in Government Hospitals to write “Heart Failure” or something similar in the medicolegal certificate (should they need one, many don't) because if people find out there was a suicide, they will not attend your funeral. Indeed, I have even seen cases where grieving mothers cried as fathers refused to hold a funeral, but some kind uncle or cousin took the initiative.

That is without even considering the case of the laawaris, the word being an Urdu one meaning one without an owner (a family, essentially). Bodies of such people who have no one end up in hospitals, often with no ID, and no one cares to determine how they died, they are just......discarded and given a funeral. It is a sad state of affairs, indeed many of these cases show clear signs of suicide, but again, not reported.

As for what's documented, it too is disturbing The News: Rise in suicide by youth Dawn News: Spike in suicides

“Shockingly, Pakistan is ranked 72nd globally, with a suicide mortality rate of 9.8 per 100,000 population. What is even more concerning is the year-on-year increase in the suicide mortality rate. According to the World Health Organi-sation (WHO), there were 7.3 suicides per 100,000 in 2019, which rose to 8.9 in 2020, and 9.8 in 2022.”

The epidemic is serious enough that the government was forced to reconsider its stance and decriminalize suicide – Dawn News due to the hard work of the Pakistani Psychiatric Society.

Also from the article: “The concerning rise of ‘kala pathar (black stone) poisoning’, caused by paraphenylenediamine, in districts like Rahim Yar Khan and Sahiwal is a significant public health issue, with a high mortality rate of 50.5pc among rural women.” Rural women have found their own ways of ending it, sadly.

Of course, when the health budget, educational budget and all other developmental spending is slashed for a defense budget for the Men in Green, what else can one expect?

The salaried class is protesting being squeezed to death in a fruitless peaceful protest. We will be squeezed until nothing remains, sadly. I myself am a doctor and only dare eat twice a day, and the meals are nothing special, though admittedly am underpaid due to my unique training circumstances.

The petrol mafia and the flour mafia on the other hand have stopped their supplying, which will have more results. They refuse to pay the prescribed taxes to the government, and they will get away with it. After all, who will pay for the politicians and their 1000 Liters of free petrol, their cars, their houses, their electric and gas bills? Not The Men In Green, nor the seths (landowners, business moguls)

No, it's the salaried class.

My most learned friend at the Accountant General's office (he will be going to greener pastures soon, good luck my friend) is convinced, as are most of our finance people, that this economy is dead. What is happening now is simply the looting of a corpse.

But hey, gotta play golf, amirite? After all, golf does depict the ultimate fate of this nation.

Credits:

1. My learned auditor friend for formulating most of the financial stuff, and explaining it all to me very patiently. I, like most Pakistanis from rural areas, was a financial illiterate until our economy crashed. I didn't know the ins and outs of our economy, or its problems, only that our elite lived egregiously subsidized lives.

2. My colleague whose insights into the data manipulation of the government were quite valuable, her knowledge of our political landscape and its history is almost professorial, I guess it is to be expected from the daughter of a bureaucrat family, that she is still acting like one even in a hospital, hahah. Not that she will ever read this, but you are wasting your time on Medicine, go be a professor of Politics :P

3. Forrest, who will not hand over my IP to the Men in Green if they ever find this article (I hope he won't, and hopefully they don't find it to begin with) and who should remember that the Men in Green are powerless to threaten him, and all such emails should be marked as spam, or perhaps replied to with memes.