The sordid drama unfolding at Islamabad airport echoed how Musharraf first came to power: another denied landing, another bloodless usurpation. Musharraf is Vayu, keeper of the gates of air. Musharraf is Indra, lord of war astride a white elephant with multiple heads. A corrupt Punjabi prince was hoodwinked, manhandled and rendered unto the House Arrest of Saud. Lawyers are now insurgents. The Supreme Court rebels. An endgame between tanks and quills now begins.

Airports are used throughout The Namesake as symbols of unbelonging. For Indians, the scene at Islamabad International was more tangible, more searing. What happened there will inevitably express itself in the time and manner of some poor bastard’s death: whether by ball bearing or nails, in a market or on a train, in Bangalore or Kashmir; Colonel Musharraf, with a pipe bomb, in the library.

And so Indians and Pakistanis the world away remain glued to Geo TV. Indians wait and see whether our neighbor can glue together its Humpty Dumpty democracy. We see whether it refluxes a thug from its gut, or quietly swallows the bitterness.