A mosque in Manhattan

Now that it has got the final go-ahead, strange noises have started yet again: Why a mosque, why not a tikka masala joint? Oh, ok, but something like that.

I am reproducing what I wrote on December 10, 2009 in Ground Zero's New Heroes fully because it is likely to escalate into another 'Islamic' battle and subsequent to my writing it I did meet a couple of New York Muslims whose views echo mine.

Here it is:

Some might see it as a great move. I think it is one more sissy attempt at tolerance and reaching out. Religion is the culprit.

There is the World Trade Centre and two blocks away is the Burlington Coat factory. On 9/11, one of the planes crashed through two of its empty floors. For eight years it lay deserted. Things are different now. As the New York Times reported:

“But for months now, out of the public eye, an iron gate rises every Friday afternoon, and with the outside rumblings of construction at ground zero as a backdrop, hundreds of Muslims crowd inside, facing Mecca in prayer and listening to their imam read in Arabic from the Koran.”

I would truly like to take some quotes from the NYT to display just how puppy sweet can be bone-chewing wicked. Look at the catch phrases: out of the public eye, hundreds of Muslims crowd inside, facing Mecca in prayer, listening to their imam, read in Arabic from the Koran.

Of course, they will face Mecca and the Koran is written in Arabic and hey, dude, you can’t get an investment banker to preach and if he does in his spare time, he would be in his capacity as imam. I thought the NYT would know.

Apparently, this Friday ritual has a greater vision for

“an Islamic center near the city’s most hallowed piece of land that would stand as one of ground zero’s more unexpected and striking neighbors”

Most hallowed? And why is it unexpected to have a Muslim centre in the neighbourhood? The answer regarding the proximity “where a piece of the wreckage fell” comes from Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf, the cleric leading the project, when he says it

“sends the opposite statement to what happened on 9/11. We want to push back against the extremists”

These clerics ought to realise that in their enthusiasm to work up this pusillanimous business of peace they are further giving credence to stereotypes. What was the statement of 9/11 that can have an opposite one? Terrorists also pray and take the name of god, whichever stripe they are of. How can they push back terrorism?

The idea is as sick as those selling bits of wreckage soon after. It is sick to use a space as a statement. It is frightening that people of religion force those who practise their faith privately to become answerable to society even as citizens.

Acknowledging the possibility of a backlash from those opposed to a Muslim presence at ground zero, Joan Brown Campbell, director of the department of religion at the Chautauqua Institution and former general secretary of the National Council of Churches of Christ USA, said:

“Building so close is owning the tragedy. It’s a way of saying: ‘This is something done by people who call themselves Muslims. We want to be here to repair the breach, as the Bible says.’ ”

Oh dear. What does this mean? Why should New York Muslims who probably lead regular lives have to own up to a tragedy? Far worse is her quoting from the Bible and making the differences more palpable, a ‘you show me yours, I’ll show you mine’ kind of juvenile attempt at religious one-upmanship.

A few years ago when Benjamin Matthew Williams killed a gay couple outside a town in California he used the Bible as his inspiration:

“I’m not guilty of murder, I’m guilty of obeying the laws of the creator.”

The proposed centre is basing itself on a Jewish centre, and they want an interfaith dialogue. It is supposed to convey that these Muslims are willing to play ball with anyone who’s able. This rubbish about cultural give and take just does not work. What is cultural about people getting together under one roof and praying and everyone commenting about how they face Mecca and learn Arabic? Culture is what you do and not which holy book you read.

This is fairly prime real estate and the Centre might end up making quite a bit of money by getting brainwashed devotees to pay up and own up the tragedy and feel good about being, well, good. Sharif El-Gamal, chairman and chief executive of Soho Properties, of course, says:

“What happened that day was not Islam.”

So? Why does it have to be stated everytime? Almost 3000 people were killed by a handful. There is absolutely no reason to be on a permanent guilt trip.

Chances of this place becoming one to avoid are high or one that will be seen as another zoo where wild animals look kind of sweet behind those cages.

Tolerance? Bah!

Toilet Paper Tigers

My most memorable loo story is at Madame Tussaud’s. A Canadian woman accosted me after I came out of the facility with, “Are you Indian?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I am surprised. I did not know Indians flushed…”

“What?” I gasped as I stood near the wash basin.

“I hear that Indians do it in the street.”

“Who told you?”

“My brother – he is a professor and has travelled to India.”

“It seems there is a lot left to his education.”

On the way down (she insisted on not letting go off me), she tried to tell me about yoga and other such exotic stuff and then she took me to a group of people – her family and friends. I was beginning to feel like an exhibit. She introduced me to her father. “You know dad she is from India…”

My anger was simmering, so I addressed the gentleman: “Sir, are you not surprised that I do not pee in the streets?”

There was a group of Sikhs at the next table and one sardarji gave me the most beautiful balley-balley smile.

A few years ago, there was a report of an Indian who wrote to the municipal corporation in Mumbai demanding that licences of five-star hotels be revoked because commodes in their washrooms have only tissue paper and no water.

In his letter of complaint, he said: “The absence of water jets and bidets is unhygienic and also against the Indian lifestyle. Even in foreign countries and at international airports, they have Indian-style toilets to suit Indian tourists. However, shockingly, in Indian five-stars we don't get such a facility even though we pay high prices…If you need to clean up, you either have to get into the bath tub or climb on to the wash-basin, which, as you will appreciate, is quite inconvenient. We are Indians. We prefer water over tissue. So we should be given the option by these hotels.”

While I find the idea of anyone getting into the bathtub or the wash basin to clean up after ablutions disgusting, I know that it is a major scatological issue that can divide the world. Who will tell you this aspect of Indian culture? The jug is a huge obsession. Increasingly, handy sprays are used. In Pakistan they call them ‘Muslim shower’, and I wonder what religious significance it can have. It spurts out water just as anything else.

I confess to being a diehard ‘water baby’. My earlier travels overseas used to be filled with dread. The first time I boarded an international aircraft, I sat cross-legged for most of the nine-hour journey. But thirst and hunger cannot be kept at bay…so I could not continue to pretend I was Sharon Stone for long. I stood in that tiny cubicle that planes think are conducive to bowel and bladder movement and discovered the power of invention.

Sight-seeing trips, especially at sites like museums, usually have long queues in the ‘ladies’. I always believed women were cleaner, but seeing sanitary towels carelessly dumped outside bins and tissue rolls on the floor, I am not too sure.

Indians, however, can be quite terrible themselves. The use of water does not necessarily mean that everyone is hygienic. At Indian airports, there is a bucket overflowing, the taps are open and the floor is a mix of urine and water. The seat is often muddy, the reason being that those fools squat on that with their dirty footwear. How they manage the feat is beyond me.

A friend told me that one should not sit on the seat. “Just pretend to, a few inches off the seat and finish it off.”

If you look the ‘westernised’ type then the attendant – oh, we have those here too – will hand over a bit of toilet roll to you, and when I say bit I mean a bit: it is exactly a six-incher. And then when you return, to your embarrassment, you are handed another six-incher to wipe your hands.

Of course, the great put-down is to say something has been used as toilet paper. Dolly Parton once said, “My aunt in Knoxville would bring newspapers up, which we used for toilet paper. Before we used it, we'd look at the pictures.”

Ah, and I look at meself in the jug of water?

Oops, I did it, did I?

Sometimes, one gets the weirdest feedback. This one does not deserve to be reproduced, but I feel like a bit of pop psychology.

"Sheesh! Just three words can describe you completely---'obsessed with sex'."

I was also called a pseudo intellectual, and I don't know whether it is due to my obsession with sex.

I don't know when it started, but the term pseudo intellectual has gained more currency than the euro.

People who are called pseudo intellectuals...Pop proponents, classical divas, liberals, secularists, mavericks, communists, old hippies, new punks, protestors, abdicators, sitting-on-their-ass-and smoking-hashers...

Funny thing is, almost all these categories of people do not give a damn about labels. And to fake intellectualism is like so duh...especially if you rock as just what you are.

This brings me to the three words that are supposed to describe me: Obsessed with sex. What I find intriguing is that someone says "sheesh" to that. It means that the person is...

a. Averse to sex
b. Thinks a lot about it
c. Guilty about thinking a lot
d. Does a lot of it and projects shame on others
e. Is obsessive about other things
f. Is afraid of women who speak their minds
g. Is afraid of women and their needs
h. Is afraid of not being able to meet those needs
i. Is afraid of himself, and so calls her names

More importantly, the person does not know me and has not read enough of my work.

Perhaps, the person just had to say something that would make me feel horrible. Sorry, I feel nothing of the kind. To me the human body and intimacy are Nature's gift to make me going...And I love gifts!

80 per cent of what I have written here or elsewhere would constitute sex, religion and politics. Even what I write about the sky or eyes or balloons would boil down to sexing them up or they can become a political statement in the larger context.

And why is only sex seen as such a huge thing to be 'open' about. Hey, religion is a bigger turn-on for many and politics, my gott, the kiss of Kissinger got that right about its power...the ultimate aphrodisiac.

How Jaswant Singh is using Jinnah as a genie

This is fun. Jaswant Singh has come out of the closet to tell us that Jinnah is great. No problem. When L.K.Advani did it, they said he was quoting from some speech and that is all. Jaswant Singh, good Rajput that he is, will surely bring out a sword to defend his honour. He will talk like those maharajahs of old who served in Mughal armies and project himself as a balanced person who can see an honourable enemy. This is one more marketing gimmick. We assume that Pakistan needs a certificate from us.

What did he really say that is so significant? And why is it important to emphasise that it is divergent from the Sangh Parivar view? Because, it needs to be marketed that way. Forget historians, even some sharp hacks have written that Jinnah was not the architect of Partition alone; it was the megalomania of all the so-called freedom fighters.

As always, the Congress only thinks it is about their hero, Nehru. And even worse is to bring the Gujarat carnage and the Muslims into this. Their party spokesperson, Abhishek Singhvi, said:

“The BJP and Jaswant Singh can condone the Gujarat carnage and give homilies as Muslims being treated as ‘aliens’ in the same breath.”

How dare they do it. Jaswant Singh has written about Jinnah; Jinnah was a Pakistani, a nationality he chose. Indian Muslims have chosen an Indian nationality. Just don’t confuse the issues. We will handle the BJP and RSS on our terms and not based on what Jinnah did.

If Bal Thackeray says he admires Hitler, does anyone believe that the Sainiks should be judged by German standards?

I would, however, like to know what exactly Jaswant Singh means when he says:

“I think we have misunderstood him because we needed to create a demon... we needed a demon because in the 20th century, the most telling event in the subcontinent was the partition of the country.”

Glad that he has woken up to give us this path-breaking news. Is he implying that by demonising him we have demonised a whole country that he created? Is he then saying that any acts that have occurred on the part of Pakistan are therefore a result of this demonisation? For, whether we like it or not, the residue of the Partition remains with us.

I know we will be told to read the book to know what exactly he means. As I said, this isn’t about Jinnah. This is about selling Jinnah.

- - -

As I mentioned, you don’t need to be a historian; you can just be someone like me. I wrote this on August 25, 1997, and this is merely a peek into a larger piece done a couple of years before that.

The other side of Jinnah

by Farzana Versey
Rediff

The life of the man largely held responsible for the partition of the country has a touch of tragedy to it.

Mohammed Ali Jinnah almost appears like a naive knight in shining armor, blinded by the glitter of his position, rather than a visionary convinced of the soundness of his stand. His major flaw lay in the fact that he was the brash other voice while everyone else was the chorus.

It would be easy to say he was making political capital of the situation by using the minority issue as a shoulder from which to fire the gun, but that would an appalling generalisation.

Like many people in power who portray themselves as saviours, Jinnah was a pawn in the hands of those he promised to free from the majority clutches.The distribution of leaflets bearing pictures of a sword-bearing, sherwani-clad Jinnah was clearly the handwork of a marketing genius. Jinnah, in a spirit of parody, played along, probably for a good laugh and certainly for a pat on the back.

It would, therefore, be unfair to hold him solely responsible for 600,000 deaths and the uprooting of 14 million people.

Even without referring to his taste in Scotch and sausages, one has to admit he was not Islamist. The concept of jihad was totally alien to him and, as Sardar Patel said, he was not a votary of mass movements. H M Seervai, in his book on the Partition, has raised in important issue: "It is a little unfortunate that those who assail Jinnah for destroying the unity of India do not ask how it was that a man who wanted a nationalist solution till as late as 1938, when he was 61 years of age, suddenly become a 'communalist'."

Why were over a hundred million Muslims willing to eat out of his palm? Because Jinnah reflected their fears, even as he spoke of intermarriage to promote communal harmony. Jinnah learned, as does every other politician, that human beings are easily excitable because they are inherently prejudiced.

Jinnah has been accused of being a megalomaniac, but so were most of the leaders of the time. They could not forget they were participants in an epoch-making event.

If he could maintain grace under pressure, at the height of the battle, he would have dealt with many other issues in a similar fashion. If fact, in 1946 he talked of having a metaphorical pistol in a world full of AK-47s and nuclear arsenal. The statement may have seemed terribly outdated and stupid, but it gave a glimpse into an essentially principled man. That we may not agree with his principles is another matter.

So, am I supporting the handing over of Kashmir to Pakistan?

There is a good deal of out-of-context statements of mine that have been repeated here. Of particular importance is the one on Kashmir. The headline comes form such silly accusations.


I reproduce below the full article that was first published in my column Flipside in the June 24, 2000 issue of Mid-day, Mumbai, India.


Those who are interested in what I wrote eight years ago would find it interesting. (My views have not changed.) But do take cognisance of the timeframe when I mention x months ago etc…and do note words that are used in single quotes or end with a question mark and the specific reason certain statements were made, as in what they were responding to.


These are nuances that escape many people. I have highlighted certain portions in bold. Why? For those who like to leapfrog so that they can begin croaking.


- - -

Khuda Hafiz, Kashmir?
By Farzana Versey
June 24, 2000


I am a militant.


According to a BJP member, “Those who support the idea of greater autonomy (for Kashmir) are themselves militants.” I am tempted to ask how one would define somebody who talks about ‘Marathi maanus’. Would the Shiv Sena garland a portrait of Sunil Gavaskar with chappals? Has anyone in Punjab or Haryana said a word against Kapil paaji? Has the RSS called Mithun, Anil Kapoor, Mamta Kulkarni and scores of others, who were part of the Dubai/Sharjah circuit, “Dawood’s puppets”? Aren’t these too desperate versions of seeking autonomy and retaining ‘purity’?


Kashmir has been consistently treated shabbily. Which is why I support the move for its autonomy.


(The complete article has been posted on the other blog)

Today was yesterday, okay?

I find our obsession with all things Western quite disgusting. We have begun to look at life through their vision. This is not to lessen the tragedy that took place on this date, but how many of them will remember what befell other societies?

There is nothing new to say, so here is an old post...

9/11: Why should I remember this date?

Where were you when the Partition of India happened?

Where were you during the Bangladesh War?

Where were you when Indira Gandhi was assassinated?

Where were you when Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto was executed?

Where were you when the anti-Sikh pogrom took place?

Where were you when Rajiv Gandhi was killed by a suicide bomber?

Where were you when parts of Eastern Europe were being spliced?

Where were you when the Gujarat earthquake happened?

Where were you when the Bombay riots of 1992-93 took place?

Where were you when the Bombay blasts happened soon after?

Where were you when Godhra happened?

Where were you when the Gujarat riots were taking place?

Where were you when Iraq and Iran went to war and stayed that way for eight years?

Where were you when the Gulf War happened?

Where were you during Operation Desert Storm?

Where were you when the US started bombing Afghan civilians to look for a man in a cave?

Where were you when America attacked Iraq to look

for weapons that they have not yet found?

Where were you when Kargil happened?

Where were you when the recent blasts happened in India?

There are so many reasons to know where we were…and these queries are not posed to you. For, even I do not know where I was when most of these disasters/calamities took place. So I do not know where I was when 9/11 happened.

But you are supposed to know. The media in our subcontinent will remind you because they cannot feel left out. People who do not want you to think about other societies would also think this is important enough to recall.

I can understand those who live in the US/Canada having vivid memories; or those who have relatives there being worried, but I do not see why that date should become a part of our local psyche. To be concerned about the new world order, terrorism, religion and politics is of course important, but to deify a date?

Therefore, I wonder if those living overseas could check with the Americans and the Brits if they recall any of the incidents I have mentioned. Do they know where they were – do they even know that such places exist?

If we wish to talk about a world where equality must reign, then knowledge of other societies is a great equaliser.

Bambai, meri jaan

Will there be trouble in Mumbai? That was the query being asked around. I did not know. I can only recall moments that are trouble-free…

One evening we were trying to find a spot to park near Shanmukhananda Hall where we were attending a Jagjit Singh concert. There just wasn’t any space. Suddenly, out of nowhere, this kid, about 13 years old, appeared and raced ahead guiding us. He made us take a loop, but finally managed to get a slot, held back the cars behind with tact and charm. I realised that I had no change. My cousin said she had chillar. (We had dropped the others who were with us at the entrance to save them the trudge.) He deserved at least ten bucks. She managed to find enough. But the lad protested.

“Bees rupaiya rate hai (The rate is 20 rupees),” he said with complete confidence.

“Rate? Yeh pay-and-park nahin hai…udhar se idhar hi tau laaye ho…(What rate? This isn't a pay-and-park slot, you just brought us from there)...” I said without much conviction.

“Nahin, eik kaam karo…aate time mein de dena…(No, but you can give me the money on your return)...”

“Haan, haan theek hai…(All right)...” I said, feeling a mix of guilt and irritation.

After the show, we were walking to the car and, hoisted at the split level, we heard a voice, “Main idhar hoon.(I am here.)” Ah, he sounded so chirpy at almost 11 pm. How did he keep track of the cars he helped to park? There were other boys – how did they divide their work? It seemed that they had fine-tuned the operation. I began thinking about him… Had he had his meal? Where would he sleep? I told him how congested the place had become and impossible to park.

He said nonchalantly, “Fikar nahin karne ka, apun hai na yeh fit karne ka waastey.(Don't worry, I am here to fit everything)”

I gave him the money.

And like a chivalrous gentleman he opened the door for me.

Do you still want to know why I love Mumbai?

The brittle Raj

Jaya Bachchan, as expected, said, “I don’t know who Raj Thackeray is.” She emphasised that she only knows Bal Thackeray and his son Udhhav. Smart woman, as always the sharp guddi. There is some substance to what Raj said about Amitabh; everyone knows that Uttar Pradesh is run by this close-knit mafia of Mulayam Singh, Amar Singh and the Bachchans, with Anil Ambani and Subroto Roy making guest appearances.

She said with a deadpan expression that if the Maharashtra government gave them land they would build a school named after daughter-in-law Aishwariya. No one has bothered to question how they are getting land in UP. But then, a lot has been happening there…

By hitting out at Raj she forgets that his animosity towards the North Indians has been learned from his uncle, Balasaheb, whose grandson’s book launch her husband attended and showered treacly praise on the ‘heritage’.

Now live with it.

Coming to the main protagonist, Raj Thackeray, I had written about him a while ago and reproduce it here:

The one time I saw him has remained etched in memory. I was waiting to get out of the car at an office building in Nariman Point. A monster SUV blocked the entrance. Two gun-toting bodyguards jumped out and stood at attention. A man wearing a starched shirt that would look better in a laundry than on a human body stepped out. He flicked his hair, which was blow-dried and very likely sprayed to stay in place, for that motion of the head moving did not seem to affect it; it flopped back in a neat fall. He went in, leaving the place reeking of an indecipherable strong fragrance.

It did not smell of power. It had the scent of obsessiveness about it. Even desperation.

Raj Thackeray, it was said, walked, talked and even thought like his uncle, the Shiv Sena leader. The man I saw that day seemed more like a small-time struggler faking it in a Bollywood blockbuster.

In some ways, that has been Raj’s story.

Little man tries to emulate marquee man. Realises with time that cloning does not work. Not in the long run.

In the short run it worked like a dream which turned into a nightmare for many.

Raj became the Sena’s ‘hitman’. In Hindi film terminology, he was the spot boy, the makeup man, the stunt artiste. The problem is, he started living those parts. He went around carrying a mirror to look at himself, he worked on his gestures, he took part in the street fights.

As sidekick he got a few brownie points and a place next to that ridiculous Maharaja chair that Balasaheb occupies. But he was no Birbal or Chanakya. He was just another loyal soldier with the right name.

During the Mumbai riots it was Raj who was known for his pugnaciousness (much as Sanjay Gandhi was during the Emergency). At the shakhas, Raj groomed the lumpens. He fit in perfectly in the Shiv Sena scheme of things.

He may have quit the party and started his Maharashtra Navnirman Sena, but nothing much has changed...

"Life so far"

Betty Friedan, bless her soul, sometimes confounded me. She wrote The Feminine Mystique, she was among the earliest voices of the women’s lib movement. Years later it was discovered that she lived in a marriage where she was battered.

Did she live a lie? Was she a hypocrite?

I think that human beings often have to make tough calls. The public face is not a facade – it could be a genuine stand, a belief.

People believe in god; they do not become god.

No woman chooses to live through physical torture, but she could make a choice to treat that torture in her way – walk out, confront it, give it back, use catharsis...I find it difficult to just pick on individuals because we do not know the histories they have embedded deep within them, we do not know how the environment has affected them, we do not know who has done what and how they have been viewed.

Every woman is also a little woman who wants to connect with the littlest of things. She uses her time well for every speck of dust in the eye forces it to lubricate.

Two years ago Ms. Friedan died.

Here are some of her words:

"When she stopped conforming to the conventional picture of femininity she finally began to enjoy being a woman”

“Men are not the enemy, but the fellow victims. The real enemy is women’s denigration of themselves.”

“It is easier to live through someone else than to become complete yourself.”

“The feminine mystique has succeeded in burying millions of American women alive.”

“It is better for a woman to compete impersonally in society, as men do, than to compete for dominance in her own home with her husband, compete with her neighbors for empty status, and so smother her son that he cannot compete at all.”

- - -

I love this Clarence Darrow quote, "I have suffered from being misunderstood, but I would have suffered a hell of a lot more if I had been understood"!

If anyone wishes to read my views, this is The Feminist Manifesto

Faith....

Long years ago, on a particular day, I was wearing black. I did not realise it was Muharram till I saw an acquaintance dressed in the same colour.

In our house, when I was growing up, black was not the colour to wear, especially during Muharram. I remember once I wore a black tee; it had a dash of white in it. Ammi wanted to know why I was wearing it.

N was my best friend. She observed the full 40 days of Muharram. On that one day I wanted to ‘feel’ like her; of course, I could not. I would wonder what she was mourning for and why she was not mourning the way I understood it – a deep grief that took over one’s entire being.

It was a ritual and she would come and tell me about the delicious khichda (haleem) she had. I disliked khichda anyway in those days.

But our friendship endured (in fact, has endured) through all the years. I would wait for her to return from the majlis and then we’d go for our stroll or to the library or just sit around.

She is now in the US. She wrote to me about being busy with work and having to attend majlis, and I send her silly forwards. She writes back for more “khabar about amchi Mumbai”.

We never felt the need to question each other’s faith or lack of it.

Wat men?

While I am completely besotted by 'my area', the stretch between Chowpatty and Marine Drive is great fun.

I was at the Catholic Gymkhana after ages. I imagined a conversation that might have taken place between one of the regulars and me...Betty spots me and waves out. I make my way towards her table.

"What men, where da hell you are? Went Dubai or wot?"

"No, just been lazy."

"Ah, having fun haan. Gud-gud. Dis weder no, jus terrible. Was telling Rodney yesterday only to put AC in all da rooms, but dat Ambani fellow now wants to save power. Like wot hippocrit. Dey have ten-ten car, full blasting AC, also helicopter and we poor peepals suffer."

"You are not poor."

"Come yaa, for dem I am like chillar only. Poor peepals live in open so deer system used to all dis."

"Did you have problems getting here? The traffic..."

"Donn even ask. One ting is dis stupid old car. Told Rodney to buy new car, he sez no wait we will go to Emrica or sumting. I told him first take me to Panjim den we will talk of Emrica."

"You know the traffic was because..."

"I know, I know. Doze peepal are taking out morcha. Wot use? Bush is not coming to Bombay. And even if he came he would be coming in helicopter and going straight to Taj or Obroy. Deez fools jus want to waste time of poor peepal like us. Anyway for-get all dis politics. Tell me what are you doing dees dez?"

(Friend interjects, "Writing.”)

“You are crazy men. Get life and start using kompitter."

"I am.."

"Gud. You mus go fast with time. Deez days on internet you can find recipes, and for my Maggie I told Rodney der are nice boys. I showed him one foto, he sez boy's name is Orlando Bloom. I told wot is wrong, rose by any name will smell sweet only. He sed no we can't...imagine rejecting boy widout even meeting or talking."

"Ah well.."

"So I tell you kompitter is best ting. For you recipe and boy no use, so you can do shopping."

"I prefer feeling the stuff before I buy it."

"Damn, why you need to have feeling for everiting? Real pucca emoshnal fool. In dis weder who want to go out and buy? You start swetting like pig. Did you try ham sandwich?"

"Er...no.."

"Forgot, you don't eat pork. You must be starving den. No pork, even chicken dangerous. Doze birds also get bledy flu. Instead dey should get diariah and everiting from system will be out."

"It's okay. I can survive on vegetables."

"I know dis place. Dey make wedge kebabs, it look like real ting, I swear."

"It is real thing."

"Ah, I knew der mus be some michif. I must tell Rodney to try...dey surely put lamb in it. He was saying who wants to eat doll and baaji."

"It is...never mind. I must leave."

"Okay, dear. Donn mind my asking, but why Muslims donn like salami?"

"I guess they prefer salaami"

- - -

Had written it when Bush was visiting India a couple of years ago. The language is very Bombay-Catholic, though it may spill over into other areas of the country. Reproducing it here because I think this blog is getting a bit morose these past few days.

La-la-land

Despite having travelled overseas quite extensively, I find some American aspects truly hard to digest.

You enter a restaurant and just when you are half-way through the humongous portions, or merely pausing for breath or to contemplate your fingernails, you will hear a rather chirpy voice asking you, “Are you done?” When your eyes meet his or hers, there will be another salvo, “You still workin’ on it?”

Done? Working on it? I am surprised they don’t tell you, “Righto, enjoy masticating!”

Jaahils! This is food. This is ‘peit puja’. Only we understand the sheer devotion towards a culinary experience. Mind you, I am not talking about some fast-food joint. These were proper places.

At one, the girl waiting tables wore her cap backwards. It was a sushi bar, for god’s sake.

At a restaurant in the genteel Los Gatos, there was a cocktail named Tsunami Relief…Malibu Rum, hypnotiq, pineapple juice. Talk of insensitivity.

A ‘tall’ coffee is a small one. Why? Nobody knows.

If someone asks you, “So, how you doin; today?” you just cannot respond with a tepid, “Fine, thanks.” You have to sound like you have returned from a massage parlour…”Grrreeeaaatt…”

And then there is the other exclamation, more like punctuations.

“Hi there. What can I do fer ya?”

“I need a …”

“Un huh..”

“The names of a few home delivery places…

“Un-huh…”

“So, do you have them?”

“Un huh, jussamoment... Un huh, hey-you-ah”

Names are rattled off.

“Thanks…”

“Un huh…”

“I’ll call them now…”

“Aaan haanh!”

Finally, a climax is reached.

Eid...

Heard firecrackers. Which means the moon has been sighted.

Tomorrow will be Eid. I wonder whether I have any right to celebrate at all. The festival is supposed to be a sort of thanksgiving for all that one has denied oneself for one month. If this is the yardstick, I should be celebrating every damn day of my life.

Technically, I have not woken up early in the morning to pray, not fasted through the day, not eaten dates nor been dry-mouthed. Yet, have all those who have tortured themselves in such a manner really been denying themselves anything?

I see a lot of sad lives – and I mean sad as in pathetic, not the deep sorrow that burrows through the arches of an ache and abandon – and I want to tell them that the most potent prayer is the one addressed to oneself. It is called introspection. The most important fast you can keep is the one that gives a little of yourself.

Only then can Eid be mubarak. You can celebrate and congratulate yourself only if you see life beyond what you assume is victory. Why claim victory or defeat when there is no fight at all?

This is not to belittle those who have in fact gone through the process of such denial with the true spirit...I can only wish you the light of moonbeam whenever a dark thought assails you, as it does all of us.

- - -

I am not insensitive. I too have memories. I wrote in The Scent of Eid last year...

For me the festival is associated with scents of all kinds.

- The first thing in the morning would be the whiff of henna being removed, its overnight stay on my hands giving it a deep tinge; I’d cup the palms before my nose and inhale.

- There was the strong ittar, the one day when non-alcohol-based perfume was used; it wasn’t mandatory, of course, and since I hated it I only hoped that heaven was nothing like Jannat-e-Firdaus, the particularly preferred one.

- There was the fragrance of aggarbatis as the fateha was said before one small bowl of sheer khurma, the rest to be distributed was spared any godly intervention.

- The smell of onions and potatoes being browned on a slow fire to be added to the biryani.

- The scent of gajras, strings of jasmine with a rose in the middle, which the women wore in their hair.

Finally, the aroma of gulkand and supari from the paan as they were chewed to pulp in the mouth.

Nostalgia has a very strong whiff…try as I may I cannot wash my hands off it.