15.12.11
And so it ends . . .
I regret to inform those of you who are still my readers that for reasons beyond my control, I have put an end to my advent calendar blogging. I will try not to make long intervals between blogging, but for now . . . hope y'all have happy holidays whatever it is you're celebrating and hope to see you before the New Year. ~n.
8.12.11
Advent - Days 9, 10, 11, 12
Sadly, I had been under the weather for a few days. Feeling a little more energetic. Not that anyone missed me!
Hope those of you celebrating the season are faring well. Happy holidays!
Hope those of you celebrating the season are faring well. Happy holidays!
4.12.11
3.12.11
2.12.11
Advent - Day 6
Our very first Christmas when we returned to Pakistan in 1970 was celebrated in our mother's village, Shantinagar. Shantinagar is a predominantly Christian village set up by the Salvation Army in the early 1900's. It was around that time that my Nana's (my maternal grandfather) family moved there, bought land and set up a home. That home has been there ever since - with changes, additions and improvements of course.
The closest city to it is Khanewal. When I was a child, and used to write letters to Nanaji, or Maamoo, or my cousins, I had to add "Via Khanewal, District Multan" while writing the address on the envelope. As of now, Khanewal is the district.
That Christmas is the only one I remember where all of us, Khalaji's family, Maamooji's family, and us gathered there. It was a truly overwhelming time. There was so much happening, and everything was still so new and strange to me that the memory of those days we spent filter through vivid flashes. The tanga ride from the Khanewal train station to the village on that dusty road bordering the canal. The increase of charpais in my grandparents' adobe house. Going to the chowk to get a dozen glass bangles fitted on my tiny, skinny wrists. I have a vague recollection of the inside of my grandparents' house. Group pictures on the wall of the various groups my youngest Maamoo was a part of, including the Student Christian Movement. A red plaque with the gold inscription, Christ is the head of this house. The unseen guest at every meal. The silent listener to every conversation. A picture of the European Jesus, sandy-haired, translucent eyes.
That year, Maamoo may still have been in the Salvation Army band. At any rate, watching the band play hymns and Christmas songs was a treat.
I do not remember Maamoo's house so well from that time, but images from his dukaan. The sky-blue/white packs of K-2 cigarettes with the peak that gave the brand its name. The old scales with the chains, and the heavy round black weights of one sair plus. The plates of the scales, was one larger than the other, on which I imagined sitting, to be weighed. No, I was told, those are not for humans. They are for food products. I saw the scales - which also look like the scales of justice you see at courts - more as a toy.
I do not think I was the only one I viewed them as such, then, or today.
***
I was still trying to keep track of my cousins at the time. Five from Khalaji. Five from BaRe Maamoo, Three from ChhoTay Maamoo ( who may not have been there that Christmas but definitely not later ones in my memory). And also the cousins from my father's side, which was somewhat easier because only BaRi phupi had children at the time, five.
I know I must have played with my cousins that Christmas. I also was still painfully shy, and quiet in the midst of so many people. Especially when I dressed up in anything other than play clothes.
On Christmas day, I wore a teal colored gharara suit. The kurti had silver piping around the half-moon neck. The gharara's folds gleamed as I walked. My long thick hair was in two plaits. We went to the Salvation Army church for services. Most of us sat on a white sheet spread on the ground, while our parents and grandparents sat on chairs. Nanaji in his turban with the stiff cloth, the achkan hugging his upper body and white shalwar. Naniji, as she dressed most of the time, in a white sari, wearing dark glasses that covered her cataract filled eyes.
I remember little to nothing of the sermon. I could not understand most of it at the time, anyway. There was a moment when I was left alone on the chadar. I looked around me, at the crowd of people in their Christmas best. I can still recall the sense of loneliness, of feeling completely out of place in my outfit, among these strangers.
***
Christmas, and even Easter, were those occasions for us where we had special outfits made. I do not know if it was every year that my siblings and I had new outfits, but that was part of our tradition. New clothes to celebrate a new day, a new beginning.
That tradition has all but disappeared for us, here in America.
***
We would spend two or more Christmases in Shantinagar after that. I used to love being around my Nana. I never spoke to him much but just to be in what I thought was a noble, kindly presence. And when we did speak, he always made me feel good about myself, which is not something I ever really remember feeling at any point in time.
And my Nani, forever quoting Psalms and bible verses in between conversations. The love of Nanaji's life. They were the glue that held so much together. Nanaji readily forgave things of his grandchildren that his children did not. They were incredibly conservative. But they were also filled with love. And I was very fortunate to have witnessed that, to have been blessed with it.
Ever since my mother lost her only surviving sibling, my BaRe Maamoo to emphysema two months ago, I see a change in her, something akin to a desolation. She speaks more often of the past. She did before, but now even more so. She is not alone in feeling that way. Every Christmas, I remember the Christmases we spent with our loved ones in Pakistan. And I miss that sense of family, of extended family. True, we did not agree on everything (who does?), and there were jealousies and clashes. But we still were together, and those few moments of love and peace are treasures.
No Christmas, or the looking forward to it can go without remembering those we have lost in terms of their physical presence, but whose spirit lives on within us and without us. The window on this day is dedicated to them. My grandparents, paternal and maternal. My aunts and uncles. My cousins. Thank you for your love, and all that you gave us in that love.
The closest city to it is Khanewal. When I was a child, and used to write letters to Nanaji, or Maamoo, or my cousins, I had to add "Via Khanewal, District Multan" while writing the address on the envelope. As of now, Khanewal is the district.
That Christmas is the only one I remember where all of us, Khalaji's family, Maamooji's family, and us gathered there. It was a truly overwhelming time. There was so much happening, and everything was still so new and strange to me that the memory of those days we spent filter through vivid flashes. The tanga ride from the Khanewal train station to the village on that dusty road bordering the canal. The increase of charpais in my grandparents' adobe house. Going to the chowk to get a dozen glass bangles fitted on my tiny, skinny wrists. I have a vague recollection of the inside of my grandparents' house. Group pictures on the wall of the various groups my youngest Maamoo was a part of, including the Student Christian Movement. A red plaque with the gold inscription, Christ is the head of this house. The unseen guest at every meal. The silent listener to every conversation. A picture of the European Jesus, sandy-haired, translucent eyes.
That year, Maamoo may still have been in the Salvation Army band. At any rate, watching the band play hymns and Christmas songs was a treat.
I do not remember Maamoo's house so well from that time, but images from his dukaan. The sky-blue/white packs of K-2 cigarettes with the peak that gave the brand its name. The old scales with the chains, and the heavy round black weights of one sair plus. The plates of the scales, was one larger than the other, on which I imagined sitting, to be weighed. No, I was told, those are not for humans. They are for food products. I saw the scales - which also look like the scales of justice you see at courts - more as a toy.
I do not think I was the only one I viewed them as such, then, or today.
***
I was still trying to keep track of my cousins at the time. Five from Khalaji. Five from BaRe Maamoo, Three from ChhoTay Maamoo ( who may not have been there that Christmas but definitely not later ones in my memory). And also the cousins from my father's side, which was somewhat easier because only BaRi phupi had children at the time, five.
I know I must have played with my cousins that Christmas. I also was still painfully shy, and quiet in the midst of so many people. Especially when I dressed up in anything other than play clothes.
On Christmas day, I wore a teal colored gharara suit. The kurti had silver piping around the half-moon neck. The gharara's folds gleamed as I walked. My long thick hair was in two plaits. We went to the Salvation Army church for services. Most of us sat on a white sheet spread on the ground, while our parents and grandparents sat on chairs. Nanaji in his turban with the stiff cloth, the achkan hugging his upper body and white shalwar. Naniji, as she dressed most of the time, in a white sari, wearing dark glasses that covered her cataract filled eyes.
I remember little to nothing of the sermon. I could not understand most of it at the time, anyway. There was a moment when I was left alone on the chadar. I looked around me, at the crowd of people in their Christmas best. I can still recall the sense of loneliness, of feeling completely out of place in my outfit, among these strangers.
***
Christmas, and even Easter, were those occasions for us where we had special outfits made. I do not know if it was every year that my siblings and I had new outfits, but that was part of our tradition. New clothes to celebrate a new day, a new beginning.
That tradition has all but disappeared for us, here in America.
***
We would spend two or more Christmases in Shantinagar after that. I used to love being around my Nana. I never spoke to him much but just to be in what I thought was a noble, kindly presence. And when we did speak, he always made me feel good about myself, which is not something I ever really remember feeling at any point in time.
And my Nani, forever quoting Psalms and bible verses in between conversations. The love of Nanaji's life. They were the glue that held so much together. Nanaji readily forgave things of his grandchildren that his children did not. They were incredibly conservative. But they were also filled with love. And I was very fortunate to have witnessed that, to have been blessed with it.
Ever since my mother lost her only surviving sibling, my BaRe Maamoo to emphysema two months ago, I see a change in her, something akin to a desolation. She speaks more often of the past. She did before, but now even more so. She is not alone in feeling that way. Every Christmas, I remember the Christmases we spent with our loved ones in Pakistan. And I miss that sense of family, of extended family. True, we did not agree on everything (who does?), and there were jealousies and clashes. But we still were together, and those few moments of love and peace are treasures.
No Christmas, or the looking forward to it can go without remembering those we have lost in terms of their physical presence, but whose spirit lives on within us and without us. The window on this day is dedicated to them. My grandparents, paternal and maternal. My aunts and uncles. My cousins. Thank you for your love, and all that you gave us in that love.
1.12.11
30.11.11
Advent - Day 4
My last Christmas in Rochester, Minnesota. I have vague memories of that time. My legs were in plasters, still healing from the surgery I had to have following a fall from our two-story apartment building. A fall that changed my life forever. It was 1969.
Most of that time I try to trace back from old photographs. My father took more photographs of us when we were in Rochester than anywhere else. There was one with my siblings and I, dressed in our winter jackets and boots (except for me and my casts). He put me in the front seat of the car, my legs dangling against the gray leather, while my siblings stood or crouched beside me. We were surrounded by piles of snow.
But what I really remember about that Christmas was the card we received from Pakistan. On the front was a black silhouette of a woman holding on to a ghaRa (a clay pot) on her head. It was also the first time I saw the nastaliq script we use in writing the Urdu language. It was either Nanaji or my mother's youngest brother who sent that card.
It looked like scribbles to me, curvy designs. Not words. This was not the first time I had come across Urdu but it was the first time I recall it seeing written. At that point, Pakistan and our connection to it was not that big in my world. I had no idea that we would be returning "home" in just a few months.
Forty-two years later, I can read, write and speak Urdu, though I still have considerable difficulty with the literary, journalistic style.
For those of you unfamiliar with the language, this may be a good place to begin. At least you can see what the script and the alphabet look like. Yes, it is a bit like Persian and Arabic with differences.
Today's window, the gift of Urdu. My calendar is looking like a hodge-podge is it not?!
Most of that time I try to trace back from old photographs. My father took more photographs of us when we were in Rochester than anywhere else. There was one with my siblings and I, dressed in our winter jackets and boots (except for me and my casts). He put me in the front seat of the car, my legs dangling against the gray leather, while my siblings stood or crouched beside me. We were surrounded by piles of snow.
But what I really remember about that Christmas was the card we received from Pakistan. On the front was a black silhouette of a woman holding on to a ghaRa (a clay pot) on her head. It was also the first time I saw the nastaliq script we use in writing the Urdu language. It was either Nanaji or my mother's youngest brother who sent that card.
It looked like scribbles to me, curvy designs. Not words. This was not the first time I had come across Urdu but it was the first time I recall it seeing written. At that point, Pakistan and our connection to it was not that big in my world. I had no idea that we would be returning "home" in just a few months.
Forty-two years later, I can read, write and speak Urdu, though I still have considerable difficulty with the literary, journalistic style.
For those of you unfamiliar with the language, this may be a good place to begin. At least you can see what the script and the alphabet look like. Yes, it is a bit like Persian and Arabic with differences.
Today's window, the gift of Urdu. My calendar is looking like a hodge-podge is it not?!
29.11.11
Advent - Day 3
I cannot remember if she was German or Dutch. Perhaps both. She was a guest of ours one Christmas, my sister's classmate from the missionary school in Murree. Among the things she brought with her was a cassette, a purple Agfa 60 minutes one.
That is the first time I remember hearing The Beatles. I have no memory of them during the sixties. We arrived in America three months after they first did as a group, and lived in the midwest for six years. There was no mark of them in my consciousness during that time.
But in the early to mid-seventies, I heard Love Me Do. I Saw Her Standing There, The Long And Winding Road and other songs recorded on that tape.
One of my cousins had the album Let It Be. Was it because there was no album in the cover, or because it was badly scratched that we never listened to it? I loved the cover though and wished I could have it.
***
Upon returning to America in 1979, among my first Christmas gifts here were three Beatle albums. Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, Abbey Road and Yellow Submarine. Most of the beautiful, silly, quirky songs were written by John Lennon and Paul McCartney, but the ones on those albums that really appealed to me were George Harrison's. I could not put a finger on why, except to say that like Lennon, and yet apart from him, he was reaching outward, beyond his world, and one could see that in songs like Within You Without You, or even It's All Too Much.
It is painful to watch him in the film Let It Be, as he struggles with his school chum McCartney. In one part of the Anthology, George makes the quip about how Paul was older than him by eight months, and how Paul always made it known to George that he was older than him by eight months.
Through his struggles, his addictions, his search for the spiritual, Harrison made some lovely music. Today marks ten years since his passing, and since I was introduced to him around Christmas, and got parts of him another Christmas, it seems fitting that the window today be dedicated to my favorite Beatle, George Harrison. May his memory be eternal.
That is the first time I remember hearing The Beatles. I have no memory of them during the sixties. We arrived in America three months after they first did as a group, and lived in the midwest for six years. There was no mark of them in my consciousness during that time.
But in the early to mid-seventies, I heard Love Me Do. I Saw Her Standing There, The Long And Winding Road and other songs recorded on that tape.
One of my cousins had the album Let It Be. Was it because there was no album in the cover, or because it was badly scratched that we never listened to it? I loved the cover though and wished I could have it.
***
Upon returning to America in 1979, among my first Christmas gifts here were three Beatle albums. Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, Abbey Road and Yellow Submarine. Most of the beautiful, silly, quirky songs were written by John Lennon and Paul McCartney, but the ones on those albums that really appealed to me were George Harrison's. I could not put a finger on why, except to say that like Lennon, and yet apart from him, he was reaching outward, beyond his world, and one could see that in songs like Within You Without You, or even It's All Too Much.
It is painful to watch him in the film Let It Be, as he struggles with his school chum McCartney. In one part of the Anthology, George makes the quip about how Paul was older than him by eight months, and how Paul always made it known to George that he was older than him by eight months.
Through his struggles, his addictions, his search for the spiritual, Harrison made some lovely music. Today marks ten years since his passing, and since I was introduced to him around Christmas, and got parts of him another Christmas, it seems fitting that the window today be dedicated to my favorite Beatle, George Harrison. May his memory be eternal.
28.11.11
Advent - Day 2.
Traditions vary among Christians from different denominations. In the Orthodox tradition, for example, there is a Christmas fast. It is not as strict as the Lenten one, but if one chooses to do so, one abstains from meat and dairy products from the beginning of December until Christmas.
Whatever traditions one follows, the words "peace and goodwill to all men" tend to get lost sometimes. What is the point of buying gifts for Christmas, or being in the giving spirit if someone is going to attack other shoppers? It makes no sense.
I feel like a hypocrite promoting peace and goodwill myself because it is difficult for me to bear goodwill towards certain individuals, but I am aware of it. Still, being unable to bear goodwill towards a few individuals for their actions and or personalities is one thing. Painting wide brushes on communities and reducing them, or dehumanizing them is another.
***
Families are burying their loved ones who are dying in war. This past Saturday NATO forces killed 26 Pakistani soldiers. Their names are listed here. Today, Mosharraf Zaidi listed each of these soldiers in his Twitter timeline.
One day of the week since the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq began, PBS Newshour lists names of the soldiers who have died in combat, along with their photographs.
Actions like these put a human face on war. A face that is forgotten in the drumbeats and blame games, and policies that continue war which seems to have no end. Many of us here cannot even imagine or think of the number of Iraqis or Afghans who have perished, but they have names and faces as well.
Then there are the victims of suicide bombings, the attempted bombings, the fear that is still drummed into us that if we stop the war machine now, we will suffer more violence.
I realize that this is not the most uplifting of sights on opening the 2nd day of Advent window.
It is not meant to be.
As John Lennon sang in Happy Christmas (War is over): War is over. If you want it. War is over. Now.
May the souls of all who have perished in terrorist attacks and wars rest in peace.
It is difficult for so many to visualize peace. As we celebrate advent and look forward to Christmas, may we pray for peace and goodwill to all people. May we do our very best in sharing it with everyone in whatever way is available to us.
Whatever traditions one follows, the words "peace and goodwill to all men" tend to get lost sometimes. What is the point of buying gifts for Christmas, or being in the giving spirit if someone is going to attack other shoppers? It makes no sense.
I feel like a hypocrite promoting peace and goodwill myself because it is difficult for me to bear goodwill towards certain individuals, but I am aware of it. Still, being unable to bear goodwill towards a few individuals for their actions and or personalities is one thing. Painting wide brushes on communities and reducing them, or dehumanizing them is another.
***
Families are burying their loved ones who are dying in war. This past Saturday NATO forces killed 26 Pakistani soldiers. Their names are listed here. Today, Mosharraf Zaidi listed each of these soldiers in his Twitter timeline.
One day of the week since the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq began, PBS Newshour lists names of the soldiers who have died in combat, along with their photographs.
Actions like these put a human face on war. A face that is forgotten in the drumbeats and blame games, and policies that continue war which seems to have no end. Many of us here cannot even imagine or think of the number of Iraqis or Afghans who have perished, but they have names and faces as well.
Then there are the victims of suicide bombings, the attempted bombings, the fear that is still drummed into us that if we stop the war machine now, we will suffer more violence.
I realize that this is not the most uplifting of sights on opening the 2nd day of Advent window.
It is not meant to be.
As John Lennon sang in Happy Christmas (War is over): War is over. If you want it. War is over. Now.
May the souls of all who have perished in terrorist attacks and wars rest in peace.
It is difficult for so many to visualize peace. As we celebrate advent and look forward to Christmas, may we pray for peace and goodwill to all people. May we do our very best in sharing it with everyone in whatever way is available to us.