Roots In Air

Ek Ladki Bheegi Bhagi Si--The Reluctant Detective Review

2012-01-28T13:33:00.000-08:00

There are moments when the soul recognizes what the rationalmind does not. I rush in one evening into an empty bookshop, the patrons having all filed out, recognizing the “warning coughs” behind the cash counter that usher the end of a working day for the proprietor. “The Reluctant Fundamentalist .. new book ..Kiran Manral... just come out” I wheeze as I descend the steps, dodging a sullen shop assistant who is locking his cycle next to a stack of medical guides. The shop owner looks askance “Reluctant Fundamentalist? New Release?”

“Woh Joote Wali Kitab! The Book with the Boot” the assistant comes to my rescue making to towards a stack.

Book bought. Discount negotiated. I return home berating myself. Reluctant Fundamentalist? What brought that about?

Ah, but there is a connection. Like Hamid’s tale of a man taking you on a quick journey through the social landscape of post 9/11's America’s Pakistan, Kiran Manral uses a breathless narrative, the protagonist tugging at your elbow, speeding you through a mad, spiralling, series of events, opening up a world that never existed beyond a cursory nod at the They Also Occupy My Scope of Vision.

Manral uses the cunning device of a murder/mystery plot to reel us in. The quick deaths (rather murders) are but a vehicle to conduct what can be best identified as a social commentary on the Life and Times of (what the book blurb dubs as the) School Gate Mom. Who is this curious creature? The book title (in a very attention-grabbing font) might announce the introduction of The Reluctant Detective, but the book screams The Reluctant Homemaker. Who are these mysterious women amidst us who power walk the malls, nervously negotiate The Help, escape domesticity in extended phone calls to parents and ex-school mates, despair at their children, and alternate between shadow boxing and tip-toeing around the spouse? They look confident in the flesh and many a time have had me shaking in my boots in real life as they stand next to me at supermarkets, school parking lots all color coordinated, well coiffed,. But Manral through the very endearing Kanan “Kay” Mehra unpacks the bundle of nerves and anxiety this seemingly “put together” woman is. There are still questions (but perhaps that is another book) of why the daughters of straight talking government servants and thrifty mothers have turned out so complex and anxious about their place in the world, with that fake Chanel mini and LV rip-offs providing much succor to make life a wee bit more meaningful.

But coming back to The Reluctant Detective. It is a speedy read, and at the risk of repeating myself, there is more, so much more than dead bodies that turn Kay’s world around and introduces us to a cast of living and really fleshed out characters. There are ghostly apparitions that spurs the mystery factor forward but before that there are style tips, and writhing snake dances to get into a pair of trousers, and How Not To Pack For a Weekend Getaway (of course I jest when I say How Not To—Kanan showed me how unprepared I have been all my life, and I followed her mantra as I prepared for a weekend dash myself just a couple of days ago. Thank you Kay!)

Though the story comes around in a very satisfying way, with many a chuckle punctuating the journey; it does eaves you thirsting for more (some answers to the questions I raised earlier for one). You want to know more about Kay’s life journey that guide her life choices. You want to know whether she gets over her squeamishness for blood. You want to know whether a honeymoon in Bali will be sabotaged by a suave Suhaan Khan for a sojourn in Bollywood. But now I think I have said too much!

And now Ms Kiran Manral and how I place her writing endeavor. Regular readers of this space will know that it has been a while since I tipped my toes in the pool of print, my love affair with Bollywood having replaced my forays into the world of words. So if I were to treat Manral and her project as I would an offering from the celluloid world, perhaps I will not be remiss in regarding her as pulling off a Farhan Akhtar. Like Akhtar Jr. Manral comes with an impressive “ past life” , she is a freelance writer, a fashionista, a blogger, media consultant, and the founder of India Helps—this is a volunteer network working with disaster victims. Kiran Manral is also a committed friend to the city of Mumbai and I have on good authority that she calls on her mother every weekend and takes the senior citizens to the doctor and shops. A loving wife and a mother, she takes the business of motherhood very very seriously. With all this Manral could have taken the “easier” way out and made use of her ‘resume’ to the hilt to get her dream book project off the ground or recycled the work and words of her “past life”. But she does not, and like Akhtar goes out on the limb to create a project that is fresh in voice and one that has all the chances of becoming the Song of Our Generation. For all this and more , of being so brave in spirit when it comes to her first

project, and of resisting the temptation of clichés, I dub her our own Farhan Akhtar.

Best of luck for Part II, Kiran! For it would be a crime far beyond what the perpetrators of the heinous plots in The Reluctant Detective managed to hatch if the Joote Wali Kitab does not have a sequel soon.

For More on the Crazy Adventures The Reluctant Detective book is up to visit http://www.thereluctantdetectivebook.blogspot.com/

Mere Dil Mere Musafir Hua Phir Se Hukm Sadir

2011-12-30T19:13:00.000-08:00

Key Watan Badr Houn Hum Tum
Dey Gali Gali Sadaien

....khair nothing as dramatic as that, but yes a change is acoming. There were hints earlier this month, but considering under the Australian surkhi powder I knew mera Dil to Phir Bhi Hai Pakistani

saaley visa dein ya na dein.

But I think it is coming through.

Tomorrow.

So we have two days to pack up house
I feel like one of those fly by night operations
People will come to drop by New Year ki mithai, cake.
And there will be dust bunnies and tumble weed.
Visas issued and collected on the 1st.
We will send The Toddler to school on the 2nd. And then get on a flight in the evening to meet friends and family.
Melbourne after that.
And onward to home for most of 2012
So some time in January Golkamra will be up and running at a new location. Details later. Suspense zaroori hai.
As New Year mithai I wanted to set up a sidebar that had all of my travel posts.
But that aint happening if there are packers nipping at your heels.
so I leave you with some Iqbal Bano.

See you all soon. Hugs and Kisses.

Aayegi Ek Baar Kho Gayi Jo Bahar..

2011-12-26T19:52:00.000-08:00

I learnt a new word this week

Taaq-e-Nissian..translated as a niche, a shelf in the wall where you could place things and

just forget about them. I have forced myself to do that every day this month, place some years of my life there and walk away. But that never happens does it?

Especially when it comes to all the years when you were not Saima Ammar.

But Saima Niaz.

For this is how you will always be in my mind.

All the years when I was not capable of non-linear thought.

As in calling you Chothu for one.

My mouth would fumble around those words. The awkwardness of calling someone older and a foot taller than me Chothu? Chothu?

You taught me to imagine more than the grays of my life

and to think up more interesting ways of describing a dimple rather than "holes in the cheek"

I was quite awkward those years, wasn't I ? You were our Lady Graceful ..of course you also had a course in self grooming under your belt, and I could but only look at you with awe.

So I remember

Tum aao bardosh,

With Music. Your Wit. With the video cassettes of Neighbours you would pick up from London, and all the care packages sent to you. Your posh accent, as you would rattle off poetry .

Hum aayen le kar

all the Convent School prudishness, skipping all things bosom in the bodice rippers I read to you bus Saima then something happens between them ; until you were screaming, I am 18 read them to me NOW!

all the knocks and bumps you suffered when I offered to guide you (for we all knew how you hated the white cane), and I true to form..absent minded.. after steering you into benches and making you trip over stairs, would turn around and ask you, exasperated Arey Why Dont You Just Tell Me When We Near A Step

Aur iske baad yeh poochein ke who guided whom?

You brought art , good conversation and so many interesting people to my life ...remember when you enrolled for sculpture while I was quite content in my Teutonic life memorizing how to conjugate German verbs? What was I thinking?! and did I ever thank you enough for being my passport to Fun Islamabad!

Did you ever despair ? We were not easy on you. Not as Saima Niaz when you kept our group (with each one of us notorious in the uni for our immense egos and fiery tempers) together. You shared with us your notes for Friedman's centre and periphery and HB promptly ran away to set up the Elite Group and declare some of us Periphery (of course it did not end there and he soon wanted a Super Elite).

And as Saima Ammar you finally settled into your mantle.

I can only remember one winter evening from another life. (And it is the memory of that evening that assures me things will work out)

And you have taken out your reading list for Politics and Foreign Policy of Afghanistan . I tell you it will be a cakewalk , coming from who I was, the history of Afghanistan started on December 24, 1979. And didnt we script it all for them?

we discover there was a Dost Mohammad, and then a Sher Ali,

and Mohammad Afzal, and Azam,

and another Sher Ali,

and by the time you reach half of my family namesakes, Habibullah, Naseerullah, Amanullah, you are crying, and all I can do is pat your hand. Bus Daoud abhi aaya, after that tou smooth running And we alternate between our tears as Habibullahs and Rahmans keep on popping up and my feeble attempts to pacify you Bus Daoud abhi aaya.

And now they say Saima Ammar too is a memory

Even in death you inspire me. Teaching me to be patient with the bumps and bruises even as the one you trust steers you into another obstacle. To throw back your head and laugh, for this is our life. We survived Kund and the rivers Indus et Kabul's confluence while everyone shrieked. So I dont know why we are drowning now.

Tell me now

Bus Daud Abhi Aaya

after that tou smooth running hai

Remember when we re-discovered this Saima? Just before he decided that Ameer ka Islam lies in designer kurtas and halal chips fatwa. When he could still sing songs of hope. So once more in your memory.

Aayey Gee Eik Baar Khogayee Jo Bahar,

Mein Isee Aaas Mein Jeeyoun Ga.

Khud Sey Wada Hai Yeh Hain Irada Hai Yeh

Tu Suney Na Suney Mein Khahoun Ga ...

Kabhi Mein Sochta Hoon Kuch Na Kuch Kahon Phir Yeh Sochta Hoon

2011-12-18T14:11:00.000-08:00

Kiyoo Na Chup Rahoon

The lyricist for this song from Aina (1977) is either Tasleem Fazli or Akhtar Yousuf. If you know dear reader please add in the comments section

And it is December.

A moment when the calendar reminds you ..again.. about the This Day in History

and

The universe tinkers with the volume control for the "background noise" of your days

And there it is

Caps Locked

You Are Here You Are Here

Your feet do itch to dance at their revolution

But The Man turns around to look at you and asks Really? Serious ho? Allow them to enjoy their party. Ab wahan bhi...and shakes his head in dismay.

So perhaps I should sit back and listen as they clear their throats to sing

My ballad about you and me and them and us and how Gman fits in can keep for another day.

And as I flounder around in transit

The past is not yet a memory

and I am still struggling with my Best Of

and

A wishlist for the New

So perhaps on days like this, you gather the boys Big and Small and walk around Dhaka University

I promise we come in peace. No Liberators today no Oppressors

And we try to sneak in as Tejoy Haldar's installation huddles in for A Serious Discussion

This is the Fine Arts department in Dhaka University, as you can see Nature is giving the young artists stiff competition

Oh the whimsy, the whimsy of the installations that dot the campus

And we walk the grounds while Gman and me fumble with the words So This is Your Great-Grandfather's University. So much history for so small a backback

But it seems his shoulders are strong enough to take on what we deem our historical burden

And there is a pool of water. Of course. With steps leading down to it; it is Friday and a group of students walk down to make their ablutions

Yes there are days when I should just listen

There will be doors that I will want to knock at, but for now maybe it is best that no one opens the door for us.

The Toddler is curious enough to pry, to call out. We will let some conversations be, though words of apology are forming at my lips

And we walk past Ramna Park

And the Ramna Temple

no bricks and stones now

for the deities have taken to a shamiana

And for years I wandered the streets of another Ramna in a city which was built on the crushed hopes of this

And yes I wonder at how it is that it is Ramna that interlinks Operation Searchlight and Operation Sunrise. You know when at times men in khakhi think they should have been in Public Works Department and sat on bulldozers.

Not that the dawn of democracy was easy on these spaces

But even then

We should seriously think twice before you know naming anything Ramna

General Nagri has always worked well

We all know what happens to Constitution Avenues

So as I said deities live under tents

So what I have gathered over the past two weeks from the blog statistics is NO ONE is interested in clicking on images for all the lovely buildings I photograph. Most of you just want to know So What Do They Look Like
I have seriously rationed my words in this post
So perhaps I should leave you with some pictures of me
Just to satisfy your curiosity
so in future you can look at the sights and the buildings for a change
But before that let me adjust my dupatta
For you know from the way some people in my life carry on when the two ends are not perfectly aligned
when one end of the dupatta drags on the floor
empires just crumble
there are also tsunamis
And that is why Shilpa Shetty had to sing about Dupatte Ka Pallu Ka Kidhar ka Kidhar Hai

I will leave brushing my hair for another day.
TOMORROW IS ANOTHER DAY

And then just as you think you are ready to face the world, a little voice reminds you yeh sab tou theek hai BUT WHERE IS MY JUICE

So yes I have so much to write, so much to share with you.

But I remember just in time for now Kiyoo Na Chup Rahoo

So sit back and just enjoy some Mehdi Hasan

(and crazy woman in purple)

Aane Wala Pal Jaane Wala Hai

2011-12-04T20:15:00.000-08:00

As we drove out from Dhaka towards Manekgunj and I busied myself wondering how and when I will blog about it (as all bloggers are wont to do) I could swear it read as a very funny travel post in my mind. I was going to write a note about how The Toddler has picked up on my fondness for the"countryside" albeit he will phrase it as What A Beautiful Country Mama, So Many Country Outside.

There was also going to be a sly dig about how development discourse has influenced street directories. "You want to go to Baliaiti huh, take a right from Vulnerability" or "Sir jee we are passing through Climate Change now. Do you want to stop the car?"

But let us leave that for another day.

Today let me take you on a journey to the Baliaiti Zamindar Palace.

Technically it is some 40 miles out of Dhaka, and 5 km from Manekgunj where we were for the weekend.

But as we all know the past is another country.

Even if it is just the countryside.

The road to the mysterious mansion. Or haveli as I refer to anything larger than a 2 bed,drawing/dining, attached bath, with its own servant quarter,

or as the Bangalis call it a zamindarbari

...was winding and crossed many a rickety bridge. The Toddler and I sang There Was a Crooked Man (and I added "Arhaan, this means he was a crooked contractor and bungled all the funds" ...yes why get into Kyphosis of Notre Dame with a 2 year old) and we deliberated on the crooked miles and the crooked stiles and fences, and saw all the crooked animals scurrying off in the distance.

And I wondered about the mysterious Baliati Palace I had only seen pictures of in a Facebook album (yeah! stalkers are us) and how no one I knew in Dhaka took an interest in it. And how you too dear reader might have opened up another tab in your window browser to google some information about it!

I got some of my answers to these questions when we turned around the corner and I gawked Khudaya!

as I saw this in the distance.

Even as the driver exclaimed. "Papayas such beautiful papayas and so cheap".

Beauty does lie in the eye of the beholder.

You also have to have a well fed stomach to admire it.

We neared. The buildings were enclosed in a compound with stone lions at each of the gates.

Shera Ki Aamad! The Lion Enters

We paid up for what the Bengalis call Jadoo Ghar (read museum)--albeit only two rooms of the 200 plus are open to public, inside you will see various items of "household use". Hurricane lanterns, safes oh so many safes, cattles (sic they were kettles) , a teak commode, really beautiful wall mirrors in a room where the wallpaper was still intact, a pair of marble Nandi, impressive chandeliers. A bed and a rifle stand. Basic what they could "salvage from the looters" stuff.

However the true beauty was that of the buildings themselves. Pieces of furniture are only the accessories of our life.

And how handsome were these buildings.

19th century.

So they may have seen three violent partitions.

1905

1947

1971

I wonder what they made of us. Driver ji looking over his shoulder at the papaya stand.

The Toddler running from one mansion to another.

Gman thinking to himself Bilkul Calcutta (his barometer of all things sophisticated)

And hum? Dear Reader.

I was ..unlikely behavior..for a motor mouth like me. Stupefied.

Oh if these trees could talk

So once upon a time there was a very rich salt merchant. Who turned zamindar courtesy Taj-e-Bartania. He had four sons. Hence four mansions. Over time he found more money. Also wives. And sons. Leading to seven houses for seven sons. Of those these four survive.

These two on the far right

Repeat to Self. Its Only Bricks In the end Its Only Bricks .

And these two to the far left.

Mera Wala Salmon Pink no White No Pink

The problematic (for me at least) white paint for the two buildings in the middle are courtesy a "renovation" project when they did get some funds. The renovation work has been long abandoned due to lack of funds, but the grounds were well maintained. There were rose bushes planted in front of the mansion, and the grass in the back of the buildings well trimmed. There was a ghat, that looked clean, the steps free of moss. Look at me pretending to be a property agent now.

The buildings in the back however were in a pretty decrepit condition. And not just because of neglect and ravages of time. Two had been put to fire by a "crazed woman" as the guard put it. I suspect it were the squatters . For once the families that had lived there had moved away (I assume they moved away. I hope they moved away and didnt face any act of violence) the mansions saw a generation of squatters. In one case the area school master. They were driven away some time in Gen Ershad's regime, and the Archaeology Department took over. Perhaps in a "dog in the manger" fit of pique the squatters put the building alight? Or was it looters in the 1940s. Or a disgruntled senior wife before that? Who knows. For other than the board put up at the entrance which spoke of a Shaha family, and how one member of the family, Sri Kishori Lal Saha (Roy Choudhury) , went on to contribute funds to set up Jagganath College and later Jagganath Hall in Dhaka University; there were no other details. Roy Chodhury was a familiar name for us, as his statue is a familiar sight every Durga Puja at Jagganath Hall .

Here is a pic.

Statue of Roy Choudhury--benefactor Jagganath Hall.

But coming back to Baliati Palace.

Was it Manderley's Mrs D? Jane Eyre's Mrs R? You Decide

And this

Cue In Andheri Raato Mai. Flickering Lamp Optional

And this

I forget whether these were stables. Or guest houses. Or both. Yes we all have those kinds of guests.

and how could I forget that the Seven Houses for Seven Brothers came with an attached pool. Zenana bathing house, changing rooms ka alag intezam

And there were rows upon rows of doors. And The Toddler and me launched into a door knock campaign.

A well with steps going in. And though Gman screamed I Can Spot Water. I refused to near it. And looked at this instead.

Walking out towards the four in the front, I took a look at the scrolls and realized at times it is not just the devil in the details. there are some satanic cherubs as well.

Too lazy to zoom in. OK.Here you are.

Say it with me. Mummmmmmyyy

Though friends quizzed me. Was the place haunted? I would say no. Arhaan gamboled happily through it, so it seemed whatever that may have been evil was exorcised in the fire, baptized over the floods of history. It did leave me with a hundred possible stories.

Should I mourn the owners' loss? For what if it was a crooked sixpence (and some more) he may or may not have found on a stile that funded the palace?

How much money can you make in salt? As much as say if your father owned Bambino Cinema Was this the 19th century equivalent of Rockwood/Surrey Mansion?

But I am going off on a tangent which I am also wont to do.

Oh dear me.

It could be that the zamindar was not an evil man. He had a kind and gracious family, and when they moved on, the Lady of the Manor tied up a handful of earth in the pallu of her sari and whispered in the winds. This and my memories of the years here, this is all I take with me wherever I go.

And the brothers four threw open the doors to their mansions. Had an Open House and all their friends and foes danced the night away. That they later unlocked their garages, their wardrobes, and people trooped in and took away all that they wanted.

But it is also possible that they were horrible people and that when their cars turned around the corner, and the dust died down, the villagers whooped in joy, dancing the evening away, finally collapsed to the floor in mirth setting up camp in the corridors.

But there is something so dignified.

And stately

And calm about these buildings

That I cannot imagine that the muddied fingers of violence, of envy ever clawed over it.

Do you?

So many stories remain untold. Maybe one day we will know what happened next to all who were associated with this palace at one time.

But for now I am a bit kinder towards all who do try telling me tales of rooms they struggle to summon in their dreams. Gman for one has promised to listen more carefully to his grand aunts Perchance they were right, perhaps grandfather did abandon many riches. And I dont think we will be making snide remarks about pudeene ke bagh, orchards of mint any more.

Forgive me all.

Ek baar se Dil Nahi Bharta. Just appreciate how the buildings are lit up by the strange 5pm sun

The next morning we woke up in the community farm/conference centre in Manekgunj. And I exchanged one Social Commentary Of Our Times for another.

Walking with Arhaan , I realised how all my cultural references, my Love For the Countryside comes from Blyton. So if I were to see this,

I would think of the cool dairy where Sheila from Willow Farm lent a hand to her mother and their help in setting cream and butter; and where they left the milk to cool down. This building by the way is an apiculture lab.

And I think of Rory and Benjy and threshing grains at Cherry Tree.

But at least I can assure myself it will not just be Tammylan that will teach Arhaan to have a love for nature.

On our morning walks we witnessed many a kingfisher. They refused to pose as they complained how the government never offered them any handouts.

The Kind of Pictures You Take Just Because You Have a Swanky Camera Now! Exhibit A

The Kind of Pictures YouTake Because You Have a Swanky Camera Now! Exhibit B

And later as we went to our room and Arhaan scanned through channels, and stopped playing with the remote enough to hear this song play.

I cried.
And I dont know whether it was Ashura and my moral quandary about The Toddler listening to music that saddened me (For I have always loved Golmal and this song in particular)
Or were they tears of joy at all the blessings I have? For some the year draws to an end, for us it has just begun and it is my annual stock taking time. But whatever it is. I know time is passing me by, even as it all just begins for Arhaan. May it be a beautiful journey for him too. For I have had a ball.

And just then The Toddler piped"Such a nice country this is Mama?"

I didnt have the heart to say Countryside kiddo Countryside.

Oh let him live in this "country of his mind" for as long as he can. Such a nice country it is to be.

Hai Jazba Junoon To Himmat Na Haar Justajoo Jo Karey Woh Chuay Asmaan Mehnat Apni Ho Gi Pehchan Kabhi Na Bhoolo

2011-11-25T15:03:00.001-08:00

There was a bake sale today. Rather a Meena Bazar, and amongst the rows upon rows of stalls offering me things that I ABSOLUTELY do not need, but oh look so pretty lined up like that, was one selling me my double chin and that third tyre around my waist. As the cashier added up my purchase, one of the bazaar organizers came up to me with a clipboard, asking me with a smile to choose from a list of charities ,one, where they could send the proceeds of my sale to. I chose a charity that benefited prison inmates. Kindred souls we.

Yup, all things said, a mother's "I am in it for the long haul" love considered, and the memory of some good days, it all does come down to sitting on the prayer mat, "lengthening your prayers" so to avoid being the one putting the toddler to bed. I had shared elsewhere how my prayer mat is the last bastion of retaining some sanity in this crazy adventure that is motherhood. Bathrooms are no longer sacred retreats where one can catch up on some reading on a smart phone, for toddlers have mastered the fine art of banging on the door whilst they work on the lock. So yes the prayer mat it is. I have no idea whether this disclosure was helpful for any of the parents out there but it did introduce me to a lovely woman who manages the work from home, mom to two, thinking person hats quite well. She describes herself as someone who

is clumsily juggling marriage, motherhood, moving, and editorship of a magazine. Fortunately, she is able to see the humour in this.

Oh yes she does, and you too will be able to read up on how she does this if you were to click on

The Aafster Life

or cut/paste this in your browser window

http://www.aafsterlife.blogspot.com/

and if you are REALLY short of time and cannot read all of the entries (though you must, you must)

just visit

http://aafsterlife.blogspot.com/2011/06/love-in-time-of-heat-stroke.html

http://aafsterlife.blogspot.com/2011/02/mothers-are-not-for-kids.html

http://aafsterlife.blogspot.com/2011/04/nightmaid-on-elm-street.html and this which is so so brutally honest about the things we mothers go through , and yes it is funny, and moving at the same time

http://aafsterlife.blogspot.com/2011/09/life-less-extraordinary.html

Oh just go ahead and just read her, please.

OK , so now my Lend Me Your Ears spiel does not end here. You have to now go and vote for her. And the deadline is 1130 pm THAT IS HALF PAST ELEVEN IN THE NIGHT(Pakistan Time) November 28th THIS YEAR. And you ask me haw hai what craziness is this, we have not even heard what she is planning to do about the environment and here you are asking us to vote for her. Oh stop with that already. We have voted along caste lines, biradari, because we loved the candidate's father so, for the way a particular candidate looks,or to defy the current incumbent, or just because DADDY/MOMMY/HUSBAND/THE VILLAGE CHIEF told us to,
so for just this once go ahead and click on the fifth star at

http://pakistanblogawards.com/2011/11/18/best-diarist-afia-aslam-2/

and it does not matter if you are not from Pakistan or have a grandmother who lived there at one time. Many, many Pakistanis with Green Cards and some with American passports end up in the Cabinet every now and then. We are all inclusive this way. So vote will ya?

I could at this stage include some testimonials like how waiters from her local bistro love her for always tipping way way above the recommended ten percent, and how she was a conscientious little soul right from Grade 2. (Her art teacher tells us how she always colored between the lines and washed her brushes right after paint projects)

But I would rather just remind you of how incredibly easy it is to participate in this election. Just point the cursor to this link and click. Many of us would like to vote come election time, but fifteen hours into queuing up for voter's registration or the 39th time the guy at the counter asks us to Now SIGN THIS FORM IN TRIPLICATE AND WE WOULD LIKE TO SEE YOUR GRANDFATHER's DENTAL RECORDS AGAIN, we just give up. And you are left with that ache in your heart, for you too dream wistfully of the day when you could turn around and tell someone I Voted And I Felt Soo Good. And the euphoria, the euphoria, when your candidate wins. Oh man, oh man.

And trust me, can it ever get simpler than this? No moral dilemma as you ready to cast your vote, no one will ask you to take an oath on how you consider a certain sect non-Muslim. You do not have to bite your nails down worrying, OK so I voted for her/him but what if s/he decides to send more troops to Afghanistan. How does s/he look in a suit. The candidate's stand on Birkins. Whether the candidate's educational degrees are for real? Or whether their foreign policy experience is based on being able to view GHQ from their window. Or that they were plucky enough to take the winning last wicket some time.

I ask you now to take a look at her Display Pic. Mashallah, what a beautiful set of teeth. Does it seem that the candidate will use state funds to pay for her gutka/pan habit. And she is a mother, a mother, even Bhutto had to give up on her Amazon daughter avatar and it was only as a mother that she finally achieved political success. So there you are:

Go ahead.

Vote for her at http://pakistanblogawards.com/2011/11/18/best-diarist-afia-aslam-2/

I think there is a Facebook page too, but as I promised I did not want this to be a stressful voting exercise for you involving logging in and looking up a page. (However, if you do yeah you)

Now hurry along,

Yes You

Go Go Go

Dil Bole Boom Boom

2011-11-20T18:54:00.001-08:00

If this was 1990 and we were in Rawalpindi I would have torn a page from my notebook and tried in my best penmanship to write a list of songs;
I would have called for truce and let the Great Sister Wars be for a while, just so that the combined force of us two could have begged,borrowed, stolen to get to Radio City in Islamabad and asked for a Mixed Tape.
And we could have called it something like Lala Nothing Gonna Change My Love For U-1990.
And everyone in school would have run copies of it.

It is 2011.

And I have not slept all night.

And someone once said right after the World Cup, a couple of months ago, that great moments like this should inspire great art, great writing; and I want to. But as I said I have not slept all night, Gman is away, I live in a country where they have not declared a school holiday even after all that you did, you beauty you, and I have to get busy with the business of mommyhood.

So for now, all I can do is trawl youtube, and dedicate this to you, as homage.

We start with this cira 2am Dhaka time:

And for all of you who do not understand the Hindi, (thought they were all singing in Urdu back then, oh well!) I suggest this which was released at the same time give or take a year or two.

Oh yes I could have. Danced. All night.

For My Heart Went as Nazia Hassan so eloquently put it, and you breathed the life into her words, Boom Boom.

I too can wear pigtails.

For Lala you melt our hardened hearts. We laugh as we have not in many days, and as we wake up to another morning, for a couple of hours we can forget out pain. I pray fervently that out there where the madness rules others too find the fire, the inspiration, to face another day.
There is a spring in my step.
And this one goes out to you.

Lest you all think I am Lala Fan Girl Numero Uno, well sadly Tazeen and this post beat me to it earlier this year. hurry out and read it, for many a time I see myself as Sir Syed going up to that Big Farm up there and declaring I bring for You, Mussadas-e-Hali-Version 2011

Naam gum jaayega chehra ye badal jaayega Meri aawaaz hi pehchaan hai gar yaad rahe

2011-11-14T00:46:00.001-08:00

Inspiration. Tribute. Imitation. Plagiarism. In a world where nothing comes in water tight compartments; there has never been any confusion, there are no grey areas, while looking at "borrowed" work. We all know instinctively under which of these four categories it may fall.

I am a strange person and I grew up amongst stranger people. So I have known people who have taken affront when someone in the village named their baby after them/their child/their husband "and they did not even take permission, imagine!" . I have also known people who named their child after a snooty relative' "just to spite them" and given them the same nickname as well "you think you are so superior with your fancy name huh, there you go". And then there are friends who will call you up and tell you they love your nephew so much. Could they name their new baby after him? How we hope he grows up to be just like him. Yes, not so strange actually. But that is the way we are. Where nothing is personal, or perhaps everything is. And so in our everyday life we walk the continuum of inspiration. Tribute. Slipping into the dangerous territory of imitation. But what pushes us to plagiarize?

We borrow life experiences. But at what stage do they stop being "tales of caution" (remember what happened to X?) or "motivation" (if she can, surely I could stop procrastinating and move my butt?!) and move on to the "copy/cut/paste someone else's life experiences, their life choices" stage? (I have had one frenemy narrating my zany childhood tales as her own) It angered me, not just because it robbed me of my interesting dinner time anecdote, but as my eccentricity is all I have.

Words are all that writers like Parul have.

Yes, unke paas bungla hai, gaadi hai, maa hai, bacha and piyar hai. But in the end it is her words that stay with us. What does one do when someone shares their lives with us in such a non-ansgty way. You could be inspired to, as Oprah keeps on telling us "to live your best life ever", in honour of their approach towards life. I do not want this post to become a gush-fest, but dosti ki hai nibhani tou hogi, Parul has taught me to stop worrying and start living. Just as Kiran and Jammie have about creating a happy bubble and multi-tasking through motherhood. MayG , Trish, The MadMomma and Mona do, being as they are part of my Incredible League of Mommyhood. (And I stop here, not because I love you, you or you in the back row any less, but I can hear the music now).

However

there is one thing about channeling them in your every day (or marvel how they are living your lives, and here I explore all the Lost and Found in A Fair Ground theories, Lady K this one is for you) and hope to face life as they do, but there is another thing when we start treading into dangerous "Single White Female" stalker-girl territory. What do you do when you start reaching into someone's life, borrowing their experiences, chiseling them a bit and constructing the edifice of yours? When you reach into someone's change purse and tell yourself Oh Well She is a Rich One, All Those Adventures, It is Not As If I Borrow Some Of Her Days and She Will Miss Them. What does one do about this, hmm?

and then you progress into passing off their life stories as yours. And commerce replaces just looking for platitudes?

And here I broach my Anu Malik vs Nadeem Shravan theory. Both copy. In fact you will not be remiss if you thought their full names were Shree Copy Cat Anu Malik. or Messrs Nadeem Shravan Plagiarizer. But there is a difference in my derision. Anu Malik I fob off with a, ah he has talent, but so lazy yara, why does he have to copy when he can come up with a decent tune. He claims "inspiration" and I grunt a little. But the duo Nadeem Shravan, now why do I resent them so? Yes, they were smarmy. And they wore awful clothes. But I hated them with a passion, for they robbed me of feeling good about my place in the world when there was so little already to be proud of. In their case there was no evidence of any original thought. They based their whole film career plagiarizing Pakistani music.. the 90s were a tough decade for me...I could not email Philips Top Ten every week or all the other chart shows STOP PLAYING THIS SONG AND/OR ATTRIBUTE OUR GUYS. Forget about "inspiration" and "art knowing no boundary" " great minds think alike" ..for in this case it also comes down to money. What I referred to earlier as the commerce of inspiration. Of picking up royalties. While the original artist may live in penury. I could not ask the young lad whistling the tune in Bombay " this is Mehdi Hasan you are singing bro". Or send links to Pakistani film tracks (Youtube why couldnt you come a decade earlier?). There is one thing of calling yourself Bjorn Again. But another thing of umm, we all have these cool hair cuts, wear play suits , have you heard our new pop number "Oh Mamma! Oh Mamma! Oh Mamaa-me-meow-mia!"

So for most of the 90s and some of the Noughties I could only rant and rave and channel

Dard-i-dil likhoon kab tak, jaon un ko dikhlaon/ Unglian figar apni, khama khoonchakan apna

When do I stop writing of the pain that wrenches my heart? Should I show my Beloved these bruised fingers of mine – the writing-reed that drips of my blood?”

But I have a blog now.

So when I see people borrowing, and I can see now profiting, from "channeling" "copying" "being inspired" "imitating" a dear friend's life, I stick my head out. I risk being called The One Who Loves To Stir Trouble and invite all the trolls. Again dosti ki hai nibhani tou hogi. I have a memory that freaks people out. I remember phrases. I remember how they made me feel. And I can pick them out when I see them again even if it has been a couple of years.

Which brings me to you. How I could I forget you, for it was you who inspired me to write this. And this is but a tribute to your craftiness.

It remains to be seen whether you are a Nadeem-Shravan or an Anu.

But for now I suggest

Plagiarizer.

Try it on for size.

If the cap fits and all that.

aao bachcho aaj tumhen ek kahaani sunaata hoon main sher ki kahaani sunoge ? hmm ?

2011-10-31T02:03:00.000-07:00

Seriously if one has to make an entry into a city it has to be like this tan-tana..otherwise just have a skype conference .

Sadly it was a regular airplane for us. Guten Tag Berlin! Khemcho?Majama? (See what I just did, eh eh. You should have seen some of the posters for the Berlin state elections and it would have all been very very clear)

Berlin was work for Baba Bear.

And Gartens, Tier and Zoologischer for the Mutter und Kinder.

Also friends from school and from my foray into the twitter world. You know the other day, Arhaan told me how he now has a friend in school , adding Emil Is Good Boy I Like Emil I asked him how? Also why? (as in what is the good boy code of conduct for the 33 month old nowadays?) And he replied Emil Wear Arhaan Tshirt. Yes, its a simple life. You turn up wearing the same Tshirt and you end up Best Friends Forever. Do it now and the fashion police will brand you for life. Tar and feathers optional.

I must say even though I play the Blow Hot Blow Cold game with Social Media, the blog world and twitter have introduced me to Friends Who Are Just Right (as Goldilocks would put it, considering I am way past the age of You Like Amitabh? I Like Amitabh? We Are Now Baaast Friends...albeit it is a combined love hate relationship with Amitabh that is responsible for many a new friend recently)

anyways this was Berlin and I met up with @wastrelette. Excellent upma maker, eclectic reading list, and ever so patient with tantrummy toddlers. Whats Not to Like, I say?

She trotted along for a long, long walk through the Tiergarten (where the Toddler dozed off and opened his eyes only to spot a children's playing area, silently registered it and pestered me for the coming week to take him there). She treated me to an excellent home made breakfast one rainy day and stood patiently in the pouring rain whilst the Toddler painted his face so

And clapped enthusiastically for him as he mewed for the 300th time

And bought him donuts

So yes, the brief Tiergarten stroll led to Toddler Tantrums each morning..followed by my tearing out my hair every afternoon. The park is 210 hectares. Cue in:

Jaane jaan dhoondti phir rahi
Hoon tumhe raat din main yahan se vahan
Mujhko aawaaz do, chup gaye ho sanam
Tum kahan

The Berlin Wall was put up, fell down. Playing Area not to be found. We passed by Goethe who looked like a pompous principal whilst mums and assorted children waited for school admissions.

Beethoven and other qawwal.

Statues for the Prussian Queen Luise and Fredrick William III. They like Woody Allen and Mia Farrow preferred waving to each other from across the park.

And Fredrick DID look a lot like Nehru. *whistles casually. Will refrain on commenting on the relationships of the Powerful*

And so we wandered some more. And when I thought I couldnt walk any more, the park appeared right around the bend.

I have to commend the Germans for some sturdy play structures for children rather than investing in only the plastic.

So we had this:

And this:

as options.

Yup endurance and skills training was all on offer for us.

We repeated Hunt Down the Playing Area game every day for the following week. Yes, you heard me right. every day. And in such cheerful surroundings I must add. The area has been hunting grounds, site of political murders, housed war memorials, people being shot down escaping East Berlin, murders. Mysterious old people walking into the distance.

Fishing this out of The Toddler's pockets every afternoon, as he foraged for them like a little squirrel.

I had to temporarily suspend hostilities with zoos , just so we could go to the Berlin Zoo. Where the sun was out (unlike last time) and the dad was Arhaan's enthusiastic co-conspirator hence a lot of giggling over hippos blowing bubbles out of their butt in the water.

The Toddler complains about the subliminal imagery "Beta, no more pampers OK"

There was a panda who mumbled This Must Be The First Time You Took So Much Interest in Something Made In China. Be less Kindness Impaired Towards that Electronic Product Too OK.

Such a Shaddup call to the poor animals I say! "Dont like your dinner tonight eh? Well the LA Zoo is Thataway. Wahi ja kar chicken tangri kha"

The Toddler assured each fish about his undying devotion. I Love You and You and You , mwwaaahhh. Fish Are Friends Not Food.

The Penguins Were Very Camera Friendly and Willingly Lined Up For Group Shots

A Fish That Walks. Oh Yes!

A Shark That Reminded Me "Madam,! Haathi Ke Daanth, Dikhaney Ke Aur Khaaney Ke Aur but for us What You See Is What You Get in your thigh, chomp! chomp!"

In a parallel universe Garnier would have kept me as their spokesperson. Maa kehti hain Oil Your Hair. But Time Kahan?

Aaj phir mooli gajar pakke hain, psst do you have a Big Mac on you?

The Paparazzi Are Out Again Honey, No More PDA

...however, thinking up of cute captions for the photographs aside, I am forced to suppress the depression that walking through the zoos and looking at the photographs brings up every time. Yes, it is educational for children and will make them think twice before ordering sharkfin soup and how asking for palm oil means Bye Bye to another orangutan. However, at this stage zoos classify as one more feature of the Gabbar-Basanti school of feeding the toddler. The moment you stop eating this paratha, that there otter stops popping his head out. So I dont know if my son is learning anything about the animal world, other than that it is around for the express purpose of helping him with his lunch.

Baji ji, our bus is here. Tell your munna to finish that paratha quick.

I try to file my thoughts under the Aneela, you think too much subheading, and store them far far away in the recesses of my mind (we are so emotionally healthy you know).

But I look at them and try not to think of that one year during my Phd years when I volunteered at the Villawood detention centre. And those eyes. Every weekend. Weary, Turning Away; many. Eager, running to me; some. The old and the resigned. The curious, and the young. And ever summoning up some dignity as they raised their head.

I started out quoting Mr Natwarlal, and Mr Bachchan humming that catchy ditty. So it is best that I end with him as well.

So an eager young child asks the Angry Young Man.

phir kyaa huaa?

Khudaa ki qasam maza aa gaya
mujhe maar kar besaram kha gayaa

khaa gayaa ?
lekin aap to zindaa hain

arre ye jeenaa bhi koi jeena hai, Lalloo ?

haan ?

What Happened Next?

Oh I can swear

By all things Holy

It Had Been A Fun Fun Journey.

He Gobbled Me Up Though.

That Shameless, Shameless Creature You Know

Gobbled You Up?

But You Are Alive?

How Ever Did You Get Up?

Im Alive You Say?
Hmm OK

But A Life Worth Living

Nay
Nay

Arre ye jeenaa bhi koi jeena hai, Lalloo ?

Mera Piya Ghar Aaya

2011-10-26T22:28:00.000-07:00

It is Diwali evening for Dhaka. The father too has returned from his travels. So we light up our house.

The Toddler has very specific instructions on how he wants it to be done up

I am not very fond of this "office issue" table so have slipped his art work under the glass , making them appear as place mats. They brighten up the room and go pretty well with our mix of Colombo and Jaipur pottery

The silver tray is a gift from a cousin with a heart of gold

And a terracotta menagerie looks out at the Dhaka traffic

Our band baja sideboard

Quite a interesting profile no?

All the "family silver" has been commissioned.

The Toddler has been wishing us Happy Chocolate Day all week. Thank you Cadbury! (He insists it was the school) ; but as I cursed imperialism of a new kind while I untangled the knots of evenings long ago, I dwelt for a while on the new twists in our tale. And you think of history, yours and mine and our journey. And King George V murmurs from the bronze and nickel

Tum aao gulshan-e-Lahore se chaman bardosh, Hum aayen subh-e-Banaras ki roshnee le kar Aur iske baad yeh poochein ki kaun dushman hai?

NIGHT IN LONDON zulfo ki kahaani hai jannat ki nishaani hai naghmo ki javaani hai dilaqash hai suhaani hai NIGHT IN LONDON

2011-10-24T21:01:00.000-07:00

And onwards ho! to London. A London of balmy evenings and crisp crisp mornings (yup, their national preoccupation regarding weather is tres infectious). It has taken me a while to get to this city, but as they say of all good things in life, they come to those who wait. In my case it meant being of an age when Madam Tussaud's does not appeal to me any more and The Toddler has no idea (thus saving serious money) and the museums are free to access courtesy the British Lotteries hand outs; of course there are some who will debate this decision for they believe this leaves museums cash strapped to buy new acquisitions , dependant on governments for hand outs; and cursing the Cabinet as Philistines when they dont comply. But I let those voices stay in my head, and put my best foot forward as I entered the galleries. The Toddler could pop in and out and in again at the Natural History Museum, and played to his heart content at the dinosaur exhibits. Which also means that he dozes off as you roam around the National Gallery to your heart's content!

So yes, our London Nights London Dreams concentrated on soaking in as much as we could of museums and the parks, considering the city was experiencing glorious weather...sorryy...no more about the glorious glorious weather. I tick marked most of my "London Bucket List" and did catch up with the charming BroomBox who assures me that my "character is ek dum theek". The Toddler got an A grade Goody Bag, and since then seems to be encouraging his mum to blog more often if it means such nice perks for him.

We did pop in and out of one H (Harrods) gave the other H a miss (Hamleys) and paid our respects (and pounds) to the third (Hatchards). Now official choice of not only the HR and HMs but also The Toddler

I hope they got my books right?

Sadly as a tourist, and one who has a Toddler as a plus one you experience Rahul Raichand Ka London and not Rikky Thukral's which might have been a much more fascinating insight.

So ready for a pictorial journey through the city?

The top deck of the regular red bus is full paisa vasool to while away an hour

I love how the new melts into the old

If you listen real carefully you can hear him say "Frankly Madam, I dont deal in laungs and I dont know where it went gawacha"

One morning we went walking into the Kensington Gardens and came across the Diana Memorial Fountain, which for me is nothing more than water swirling around on chips ka floor. Despite all the the signs asking us to keep out of the water, little kids were splashing about in it. Cue in little voices in my head about Behti Ganga and Haath Dhona that I had to suppress. But then again for Diana-worshipers like us; refined, restrained good taste just does not cut it, does it? Nothing short of commissioning a strapping Punjaban beating her chest "Maar Ditta Miri Diana Nu" indulging in a good old fashioned Veyn can work for us as a memorial (Mondays off)

Empire. Sun Setting. Britannia. Lion. Symbol. Geddit?

The Tate Modern has an excellent section for families, one caregiver can amuse kids there, the other can pop in and out of exhibits, and in the end you can all do it together. The Toddler can now tell his Picasso from his Monets alhamdolillah. I asked So do you want to draw like Picasso, and he yawned No , Just Like Arhaan actually. Khudi Ko Kar Itna Buland and All That

We took him to the Natural History Museum and he learned a thing or two from the Wild Ones and improvised some more

Im Young And Wild. Hear Me Roaarrrr

Sir, I got that right? Right?

Once More With Feeling

************************

Walking out of the Museum we crossed over to Kensington Gardens and saw the Albert Memorial ,

the statue of the consort is surrounded by sculptures celebrating Victorian arts and industry as as well as the continents that fell under their domain (refer back to sun never setting on British Empire); there is one each for Asia, Europe, Africa and The Americas. Asia is represented by the Mohe Panghat Pe Nandilal pose

The Queen was in residence the day we walked across The Green Park and looked across to Buckingham Palace, the Royal Standard was flying and all that; but with the Barbarian at the Gate, I dont think she was inclined to step out

I came to London to see the Queen.

I understand that Nelson's navy was notorious for suffering from scurvy and syphilis, but to put him on a column so high? The man promises to take his antibiotics

Harley Street. Me. Tribute to the Wonder Years. And I can count on my fingers the number of people who will get misty eyed at this.

Seriously. How many of you now REALLY want to get a lion as a pet and walk around the neighbourhood with it? Serious tashan

Toodle-Ooh then, until next time!

Dekhi hai saari duniya, Japan se leke Russia Australia se leke AmericaDekha hai pyaar ka sapna, dil chaahe koi apna Mil jaaye gar eksaathiya, ek desiya

2011-10-19T03:36:00.001-07:00

So you all know I have travelled a fair bit
And spent some time in the diverse communities that make up South Asia
So what is it, some of you ask me, that binds us all?
And What Is Different ?

I could tell you that in Pakistan most love stories end with a do gooder beating you up. Ranting and raving as he does of Allah ka Azaab

In Bangladesh the end of the affair coincides with Tees Taka ka Tezaab

And where the Wild Women Live, you know they who were crazy enough to organize the Violence Against Women Awareness Month ( Read more at this site ! )?
Well they have to listen to
“Shudra dhol pashu nari ye hai sub tadan ke adhikari ( Shudras, drums, animals and women deserve beating)”
-Ram Charita Manas

Manu My Man! Thankyou for telling me that deep down--diversities be damned-- we are living in a small world after all

Kiya Baat Kahi

Yup, Love Shuv Ka The End

zubaan-e-yaar-man turki, ho man turki nami daanam nami daanam, namidaanam, nami daanam oy

2011-10-10T04:08:00.000-07:00

teri talaash mujh ko laayee kahaaN kahaaN se
sun le meraa fasaanaa ab to meri zubaaN se
main ne vahin vahin par sajde kiye hain tujhko
zulfoN ko tu uDaati guzri jahaaN jahaaN se

iraan ham ne dekhaa, dekhaa hai cheen ham ne
lekin kahin na dekhaa tujh saa haseen ham ne
koi bhi jab na payaa tere muqable kaa
awaaz tujh ko di hai o naazneen ham ne
o yaar zulfoN vaale dildaar zulfoN vaale

zulfon ne mujhko mara

zubaan-e-yaar-man turki, ho man turki nami daanam nami daanam, nami daanam, nami daanam oy

Yes that has been Istanbul and me for a while (thankyou Rafi, Asha and this incredible song from Ek Musafir Ek Hasina for providing me with the soundtrack to my Turki sojourn)

So what do I tell you about a city with winding alleys, an incredible skyline where azure slips into sienna melting into the red of bricks playing with the lapis of the water, and where history stands a sentinel to the Bosporus and Marmara Sea?

I had words so many words teeming in my mind as I wandered the streets but now that I look back, I am but dumbstruck by the beauty of those days, was that a dream? When can I go back again? My mother had once declared that when she grows old (real old she clarified, compared to Im guessing getting older that we all are) all she wants to do is live near Rumi's shrine and knit her years away, (yes knit, so I can conclude even in old age sharafat ka daaman nahi chorhengey, and we will not do something as bohemian as dance or whirl tauba tauba) and I had retorted that the Toddler (and his mum) are needing a winter coat tau bibi knit hi karna hai tau **cough** cough** we could arrange for that to be done without anyone getting on a flight.

But I understand now the intoxication that is Turkey, and can perfectly understand people who abandon their families and this world, to take to the robes and prayer beads (and knitting needles for some) in a corner of a shrine.

Or drink coffee and Turkish halwa in a cafe all your life if you choose the Turkish Escape Fun Package Experience. Yes, something tells me I am signing up for that. I hear the Turkish also have a booming Turkish wine l industry so you can also make your coffee Irish err Turkish. OK so product endorsement done with, what is there for those of you who want to get drunk on the visual beauty of the country. Exhibit A:

And as we walk in the Old City we pass a building that after its many incarnations is now a "technical school" overlooking a vista like this, that encouraged Gman into telling the Toddler Building ko gira ke 5 star hotel bana deyna chahiye, I hurry them both out.

There is a millennia of history on every corner, remnants of the Greek, the Roman, the Islamic civilization and when modern Europe met Asia, but then I'm sure every guide book tells you the same. It was very interesting to note a group of German tourists gathered excitedly around the German fountain, waqi me sari khudai ek taraf Wilhelm II ka gift ek taraf

Like many before us we queued in front of the Topkapi Palace in the Old City and the Dolmabahce across the bridge later. The Topkapi is a treasure trove for Islamic historias and frankly for any Muslim who isnt prone to attacking relics like the good Wahabi is. And just as I was with dinosaurs, ( I have always believed in them--they were in Jurassic Park weren't they, how can one doubt them,) it was only when I saw a dinosaur skeleton for the first time that I said to myself Woah! So there were dinosaurs! And so when I was standing in front of The Staff of Hazrat Musa for just a second I thought to myself "There is! There is!" and later I walked into the chamber holding the Sacred Relics associated with the Holy Prophet, and thought of all the people who struggle and scrimp and save so they can view them, and here I was tagging along as attachment file and feasting my eyes on all of this, well lets just say I felt incredibly, incredibly blessed and promised myself to be good from now on when it comes to Gman and not make too much fun of him, and other noble intentions of that kind.

Now the only problem with places like Topkapi, other than no photography rule in spaces where you want to declare, Ive been! Ive been ! and here is a photograph of me to prove it! is the no wheels allowed in certain display,which for us means you cannot take strollers in. So say if your child is sleeping , and if you are as all parents do, also using his stroller to lug your backpack and the odds and ends and camera bag for the day, and you want to, lets say, have your husband accompany you as you are viewing the Crown Jewels and sighing meaningfully near a display, WELL THAT AINT HAPPENING. So one member of the party has to stay outside guarding the stroller while the other pushes and shoves and stands in front of the, frankly you cant call them jewels, lets say the shining, multifaceted, glowing, bowling balls that must have been dropped by the gods on earth. And the jewellery, what jewellery! I have to tell you after this, if you were to think back of the Nizam of Hyderabad's cache or that of the Jaipur khandaan, all you can muster is something very polite like Hmmm, Nawab sahib ne beti ko alhamdolillah kafi munasib sa zevar diya tha
OR

Jodha ne bahut maqool sa set pehna tha shadi par, they arent that big in their family I hear on giving or taking
Or
that was quite an adorable bauble Victoria gave her daughter then, sniff!

Yup, the Turkish put the Jay in the Jewellery (turns green!)

The Treasury also has the bejewelled thrones, one "gifted" *cough* cough* (must do something about this throat of mine) by Nadir Shah when he was *cough cough cough* out in Delhi. And a fine Mughal throne it is, which makes one wonder about conquerors, and spoils of war, and wild wild house parties. And I wonder when the Begum walked into the room once Nadir Had Left The Building, did she sigh a little and wring her hands @#$$ sofa bhi le gaye kiya? Well that sofa and many a fine sample of jewels, gold, and precious stones are there to be seen. And once again the jewels, and the necklaces, and the ropes of pearls, and the diamond coffee cup holders, and the gold chains and the pendants the size of a new born child. So when they say the Padsha sat on the throne for a hundred years, of course he sat for a hundred years! it would take him twenty five years just to move his neck to the left with fifty kilos of jewels strung around it.

The hamam in the Dolmabahce Palace looks out to the blue sea, and there are pretty gardens, and Gman had loads of funny observations about the inside which I am now forgetting, and the Toddler was very excited about wearing plastic bags over his shoes, and we decided we should ask guests in our house to do the same too, for we love our carpets too. We had to queue up for an hour for tickets, and I wish someone appreciated the line "Hum jahan par kharey ho jatey hain line wahi se shroo hoti hai" no appreciation for the fine arts and culture I say.

Dolmabahce palace

shower caps over shoes, whats not to like?

We also took a day trip to the Prince's Islands, where the sahibzadas and nawabzadas and Second Cousin thrice removed were exiled when they became a bit unruly in olden days, and where the rich built vacation villas, and the Greeks had their monastery and Trotsky lived for a while too. And no vehicular traffic is allowed and one can pedal and take horse carriages everywhere. We did all that, and then sat in a window seat and looked out at this as we ate our lunch. So what does one have to do to be exiled here?

And the Toddler got to steer the ferry (or so he thinks) on the way back!

People had warned us that Istanbul would not be as child friendly as the rest of our holiday sites have been but as we stayed in a serviced apartment in the old part of the city, and ventured out once or twice to the cit-eh as you young folks would say, we did quite fine. And when we did , we saw this in Taksim Square, and well a cit-eh that loves its cats would do quite fine with me, thankyou.

So after travelling the Old and the Very Old, we embarked on Orhan's Istanbul. Yes, yes, the Toddler was quite excited about this bit, for he has been looking at the photographs in Pamuk's Istanbul all these months, and one day he started pointing them out as A-haan Pamuk, Brudder Pamuk, Uncle Pamuk and Aunty Pamuk. And we were all curious about his attachment to the Family Pamuk, and hoped he would meet him until I thought if we were as lucky as to run into him , it would make for a very disappointed 32 month old, for he would expect a six year old Pamuk and who pray tell me is this gentleman, he would ask? However, asking the locals for Orhan got me the kind of reactions as if I were to ask you about Chetan Bhagat (other than the Thinking Woman of course).

But I did go to Cihangir (pronounced Jehangir, oye!), and I did sit in the Savoy Patisserie on Caddesi and sipped a cup of coffee and ate an eclair or two or three, but very delicately. Exhibit B:

So one doesnt know whether to sip from this or just stare at it for a long, long time

And walked along the streets and took these pics.

Tombs in Eyup

Speaking of Pamuk, if he derides a place as " a sort of Turkish Eastern Muslim Disneyland planted on the edge of the city" well you listen to the man OK? and so our afternoon in Eyup was not that nice. Yes, there was the tomb of Hazrat Abu Ayub al-Ansari, and many other notables from the Turkish royal family and spiritual guides who are buried there but the whole place had the ambiance of being in Mall Road in Murree during the season.

And there was Hagia Sophia --which as The Toddler being all museum-ed out and in a particularly mischievous mood, thought was Mickey Mouse ClubHouse as told by his father! So while all of us oohed and aahed at the mosaics and the angels, some who had their faces sealed by certain puritans, and the giant medallions bearing the names of Allah, the Prophet, and the Caliphs and Grandsons Two (after *cough* cough* change of management) and Mary and Christ and John the Baptist and the dome and the Marble Door from when it was under Greek management, The Toddler went Oh Toodle Oh Toodle from hall to hall and I am sure all the tourists thought it was some Hellenic chant and looked respectfully)

Jesus from the Deesis mosaic

The Building now sadly dubbed as Mickey Mouse ClubHouse

Holy Mary and Child

Virgin and Child flanked by Justinian I and Constantine I

Set In Stone!

And there are remains of the basilica and urns and baths and edicts just like this which for all I know might mean Chariots Parked Here Will Be Taken Away or Yahan Par Peshaab Karna Mana Hai but it looks mighty impressive when it is written in stone, no? Hence the phrase Set In Stone duh?!!

And the Blue Mosque though from the Imitation is Best Form of Flattery school of architecture was still quite a pretty blue jewel in the Sultanahmet crown,

though it irritated me no end to see some British women posing for photographs, covering their faces with the blue stoles until only their eyes showed, while of course all us "Oppressed Oriental" women stood around besharam. I think the White Man rather than freeing us Brown Women from the tyranny of the Brown Man should just concentrate on rescuing his woman from a far greater tyranny of romanticism.

Though deriding Romantics of another kind, you still have to allow the desi in me to succumb to the romance of the minaret, the moon and the dome, sigh!

So before I sign off some parting notes! yes it was only when I arrived in Istanbul that I understood the Turkish and Persian penchant for a goblet, a platter of fruit within easy reach and reclining on a carpet spread out under a grape vine with . Hain? I would ask myself all this while, what was it with their fondness for fruit ; but after a day or two of walking around the city and building up a thirst which only a plate of cut watermelon could extinguish, yes I could now understand what they were going on about, as many a day I would gorge on just fruit and tea.

And though I have yet to experience the Turkish state of huzn (melancholy) , I can appreciate the husn beauty of the city enough to while weeks just staring into a cup of tea, a plate of peaches, that lovely bread and oh window displays after window displays of the sweets and spices.

They sell fish sandwiches off these under the Galata Bridge

P.S. And guess what did we run into in the Spice Market, yes a photograph of Ram Kapoor displayed in a shop front (though he signs his photographs as Walia)

Mere Yeh Geet Yaad Rakhna

2011-10-05T02:56:00.001-07:00

And Jammie's tag for today was

Favorite Lines From Somewhere

(Image from The Ostrich and Bohemian Facebook Page)

So I will share Rumi Jaffery's words to the wise in Har Dil Jo Piyar Kareyga

And to this I add my own line from yesterday, allow me my brief moment of self promotion please , line hi kuch aisi hai.

So Hazrat Aneela ne farmaya to all women (and men log)

who wait and watch through an iffy situation " lets wait and see how life unfolds" arey life koi Draupadi ki sari nahi ke khinchti chali jaayegi , dont wait! run!and start afresh!

Soja Mere Raj Dulare

2011-10-04T02:39:00.001-07:00

I thought I was just about done with school out for the day, motia flowers laid out in front of the air conditioner , fighting a sister and cousins to stand in front of the AC, sharp inhale as the blast from the vent strikes your face, somersaults on the carpet, a sharp rebuke from a grandparent, giggles. Waking up to the charkao as the gardener sprinkles water on the parched ground
And
It's time already
To chase a pair of brown legs
Threats of No Books
No Going On The Roof
Wrestling A Head Down On The Pillow, oh let the power not go, why don't ACs have cool air in them any more? Vent ko thoda is taraf karo
A sprawled body
Finally
Adventures into Book land
Email
Tweet
Instagram
Rinse Lather Repeat

Tag today : Something Old, Something New

Yeh Dosti Hum Nahi Todenge

2011-10-03T01:23:00.000-07:00

You may have your life planned out, but life as they say has its own plans. I dont know what else it may teach me in the future but as of now--parenthood is to discover friendship in spaces I had never expected. Both Gman and me thought we had married a friend but discovered our best friend was yet to come. That's our Best Friend's Plan. And yours?

You let someone else be in the 'driver's seat', though it was your dream--Maa, Dhano and Baby

You may have a love-hate relationship with books, but dosti ki hai tau nibhani tau hogi

For more on this head out to Jam Designs and their prompt word today is Best Friend's Plan Ever

Arey baba shor nahi, sor.sor. Pavan kare sor. Haan

2011-10-01T22:40:00.001-07:00

So I'm back from the Istanbul, London,Berlin toor as the babu jis put it. The Toddler was quite the desi politician Abraad. Gift collection, trying to endear himself to the locals, much bad behaviour, and developing a penchant for drinking phizzyy waterrr. Trip diary and fotuus will soon be put up God in the Heavens willing and Toddler on earth cooperating.

On return to Dhaka, I have enrolled myself in Hindi classes. It could perhaps be a backlash, after a month of all things Teutonic. Or perhaps a pink cheeked Shashi Kapoor diligently memorising the Hindi alphabet in Jab Jab Phool Khiley did leave an impression on me, or perhaps I want to understand Amit ji's chautha prashan. Whatever. I signed up for a weekly Hindi class that meets while everyone else is sleeping in on a Saturday morn.
Now the good thing about joining a class a month into when it has started and which has mostly 8 year olds other than one who is err 4 and one or two other mature age students like me is that the position for the class clown, class swot, space cadet, class sage and weary old soul, and the one kid who clearly annoys everyone has already been taken so I can slink to a seat in the far end and keep quiet for the next two hours. And you really can't out funny or out smart 8 year olds, these kids are gooodd. And make me very jealous with their sharp retorts. Such good lines.
Some things don't change however, teachers still screech Class Homework Pleeezz
Kids still wonder Hain? Homework? Kab?
There will be still one kid, hand in air, Meeeesss I was not present in class last time.
Abey dont raise your hand I say that's my excuse
There will be still that intermittent squawk from the teacher "syllabus kaise khatam hoga. Oh so much syllabus pending. Dictation Dictation"

She is lovely though and clearly flustered about where she finds herself, stuck between the babu-dum of her life that brings her to Dhaka and clearly not finding an audience which might have appreciated the discourses on Hindi literature she might have expected to deliver here.
So she will correct a student "What is this? Abraham Lincoln ki ek biwi thi, hain? Logo ki dau dau biwiya hoti hai Kiya? " and then looks around confused, Toto we are not in Kansas sorry Delhi any more.

She bends over my notebook "Aur yeh jo Hindi Farsi se akshar aaye hain unko bindi laga deyte hain"
Bilkul theek Kaha . As i said sheer brilliant stuff !! So wish me luck as I encounter the ees and the ooos and to the dreaded ghuhh well my old foe, we meet again. I will be decorating the foreheads of all foreign alphabets now.

The best line of the day ( and ironically the best lie) was delivered by a dad being hassled by his son outside class " daddy daddy kal Gandhi ji ka budday hai bataye na bataye na how do we celebrate?" between punching him some more.
"Chocolate nahi khaatey beta" he says patting him on his cheek. And then thinks for a minute "And we also don't tell lies".

Happy Chocolate Dry Day to all my Gandhian readers!

khoya khoya chand khula aasman Aankhon mein saari raat jaayegi Tumko bhi kaise neend aayegi

2011-09-02T07:50:00.000-07:00

It began with the Ruet e Hilal Committee convening to sight the Ramzan moon on the eve of Rafi's death anniversary ( making me speculate whether they were humming Khoya Khoya Chand as they peered at the sky, all myopic eyes, or it could be they preferred

chaand mera dil chaandni ho tum

chaand se hai door chaandni kahaan

laut ke aana hai yahin tumko 

jaa rahe ho tum jaao meri jaan

And then Ramzan ended with the introduction of Instagram to my life. There are some in

my part of the world who live a life of diaspora and adopt "rap culture", feeling a

commonality of interest, a synergy of energy if you may say, with them. Me, I have adopted

 the "Muslim social" and embraced a very Mehboob Khan Eid, with Nasir Hussain films

providing the sound track to my month so far.

As Ramadans go this has been the most beautiful so far.

Or so I might say every year.

When it comes to spirituality I fall under the Cake khaane ke liye hum kahin bhi jaa sakte hain school of thought, eager to gather all the crumbs that fall off our "multicultural" table.

But this year has been calmer. Minus the odd rant or two. But as I was telling someone the other day, I would go to bed fuming and wake up humming Raat Gayi Baat Gayi

And The Toddler didnt get screamed at the whole month.

ahem!

Eid was lovely. Friends are the new family. There were new traditions and some old, just as the Eids of my childhood. There were the same mid-day screams of "Dont Want to Wear This" but this time around I was the furious mother chasing a child as he escaped a starched kurta. And hark! was this my tongue that uttered the Fine! So No One Goes And We Will Stay Home, See If I Care

But I did calm down by the next day (on what we call the Baasi Eid, loosely translated as

LeftOver Eid) to take these images from around our house, so from our house to yours.

      Eid ki Dilli Khushiyan Mubarak.

Infuser: Madhubhan Khushbu Deyta Hai

The ubiquitous sanskari photograph: Tasbeeh and jaanemaz courtesy M Aid. No not Muslim Aid. Mother's Aid.

and our Eid cheer includes Haathi Mera Saathi and Jal Bin Machli

Attar dan. This time courtesy Grandmother's Aid Package

Shaadi ka batwa and kangan. for the Kirron Kher Yeh lo Shagun Ka Karha moments in life

Remember when Eid meant trunk calls and not bulk emails?

A basket to hold my jazbati risaley

And we end this episode with playing some tunes

We leave this weekend for our travels to a continent far, far away. So I leave you with good wishes for the Ganesh Chatruthi fortnight. Wishing you all the gift of good books, luck, and health. And food, lots of good food!

And this is The Toddler in his Eid finery all Insta-grammed. Just for this year one will not be remiss labeling our apartment Armaan Manzil, and him Achan Mian

tu hindu banega na musalamaan banega

2011-08-24T04:45:00.000-07:00

lekin hur Janmashtami pur tayyar rahega (the 'value addition' here mine bitte, and for the non-Krishna bakhts amongst you kindly replace Janmashtami with Dussehra. For the couple on the scooter --see pic below-- also escort a mighty fine Ram come RamLila, check your supplement)

Perhaps I protesth too much. For a number of friends have assured me that they quite liked this image, for it stirred memories of the "secular India" they grew up in (I am guessing memories of the time Sunil Dutt could sing a college song in a sherwani without him balking at the producer yeh Muslim role hai kiya?) And yes there are some good minorities amongst us who realise that living in the times of the " hate stare" its mighty fine to receive bouquets rather than errr brickbats.

A plausible cause behind my ire, could be that this image comes at the tail end of August--August is a month that wearies many like me for all the exercises in nationalism. You know this is a month when you steer a group of young Pakistani Christian students into "performing" the national anthem, without acknowledging the sacrifice a member of their community made for Pakistanis every where, scratch that he was not just a Pakistani Christian, Bhatti was a brave Pakistani who was assassinated protecting our religious freedom, and a Federal Minister to boot. I find it depressing that this lack of acknowledgement came in a year when civil awards came so cheap, that the President could find it in him to gift a Sitara-Imtiaz to a news anchor who had bullied Mukhtara Mai on his talk show. It was not as they were lacking the silver. Or bronze. I havent recieved one so I will not know for sure.

And after this post it is not that I will be receiving the Indira Gandhi Award for National Integration either. Sigh!

so coming to the picture that has been appearing on Facebook walls (and receiving all those Likes and "love my india...dis click beyond explanation....happy to d core dis makes me....!! :)"

yes sometimes a picture is just a picture, and "Aneela", you may turn to me "why do you think so much" but for me this image is the Salman "secular Muslims should celebrate Ganesh Chatruthi every year" Khan of a Tebbit Test.
Or if you went to my school "why you no do extra-curricular activities, hainji". Singing, dancing, baseball, debating society, acing the Physics exam.

Let me make it very clear, at no point do I make a case of "barter body politics", that come Eid let the Other dress up in sherwanis and ghararas carrying seviyan in their hennaed hands to compensate, for seriously what is it with this preoccupation with Reading Bodies Not Hearts. Hearts which could be Dil Dil Pakistan or Phir Bhi Dil Hai Hindustani , (even though they refuse to don the costume you have chosen for then?)

It is just that lately, they have been raising the bar for Good Muslims here. So in addition to the list I once put up here,

they make sure that we know how the onus of everyone loving their India and the country remaining all inclusive lies on the "good minority",
so all this month after:

1) praying five times a day

2) fasting all day

3)paying your zakat

4) being asked to support Anna Hazare

5) getting up at dawn, preparing the morning meal

6) searching for the burkha (which is a marker of another kind, but that merits another post) and skull cap

one has to now get the kid dressed up as Lord Krishna

and get the scooter started , so you can cart his sorry ass to school in time.

Damn! the good minority's work just never gets done .

And while we are on this topic have you (where you are those who can read Urdu) read this brilliant column by Mohammad Hanif on "Jinnah aur ZulJinnah"

And well those who didnt study Urdu worry not for I will try to provide you with the gist of the column,--a column in which Hanif uses his sardonic wit to unpack Jinnah's famous "You are free; you are free to go to your temples, you are free to go to your mosques or to any other place or worship in this State of Pakistan" speech

Hanif argues that even if one were to forget that this was a policy statement for a new Pakistan rather just Jinnah's foresight, one would still marvel at the man and his vision. For who could have predicted that day in August, how one day our mosques will be spilling over with people who want to pray, so much so that many pray in the parking lots for they could not find parking, and Pakistani villages may not have basic health units or schools but they will not be lacking mosques, so eager are people to use their basic freedom to go to mosques.. and if you were not to like your local clergy , you are free to build your own mosque on the next corner and pretty soon people will be filling it up too. It is the same scenario when it comes to churches and temples with the congregation flocking there in large numbers as well. And Hanif quotes a senior Christian figure who laments Christian youth for being too preoccupied with Bible Studies and other such pursuits rather than getting a degree in "secular education". So yes even our non-Muslim friends are learning from our misguided preoccupation with all matters (seemingly ) religious.

Hanif ends his column with wishing that people had paid as much attention to the fact that a significant portion of Jinnah's August 11 speech had been devoted to warning the new Pakistanis against the perils of poverty, corruption, nepotism ! Why dont these topics "warm the cockles of our heart" and why do we only remember the bits about You Are Free To Visit Your Places Of Religious Worship ? It might have been nicer if Jinnah had said instead And if you are not inclined to go any mosque/temple/church, and would rather just sulk in front of the TV, you are Free To Pursue That As Well.

Amen. Pakistan Zindabad. And Jai Hind to all who just want to sleep in on a national holiday.

Jeena Yahan Marna Yahan, Iske Siva Jaana Kahan Ji Chahe Jab Humko Awaaz Do Hum Hain Wahin Hum Thhe Jahan

2011-08-14T13:29:00.000-07:00

In a couple of minutes the clock will strike the midnight hour and August 14 will slip into the 15th in the city where I am tonight. And I realize this year there has to be the ubiquitous Jashn-e-Azadi blog post, if for nothing else but to acknowledge that sometimes the very fantastic does not come with fireworks and Mountbatten getting into a carriage.

I guess there are only a couple of you following this blog who have figured out that I am one half of a Pakistani-Indian or rather one third of a Pakistani-Indian-Australian family living in Dhaka. And it is a sign of our times that the first question I am asked is What Happens During World Cup.

I know midnight tonight should be a celebration of being who we are and where we are. But sadly this year I cannot rustle up any excitement. I have not even recycled my standard joke about Churchill questioning giving independence to these rascals, rogues, freebooters (And this without meeting Messrs. Zardari and Kalmadi!) for a brand new audience. And I dont think I will even have the energy to stick the star and crescent and tricolour tattoo on the toddler and have him trussed up for photographs in salwar kamiz like the Aman ki Asha project people might want him to be. I know, I know, we constantly disappoint people for living our life in Times New Roman when we could be such an interesting new font.

Since we have known each other the only project the man and me have got serious about is getting fat and middle-aged ---with the years briefly interspersed with my getting angsty when days like this roll around and I pester him with So We Should Be Having The Conversation around Big Questions like borders, and statehood and Jinnah Ka Pakistan and Nehru's Tryst and Was The World Sleeping Just Then but that only reminds him he has to sleep as the toddler will be up in a couple of hours and yara sunna hai England me match tha? phir miss hogaya.

And then our being in Bangladesh just makes me more anxious for not composing a theme song tonight. Damn, what if the eyes of all of South Asia were on us just now? Pulling at my sleeve So? So? Do You Have The Words Yet? A R Rahman ko bulaye? Lets reuse the Bombay theme I say, one adds.

And there is a mother in Assam who cannot sleep, the ignominy, the ignominy. When have you heard of someone going THAT side of the river to work. These are all signs, signs, mark my word, she mutters.

It could be that I stopped engaging with words after realizing that there was little I understood of the semantics Pakistan engages in lately. They bandy about terms like Mubasher Lucman and Sitara Imtiaz and rose petals and smiling assassins and I stare. Bewildered. Even though growing up we had Gen Zia-ul-Haq teaching us the alphabet. And I look down and realize that somewhere over the years I have also lost the Look East security blanket from my Wonder (of all things Indian) Years. They tell me the past is another country and send me post cards from where they are, and I read the cards and tell myself "No, I dont think they wish I was there".

And this morning I tuned into the brand new Bournvita Quiz Contest

(for a significant part of the '80s all I wanted in my Eid stocking was to get admission in Bombay Scottish. I am sure you felt the same, so quit acting judgemental. I also wanted Remington Steele to come down and solve the Hathoda Group mystery but that is another wishlist)

and realized that the Very Hungry BookWorm has grown out of its cocoon to become a satin gowned co-host who will be teaching Derek O' B Hindi (who for some reason is wearing Aamir Liaqat Hussain's sherwanis) India is shining so I guess that translates as shiny suits for everyone, yeah!

Dhaka stayed quiet for most of the year but the other day the driver grew a bit pensive and asked me

So this Obama he is not American right,

And I say "No he is"

but clearly Driverji had been working on his piece for a while So he continues Jo bhee, he was not theirs but even then they were so eager to have him as President .But we, we were yours, why didnt you accept us?

And I ask you Dear Reader, why, why, why?

For you may know something I dont.

And I cant answer such difficult questions as I am only a poor Pathan mother running after a toddler who will only speak to me in Bengali.

For that is how most stories end.

We fight, we squabble, we kill, we argue, and at the end of the day there is a man who brings back a pot of pulao from work and a black ribbon which he has to wear all week and his wife asks him why and he says Because It is Mourning Day

(the National Mourning Month to be exact-the Awami League has decided so this year--which I understand for there was a time stores in Peshawar Hayatabad Bara market closed down for a day as "woh jo Marks Spencer nahi tha bibi wo marr gaya maskeen)

but my husband is saying"woh jo Sheikh Mujib ko tum logo ne maar diya tha" and I tell him No, Just Because A Man Has to Die Does Not Mean There Was a Pakistani Involved (secretly telling myself to google just in case I have it wrong) and I eat the rice and say a prayer.

Bangladesh-1

Pakistan, India-0

And Kashmir never made it to the table.

Baabuu Samajho Ishaare Hauran Pukaare Pam Pam Pam

2011-08-11T16:39:00.000-07:00

Remember the trip we took to Bogra-Jamuna-Somapura Mahavihara /Paharpur a couple of weeks ago? I never got around to putting up the pictures from there.

So in Jamuna other than advising the museum administration that guests at the resort should not be "given breakfast coupons until they have seen the museum" and plans to petition governments in South Asia that citizens should not be given identity cards and passports (I added ration cards too) until they have shown documentary proof that they have visited more than five museums, my mother joined us in a merry little jaunt down the River Jamuna.

Paisa vasool shot

So much colour coordination happening inside the boat. I am sure the cows were dyed to match the lifesavers too

Doobtey Suraj ke saath tasveer nahi khenchtey. 10 points if you can identify the film I borrow this line from.

From Bogra we took a day trip to the Somapura site. The campus at Paharpur dwarfed any of the other Buddhist monasteries I have seen to date. And the green, the green.

And at the base of the structure are the murals that Somapura is famous for. Such a riotous act of fun and whimsy. Leading to my mom quipping (she might share a birthday with Prince Charles--my grandfather insists even the birth hour, but her statement that morning was very Prince Philips) "Not very Buddhist are they"

Oh to be around in those times when you could put your legs behind your neck, balance them on your shoulder, even squat with no one telling you Nahi beta, tangey sambhal kar beythey hain. Cross your legs at the ankles, child.

There is a lovely sarkari rest-house at the site, I wish I had known about that earlier. A day is definitely not enough. Especially as my effort to climb up to the top were thwarted by the toddler carrying tales Look Look My Mama Climb Up Hill Agaiiiinnnnn to my mom each time.

There is also a museum. Photography not allowed. Where you will see Shiva and the rest of the pantheon carved out of black rock.

The gardens are beautiful too. And the gardener has a sense of occasion. Or humour. You decide.

And we shopped. Is par hamari walida ka ek comment peysh hai. "The never ending quest of bringing the village home and taking the city to the village". Commerce, yahi hai teri kahani.

So we got some lovely baskets which store the onions and potatoes in the store, and the toddler's toys in the room.

One of the reasons I love the place we are renting currently are the chips floor in the kitchen and the alcoves or taakh as we call them in one of the bedrooms. They had chips all over the flat when I signed the rental agreement but at some stage they removed it to place the marble, sigh!

We also bought this, it is woven from reeds again. You may use it to cover a bowl of fruit from fruit flies as I have done, or food left out saving yourself from the "waiter, there is a fly in my soup" moments. Or to protect a pot of boiling milk from a lizard falling into it--the stuff my childhood nightmares was made of. It could be an urban myth, but all little children of my generation heard of someone being poisoned by a lizard in their glass of Ovaltine. Thankfully, the toddler is growing up thinking all lizards are Rango, Rango, Rango ----which makes for a far healthier childhood I say!

And with this I bid you goodbye.

rote hue aate hain sab hasta hua jo jaayega wo muqaddar ka sikandar wo muqaddar ka sikandar jaaneman kehlayega

2011-08-06T01:13:00.000-07:00

One year on....

With apologies to the Akhtars (Javed and Farhan), Amitabh Bachchan, SRK and anyone else involved with the Don franchise:

Safwat Ghayur ko competition deyna mushkil hi nahi na-mumkin hai

Though I could have also played around with another famous dialogue from the film

Safwat Ghayur ke dushman ka sirf ek hi kasoor hai ......ki woh Safwat ka dushman hai! ...

but you get the gist.

I first encountered this gentleman as the paramapada of an elaborate game of snakes and ladders a very charming young woman outlined on the dining table for her elder sister. That the young woman went on to marry the hero of our tale is- well -another story. She is a bit vague with the details, but how fortuitous for someone who answered a "police officer" (when asked what she wanted to be when she grew up), to marry one when she ended up in medical school instead.
But going back to the enigmatic Mr Ghayur. Yes, I don’t think his fan group was remiss in placing him on a pedestal, not for him the human vices of sloth, pride, vulgarity, boorish behaviour or pettiness and laziness as someone who was born to such good fortune as him could have succumbed to—somehow this suave French speaking, globetrotting, head strong, incorruptible law enforcer reminded you of the heroes from popular cinema who would battle baddies, dodge bullets, with not a crease in their well stitched suit – and here I am leaning towards a certain Secret Service Agent and not the Jat, for our hero preferred to deliver his killer lines at a lower decibel. Interesting aside: Mr Ghayur has been to the local cinemas, well at least for one Pushto movie when he chaperoned a visiting friend. The said friend was pretty scandalized with our domestic fare and declared it made French erotica seem like a training manual by the Taleban for virtuous behaviour (or words to that effect). But I guess this excursion of his, gives us just cause to add the line “he was a patron of the local arts” to his resume, lest he sounds too pucca saheb for you.

Yes, yes nothing got to our debonair man in uniform, not battling the thugs, nor sweating out in the thanas, and the various encounters he found himself in--- or made sure that he made a detour to “find" himself in. Yes, not even the most hair raising adventure of all --that has people tearing out their hair , running out of the house in their pyjamas. Raising two under-twos!! Yup, he did that too. Unfazed, and as quite the dapper gentleman.

But the same person who introduced us to Hotel California,

played Everyone Loves Kungfu Fighting in a band in Bangkok,

had friends who set up restaurants in Islamabad THAT WERE OPEN AT 9pm (which was really cool for a city where you walked on the wild side if you spoke to someone in a different BPS grade than you),

who drove off with his new bride in a car come rukhsati time, and a very nice car I should add! ALONE! gasp!(with no sisters, cousins, and the ubiquitous five year old niece who will tug at the bride’s veil for the entire journey) in the process scandalizing all the old aunts and well the not so old amongst us as well

was also the good son who abandoned a really good first job offer (yes teaching karate is a pretty fine job) to accompany his family back to Pakistan, who might have dreamed of joining the foreign service (and would have been very good at it ) but chose instead the police so he could be around when his family needed him –and in turn took care of a family far far larger than his own. Ok, fine! maybe, we should go ahead and call him the desi hero after all!

I don’t think I am the stage in my life when I can find meaning in the things that happen to our heroes—but I do find comfort and a lot of laughter in the image of the foolish young man who goes up there believing himself to be a martyr with all the 70 houris and rivers of milk and honey it brings and encounters Safwat Ghayur instead.

Yes, perhaps there is some divine justice after all.

Aaj Purani Raho Sey Koi Mujhe Awaz Na Dey Dard Mei Dubey Geet Na De Gham Ka Sisakta Saz Na De Beete Dinon Ki Yaad Thi Jinmein Maein Woh Tarane Bhool Chuka

2011-08-01T01:24:00.000-07:00

William Dalrymple in the City of Djinns writes about meeting a Begum Hamida Sultan who lives in Shahjehanabad. Mourning a city and a language long dead, she tells us, "Partition was a total catastrophe for Delhi. Those who were left behind are in misery. Those who were uprooted are in misery. The peace of Delhi is gone. Now it is all gone." At the end of their meeting Dalrymple's wife Olivia asks Sultan whether they could see her again and if they do whether she wanted something brought over from Delhi.

The Begum replies (and quite haughtily, Dalrymple writes)
"I do not need anything. Do not come back", adding (and this is the part that resonates best with me) I just want to be forgotten.

For I have been in a Begum Hamida Sultan kind of a mood lately.

But as ever the toddler breaks my reverie piping "Why Mama angry?"
And I may try to bat his questions away with a "Ek udhra sa marsia hai jau ab thak sameyta nahi aur tum ek naya tarana cherhney ko kehtey ho? (I am yet to pen my requiem and you tease me with a ballad)
He thinks for a minute and then squats to the ground. Balling his hands into fists he pushes them down, his eyes squinting shut with the effort "Mama do like this , ummmph and poo poop comes quickly"
The boy does have his moments.

So considering I am still trying to string my words--words that keep slipping off their spool into rooms I should have long closed the door to; I choose to walk away from them for the day. The library? I think to myself as I lock the door to the house behind me.

On my way to the library I cross a man with a basket on his head in which a bouquet of hens draw themselves closer into each other in tight rosebuds. And a small boy juggles a packet of sweater sleeves which flap around him like octopus tentacles. The sleeves will probably walk off him and take a plane ride half way across the world meeting a torso here, a neckline there.

As I enter the library, the librarian wags a stern finger under my nose "Where were you?" He greets me like this every time, slightly annoyed, though he has yet to tell to me what irks him so; I find his accusations quite comforting, like there is someone in the city who is ardent that I keep to the straight and narrow. And I realise once more how I am happiest when surrounded by books, or people who live with books-- though the toddler has converted our love affair to a tricky menage trois. (If I was in Pakistan someone might have joked phir aap aur koi shauq rakhtee I should have cultivated someone, something else to amuse myself with). But if I was in Pakistan I could have introduced you to a family of sisters who are all librarians. "We call ourselves the Librarian Sisters" one of them told me. I found it as romantic as if she had just told me they were the Mitford sisters. The one I met had been eccentric enough to qualify as one. As an electrician clambered over our heads on a bookshelf, pushing books into careless piles on the floor to make room for a foothold; she whispered how she did not mind him. It were educated people like me who made her wary- we were more liable to pilfer her book collection.

On a good day I may call the Dhaka collection one that is self restrained, raised on the frugal diet of a strict school marm. There should be a sign somewhere in the library. You eat what is on the table missy, read what is on the shelf. And somehow after a long episode of word gluttony, one where I lolled around like a debauched Roman on a couch plucking words, so many words, off digital vines. But still feeling slightly bored, strangely apprehensive that I may be missing out on some exotic dish. Hollering for anything, anything now to amuse my taste buds! yes, yes perhaps a spartan diet should suit me best now. I knew how spoiled I had become the day I told the librarian that I could not find the library catalog on the computer and he looked up at me all arched eyebrows

The card catalog is in the corner madam. Author name, book name all together, in the same drawer.. Arranged by alphabet".

(The computer is for checking the internet, and you have to sign your name in the register, time logged in , time logged out). Yes a spartan diet for me, please.

And I go through the shelves. And make my selection.

He reaches for a stack of library cards in the drawer, removes the rubber band that holds them together and looks through them furtively (He still does not trust me enough to take my library card home with me! With library books yes, albeit grudgingly, but not the card. No not yet. Perhaps librarians are told to hold their books close and the library cards closer!)

"Two books only," he reminds me.

"But, but, what if they get over on the weekend?" I beseech him sliding another across the table.

"Then you come back again on Monday and issue more", picking up the first two from my pile.

What follows next is a well choreographed dance as he reaches for the library stamp kit from an alcove of file folders on the corner of his desk. Taking great care he opens the stamp pad slowly removing the plastic foil covering the ink. In his hand the stamp pirouettes briefly over the ink pad landing firmly on the checkout page at the back of the book. His hand hovers for a brief moment over the page, and then taking a final sigh , he closes the book moving it towards me. He replaces the foil on the ink pad and returns it to it's cubbyhole. Examining his fingers briefly for ink stains he reaches next for a slim register, thumbing through the pages for one that bears my name. In a cautious script he makes an entry for the books in the register placing the pages in front of me making a gesture for me to sign. I rummage in my hand bag.

"Do you have a pen" his tone accusatory again and grimacing gives me his.

And we are done.

Later I go home, and keep the books in a tray on my bedside table. The husband enters the room and sneaks off with one for a work trip. The Toddler follows and places one of his on top . Defiant. "Mama YOU READ THIS!!!"

Sigh!

And as it was Rafi's death anniversary yesterday I leave you with this beautiful lullaby and ask when did we move from this

to Adam Mansback and Go The Fuck to Sleep

Though as a friend tells me it is not that the children look a wee bit sleepy in the lullaby

Mujhe Kuch Kehna Hai

2011-07-20T21:17:00.000-07:00

Yes bahut bahut kehna hai but it has to wait as I am having the worst case of writer's block ever. Which as the Kellog's All Bran ad campaign tells us is an occupational hazard for us post-30 types. You know in addition to not smelling right,
ending up with blue dots on our sanitary napkins,
hair fall at the rate of felling in Amazon forests,
condescending friend palming you off with wrinkle creams and unsolicited advice,
being ignored by BlackBerry husband for you did not moisturize and clean behind your ears when you turned 25,
Bipasha Basu hitting us with a juice box every time we sit down for a sandwich,
realizing that the only way to ward off lecherous guys ogling down our necklines in the train is to get up and flash our extremely white underarms,
WE ARE ALSO EXTREMELY BLOCKED UP!
And that is the reason we are crabby all the time, no, no it is not because of the triple burden that is the bane of our life, it all comes down to andar ki baat .

So if I was not so blocked up (figuratively, bitte!) I could have written about our weekend trip to Paharpur or as is it's good name Somapura Mahavihara, where I tried out my new Canon D60 which is quite the super trouper. And how The Toddler begged us every night while we were at Bogra to Go Home I Dont Like This Its No Funny while I cheerfully told him This is Our Home and We Are Staying Here Forever and Ever (Women turn sadistic after 30, Kellogs did warn you!). The Toddler woke up his father to tell him Baba Your Beard Is Turning Green while I woke the man up to mumble Ah, He is Only Acting Up as There Were Two Murders In This Room and my mother told anyone who cared to listen that people should not be given breakfast coupons until they have seen the museum, so all in all we were such a delightful group of travelers.

And if I was not writer-blocked I could have told you about the time Arhaan stomped off in Bogra very angry, to encounter a toad, and screamed "I KNOW YOU" all very excited , and how we then proceeded to pluck some grass blades and tickle the toad silly.

Or that The Toddler ushered my mother into her room "Welcome, welcome" topping it up with an elaborate flourish "Enjooyyyy". I hear he has a bundle of other interesting things to say too like "Baba, Children not like milk", but considering most of our conversation has been limited to "do you want to poop?" "Pishi?" "Arhaan , chalo, its time" I would not know. In his mind his mother is interested in all things poop, so he has been very helpful in sharing with me nuggets like"Mama you know bear do poo poo in leaves IN JUNGLE"

I guess after this asking you to bear with me until my writer's block is over will be just more toilet humour, hmmm.

Yeh Duniya Agar Mil Bhi Jaaye Tau Kiya Hai

2011-07-12T13:01:00.000-07:00

The things we talk about when we are not toilet training: Funny how a singing duck in a bath tub can lead to a heated debate about color (perhaps race too, but I dont want to go down that road this early in the day) , whether fame means never holding a shade card next to your face, and why a man in a silk dressing gown can have people tied up in knots. ( Men other than Raj "Jaani" Kumar, of course).

I have learnt that although the subaltern can now speak , it still needs permission before it can reach out for a maroon dressing gown .

Of course gender complicates my hypothesis about being this fair before being seen taking a bath on TV . For Rekha and Deepika Padukone can play with the suds with no one complaining Haw Hai yeh Kiya Kalyug Agaya.

“Is he famous?” asked the man quite innocently one evening and thus opened a Pandora's Box of how white white, ghabroo jawans, can lounge around in tubs without anyone asking So What did You Do to Deserve Getting Into A Tub on Prime Time TV.Somehow gorey gorey log can take a bath anywhere, anytime without having achieved anything in their lives other than a particular shade of skin pigmentation.

And though TV time has been severely rationed for the Toddler, we did wonder whether that restricted time slot too should be restricted to NatGeo and Discovery alone. This of course brings about its own set of questions, for I know I will only have replaced one kind of skewed reality for another "not quite right" image. Rather than praying every night that he wakes up all peaches and cream so he too can appear on TV, The Toddler might grow up thinking it is only four-legged flesh eating beasts hurtling through outer space that get to be on TV.

And try as I do, to censor the language of growing up in this sad mad world of ours where he is concerned, the patios of the world outside does slip in when I am not looking -- the boy already has lapped up certain social cues as to what constitutes as "polite society" . So to my disappointment I found him screaming...but perhaps you need a background to this story first. So let me start afresh.

It was my birthday on the 4th and befitting the day the mother slipped in a Ben Franklin or two. I did know that I was going to put the money to good use shopping for metal handicrafts in a town we were planning to visit later in the week. The town is Savar--home to Dhamrai and the interesting art of carving metal figuirines through wax melting. (I am putting up some pictures of the beautiful mansion which has now been converted to a workshop cum sale centre--this is Sukanta's Dhamrai metal crafts).

Chess set, but then you guessed that. Somehow I dont blame the old gentlemen in Shatranj Ke Khiladi any more for shutting out the outside world if they had something as beautiful to work/play with

Oh the tales all these old receipts/cash memos can tell

The artisan carves into the wax sculpture, later they will cover it with clay. The mould will be put into the hearth so the wax melts and the crevices will now be filled with molted metal. Later the clay structure broken to reveal the metal sculpture. Or steps to that effect.

This particular gentleman was responsible for making all the curlicues and baubles that are attached to the larger pieces

These are the smaller figurines comfortable with their "also appearing" credit billing in the larger commissioned pieces

and my little sher flaunts manners and decides to ride the Asian tiger

Dear High Heel Confidential, Further proof that being well dressed comes with many a stress drama

So this is the beautiful Saraswati I bought with my birthday money --long term readers will know by now the significance behind this purchase. I am very fond of it and later in the evening I shared it with Arhaan hoping it was the start of a beautiful love affair for him as well, and he screams Where Tshirt? Tell her put on Tshirt.

I know it is too soon for him to reach out for the khaki shorts and gainjee but I am worried about the new moral policing in my life.

so this has been my week so far, and you?

Duniya Bananewale Kya Tere Man Mein Samaayi

2011-06-22T10:23:00.000-07:00

Seriously God, couldnt you have put some intelligent design in this whole toilet training business. If I could take a breather I could write how my Guru Dutt-esque submission earlier for the Indiblogger contest didnt past muster, living as we do in a time when Daagh Ache Hain. However not all (competitions) was lost for I did win a book here. I really want to put up my review for the Vague Woman's..but if wishes were horses, sigh! I did write a note to the author Devapriya thanking her for taking me back to Other LifeTimes when I too was a Abhi. That evening as I went through her book I thought for a long time of all the What Ifs in my life and my love affair with nuclear physics and strategic studies which was cut short (by moi!), thankyou D for that walk down memory lane. FINALLY FINALLY our stories, our jokes!

As Shahrukh or was it Cohello once said kehte hai, ke agar kisi bhi cheez ko dil se chaho to puri ki puri qayanaat tumhe use milaane ki koshish mein lag jaati hai, so here is my wish. I want the kid to have some bladder control and articulate the need to speed.

Thats it. For the sooner that happens the sooner

I can write about Hong Kong and how at times I felt I was the only one in the playground with a child I shared a gene pool with (who was not my grand kid), of beautiful parks but strange play areas where there were slot machines where care givers could busy themselves and gulp! some for the kids as well. For some Luck Be a Lady may just be a nursery rhyme.

Or Malaysia and how as a cultural first it was a Ravana who came to the aid of a distressed mom and toddler.

How I have finally submitted the thorn in my side, the bane of my existence the dreaded monograph about Pakistani women and militarism which I first mentioned here. Like film producers say we gave it our best shot, aagey us ki kismat. I can go back to opening mail from the university without a feeling of dread and concentrate now on some other personal projects. And no, not just not toddler toilet training.

Oh yes many many fine tales.

Bahut Khoobsurat Ho....

2011-05-21T06:09:00.000-07:00

Real Beauty?

But we have yet to summon up the courage to have a real relationship with it! To have that heartfelt conversation.

In an “inflinte algebra” of beauty as aspiration we reduce it to a Golden Ratio. Computing, calculating, the mask for the perfect face is engaged with. At times with a scalpel, other times with digital pixels. From shopping (for Dr Beauty) to photo shopping, hasn't that been our journey so far !

Not for mere mortals us, no no, we place beauty with great reverence on a divine pedestal. Ram and Sita, the golden couple. Lakshmi, the embodiment of beauty. The hand of a Muslim, my hand, will tremble before attempting any pictorial representation of the Prophet. Allah. But the subtext of my school textbooks for the Prophet was always that of a 'handsome constitution'. And in the by lanes of Kolkata come Durga Puja goddesses of another kind might step out of celluloid morphing into clay if the artisan is so coaxed. Elsewhere in popular culture, Jesus walks in beauty. Yes beauty is for the gods, we tell ourselves.

For the devotee, it will only bring anxiety.

The hand will hasten to affix a black dot lest beauty attracts the evil eye. Black beads jostle for space against a turquoise third eye. A new mother furtively slips a knife, anything metal, under the baby's mattress, never brave enough to celebrate her baby's innocent beauty. Nazar na lag jaaye, lest I take too much pride in it, she crosses herself.

We admonish ourselves for pausing for that extra minute in front of the mirror, watch young women with a hawk eye. Do not flaunt it. You have all your life. Later, later, when you are in your own home. Only then. For him.

And there is a whole industry devoted to the 'curse of beauty' as we maliciously salivate over the lives, loves and loss (well mostly the loss) of the Faces of Our Times. That fine looking boy next door; the confident, bright woman down the road. The delicious feeling of schadenfreude as we pronounce them headed for a fall.

We treat beauty as currency, trading a fair face for social capital; and once acquired for our family, we monitor it jealously. Suspicious of every step it takes. Every breath (was that a sigh for a lost lover?). Every glance, lest it is a furtive look at a paramour.

We punish it for alleged arrogance, how dare it thwart our advances? Reject me? I will strip it with acid. But did you reach its inner core, it asks you. The beauty of spirit that spoke its mind and did not cower in terror!

So when the world is ready to listen, it will whisper to you its story. Beauty will tell you, I am you, and you me. Unafraid. Celebrate me. Do not covet. I am in your every day. You are part of the Divine. It walks along. It has always been part of you. Beauty will speak softly if you care to listen, I am simple. I am that scar, your badge of honour. The white hair, that first smile. Your songs, your tears, but never your envy, your greed. When you loved it, but not when you cloistered it.

Dear Reader, have you read N M Rashid?

Zindagi se darte ho

Zindagi to tum bhi ho
Zindagi to hum bhi hain
(translated and I apologize not very well, by me as Scared of Life Are You? When Life Has Been You . And It Is Me)

So I ask you why so afraid of beauty?
When
Beauty Is Real
Live It.
Everyday.
And Yes I Believe in Real Beauty. But Do You?

(The above blog post is part of a competition hosted by Dove, Yahoo!India, and IndiBlogger. But, as regular readers will recognize the rant and some raving is a standard feature!)