A broken umbrella

I first came across them on a highway – when through the windshield, on the other side of the road, I saw her reaching out from the passenger’s seat and putting spoonfuls of something in his mouth as he drove through the morning rush. Later that weekend, I met them again. By the beach, close to the pier, on that Saturday afternoon, the skies had decided to be as unpredictable as they could. So every 10 minutes, the downpour restarted. It was during one of those sudden spells of rain that I saw them running towards shelter, he ahead of she.  Yet he kept on looking back so she could catch up since since she was focused more on protecting her hair with her coat and hands instead of dashing towards the shelter as he was.
I must admit, they were an odd couple. Two people whom you never expect to see together as a pair, as if someone had taken two distinct photographs and photoshopped them together so they become a single portrait.  Yet there was something about this strange arrangement, something that attracted me to them. They were two halves that made one strange, lopsided, yet colorful unit.  And so, I observed them, that saturday, and for ages after that.
I think it was something in their air, in the combined aura they projected, which was binding, mesmerizing. For instance, as they moved that evening through the crowds and colorful shops on the pier, each of them looked in a different direction, observing a different part of their surroundings.  He hurried everywhere, causing her to quickly devour the scenery she seemed so interested in instead of allowing her to slowly take it in, as she seemed to desire. Sometimes he spotted a roadside artist or a musician playing drums and he got rooted to the spot while she appeared bored.  During other moments as he rushed onto the road, she dragged him back to the curb when the little red hand started flickering on crossings and insisted that they wait. She didn’t care that everyone else around them was jaywalking. She refused to budge as he appeared impatient.  They seldom huddled together or even came close to each other as they walked, each taking his own parts of the world in. I never saw her put her head on his shoulder as you see many an amorous woman do on lazy afternoon strolls. I never saw him put his hands around her shoulders either, like so many of his counterparts were doing. But then, I saw their hands. Hands they constantly held like two children afraid of being lost otherwise. Fingers intertwined, they even swung them to and fro as if they were 5.  I realized the first thing about them. Their restlessness made them who they were; their intertwined fingers serving as an anchor lest either one ventured too far away from the other.
As you head into the city from the north, just before the bridge, there is a road that leads, winding, up into the mountains, towards a willow grove. This is where I found them next. Below them on one side was the bay, its water appearing grey and muddy in the approaching darkness. On the other side, the lights of the houses from the town down below shimmered. At that far edge of the mountain is where he stood. Peering down towards the houses, pointing out some distant, unknown object to her with one hand, holding her back with the other so she wouldn’t move too close to the edge.  It was at that moment, that the skies opened and down came the pouring rain and the raging wind. As the rest of us scampered upwards towards our cars and shelters, I saw her dart towards the side of the mountain overlooking the bay, covering herself and him with a small, wiry umbrella.  The bright yellow of it in a stark contrast to the scene, just as her persona was to his. Her arm being tired, she soon handed the umbrella over to him. Unwilling to slow down his downward descent, he soon overtook her, umbrella and all (except he never thought of covering even himself with that umbrella, he sort of held it at a 45 degree angle from his torso).  Minutes later, as she reached the edge of the cliff as well, I saw her pointing her hand to the umbrella in his hand, and then to her drenched body, rolling her eyes. His lips formed a sudden O, as he realized what had happened. And then the wind carried the sound of their buoyant laughter, which restarted each time they looked at each other, as they stood on the edge of the mountain in pouring rain, their yellow umbrella upturned by the violent wind, like a sunflower in the foggy night. I noticed another thing about them. They brought rain wherever they went. They were Indra and Tishtrya.
The orchestra played. The audience was spell-bound, eyes stuck to the performers. The moving stage depicting a sinking ship and rising flames was a true engineering marvel. In the light of the rising flames I spotted her sitting in the audience. In the next burst of light as another log burnt on the stage, I followed her gaze upwards to spot him, sitting a few rows above her.  At that moment, she and I were the only two people looking anywhere except at the stage. The show was soon over. She rose and tried to move to the end of her row – exit time. I saw him skipping over people, running, until he was right next to her as they both stepped downwards, together. Once outside, they seemed lost, not sure which way to go. I saw her vehemently pointing in one direction, trying to pull him with her. I saw him looking at his hands, eyes fixed on his iPhone’s screen, ignoring what she was saying. He moved in another direction, taking her with him. An argument followed. They were both wrong. Exactly one hour after the performance ended, they had no idea how to get back. They both sat down. He was still looking at his iPhone, she still looked at the signboards. Amidst all this, you could see his fingers drumming on her thigh.  Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap.  The momentum increasing steadily. She took the iPhone from his hand. She peered at the small screen. He looked at the signboards and repeated her direction-finding strategy. They both realized what the other one was saying. In next 30 seconds, I watched them find the correct way out.
And then after a lifetime, I saw her: coffee cup in her hand, presenting some of the work at a conference. Put together, speaking calculatedly, it took me sometime to recognize the girl with restless eyes. A little later and thousands of miles away, I would then meet him too, the boy who broke into songs at random moments with accompanying rhythm of tip-taps, this time drumming proficiently on a real drum for a change. Two separate lives. Two separate people. Two separate worlds. No longer photoshopped to look like a unit, the individual pictures can now stand out, true to their color. Yet somewhere in the background, intertwined fingers, seats that were rows apart, buoyant laughter and a broken umbrella.

Aman ki Asha — and the prejudices that lie deep within

It’s a big night. Trying to figure out how to stand out, she reaches for the beautiful Swarovski earrings her sister gave her. Those ought to glam anyone up, she thinks.

Having spent an hour grooming herself up, she finally steps out and asks: “So, how do I look?”.

Without skipping a beat, he replies: “Could you look more like a Turk”?

Turk, as she has come to know, is a slang for a Muslim in parts of India.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard in a while, and I am not a Turk, well not completely anyway!”, she retorts.

“Good, now go all Aurangzeb on me, THAT’s your genes more accurately, isn’t it?”, he teases, knowing it would make her defensive.

——————————
Months later, she is speaking to another ‘him’. The conversation, as is the case when people from different regions meet, turns to traditions and language.

‘Urwat? as in Urwatul Wusqa? wow that’s an Arabic name.’ She remarks.

‘Oh you haven’t seen this before?’ he asks, astonished.

‘No I have. But it is not something people use anymore. Must be regional, people tend to use a lot more ethnic names around me to be honest, rather than Arabic’, she comments.

‘Oh? But I thought all of you the same creed?’, he remarks.

‘Hm no. Indian Muslims are Indians. Religion is not about race’, she replies, slightly irritated.

—————————–

Sometime in the winter, she attends a family wedding.  Color, fragrance, glitter, jewels are everywhere.
In the middle of it all, she spots a few distant in-laws from another country. Decked in bright saris and speaking in Indian tongues she does not comprehend, they intrigue her.
The wedding is over. Over a dish of pistachios and kehwa, she hears her elders remarking:

“Oh did you see them? They stood out with those bright colored saris and that ugly yellow tinge gold”, an aunt remarks.

“Yes! and it looked even more ridiculous on their darker skins”, another one shudders.

The conversation then turns to how beautiful everyone else was looking, and how jewellery made back in Pakistan was spectacular.

———————————

It’s a sunny afternoon. As she sits outside the busy cafe overlooking the sun rays playing with the lake, she notices a couple looking for a place to sit down, coffee mugs in hand. Feeling guilty that she is occupying a table for four alone, she invites them over to have a seat.
Thankful and smiling they strike up a conversation. Both Indian engineers, they have recently moved to Toronto.  She tells them she is from Pakistan, and eagerly inquires if they understand Urdu at all. The result is a negative. Hindi maybe, but no Urdu.
The conversation moves on and she tells them that she has been to India twice, and loved it.  They have never visited north of the border.

“So, is it really tribal in Pakistan?”, the husband asks her.  She has told them a few minutes earlier that she is from the north west of the country.

“Hmm, not really. I m not even sure what does tribal mean. I mean we are all part of bigger families, or tribes, everywhere. So why is the northwest supposed to be tribal? And no, we have a civil govt, not ‘elders’ if that’ what you meant”, she smiles.

Seeking common ground, or just randomly babbling, she adds that near her home town, there were ancient Hindu temples which were part of pilgrimage in Pakistan, the Kafirkot temples.  She mentions that the same site harboured ancient shrines and has become a holy place for Muslims, Hindus and Sikhs alike.
They are intrigued. They wish they could visit Pakistan too.

“But, maybe one day, once we are on better terms we will”, they tell her.

“All this politics and all this propaganda. It is all politicians I tell you, people everywhere are the same and want peace”. The wife tells her.
All three nod in unison.

Seeing three women who could’ve been Pakistani walk by, the wife remarks:
“You have such a soft face. Pakistani women are quite manly looking. Their only plus point is being light-skinned.”
She smiles. She leaves, coffee unfinished. She suddenly has an errand she remembered.
She has heard the same question too many times, and she still fails to spot the hint of a man in her Pakistani female cousins and friends.

——————————-

She comes across a Track ii democracy program called ‘Aman chi Asha’ or a “Desire for Peace”, destined to ease Indo-Pak relationships.

On the forum, she meets educated Indians who are frothing and commenting how there can be no peace with a terrorist country. How everything is ISI and Pak’s fault.

She is irritated. She wants to scream and point out that from 48 to 71 to BLA to water woes, the other side had more than enough to complain about.

She hears war cries. They want war.

She wants to point out that a war with people who have little to lose is a very dangerous thing.

She is, however, more annoyed by her fellow country men. Among the reasonable ones, there are also those who see a ‘Hindu’ conspiracy  behind everything.

They are telling the Indians how everything is RAW’s fault.

And on top of that, they are welcoming the idea of a war. They keep on mentioning to the Indians that a Hindu does not know how to fight. They would lose ridiculously if they ever fought with the ‘Muslims’. A war with the ‘infidels’ does not make any difference to a Muslim they say.

She wants to scream! She wants to point out to these delusional countrymen, that it was not a war of Hindu vs Muslims. The country they called Hindu harboured more Muslims than Pakistan does.

She wanted to tell them that such a proposed war would make much of a difference to a lot of Muslims. She wanted to remind them that their religion was not a weapon of war they could use to neutralize an enemy.  She wanted to remind them of Kargil and the lives lost.

———————————–
She has never found a neutral statement from either Times of India or the Jang group. Both seem to be inclined to villainizing the other nation, and feeding propaganda and hatred, even though subtly.

The same two newspapers come up with the ‘Aman chi Asha’ program.

The participation and commentary of the desirous of peace is less than encouraging. She is reminded of him. She is reminded of the post-wedding conversations. She is fond of him, she is fond of them. She is discouraged by them, she is disappointed in him.

She is pessimistic. She is is expectant.

Masiha kar delam paida, o man bimar mi gardam

Its a work day, I have about 10 simulations I need to run, the same number of figures to generate for the next paper and, well, do other productive stuff like hit the gym and have lunch. Yet I am sitting on the couch, watching boring afternoon tv, commenting on random blogs and vainly trying to publish the website I ve been working on for sometime now. Whomsoever said .mac publishing was better than Microsoft, was kidding. Its prettier, it so not easier.

And amidst all this uselessness, I am listening to wonderful Rumi rendition by NFAK (well, the pronunciation isn’t good, but still…)

and here goes the original farsi (thanks to google transliteration – the ‘gahe’ looks like Urdu ‘ghee’ )

نه من بی هوده گرد کوچه و بازار می گردم
مزاق عاشقی دارم بایه دیدار می گردم

خدایا رحم کن بر من پریشان وار می گردم
خطا کارم گناه گارم بحال زار می گردم

شراب شوق می نوشم ، با گرد یار می گردم
سخن مستانه می گیم، ولی هوشیار می گردم

گهی خندم گهی گریم، گهی افتم گهی خیزم
مسیحا کر دلم پیدا او من بیمار می گردم

بیا جانا عنایت کن تو مولانا رومی را
غلام شمس تبریزم قلندر وار می گردم

And my, not so literal, translation:

I don’t roam the streets aimlessly,
I am a lover, seeking a glimpse of his beloved

O God have mercy on me, I roam troubled
I am a sinner, have done wrong and I roam wounded

I drank the wine of desire, and I circle my beloved
I speak like the one who’s drunk, but I am sober

I smile, I cry, I don’t find any solace
I need a Messiah, I roam distressed

As the chatter dies, and a silence ensues – a bigger picture emerges

For those who know me well, I tend to shun ethnic communities. Consequently, I am extremely shy of hitting the mosques even on festivals, especially by myself. However, this year was a little different. My mom is here, the Eid was on a friday and there was no way but for all of us to behave like a family and celebrate. After seven years of not celebrating any festival properly, i did look forward to this quite a bit.
In true Eid spirit, Rabia refused to let me apply Henna on her hand and dragged us all downtown to a Pakistani store where some aunty jee who looked grumpy and dishevelled at 11 am applied some half-assed Henna design on her hand. Mamma denied me the pleasure o wearing the yellow, comfortable suit I had selected on grounds that it looked old and she refused to be seen with me in that ugly thing. Hence, till about midnight, all of us were busy figuring out what to wear, drying our henna-ed hands, and figuring out what time the Eid prayers were.
The morning began with Halwa Puri, the festive breakfast that Mamee had created. (for the urdu challenged, Mamee is not my mother, but my aunt whose house we ended up staying at.) And if you didn’t know this, halwa puri makes you sleepy. So right after about 2 pooris, all of us just wanted to go back inside and plop on the beds. Unfortunately, we were already running late. Then, ensued the frenzy that is every Eid morning: the TYAREE (or getting ready.) From the clothes to the bangles and makeup to proper shoes and scarfs, we all did everything (especially me ). In true Eid fashion, we were late in getting to the mosque as well which means we ended up sitting at the very front. (Like a class room, very few people want to sit in the front rows right away.)

From then on starts the most important part of the day, the Eid prayers. A truly communal affair and truly beautiful. And for someone like me, truly nostalgic.

All around in the ladies section, it is glitzy and cheerful. Calls of Eid Mubarak and Asalam o alaikum are everywhere. People are complaining why they got late and who was the culprit. Sitting in the row ahead of me are 5 women, sisters. And they have all brought their little kids who are, of course, jumping up and down and running around, refusing to heed any call from their mothers. After all it is Eid, they know their mothers can only be angered that much today. One of the little guys is wearing a suit, complete with a bow tie and he looks adorable. His elder sister, about 7 years of age, is decked in beautiful gharara, complete with a scarf that she has placed on her head as she sits on the carpet, looking very mature and content with herself. She will not be a part of the silly frolicking of her brother. The sound system continuously announces the Tasbeehat:

Allah o Akbar, Allah o Akbar, La ila ha Illa Allah, Wa’ Allah o Akbar, Allah o Akbar, Wa Lillah ‘il Hamd

God is great. God is great. There is no God but One. And God is great, God is Great. And for Him, are all the praises.

Muslims chant these lines during all three days of Eid ul Azha. A testament to their devotion and humility. However, in the Eid Gaah, no one seems to be paying heed to the tasbeehat at this stage. Women like talking. And they are doing just that. There is an innocent beauty in their behavior. They are going to extreme lengths to make sure that all the members of the extended family and friends end up sitting next to each other, even though it is a pain and near impossible to spot people you know in a crowd of more than 2000 people. My mom and aunt are involved in their own chit chat. My aunt is telling my mom who she thinks we can spot at the Eid gaah today. Who got married to whom and how do they look like now. Did they get fat? did they grow? Are they still in Toronto? My mom, of course, has a thousand questions. Every few minutes, they ask me about a cousin or a relative and if I have seen them lately, and I shrug to respond that I neither have nor do I even know how they look like, or even who they are. After this futile exercise of 10 mins where my mom is thoroughly disappointed by my lack of knowledge and interest of the extensive human-network I am supposed to be integrated into, both of them leave me alone. So I am left to just observation and chanting tasbeeh under my breath. Even the little girl with the gharara in front row has decided that maturity isn’t all that fun and is now playing with her brother; her pink embroided scarf is lying at my feet.

Suddenly, we hear a shuffling on the men’s side, and a sound of Allah o Akbar on the sound system. The prayer has begun. In about 20 seconds, every one leaves what they were doing, finds a place to stand on the rug, scarves firmly on the head, eyes lowered to the ground and hundreds of neat, silent rows of women ready to pray like their male counterparts. The Eid prayer has multiple Takbeer. All muslims raise their hands to the ears while chanting Allah o Akbar multiple times. However, this is a communal prayer, so only the Imam is the one saying Allah o Akbar out loud. The rest of us just follow.
With each Takbeer, thousands of hands are raised and lowered. On the men side, there is a hushed silence. On the women side, there is a loud clink of bangles jingling every time they raise their hands to their ears. I know that my bangles are contributing to the loud, rhythmic bangle chorus that is playing on our side. We all pray to God to lead us on the right path, to help us in our need. A majority of people in the mosque, including the Imam sahib are Pakistanis. We pray that may the Eid on the ensuing day in our homeland be safe and happy. No bomb blasts. No shadow of death. Imam sahib recites from the Koran. God does not test any one beyond their capabilities. It’s a comforting thought. The imam recites on. Forgive us God, Have mercy on Us, protect us, help us, let us be victorious against forces of evil. Forgive us God, have mercy on us, protect us, help us. He repeats. His voice falters. He repeats it again. He is now choked up. All around me I hear sniffles. The young woman standing next to me is weeping and praying. Looking down, shutting out everything else, focusing on prayer only, the strong prayer from the Koran has a profound effect on us all, especially in the wake of the recent past and what happens in Pakistan every day. There is a call of Allah o Akbar, and all of us bow down. In a few seconds, another call of Allah o Akbar sends thousands of Muslims to prostration, in unison. A few minutes later the Imam calls out ‘Assalam o alaikum va rahmat ullah’ and we all look to our right and left, sending peace and wishing God’s mercy everywhere.
A sermon follows in English. A stark difference from the Urdu sermons I am accustomed to. But one has to account for all the Muslims (and non Muslims) who do not know any Urdu yet are present in the Eid Gaah. The religious service is officially over after the sermon and there are loud cries of Eid Mubarak as people hug each other and wish a happy Eid to each other. I wish my mother, I wish my aunt. I am hugged and greeted by all strangers around me as well. An Eid custom. You greet and wish happiness and peace to everyone you meet on Eid day. It feels special, it feels nice. Soon after we are going to head out, back to our houses to celebrate the rest of the Eid with our family and friends. Most of us had sent money to people in Pakistan so a sacrifice can be made on our behalf and the meat distributed in the poor. Since there is nothing to distribute and stew at home, we have a leisurely day in front of us.

I once heard a from a non muslim woman who had attended a communal prayer (in canada), how surreal and how humiliating an experience it was. I can see what she meant. You can see a crowd of human beings, all forgetting about everything else but God, coming together and praying. With each call to Allah o Akbar, thousands of them bow to God in unison. There is pin drop silence. The only thing one might hear is sniffling as some people end up overwhelmed and start crying as they pray. During the prayer, there is no distinction of rich and poor, of race, of anything. As Iqbal once put it:

Ek hi saf main khare ho gaye Mahmood wa Ayyaz
Na koee banda raha na koi banda nawaz

In one row both Mahmood (The Ghaznavid Sultan) and Ayaz (Mahmood’s turkish slave) stand before God
there is no distinction between the servant and the master

After a very long time, I feel that I belong to something big. I am proud of who I am. I am proud of being a Muslim and what it means, despite the demonic picture which the recent wave of terrorism has painted. It feels good. Suddenly you have a community, suddenly you are not alone. Suddenly, you have an identity.

The portrait of a well-beloved

The concept, in part at least, was inspired by a novel of the same name by Hardy, though in its completion, this paragraph bears no resemblance to anything the former presented.

Sometimes you are a part of something you cannot define. A bond you cannot hold but will not lose. Every atom in your body keeps you from letting go and every nerve in your body aches when you keep it and let it sit in your mind and travel through your arteries until all your extremities can feel what you have done and send it back to your heart, frozen, making it skip a beat or two. Once you’ve kept it, you cannot exhale; it burns your lungs but the fear of it escaping you as swiftly as smoke makes you never want to open your mouth again. So you suffocate without ever knowing what it was you held on to desperately, what force tore your body and mind into two.
DId he, then, suffocate me?
He was the one who took me to realms I was afraid of; he was the one thing I did not fear. He stood for everything I despised; he was the one thing I loved.  He embodied all things strange: distant lands, unknown traditions and incomprehensible faiths; he seemed like a part of my own body. He shattered my beliefs; in him I found faith.
I cannot explain why he reminded me of things commonplace, except that those things became special once attached to his persona. For instance, he reminded me of kerosene lamps. Kerosene lamps with muddled glass, kerosene lamps whose wicks go ashy and they flicker, as if about to go out, yet burn on forever. He reminded me of summer nights and of fire flies. He reminded me of dark, stormy skies. He reminded me of the swallows as they fly restlessly in those skies, eager for a storm that might destroy them, either blissfully ignorant or disturbingly aware of their own small existence. And then sometimes he reminded me of the air as it smells after summer rain: earthy , full of inexplicable fragrances, engulfing you, yet untouchable. He reminded me of the pigeons on a mosque’s minaret and their flight as the muezzin’s sudden call for prayers startles them. He rang in me like temple bells, echoing within me, reviving each morning louder than ever. Sometimes I like to think that he even reminded me of myself, in some bizarre parallel existence.
At times, he took me to nothingness and yet he made me feel content in an odd way. He did make my heart skip a beat or two, except by making it race in a frenzy. He made me aware of each atom in my body, yet he made me forgetful of my existence. He made my faults look like virtues, just like sunlight illuminates dust particles in the air and makes them look like gems. He was the sun in my life. He was golden.

To be or not to be – In our case, What to be? Who to be?

It was a chilly Sept morning in 2002. In the downstairs cafeteria in Bethune college, our ‘international orientation’ was in full swing. Eighteen year old faces everywhere. Ebony skins. Ivory skins. And every shade in between. A random conversation with a total stranger, when he mentioned that my English accent was “rather British”, and then asked “What is your mother tongue”. Without missing a beat, I replied, “Urdu”.

Years later, at a party, a game of “Guess where the person is from” was being played. My turn resulted in quite a few wrong answers. Exasperated, one gentleman remarked, “Well, Maria, you are racially ambiguous!”. The answer to what I am? “A Pakistani”.

A few weeks after, my mother’s friends visit. All belonging to a border town between Punjab and NWFP border. A town which was NWFP till 1920, when the British decided it should be in Punjab. I hear one of them detailing how their Pakhtun/Pathan pride was the best thing there ever was, “Ghairat hai bari cheez jahan e tag o dau main”, according to her. I smiled. Having grown up in Lahore, my mother does not identify well with her. Being born and brought up in Mianwali, I can. We then talk about the most recent accusation levied against the ‘Punjabis’ and how they are ripping the country off of all resources. The same auntie is outraged. “We Punjabis have to fight and do everything, yet we get all the blame.” I am confused.

Across from a round about in my home town, fountains spray the water high up in the air. And the lights from underneath light up a slogan written on the wall behind

“Pakistan ka matlab kia, La Ila ha Il Allah”

There is an India Pakistan match. A muslim friend of mine from India boasts how they would cream us. We win the match. It’s time to put him to shame. Joining us is a friend from Karachi who is a Hindu. I am confused.

Today, Ayesha sends me an article detailing the need for us to foresee a future for our nation. A cohesive, coherent, national future.

Yet I am confused. I want to ask if we have even started seeing ourselves as a nation. Have we established our identity yet? Our elders are more than likely to instill an ethnic image in our mind and a so called “mother tongue” as well. We are conveniently Punjabis, Sindhis, Pathans or Balochis. Decades later, ethnic and religious and linguistic violence changes our allegiances and our sympathies. We are happily divided. But for many of us, does such a differentiation really exist? Do we really cluster well in pre-defined ethnic groups and identities?

If you ask my mother, what we are, she would not waste a breath and reply “Why Punjabis, of course.” Yet, at the age of 15 when I entered Lahore in East Punjab to go to boarding school, I did not know a word of Punjabi. I cannot write Punjabi to this date though I can speak it in what people call an “Urdu” accent. Today a tv program informed me that we were ‘outsiders’, coming from iran and central asia. Plus, I am not sure I ‘feel’ Punjabi, if one could feel like an ethnicity. Thinking back to the “What is your mother tongue” question, I am not sure I will ever be able to answer it ‘correctly’, strictly speaking. My father grew up in Sindh. He speaks fluent Sindhi. He does not consider himself a true Sindhi, whatever that might mean. I don’t know a word of Sindhi and have never been to Sindh in my life. My mother grew up and learnt Punjabi. Different dialects of it albeit. I now know how to speak a third dialect, something which makes my mother go sometimes “How on earth did you learn that?” Both my mother and father know Persian. Dad because at some level he thought it was important to stick to what he thought was the language of his ancestors. Mom because she majored in it. I can understand it and speak some due to being somewhat good at Urdu. I was born in a place where everyone spoke either Seraiki or Pashto. I know Seraiki. I can understand some Pashto. Yet except ‘Nishta’, “Khuda Paiman’, or ‘Pakhair Raghlay’, I cannot say much in it. So, what then is my mother tongue? Punjabi? Seraiki? Pashto? Sindhi? Farsi? Yet if you ask me, I would immediately say, Urdu; our national language.

But you see, there is a problem with that answer when I am in Pakistan or around Pakistanis. Asking someone what their “Madri zaban” (mother tongue) is, they expect you to come up with some regional language. An answer like “Urdu” has often gotten me questions/remarks like “So from where was your family originally from in India”, “You don’t look like / Are you a Muhajir”. Yes, a Muhajir. An Immigrant. The beloved term we use for the Muslims who came to become Pakistanis in 1947. For them, and for their children and grandchildren who were born in Pakistan and never knew anything else. Suddenly, Urdu is not enough.

It is the same story with ethnicity. Being a Pakistani is quite enough when I am not in Pakistan. I once heard an uncle provide ‘Punjabis’ as the ethnicity for a lot of boys. Seconds later, I was being described as a Meerza, as a Moghul. As I write this I am looking at a photograph of me with three of my friends taken last year. I realize that all of us have spent our lives in and around Pakistan. We all understand and speak Punjabi. At least two of them can call Lahore their permanent home. Yet except one, none of us is Punjabi enough for a lot of people who insist on ‘ethnic purity’. Two of them are Kashmiris. I am a God-Knows-What. Or as a TV Show recently put it wisely, an outsider.

When you tell this to some national minded Pakistanis, they get very emotional about Pakistan and immediately recite the following:

‘Yun to Syed bhi ho, Mirza bhi ho Afghan bhi ho
Tum sabhi kuch ho batao to Musalmaan bhi ho’

You are either a Syed (Arab?), Mirza (Persian?) or an Afghan
You are very true to your ethnicities but are you a Muslim as well?

And this is where another problem begins. You see, I am a Muslim. Or I think I am. But I am denied the right to call myself a Muslim by the constitution of Pakistan, created 26 years after its birth and when we had lost half of ourselves as Bangladesh. Everywhere, all the time, I ve seen Pakistanis go on and on about how Pakistani and Muslim are the same thing. I disagree. Being a Pakistani has nothing to do with being a Muslim. Or the initial national anthem would not have been written by Jagan Nath Azad. The founding father of this country would be labelled a Kafir by half the moulvi population if given a chance. Being a Pakistani has nothing to do with being a Muslim. We might ‘be’ Muslim. But that is not the identity we should be striving for.

For once, I believe the Jiye Sindh has it right. Our identity is this land. This land that assimilates everyone in it. This land which has given rise to fantastic philosophies and religions. Which has welcomes foreigners with open hands and made them one of its own sons. This land which is the land of the Sindhu, the Indus. The true India. And it proves itself in various albeit unattractive and tumultuous ways. In 1947, it started with Kashmir becoming a dispute between India and Pakistan. Whether you consider it an Atoot Ang of India or not, it is part of the Indus Valley. And i believe, you cannot dissect this land without much bloodshed. Then in 1971, we lost East Pakistan and it became Bangladesh. If religion was enough to make a nation, we would not have lost it. Whether we are trying to be politically correct or not, you can hear the undertones of “we are different” originating from both Pakistanis and Bengalis. Sadly, we are both right.
Despite all that, I am ashamed that a lot of us are trying to make Pakistan – Islamistan. And for those of us, being a Muslim comes before being a Pakistani. Those of us, at the (risk of being bombarded with sarcasm) are more at risk of becoming ‘extremists’. It is less about Islam. It is much more about Pakistan. If it was about Islam, the people bombarding us every day would all turn out to be Hindus, Sikhs, Christians, Jews and something elses. They are not. They are Muslims. Of all ethnicities and nationalities.

We need to, and we need to soon, realize that our identity is only being a Pakistani. Our identity lies in our country, in our land. It lies in our language that binds us together. It has to be free of anything that belittles either. Once Pakistan becomes paramount instead of religion or the province, we can start envisioning a future where we as Pakistanis, can prosper.

Abhi kuch din lagein ge – It will take a while

Years ago, I used to watch the drama serial ‘Padosi’ or ‘Neighbors’ on PTV.  It had a recurring theme song/ghazal called “Abhi kuch din lagein ge”  or “It will take a few days/ a while”. Years later, as the darkness deepens outside my windows, and I have to head out to the airport, the sound of that ghazal fills my heart. (The english translation follows.)

Abhi kuch din lagein ge
Dil aise shehr ke pamaal ho jane ka manzar bhulne main
Abhi kuch din lagein ge
Jahan-e-rang ke sare khas-o-khashaak
Sare sarv-o-sanobar bhulne main
Abhi kuch din lagein ge
Thakay haray hue khawbon ke sahil per
Kahin umeed ka chota sa ik ghar
bante bante reh gaya hai
Woh ik ghar bhulne main
Abhi kuch din lagein ge

Magar ab din hi kitne reh gaye hain
Ke ek din dil ki lauh-e-muntazir per
Achanak
Raat utre gee
Meri benoor aankhon ke khazanay main chupe
Har khawb ki takmil ker de gee
Mujhe bhi khawb main tabdeel ker de gee
Ik aisa khawb jis ka dekhna mumkin nahin tha
Ik aisa khawb jis ke daman-e-sad chaak main koi mubarak
Koi roshan din nahin tha
Abhi kuch din lagein ge

It will take a while
To forget the carnage of such a city as the heart’s
It will take a while
To forget the silhouettes of, to forget the cypresses and pines of the world that I longed for
It will take a while
Somewhere near the shore of broken dreams
Hope tried to erect a small house
It will take a while to forget that small house
It will take a while

But how much time is left now anyway?
My expectant heart
Suddenly
Will be engulfed by the night
And all the dreams in my glassy eyes would be realized
The darkness will convert me in a dream as well
A dream whose realization was not possible,
A dream I was wrong to dream,
A dream in whose bloody hands
There was no bright daylight, no hope.
It will take a while …

The original.

Of some winter evenings

Winter is a time for reminiscing. Especially, since the school is over, holiday season is upon us and there is a lull in the cold winter air. A couple of days back my mother was visiting me from Pakistan, and she had brought me something over which I have not seen in 7 years in Canada — *drum roll* : Chilgoza (y). The ultimate winter treat. After dinner, people would get together in their living rooms or kitchens with dried fruits and tea (chai) or rarely coffee. Watch the khabarnama (news) and just talk.  During winter months it will not be uncommon to walk into someone’s drawing/living room and find the entire family sitting on a floor covered with a persian rug with quilts munching on pistachios and sharing jokes.

Anyway, all this and more got me thinking about all the wonderful foods we have in Pakistan and have never seen here. For that matter, a lot of my friends have no idea what they are irrespective of their country of origin. I thought I’d recount those, maybe people have their own favorites that I have missed and I can be reminded of those.

Chilgoza : chilgoza are pine nuts. However, unlike the Italian/European/Korean pine nuts you see very often and use for pesto, the chilgoza pine nuts are huge. They are also sweeter and nuttier in taste in my

Chilgoza

opinion. A signature dried fruit during winter in Pakistan. The nut is hard to peel (no pre-shelled chilgozas please!) but the effort is well worth it once you bite the toasty, nutty sweet chilgoza inside.

Kino (Kinno): For the lack of better description: A huge, juicy mandarin orange. I have never seen kinno outside of Pakistan and apart from my Pakistani (and maybe Indian Punjabi friends) no one seems to know what this cultivar of orange is.  During the winter season, kinno (alongwith carrots in our house) constituted the ultimate snack. The sangtra (santra) is another cultivar of the oranges. It is extremely sweet (in general) and reminds me of a bag of chips. Just like a bag of chips is half filled with air, this orange is half filled with air. You peel a huge santra and you get a rather small fruit inside.

Kinno

Red Blood, yes this is the name of an orange indeed. Most fruit vendors have these on display since the color of the orange is ironically, blood red. Meethe: I have no idea if this thing has a proper name at all. But this is what they are called in at least two provinces in Pakistan. The name in Urdu means “the sweet ones” and these oranges are anything but sweet. Actually, they have a slightly bitter taste to them which is a signature of this species.  The comfort derived from snacking on any of these wonderful oranges in bright winter sunshine wearing warm pashmina (this is a woman’s perspective afterall.) while chatting with friends and family is indescribable.

Sundarkhani Angoor: A grape species. I have never seen sundarkhani angoor anywhere else. I dont know why it is called sundarkhawni/sundarkhani either. The grapes are whitish and long with no seed. One of the sweetest grapes you will ever

Sundarkhani

taste. I believe the sundarkhani generally comes from Sindh and Balochistan (but I could be wrong.)

Sufed Khobani: or the white apricot. After you have had this breed of apricots, the regular yellow apricots just never cut it. The fruit is whitish pink in color. The district of Swat and in general the north west of Pakistan has tons of these growing. They recently launched a similar cultivar in California but the taste is oh-so-not the same.

Loquat: Okay so loquats are not that special. A lot of countries have them especially the Mediterranean countries. A lot of people know about them.

Loquat

But I am in Canada. And I miss them. Rainy season and loquats just went together so well. The trees are beautiful and picking the bunches of ripe loquat fruit from the trees is an experience in itself. We used to have 3/4 trees in our yard. Wish I could find them somewhere in Toronto as well.

Amlok: I don’t know what the English word for this is. I am googling this and not even coming up with a decent picture. All I know is that these were famous as dried fruits. Small blackish berry like dried fruit with lots of seeds and a taste which I can only describe as licorice-like. No one in my family liked them due to the amount of seeds. I loved them for precisely the same reason. The effort it took to eat one made it a very good pastime on lazy evenings or afternoons.

Revri: I have to admit. I was never fond of sweets and not of rewri anyway due to extreme sweetness. But I can remember it fondly and even find myself looking for it on the shelves of my Pakistani grocery store. Rewri is a hard (sometimes chewy) candy made of brown sugar (shakar), clarified butter (desi ghee) and lots and lots of sesame seeds (til). The result is small round candies which men in your life and family tend to enjoy a whole lot more than you do. My dad, uncles and cousins used to eat these by handfuls (which is a lot of sugar in my humble opinion).

Revri

Makhane? I am not sure I have the right name. But this is another brand of candy extremely popular in my native town in particular. It is roughly walnuts dusted with sugar. Even though I am not fond of sweets, I used to and still like these. (No wonder amma brought me a healthy dose this time around.)

Pink tea /Kashmiri/Namkeen chai: And last, but most certainly not the least, every discussion of a winter evening in particular is incomplete without mentioning the famous drink “chai” (milk tea) or “kahva” (green tea). And my personal and absolutely heartwarming version was the “pink” or gulabi chai.

Chai

It is a milk tea brew with green tea (special tea leaves from Pakistan or Kashmir) and sprinkled with a healthy dose of pistachio nuts. Along with winter evenings, this is also a famous wedding drink. Furthermore, with the sweet version, an equally popular version is the salty or the ‘namkeen’ one.  Most people from Kashmir only use salt, in the rest of the country, however, both sugar and salt (sometimes combined) is used. I tend to like all three.

And on that note, I shall end this rant and head off to the kitchen to make myself a steaming cuppa tea and snack on some of the heavenly pine nuts mom brought me this time.

The Clenched Soul

the other day i went down to the harbor front here in Toronto. The cold weather has set in and sunlight is a thing of the past now. However, during the dark cloudy afternoon with gusts of cold wind, these trees were suddenly lit up by a ray of sunshine. It reminds me of one of my favorites from Neruda, “The Clenched Soul”:

We have lost even this twilight.
No one saw us this evening hand in hand
while the blue night dropped on the world.

I have seen from my window
the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops

Sometimes a piece of sun
burned like a coin in my hand.

I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.

Where were you then?
Who else was there?
Saying what?
Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away?

The book fell that always closed at twilight
and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.

Always, always you recede through the evenings
toward the twilight erasing statues.

Rest in peace – all of you.

For many of us, the carnage on the 4th of dec. hit closer to the heart than we expected. Among the ‘casualties’ this time were friends, familiar faces and people whom you remember being full of life. After 3 days, we are still finding out about the loved ones who were there — about the friends who might not be any longer.

Years back, a friend of mine showed me this poem after her father had passed away. I m not sure if I can say or do anything which would amount to anything substantial, but I want to dedicate this to the ones who left us…

Tujh Ko Kiss Phool Ka Kafan Ham Dain
Tu Juda Aisay Mosamon Main Howa
Jab Drakhton Kay Hath Khali Hain
Aaienay Jis Ko Dhondtay Thay Khud
Aisa Baymisl Aks Gar Tha Woh
Saray Kantay Samait Laita Tha
Aisa Anmol Ham Safar Tha Woh
Apnay Dil Main Sambhal Kar Us Ko
Aaj Hathon Say Kho Rahay Hain Usay
Hichkiyan Bandh Gai Hain Lafzon Ki
Aaiena Khanay Ro Rahay Hain Usay
Us Ko Kis Roshni Main Dafnain
Us Ko Kis Khawab Ka Badan Ham Dain
Woh Jo Khushboo Main Dhal Gaya Yaaro
Us Ko Kis Phool Ka Kafan Ham Dain

What flowers shall we leave on your graves

You left us in a season when the trees are empty handed

The one whom the mirrors sought after themselves

Such an examplary artist he was

He removed all the thorns in our way

Such a precious companion he was

Having kept a piece of him in our hearts

We lower him to the ground with our hands

The words are choked up

The mirrors crying for him

In what light shall we bury him

what dream shall we embody him with

To the one who became a waft of fragrance itself

What flowery shroud shall we give ?

God help us all…

Khuda woh waqt na laye

The first poem in Faiz series from his first book – “Naqsh faryadee”
خدا وہ وقت نہ لاۓ کہ سوگوار ہو تو
سکون کی نیند تجھے بھی حرام ہو جائے
تیری مسّرت پیہم تمام ہو جائے
تیری حیات تجھے تلخ جام ہو جائے
غموں سے آئینہ دل گداز ہو تیرا
ہجوم یاس سے بیتاب ہو کے رہ جائے
وفور درد سے سیماب ہو کے رہ جائے
تیرا شباب فقط خواب ہو کے رہ جائے
غورو حسن سراپا نیاز ہو تیرا
طویل راتوں میں تو بھی قرار کو ترسے
تیری نگاہ کسی غمگسار کو ترسے
خزاں رسیدہ تمنا بہار کو ترسے
کوئی جبیں نہ تیرے سنگ آستاں پہ جھکے
کہ جنس عجز و عقیدت سے تجھ کو شاد کرے
فریب وعدہ فردا پہ اعتماد کرے
خدا وہ وقت نہ لیے کے تجھ کو یار ہے
وہ دل کے تیرے لئے بے قرار اب بھی ہے
وہ آنکھ جس کو تیرا انتظار اب بھی ہے

Urdu poetry online

برو اے عقل و منہ منطق و حکمت درپیش
کے میرا نسخہ غم، ہاے فلاں درپیش است

Urdu poetry, especially that of the masters, is art and beauty at its best. The language has an inherent romance and passion in it, which shines through in all forms of communication, especially in poetry. Unfortunately, the “Deewan” or the collected works of most Urdu poets are not available readily in North America. The internet sites mostly have a few poems per poet at best.

So, after searching for ghazals repetitively with no luck, I actually went out and purchased some works of poetry. And, I think I would post them online as well, just in case some other people are looking for them. It is an ongoing process and hence would be somewhat slow.. but eventually, it would be done.

I would start off with two of my favorite poets – Meerzah Ghalib and Faiz Ahmed Faiz.

Musing

When relationships crumble and come to an end, how ugly and uncomfortable they become. Just like someone took a blooming rose, full of life and color, and drained it off its vivacity, so now it looks brown and crumbles in your hand when touched, leaving nothing but dust of times gone by behind. It even loses its perfume – it is ugly, haggard, a frightening memoir of the past.

Rain rain go to Spain

“Aasmaan girya karta hai!! “,( Even the sky weeps in this city!!)  These were the comments of a friend I once heard as she expressed her distaste for Vancouver and its seemingly incessant drizzle.
Maybe the monotony of the drizzle and the gloom that prevails has tarnished her idea of rain .. but thousands of miles away on the other side of the coast, I still love rain, even when I feel as if the sky is crying its heart out.
It reminds me of times long gone by, with memories as crisp as the red leaves during Fall in Toronto. For instance, I remember, as if it was yesterday, how the mango trees in our back yard looked when I was about 3 or 4. I can feel the rhythm as I swung up and down on the little red swing my parents had kindly installed on the porch, as I looked out at those trees and the skies. There were a lot of ravens in those mango trees. They made a lot of rukkus after the rain, and they destroyed the fruit. We let them be, it was their territory.
Rain in Pakistan came in two flavors. The gentle and sparse rains of the winter, and the flood causing torrential rains of the monsoon. But far up in the Northwestern plains, the two often seemed to have similar characteristics; the Indus never flooded even during the Monsoon, and the winter rains were always foggy and never gentle. To top it off, my parents moved houses like no others. My rains became memoirs of every house I had lived in, the perspective dependent on the few years I had spent in that house and neighborhood. Once we moved into a ‘Muhallah’ for a short period of time; Pakistan’s version of “traditional” neighborhoods. We had a playground next to the house , well just an empty space with grass in it that the kids used as a playground. As always, it was about 10 ft deeper than the streets surrounding it, so during every rain it became a lake / swimming pool. The kids stood on the corners wishing their parents would let em jump in and have some fun – It never happened. That house also had a mulberry tree – and it always grew purple plump mulberries which were always out of the reach of a small 8 year old.  One rainstorm, it fell down and my mother asked someone to clear the mess. However, as it lay on the ground, my sister Jaweria and I, and some rowdy kids from the street had our share of mulberries, even the ones on the very top branches. That was our revenge!
Finally, my parents decided to settle down in one house and hence, the biggest share of my rain memories comes from the house we live in for past 14 years. Summer rains didn’t come alone in my home town, they brought thunder, lightening  and stormy winds with them. And they had a tendency to start at the worst of times. For instance, right about when me and Jaweria had dragged every medical instrument in the house, as well as drugs marked with “Physcian’s sample not for sale” outside to play “Hospital”, thunder would start and we would get afraid. Jaweria was happy I guess, she didn’t have to be subjected to forced check ups and syrups I forced down her throat. Among the two of us, she ended up going to medical school. I never quiet comprehended the irony.  And sometimes, the skies would get dark and the wind louder as soon as our parents were out of the house and we were alone. Each summer, a few of our eucalyptus and poplar trees went down due to thunderstorms. I never understood why our lane and house had so many to begin with, from the 5ft tall ones to the ones above 50 ft. But everything was always so beautiful after the rain. Even if the trees had fallen,  power lines damaged, we were always happy that the small water canals in the lawn were full of rain water, and our paper boats swam beautifully in them.
Have you ever noticed how the rain makes all colors brighter? Or maybe it was just true of the pomegranate blossoms, so starkly red against the dark green of the leaves. They were always beautiful. I was just sad at how many of them fell during the storm – that meant a lot less fruit, a lot less monkey business on the pomegranate trees.  It was always a bittersweet moment.
The memories continue – from north west to the east , across the border from Amritsar.  I would never forget, nor would anyone who made the mistake of coming in that day, a fine fall morning of 2002. We had just started 2nd year and were very happy to see each other after the entire summer break. Not to mention, we were ecstatic about “ragging” the new comers to the school i.e. the 11th graders.  By 8 o clock that morning, the sky was falling down in liquid form on the city of Lahore. Every single person in my class, looked like a wet rag, thanks to the 10 min run from college gate to the “science” block and our classroom. That morning saw some very interesting scenes. For instance, a class room full of women,  every 2 of them holding a dupatta between them, which they moved up and down. On close inspection, one would notice that this was to make it dry and to aerate it with the aid of the excruciatingly slow ceiling fans of the old science block. No matter how drenched we were, we were thankful the rain kept our professors at home, and we spent the entire day waltzing around the school, gossiping and eating Dahi bhale from ‘Open air’ or Chicken Roll from the “PC”.
Almost a decade later, and thousands of miles west, I still love rain. In Toronto, it seems to be evasive, as evasive as the moods of this city. You will see sunny skies, and the next moment you would be drenched. Then a rainbow will find its way across Finch Ave West, right smack in the middle of the city.  In those moments the city is beautiful, almost surreal, like the rains I remember. The only difference is, the cherry blossoms have replaced the pomegranate blossoms, and instead of paper boats and skipping, I have taken to sipping cappuccino as I look out of the window at the rain.

Ah Engineers!!!

I think it all got triggered when Milad sent that note which was supposed to help us figure out if were indeed engineer-ish. So i I wilfully clicked on that link and in 3 seconds was laughing like anything… its strange how your own bizarre attitudes can be so amusing.. and its not only me — its all those people i know around me who have some of these qualities.. such as

At Christmas, it goes without saying that you will be the one to find the burnt-out bulb in the string of Christmas lights <– yeeep!!!

The Salespeople at Circuit City can’t answer any of your questions <– sadly ! (i can see so many techy heads nodding right now!!)

You go on the rides at Disneyland and sit backwards in the chairs to see how they do the special effects <— lol..this one really killed me. i did not realize I do this..until i read thisss…

and this one is a tribute to swats - You see a good design and still have to change it

but email-jokes apart..i started thinking if this was really true. was there some twisted reasn behind all of us selecting this field and then banging our heads on our computer screens…

so yesterday..me and Chris (a colleague/friend) were playing with Vista — finding bugs and complaining about software when somehow the conversation turned to video games. I remember as a young kid I had this reallly old nintendo on which me and sister used to play Mario all day long… along with the Mario — it had another dumb game called duck hunt which, well which mostly 3 years old played. However, it had a cheap gun which one could use to point and shoot at ducks on the screen as they appeared.. and it had, well, good precision!

However what is hilarious is, that 5 mins into the conversation and Chris confessed that since he had that game he has been wondering how do they do it. Unfortunately,me too! Now we did come up with some pretty groovy ideas so as to how it could have been done, maybe googling it would help further… but what I cannot get over is … 2 6-7 years old NOT playing duck hunt, but thinking about how the gun works…

somebody help!!!!