What they left behind

Crash and burn. Perhaps that's all they knew.

They missed the waiting, the anxious tears, the mikes thrust in other people's faces. They will not lose sleep at night, will not look in on bedrooms now empty.

They may never even ask themselves 'why?'

Crash and burn. If only it were that simple for the rest.

Street Talk (From the notes on Turkey)

21st July. Istanbul

When you are in a strange city, you find certain languages are universal. Strolling along on the streets of Istanbul, Lady Gaga suddenly erupts from one of the shops. For once, her overtly sexual tone makes me smile. In a city where they had little need for English, they still listen to Lady Gaga. Those inside the shop nodded appreciatively, one caught my eye and smiled. Music.

Spice bazaar. Pushing and being pushed by hundreds of people, I pass stalls weighed down by evil eyes, mounds of spices that are cheaper in Karachi, second hand clothes and people from all over the world. They turn to each other and chatter. Turkish, Arabic, Strange accented English, Oxfordian, Spanish, French, Afrikaans, German, Hindi. Maybe somewhere, even Urdu. A man selling spices sees me. He can tell I am completely lost. I look at him, smile. He winks. I laugh. It really was that simple.

I find my way out of the bazaar and into a small cafe. Their tea is different from ours. They drink it strong and sweet. And constantly. Foreigners mill around, locals serve them. A Turkish woman (or Arab? Lebanese? Moroccan?) is having sheesha. The rings on her fingers glitter as she holds the hookah just so. Just the way we do. She blows a smoke ring in my direction.

I walk into the lobby and the attendant I have befriended smiles at me. He doesn't speak a word of English but in four days he has discovered my love for coffee. He indicates that he is going to get me a drink. I smile and nod, there is no stopping him. Outside, the azaan sounds from the Blue Mosque. The music switches itself off, the crowds pause for a while, no more smoke rings are blown. All are silent or are deafened. All respond.

 All somehow understand.

Ephesus

What remains of Ephesus

The library that led to the brothel

The Gate of Hercules

Rethinking (From the notes on Turkey)

18th July (Second day in Izmir)

Connections will find their way across maps, ride through deserts, swim past oceans. They will fade and be reborn. Differently maybe, but still there. Sometimes noticeable, sometimes misinterpreted, sometimes skittish. But always there.


'What is the caste system in Pakistan?'

I hesitated. How to answer such a question? The sun beat down in the Agora, my family stood around, taking pictures and walking on ancient Greek archways. The Izmir tour guide looked at me. Worlds away from Karachi.

I began 'Well....the flag is mostly green. Except for one column of white. The green represents Islam, the white represents other religions.'

'Ah. All are equal'

I paused again. How to explain what is the most fundamental problem in  my country? Not the economy or backstabbing politicians but difference.

'No' I said shaking my head. "All are not. Most cleaners are Christian. If they are slightly more educated then they become secretaries. Muslims scorn Hindu temples. We are not fair with them'

'But the Muslims are surely united.' He asserted. I nodded. Because to explain would have taken someone far more patient, far more articulate and perhaps even more intelligent than I. It seemed too complex to explain thecountless dividing lines within the Muslim community. Sunni vs Shia. Punjabi vs Balochi. The rich vs the poor. The generation gap. And then the outcasts. The eunuchs, the refugees and perhaps now (once again) the Ahmedis. Too complex to explain when the sun shone this furiously and there were excavation sites to explore.

How could I explain to him that like Mehta's Bombay, Karachi too is schizophrenic? It has multiple personalities, it struggles to understand itself.  Unable to pick it's battles, it chooses them all. All are opposed. All begrudged.

This was a different world. He would't understand.

'And then' I went on, unable to stop myself for some reason, 'There are those who own land. And those who work for them. And the landowners.....'

'Enter politics' He finished. My turn to nod. Here too? I wondered. In this little city of less than three million near the Aegean Sea? Surely not.

Later, at the archaeological museum, I spot a statue of a lion. The label underneath reads 'Aslan.' A memory stirred somewhere and I asked the guide whether Aslan was Turkish for lion. He shook his head, telling me it was Persian and that 'Sheyr' was actually Turkish for lion.

And there again. Sheyr was lion here. Sheyr meant lion in classrooms that were a six hour flight from here.

A man walked up to the guide, cigarette in hand. He smiled. 'Aatish?' I guessed what he mean even before the guide pulled out a lighter.

Had we kept talking, I realized, there were probably a thousand words we had in common. A thousand connections we could make with our Izmir tour guide right there in the museum of that ancient little town. Had we kept talking, I may have told him about Pakistan, about Karachi as it truly was. And he may just have understood.

On a side note, Suketu Mehta's Maximum City is a brilliant read. All journalists should write like him.

Here's a review:

"In Mehta's able hands, Bombay is transformed from a mere flap of earth on India's western coast to a living, breathing character, a shimmering prism refracting the light and lives of its inhabitants. With a journalist's precision and a novelist's descriptive flair, Mehta details the city's gangsters, policemen, go-go dancers, and Bollywood stars. Part travelog, part cultural history, this vibrant portrait is greater than the sum of its parts."— Library Journal

From the notes on Turkey

15^th July (Third day in Istanbul)

I turned for what was maybe the tenth time. The hotel was probably just five minutes away. It had probably been just ten minutes since I’d left it. My family, blissfully unaware of where I was, was probably still sleeping.

I turned once more and found the main road.  Tourists, locals, people I couldn’t quite place mixed without mingling. All walking the same way but not on the same path. I stepped on to the main road, walked briskly towards the old university. The blue mosque rose against the horizon, the sun began its descent.

Istanbul.

Three days in this city and I’m completely infatuated. The desire to explore this city further and further is strong. To discover old cafes and little libraries.  Find people who not only knew its history but were part of it. To understand the ancient Turkish blood running through their veins.  See how the poor lived. And the rich. And those in between. The more I saw, the more I wanted to see.

‘I’ll live here for a while’ I tell myself now, staring out of the hotel window. Two doors down, a jazz musician plays at a café. I smile as the words dance across the paper and then as the pen sputters for a moment.

Istanbul, Istanbul, Istanbul. I could probably fall in love with this city forever.

16^th July

It is four pm and I’m outside the Lalei Universite, surveying the terrifically old building. I must look slightly odd, a girl in old jeans and a tshirt, staring at a university when the Hagia Sophia is a mere five minutes away.

This city breathes. Not the way Karachi breathes. Not the same dusty streets, quiet anger and loud joy, the ragged feet somehow willingly moving forward. Not the way New York must breathe either; exhaling ink, cigarette smoke, Broadway, schedules.  I’m convinced New York has coffee breath.  No, this is a different high. The city breathes in Western music, bits of English, inhales all facets of what we call modern life and in one long, proud exhalation (Scream? Yell?)  makes all we stand for seem trivial. Their music has poetry, their strange accented English is beautiful, the way they live should be a lesson for us.

Turkish tea, sheesha and history. Mosques built in 1075 are a two minute walk from McDonalds. People can wear shorts one day, caftans the next and no eyebrows would be raised. They pray in mosques older than their great grandparents and go clubbing on Friday nights. 99% of them are Muslim. I have never met happier Muslims.

The fact that a Church and a Mosque stand directly opposite each other is a testimony to tolerance. Neighbors for the past God-knows-how-many years,

Bosphorous tomorrow. More later.

Anticipation

Turkey in less than 24 hours =)

Yes, be jealous.

After all I've heard about the place this trip had better be epic.

After Midnight

She sat in the corner of the bar, smoking a cigarette. She had walked in not ten minutes ago, completely alone. A woman out with no male escort with mere minutes left to midnight. Unheard of.

She wasn't waiting for anyone either. She didn't check her watch or look around whenever the door opened like the girl in red who had been waiting at the bar for her next. She just sat there, smiled politely at the less drunk members of the bar and smoked her cigarette. In time she asked the bartender for a newspaper. He frowned slightly but passed her one and she treated him to a real smile. He went back to polishing beer mugs, wondering why a young woman with her hair just so and her silver lighter would want a newspaper. They never read papers. Not till they acquired reading glasses anyway. 

It wasn't for show either, the newspaper. She skimmed the headlines, opened it to the columns page and leaned forward so the light shining from the dusky bulb above her head would catch the minute words. After about twenty minutes, she looked up and smiled at a man who had been watching her for a while.


He had dropped his girlfriend home after dinner and had come straight here. Anywhere was better then home these days. His mother was staying with him for a week.

Ten minutes later he had bought her a drink and was sitting at her table. He glanced at the column she had been reading. It was heavy stuff. Politics. Some History. Written by the esteemed R Bishop who wrote about such things.. Not a women's writer and not what women read. She saw the look and laughed.

'Yes I understand all of it, down to every last word. Don't you worry darling.' She spoke to him as if he needed to be taken care of. No woman below forty had ever spoken to him like that. It unnerved him slightly.
'I read him too. He seems to know what he's talking about alright'
She smiled. 'Yes.' she said and paused for a little while, 'He certainly does.'
'They've had some trouble with him. He's been censored many times apparently. For being too...'
'Radical. Yes I know.' She finished the sentence and nodded.
 He noticed the ring on her her finger.
'You're married?' Lose your husband after dinner did you?' He smiled to cover up his disappointment. She was lovely really, with her silver lighter and auburn hair.
'Not at all darling, I just happen to like wearing a ring on this finger.'
He raised an eyebrow, searched her face for signs of sarcasm. She smiled back.
'I don't look the least bit married do I?'
He shook his head, took out a cigarette. She lit it for him. Casually. As if women lit cigarettes for men all around New York. 


They talked for a while. She asked him about his job and how he liked New York. She didn't giggle girlishly for no reason, only laughed when he said something funny. She ordered another drink. When he tried to pay, she batted his hand away airily and told him not to be ridiculous. It was past one when she glanced at her watch.


'I'd best be leaving.'
'Why?' He was sorry she had to. He could have watched her laugh the whole night really.
'It's late and I'm simply exhausted from work'
'Alright'
She patted his hand and stood up to go. He got up too.
'It's been a pleasure. It really has.' She smiled and turned to leave.
'Wait.' The word escaped his mouth before he could stop himself. 'I never even asked you your name.'
She laughed again. 'Why, you already know it darling. It's Rachel. Rachel Bishop'


She was gone before he could say another word.

Rain

It was raining when she finally woke up. She lay there for a while, staring out of the window. A shiver ran through her spine and she smiled at herself. Surprised. Rain didn't excite her usually. It belonged in the hearts of beggar children and old women remembering what felt like first love. The rings on her bedside table reminded her that the nobody in her neighborhood would care about the sound of rain lashing at the window. They'd worry about their cars and how their kids would get to school.

She walked out into the living room and realized that nobody was home. Her hands shook as she unlocked the back door.

She stepped outside. The rain greeted her like a long lost friend, falling gently on her face. She caught a few drops on her tongue. It tasted the way it had in the old village.

She laughed.