Haw, all is vell…

Haw, haw, please come; you will be okay, I have curfew passes for us. So says my friend, Shabbir Lalani, an active social worker based in Hyderabad. He is assuring me of my safety in the violence engulfed city; bloodshed between Hindus and Muslims that has flared up in the Old City, resulting in total curfews and shoot at sight orders to security personal. Shabbirbhai a quiet man, a shrewd man, has kept it secret that train tickets for our trip from Hyderabad to Nampali are in a non air-conditioned second class compartment. Had he informed me about this, I would not have left safe and secure Mumbai. There are some benefits to the curfew however, the roads from airport to the city, usually a crowded cocktail of traffic mayhem are deserted, so we fly past to the train station, secure in the knowledge the curfew pass with Shabbirbhai will rescue us from any eager, irate policeman with an itchy finger on the trigger.

When I find the train station subdued and somewhat deserted, my spirits elevate; the train ride will not be so bad. This optimism is quickly busted when Shabbirbhai, rather demurely, gives me the bad news. I almost swoon in shock and choke on my spit which decides to travel down the wrong way in sympathy with my emotional dismay. Say what! I shout, but Shbbirbhai spreads his arms wide in a gesture of helplessness. There were no better seats, this is vacation period in India and families are heading back to the villages, it was either these seats or a three months wait for the air-conditioned class to open up. With this matter of fact reality, I shut up but my heart is already inconsolable.

Now, for you who may question the intensity of my sorrow, let me give you a brief history of train travel in India. On average, twenty million people travel by train in India, every single day. Re-read the number, that’s right; your calculator will refuse to compute an annual total, so I did it for you on Excel; seven billion, three hundred million humans travel by train every year in India. This is more than total number of humans in the whole world!!!. There is only one train per day that plies the Hyderabad – Nampali route and it is always crowded and unruly, even in first class. So the prospect of trying to sleep through 320 miles of travel in the allocated class in the heat, humidity, noise, smells and mosquitoes can fill even the most seasoned Indian traveler with dread. Now, if we had first class seats, it would be a different story all together. Two crispy white bed sheets, two fluffy pillows, ample space and cool, almost cold air conditioning. Why, you wouldn’t even miss home. Almost.

I am going to the sleepy village of Nagaram, which is about 5 miles from Narsapur, which is 20 miles from Nampali. Nagaram was badly hit with a typhoon last year and the villagers lost everything they owned, their homes too. CAI has agreed to rebuild sixteen such homes, for families that are really in very bad shape; I am going to inspect the progress of these homes. Nagaram sits in the eastern coastal region of Andra Pradest so it can get pretty sultry in summer, which is just now beginning.

My worst fears surface as we board the train; a whiff of urine emits from the toilets and our seats are but two rows away; I grind my teeth and brace for disaster. The train leaves on the dot and I prepare for battle; the battle for space. The train stops at the next station and a mini riot ensues as our cabin gets overcrowded fast-fast. When things settle down, I am left starring at a very heavy set woman with ample bosoms and a ring on her nose so huge, I am reminded of a cow in a similarly fix. She is sweating profusely, her blouse a wet mess, curly hair matted to the forehead and a string of flowers that must have brightened her day earlier but now looked as miserable as she. Her eyes are shut tight as she tries to stabilize her breathing, large hands flap, flap upwards and down and sideways in a futile gesture to create non existing cooler air. I glare at her; I am so mad. She has decided not only to transport her large bulk, but maybe her entire household stuff, as the limited aisle space between her and me is packed paraphernalia solid and her large pudgy legs now overflow over the stuff and our knees almost kiss. Then she opens her eyes and stares at my sullen, angry face and smiles the widest, brightest of smiles, revealing startlingly white against very dark skin teeth. She bobs her head in the universal Indian sign of greeting and acknowledgement; horrified at myself, instantly, unthinking, I return the bob; ALL IS VELL.

Evening turns into night and the air turns super humid as the train snakes her way east, towards the sea. We eat dinner; chapattis with chunks of tandoori chicken while the madam across me busies herself with chunks of heaped rice with daal curry shoved into a hungry mouth. She seems a happy camper, this mama, for she smiles a lot, this time with yellow rice grains stuck to her brilliantly white teeth. With nothing else to do, the lights go off by nine and I delicately climb up to the third berth to try and sleep; I bump my head along the way several times, for the space is super cramped, but my ow, owch, ow, owch protests go ignored. I undress to my briefs, uncaring; it is simply too hot and humid. There are no bed sheets, no pillows, only the stale smelly plastic that sticks to my skin and makes rude, farting noise whenever I have to unglue myself which is often, as I turn and toss through the night.

I sleep in fits, as the train makes many stops; with inevitable commotion at every station, together with several tones of snoring in the cabin enough to wake the dead. It is also very humid and the blend of urine, body odor, mix of tandoori masala and daal among others makes sleep that is unsettled; I dream of missiles made from extracts of madam’s teeth being fired at me. These missiles are tiny boiled rice grains that grow huge and deadly as they approach me.

The train arrives Nampali right on the dot of six but I am a mess; tired, sleepy and with a terrible crick in my neck. I go through my task ahead sluggishly; the guys there must think I have a hangover. We take a rickshaw to Nagaram, meet with the committee overseeing the construction project and eat a massive lunch which makes me even sleepier. I gratefully crash on to my berth for the train ride back to Hyderabad and a flight home to Mumbai later in the morning. Thank God I am too exhausted to care about anything and just haphazardly sleep through the entire train ride.

Jet Airways flight to Mumbai is right on time, five minutes early, even. I look forward to going home and playing with Maaha Zainab who I miss very much whenever I travel. It is when we are almost above Mumbai that the pilot comes alive and informs we are being diverted to Ahmadabad. Eh? Mumbai airport has closed down due to VVIP movement and we do not have enough fuel to circle around Mumbai for the ninety minutes it will take for the VVIP to depart and airport to reopen. So we are in Ahmadabad for an hour before we take off and head for home.

My neighbor, a smart young man in his thirties perhaps gets chatting with me. Who am I, where I am heading, where I am from… Then we speculate about who this VVIP could be whose movements merited an airport closure. I don’t care who it is, I say carelessly, he is an idiot, inconveniencing thousands of people. I must have said this quite brashly, for there is an uncomfortable silence from those sitting close to us. That man could only be our Prime Minister, says this young man after a while, we don’t call our Prime Minister an idiot, however inconvenienced we may be.

Oops, ouch! Nako. ALL IS NOT VELL.

In Hyderabadi lingo, haw means yes and nako, no.

Prophecies of a dying brother.

Two days before Bha stopped talking and went into a coma, he called me to his room and sat me down by his bedside. Bha, Mohammedreza Sultanali Yusufali, my eldest brother, was a father figure in my family. My father, you see, passed away in 1960, and since then Bha had led at the top, fulfilling the vacuum created as head of family. He started working at age 14 to help pay for household expenses, struggled considerably during mid life, married late but more than made up later on with much success in business and personal accomplishments. His service to Arusha Jamaat in particular, was exceptional. Bha was also the one who provided initial financial and moral support that has put CAI activities in the blessed position it is now in.

Bha was a man with unshakable faith in Allah (S); I know, I know; all of us have faith in God, but Bha’s faith was, well, extraordinary. I worked under him at his shop Mchawi wa Radio in Arusha, Tanzania; this shop had very little to do with radios as it traded mostly in bicycles, its spares and Agip cooking gas. But Bha retained the name and the label Mchawi (magician in English) stuck to him from then on. Business during those times in Tanzania was very good, people made a bundle and Mchawi wa Radio was no exception.

I learnt the ropes of trade here and the sweetness of profit. However, come zohr prayer time and Bha would shoo out waiting customers and close shop. I would protest, argue I would close up and he could precede me, but no, he would have none of that. Money in tens of thousands of shillings was a LOT of money in the seventies; Bha once made out a check for charity that made me almost choke and swoon in awe. Bha would ignore his business and run around town and country for errands for our mosque and community; didn’t bat an eye once when I told him a bicycle got stolen as I was alone and overwhelmed at the shop.

The day he called me in and talked to me for the final time, he looked tired, resigned. Bha had been struggling with acute sarcoma cancer; we all knew he was bidding time. Incidentally, about 2 years before he was struck with cancer, he had declined a very lucrative business proposal that I had put to him. No, he had declared firmly, no more business ventures for me, my time is up and I have to prepare to meet my Lord. I had dismissed those sentiments, written it off to overactive emotions of an overwhelmed but simple man who had achieved much in life, both spiritual and personal.

I remember that day vividly. Yusuf, he had addressed me, his face gaunt from months of suffering, pain, surgery and hospital stays. He had looked at me hauntingly; swallowing painfully, for his mouth was drying up constantly due to medication effects from many drugs (mostly pain killers) he had to consume. I want to talk to you about the humanitarian activities you are doing. Do not wait to help the needy, just put your trust and confidence in Allah (S) and money and success will follow you. Remember always, you are answerable to Allah (S) and everything that you do must be for His (S) pleasure As long as you hold these supreme ideals firmly rooted in you and never compromise with them, you will achieve success and peace of soul you never before imagined. But remember, these successes do not come without losing something in return, giving up of other things. You will get away from the love and desire of this dunya very quickly; things that excite you now and seem important will seem trivial. The lure and luster of fine things that you thought you could not do without will seem almost silly. So, continue doing what you do but carefully consider what I have just said. With those words, he stopped talking and closed his eyes. A man of limited words even when he was in robust health, I did not prod for more; tired, I assumed, and left the room so he could rest. Little did I know those were my brother’s last words to me; Bha left us to be with his Lord 3 days later at age 59.

Now, six years after his passing, it amazes me to realize how accurate and prophetic those few words were. How exact was Bha! As I dwell into the slums of Govendhi and Malad, as I daily hear and deal with the plight of poor and wrenched widows, as I witness the desperation of a mother struggling with a dying child or a young women struggling to get married or further her education, as I struggle to come to grips with the situation of oppressed Muslims of Afghanistan and the lamentations of over 7,000 widows whose husbands were brutally murdered for being a religious minority, as I watch these widows and her young girls toil to fetch a pail of water 2 miles away in a foot of snow and ice so she can put nan on the table for her 5 – 6 kids... I ask myself the very question Bha alluded to. What is this life that I live in worth? All these sufferings and desperate people, why am I so blessed with the bounties of Allah (S)? Why am I so special? Slowly, but surely, I feel silly and ashamed to have yearned for objects and toys that seem so insignificant now. Possessions that I had to have appear petty, immaterial, negligible.

I just completed watching a documentary - Children of Gazza (http://www.shiatv. net/view_ video.php? viewkey=06a78886 b230886197d9&page=1&viewtype=&category / http://www.shiatv. net/view_ video.php? viewkey=5e6023fa c42ec39312a5&page=&viewtype=&category) and my heart wants to explode; it hurts so bad. Ya Allah! Where is this world coming to? Is this life worth living? Are the trivial things we desire and slog all our lives for really worth it when there is such appalling sorrow and sadness and inequity in the world we call home? Where is humanity? Why do beasts rule and control the world? Where is the Imam (A)? Surely this lunacy, this fallacy, this injustice must end and it is high time the Imam (A) is with us?

Lost lives...insecure lives.

Kabul, Afghanistan - Friday February 26,2010

Six heavily armed men casually walk towards the entrance of Park Residence Hotel and as casually, pump several bullets into the heavy set middle aged guard sleepily guarding the entrance on this calm and sedate Friday holiday. They quickly overpower and kill 2 other guards just inside the iron enforced gates and then run into the open compound of the hotel and set off a number of explosions so powerful, the entire facade of the building comes crashing down. The assailants proceed to gun down anybody that moves; but there are not many guests out and about, sleeping in perhaps on this Muslim Sabbath. The obvious leader of these assassins, a tall, powerful, fully bearded man with shoulder length hair, kicks in the reception door and in Urdu, demands to know what rooms Indians occupy. The night clerk, terrified out of his wits, trembles violently, unable to speak; he gets shot dead. Frustrated, the leader commands his team to explode more bombs.

After the Afghanistan Defence Forces finally kill the attackers and mop up this latest onslaught on Kabul, 18 innocents lay dead, 9 Indians, mostly doctors working in the Indian Medical Mission serving Afghans desperately in need of medical attention.

Kabul, Afghanistan – 2005, 2006, 2007

After spending my first trip ever to Kabul at the (un)Insaaf Hotel in 2005, freezing because of no heat in the rooms and either boiling water or ice water options in the bathrooms, Park Residency Hotel was an oasis of relative comfort, not too far away. The rooms were fairly large, well cleaned and food, catering to many Indians who preferred staying here, fairly palatable. Security, with heavy armed guards manning massive iron doors and frisking everybody coming in was seemingly (apparently not) adequate and assuring. Sayyedna Mussawi, Gulambhai Virjee, Aliakberbhai Ratansi, Mohammed Somji, Mohammed Dewji – all of us will remember this hotel very well.

Kabul, Afghanistan, March 12 - 15, 2010

I am in Kabul, this my 14th trip here on behalf of Comfort Aid International to inspect and complete final formalities for opening of Imam Hussein (A) High School at Daste Barchi, a sprawling Hazare slum on the outskirts of Kabul. I am staying as a guest at the home of our engineer Wasi Mohammed, who is insisting this; he feels his modest home the most secure for me, considering what happened to Park Residence Hotel just 3 weeks ago. I am reluctant to impose on Wasi’s modest means, especially after he makes a whole room, nice and warm, available for me, but he is right, it is a “right” neighbourhood and I will be safe, insha’Allah.

These are long days for us; the entire team work throughout the day and late into the night to make sure everything is covered for the grand opening on June 3rd, birthday of Lady of Light, Sayyeda Fatemah (S). There are several issues to be resolved (this being Afghanistan, not surprising), but looks like we will overcome them, insha’Allah. The school building itself is turning out very beautiful maasha’Allah; I can find very little, if anything, to fault with the construction of the building; this is unusual, for I tend to be exacting, a perfectionist, a pain.

It is while we are returning from dinner that we chance drive by the now shell of Park Residency Hotel. I request Wasi to stop; he hesitates, unsure, uneasy. The area is shrouded in darkness and looks eerie; Wasi stops and I get out, viewing the destruction that is so apparent. The building is covered up to hide the blackened shell, there is nobody around and I can make out the collapsed front façade. How must it have felt for the guests that were slain that Friday? The guard whom I knew well, the demure receptionist, the bellboys…? How many Fridays have I and those that accompany me sometimes slept in that very same spot…?

I say a prayer for those that perished, some faces so fresh in my mind, I can see their expressions vividly. I know Wasi is getting anxious, nervous, so I hurry back to the relative safety of Wasi’s neighbourhood.

You give me bad gas, My Baap…

My distant relative, a pious man of advancing age, regards me with watery eyes, his mouth struggling to cope with overflow of paan remnants so when he speaks, his speech is incoherent and I have to pay special attention to understand him. This relative, (I can’t pinpoint how we are exactly related, but he has bandaged together a relationship from my mother’s family from Kilwa of yore, in Tanzania), let’s call him My Baap for convenience sake, is a man with great exposure to worldly affairs, since he has travelled far and wide. He has made good money, a businessman lucky enough to have started early when Dubai was still wearing business pampers.

My Baap is visiting Mumbai for a health physical, wants to make sure he is hale and hearty so he can enjoy his wealth in old age. Not my words, he told me so with a knowing, cheeky wink and a twinkle in his eyes. Now, I know he has a wife in Dubai (a second marriage, for the first abandoned him a while ago) a fine one, who has been with him for a considerable time. Is he insinuating more unions, I wonder, alarmed? I dismiss the thought, probably my imagination working overtime? All the tests are within acceptable levels considering his age and doctors at Kokila Ambani Hospital here in Andheri have given give a clean health chit with the caveat that all the encouraging results can very quickly deteriorate if he were to continue his paan guzzling (and disgusting, I might add) habit. He is paying me a courtesy call, he says, because we are related. Somehow...

People visiting us from anywhere outside India is a treat for me; gives me a an oppertunity to catch up with events from many homes I have made over my life in Africa, Dubai, Canada and the USA. So I am happy he is here and mama ya watoto makes him comfortable; serves him tea and goodies from the kitchen.

Anyway, he is in fairy good mood, which is rare, for My Baap is (usually very) strongly opinioned about every Khoja community issue under the sky and rants away at perceived ills within us and any entity that struggles to hold it together. So when he takes off ranting about the massive Imam Hussein (A) School CAI is building in Afghanistan, I am unsurprised, unmoved; amused even, because I either smile or smirk. This sets My Baap up into an ugly mood fast-fast, for his features change, his color change, his voice shrills and he loses composure as a tickle of paan juice escapes and quickly dribbles down his chin.

It is my turn to change color and panic; if that drip from his chin falls on our new sofa, I will not hear the end of lamenting from mama ya watoto. I quickly move to offer My Baap a napkin but he brushes away the paper and proceeds to wipe his chin with his palms and rub them clean together; I cringe.

Why do you insist on taking away our (?) huquuq funds and put them in Afghanistan? He shrills. Do you not know the predicament of your Khoja brothers in Dar es Salaam? They are suffering, I tell you, young man, suffering badly! This economic crises has wiped out a lot of our people, you should be helping them first. There are families who have no house; they live hand to mouth in rented flats. We have medical cases that we have to bring here to India; we have no money for that. Our children suffer poor education, we need better teachers and we need schools...

My Baap, pauses to empty another sachet of RMD (Rooz Marneki Dawa as it is notoriously referred to in Mumbai) into an upturned mouth and wants to litter my not too long ago swept and mopped floor (Nasreen, our daily help would have a fit if she were to witness this brazen act) so I take it away from him and discard it into a dustbin not too far away from My Baaps’s reach and eyesight.

Well, I am not known for patience and political correctness either; rather, I am regularly accused of being frank and very abrupt and I am now hot under my kurta. So while My Baap chews and struggles with the offensive overflow in his mouth that has silenced him momentarily, I go on the offensive.

Uncle My Baap, I say, I am not sure what you mean by your huqooq money; I get these from all over the world. Most of CAI projects are donor driven and they choose where and what projects to support. Charitable spending is like going to the grocery store which sells many varieties of fruit. You may like apples, I oranges, the next person grapes. Nobody has come to me with money and specifically instructed me to spend on needy Khojas of Dar es Sallam else CAI would have done exactly as instructed. CAI can’t do it all; there are many other fine humanitarian organizations that may be helping these very people. In fact, why can’t you take the initiative? I am sure you can do much, why don’t you start something that will help your brethren?

I know I have wounded him for his eyes narrow and he takes deep gulps of air to control him. The tea he has half finished remains, catching a cold and snacks from Tasneem’s kitchen are untouched. I know he is calculating how to respond but I want to cut off this nonsense and give him no chance; he is, after all, on my turf.

Uncle My Baap, I continue, huqooq funds are for all deserving Shia Ithnaasheries, be they in Das es Salaam, here in India but more so in Afghanistan. You moan about the plight of Khojas in Dar es Sallam, have you asked or inquired about why CAI invests in Afghanistan? You talk of economic crises while your Shia brethren of Afghanistan have no economy at all? You talk of widows that have rental homes; what about widows who have no homes, not even rental ones, widows whose husbands were massacred just because of their religious belief? Widows and young orphans who walk for miles just to fetch a pail of water? What about children who have not seen a doctor, no immunization, no medicines, ever! Pregnant women who die together with their unborn babies because there is no medical facility for miles and there is six feet of snow outside? What about villages that have no schools, none whatsoever! Why? Because they belong to a religious minority, like yours! Consider the Khojas of Dar es Sallam lucky and gives thanks to Allah (S) you were not born a Shia in Afghanistan…

My Baap’s chewing has ceased and his face is now cast in stone. He does not look at me, but at his mobile that he dials to summon his driver, asking to be picked up. He gathers his belongings and gets up, still not a word out of him, an attribute unknown for his character, that of instant resort and critic. I feel for him then, not sorrow, but something else, I am not sure what. Perhaps it’s a rare defeat for him, outdone by someone younger, perhaps? Stiffly but surely, he leaves and stops at the door which Nasreen holds open for him, turns and looks at me for an instant. I think he wants to say something, a last word perhaps, but his face has a look of only hatred. He is then gone.

Well, My Baap, you give me gas, bad gas...I have to get it out.

A day in the life of Amjad Hussein

There are many people who make the success of what CAI is today possible and one such man is Amjad Hussein. I pay tribute to this humble, tireless and most critically, a kind man who genuinely cares for orphans and is their mother, father and everything else in between. Thank you Amjadbhai; for your total commitment and selfless dedication to the orphans of Matia Bruj and all others in whose service you have sacrificed so much of your life. May Allah (S) bless and reward you in this and afterworlds.

Cough. My name is Amjad Hussein. I was born in Lucknow, Uttar Pradesh, in India oh, some 59 nine years ago, son of a poor zari worker who fathered very many children. We had very little food to eat so all of us had to start earning as soon as we were able, so this meant tailoring apprenticeship for me at age 9. I worked hard and learnt to sew all kind of clothes but I was not fated to be a tailor. Circumstances (poor eyesight, marriage) took me away from Lucknow and I began managing orphanages for Najafi House based in Mumbai. I love taking care of children, supervise their activities and guide them; why, I like this so much I have been doing this for over 26 years. Cough, cough.

Sorry, I have this terrible cough. Here in Matia Brug, on the outskirts of Kolkta, India, it has been a bitter winter and I have been coughing nonstop for weeks now. I had myself thoroughly checked by a doctor, blood tests and chest x-rays, even for TB but the doctor just scratches his hair and says I am not diseased. Cough. Yusufali keeps on insisting I go for a full body check but I don’t know; I have given enough blood for testing and been prodded around as much.

About 5 years ago, I was reassigned to this renovated orphanage in Matia Brug. It is an old building, in ruins, well over 100 years old but built like a fortress. Now, it is a modern building with all facilities for the orphans that live and get educated here. The orphans, when they first come here, are a pitiful lot, some so backwards they cannot put on and zip their trousers. Cough. Why, I even had a mentally retard boy who drove me bananas trying to upgrade him; I had to let him go because he scared me silly, breaking into uncontrollable convulsions. Cough, cough, cough.

My day begins at 4:30AM with prayers for the boys; they sleep for another hour while I begin preparation for their morning hygiene and school bags. The first batch of kids go to school at 7AM, the second at 11AM and the rest 2PM. I supervise their teeth brush routine (they used up a whole new jumbo size one morning!), their uniform coordination, hair management and breakfast before seeing them off. Cough. By the time the first batch has gone and I have my breakfast, supervision of cleaners, laundry management, cook management and day’s lunch / dinner ration distribution, the next batch is ready for attention. The same routine follows afterwards and I stay on my toes until 3PM when the building is humming with activity again. Evening hours are filled with homework, tuitions Islamic school teachers; tiffs and brawl refereeing. Then come evening prayers and dinner. Cough, cough. My aging legs and back begin giving me a hard time by then but I plod on. Cough. It is only after dinner tuition classes are over and the kids spent in their energies and retire to bed with mischief and tiffs that I relax a bit, around 11PM. I am hopelessly tired and after a complete tour of this 3 level building, I gratefully ease myself onto my bed for blissful, blissful slumber. The last thought on my mind is a prayer none of the boys will be sick tonight or wet their beds. Cough, cough…

Aliakberbhai of Najfi House and Yusufali of CAI are visiting today; here for inspection and advice. I have slogged all day, sprucing up the place and ensuring their comfortable (and complaint free) stay on the 2nd floor. I know they will be exhausted from the airport drive; Kolkota traffic is vicious, confusing, lead heavy and sometimes dangerous. It is also a very polluting city; the fumes from ancient cars taxes my lungs, cough, lungs used to toxic waste of Indian cities; Yusufali has American lungs, cushioned against many of our Indian cities ills, I have been told. While I have known Aliakberbhai for years and know his temperament, Yusufali is relatively new. This intense bald (self imposed?) man is relentless in insisting absolute cleanliness of the orphanage and stresses educational excellence of the boys as if there is nothing more important than beating geniuses out of these poor kids. Well, I am not a teacher of math and science and I can only do so much with ensuring good grades; the rest is with the boys and their tutors. Cough.

We sit and talk late into the night, my eyes heavy with sleep. The duo listen to a litany of complaints I have against the incompetent cleaners and some adolescent orphans whose hormones are on overdrive. They advice and counsel me, sympathize. I know there is so much they can do but it is nice to let off steam. Cough. I live a rather solitary life, the children are a joy but they are children after all. My family all live in Lucknow; my wife is happy with this arrangement and so am I but I miss my kids, 5 of them. So this time with these adults is a break although I wish they would hurry up and let me go rest my aching legs. It is a good thing they leave early tomorrow; I can do my own thing and be away from Yusufali’s discerning eyes. Cough!

As perceived by Yusuf Yusufali through eyes of Amjad Hussein - Matia Bruj, February 15, 2010.

Scared shitless in Nairobi.

I am in Africa, once again. Ah, the sheer joy of breathing the blessed air and refreshing color of its soil and vegetation to my eye. I tell you, I have been blessed to have travelled the world but Africa, East Africa in particular, is an icing on this blessing. It is very warm and super humid of course, but I have escaped the searing heat they tell me, the worst is over. Really?

Dar is the usual delight of an emerging and bustling city full of irreplaceable memories with its many restaurants so the balanced and sensible meal plan I have promised myself melts away with every succulent morsel of fruit and flesh that touches my temptress tongue. The mango season is in full swing of course but I have not tasted the Mouwa (spelling?) verity from Tanga in about 35 years. No problem, says my dear friend Murtaza Bhimani of Moraf Store in Dar. A phone call and hundreds of them are bused in and I am lost to mango madness for which my stomach takes me to task the next day. Madafus that cannot be beat anywhere else in the whole world quench my undying thirst.

I go to Zanzibar for a day and the Isle is in crises; there is no power whatsoever; anywhere. I stay at the Tembo Hotel and mercy in the form of generators rule the city. Many businesses have made fortunes selling generators, I am advised. Everything conceivable runs on them which makes diesel and others fuel scarce, exorbitant, with devastating consequences on inflation. Tourists, with tots in tow even, however, abound, amazingly taking the agony of heat and sweat in stride. I delight in lychees and local badaam halwa and eye my expanding midriff in horror, but I am helpless, I tell you, hopelessly helpless.

I go to Mtwara in southern Tanzania for a business deal; never been that south before. Other airlines should learn from Precision Air, the local private airline of Tanzania. You can fault them for eye popping airfares due to their overwhelming total command over air traffic in Tanzania but not their schedules. Boy, it departed Dar on the dot and why, departed Mtwara early! Now that is service. What I don’t understand, however, is immigration scrutiny at both Zanzibar and Mtwara entry ports within Tanzania; never had to clear immigration travelling within any country before.

I meet Pervez Vatchha, my step cousin in Mombasa for the first time. My paternal grandfather Yusufali, you see, remarried after the death of my grandmother and I vaguely remember Mama mentioning this to me. This lady had six daughters and all have children spread over Kenya. Pervez is the daughter of one such daughter and she is a gracious and hospitable host. The mogo chips, in particular, are out of this world, Pervez, asante saana. I get to present my case for the victims of Afghanistan atrocities to the local Khoja Jamaat there and the response is overwhelming. Thank you for your kindness and fabulous opportunity, Iqbalbhai Sunderji!

Then I go to the crime city of Nairobi; I have heard horror tales of open banditry, robbery and killings that have dominated her fame of recent history and I am nervous. I remember this cool, vibrant and breathtaking city from my childhood and am saddened by the adverse changes that have made her so unpalatable. But I have moments of happiness when I meet many of my step cousins there, especially Fareedoon Abdallah, a kind and gentleman who hosts me and Shaheeda Shah whose gifts to Maaha Zainab and Tasneem are met with much joy and delight back in Mumbai. Asante saana guys, you are special.

It is while I am being driven to the airport by Fareedoon’s driver that I almost collapse in terror and panic. The ancient Mercedes Benz air-conditioner is not working and I have rolled down the window to let air circulate for its uncomfortably hot. We get stuck in a jam due to an accident up ahead. I smell the shit before I see it. A short man, menacing, gesturing towards his repugnant weapon, his face covered in a makeshift mask, holds a pad of newspapers on which lie a mould of squashed feces, the stench of which immediately gag me. He barks something unintelligible, perhaps in Kikuyu. Before my mind can process the horror of what is happening, Francis, the driver, veers the vehicle to the left, probably over the thug’s foot and he disappears from view. Francis then accelerates up the hard shoulder on the right and bumps and hobbles over hard barriers past the accident site and back on the paved tarmac within seconds, then speeds towards the airport.

I am drenched in cold sweat, unsure what is accelerating faster, the Merc or my heartbeat.

Corruption most foul...

I am depressed. Not the usual blahs that eat us up once in a while, no-no, this is a bit more serious. Perhaps it is the grimy potholed roads of Mumbai, the beggars or the absolutely chaotic and chocker block traffic that has soured my mood? Or is it the sight of two squatting kids lost in process of bowel movement next to a garbage dumpster on the Western Expressway that has triggered my cheerless hormones? This happens in declining age, I have read somewhere, among the hundreds of useless email that are forwarded warning me of this and that, with related miraculous remedies. Perhaps? Or maybe it is just a reaction from having just returned from a month long tour of the West where traffic discipline and pothole free roads are not a novelty?

So I am dwelling in this awful mood when Mohammed, my driver, brakes hard and the car screeches to a sudden and uncomfortable stop; I turn and glare at him. He wanted to beat changing traffic lights and decides not to risk the rapid change from amber to red. There are, however, others glaring as well; at my car. Two traffic cops, one tall and lanky with a drooping mustache that practically covers all his lips and dark shades all his eyes and the other, short, stout and well built, pregnant with years of beer, rich food and lack of exercise perhaps, the buttons of his uniform straining for relief, are staring towards us; Mohammed frets uncomfortably.

As if on cue, the taller one strides to Mohammeds side and gestures angrily for the windows to be lowered, khirki kholo, khirki kholo he shouts, then changes into a verbal onslaught of insults in Marathi, of which paagal ghaandu is the only one I can understand – mad asshole! Mohammed rolls down his window fearfully, he is aware of past violent treatment of non-Marathis in Mumbai, especially Muslims. The cop reverts to Hindi, seeing we are non Marathis. Is this how you drive? Paagal hai kya? He speaks but we can barely see his lips move through the brittle curtain of his moustache.

What did he do wrong, I open my mouth for the first time, making my voice as authoritative as possible. He jerks his head back and cocks it sideways, regarding my face, trying to make up his mind if I am somebody he can intimidate. His eyes are invisible with shades, so are mine, so we can’t tell whose emotions are about to unravel. I know Mohammed has not done anything wrong and the bastard wants a bribe to meet his day’s quota.

What did you do? What did you do? The cop echoes, stops to think, unsure, his demeanor slipping a bit. Ah, he blurts, the shade of glass on your car is an unacceptable dark shade. Come, come, bring your vehicle to one side, I will give you a challan! A ticket. I am convinced he wants a bribe and I feel a flash of rage through me. I could fight this and end up in court but it would cost me several frustrating trips to the court that will cost ten times the bribe, not to mention elevated high blood pressure enough to smack the cop silly. Spending time in a Mumbai jail is not my cup of tea…

Mohammed maneuvers the vehicle to one side, bringing relief to a long line of honking, fuming drivers backed up behind us. How much? I ask Mohammed. Pachaas rupaae lagenge saab, he tells me and I slip him a fifty rupee bill. The cop returns with a device that he slips into the window pane. See, he barks through invisible lips, see, 50 percent! A shower of spit escapes the curtain of hair on his lips and settles on the glass pane and on Mohammed who flinches ever so slightly. Not more than 20% allowed! A challan, let me have your license! More spit follows. Mohammed fists his right hand and offers the bribe. What! What is this? Ah, how much? Fifty? Are you crazy, gaandu saala? Not less than a hundred. Come give me your license, I don’t have all day! Mohammed looks at me helplessly; I want to scream obscenities and hurt the cop so bad I can taste bile in my mouth but hand over another fifty which is snapped up by the cop faster than a chameleon its prey. Now phutto, go, and change the tinge in your car, I have noted your number plates and if I see you again, I’ll pull you in. Having directly paid my first bribe in India, we drive off. I glance at the other cop standing at the corner; he gives me a mock salute, the ugly sneer of his face torments me for a long, long time.

I have known corruption growing up in Tanzania but never really dealt with it personally. Having left the country at age 18 and lived in Dubai and US for over 32 years, it is a challenge to accept it living in India. I read India is a democracy; maybe. To me, still, it is a democracy that can be bought and bribed, a networked system in which corruption is deeply embedded. From school admission to driver’s license to booking a train ticket, the system rules you and must comply; there is no choice. I could leave, of course, but the small joys of making a difference in marginalized lives, where it really matters, outweigh these turbulences. For now.