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!