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?!
30.11.11
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.
27.11.11
Countdown to the beginning . . . again.
It has been a while since I have been really excited about Christmas. I know the reason(s) behind this lackadaisical attitude which means I should be able to work on them but that does not always go so well. While people around me are shopping, or decorating their houses, yours truly is more like Ebenezer Scrooge - visited by more ghosts than just the ones of Christmas.
Eventually, the week before, I come around. I may not be excited about "holiday trees", and exchanging gifts anymore, but am reminded of why Christmas matters. And yes, it is NOT the actual day that Jesus was born, but it is the day chosen to observe it. And for those of us who still believe . . . it is Gloria in excelsis Deo et in terra pax homÃnibus bonae voluntátis.
***
My favorite holiday movies this time of year: Miracle on 34th Street (the old one with Natalie Wood). And The Lion In Winter. The latter perhaps is not a holiday film per se, but the story does take place around that time, and the royal family is so dysfunctional, it makes ours look a little better. Plus it has Peter O'Toole, Katherine Hepburn and Anthony Hopkins in his film debut. One of the roles for which O'Toole should have won an Oscar.
***
One year, when we were in Lahore, we received the gift of two advent calendars. One was a more secular one (if memory serves correctly it was a darker royal blue with snow and a snowman), the other more religious. My mother set them on a table with other Christmas decorations, some which had come with us from our time in Minnesota. From the first day of advent for the next twenty-five days or so, we opened a window marked with a number, and each window revealed a wee bit of the image behind them. I remember looking forward to opening one each day. It was almost like a puzzle. It was tempting to open all the windows at once, but that would have defeated the purpose, as well as the anticipation.
It is that child-like anticipation that I think about reclaiming, that commercialization and personal struggles have changed. And it is not too late. Even at the eleventh hour, one is welcome.
For those of you who celebrate this season, a blessed Advent and Nativity. My way of returning to the Advent calendar will be to post something pertaining to the season for the next twentysomething days. It can be anything from A Charlie Brown Christmas to the Gospels. My other rants shall continue, which I will try to do less of, but why change completely?!
Eventually, the week before, I come around. I may not be excited about "holiday trees", and exchanging gifts anymore, but am reminded of why Christmas matters. And yes, it is NOT the actual day that Jesus was born, but it is the day chosen to observe it. And for those of us who still believe . . . it is Gloria in excelsis Deo et in terra pax homÃnibus bonae voluntátis.
***
My favorite holiday movies this time of year: Miracle on 34th Street (the old one with Natalie Wood). And The Lion In Winter. The latter perhaps is not a holiday film per se, but the story does take place around that time, and the royal family is so dysfunctional, it makes ours look a little better. Plus it has Peter O'Toole, Katherine Hepburn and Anthony Hopkins in his film debut. One of the roles for which O'Toole should have won an Oscar.
***
One year, when we were in Lahore, we received the gift of two advent calendars. One was a more secular one (if memory serves correctly it was a darker royal blue with snow and a snowman), the other more religious. My mother set them on a table with other Christmas decorations, some which had come with us from our time in Minnesota. From the first day of advent for the next twenty-five days or so, we opened a window marked with a number, and each window revealed a wee bit of the image behind them. I remember looking forward to opening one each day. It was almost like a puzzle. It was tempting to open all the windows at once, but that would have defeated the purpose, as well as the anticipation.
It is that child-like anticipation that I think about reclaiming, that commercialization and personal struggles have changed. And it is not too late. Even at the eleventh hour, one is welcome.
For those of you who celebrate this season, a blessed Advent and Nativity. My way of returning to the Advent calendar will be to post something pertaining to the season for the next twentysomething days. It can be anything from A Charlie Brown Christmas to the Gospels. My other rants shall continue, which I will try to do less of, but why change completely?!
26.11.11
Context is everything!
Some of you may have heard this story before. It is one that has elicited either hearty laughter, or no reaction whatsoever. I remember the first time I told the meat of this story was to one of my chat room buddies over the phone. He could not stop laughing. Which was a better response from Ekhlaque than his snoring while I was talking to him (it was late night in Singapore).
It is just one of a few faux pas I have made in the Urdu language.
***
We stood facing each other in Khalaji's bedroom. Mommy and Khalaji sat on the bed, and cousins surrounded them at the edges of the gadda. No one was getting involved, yet, in the name calling that had begun between my youngest brother and I. We were poised in front of the dressing table. He had that superior smirk on his face which was so tempting to remove with a TKO. I slouched slightly, insufficiently prepared to meet gaali for gaali.
How did the argument begin in the first place? Did it matter? We fought over the smallest of things. We bullied each other most likely because we could not bully anyone else. If this was the way we expressed our love, as some suggested, it was a rather twisted way to do it. There was no "phooloN ka taaroN ka sab ka kehna hai. ek hazaaroN maiN meri behna hai . . . ." Instead there were kitchen knives and pots and pans used as shields. I doubt we would have used the knives on each other but that was how we expressed our "love".
He fired the next shot, "You're just stupid!"
I wanted to do better than that. Not with the usual "bloody bastard" which I was more afraid to say in front of Khalaji than I was in Mommy's presence. Then what? I thought of the ads painted on the old walls in the city. In beautiful Urdu calligraphy. There it was in big bold black nastaliq screaming at anyone who read it. I could never make out what the smaller print said, but I often wondered what the purpose was for having that on walls throughout the city.
It seemed to fit the occasion. It was probably not strong enough but it was different. Yes, it would have to do. He was a puny looking ass after all.
"Well you have mardana kamzori!"
Ek dum the room lit up with raucous laughter. I looked at Mommy. She had tears in her eyes. Khalaji's round body was quaking. Our cousins either beamed or chuckled. That smirk on my brother's face grew wider, more annoying. I asked everyone why they were laughing, but they still had not stopped. I turned to Khalaji.
"BatayeN na?"
Khalaji caught her breath, smiling gently, "BeTa, your brother is far too young to have mardana kamzori." And that was how far the grownups would go in explaining that to me. Grownups and their secrets. My eyes focused on him again. He looked as if he knew exactly what it meant. I doubted it.
We all moved on to something else. I did not learn what putting male together with weakness was that day. I did not even try to figure it out.
Years later, my mother and I talked about that day. I reminded her that no one told me what it was.
"Impotence." She said dully.
It was no longer as funny to her as it was then. I could still laugh about it. As we sat together, I thought about a lifetime having passed us by. A time of relatively more innocence and freedom in a place we were not truly free. At least we were all together.
No one remembers much of this story anymore. Our memories from that time are crumbled or jumbled. At least now if I ever told a man he was possessed with mardana kamzori again, at least it would be in the right context. Even if he really did not have it!
And as far as I know, my brother still does not!
It is just one of a few faux pas I have made in the Urdu language.
***
We stood facing each other in Khalaji's bedroom. Mommy and Khalaji sat on the bed, and cousins surrounded them at the edges of the gadda. No one was getting involved, yet, in the name calling that had begun between my youngest brother and I. We were poised in front of the dressing table. He had that superior smirk on his face which was so tempting to remove with a TKO. I slouched slightly, insufficiently prepared to meet gaali for gaali.
How did the argument begin in the first place? Did it matter? We fought over the smallest of things. We bullied each other most likely because we could not bully anyone else. If this was the way we expressed our love, as some suggested, it was a rather twisted way to do it. There was no "phooloN ka taaroN ka sab ka kehna hai. ek hazaaroN maiN meri behna hai . . . ." Instead there were kitchen knives and pots and pans used as shields. I doubt we would have used the knives on each other but that was how we expressed our "love".
He fired the next shot, "You're just stupid!"
I wanted to do better than that. Not with the usual "bloody bastard" which I was more afraid to say in front of Khalaji than I was in Mommy's presence. Then what? I thought of the ads painted on the old walls in the city. In beautiful Urdu calligraphy. There it was in big bold black nastaliq screaming at anyone who read it. I could never make out what the smaller print said, but I often wondered what the purpose was for having that on walls throughout the city.
It seemed to fit the occasion. It was probably not strong enough but it was different. Yes, it would have to do. He was a puny looking ass after all.
"Well you have mardana kamzori!"
Ek dum the room lit up with raucous laughter. I looked at Mommy. She had tears in her eyes. Khalaji's round body was quaking. Our cousins either beamed or chuckled. That smirk on my brother's face grew wider, more annoying. I asked everyone why they were laughing, but they still had not stopped. I turned to Khalaji.
"BatayeN na?"
Khalaji caught her breath, smiling gently, "BeTa, your brother is far too young to have mardana kamzori." And that was how far the grownups would go in explaining that to me. Grownups and their secrets. My eyes focused on him again. He looked as if he knew exactly what it meant. I doubted it.
We all moved on to something else. I did not learn what putting male together with weakness was that day. I did not even try to figure it out.
Years later, my mother and I talked about that day. I reminded her that no one told me what it was.
"Impotence." She said dully.
It was no longer as funny to her as it was then. I could still laugh about it. As we sat together, I thought about a lifetime having passed us by. A time of relatively more innocence and freedom in a place we were not truly free. At least we were all together.
No one remembers much of this story anymore. Our memories from that time are crumbled or jumbled. At least now if I ever told a man he was possessed with mardana kamzori again, at least it would be in the right context. Even if he really did not have it!
And as far as I know, my brother still does not!
16.11.11
Eli and Alice
I know I can blog and write my novel at the same time . . . . and do all the other stuff, mine and my mother's. I have just got to distribute my time better. But since chaos always has reigned over order (except when it came to arranging my bookshelves and records), life smashes whatever goalposts are set.
© Naveeda Valentina
But as Chumbawamba sings, I get knocked down, but I get up again. You're never gonna keep me down.
***
Eli and Alice is a work in progress. It began on a blog. I decided to terminate the blog, and put the novel on hold while working on another project. Then went back to it, and have been working on it with other interruptions
.
I began listing various dates as deadlines. Now, it will be done (whatever that means) when it will be done (I won't say the ooparwaala's will be done). It is the baby not quite ready to exit the womb just yet.
Khair without further ado, an excerpt:
Mera chopaan – Yasmeen
Elisheba was glad that she had opted out of teaching this summer. She had thought of writing another collection of stories but she had not been able to concentrate much since the assault. The bandages were finally removed and she joked about how she always had wanted to wear a turban.
At night, she still saw masked men in her dreams and the last thing she remembered from those ghastly visions was darkness. Alice offered to stay in her room at night but what could she do? How could she stop the fear that Elisheba could not shake every time she opened her eyes to black silhouettes? In those moments, she would remember the twenty-third Psalm. Her mother recited Khudavand mera chopaan hai during her moments of terror and all Elisheba could recall besides The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want was Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil, for thou art with me. She repeated those words until sleep returned.
As she ate half a pita with feta for breakfast, she thought it was strange that prayer had reentered her life after so many years; years where she knew it took a little more than good friends and good luck to get her through the troubles that had gripped her throughout her adult life. Even an excellent friend like Alice could not keep her from the depression that began in early childhood and resurfaced several times, some worse than others.
There were moments when she was pushed to the brink, when she felt this force like a magnet, or the bottom of a vacuum cleaner, pull her in the middle of the street with a semi headed straight for her, or towards a window on the seventh floor. When that happened, when she really thought she would act on her suicidal tendencies, there was another force that kept her from doing that. Different names could be given this, God, conscience, Alice, her mother. Elisheba decided one day that she did not want to die before her mother. Not by her own doing, at least. How many times had she heard anguished mothers say, “the hardest thing in the world is to lose a child.”? This was something she did not want to put her mother through. These self-destructive moments were her Goliath to fight (perhaps Voldemort was a better moniker).
She came across people at college who told her that faith would save her in her difficult times. Elisheba wanted to believe that, but she did not want it thrust upon her. She did not want the born-agains to tell her how fucked up her life was. As if their triumphalist, judgmental attitude was any better. She was not a person completely devoid of faith. She simply was not impressed with what certain people said and did in the name of God, and deen which they superimposed upon country.
Her thoughts went back to prayer. As a teenager, she sometimes negotiated bargains with God. If the Omnipotent kept her mother from being hurt, she would go to church. She would pray more than once a day and before all meals. She would be good. How utterly preposterous that seemed now, decades later. Elisheba had tried to be good though in order to spare her mother pain. Ultimately she would learn that it did not matter if she did everything her parents expected to or not. Whether she was good, or not, it had no effect on those who caused pain for they would continue to do so, irregardless.
She stared at the photo of Yasmeen that was the wallpaper on her laptop screen. Before Yasmeen was born, it was not just the possibility of spina bifida that frightened her. She wondered if she was truly parent material. What if she was more of an authoritarian than authoritative? And she certainly did not want to make up for parts of her own childhood by being permissive. Was reading book after book about parenthood really going to help once this flesh and bone image was before her? “It couldn't do any harm.” Alice told her. “Then you read them!” Elisheba pushed various texts towards her.
Yasmeen was born in the first month of the 21st century. And within days of her birth, Nick, who was now married to Anna, and his parents were by her side, coaxing her into letting them make preparations for baptism. Elisheba adamantly refused. Alice jumped into this circus as well by confronting Nick, “Is this really what you wanted? What's next? Are you going to bring in the priest and lawyers as well?”
Her fury stung him. He never had seen her this angry with him. Not even after the break-up with Elisheba. “Yasmeen is my daughter too, Alice. I should have a say in how she is raised.”
“I get it.” Alice kept her gaze locked on him. “You couldn't mold Eli into what you wanted, so now you want to do this. You left Elisheba long before she ended your relationship because you could not accept how she felt, what she wanted, and vice-versa. So now you want to fight with her about this?”
“Alice, really, this is none of your business.” He spoke through gritted teeth. Alice looked to see if anyone was watching them, then quickly pushed Nick against a wall. “If you ever loved Elisheba at all, you will think about what it is you're doing.” She saw the pain in his eyes, released him, and walked away. She did not speak to him for a long while after that.
She did tell Elisheba about that exchange of words, and for a brief time, Elisheba wavered. Perhaps she should let him do what he wished, and let his parents and Anna be responsible for the spiritual upbringing (and the worldly one) of their child. On the other hand, Elisheba did not want Anna involved. Yasmeen was her daughter. She had just as much right to raise her in the way she saw fit.
Maybe she should have read a book that prepared her for this struggle. Even if she had, it could not have helped much in the emotional attachment that Elisheba still had where Nick was concerned.
Yasmeen was baptized in the Greek Orthodox church. The priest's wife, Presvytera Irini, would be her nouna, her godmother. Every Sunday, for the first five years of her life, she received communion, and spent the entire day with Nick's family, which now included Demetri, a year younger than her. Yasmeen and Demetri never achieved that bond that Nick hoped they would. As much love as Yasmeen wanted to shower upon someone she saw as her brother, Demetri rejected it. It was troubling to everyone, particularly Anna who feared that this would create a huge rift between father and son. No one, not his papou and yiayia, or his parents could convince him what a good person Yasmeen could be in his life.
Partly as a result of this tension, Yasmeen began to spend less time around her father and his family. She also was becoming aware of the differences between her mother's life and Alice's, and her father's. She did not like the things Anna said about Alice (“that lesbian cannot be a good influence on your daughter.”), or what she overheard her grandparents say about her mother. She had not heard the word lesbian before. It was never used at home.
One afternoon when the three of them were having lunch together, Yasmeen blurted out, “What's a lesbian?” She noticed that Alice almost spat out the water she had just sipped.
Elisheba was thoughtful for a few moments before she answered, “Meeni, a lesbian is a woman who loves other women. A woman who is with another woman not just as a friend but in the way your father is with Anna.”
“Anna said that Alice is a lesbian.” Elisheba and Alice exchanged looks. They could imagine what else Anna said about her. Alice cleared her throat.
“I am, jaanu.” She said quietly.
“Is it bad to be one, Alice?”
“Well I don't believe it is. But certain people do. Like Anna.” Elisheba gave her a warning nudge. They had agreed not to influence Yasmeen in any way with whatever bothered them about the Nikopoulos family.
“Well I don't believe it is. But certain people do. Like Anna.” Elisheba gave her a warning nudge. They had agreed not to influence Yasmeen in any way with whatever bothered them about the Nikopoulos family.
The five year old Yasmeen's curiosity grew, “Why does Anna think it is bad?”
There were hesitations before answering these questions. They knew that they would come up, but Alice had wanted to tell Yasmeen herself. Damn that Anna or whoever it was!
Elisheba volunteered to tackle this one. “In the eyes of many people, from the beginning of when the holy books like the bible tell us the world was created, man was made, and woman was made to be with man. For a man to be with a man, or a woman to be with a woman is looked upon as a sin, something that is very wrong and hurtful not only to that person, but to the community in which we live.”
Yasmeen slowly drank in this information. Alice watched her before she continued, “And because of this idea that for a woman to be with a woman is hurtful, even dangerous, men and women either have had to hide the fact that they love men and women, or they have been open about it and punished for it.”
Yasmeen became panic-stricken. Visions of various punishments entered her head, “Mommy, are you a lesbian too?”
Elisheba laughed, “No, baby, I am not. But I don't think there's anything bad or evil about being one. Love, true love that exists between two people, be it a woman and a woman, or a woman and a man, can never be wrong or evil.”
They sat quietly for a while. Yasmeen ran her fork through the rice, scattering the grains all over her plate.
“I don't want to go to baba's house anymore.” Her face was lowered, almost touching the table. Elisheba and Alice both moved their chairs closer to her. They could hear the sniffling, see the giant teardrop that plopped on her food.
Alice put her arms around her, “Meeni, your baba gets to see so little of you as it is. This will hurt him. And your baba loves me. He has ever since I was a kid. So don't think badly of him, eh?”
“But Demetri is still so mean. And everyone else . . . .”
“Everyone else is going to think what they think. You cannot change that jaanu, not always.” Elisheba put a napkin to her daughter's nose. “All you can do when someone says something bad about Alice, or me, or anyone for that matter or something you do not like, is to point out more than one good thing about them. And then walk away. And let me tell you something, little one. Walking away is the hardest thing to do. But the earlier you learn how to do it, the better.”
Alice caressed her hair, “Do you think I am bad, Meeni?”
Yasmeen put her little fingers under her chin, “When you don't give me what I want, yes.”
“Uff, pagli!” She hugged her even tighter. Everyone laughed.
Elisheba stared at her daughter's photograph. The image of her eleven year old was the only thing she saw from the moment the masked men (were they all men?) assaulted her to the time she collapsed in the emergency room after having been semi-conscious in the siren roaring van. Her hand reached to touch the back of her head. It was not only the head for which she was taking painkillers, but also her legs. She tried to close the memory of having her legs kicked and pulled. Her lower back, one of the most sensitive parts of her body was spared but that mattered little considering the battering she received elsewhere.
Alice and Yasmeen had been with her in the hospital every day. So had her mother. Nirmala wanted to stay longer to take care of her but Elisheba insisted if anyone needed help and care, it was Nirmala. Javed was there at the beginning, for a couple of days, then returned later to collect their mother.
Brother and sister had not been very close since their childhood years. He would not voice it to anyone but Nirmala and Elisheba; he thought Alice shared responsibility in what happened to his sister. What if Yasmeen had been in the apartment? He tried to relate this in a manner that did not involve Elisheba putting up the wall she did during most of their conversations.
“It is not Alice's fault that there are people in the world who do not know how to deal with situations they do not like without coercion or violence.” Elisheba countered weakly. Javed flung his arms in the air and part of his response to her was the usual line he used to remind her of her thoughtlessness in matters. “Think of what this is doing to our mother.”
Nirmala Gill, who loved Alice like a daughter, did not attach any blame to her. She struggled with the idea of Alice being a lesbian as had her own parents but she had seen what her husband did to their children and she did not want to do the same with Elisheba or Alice. Unlike her husband, or her son, she did not think Elisheba was a lost cause. They had spoken on the phone earlier in the day. Daughter reassuring mother that everything was fine. Everything was going to be alright. She did not know how that was going to be, but she had to hold on to that hope. As long as Yasmeen was in her life, hope was a must.
15.11.11
Drumbeats
If you read this blog every once in a red moon (I know it is blue, but humor me), then you know I am on Twitter now. I jokingly blamed a friend in Pakistan for my finally deciding to do this, but really, it is his fault. It is the best way to keep in touch with him and news from the old country, at this point. And more up to date . . . .
***
My mother repeats stories from her childhood. I am not certain what made her retell this particular one, but we were talking about Pakistan. She told me that she was born in India, and always has felt connected to it. I replied, "Yes, you were born in India, but we were born in Pakistan . . . well except for the youngest, who was born in the USA."
She began to tell me about her school days, and the songs they sang at assembly. Apparently she was picked to lead in song because her voice rose a few octaves (was it good? I did not ask), and two songs that she remembers singing: the one about lalkaoing from the choTis of Himalaya ke hindustan humara hai. And then the other song was also nationalistic, saare jahaan se achha. Hindustan humara."
She added, "We sang these songs to get the British out of India." I nod, "I know." My mind lingered on the second song. The poet Iqbal, whom we know as Allama Iqbal wrote that, and it did become an anthem of protest against British rule.
I thought about that Iqbal who wrote about Hindustan. I thought about the Iqbal who praised secularism, Nietzsche and Mussolini. I thought about the Iqbal who read a poem of his in honor of King George V's coronation, and I thought of the Iqbal that certain Islamists wish to reclaim as in this article, here
"Iqbal wrote that." I pointed out to her.
"I know." She replied, muttering things about him that were far from complimentary. We acknowledge that Iqbal was a very good poet. I am not certain how we, who have lived with Iqbal's great works like Bal-e-Jibreel and Bang-e-Dara, and read him in our Nawa-i-Waqt every day for years, have seen him in terms of his politics.
Like many men, and women, Iqbal was a heap of contradictions, and if the hard-core mullahs wish to misappropriate him, well then may they go with Allah, but no one can fully reclaim Iqbal, and no one should. What else can we take, distort and twist, and throw out there as the way to rebuilding a better nation, when all it does is get us stuck in the same damn Groundhog Day?
***
There's a reason I have been avoiding topics like this in previous blogs. And I just remembered what it was.
***
Twitter was all a-buzz today with the news that the Pakistani ambassador to the US, Hussain Haqqani has been recalled to Islamabad. There are murmurs that his job is on the line, and that he is the wrong Haqqani to go after.
Hussain Haqqani certainly has been one of the most articulate representatives Pakistan has had in a while. So I hope this gupshup is all it is, gupshup. The defections from the PPP, the braggadocio of the Tehrik-e-Insaaf party of Imran Khan. Dhol baj rahe haiN ji, Dhol!
From The News:
***
My mother repeats stories from her childhood. I am not certain what made her retell this particular one, but we were talking about Pakistan. She told me that she was born in India, and always has felt connected to it. I replied, "Yes, you were born in India, but we were born in Pakistan . . . well except for the youngest, who was born in the USA."
She began to tell me about her school days, and the songs they sang at assembly. Apparently she was picked to lead in song because her voice rose a few octaves (was it good? I did not ask), and two songs that she remembers singing: the one about lalkaoing from the choTis of Himalaya ke hindustan humara hai. And then the other song was also nationalistic, saare jahaan se achha. Hindustan humara."
She added, "We sang these songs to get the British out of India." I nod, "I know." My mind lingered on the second song. The poet Iqbal, whom we know as Allama Iqbal wrote that, and it did become an anthem of protest against British rule.
I thought about that Iqbal who wrote about Hindustan. I thought about the Iqbal who praised secularism, Nietzsche and Mussolini. I thought about the Iqbal who read a poem of his in honor of King George V's coronation, and I thought of the Iqbal that certain Islamists wish to reclaim as in this article, here
"Iqbal wrote that." I pointed out to her.
"I know." She replied, muttering things about him that were far from complimentary. We acknowledge that Iqbal was a very good poet. I am not certain how we, who have lived with Iqbal's great works like Bal-e-Jibreel and Bang-e-Dara, and read him in our Nawa-i-Waqt every day for years, have seen him in terms of his politics.
Like many men, and women, Iqbal was a heap of contradictions, and if the hard-core mullahs wish to misappropriate him, well then may they go with Allah, but no one can fully reclaim Iqbal, and no one should. What else can we take, distort and twist, and throw out there as the way to rebuilding a better nation, when all it does is get us stuck in the same damn Groundhog Day?
***
There's a reason I have been avoiding topics like this in previous blogs. And I just remembered what it was.
***
Twitter was all a-buzz today with the news that the Pakistani ambassador to the US, Hussain Haqqani has been recalled to Islamabad. There are murmurs that his job is on the line, and that he is the wrong Haqqani to go after.
Hussain Haqqani certainly has been one of the most articulate representatives Pakistan has had in a while. So I hope this gupshup is all it is, gupshup. The defections from the PPP, the braggadocio of the Tehrik-e-Insaaf party of Imran Khan. Dhol baj rahe haiN ji, Dhol!
From The News:
ISLAMABAD: President Asif Ali Zardari and Prime Minister Syed Yusuf Raza Gilani Monday decided to call Hussain Haqqani, Pakistan’s Ambassador to Washington, to Islamabad to brief the country’s leadership on a host of issues impacting on Pak-US relations and recent developments.more, here
The decision was taken during a core committee meeting, held at a time when Shah Mehmood Qureshi said goodbye to the PPP and resigned from National Assembly membership. The meeting was called to discuss the political impact on the party of Qureshi’s decision.
According to sources, the decision to call Haqqani was taken to defuse the situation arising from the memo allegedly written by President Asif Ali Zardari to Admiral Mike Mullen, and recently denied by the government as well as Mike Mullen.
The PPP core committee on Monday decided to continue the path of the reconciliation politics and will respond to political opponents politically rather than through confrontation. A detailed discussion on the political situation in the country also came under discussion in the Monday meeting.
Paalitiks shmaalitiks
It is not that I really like following politics. It is that the alternative is unthinkable. When you are living in a world where the few have control over the many (trying not to digress into Mr. Spock's words to Captain Kirk in Khan), you have got to know something about what is happening to your choices, your livelihood, your future or the future of a beloved. You might wish to know how restrictive certain laws are, even if your own life is not directly impacted by it (and chances are it is). And if you want to live in a world where you feel everyone should have access to the same rights and or privileges, politics is inescapable.
So yeah, you could say fuck politics! But politics fucks you.
***
We are approaching an election year here in the United States. So is Pakistan. I still try to keep up with what is happening there. It is a little easier now with all the technologies available to us, but still, there is a sense that leaving Pakistan and its twisted politics and policies meant leaving all that behind.
Pakistan today is much better than it was thirty-two years ago in some respects. In others, it is not. Sixty-four years later, various factions are still raging about whether Pakistan was meant to be a secular nation or one based on religion and religious laws. And while they have yet to figure that out, there are those from various generations born in Pakistan, those who remember nothing about what it was like when General Zia ul-Haq turned things upside down and all around, who are questioning the remnants of his dictatorship.
And that is a bloody good thing. It indicates that there is still hope. But hope needs to be within the purview of all Pakistanis, which includes Ahmadis, Christians, Hindus, and all oppressed populations. Was it Albert Einstein who said You cannot simultaneously prevent and prepare for war. Well you cannot simultaneously prepare for a return to more democracy and prevent a small percentage of the population from being equal partners in said democracy.
It was therefore, incredibly disappointing, when the government itself said that it was no longer going to continue a dialogue re: blasphemy laws. It was too much of a security risk, after the murders of Salman Taseer and Shahbaz Bhatti. Meanwhile, shia mosques continue to be attacked in Pakistan, and Imran Khan who wants to be the next prime minister of Pakistan talks about how he will stop terror groups in Pakistan. How will he do it? What will have to be lost in order for terror to end not just in Pakistan, but beyond. The specifics are still vague, but promises are made, and as always Pakistanis want to believe that something good, better is right around the corner.
There is an episode of the series Law and Order where a former military man has killed a suspected terrorist. In his closing statement, Jack McCoy, the ADA and prosecutor, in reiterating what the respected, decorated man has done asks a question, something to the effect of how much of ourselves as a nation are we willing to succumb to terrorism?
It is a question that has not left me since I watched it.
***
The more I listen to some voices, the more I wish they would go beyond words, or beyond the simple yet really effective words of Aaloo AnDay. Before the Beyghairat Brigade, there was Junoon. Junoon, the pulsating "sufi" rock band who came out with songs like Talaash, Ghaflat, and Intesaab.
Now you have Ali Azmat, former Junoon rocker, in the darbar of Zaid Hamid who would rather blame Taliban bombings on a conspiracy between the CIA, Indian agents of RAW and *gasps* the Mossad. And no one is making this up. Not even the supposed beyghairatoN who are supposedly aligned with the West. And as one who was a fan of Junoon, I think, bloody hell! What has happened to zehni ghulaami se honge kab hum azaad? One might ask where is the ghulaami as far as Zaid Hamid is concerned. Another will question the azaadi that Hamid and his friends and followers, including Imran Khan want.
It makes me think of that scene from Nicholas Ray's Rebel Without A Cause, where James Dean so powerfully and emotively cries out to his parents, You're tearing me apart!
Pakistan has been torn apart enough over the years. There has got to be a way for the rang baranga fabric to be put together again. And it can be done by Pakistanis themselves, many who are still waiting for that dawn to arrive. Waiting and hoping involve greater action. I hope that it goes beyond a song, out into the streets, out for freedom, secularism and justice.
All some of us can do from the sidelines is watch, wait and hope. Those of us who don't have the loads of cash supporting their interests, that is.
So yeah, you could say fuck politics! But politics fucks you.
***
We are approaching an election year here in the United States. So is Pakistan. I still try to keep up with what is happening there. It is a little easier now with all the technologies available to us, but still, there is a sense that leaving Pakistan and its twisted politics and policies meant leaving all that behind.
Pakistan today is much better than it was thirty-two years ago in some respects. In others, it is not. Sixty-four years later, various factions are still raging about whether Pakistan was meant to be a secular nation or one based on religion and religious laws. And while they have yet to figure that out, there are those from various generations born in Pakistan, those who remember nothing about what it was like when General Zia ul-Haq turned things upside down and all around, who are questioning the remnants of his dictatorship.
And that is a bloody good thing. It indicates that there is still hope. But hope needs to be within the purview of all Pakistanis, which includes Ahmadis, Christians, Hindus, and all oppressed populations. Was it Albert Einstein who said You cannot simultaneously prevent and prepare for war. Well you cannot simultaneously prepare for a return to more democracy and prevent a small percentage of the population from being equal partners in said democracy.
It was therefore, incredibly disappointing, when the government itself said that it was no longer going to continue a dialogue re: blasphemy laws. It was too much of a security risk, after the murders of Salman Taseer and Shahbaz Bhatti. Meanwhile, shia mosques continue to be attacked in Pakistan, and Imran Khan who wants to be the next prime minister of Pakistan talks about how he will stop terror groups in Pakistan. How will he do it? What will have to be lost in order for terror to end not just in Pakistan, but beyond. The specifics are still vague, but promises are made, and as always Pakistanis want to believe that something good, better is right around the corner.
There is an episode of the series Law and Order where a former military man has killed a suspected terrorist. In his closing statement, Jack McCoy, the ADA and prosecutor, in reiterating what the respected, decorated man has done asks a question, something to the effect of how much of ourselves as a nation are we willing to succumb to terrorism?
It is a question that has not left me since I watched it.
***
The more I listen to some voices, the more I wish they would go beyond words, or beyond the simple yet really effective words of Aaloo AnDay. Before the Beyghairat Brigade, there was Junoon. Junoon, the pulsating "sufi" rock band who came out with songs like Talaash, Ghaflat, and Intesaab.
Now you have Ali Azmat, former Junoon rocker, in the darbar of Zaid Hamid who would rather blame Taliban bombings on a conspiracy between the CIA, Indian agents of RAW and *gasps* the Mossad. And no one is making this up. Not even the supposed beyghairatoN who are supposedly aligned with the West. And as one who was a fan of Junoon, I think, bloody hell! What has happened to zehni ghulaami se honge kab hum azaad? One might ask where is the ghulaami as far as Zaid Hamid is concerned. Another will question the azaadi that Hamid and his friends and followers, including Imran Khan want.
It makes me think of that scene from Nicholas Ray's Rebel Without A Cause, where James Dean so powerfully and emotively cries out to his parents, You're tearing me apart!
Pakistan has been torn apart enough over the years. There has got to be a way for the rang baranga fabric to be put together again. And it can be done by Pakistanis themselves, many who are still waiting for that dawn to arrive. Waiting and hoping involve greater action. I hope that it goes beyond a song, out into the streets, out for freedom, secularism and justice.
All some of us can do from the sidelines is watch, wait and hope. Those of us who don't have the loads of cash supporting their interests, that is.
Primacy I
When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.
Paul's First Epistle to the Corinthians, Verse 11.It never fails. Every year, on certain well-wishing occasions, but especially her birthday, some of us ask our mother, "Was I the first? Was I the first to wish you a happy birthday?"
And she will tell us yes, or no.
It happens among us siblings as well. We want to be the first to wish each other many happy returns of the day. It is okay if we are not, but we really prefer being the first. As if somehow that action through words changes everything. Yet another part of the rivalry to which we never openly admit.
There is an industry that flourishes using primacy, or sibling rivalry. It may be tongue-in-cheek, but it is there.
It was past midnight. I wished her a happy birthday. And then I asked excitedly, "Am I the first?"
"Yes. Well, your brother did, actually." Youngest brother sent a bouquet of lovely flowers which was delivered yesterday afternoon.
"Yes, but the day of your birthday. I am, na?"
She intones in the affirmative. My heart leaps.
Some of us never put away childish things. I would like to think of it as being more child-like.
Mabrook! on this beautiful day to a beautiful woman!
14.11.11
The rain of stones is finished
From the Express Tribune:
which conflicts with the date given in the above report. Memory plays tricks where time is concerned, as I know from listening to arguments about births and deaths in the family.
The image of someone being tortured in the Lahore Fort is a visceral one. Torture is that, as it is, but I had been to the Lahore Fort a number of times as a child, and wandering through the halls of the old Mughal edifice, it never occurred to me that this was a place where people were tortured in the twentieth century.
Reading the poem with the knowledge that it is about a man who was killed, makes it even more poignant. I can post it here in (roman) Urdu, but I am not finding an English translation.
Reading this report here, I still feel I know so little about Hasan Nasir.
I knew nothing of Hasan Nasir before I read Faiz Ahmad Faiz. It was in Agha Shahid Ali's translation of Faiz' ghazals/poems in a collection The Rebel's Silhouette that I read khat'm hui barish-e-sang - the rain of stones is finished. There is an epigraph right before the poem in Urdu, and its translation:He added that Nasir was born in 1928 to an aristocratic family of Hyderabad Deccan and became a communist while studying at the University of Cambridge. He became a member of the CPP soon after it was formed and banned after the 1951 Rawalpindi conspiracy. As a result, the government started a crack down on leftists. In 1954, he was in and out of jail and was also exiled for a year. “He went to Deccan when he was exiled but managed to return to Pakistan the day his sentence was over,” he said. “Nasir’s commitment to the cause was commendable.”By 1957, he joined the National Awami Party where he flourished as a communist leader. He was last arrested on August 2, 1960 and killed in a cell at the Lahore Fort in November at the age of 32.
(for Hassan Nasir, tortured to death in the Lahore Fort, 1959)
which conflicts with the date given in the above report. Memory plays tricks where time is concerned, as I know from listening to arguments about births and deaths in the family.
The image of someone being tortured in the Lahore Fort is a visceral one. Torture is that, as it is, but I had been to the Lahore Fort a number of times as a child, and wandering through the halls of the old Mughal edifice, it never occurred to me that this was a place where people were tortured in the twentieth century.
Reading the poem with the knowledge that it is about a man who was killed, makes it even more poignant. I can post it here in (roman) Urdu, but I am not finding an English translation.
Na gahan aaj meray taar e nazar se kaT gaye
TukRay TukRay huay aafaq pe khursheed o qamar
Ab kisi samt andhera na ujala hoga
Bujh gaye dil ki tarah raah e wafa meray baad
Dosto qaflai dard ka ab kya hoga
Ab koi aur kare parvarish e gulshan e gham
Dosto khat'm hui didai tar ki shabnam
tham gya shor e junoon khat'm hui barish e sang
Khaak e reh aaj liye hai lab e dildar ka rang
Koo e janan maiN khula mere lahoo ka parcham
Dekhiye dete haiN kis kis ko sada mere baad
Kaun hota hai hareef e mae mard afgan e ishq
Hai muqarrar saqi pe sala mere baadIt is a poem which describes nothingness. Everything in the heavens is scattered to bits. Nothing is in his vision any longer. There is neither light nor dark. Let someone else tend to the flowers. The noise of the crowds has gone, the rain of stones is finished . . . .
Reading this report here, I still feel I know so little about Hasan Nasir.
Urdu maiN baat kareN!
Trying to get my mother to speak with me in Urdu is a gargantuan task.
It is not that she does not speak the language any longer. I have heard her use it in her usually muted prayers. When she speaks to her relatives, she uses words I never have heard before. I KNOW she KNOWS one of her native tongues very well. Both, actually, as she speaks Punjabi as well.
Her cousin and I were joking about this over a phone conversation once.
This does not happen with us immigrants only. It happens with Pakistanis who have been educated in Pakistan (and live in Pakistan). Especially in English medium schools that at least when I was in school, were still operating more or less on a British system. Listen to some of their interviews. They are never entirely in Urdu.
When we left Pakistan in 1979 and arrived in a very small town in Amreeka (after a month in Canada), I always had this mix of amusement and frustration with people who commented on how well I spoke English (among other assumptions they made). For my part, I always have wished I could speak Urdu and Punjabi better.
***
Not that I did not understand my mother's predicament before, but I understand it much better after having studied various languages only to lose most or all of what I learned because I hardly ever used it.
I recently had a job interview where I was tested in Spanish. I did my undergraduate degree in Romance Languages (French and Spanish), I thought I was going to do graduate work in Spanish but switched to English literature instead. I used Spanish whenever I could once I was in grad school because I did not want to lose it, but those I knew who spoke it left, and the less I used it, the more my vocabulary slipped, to the point where I could still say I was fluent, but not even close to native speaker fluent.
I did not do all that well in the Spanish test, though I suspect that is not the only reason I did not get the job.
My mother lives in a small town where there are hardly any Pakistanis or Indians. She speaks in English most of the time. She thinks in English. Urdu does not come to her immediately when anyone speaks to her, not even her relatives. It is simply easier for her to speak in English but it often presents a problem for some of us (okay maybe just me) who want to keep our languages going for fear we may lose them. I never was a good student in Urdu as it was, but I am the only one of my siblings who can read Urdu in nastaliq (the script) without having to sound out the letters (even if adabi/journalistic Urdu will always be problematic for me). I am the only one who studied Urdu until Class IX. It would be a shame to wake up one morning and have it all disappear.
Which is why when South Asian chat rooms and social networking sites came along, I was only too happy to be a part of them. Until the Indo-Pak name calling and the chest-thumping patriotism got to the point where I had to say khudahafiz, rabb rakkha, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
***
The other day my father and I were having a conversation, mostly in English. And he inserted the word "seTh" in one of the topics. Then as he is wont to do, he asked me if I knew what the word meant. I told him I did, which is never enough for him because then he wants me to tell him WHAT the word means. I began telling him in Urdu, and he interrupts, "Urdu se angrezi maiN tarjumah karo!"
I gave him the wrong answer. In my head I know what a "seTh" is, but at least the answer I gave him was related.
***
The previous day, I told my mother I wanted to speak with her in Urdu. I tried to explain to her that I was afraid that if I did not speak it often enough, or hear it often enough, it was going to slip away from me. She gave me the usual it does not come easy to me bit. I began speaking to her. She immediately replied in English.
"Mommy! Urdu maiN baat kareN!"
"No." She said, "I cannot do it on command. I am not going to."
You can lead a mother to Urdu, but you cannot make her speak!
Chalo, there is always YouTube. Until I move back to a bigger city, that is.
It is not that she does not speak the language any longer. I have heard her use it in her usually muted prayers. When she speaks to her relatives, she uses words I never have heard before. I KNOW she KNOWS one of her native tongues very well. Both, actually, as she speaks Punjabi as well.
Her cousin and I were joking about this over a phone conversation once.
Naveeda: Jab bhi meiN ammi ke saath Urdu maiN baat karti hooN, voh angrezi maiN jawaab deti haiN.
Maamoo: Jab bhi meiN baji ke saath Punjabi maiN baat karta hooN, voh Urdu maiN jawaab deti haiN.It seems neither of us can win! She replies in English to my Urdu, and in Urdu to his Punjabi. And these days if we do speak in Urdu, it is more like Urdenglish.
This does not happen with us immigrants only. It happens with Pakistanis who have been educated in Pakistan (and live in Pakistan). Especially in English medium schools that at least when I was in school, were still operating more or less on a British system. Listen to some of their interviews. They are never entirely in Urdu.
When we left Pakistan in 1979 and arrived in a very small town in Amreeka (after a month in Canada), I always had this mix of amusement and frustration with people who commented on how well I spoke English (among other assumptions they made). For my part, I always have wished I could speak Urdu and Punjabi better.
***
Not that I did not understand my mother's predicament before, but I understand it much better after having studied various languages only to lose most or all of what I learned because I hardly ever used it.
I recently had a job interview where I was tested in Spanish. I did my undergraduate degree in Romance Languages (French and Spanish), I thought I was going to do graduate work in Spanish but switched to English literature instead. I used Spanish whenever I could once I was in grad school because I did not want to lose it, but those I knew who spoke it left, and the less I used it, the more my vocabulary slipped, to the point where I could still say I was fluent, but not even close to native speaker fluent.
I did not do all that well in the Spanish test, though I suspect that is not the only reason I did not get the job.
My mother lives in a small town where there are hardly any Pakistanis or Indians. She speaks in English most of the time. She thinks in English. Urdu does not come to her immediately when anyone speaks to her, not even her relatives. It is simply easier for her to speak in English but it often presents a problem for some of us (okay maybe just me) who want to keep our languages going for fear we may lose them. I never was a good student in Urdu as it was, but I am the only one of my siblings who can read Urdu in nastaliq (the script) without having to sound out the letters (even if adabi/journalistic Urdu will always be problematic for me). I am the only one who studied Urdu until Class IX. It would be a shame to wake up one morning and have it all disappear.
Which is why when South Asian chat rooms and social networking sites came along, I was only too happy to be a part of them. Until the Indo-Pak name calling and the chest-thumping patriotism got to the point where I had to say khudahafiz, rabb rakkha, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
***
The other day my father and I were having a conversation, mostly in English. And he inserted the word "seTh" in one of the topics. Then as he is wont to do, he asked me if I knew what the word meant. I told him I did, which is never enough for him because then he wants me to tell him WHAT the word means. I began telling him in Urdu, and he interrupts, "Urdu se angrezi maiN tarjumah karo!"
I gave him the wrong answer. In my head I know what a "seTh" is, but at least the answer I gave him was related.
***
The previous day, I told my mother I wanted to speak with her in Urdu. I tried to explain to her that I was afraid that if I did not speak it often enough, or hear it often enough, it was going to slip away from me. She gave me the usual it does not come easy to me bit. I began speaking to her. She immediately replied in English.
"Mommy! Urdu maiN baat kareN!"
"No." She said, "I cannot do it on command. I am not going to."
You can lead a mother to Urdu, but you cannot make her speak!
Chalo, there is always YouTube. Until I move back to a bigger city, that is.
Homonym?
We used to fight over a particular spot in what we called the TV room. It was the edge of an armless sofa that was closest to the television. The fight was one of many my youngest brother and I had. Our sister and brother were away in boarding school, and there were hardly any neighborhood children to befriend. My youngest brother was not always appreciative of the fact that I wanted to tag along with him, or tell him what to do.
That room, which became our haven, used to be part of the longish covered verandah that stretched from one end of the house, continued behind the drawing room, and ended behind my bedroom. A sparse, uninviting porch most times, save for the money plant vines and the ping pong table we inherited from the previous residents. It was the section behind my room that was converted into the place to watch television, rather than the recently redecorated elegant drawing room. A great place to hang out in the hellishly hot Lahore summers because that was where the air conditioner was.
My brother and I were watching television that night, one of us not wanting to rise from that coveted spot for fear that the throne would be usurped. It did not matter that we shouted out "same places!" before going anywhere.
Mommy walked into the room, beautiful as ever in a caramel colored shalwar kameez, with her favorite shade of red lipstick and her Madhubala looks. Or was it Meena Kumari? Some men in the street hollered one actress' name while others called out another. She was followed by this thing flitting in the air, this insect flapping its transparent wings to and fro as it hovered around her. The parvaana to her shama.
We saw how it wanted her, and how oblivious she was to it. Her mind was preoccupied as always with so many concerns besides her ailing mother who was in my room. We jumped up and down in front of her, pointing at her, shrieking, "Mommy, moth! Moth! MOTH!"
Mommy was horrified. The patient, smiling face was replaced by fiery eyes, her voice changed from melodic to deafening.
"Chup karo!" She shouted, "Why are you screaming that word? That is a terrible thing to say to your mother. You should not be talking about such things anyway; you are far too young!"
I did not know about my brother, but it dawned on me why she was upset. Especially with Naniji in the next room. We were still getting over the loss of Nanaji, only to see the woman he loved weakening every day; that courage and will we all thought propelled by her faith diminishing in some of our eyes.
"Mommy, we were pointing at the moth flying around you. Not maut. The moth." I explained, my voice up a few notches. She calmed down, finally saw what the ruckus was about, and let out a hum of a giggle. We laughed with her. She left us to check on her mother.
My brother and I went back to our television viewing, and quarreling.
That room, which became our haven, used to be part of the longish covered verandah that stretched from one end of the house, continued behind the drawing room, and ended behind my bedroom. A sparse, uninviting porch most times, save for the money plant vines and the ping pong table we inherited from the previous residents. It was the section behind my room that was converted into the place to watch television, rather than the recently redecorated elegant drawing room. A great place to hang out in the hellishly hot Lahore summers because that was where the air conditioner was.
My brother and I were watching television that night, one of us not wanting to rise from that coveted spot for fear that the throne would be usurped. It did not matter that we shouted out "same places!" before going anywhere.
Mommy walked into the room, beautiful as ever in a caramel colored shalwar kameez, with her favorite shade of red lipstick and her Madhubala looks. Or was it Meena Kumari? Some men in the street hollered one actress' name while others called out another. She was followed by this thing flitting in the air, this insect flapping its transparent wings to and fro as it hovered around her. The parvaana to her shama.
We saw how it wanted her, and how oblivious she was to it. Her mind was preoccupied as always with so many concerns besides her ailing mother who was in my room. We jumped up and down in front of her, pointing at her, shrieking, "Mommy, moth! Moth! MOTH!"
Mommy was horrified. The patient, smiling face was replaced by fiery eyes, her voice changed from melodic to deafening.
"Chup karo!" She shouted, "Why are you screaming that word? That is a terrible thing to say to your mother. You should not be talking about such things anyway; you are far too young!"
I did not know about my brother, but it dawned on me why she was upset. Especially with Naniji in the next room. We were still getting over the loss of Nanaji, only to see the woman he loved weakening every day; that courage and will we all thought propelled by her faith diminishing in some of our eyes.
"Mommy, we were pointing at the moth flying around you. Not maut. The moth." I explained, my voice up a few notches. She calmed down, finally saw what the ruckus was about, and let out a hum of a giggle. We laughed with her. She left us to check on her mother.
My brother and I went back to our television viewing, and quarreling.
13.11.11
Monster Boxes
It took a while for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. There was a sliver of light which pierced through the thick curtains and shone on the black and white tile on the ground. The cold checkered surface on which she sat made her shiver. She could not remember how she got to the floor from the large bed that she shared with her brother and sometimes her mother when their father was out most of the night. Almost every evening, Rakhil and her brother Jibreel massaged their mother's legs, and took turns walking on them. It gave great comfort after a long day of being on her feet doing the housekeeping and keeping an eye on two small children.
Rakhil could not stand and had to crawl. Her body moved only a few steps when a giant cardboard box blocked her path. She tried pushing it aside but it would not budge. Going in another direction did not help as another box kept her from advancing. Fear took over as another attempt was made only to be thwarted by another container and another, and yet another.
She rolled back to where she sat with bottom on floor and legs arched. All she could see around her was a moving coil of monster boxes. Trapped, she felt as if a drum was pounding against her insides. There was nowhere else for her to go. She sobbed quietly, covering her eyes with her tiny hands.
Unaware of how much time had passed, Rakhil opened her eyes to the brightness of the day. She was back on the bed. Her mother caressed her curlytop head, It's okay baby. Everything is going to be fine. Mommy looked beautiful. Her red lips curved upward and her thick black wavy hair freed of its usual ponytail, was a halo framing her face.
Tears still slid out of the corners of Rakhil's eyes. It took her some time to erase the notion that the monster boxes of the previous night were real.
Copyright Naveeda Valentina
Voh bhooli dastaan . . . .
Three months ago, I wrote about Radiant Reader(s), the texts that I read in English Literature classes from Class III to about Class VI or VII, exactly and approximately. And the response I got was from a couple of Indians. Upon seeing that, I thought, hmmm, here is something else that some Pakistanis and Indians share, and which might bring us to a civil conversation.
I remember bits and pieces within some of the Radiant Readers. I remember the colors in some kind of order, red, blue, green, orange (or was orange before green? akh!). Khair, as I said in the previous piece, if anyone can remind me what The Ungrateful Larch was about, I will appreciate you forever!
***
As some of you already may have brilliantly deducted, I am a child of the sixties and seventies. One day, while at the library, I was thinking about the old Penguin hardcovers from that time, and earlier. I turned to the internet in hopes of finding something that approximated the ones I had, or borrowed, but the usually helpful web was not so much this time around.
Owning a Penguin hardcover was something of a beauty, and a rarity as they were not inexpensive. I had five of them myself. At the front was the title, and the author's name, with interesting artwork, and at the back, a long list of titles available through Penguin Classics. Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility cover had a light brown background, with a sketch of a man and a woman in a buggy (Willoughby and Marianne), and a woman with a white bonnet and parasol. Charles Kingsley's The Water Babies, had this aqua green background with plump babies underwater, perhaps some inhabitants (and bubbles?). Almost always you could connect the art of the cover with the content of the novel.
I wish I had held on to some of my books, but a lot gets lost while moving, and much is left behind when moving from one country to another, as we did in 1979.
Geoff Dyer, in the NYT:
I remember bits and pieces within some of the Radiant Readers. I remember the colors in some kind of order, red, blue, green, orange (or was orange before green? akh!). Khair, as I said in the previous piece, if anyone can remind me what The Ungrateful Larch was about, I will appreciate you forever!
***
As some of you already may have brilliantly deducted, I am a child of the sixties and seventies. One day, while at the library, I was thinking about the old Penguin hardcovers from that time, and earlier. I turned to the internet in hopes of finding something that approximated the ones I had, or borrowed, but the usually helpful web was not so much this time around.
Owning a Penguin hardcover was something of a beauty, and a rarity as they were not inexpensive. I had five of them myself. At the front was the title, and the author's name, with interesting artwork, and at the back, a long list of titles available through Penguin Classics. Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility cover had a light brown background, with a sketch of a man and a woman in a buggy (Willoughby and Marianne), and a woman with a white bonnet and parasol. Charles Kingsley's The Water Babies, had this aqua green background with plump babies underwater, perhaps some inhabitants (and bubbles?). Almost always you could connect the art of the cover with the content of the novel.
I wish I had held on to some of my books, but a lot gets lost while moving, and much is left behind when moving from one country to another, as we did in 1979.
Geoff Dyer, in the NYT:
There is a widespread nostalgic fondness for the first Penguins, with their bands of color that made every book look the same within whichever category of writing — green for crime, purple for . . . something else? The same is true of the early Modern Classics featuring drawings, but for someone of my age — born 1958, buying and reading from the mid-1970s — these editions were the stuff of used-book stores. They all looked pretty much the same: old, dreary and therefore oxymoronically unmodern. Whereas the 1970s livery with titles and authors’ names in sharply discreet Helvetica was the pristine look of modernity — sometimes modernism — itself.You can read the entire article, here.
"Ooh that smell. Can't you smell that smell?"
I am not watching the Republican debates in their entirety. Even listening to a clip can be a torment at times, depending on who it is that is talking.
Ammi's house, last night, I have no clue why they were watching the Republican debates. I wander through the dark hallway to get to the kitchen, and the volume is cranked up. I hear Herman Cain saying something to the effect that waterboarding is not "torture" but rather "an enhanced interrogation technique", and that he would endorse that as president.
The applause to this remark was immense. I was sickened to my stomach. Then there was the whipping up of fear about Iran, Bachmann's delusions about Obama and the ACLU, all this in a span of less than five minutes.
It felt like those times when we were driving west on the highway, and passed by a town with a mill. From that mill, emanated such a putrid smell that lingered for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles.
***
Nadeem F. Paracha in Dawn:
Read his opinion piece here
Ammi's house, last night, I have no clue why they were watching the Republican debates. I wander through the dark hallway to get to the kitchen, and the volume is cranked up. I hear Herman Cain saying something to the effect that waterboarding is not "torture" but rather "an enhanced interrogation technique", and that he would endorse that as president.
The applause to this remark was immense. I was sickened to my stomach. Then there was the whipping up of fear about Iran, Bachmann's delusions about Obama and the ACLU, all this in a span of less than five minutes.
It felt like those times when we were driving west on the highway, and passed by a town with a mill. From that mill, emanated such a putrid smell that lingered for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles.
***
Nadeem F. Paracha in Dawn:
Take for instance how many of them responded to the UK court’s verdict on the three Pakistani spot-fixing cricketers. Last year when the spot-fixing scandal broke, positive thinking dictated that the cricketers must be supported because both international and local negative forces that are always relentlessly conspiring to blacken the country’s name were most probably behind this event as well. And thanks to many of our positive media personnel it seemed that for a while, Salman Butt, Muhammad Amir and Muhammad Asif, were about to become the male equivalents of Aafia Siddiqui (remember her of the ‘I shot the sheriff’ fame?).But, alas, a little more than a year later when the three were proven guilty in court and sent to prison, all hell broke loose. No, there were no rallies against the ruling or condemnation of the verdict like Ms Aafia’s (another convicted felon in the US).Instead, people began burning the three stupid cricketers’ effigies, cursing them for blackening the country’s name.So the negative old me decided to tweet a question: How come there are stones and curses for a spot-fixer but rallies and rose petals for a killer? By killer I meant you know who.As the positives came rushing in (on Twitter) to condemn my negative question, I kept on wondering. Wondering how come so many Pakistanis and the media are ready to pour out and passionately demand that certain corrupt cricketers or politicians be lynched, but then the same people shower praises on self-appointed defenders of the faith who commit murder, or look the other way when some other self-appointees in this respect go about their business of blowing up mosques, shrines, schools and markets?But, then, I understand. Why disturb one’s healthy positive aura and vibe with awkward questions. Why complicate things. I mean, all this might lead to negative thinking thus cynicism, unpatriotic thoughts and perhaps even atheism, no?
Read his opinion piece here
12.11.11
The wedding detectives
Rajini Vaidyanathan in India Direct on the BBC writes of the growing number of Indians who are hiring private detectives to check up on a prospective bride or groom's character, among other things:
Read the entire article here.
It's one thing to be certain that the person you're going to marry is the right person, but there is something really troubling about going to this extreme . . .
A growing number of cases also concern the character of the would-be mother-in-law, says Usha, a private detective with Mumbai's Venus Detective agency.
"We study the mother-in-law," says Usha. "How many times does she get angry, how many times does she throws the vessels out, how many times does she go shopping, what does she spend her money on. We understand everything about her and then put it in writing."
Pre-matrimonial investigations are increasingly common. There are around 15,000 such companies offering across India, conducting an average of 50-100 investigations a month during peak wedding season, says Kumar Vikram Singh, chairman of the Association of Private Detectives of India (APDI).
That amounts to one million active cases during this period, a growth of 300% in the past five years, he says.
More Indians are choosing their own partner online, instead of having an arranged marriage through their parents, Singh says. As the internet spreads throughout India, people in smaller cities and towns are meeting through the web rather than family connections.
The private investigation business is not regulated in India. "It is neither legal nor illegal," says Rai, who adds a bill has been going through the Indian parliament for some time in an attempt to create a set of guidelines for the industry.
Mr Singh denies this practice amounts to any sort of spying, and says in the Indian cultural context it is perfectly ethical. "The matrimonial concept is very different from the Western one. You are sending your daughter to someone's house, so you need to find out where she is going.
"There is an acceptability, not defined in the law books, that each family will carry out their own investigation with their own methodology and find out information about each other."
But not everyone is supportive of the practice. For some the idea of these checks amounts to an unnecessary invasion of privacy.
Manish, whose name we have changed, suspects he may have been the subject of such enquiries. Friends of his were approached by a very old acquaintance who was extremely curious about his past relationships.
"One of my old friends was asked whether I had a girlfriend at college, by someone they barely knew. I did have one in the past, but didn't want it to affect my wedding. I'll never know 100 per cent whether it was a detective, but I have my suspicions."
Manish believes this level of investigation is unwarranted and can lead to a sense of mistrust at the beginning of a marriage.
Read the entire article here.
It's one thing to be certain that the person you're going to marry is the right person, but there is something really troubling about going to this extreme . . .
Conjugation(s)
I was just thinking of those heady days (!) when it was time for Urdu grammar class and we were conjugating verbs. We used to draw these rectangular boxes and form columns, which was a pain in the ass because mine were always so sloppy. The columns were never even for those who demanded perfection.
If memory serves me correctly we called the conjugation box a gardaan. An Urdu expert is welcome to correct me on that. I was never good at Urdu grammar or composition. Letters had to be addressed and written a certain way. I was a rebel. I did not want to write formal letters. I wanted to write the way I talked. Christopher Hitchens used to tell his writing classes that anybody who could talk could also write. Well, I did not talk so pretty in Urdu, or English for that matter.
So the verb for to be in Urdu is hona (the h is not silent. the o like the o in bone)
meiN hooN - I am
tum ho - You are
vo hai - he/she/it is
hum haiN - we are
aap haiN - you (pl.) are
vo haiN - they are
At least that is how the verb is conjugated here. But perhaps they do not want to confuse you right away. I don't know if this site tells you that the plural you -- aap -- is not just used in the plural. We use it as the formal you, like usted in Spanish. For example, it would be highly rude and improper for us to address our elders as tum, or tu, ever (unless they do not give a fuck about such proprieties, and the elders in my family have always done so.).
I always have found it interesting and amusing that we address god as tu, tum, tumhara. Like in the Lord's Prayer. Ay hamare baap, tu jo aasmaan par hai, tera naam pak maana jaye, teri badshahat aaye . . .
but we address our elders as aap.
If god does not care about tu ya aap, why the hell do we? I know, silly question.
note: I capitalize the N, at the end, to differentiate the urdu letter noon (n) from the noon guna where the N is not pronounced. It is differentiated in our script as the noon without the dot.
End of Urdu lesson for today. :-)
If memory serves me correctly we called the conjugation box a gardaan. An Urdu expert is welcome to correct me on that. I was never good at Urdu grammar or composition. Letters had to be addressed and written a certain way. I was a rebel. I did not want to write formal letters. I wanted to write the way I talked. Christopher Hitchens used to tell his writing classes that anybody who could talk could also write. Well, I did not talk so pretty in Urdu, or English for that matter.
So the verb for to be in Urdu is hona (the h is not silent. the o like the o in bone)
meiN hooN - I am
tum ho - You are
vo hai - he/she/it is
hum haiN - we are
aap haiN - you (pl.) are
vo haiN - they are
At least that is how the verb is conjugated here. But perhaps they do not want to confuse you right away. I don't know if this site tells you that the plural you -- aap -- is not just used in the plural. We use it as the formal you, like usted in Spanish. For example, it would be highly rude and improper for us to address our elders as tum, or tu, ever (unless they do not give a fuck about such proprieties, and the elders in my family have always done so.).
I always have found it interesting and amusing that we address god as tu, tum, tumhara. Like in the Lord's Prayer. Ay hamare baap, tu jo aasmaan par hai, tera naam pak maana jaye, teri badshahat aaye . . .
but we address our elders as aap.
If god does not care about tu ya aap, why the hell do we? I know, silly question.
note: I capitalize the N, at the end, to differentiate the urdu letter noon (n) from the noon guna where the N is not pronounced. It is differentiated in our script as the noon without the dot.
End of Urdu lesson for today. :-)
What's in a title?
A title by any other name . . . .
For all the blogs I have begun, and ended, it was always important to have the title and the contents of the blog connect. My last blog began as Signifying Nothing and continued as All The World's A Stage. The former may have made more sense given my penchant for bakbak (I really should not say things like this, people may take me seriously), but I suppose the latter was just as appropriate.
This time around, Mirza Ghalib's ghazal, HazaaroN khwahisheiN aisi ka har khwahish pe dam nikle, had been playing in my head, particularly since Jagjit Singh's death. There are some poets I feel I should not translate and Ghalib is one of them, because to me, his words do not deserve a rough translation. And yet I bastardized the first three words of his ghazal! O----kay!
Are desires connected to what I am writing right now? Let us see: the desire to live, the desire to be free (whatever that means), the desire for security and a really good meal, the desire for good art. Yes, these could multiply into hazaaroN khwahishein.
So, no, I will not change my blog title to something like GaRbaR, or Juti khaldi maRor naiyo chaldi, or The Nonsense Blog. Or anything Marxian (as in Groucho, Chico or Harpo). Or anything else.
Chalo, neurotic monologue khatam! Back to regular programming.
For all the blogs I have begun, and ended, it was always important to have the title and the contents of the blog connect. My last blog began as Signifying Nothing and continued as All The World's A Stage. The former may have made more sense given my penchant for bakbak (I really should not say things like this, people may take me seriously), but I suppose the latter was just as appropriate.
This time around, Mirza Ghalib's ghazal, HazaaroN khwahisheiN aisi ka har khwahish pe dam nikle, had been playing in my head, particularly since Jagjit Singh's death. There are some poets I feel I should not translate and Ghalib is one of them, because to me, his words do not deserve a rough translation. And yet I bastardized the first three words of his ghazal! O----kay!
Are desires connected to what I am writing right now? Let us see: the desire to live, the desire to be free (whatever that means), the desire for security and a really good meal, the desire for good art. Yes, these could multiply into hazaaroN khwahishein.
So, no, I will not change my blog title to something like GaRbaR, or Juti khaldi maRor naiyo chaldi, or The Nonsense Blog. Or anything Marxian (as in Groucho, Chico or Harpo). Or anything else.
Chalo, neurotic monologue khatam! Back to regular programming.
11.11.11
Chingari koi bhadke
This is one of my favorite songs sung by Kishore Kumar. It is from the film Amar Prem (Eternal or Immortal Love) and this scene has the once superstar (always?) Rajesh Khanna as Anand babu and the beautiful Sharmila Tagore as the courtesan Pushpa.
If Rajesh Khanna had a "signature" playback singer it was Kishoreda. And Khanna usually did his best to reflect the emotion in the song. Kishoreda did a better job, of course.
A famous line from the film: Pushpa, I hate tears.
***
All the songs in this film are rather good, Anand Bakshi, in his prolific years penned the lyrics. This one poses questions that do not necessarily have answers, but they do make you think. I shall translate the first couplet - very roughly of course.
This is a song that deals with loss and pain. Both Anand babu and Pushpa have been dealt blows (not from each other), and it is Anand that tries in his own muddled way to draw Pushpa out of her sadness, as she does for him.
In my maekaddah, these lyrics are appropriate:
If Rajesh Khanna had a "signature" playback singer it was Kishoreda. And Khanna usually did his best to reflect the emotion in the song. Kishoreda did a better job, of course.
A famous line from the film: Pushpa, I hate tears.
***
All the songs in this film are rather good, Anand Bakshi, in his prolific years penned the lyrics. This one poses questions that do not necessarily have answers, but they do make you think. I shall translate the first couplet - very roughly of course.
When a spark is ignited then the rain puts it out
When the rain lights a fire, who puts that out?Throughout the song, the "savior" turns on its head and becomes the destroyer. And once that happens, the question of who will respond to the destruction is posed. Is there such a thing as a hero, a savior, a beloved who will not betray one at some point? To answer that question does not seem to be possible.
This is a song that deals with loss and pain. Both Anand babu and Pushpa have been dealt blows (not from each other), and it is Anand that tries in his own muddled way to draw Pushpa out of her sadness, as she does for him.
In my maekaddah, these lyrics are appropriate:
Peete haiN tau zinda haiN. Na peete tau mar jate
I drink therefore I live. If not I would die.
One person's luck . . . another person's misfortune
It happened twice this week.
The first time was when I was at the community college. I was scrounging for change in my pocket in order to get a drink from the vending machine. Short ten cents. I heaved a deep sigh and pushed the button to return my money. The quarters in my hand were more than the money inserted in the first place.
In situations like this, I am no longer certain what to do. My tortured conscience tells me that I should find a way to return the money to the person to whom it belonged. The broke person recalls the finders keepers of her childhood (without the losers weepers). Guiltily, I use the extra money to get that drink that will keep me from visiting the water fountain for a while.
The second time was this morning. I was on my way to the grocery store and had barely made the turn from our house when I saw a five dollar bill on the pebbled ground. I reached to pick it up. It was wet, which made my OCD self rather uncomfortable. Once I began walking again, that good old conscience began poking me. I called my mother and since I was still in the vicinity of our neighbors, spoke in Urdu. "MeiN ne zameen se paanch dollar ka note uThaiya. Ho sakta hai ye kal merey jaib se gir giya ho, par ho sakta hai ye mera nahiN."
My mother was of the opinion that it was mine and must have fallen from my pocket. I decided to adopt this "theory". Holding on to the five dollar note for the entire time in one hand, I walked to the store, and as I wandered through the aisles picking up milk, olive oil, soap, toothpaste, I was determined that regardless of which one of us actually deserved to get that five dollar note, I would find a way to pay it forward.
As I was leaving, I saw a table where they were collecting money for the disabled veterans of America . . .
How lucky could I have been this week? And how much may another person have profited from the same thing?
Trois Couleurs. Bleu. Blanc. Rouge
David Hudson writes in Notebook:
The late Krzysztof Kieslowski's Trois Couleurs series is to be released on DVD and Blu-ray by the Criterion Collection this Tuesday, the 15th. I remember when these movies had their cinematic releases in the nineteen nineties. If memory serves correctly, White and Red were the ones I saw in the cinema. Memory struggles to see if I saw them in any particular order, but perhaps that is irrelevant.
I struggled with Blue the first time I saw it. It took a second viewing for me to truly appreciate not just the story but the artifice in the telling. David Hudson refers to Derek Malcolm's review of White in The Guardian. Malcolm writes how it is "less stylish" than Blue or Red with which I would agree. Perhaps it is Malcolm's assessment that White feels "truer" that got me to appreciate it - but less than Red.
What I loved about Red outside of the stylistic is the growing relationship between the young student/model, Irene Jacob and the elderly retired judge, Jean-Louis Trintignant.
Isolation, loneliness, a pessimistic optimism (or optimistic pessimism) and transformation all featured in Kieslowski's trilogy. And yes, to some, these films may have been perceived as contrived. But also, yes, we can now re-view these beyond the hype and see that they have stood the test of time as haunting dramatic sections of a poem set to beautiful music.
Read the rest of David Hudson's piece, here
Update, 11/10: For the Guardian's Peter Bradshaw, "there is a definite touch of dinner-party trendiness that clings to the memory of these movies now, together with a touch of critical doubt, a suspicion that the Three Colors were contrived, over-determined, self-conscious and slow. When the third of these films, Three Colors: Red, was beaten for the Palme D'Or at the 1994 Cannes film festival by Quentin Tarantino's Pulp Fiction, it was a real market correction for a certain type of high arthouse cinema. Well, the bygone hype that once surrounded the Three Colors may have dated. But watched again sympathetically, the movies themselves stand up, not as the dreamy conversation-pieces of a thousand studenty parties – with blokes pretending to like them to impress their dates – but as an operatic triptych, a dramatic cine-poem of intense strangeness, indulgent and confident, set somewhere which looks like the real world, but isn't."
The late Krzysztof Kieslowski's Trois Couleurs series is to be released on DVD and Blu-ray by the Criterion Collection this Tuesday, the 15th. I remember when these movies had their cinematic releases in the nineteen nineties. If memory serves correctly, White and Red were the ones I saw in the cinema. Memory struggles to see if I saw them in any particular order, but perhaps that is irrelevant.
I struggled with Blue the first time I saw it. It took a second viewing for me to truly appreciate not just the story but the artifice in the telling. David Hudson refers to Derek Malcolm's review of White in The Guardian. Malcolm writes how it is "less stylish" than Blue or Red with which I would agree. Perhaps it is Malcolm's assessment that White feels "truer" that got me to appreciate it - but less than Red.
What I loved about Red outside of the stylistic is the growing relationship between the young student/model, Irene Jacob and the elderly retired judge, Jean-Louis Trintignant.
Isolation, loneliness, a pessimistic optimism (or optimistic pessimism) and transformation all featured in Kieslowski's trilogy. And yes, to some, these films may have been perceived as contrived. But also, yes, we can now re-view these beyond the hype and see that they have stood the test of time as haunting dramatic sections of a poem set to beautiful music.
Read the rest of David Hudson's piece, here
On waiting in vain
He who has waited long enough, will wait forever. And there comes the hour when nothing more can happen and nobody more can come and all is ended but the waiting that knows itself in vain.
Samuel Beckett. Malone Dies. (1951)
10.11.11
JiveN marzi paka lo roTi, o tavey toN rehndi ai chhoTi
A-ha! The Aalu Anday song/video has made it to the New York Times! I guess the Western media relishes the fact that there is criticism of the fundoos and right-wingers in Pakistan. Anything to fuel their push is good. Never mind that protest has been going on in Pakistan since . . . its inception?! This is just another generation's take on the absurdistan (apologies to Gary Shteyngart) that is Pakistan.
Not that BB (Beygairat Brigade) was any less relevant or popular before - but thanks NYT for the added plug!
You can read the article here. (there's a link to the video in the article) - but in case you can't access it from there:
Not that BB (Beygairat Brigade) was any less relevant or popular before - but thanks NYT for the added plug!
You can read the article here. (there's a link to the video in the article) - but in case you can't access it from there:
9.11.11
Reading, Writing and sometimes Arithmetic
NaNoWriMo - National Novel Writing Month. The "No" in NaNoWriMo could also be for November, as this is the designated month for it. Run by a small non-profit called the Office of Letters and Light, it is an excellent way to push writers to begin, continue, finish that novel they just cannot seem to get done (or am I projecting again?!). An excellent way to share your creativity.
I tried NaNoWriMo before, I think it was two years ago, and life as usual, got in the way. This time around with over 17,000 words (the target is 50,000), a dent has definitely been made, and the novel's characters are pushing me to go on. They have been trapped long enough in my muddled head. Picture that video of Queen, cross-dressing, with the great Mercury singing I want to break free!
Oh, man, now I am singing NaNoWriMo to the refrain of Yah Mo B There. Stop in the name of . . . !!!
***
I just finished reading Abraham Verghese's The Tennis Partner: A Doctor's Story of Friendship and Loss. It was one of those books I found difficult to put down (though I had to. These days the only time I read is either in the wee hours of the morning, or right before I sleep). I have yet to read My Own Country, but did read excerpts from it. And if I can get Cutting for Stone through inter-library loan, I cannot wait to read it.
The Tennis Partner tells the story of Verghese's friendship with a former professional tennis player now medical student David Smith in the early years of the nineteen nineties. Verghese is the careful considerate teacher, guiding Smith through his internal medicine rotation. On the tennis court, Smith is the teacher, steering Verghese on how to improve his tennis game about which he remains rather self-conscious. These are the things that bring them together, but their friendship is solidified by the loneliness of two men who are both dealing with dark spots in their lives. For Verghese, it is his failing marriage. For Smith, it is his cocaine addiction and his relationship with his girlfriend(s).
--
I find it interesting to read about doctor's lives and their work, just as much as I enjoy watching television shows like E.R., House M.D, and Doc Martin. One of my parents is a doctor, and reading this book, I could not help but think of my father's life, and wonder whether he found that being in the medical profession fostered a certain loneliness or not. How that may have contributed to his relationship with us, in his choices.
--
It was difficult not to think of Eve Sedgwick and the homosocial as I read Verghese's thoughts and feelings towards Smith. One instance was David's feelings for Gloria, and Verghese's resentment towards her for the hold she had on him during their relationship. Homosociality is not to be confused with homosexuality or even bi-, as Verghese also wonders about Smith being bisexual and does not necessarily want to face that possibility.
--
These next few passages really hit close to home as I read them this morning (warning: spoilers!).
There are friends of mine who have committed suicide. One perhaps may not have intended to do so, even, but in returning to using (in his case it was heroin), overdosed on alcohol and heroin at a very depressing and painful time in his life. A time in which a number of us who thought we were his friends were not there, and perhaps could not have stopped him from the horror.
Human connections are not always enough, sadly, when one has divorced himself or herself from humanity (or believes that humanity has divorced itself from him). Secrets do not protect anyone. Certainly not those being kept in the dark, but especially the holder of a painful one. One can never completely heal from self-destruction if one does not let go of his or her secrets, and is able to face the world once they are released.
I could not help but thank Abraham Verghese while reading the above passages, because my own dark path has pushed me towards the brink, more than once, and I have been saved by the very things that have been important to him. The Tennis Partner is an excellent read. It shows Verghese as a brilliant diagnostician (we need more doctors like him!). It analyzes a close and beautiful friendship in a topsy turvy world -- its highs, its lows, the things we hold on to, and the things we let go. And it breaks open a world many of us know so little about - the world of medicine. Its ability to heal others, but not always the healers.
I tried NaNoWriMo before, I think it was two years ago, and life as usual, got in the way. This time around with over 17,000 words (the target is 50,000), a dent has definitely been made, and the novel's characters are pushing me to go on. They have been trapped long enough in my muddled head. Picture that video of Queen, cross-dressing, with the great Mercury singing I want to break free!
Oh, man, now I am singing NaNoWriMo to the refrain of Yah Mo B There. Stop in the name of . . . !!!
***
I just finished reading Abraham Verghese's The Tennis Partner: A Doctor's Story of Friendship and Loss. It was one of those books I found difficult to put down (though I had to. These days the only time I read is either in the wee hours of the morning, or right before I sleep). I have yet to read My Own Country, but did read excerpts from it. And if I can get Cutting for Stone through inter-library loan, I cannot wait to read it.
The Tennis Partner tells the story of Verghese's friendship with a former professional tennis player now medical student David Smith in the early years of the nineteen nineties. Verghese is the careful considerate teacher, guiding Smith through his internal medicine rotation. On the tennis court, Smith is the teacher, steering Verghese on how to improve his tennis game about which he remains rather self-conscious. These are the things that bring them together, but their friendship is solidified by the loneliness of two men who are both dealing with dark spots in their lives. For Verghese, it is his failing marriage. For Smith, it is his cocaine addiction and his relationship with his girlfriend(s).
--
I find it interesting to read about doctor's lives and their work, just as much as I enjoy watching television shows like E.R., House M.D, and Doc Martin. One of my parents is a doctor, and reading this book, I could not help but think of my father's life, and wonder whether he found that being in the medical profession fostered a certain loneliness or not. How that may have contributed to his relationship with us, in his choices.
--
It was difficult not to think of Eve Sedgwick and the homosocial as I read Verghese's thoughts and feelings towards Smith. One instance was David's feelings for Gloria, and Verghese's resentment towards her for the hold she had on him during their relationship. Homosociality is not to be confused with homosexuality or even bi-, as Verghese also wonders about Smith being bisexual and does not necessarily want to face that possibility.
--
These next few passages really hit close to home as I read them this morning (warning: spoilers!).
I have formed my own opinion. David's illness was far removed from the mere act of sticking a needle in a vein. I can only imagine that his disease began in childhood, and that it was a disease of the soul. I know almost nothing about his childhood, but I know that what he felt was universal. A child will always feel insufficient and powerless in a world of adults.
We grew up, and on the surface, we left our childish ways, overcame these feelings. Then, in the middle of the journey of our lives, we found ourselves, like Dante, on a dark path. It was there my road diverged from David's. My dark path, no matter how many times I relive it, would never have led to suicide. There was too much I believed in, too many things I held sacred. My escape from the dark path came from reaching out, primarily to him, but also to my parents, my brothers, my friends, a network of human connections. It was David's hand more than any other that pulled me free, set me back on my feet, made me feel I was not alone. Gratitude for that is at the root of my love for him (p. 340).Doctors see themselves as healers (and some have a God complex), but here is a very successful doctor who openly talks about the "dark path" he walks on, even as a healer, and how friendship and human connections can and do pull one off said path. These human connections are one (not the only) alternative to suicide when one finds that life is not worth living and one is completely alone in the world.
There are friends of mine who have committed suicide. One perhaps may not have intended to do so, even, but in returning to using (in his case it was heroin), overdosed on alcohol and heroin at a very depressing and painful time in his life. A time in which a number of us who thought we were his friends were not there, and perhaps could not have stopped him from the horror.
Human connections are not always enough, sadly, when one has divorced himself or herself from humanity (or believes that humanity has divorced itself from him). Secrets do not protect anyone. Certainly not those being kept in the dark, but especially the holder of a painful one. One can never completely heal from self-destruction if one does not let go of his or her secrets, and is able to face the world once they are released.
I could not help but thank Abraham Verghese while reading the above passages, because my own dark path has pushed me towards the brink, more than once, and I have been saved by the very things that have been important to him. The Tennis Partner is an excellent read. It shows Verghese as a brilliant diagnostician (we need more doctors like him!). It analyzes a close and beautiful friendship in a topsy turvy world -- its highs, its lows, the things we hold on to, and the things we let go. And it breaks open a world many of us know so little about - the world of medicine. Its ability to heal others, but not always the healers.