I’m not too big on poetry. I certainly don’t have the knowledge to appreciate Ghalib and Rumi. But sometimes I come across a poem that really makes me want to major in Literature instead of Sociology and Politics next year.
Here’s one I read yesterday
Here I will stay, plumb in the centre
Of monsoon-mad Bengal, watching
Jackfruit leaves drift earthward
In the early morning breeze
Like a famous predecessor used to
And take note too
Of flashing knives, whirling sticks, burning bombs,
And accompanying gutturals and fricatives of hate,
And evil that requires no axis
To turn on, being everywhere
And should all these find their way
Into my scribbles and into print
I’ll cut a joyous caper right here
On the tropic of Cancer, proud to be
Published in the streets of Dhaka
Kaiser Haq
I love this poem. I’m not sure why. Maybe because you can read it all in one breath, maybe because the phrase ‘monsoon-mad’ makes so much sense to someone living in South Asia (and the irony that comes with that, the fact that we have taken the English language and made it our own) maybe the dramatic ending or the rich picture it paints. Or perhaps because the poet takes the good and the bad, the beautiful and the disturbing and casts them all in the same light of love. Whatever it is, I am writing this one on my bedroom wall.
Showing posts with label history. Show all posts
Showing posts with label history. Show all posts
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
From the notes on Turkey
15th 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.
16th 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.
Friday, July 9, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Attempts to Understand Anglophilia
The novel 'The God of Small Things' taught me two things. The first is that anyone can write an award winning novel if they throw in enough fancy words to distract publishers, readers and judges from a vague, abstract plot. (The Booker judges, JUST by the way, always get it wrong. Where the hell is Rushdie's award for his last book?! Hmph.) The second seems less important but has nonetheless left as huge an impact. The discovery of and attempt to understand the term 'Anglophile'
The Wikipedia definition seems simple enough. An Anglophile is a person who is fond of English culture and England in general. But no, the reason why the word struck me is because I can relate to the term on a deeper level.
My family has chronic Anglophilia. We greet the day from between imported sheets, wash our faces with Imperial Leather and throw on shirts we brought from England last summer. We speak near-perfect English. Not Oxford variety English of course (See how Oxford got the italics? How elitist. I disgust myself at times) but grammatically correct and with enough four syllable words thrown in to confirm our foreign/imported education. We stick to Western principles we probably picked up when the British took about two centuries ago such as waking up early. We need people to call in advance and expect them to know what RSVP means (which doesn't even stand for anything in English) We are formal with guests and curt with people we meet on the streets. No, you may not accuse me of racial profiling just right now, not at this second. I have a point here, I swear.
Understanding Anglophilia is difficult. Yes, Pakistan (then part of the Indian Subcontinent) was once ruled by the Brits and so some small traces of that rule are left (Christians that look like the rest of 'us', the side of the road we drive on, administration in certain schools) But really, that doesn't explain my family's Anglophilia. What is with this blind assumption that the Brits always get it right? They too went through financial crisis last year and hell, a lot of them voted Conservative this year. Obviously, they're not perfect.
I don't love the Brits. I like what they've done with the place but in all honesty; it rains too much, strangers are rude and the food sucks (Still not stereotyping, generalizing or judging of course) But I too have become part of that community. My Urdu is terrible, I like imported soap and I go to England almost every year to shop. Oh and I'm probably in denial about my Anglophilia.
The Wikipedia definition seems simple enough. An Anglophile is a person who is fond of English culture and England in general. But no, the reason why the word struck me is because I can relate to the term on a deeper level.
My family has chronic Anglophilia. We greet the day from between imported sheets, wash our faces with Imperial Leather and throw on shirts we brought from England last summer. We speak near-perfect English. Not Oxford variety English of course (See how Oxford got the italics? How elitist. I disgust myself at times) but grammatically correct and with enough four syllable words thrown in to confirm our foreign/imported education. We stick to Western principles we probably picked up when the British took about two centuries ago such as waking up early. We need people to call in advance and expect them to know what RSVP means (which doesn't even stand for anything in English) We are formal with guests and curt with people we meet on the streets. No, you may not accuse me of racial profiling just right now, not at this second. I have a point here, I swear.
Understanding Anglophilia is difficult. Yes, Pakistan (then part of the Indian Subcontinent) was once ruled by the Brits and so some small traces of that rule are left (Christians that look like the rest of 'us', the side of the road we drive on, administration in certain schools) But really, that doesn't explain my family's Anglophilia. What is with this blind assumption that the Brits always get it right? They too went through financial crisis last year and hell, a lot of them voted Conservative this year. Obviously, they're not perfect.
I don't love the Brits. I like what they've done with the place but in all honesty; it rains too much, strangers are rude and the food sucks (Still not stereotyping, generalizing or judging of course) But I too have become part of that community. My Urdu is terrible, I like imported soap and I go to England almost every year to shop. Oh and I'm probably in denial about my Anglophilia.
But I still don't get it. I don't understand why my family (and many other upper middle class families in Pakistan) insist on aping and lauding the Brits. They feel that once the rest of Pakistan begins to wake up early, drive properly and speak in English, the country will fix itself. Maybe the true goal of British imperialism was to make us feel perpetually inferior. Maybe it's because we haven't seen as many Asian countries progress yet stay true to their respective national identities. Or maybe we all just need to take a trip to Turkey.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
rat racing
It is six in the morning.
I have a History mock in five hours.
I need an A in said History mock because if I do not get an A then I will not get an A overall this year. And then I will shoot myself. Because I have, successfully, entered the rat race. And I want A's. They are pretty. They assure me I am intelligent because I possess the ability to write down useless facts about nothing much really and then analyze those facts and link them back to the question. Yes. As in, how many battles Napoleon fought because after all, WHO cares about why he fought them or how it is fate really that made him as great as he was. And really, what defines greatness?
Never the philosophy behind the things people do because that's not part of our history syllabus.
So HERE'S an idea. I'll move to New York and write for the stage. I will only deal with drama in the literal sense of the word. And then eventually come back and write plays here. Political plays. In urdu. I will be able to write in Urdu by then. And no degree will ever matter. What a plan.
Okay back to History.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Jazz
Peace strikes you at the funniest times (Wow. Peace strikes. Almost-an-oxymoron.) What business do I have being peaceful now with sociology to worry about, history homework to tackle and a politics test first thing tomorrow morning. Should I not, at this very minute, be agonizing over the state of my hair? Or, like many of my friends, why no one has asked me to prom yet?
After all, prom is only a month and a half away *Insert eye roll here*
But I'm not doing any of these things. I am sitting on my bedroom floor, listening to jazz and I can't remember the last time I was this happy. I love jazz. And the man's voice on the radio. I sort of wish I had paid attention to the number listeners can text into just so I can text him. What a strange sentiment. I mean, what would I say?
It seems pointless to get up, turn the lights on and read for History or even to text someone and ask what chapters are coming in tomorrows test.
The whole number thing I did a couple of days ago was totally out of line. Sometimes I wonder if it pays to stick to girl rules. I should really learn what the rules are before being able to stick to them.
It doesn't matter right now. Jazz is good. The RJ's voice is downright sexy. He probably has an earring. What a gig though, midnight to 2 am jazz programme on the radio.
I wonder what his day job is.
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