Where's the shame?

The roads were slushy. Two boys sat near a puddle, cleaned some space in the rubble and squatted. There was a traffic jam. I could see as dollops of excreta fell off them. It would soon mix with the slush. They were chatting with each other unmindful of anything even as a cyclist took a short route from between the two of them.

We went off on our way. There were rows of what people called home. A large plastic drum of water took pride of place, a cot stood outside against a gunny sack ‘wall’, clothes washed in dirty water were drying on loose ropes. A woman wiped her face with the loose end of her saree; men sat vacant eyed. I do not know where they come from, but they are Indians.

Is India ashamed of their plight? Has anyone gone on fast for them? Any rallies? They wear synthetic clothes because it is easier to dry. Khadi, the symbol of Gandhi, is designer wear.

But the worst possible flaunting of it is by the popcorn crowd. At a fashion show they are flashing it:

So, why do we complain when poor kids defecate in the open? The shit is up there on the conscience catwalk.

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It is horribly sad that a 15-year-old suicide bomber entered a mosque in Peshawar. There were Friday prayers. 50 people died and almost 200 are injured. Is this not the month of faith? Why are they killing people, and believers at that?

And here in all our countries people are busy discussing the best dates to break the fast at iftaar. Do we have any shame? Some Pakistani bloke has decided to emulate the kneejerk Indian ‘revolt’ and go on a fast. Will he address the issue of such rampant carnages taking place every day in his country?

Peshawar was not what it was made out to be just a few years ago. They are independent-minded people. So, who are these people whose independence depends on demolishing others?

Everytime some outside forces enter they change the psychological landscape of a place. Yet, where is the feistiness of the locals that they destroy what is theirs and, in fact, play into the hands of those waiting to catch?

Character Assassination

I scrolled through the list of contacts on my cellphone. Tried first name, last name, middle name, nickname. Nothing. I could not find him. He was gone. Did he disappear or was he deleted? A gentle soul, I recall. He had shown me his city, taken me home, made me feel at home. Put up with my whims. We had sat in the muddy lanes on rickety charpoys and he took pictures of me with a bunch of kids. I saw the child in him, the man in him.

Salim was not there in my contacts. I wanted to get in touch. Call him up.

After days and days of feeling frustrated, I realised that I had forgotten his name. His name was not Salim. I had to change it to protect him. My guide in Peshawar had become a character in my book. And we don’t have real details of characters, do we? Often, we don’t have real details of people, too.

Sometimes, details give us too much meat and make us forget the bones, the stuff that flesh clings to.

Tracking Naheeda, the Pathan Village Woman

There was no chariness that Salim and Ali were chatting so openly with me, sitting cross-legged on a cot. Both the brothers liked their free-spirited young aunt, Naheeda.

Tracking Naheeda, the Pathan Village Woman
by Farzana Versey
State of Nature

She had not let childbirth and housework mar her looks, although some chubbiness had settled on her cheeks and chin. Her head was uncovered and her black hair was tied in a loose braid. ‘I want to work too, but I get no time. The schools are far, so I have to drop the children there. Women rule in the house. If I were under any restrictions, do you think I could talk to you in privacy? My husband is there praying, he could have stopped me.’ Just then he called out to her. She returned within minutes. ‘He has asked me not to let you leave without having lunch with us. He has to remind me to be a good hostess, I just talk so much that I forget basic manners.’ And what happened to the education she had acquired? ‘In future I don’t know, but for now my children will benefit. And it shows in the way I conduct my life. No one can boss over me.’ While her husband and mother-in-law were busy with their afternoon prayers, she did not feel it necessary to join them.

(Rest of this extract from A Journey Interrupted: Being Indian in Pakistan is at the link or the Journey blog)