When Beards and Bros-in-Law Run a Country

A few days ago, our national drama minister—sorry, Information and Broadcasting Minister—Attaullah Tarar blurted out that India will attack Pakistan in the next 24 to 36 hours. Yes, you heard it. This isn’t a leaked military memo or an intelligence briefing—it’s just Tarar channeling his inner doomsday prophet on national TV, probably after binge-watching too much Bollywood espionage thrillers.

Today, I see none other than Ishaq Dar meeting with Sergei Lavrov, Russia’s actual grown-up foreign minister. And I just stood there, blinking at my screen like, Wait, what? Are these the clowns who will now play diplomats in a potential war scenario?

Let’s be honest—in regular life, if you ran into either of these men at a dinner party, you'd actively avoid the table they sit at. You’d struggle to hear two coherent, logical sentences from them without wanting to tear your ears off. I don’t know them personally, thank God, but they radiate the unmistakable aura of dishonest backstabbers who wouldn’t hesitate to sell national interests for a nice seat at the power table and a new Audi.

Tarar, with his mystical beard and comically tragic air of superiority, screams of belonging to a sect that believes women should be in a burqa. Misogynistic, sectarian, and with all the rhetorical grace of a screaming wahabi Islam, is the face of national security hysteria.

Then there’s Dar—whose only credential is being Nawaz Sharif’s brother-in-law. That’s it. No charisma. No degrees in diplomacy. Just a comfy chair at the family dinner table. A man so vanilla, so painfully bland, that the Russians must’ve wondered whether they were meeting a state representative or the account manager of a failed microfinance bank.

And now he’s out there—representing Pakistan in meetings with Russia to mediate peace between us and India. Dar, whose understanding of global diplomacy probably ends at "Sir jee, dollar gir gaya hai", is now deciding the fate of 240 million people.

The current hybrid regime of Pakistan, is a lovechild of greedy capitalists and power-drunk generals—a regime more interested in moving files for business deals than in national sovereignty. They don’t care who’s really in charge (spoiler: it’s not them), as long as their personal bank accounts keep getting fatter and their Swiss vacations uninterrupted.

So here we are: a country in perpetual crisis, led by men with zero charisma, zero credibility, and zero comprehension of history, philosophy, or geopolitics. Watching them lead diplomatic meetings is like watching toddlers try to defuse a bomb with crayons.

God help us all. Or at least send someone who knows the difference between foreign policy and foreign chicken tikka.

What if Sethi is right?

The latest episode of Najam Sethi’s Argument isn’t just more talk-show noise—it’s a rare moment when someone says the quiet part out loud. Sethi, in his signature tone of weary realism, suggests something that sounds almost heretical in today’s hyper-nationalist echo chambers: maybe the Pakistani deep state didn’t do it. Yes, maybe this time, for once, Pakistan’s military-intelligence complex isn’t the author of a cross-border provocation. A laughable notion to some, but not if you consider the strange alignment of geopolitical signals blinking in the background.

Let’s start with India. Narendra Modi’s star is fading. The economy limps along, dissent brews among farmers, and the once-hypnotic appeal of Hindutva politics is growing stale. But if there’s one trick Modi still knows well, it’s the ancient art of distraction. War, after all, is the oldest unifier. A border skirmish, a convenient terrorist incident, a spike in patriotic news tickers—it all fits the playbook. And who better to play the villain than Pakistan, the eternal bogeyman? Modi’s need for a narrative shift is palpable, and what better way to rally the nation than to light a fire on the frontier?

Now bring in Sethi’s own claim. He hints that people in the know—maybe voices from inside Pakistan’s deep state—are whispering denials. That they genuinely had nothing to do with it. Coming from Sethi, a veteran journalist with his own network of sources, this isn’t a throwaway comment. If true, it raises an uncomfortable question: if Pakistan didn’t orchestrate the incident, then who did? Or rather—who needed it to happen?

This is where the silence from Washington becomes thunderous. Historically quick to condemn Pakistan or cheerlead India, the U.S. reaction this time is strangely muted. No harsh rhetoric. No overt alignment. Just careful, diplomatic hedging. Could it be because Washington is already mapping its next military theater—and needs Pakistan stable, compliant, and on-call? If the U.S. is indeed gearing up for confrontation with Iran, who better to subcontract some of the dirty work than Pakistan’s battle-hardened army, long familiar with the art of war-for-hire? From the Gulf to Yemen, Pakistan has quietly sold its services before. Why not again?

In that light, blaming Pakistan for a border provocation it didn’t actually commit could disrupt backroom deals and risk losing a critical regional asset. Better to play neutral, keep the channels open, and let India fume alone. And while the U.S. plays the silent partner, China is anything but quiet. Beijing has publicly backed Pakistan, not because of brotherhood, but because of cold, hard infrastructure. The China-Pakistan Economic Corridor isn’t a goodwill project—it’s a strategic artery. Pakistan’s destabilization is a threat to Chinese ambitions, and Beijing is making it clear: this partner comes with protection.

So where does that leave us? Possibly in one of the few moments where the truth is more inconvenient than a lie. If Najam Sethi is right—and the deep state didn’t do it—then the world has to wrestle with the idea that Pakistan is not always the villain in its favorite narrative. That perhaps, this time, it’s not about who crossed the line of control, but who needed the headlines. Maybe it was Modi’s electoral calendar. Maybe it’s about American plans for Iran. Maybe it’s all of it. In South Asia, the truth has always been the least profitable story. In a world where loyalty is manufactured and facts are massaged for optics, the idea that “we didn’t do it” may just be the most subversive act of all. And in that case, maybe—just maybe—Sethi is right.

Metallic Greed

Metallic Greed
A Sad-Sarcastic Ode to Capitalism, Cramped Seats, and the Death of Rock Reverence

It was 1993. I was studying at Bauman University in Russia—where hope was in short supply but Metallica was carved into every desk and chair like some desperate prayer. In a time of uncertainty, in a country being economically and spiritually gutted, there it was—Metallica, scratched into splintered wood as if Lenin himself had approved the playlist.

The 90s in Russia weren’t just hard; they were catastrophic. A collapsing economy, vanishing jobs, and national pride swirling the drain. Meanwhile, across the ocean, America was The Story™—complete with high-octane Clintons, shiny cruise missiles, and a musical invasion force of pop, rock, and every other overproduced genre that could be exported through MTV.

Russian scientists were fleeing to MIT, figure skating coaches were defecting to train future American Olympians, and the youth? They were hypnotized by American rock. That’s where I found Metallica—or maybe, Metallica found me. My Russian friend told me when Metallica performed in Moscow, over a million people showed up. A million people, just to scream their angst in unison. Ah, the sweet smell of freedom… and body odor.

Ever since, I had one humble dream on my bucket list: see Metallica live.

Flash forward about three decades. 2025. Toronto. The Rogers Centre. Metallica was coming. Still touring, still singing, still surviving the death of CDs and the Spotify streaming pennies. I, now a veteran of capitalism’s slow soul-crushing grind, decided to check that box on my bucket list.

But it was recession season, baby. The economy was in the toilet and I hesitated like a man deciding between paying rent or buying a concert ticket. I chose Metallica. But just barely. I bought the cheapest seat available—strategically located in what I can only describe as the oxygen-thin atmosphere of the stadium’s nosebleeds. My seat was less a “seat” and more a 2'x2'x2' cube of existential discomfort.

Before Metallica, Limp Bizkit performed. Yeah, that Limp Bizkit. Surprisingly good. Nostalgia kicked in. It was like watching your weird cousin finally get it together. The rows beside me were empty, so I could sway a bit, even move my knees. Freedom! Or so I thought.

Then Metallica came on.

Suddenly, my neighbor seats were filled. Every square inch of that cube was now occupied—knees touching, elbows clashing. It was economy class on a budget airline, but with louder bass and no free peanuts. I tried to enjoy it, I really did. The music was good. But the experience? Not so much.

It hit me then: this was capitalism’s final encore. Maximize ticket sales. Shrink the seats. Charge you for air. Just like planes, just like housing, just like everything. Cramp the soul out of every good thing.

And honestly? Limp Bizkit was more fun. More people danced to them. Maybe because their beats didn’t come wrapped in a $300 nostalgia tax.

So here I am, thirty years later, bucket list checked—but with a side of buyer’s remorse. I doubt I’ll go see any more “big name” bands. Unless they start offering standing room with dignity.

Metallica was carved into the desks of despair in 90s Russia. Today, it’s carved into capitalism’s receipt paper. Greed wins again.

But damn... I still kinda love the music.

Wish there was less greed in this world.
Or at least more legroom.