I'm not so into pilgrimage. In fact, until about five seconds ago I wasn't even entirely sure how to spell the word.
And yet today I am getting on a plane and flying the five hours to Saudi. To perform Umra. With my parents. Abaya and all.
Okay so that came off as a little angsty but I can't really write and youtube 'how to pray in Islam' at the same time. In the past three days I have learnt how to recite the four quls, pray, cover my head and perform wuzu. All the things I was taught at six, abandoned by twelve and now, six years down the road, make as little sense to me.
'Laqqum deenaqum waleeya din' is the only phrase from the Quran that I have ever quoted anywhere. 'To you your beliefs and to me mine' And now, once again, I am memorizing verses that make little sense to me and frankly it seems fake beyond belief.
And I don't believe in rituals. I firmly believe they suck all the spiritual out of everything. And as far as Islamic rituals are concerned, I believe they are irrelevant to my life. There are other ways to find faith. But then again, that's just me.
'Darling' says a friend on the phone 'Don't go as a believer. Go as an observer. You might just be surprised.'
Or maybe I'll just admire the buildings.
Notes to follow.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Redefining
We manage to talk while we kiss. I don't mean at the precise moment (and who in God's name can pull that off anyway?) but in betweenish and we crack jokes and laugh like idiots and walk around the room. Because it's familiar. No effort to be sexy because honestly the fact that we're here right now doing this is really enough. No effort put into hair or clothes or timing or any of that because he's probably my best friend right now during this moment in time and if I don't want to I don't have to.
So technically it's perfect. It's not tense. We're not trying to be phenomenal here we're just hanging around having a good time, arguing about smoking, hunting for my cell phone and his wallet and kissing every now and then.
It's got a pretty ugly label and I hate it. Friends with benefits. What does that even mean? Are friends generally not beneficial? Is this really even a benefit?
Okay so it's not romance. Is it? Romance for me being what exactly? It's never really been about candles and lighting (lightning?) And we've seen love in all it's tackiness, relationships at their most disloyal, hook ups at their most unsuited. This is purer somehow.
They say people like me and you have sucked all the romance out of life. But really they're wrong. We're reclaiming it in our own twisted, wonderful way.
So here's to me and you. Here's to our friendship.
So technically it's perfect. It's not tense. We're not trying to be phenomenal here we're just hanging around having a good time, arguing about smoking, hunting for my cell phone and his wallet and kissing every now and then.
It's got a pretty ugly label and I hate it. Friends with benefits. What does that even mean? Are friends generally not beneficial? Is this really even a benefit?
Okay so it's not romance. Is it? Romance for me being what exactly? It's never really been about candles and lighting (lightning?) And we've seen love in all it's tackiness, relationships at their most disloyal, hook ups at their most unsuited. This is purer somehow.
They say people like me and you have sucked all the romance out of life. But really they're wrong. We're reclaiming it in our own twisted, wonderful way.
So here's to me and you. Here's to our friendship.
Monday, June 27, 2011
The British Council is inclined to be more British than the British themselves, Stony houses, picturesque trees, pebble drives and small town friendliness are all very well but I sure as hell don't remember living on that side of the country.
Neither did the man and his wife who walked in with us. He looked like he'd just woken up. His wife was all dressed up. I'm talking the real deal here; make up, mehndi, silver heels, churiyaan and embroidered shalwar kameez. 'Newly weds' I thought, 'Who else but a new bride is this dressed up at ten in the morning?' They were silent, she walked with her head down. We reached the office and were ushered inside.
My brother offered the woman his chair. When she looked at him blankly, he repeated himself but in Urdu this time. She graciously took his seat and we sat on the floor. The man stayed quiet, waiting for an official to appear. When a woman did, he finally spoke. What came out of his mouth was the strongest Cockney-Yorkshire brogue I've heard in a while. I could barely understand what he was saying and neither could the official behind the desk who had to ask him to repeat his questions at least twice. He seemed impatient, obviously not used to people not understanding him.
I wondered, in that moment, how much Urdu he spoke. Enough to communicate with his parents after coming home from a long day of work? Enough to give a cab driver directions? Enough to talk to his new wife? Communicate with her, yes but understand her? Empathize with her? Console her?
My mother had the couple down. I could tell by the way she looked at them. His parents moved to England maybe forty years ago and worked as cheap labourers, in factories or as cab drivers. He was born there, brought up there. But they wanted him to marry a nice simple girl from here. Someone to make roti and sit home. So he came here. Maybe for the first time ever.
I knew the kind too. They'd settle in areas like Bradford or Luton and she might be wearing a hijab in a few years because all the Pakistani women there do. Call it cultural defence or denial or pride but it feels like the strongest force in the world regardless of whether you are inside or outside a mosque (and there are plenty of them there) Boys are allowed to do as they please as long as they marry a nice, Pakistani girl. Girls aren't allowed to do much.
I wondered what she'd let her kids do. I doubted she'd change the way she dressed. She'd probably live out her days in Bradford, walking around in a three piece shalwar kameez while her husband and sons wore whatever they wanted.
I felt sorry for this woman. She could hardly even be called a woman. Her husband hadn't said two words to her in forty minutes and they were obviously uncomfortable around each other. But the silence would be something they'd both get used to. Her English would improve because of the evening classes. Soon there would be communication. I felt sorry for her because I know so many like her. My aunts and cousins and even to an extent my own mother. And I knew how scary it was to live there in that cold, miserable land that really, despite the enormous Pakistani community, was nothing like home.
And ever more so, I felt sorry for her because she'd continue to do things, to live out her life, the way it had always been done. Despite the mix of two (even three or four) rich cultures, she'd be lost only until she figured out how to live there. How to live in a small community that is more Pakistani than Pakistan itself. She would probably never question where to wear a dupatta, what to cook, how to greet a desi and how to greet a foreigner, the exchange rate, her in laws, the classes she'd have to take, the way she should raise her kids, her husband going out late with his friends or the trips to London. She would just see other Pakistani women go about their lives and copy them.
And for some reason it just seemed so hopeless to me. When cultures merge so obviously shouldn't there be a greater understanding of living? Of how traditions, languages, values, beliefs and norms are all derived from each other and everywhere else? Should there not be a refocusing of sorts when this sort of multiculturalism is encouraged?
But maybe it isnt multiculturalism at all. They'd only ever see glimpses of England where they were going. Fear of the unknown would protect them, keep them inside the community and maybe even put a scarf on their heads. This isn't real multiculturalism. This is just another example of how blindly we hang on to what we know.
I'd be living a different life there, I reminded myself. London, university, studying and so forth. But as I watched them walk away, the girl slightly unsteady in her high heels, I realized I was a little scared too.
Neither did the man and his wife who walked in with us. He looked like he'd just woken up. His wife was all dressed up. I'm talking the real deal here; make up, mehndi, silver heels, churiyaan and embroidered shalwar kameez. 'Newly weds' I thought, 'Who else but a new bride is this dressed up at ten in the morning?' They were silent, she walked with her head down. We reached the office and were ushered inside.
My brother offered the woman his chair. When she looked at him blankly, he repeated himself but in Urdu this time. She graciously took his seat and we sat on the floor. The man stayed quiet, waiting for an official to appear. When a woman did, he finally spoke. What came out of his mouth was the strongest Cockney-Yorkshire brogue I've heard in a while. I could barely understand what he was saying and neither could the official behind the desk who had to ask him to repeat his questions at least twice. He seemed impatient, obviously not used to people not understanding him.
I wondered, in that moment, how much Urdu he spoke. Enough to communicate with his parents after coming home from a long day of work? Enough to give a cab driver directions? Enough to talk to his new wife? Communicate with her, yes but understand her? Empathize with her? Console her?
My mother had the couple down. I could tell by the way she looked at them. His parents moved to England maybe forty years ago and worked as cheap labourers, in factories or as cab drivers. He was born there, brought up there. But they wanted him to marry a nice simple girl from here. Someone to make roti and sit home. So he came here. Maybe for the first time ever.
I knew the kind too. They'd settle in areas like Bradford or Luton and she might be wearing a hijab in a few years because all the Pakistani women there do. Call it cultural defence or denial or pride but it feels like the strongest force in the world regardless of whether you are inside or outside a mosque (and there are plenty of them there) Boys are allowed to do as they please as long as they marry a nice, Pakistani girl. Girls aren't allowed to do much.
I wondered what she'd let her kids do. I doubted she'd change the way she dressed. She'd probably live out her days in Bradford, walking around in a three piece shalwar kameez while her husband and sons wore whatever they wanted.
I felt sorry for this woman. She could hardly even be called a woman. Her husband hadn't said two words to her in forty minutes and they were obviously uncomfortable around each other. But the silence would be something they'd both get used to. Her English would improve because of the evening classes. Soon there would be communication. I felt sorry for her because I know so many like her. My aunts and cousins and even to an extent my own mother. And I knew how scary it was to live there in that cold, miserable land that really, despite the enormous Pakistani community, was nothing like home.
And ever more so, I felt sorry for her because she'd continue to do things, to live out her life, the way it had always been done. Despite the mix of two (even three or four) rich cultures, she'd be lost only until she figured out how to live there. How to live in a small community that is more Pakistani than Pakistan itself. She would probably never question where to wear a dupatta, what to cook, how to greet a desi and how to greet a foreigner, the exchange rate, her in laws, the classes she'd have to take, the way she should raise her kids, her husband going out late with his friends or the trips to London. She would just see other Pakistani women go about their lives and copy them.
And for some reason it just seemed so hopeless to me. When cultures merge so obviously shouldn't there be a greater understanding of living? Of how traditions, languages, values, beliefs and norms are all derived from each other and everywhere else? Should there not be a refocusing of sorts when this sort of multiculturalism is encouraged?
But maybe it isnt multiculturalism at all. They'd only ever see glimpses of England where they were going. Fear of the unknown would protect them, keep them inside the community and maybe even put a scarf on their heads. This isn't real multiculturalism. This is just another example of how blindly we hang on to what we know.
I'd be living a different life there, I reminded myself. London, university, studying and so forth. But as I watched them walk away, the girl slightly unsteady in her high heels, I realized I was a little scared too.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Ayesha.
Sometimes she draws herself up to her full height- all eleven years and five foot one inch of her- and yells at the top of her voice about her unfair everything is. How they always take his side and not her's, how we ignore her because she's the youngest, how this friend was mean and that one so immature, how mid-dance class she looked at her legs and decided she doesn't like them and how her stomach hurts every once a month and she just doesn't want to deal with it.
Then she stops yelling and the tears come flowing. I let her put her head down in my lap and kiss her hair.
And then there are questions that I find impossible to answer. 'Aliya says it's haraam to kiss before marriage. Is that true?' 'Are you going out with a boy?' 'Why does your hair smell of cigarette smoke?' 'Am I pretty?' 'Why is he being like this?' And I always pause before answering because she's the one person in the world I feel I owe the truth. Because her hair falls exactly the way mine does, her laugh reminds me of my own and she roams around in my old tshirts.
I'm going to miss her the most.
Then she stops yelling and the tears come flowing. I let her put her head down in my lap and kiss her hair.
And then there are questions that I find impossible to answer. 'Aliya says it's haraam to kiss before marriage. Is that true?' 'Are you going out with a boy?' 'Why does your hair smell of cigarette smoke?' 'Am I pretty?' 'Why is he being like this?' And I always pause before answering because she's the one person in the world I feel I owe the truth. Because her hair falls exactly the way mine does, her laugh reminds me of my own and she roams around in my old tshirts.
I'm going to miss her the most.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Wipe your hand across your mouth and laugh.
'She doesn't really look up much. You know how it is, eyes half closed, just sort of nods a lot and her facial expression doesn't say ever say much. Like she's built a wall in front of herself. What's the word for it? Facade?'
It's all a charade.
Day in. Day out. Along with the other masquerades that time resumes. Eliot always sticks for some reason and I have a terrible memory so that's saying something. But it's all a charade and that's all it's ever been. How was your day? May I take your coat? Are you hungry? Do I even care? No of course not. But appearances must be kept up. Must. We mustn't break down those walls. Age equals respect, sex equals discrimination and money equals power and when all three things work against you, you must work with them. Put on a face for the evenings when he comes home. Over the years I have perfected this face, this look of passive adoration. I wear it close like a second skin and by God, I wear it well.
And so the bits and pieces of my life I allow to be seen never make a whole image let alone a thousand sordid ones and once I need something solid, something real I pause to think about how I would go about it. Because for the longest time it hasnt been about demanding anything, just keeping up the charade, keeping up the smiles and pettings and compliments so that when I want something real he would consider. And now I do how to go about it is beyond me. It would be beyond anyone. We're talking an eighteen year old relationship here. But really eighteen years of what?
'Hello Daddy, here's your tea' 'What've you got there Princess? A brochure?' (Laughter, never derisive always cute) 'Oh no Daddy, it's the prospectus from the university I got into. Do you remember?' (silence) 'I thought...we could look at it together, it has course details and lots of information...' 'I see' (silence) 'I'll just put your tea down' 'Not over there, lovely, here on the bedside where it'll stay warm' (sets tea down, holds out prospectus) 'Shall I turn the light on so we can read it together?' 'I really don't think I can deal with this nonsense right now. Maybe tomorrow.' (Nod and smile, always smile as you back out of the darkened room)
It's all just a fucking charade.
It's all a charade.
Day in. Day out. Along with the other masquerades that time resumes. Eliot always sticks for some reason and I have a terrible memory so that's saying something. But it's all a charade and that's all it's ever been. How was your day? May I take your coat? Are you hungry? Do I even care? No of course not. But appearances must be kept up. Must. We mustn't break down those walls. Age equals respect, sex equals discrimination and money equals power and when all three things work against you, you must work with them. Put on a face for the evenings when he comes home. Over the years I have perfected this face, this look of passive adoration. I wear it close like a second skin and by God, I wear it well.
And so the bits and pieces of my life I allow to be seen never make a whole image let alone a thousand sordid ones and once I need something solid, something real I pause to think about how I would go about it. Because for the longest time it hasnt been about demanding anything, just keeping up the charade, keeping up the smiles and pettings and compliments so that when I want something real he would consider. And now I do how to go about it is beyond me. It would be beyond anyone. We're talking an eighteen year old relationship here. But really eighteen years of what?
'Hello Daddy, here's your tea' 'What've you got there Princess? A brochure?' (Laughter, never derisive always cute) 'Oh no Daddy, it's the prospectus from the university I got into. Do you remember?' (silence) 'I thought...we could look at it together, it has course details and lots of information...' 'I see' (silence) 'I'll just put your tea down' 'Not over there, lovely, here on the bedside where it'll stay warm' (sets tea down, holds out prospectus) 'Shall I turn the light on so we can read it together?' 'I really don't think I can deal with this nonsense right now. Maybe tomorrow.' (Nod and smile, always smile as you back out of the darkened room)
It's all just a fucking charade.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Ironic.
It is perhaps the most ironic thing in the world. The situation in which not getting the one thing you thought you wanted the most will maybe finally set you free.
And free to do what? It's a tough world they say and money talks. Yes money talks. We've all seen how and what it can do. How it can enslave and liberate. Keep people together and drive them apart.
It's a tough world they say and I'd have no money. No college degree or credibility or work experience. All I'd have is a report book filled with A's and a head filled with pretentious world views. But maybe just maybe I'd never have to answer to anyone again. Not in that way ever again.
And what would the alternative be? Money talks and people walk and I'd be sitting in a classroom come September. And it would be the most ironic thing in the world. To sit there at that hippie university, learning about liberties and freedoms and knowing full well that I have none. Because I'm paying for this textbook, this laptop, this lecture with the binding of my soul.
And it would be the most ironic thing in the world. If I graduate one day with my head filled with independent, empowered drivel and my heart a testament to the fact that in order to learn it I chose to sell myself to a man.
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