When George Bush and I became the same

It happened last year. It was amusing. This writer had been corresponding with me and since he was leaving on a holiday with his wife, he decided to make a printout of a page of my blog where a particular piece on my city was. This is what transpired as recollected by him:

“When we landed at the airport and passed through the immigration, I was stopped and the lady at the counter asked me a long list of unnecessary questions. Her poor English and in spite of my knowledge of Punjabi, Urdu, Persian and English, not knowing any Spanish was not any help. She asked me to open up my bag and started looking through my books and papers. Rather than focusing on Mao tse tung’s biography or collection of Urdu poems, for some mysterious reason she zoomed into your Blog. She found your picture and asked, “Who is she?”

“Farzana Versey.”

“What is your relationship with her?”

“We are internet friends?”

“What does that mean?”

“We write letters to each other.”

“Why do you have her picture?”

My friend could only smile weakly. For, he had not even bothered to look at the picture. He wrote further, “She took your picture and showed it to other women and had some passionate dialogue in Spanish. I was amazed that even your picture stirred up raw emotions.”

Okay. Now here comes the fun part. The picture in the blog is so small. Did I fit into the terrorist profile? In the next note he asked rather innocently, “Who is Dubya?” Aha, so this was it. Check it out. My friend must be really naïve and to imagine that I looked like George Bush in drag!

When I asked him about it, he said, “Below it was written posted by FV, so I thought…and I had never seen you.”

Ah well, when they returned from their holiday his wife managed to show him that I wasn’t quite as interesting as Dubya.

Yaad mein teri...

I love this song for its simplicity…and honesty…whenever I sing it, and I did today, I get moist-eyed and emotional and then I laugh, crack funny jokes even as the voice cracks in a parched throat…

yaad me.n terI jaag-jaag ke ham
raat bhar karavaTe.n badalate hai.n
har gha.Dii dil me.n terI ulfat ke
dhiime dhiime chiraaG jalate hai.n

jabase tUne nigaah pherii hai
din hai suunaa to raat a.ndherii hai
chaa.Nd bhI ab najar nahii.n AtA
ab sitaare bhI kam nikalate hai.n
yaad me.n terI jaag-jaag ke ham ...

lut gayii vo bahaar kI mahafil
chhuT gayii hamase pyaar kI ma.nzil
zi.ndagii kI udaas rAho.n me.n
terI yaado.n ke sAth chalate hai.n
yaad me.n terI jaag-jaag ke ham ...

tujhako paakar hame.n bahaar milii
tujhase chhuTakar magar ye baat khulii
baaGabaan hii chaman ke phuulo.n ko
apane pairo.n se khud masalate hai.n
yaad me.n terI jaag-jaag ke ham ...

kyA kahe.n tujhase kyuu.n huii duurii
ham samajhate hai.n apanii majabuurii
tujhako maaluum kyA ke tere liye
dil ke gam aa.Nsuo.n me.n Dhalate hai.n
yaad me.n terI jaag-jaag ke ham ...

(Shakeel Badayuni
Naushad, 'Mere Mehboob')

The Sufi Sell-out

Maverick:The Sufi Sell-out
by Farzana Versey
The Asian Age, Op-ed, May 15, 2007

“Are you a Sufi?” he had asked.

“You can say that,” I replied rather shamelessly. Since I was not in the flush of youth I could not claim to be a Marxist, so Sufism seemed like a safe bet.

“I see you are not a typical Muslim,” was the response.

Sufism, which is thought to be an offshoot of Islam, is being used to temper the jihadi face of the religion. This is most offensive. Has anyone asked Hindus to follow the Brahmo Samaj or the Bhakti movements only because some red-haired Vanzara guy likes encounters of the thud kind?

Today, being a Sufi is like being a hippie. You can get away with anything. It has become a convenient cop-out for those who don’t want to identify with any religion. What does a statement like “I do not believe in organised religion” mean? Religion is about a belief system and there is nothing like unorganised religion, though all are often disorganised.

Then there are those who say they are ‘cultural Muslims’. This essentially means they greet you with an ‘adaab’, cook sevaiyaan, speak Bollywood Urdu, enjoy a drink and the occasional ‘Sufi mujra’ and say things like, “Islam needs to change with the times.”

Their favourite calling card is Jalalludin Rumi, the Sufi poet. And any singer who sounds like s/he is gargling claims to believe in Sufism – there is bhangra Sufi, Sufi pop. The Sufi rocks. It is important to dress the part – unkempt clothes, hair dishevelled and lust in the eyes. This, we will be told, is lust for union with god.

Hindi cinema that is always quick on the uptake has a surfeit of “Allah ke bande” and “Ya Ali” stuff doing the rounds. The videos stick to the spiritual quest by showing flying objects and outstretched hands.

Now I hear that even Bahadurshah Zafar is being called a Sufi because he went to temples wearing a tilak and sacred thread. Please! Sufism is not about sight-seeing trips to various god-houses. There is a lot of self-righteous noise being made because our government is not interested in bringing his remains back to the country.

There is no reason to go on about his pining for the soil of his birth; he is not here and to wake up after all these years is obviously a new liberal ploy. Amaresh Misra wrote recently, “If brought to India, Zafar’s remains would be turned into a memorial which millions of ordinary Hindus and Muslims would visit as a pilgrimage site…there will be a surge of emotions powerful enough to wash away enmities. Zafar’s mazaar would heal the Hindu-Muslim divide. For the RSS this indeed is a nightmare situation.”

What a shallow reason. Or merely a way to hit back at the saffron brigade? Hollow symbolic gestures are unimportant, especially if they have lost all validity. We do not need one more mazaar that is politically-motivated.

Sufi tombs are big-time money spinners, anyway. I finally made it to Ajmer from Jaipur. It had taken me years to reach the Khwaja’s sanctum. I had begun to believe in this ‘bulaava nahin aaya’ thing. I had spoken with an elderly friend who is deep into spiritualism. He said, “Baba will try to see you do not reach there. It is to test you. You have to take it as a challenge.”

The idea that a ‘pir’ who I had not said anything against and who I was not planning to ask anything from would want to test me was a dampener. Sometimes it is best for an idea to remain just that. Stepping out of the air-conditioned comfort of the car, having replenished myself with bottled water and organic biscuits, I was thrust into the gullies where every cute young boy claimed to be a Sufi. This looked like a peek into a heaven where god has promised one the best houris and ghilmans. I see this as the true spirit of Islam – no sham of renunciation, rather an acceptance of the good things that we forgo on earth due to morality.

At the dargah, if you are not a head of state or Katrina Kaif showing her legs, they assault you. It is a package deal where you are not left alone; a guide takes you around and decides where you stand, where you throw the flowers – yes, throw – and how long you pray. A few petals fell on the floor and I was reprimanded for insulting the blessings that were showered on me by a man with grease on his palms.

“London se aaye hai?” he asked.

“No.”

“America?”

“How is it important?”

“I can recognise people from all over the world. You give what you want, I do not ask. I am a Sufi.”

“Me too,” I declared with aplomb.

I immensely enjoy this ‘looking for the self’ vanity. And god is certainly not in the retail.

Everytime I pass the Haji Ali dargah in Mumbai, right in the middle of the vast expanse of water, I do cast a glance in the direction. I feel embarrassed sometimes, for although the white structure stands beautifully, I know it is the sea that I find beguiling, a sea that has listened to many more of my cries and answered many more of my whys.

“Kyon hifaazat hum aur ki dhoondhen
har nafas jab ki hai Khuda hafiz
chaahe rukhsat ho raah-e-ishq mein aql
ai ‘Zafar’ jaane do Khuda hafiz”.

Did Mandira Bedi insult the Indian flag?

While the World Cup finals were being telecast, Mandira Bedi’s saree became a subject of discussion. She wore one of those designer thingies with the national flags of all countries; the Indian flag they alleged was near the feet.

I saw her. The flag when she sat with her legs crossed was somewhere just below the knee. Has she insulted it? I suppose so. There was no reason to have this silly display at all – everyone knows that several countries are participating. She is not a cheer-leader, but an anchor, though I have no idea what the purpose of having her or any other woman with no knowledge of the game is all about.


The way corrupt and inefficient people get away with their crimes is an insult. Poverty, lack of health facilities, illiteracy are all an insult.

Earlier Sachin Tendulkar got into trouble for cutting a cake with the flag impression. What about all those pulaos that are made in the three colours on national occasions? What about the models who strut about in clinging tricolour minis?

PS: The national flag symbolises, according to Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan, who later became India's first Vice President, the following attributes: “Bhagwa or the saffron colour denotes renunciation or disinterestedness. Our leaders must be indifferent to material gains and dedicate themselves to their work. The white in the centre is light, the path of truth to guide our conduct. The green shows our relation to (the) soil, our relation to the plant life here, on which all other life depends. The Ashoka Chakra in the centre of the white is the wheel of the law of dharma. Truth or satya, dharma or virtue ought to be the controlling principle of those who work under this flag. Again, the wheel denotes motion. There is death in stagnation. There is life in movement. India should no more resist change, it must move and go forward. The wheel represents the dynamism of a peaceful change.”

Is Gujarat waking up?

Here is the latest news. Posted without comment for now...

Three IPS officers arrested for fake encounter (from The Hindu)

Ahmedabad, April. 24 (PTI): Gujarat Police today arrested three IPS officials on a charge of murder for their alleged role in the death of a man in a fake encounter in 2005.

Those arrested are Inspector General (Border Range) D G Vanzara, Rajkumar Pandayan, a Superintendent of Police with the Intelligence Bureau, and an IPS officer from Rajasthan whose name was not released.

Michael and me

Wonder how I forgot to put this up. It was published in November 2006.

An Iraqi in India
By Farzana Versey
Counterpunch

Michael Fathallah is dead, but then there are so many dead Iraqis. So, why do I remember him? I am sorry this is not the right thing to say at such a wrong time, but I just cannot forgive him for having made me drink coffee that tasted like something out of a sewer.

He had gazed at me intently and stated, "You like it! It is our specialty." Since it was not a question, I was hoping no answer was required. I shook my head weakly as I fidgeted with the chipped cup that had no handle. To make matters worse, he brought out a whole bunch of bananas, saying, "Eat!" I assured him all this was not necessary. "Oh, we Iraqis like to pamper our guests." Like this?

I began to think about how I should do it. Ought I to just peel the fruit and start chomping on it, or must I do the ladylike thing and break off one-inch bits and pop them delicately in my mouth? My host was getting impatient. "Ok, ok, never mind, but these are good for your stomach."

Although I was born a Muslim, as an Indian my affiliation with the religion was far removed from the Arabian Nights adventure one was supposed to look forward to in the afterlife. As a matter of fact, the so-called Arab identity was completely alien.

The only Arabs one encountered were tourists who consolidated the stereotype with their white kaftan costumes and veils holding prayer beads in their hands even as they scoured the streets for knick-knacks. Soon, the shops started stocking up on colorful sequined scarves and trinkets that might appeal to their sensibilities. Despite the money, one noticed that they weren't quite treated with the same respect as even the Caucasian backpackers.

It was during one such story I was doing, about the influx of Arabs, that I got to see the amazing variety of people. Not all of them were sheikhs who arrogantly threw the windows in their rooms in five-star hotels wide open to let in the rain and then offered to pay for the soiled carpets. Many lived in small hotels in nondescript localities; they'd huddle together in corridors, mostly awaiting the fate of a sick relative they had admitted into a hospital. India was a cheap and good option for medical treatment.

A chance conversation had led me to discover the Arabs that had made their homes in Mumbai.

That is how I met Michael one afternoon at his apartment in a lane infested with shady characters -- pimps, prostitutes, drug peddlers. I was ushered into a large airy room that seemed to have no furniture. I sat on a low rickety stool and he made himself comfortable on what could have been a cot but was covered entirely with newspapers. He was dressed in pinstriped pajamas -- the kind prisoners wear, and a long shirt. He was completely unselfconscious and I soon found myself liking this encounter. Besides, I was getting rid of my pre-conceived notions about Arabs.

He was a practicing Roman Catholic and clarified: "All Arabs are not Muslim." But he supported Iraqi laws and found the interference of the West, even in matters of laws like execution, disgusting. "Who are they to decide?" he asked.

He had come to what was then called Bombay towards the end of 1917 with a shipload of books and had seen "history written and re-written". Since education in his country was not upto his father's standards, he got himself admitted to St. Mary's School, a respected missionary-run educational institution that even today is considered among the better schools. After his studies, he returned home to Basra and worked as a bank manager. But in 1942, he made the trip back to Bombay to help his brother-in-law with his business and stayed on until his death.

He would spend his time at the Arab School, which would transform into a club in the evenings, and he'd pore over the crumpled old newspapers from Iraq. The events were probably stale, but they kept him in touch with a part of his country. Culturally, did he still feel close to the Arabs? "Of course, I have lived amongst them -- a gallant, valiant, hospitable people."

It wrenched his heart to watch what happened before his eyes in his adopted home. Sleazy action being replayed night after night -- apartments that went under the guise of guest houses from where the Arab tourists trooped out in the early hours of the morning, even as they were fleeced of their money and belongings by hustlers.

Michael was extremely protective of the reputation of his people. So, what kept him in Bombay? "For those of us who don't have unlimited wealth, this is the best place. I can also walk around anywhere in my long night shirt." He picked up a banana and started eating it.

There were no curtains and a gentle breeze was blowing in from the open balcony. He beckoned me to join him outside. We watched the street below and the hotel across from where silly grins greeted us. He took the fruit peel and threw it on the pavement below. "Look, I have become one of you," he declared.

As he escorted me to the door, he said, "Come again, please. I can only offer you the best coffee in the world."

I found myself smiling. I don't know when the bitter taste on my tongue had disappeared.

As you like it...

Today, April 23 is William Shakespeare's birth and death anniversary.

Hamlet's Soliloquy:

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.-- Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
- - -
Macbeth's Soliloquy:

Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppress'd brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest; I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before.
- - -
Sonnets:

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
- - -

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.