In Dubai recently, at Emirates Mall, browsing for nothing in particular, I notice an Arab family of five, with a nervous maid (Indian, Sri Lankan?) in tow at a department store. Why? The scent. And racket. The whiff of exotic oud coming from this group is overwhelming, but peculiarly, alluring as well, so I linger close to them. The father, an overweight man with a budging belly and a hooked nose, harshly discusses prices of purses and shoes and clothes and designer sunglasses with a couple of harassed Filipino salesgirls, who clearly show sings of fatigue. He gestures wildly, making the worry beads on his fingers crackle and jerk wildly, as if they, too, share his temperament. The salesgirls warily keep on stating prices are non-negotiable, but this fact makes no impact on the man, as he persists with negotiating a lower price.
The obvious wife, a short squat woman covered in black except for face, sits on a chair and rummages through boxes and wrapping without care or courtesy, discarding them and demanding more. Two daughters, very much replicas of their mother, except with gold and diamond jewelry flashing on their fingers, matching glitter on their abaayas, join in gleefully, jabbering in union so I am unable to tell who is listening to whom. A boy, apparently the son, almost dad’s duplicate, as obese, remains aloof, lost to the cellphone world, either texting or gaming, I cannot tell. The maid hovers in the background, ignored. It is, however, the third girl in the group that stands out and grabs my attention.
This girl is exquisite, lean and with a face that makes me stare. She is veiled in beauty and silence, watching the others with measured reserve. I doubt she is from the same family, but could be wrong, certainly don’t look Arab. Blatantly, I admire her demure, lowered eyes, delicate jawline, soft tilted nose and the full curve of firm, fresh lips. Unlike the other two girls, she is almost devoid of makeup, save a trace of lipstick on her full lips. Elusively, the face looks kind of familiar.
I know I should move on, not gawk, but the girl’s fascinating face consumes my attention. Then this girl, she must sense me staring at her, for her attention shifts and dismissively glances my way and away. I am about to rouse from my trance when her eyes suddenly revert my way and we lock eyes. It must not be for longer than three seconds, at most, but feels like an eternity that we speak of I know not. My heart skips a beat and then accelerates; I feel my breathing quicken. These eyes, I have seen them somewhere. My mind immediately processes stored data and retrieves a similar set of eyes. The eyes that briefly, intensely, warmed my heart, from a very long time ago, the eyes of baby Sultana…
Way back in December 1994, when I am in Bombay (then, Mumbai now) researching for my first novel, I chance upon meeting a girl-child on Chopatty Beach off Marine Drive. I have spent an entire day at Central Library, so my mind is full of ideas that need processing and ponder. I therefore decide on a nice long walk, with fresh cool(er) winter sea breeze to give me just that, before putting my life to peril on the Western Railway Line to Bandra, where I live as a paying guest at a kind hearted, albeit grumpy Goan widow, Mrs. Maria D’Souza’s house. It is a pleasant evening, the weather comfortable and the brisk ocean breeze feels good on my face and (then) hair.
Although a weekday, there is plenty of activity all along Marine Drive; middle aged men jog, desperately tying to rid disposable guts, housewives doing the same for hips and thighs, walking but complaining as well, about wayward children, ever increasing price of tomatoes, shocking developments of favorite serial drama, elderly men reading newspapers or worrying about retirement stock market portfolio and couples chancing upon opportunities for intimacy. The ocean growls, swells and crash at the restraining walls, as if venting anger at being stopped in her high tide march. The vendors; chaiwallas, maikaiwallahs, maalishwallahs, madafuwallahs and the beggars, all look up hopefully as I near them, only to divert their hopes to someone else as I walk unseeingly by.
It is almost twilight when I reach Chopatty Beach, which is packed with crowds out to enjoy the mild weather. The evening rush hour traffic jerks forward, stops, jerks, stops; BEST busses ply by spluttering dark toxic fumes. The roads, however, belong to motorbikes, young men with wives or girlfriends plastered to their backs, zoom in and out of the serpentine queue, making headway with every nook and space that open up. I am about to hail a cab to Victoria Station (now renamed a mouthful Chakrapathy Shivaji Station) when I notice a young girl sitting on a caste-off wooden crate, sobbing. She is clearly in distress, her head lowered on her laps and the back rocking in convulsion of grief; I, and others, hesitate for few moments before moving on. One half of my conscience tells me to return and ask if she needs help but the other half cautions otherwise. I retrace my steps and find her sitting up, staring at the distant water with puffed up, watery eyes.
She is no more than eighteen, very pale, much paler than any Bombaite I see, wearing a mismatched faded salwar-kurti. Before I can say anything, she glances at me, averts her face and says, ‘Phooto loafer, I am not for sale.’ I am so stunned and hurt, I am unable to speak, but glare at her for a moment before abruptly turning and walking away. I am so mad (and sorry) at myself, standing on a curb trying to flag down non-vacant cabs that I don’t notice her by my side, talking to me.
‘Maaf karo Sahib, I was rude to you; so sorry. You look to be a decent man and I should not have said what I did. I am very upset, I have had very trying few weeks.’
I am so mad, I want to lash out at her, give her an earful but before I can open my mouth, I see tears in her eyes and my anger evaporates. These eyes, they are different. I am used to black eyes that all Indians have; hers are almost colorless, like cat eyes, and it gives me an uncanny feeling looking at them. Warily fascinated, I ask her the reason for the tears and she tells me.
Zulaikha Bahadoor is a prostitute, and eight weeks pregnant. She tells me this as we sit side by side on a cement bench on Chopatty Beach, facing a robust high tide of the Indian Ocean, eating roasted peanuts and drinking hot chai. She is from the state of Bihar, brought to Bombay by her cousin brother who promises her a sewing job, something Zulaikha is quite good at, at a garment factory. Mired in poverty, with her father desperately trying to raise enough dowry to get the eldest daughter in the family married, Zulaikha is easily lured away; the promised five thousand rupees a month is a lot of money, enough for her family to live comfortably and her mother treated for crippling arthritis that ails her.
They take a crowded train, Zulaikha tells me, from her village in Muzafferpur to Mumbai, which takes almost two days. Once in Mumbai, the cousin takes her for a ride in a black taxi to an isolated place two hours away. There, outside a row of rotting warehouses, she is traded to a group of men who take her in and rape her. They do things to her she cannot tell me, and hurt her in ways she never knew possible. After some time, she does not care what they do, as long as the hurting stops. A few days later, when the ‘animals’ tire of her, she is brought to the red light district near Grant Road where she is sold again and put to work servicing men; drunk, smelly and uncouth men who use her body. There are a few exceptions, gentlemen who treat her tenderly and tip her over and above what is paid to Khaala. This extra money makes it possible to indulge in paan, mixed with a dab of cheap ganja supplied by Rafeek, a local pimp and pusher. The paan eases the taste of filth that customers’ leave on her tongue and the ganja eases the torment of memories; that of her village, ailing mum and family.
She is crying, she says, because she is very desperate, has run out of paan-ganja money and the craving is intense. About ten days ago, she feels dizzy and throws up poori-bhaaji immediately after breakfast, right in front of other eating sex-workers, under the ever-watchful eyes of Khaala, who promptly whisks her away to a shoddy lady doctor who pronounces her very pregnant. When Khaala insists on an abortion and Zulaikha refuses, Khaala slaps her, swears she will not feed another mouth for free and stops Zulaikha from taking on any customers. Although this is a great relief, the paan-ganja stops as well. When she begs Rafeek for some as loan, he demands her body in repayment, something Zulaikha finds loathsome but says she might succumb to if there are no alternatives.
Once again, the two sides of my conscience debate, giving me conflicting advise. Zulaikha has obviously, cleverly, caught on to my vulnerable side and she exploits this, with life tragedies and tender pleas. Alone in Mumbai, recently divorced, with solitary research and writing only to occupy my time, I swallow hungrily, bait, hook, line and sinker. Although I am awfully tempted, and Zulaikha very willing, I am never intimate with her, prompting her to accusingly question my manhood. I give her my reasons, but these are neither relevant nor important to this saga.
To be continued...
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
The Ultimate Sajda
'O Land Of Kerbala, My Son Is Innocent...'
This is the lament of Sayyeda Fatemah (A) today, as we commemorate the spilling of holy and innocent blood of her son, Hussein (A), his family, relatives and companions in Kerbala, Iraq, some 1,400 years ago. Hundreds of millions worldwide will grieve, shed untold tears of anguish, inflict pain on selves and share the agony of this superb human being who surrendered not only his life, but that of his entire male family, save an ailing son. Hussein's (A) martyrdom set the stage for his family to be looted, taken captives, paraded uncovered and imprisoned in most inhumain ways. In doing this, Hussein (A) gave root to the most powerful movement for worlds oppressed and downtrodden; that of revolution against tyranny and injustice. All this for, and only for, the pleasure of Allah (S); nothing else mattered.
Hussein (A) will prostrate today, his final one, this from the heir of all prophets. What a sajda, however! A sajda which surpasses that of Adam, Ibrahim, Moosa, Issa and Mohammed - peace on them all. A sajda that is uncompromising against an onslaught on Islam, an adamant refusal to bow in front of tyranny, brutality and subjugation. A sajda that reignites the want for long extinguished human dignity and self-respect, a sajda that today fires up oppressed masses in countries from Morocco to Bahrain, and beyond. For the return of human dignity and justice that will continue to passion up people to rise up and really live. Live with dignity and justice, live a little bit like Hussein (A).
So I (and like minded people in today's world), dedicate my life to the mission of this blessed personality, the inheritor of Allah's religion on earth, grandson of Prophet Mohammed (S), son of Ali (A) and Fatema (A), brother of Hassan (A), brother of Zaynab and Kulthoom and father to nine other infallibles (A).
O Hussein (A), because of this sacrifice, I will educate myself, so that:
1. I will not accept subjugation, injustice, degradation or humiliation, from no matter who or how powerful the culprit.
2. I will submit only, and only to the will of Allah (S), as enlightened in His book, the glorious Quraan and follow laws laid down therein by His Seer (S) and the Aaimaas (A).
3. I will conduct myself as a proper Muslim, my behavior criteria much above other individuals.
4. I will cherish and lament the memory of Hussein (A) through Zainab (A) and Sajjad's (A) powerful gift of majaalisis of azaa in dignity, appropriate for their mission. I will certainly not follow rituals and will definitely not spill blood (mine or anybody else's) in Hussein's (A) sanctified name, no matter what and how much (some) learned or popular aalims preach to the contrary.
5. I will simply ignore 'aalims' who misuse the pulpit to insult other faiths (sects) or personalities and focus on mending my moral blemishes. I will propagate the mission and mention of Hussein (A) by concentrating on his virtues and qualities rather than other's vices and evils. I firmly believe your lovers (current and ones that come later, till the Day of Judgement) will cherish your memory, as promised by the Prophet (S) until your holy blood is avenged by the Mahdi (A).
So here is my salute, my intense salutation and sacrifice of my life, easily, to you, O Performer Of The Ultimate Sajda, on this catastrophic day of Aashoora. My profound salutation to your sons, sisters, brothers, cousins, nephews, nieces, friends and companions who laid their lives in your cause. My intense and profound salutation to the severe thirst and hunger that gripped your young children; for the intense pain and hallowed blood that was shamelessly spilled from your sacred bodies.
And by doing ALL this I may, perhaps, be able to salvage (some) redemption and intersession from your mother, Lady of Light Fatemah (A).
This is the lament of Sayyeda Fatemah (A) today, as we commemorate the spilling of holy and innocent blood of her son, Hussein (A), his family, relatives and companions in Kerbala, Iraq, some 1,400 years ago. Hundreds of millions worldwide will grieve, shed untold tears of anguish, inflict pain on selves and share the agony of this superb human being who surrendered not only his life, but that of his entire male family, save an ailing son. Hussein's (A) martyrdom set the stage for his family to be looted, taken captives, paraded uncovered and imprisoned in most inhumain ways. In doing this, Hussein (A) gave root to the most powerful movement for worlds oppressed and downtrodden; that of revolution against tyranny and injustice. All this for, and only for, the pleasure of Allah (S); nothing else mattered.
Hussein (A) will prostrate today, his final one, this from the heir of all prophets. What a sajda, however! A sajda which surpasses that of Adam, Ibrahim, Moosa, Issa and Mohammed - peace on them all. A sajda that is uncompromising against an onslaught on Islam, an adamant refusal to bow in front of tyranny, brutality and subjugation. A sajda that reignites the want for long extinguished human dignity and self-respect, a sajda that today fires up oppressed masses in countries from Morocco to Bahrain, and beyond. For the return of human dignity and justice that will continue to passion up people to rise up and really live. Live with dignity and justice, live a little bit like Hussein (A).
So I (and like minded people in today's world), dedicate my life to the mission of this blessed personality, the inheritor of Allah's religion on earth, grandson of Prophet Mohammed (S), son of Ali (A) and Fatema (A), brother of Hassan (A), brother of Zaynab and Kulthoom and father to nine other infallibles (A).
O Hussein (A), because of this sacrifice, I will educate myself, so that:
1. I will not accept subjugation, injustice, degradation or humiliation, from no matter who or how powerful the culprit.
2. I will submit only, and only to the will of Allah (S), as enlightened in His book, the glorious Quraan and follow laws laid down therein by His Seer (S) and the Aaimaas (A).
3. I will conduct myself as a proper Muslim, my behavior criteria much above other individuals.
4. I will cherish and lament the memory of Hussein (A) through Zainab (A) and Sajjad's (A) powerful gift of majaalisis of azaa in dignity, appropriate for their mission. I will certainly not follow rituals and will definitely not spill blood (mine or anybody else's) in Hussein's (A) sanctified name, no matter what and how much (some) learned or popular aalims preach to the contrary.
5. I will simply ignore 'aalims' who misuse the pulpit to insult other faiths (sects) or personalities and focus on mending my moral blemishes. I will propagate the mission and mention of Hussein (A) by concentrating on his virtues and qualities rather than other's vices and evils. I firmly believe your lovers (current and ones that come later, till the Day of Judgement) will cherish your memory, as promised by the Prophet (S) until your holy blood is avenged by the Mahdi (A).
So here is my salute, my intense salutation and sacrifice of my life, easily, to you, O Performer Of The Ultimate Sajda, on this catastrophic day of Aashoora. My profound salutation to your sons, sisters, brothers, cousins, nephews, nieces, friends and companions who laid their lives in your cause. My intense and profound salutation to the severe thirst and hunger that gripped your young children; for the intense pain and hallowed blood that was shamelessly spilled from your sacred bodies.
And by doing ALL this I may, perhaps, be able to salvage (some) redemption and intersession from your mother, Lady of Light Fatemah (A).
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Rescued!
Some five years ago, Nazim Mirza, a destitute peasant farmer from Mursheedabad, WB India, moves to congested and grimy, smelly community of Matia Bruj, Kolkota in the hope of work and a better life for his family. He staggers around Matia Burj, followed by his frail wife and two very young daughters for a few days, surviving on handouts and sleeping on pavements. He is in luck, for he gets employed as a grocery store worker, albeit for a measly pay. Finally, after much struggle, Mirza has some money; the family can eat one hot meal a day.
Mirza is illiterate, has no idea about contraceptives, and couldn't afford any even if he knew about birth control. So Mrs. Mirza gets pregnant, yet again, and gives birth to an underweight but relatively healthy baby boy. Days later, Mrs. Mirza dies due to complications of the child's birth and severe lack of blood; the poor lady just did not have any resistance on her and gave up the will to survive.
Blinded with grief and over his head with the care of three children, Mirza struggles, leaving them with an uncompromising but accommodating Wahabi neighbor while at work. The Wahabi couple offers to buy the boy, Mirza refuses at first, struggling within his community for help. Desperate, he relents in the end, selling the infant for approximately US$200.
When I get wind of the situation, I am livid and immediately offer to 'buy' back the infant; a donor agrees funding, I intend to send him to one of CAI orphanages in India. The Wahabi couple refuses. We offer to double, triple and even up the offer ten times; they will not budge. The transaction is legal; all 'adoption' documents airtight, the courts will not intervene. Fearing Mirza will sell his daughters as well, CAI steps in and moves the two girls to Sakina Girls Home in Andheri, Mumbai.
I had the good fortune of meeting the two girls during my recent visit there on Eid day; click here to see their photograph in their Eid attire. Both Sabah, 13 and Roshni, 11 are doing very well, alhamd'Allah. They have a secure home, have three square meals a day but most importantly, they get a quality education, an opportunity for a brighter future insha'Allah. The girls have no contact with Mirza.
One more service for the pleasure of Allah (S). Thank you donors, for it is your sacrifices that make these orphanage services possible.
Mirza is illiterate, has no idea about contraceptives, and couldn't afford any even if he knew about birth control. So Mrs. Mirza gets pregnant, yet again, and gives birth to an underweight but relatively healthy baby boy. Days later, Mrs. Mirza dies due to complications of the child's birth and severe lack of blood; the poor lady just did not have any resistance on her and gave up the will to survive.
Blinded with grief and over his head with the care of three children, Mirza struggles, leaving them with an uncompromising but accommodating Wahabi neighbor while at work. The Wahabi couple offers to buy the boy, Mirza refuses at first, struggling within his community for help. Desperate, he relents in the end, selling the infant for approximately US$200.
When I get wind of the situation, I am livid and immediately offer to 'buy' back the infant; a donor agrees funding, I intend to send him to one of CAI orphanages in India. The Wahabi couple refuses. We offer to double, triple and even up the offer ten times; they will not budge. The transaction is legal; all 'adoption' documents airtight, the courts will not intervene. Fearing Mirza will sell his daughters as well, CAI steps in and moves the two girls to Sakina Girls Home in Andheri, Mumbai.
I had the good fortune of meeting the two girls during my recent visit there on Eid day; click here to see their photograph in their Eid attire. Both Sabah, 13 and Roshni, 11 are doing very well, alhamd'Allah. They have a secure home, have three square meals a day but most importantly, they get a quality education, an opportunity for a brighter future insha'Allah. The girls have no contact with Mirza.
One more service for the pleasure of Allah (S). Thank you donors, for it is your sacrifices that make these orphanage services possible.
My Afghan Escapade – Zuher Somji
While I jump at the opportunity to accompany Yusufali on his most recent adventure to Afghanistan, his only condition that I write about my experience afterwards is a rather daunting task; something that ace Yusufali has been doing for more then a decade!
After a short and restful flight in Dubai, we fly to Kabul and land in a backward airport that I am told is a brand new structure, donated by the government of Japan. If that is a brand new structure, what must have been the state of the old airport?
We wind our way down several exit security checkpoints, curbside vendors and even an outdoor kebab place before we meet our hosts Wasim and Bashir; two engineers who are extremely kind, cultured and thorough gentlemen, obviously highly educated. We start our drive from the airport to Wasim’s house. OMA, if you think Indian traffic is bad, this is an experience in the ultimate trust in the Almighty, with cars weaving in and out at breakneck speed, with sudden jerky stops throughout the entire trip.
Squatting - a science that I need to quickly relearn from my childhood days. Probably the only time I question what I am doing in Afghanistan; how to hold the minute torch in the airless, dark outhouse, where to fold and lay my pants without them getting soiled, the balancing act, the unavoidable evil stench filling my nostrils, how to avoid all that icy water splattering on my feet while trying to wash… And oh, that stench of accumulated feces in the pit, my, my, my!!!
Doctor Asif, coordinator of two CAI run medical clinics in Afghanistan, joins us for a meal and I am thoroughly impressed with the humility of all these learned people. The delicious meal prepared by Wasim and Bashir is spoilt only by Yusufali's sharp, probing and pointed questions on CAI operations logistics administered by these three men.
We wake up at 4 AM to go to the airport for our trip to Nili, passing through numerous (rather rude) checkpoints at the airport before being ushered into a 6 seat Kodiac aircraft that flies us through an uneventful but beautiful (in a very harsh way) flight to Nili. That is the easy part; next came a torturous 12-hour drive to Khajran, our trip dotted with punctured tires and getting stuck on an impossible rocky river bed. Kudos to our rented Toyota Prada, she behaves like a mountain goat with strength of an elephant. We reach Khajran late at night and make our way to the hut we are to spend the night, in the remote spot of a mountain valley.
After an excellent hospitable dinner we retire without either changing, brushing or any care for other hygiene. Early next morning, after a meager breakfast, we head over to visit the site CAI has plans to build a school on. Lunch is not in the cards the entire grueling drive of around 100 miles that takes about 12 hours; there is no civilization along the way. We snack on stale naan from last night; surprising how everything tastes good when you are hungry. We call on the current schools where girl students get educated in wretched conditions, under the open sky; that's where the gratifying part of all this torture comes in play. Just the thought I could be a part of something that would somehow help in a truly altruistic fashion is overwhelming. After discussing details and confirming the project as a go, we clamber back into the car for another torturous trip back to Nili.
After another night of Yusufali’s constant visit to the outhouse with all related preparations and commotions of fumbling for a torch and stepping on others fast asleep, we plan a trip to the local hammam for a much needed bath but this is foiled by another punctured tire, without a spare. After witnessing verbal floggings Yusufali subjects Wasim and Bashir for not taking the necessary precautions to get the tire fixed beforehand, we creep back to the house to prepare for our flight to Shabarghan and another onwards 12 hours drive to Belkhaab.
When we reach the airstrip and our aircraft arrives, the pilot informs us there is only 30% chance of landing at Shabarghan due to cloudy weather (it has to be a visual landing). Sure enough, above Shabarghan, the pilot says landing is not possible; thick clouds below cover the land like a sullen ocean, we ascended up and head towards Kabul; Yusufali is bitterly disappointed. CAI has a brand new school (her 9th) to officially open, but we are resigned to Allah’s will. 10 minutes later, the 26 year old American pilot says he sees a clearing ahead and maneuvers the agile machine this way and that; we land in Shabarghan 15 minutes later. I experience similar achievements several times during our trip; seemingly impossible situations eventually become promising! I can only attribute this to the Almighty; He helps those who help His cause, no?
Once inside another Prado, we drive on to Belkhaab, another 10 hours away. The drive is made easy by some excellent, tasty mishkaki, nundu and Kabuki pulau at a dingy restaurant along the way, although Yusufali attributes this to my constant ability to snooze in the forever jostling car on roads so bad, it can make you want to scream in frustration. Once in Belkhaab, we have a halfhearted dinner and settle down to sleep, ready for the opening of the school tomorrow.
In the morning, for the first time since leaving Kabul, we have the opportunity and luxury of a hot, steamy bath. Uhh, uhh, man, is this a treat or what, ridding my body of all the dust and grime; and a smell no better than a sheep’s unwashed behind.
The school is going through final finishing touches but Yusufali declares it open anyway, after much lamentation and barbs towards the engineers, who clearly are uncomfortable at the reprimand. But it’s a beautiful school and I marvel, wonder at the effort that must have gone into constructing it in one of the toughest terrains and hostile environments I have seen ever; I was born and raised in Africa, so I should know.
We return to Kabul and I get a glimpse of massive Imam Hussein (A) School built by CAI. It is dark when we get there and the building has no power supply but it certainty looks huge. I am told 3,600 children study here and will grow to a maximum of 4,100 by 2012. Our return to Dubai is soured by a distressing 7 hour delay by Fly Dubai airline at cramped Kabul airport terminal; a drama in itself, but that is another story.
Afghanistan is a tough, tough country, certainly not everybody’s cup of tea. One has to have a strong stomach, a strong mental attitude and tons of patience to be able to do just about anything. Complicating this dilemma is the precarious security issue to grapple with. There are nervous moments when we learn of a suicide attack on an American military bus that tragically kills 11 of our countrymen. Even more unsettling is news that the incident happens less than a mile from Wasi’s home, where we are to spend the night before departure to Dubai.
The overwhelmingly majority of people in this country are poor, dirt poor, especially the Shia’s who were (and still are to a certain extent) persecuted and discriminated against. For most Afghans, it is the survival of the fittest; you either adapt to the harshness or perish. Afghanistan can be beautiful as well, in a harsh, cruel way; the snow-covered mountains can be breathtaking and her people, especially in the mountain heartland where we were, are exceedingly striking.
In life, living in the West, there are so many things we take for granted, are not aware of the plight of millions that do not have their basic survival needs fulfilled; so we have absolutely no right to complain. I am certainly grateful for the opportunity to see and experience my escapade to Afghanistan.
Zuher Somji – Sanford, FL
Yusufali’s comment:
Zuher overlooked to write about the hospitality of our hosts at Khajran. Seeing we are obviously uncomfortable with using super icy water, they arranged for nice warm water for our bathroom use. What wonderful, considerate, thoughtful hosts; the feel of warm water on an exposed freezing behind is indescribable; simply divine.
View wonderful photos here.
After a short and restful flight in Dubai, we fly to Kabul and land in a backward airport that I am told is a brand new structure, donated by the government of Japan. If that is a brand new structure, what must have been the state of the old airport?
We wind our way down several exit security checkpoints, curbside vendors and even an outdoor kebab place before we meet our hosts Wasim and Bashir; two engineers who are extremely kind, cultured and thorough gentlemen, obviously highly educated. We start our drive from the airport to Wasim’s house. OMA, if you think Indian traffic is bad, this is an experience in the ultimate trust in the Almighty, with cars weaving in and out at breakneck speed, with sudden jerky stops throughout the entire trip.
Squatting - a science that I need to quickly relearn from my childhood days. Probably the only time I question what I am doing in Afghanistan; how to hold the minute torch in the airless, dark outhouse, where to fold and lay my pants without them getting soiled, the balancing act, the unavoidable evil stench filling my nostrils, how to avoid all that icy water splattering on my feet while trying to wash… And oh, that stench of accumulated feces in the pit, my, my, my!!!
Doctor Asif, coordinator of two CAI run medical clinics in Afghanistan, joins us for a meal and I am thoroughly impressed with the humility of all these learned people. The delicious meal prepared by Wasim and Bashir is spoilt only by Yusufali's sharp, probing and pointed questions on CAI operations logistics administered by these three men.
We wake up at 4 AM to go to the airport for our trip to Nili, passing through numerous (rather rude) checkpoints at the airport before being ushered into a 6 seat Kodiac aircraft that flies us through an uneventful but beautiful (in a very harsh way) flight to Nili. That is the easy part; next came a torturous 12-hour drive to Khajran, our trip dotted with punctured tires and getting stuck on an impossible rocky river bed. Kudos to our rented Toyota Prada, she behaves like a mountain goat with strength of an elephant. We reach Khajran late at night and make our way to the hut we are to spend the night, in the remote spot of a mountain valley.
After an excellent hospitable dinner we retire without either changing, brushing or any care for other hygiene. Early next morning, after a meager breakfast, we head over to visit the site CAI has plans to build a school on. Lunch is not in the cards the entire grueling drive of around 100 miles that takes about 12 hours; there is no civilization along the way. We snack on stale naan from last night; surprising how everything tastes good when you are hungry. We call on the current schools where girl students get educated in wretched conditions, under the open sky; that's where the gratifying part of all this torture comes in play. Just the thought I could be a part of something that would somehow help in a truly altruistic fashion is overwhelming. After discussing details and confirming the project as a go, we clamber back into the car for another torturous trip back to Nili.
After another night of Yusufali’s constant visit to the outhouse with all related preparations and commotions of fumbling for a torch and stepping on others fast asleep, we plan a trip to the local hammam for a much needed bath but this is foiled by another punctured tire, without a spare. After witnessing verbal floggings Yusufali subjects Wasim and Bashir for not taking the necessary precautions to get the tire fixed beforehand, we creep back to the house to prepare for our flight to Shabarghan and another onwards 12 hours drive to Belkhaab.
When we reach the airstrip and our aircraft arrives, the pilot informs us there is only 30% chance of landing at Shabarghan due to cloudy weather (it has to be a visual landing). Sure enough, above Shabarghan, the pilot says landing is not possible; thick clouds below cover the land like a sullen ocean, we ascended up and head towards Kabul; Yusufali is bitterly disappointed. CAI has a brand new school (her 9th) to officially open, but we are resigned to Allah’s will. 10 minutes later, the 26 year old American pilot says he sees a clearing ahead and maneuvers the agile machine this way and that; we land in Shabarghan 15 minutes later. I experience similar achievements several times during our trip; seemingly impossible situations eventually become promising! I can only attribute this to the Almighty; He helps those who help His cause, no?
Once inside another Prado, we drive on to Belkhaab, another 10 hours away. The drive is made easy by some excellent, tasty mishkaki, nundu and Kabuki pulau at a dingy restaurant along the way, although Yusufali attributes this to my constant ability to snooze in the forever jostling car on roads so bad, it can make you want to scream in frustration. Once in Belkhaab, we have a halfhearted dinner and settle down to sleep, ready for the opening of the school tomorrow.
In the morning, for the first time since leaving Kabul, we have the opportunity and luxury of a hot, steamy bath. Uhh, uhh, man, is this a treat or what, ridding my body of all the dust and grime; and a smell no better than a sheep’s unwashed behind.
The school is going through final finishing touches but Yusufali declares it open anyway, after much lamentation and barbs towards the engineers, who clearly are uncomfortable at the reprimand. But it’s a beautiful school and I marvel, wonder at the effort that must have gone into constructing it in one of the toughest terrains and hostile environments I have seen ever; I was born and raised in Africa, so I should know.
We return to Kabul and I get a glimpse of massive Imam Hussein (A) School built by CAI. It is dark when we get there and the building has no power supply but it certainty looks huge. I am told 3,600 children study here and will grow to a maximum of 4,100 by 2012. Our return to Dubai is soured by a distressing 7 hour delay by Fly Dubai airline at cramped Kabul airport terminal; a drama in itself, but that is another story.
Afghanistan is a tough, tough country, certainly not everybody’s cup of tea. One has to have a strong stomach, a strong mental attitude and tons of patience to be able to do just about anything. Complicating this dilemma is the precarious security issue to grapple with. There are nervous moments when we learn of a suicide attack on an American military bus that tragically kills 11 of our countrymen. Even more unsettling is news that the incident happens less than a mile from Wasi’s home, where we are to spend the night before departure to Dubai.
The overwhelmingly majority of people in this country are poor, dirt poor, especially the Shia’s who were (and still are to a certain extent) persecuted and discriminated against. For most Afghans, it is the survival of the fittest; you either adapt to the harshness or perish. Afghanistan can be beautiful as well, in a harsh, cruel way; the snow-covered mountains can be breathtaking and her people, especially in the mountain heartland where we were, are exceedingly striking.
In life, living in the West, there are so many things we take for granted, are not aware of the plight of millions that do not have their basic survival needs fulfilled; so we have absolutely no right to complain. I am certainly grateful for the opportunity to see and experience my escapade to Afghanistan.
Zuher Somji – Sanford, FL
Yusufali’s comment:
Zuher overlooked to write about the hospitality of our hosts at Khajran. Seeing we are obviously uncomfortable with using super icy water, they arranged for nice warm water for our bathroom use. What wonderful, considerate, thoughtful hosts; the feel of warm water on an exposed freezing behind is indescribable; simply divine.
View wonderful photos here.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Midair Tamasha
My recent trip to Afghanistan has been grueling, one of the most taxing I have experienced. The return flight from Kabul to Dubai has been delayed nine hours and we had been caged within the tiny departure hall of the airport without food or refreshments all the time. By the time I reach Dubai, my onward flight to Mumbai is gone and both FlyDubai and Emirates are hard-nosed, unwilling to accommodate me further; I waste three hours at Dubai airport. A three hour flight has now cost me over fifteen horrendous hours. Exhausted, frustrated and disgusted, I buy another ticket and am on Jet Airways aircraft to Mumbai next day. It is an uneventful flight until midway, when a pitiful but hilarious midair tamasha ensues.
There is this middle-aged man sitting in the middle seat, a woman is at the widow seat and I am seated in the aisle. Drinks are served and the man, who later introduced himself as Kwaja, orders a whiskey with Sprite and downs it in one clean gulp, orders one more and exhales disgusting whiskey fumes all around. He orders a third drink during lunch and then promptly nods off to nap, snoring gently. Midway into our flight, Kwaja jerks awake and whispers that he has to urgently go to the bathroom, as if I am interested or care; I let him pass.
Kwaja is all exited when he returns to his seat; face aglow, eyes agitated and wagging his rattail like hair side to side, a generous double chin working overtime.
‘Did you see him?’ he breathes on my face, while I unsuccessfully try to avoid the fumes.
Eh? ‘See who?’ I ask.
‘Aree baba, it’s Ranbeer Kapoor! He is sitting in the seat after ours, on the other side, the one with sunglasses.’
‘Randhir who?’ I ask. The man was not making much sense, must be the whiskey.
‘Aree yaar, where are you from, baba! It’s Ranbeer, not Randhir! Ranbeer, Ranbeer Kapoor, the actor! You know? Rishi Kapoor and Neetu Singh’s son. The hero. You think he will sign an autograph for my girlfriend? She finds him real cute.’
Number I, since when was I his yaar? Number 2, I couldn’t care an ant’s ass who this guy is; I have absolutely very little interest in spoilt, overpaid, jerky Bollywood brats. I vaguely notice them on the screen when Tasneem and the kids sit watching movies that defy even the most illiterate human intelligence. Number 3, why was he traveling coach? However, it was good to know this ‘hero’ was experiencing the discomfort of cattle class. Curiosity getting the better of me, I crane my neck to look anyway. Yes, it looks like the kid I have seen on the tube, hiding behind dark, awful looking sunglasses.
But it is not only Kwaja who notices this dude, others have now begun clogging the alleyway as well and pretty soon it becomes a fiasco. Men, women, children, especially teenage girls, thrust all kind of paper, napkins included, towards the clearly uncaring hero, demanding autographs. The guys is unmoved, nose buried behind a glossy magazine. But Kwaja still wants an autograph for his girlfriend so I have to get up and let him through again; I hope the look on my face tells him I am not too exited by his behavior. Not that he cares, as he dashes out, stepping on my toes.
The food service crates from the front cannot move back, a white man, Russian, I think, from his accent, losses his patience and loudly demands he be let through; nobody pays him attention. He turns to a very pretty stewardess and demands she do something else he will wet his pants; the poor harassed women turns a deep scarlet and gestures frantically to a colleague at the back, who can’t get through as well. An old woman, leaning on a cane, returning from the bathroom at the back complains she is tired of waiting and must sit; a man vacates his seat nearby and she gratefully collapses into it.
I am getting increasingly alarmed the situation is getting out of control with the congestion, commotion and flaring tempers when the captain turns on the seat belt sign and like a teacher reprimanding unruly children, demands everybody to be seated; anybody not complying face arrest at Mumbai. The aisle gradually clears, albeit reluctantly. Kwaja returns to his seat, mumbling and grumbling, clearly crestfallen, the double chin wobbling like a turkey going to slaughter.
Thankfully, we land without further incident. As soon as the aircraft leaves the active runway, the hero is whisked up by the cabin crew, frayed torn jeans and scruffy tee shirt all, to business class and made to sit in a crew seat. A young girl, a Gujarati no less, no more than twelve perhaps, jumps up from behind and dashes forward screaming ‘Ranbeer, Ranbeer, Jaan…’
‘Aree, Ghadereeni,’ screams her mum, ‘beseeja, beseeja…’
The aircraft brakes, the girls stumbles, hits her head on an armrest and falls flat face on the floor; some people snicker, including our Kwaja. The sari clad mother, almost all her flabby midriff showing and dancing, yanks the stunned girl up, smacks her a tight, sharp slap and drags her back to their seat.
I see the hero again at the baggage belt, woodenly staring at the rotating loop. But he is well protected now, three baton wielding hawaaldars surround him, making sure he is not molested further. Again, I feel some satisfaction these super idols have to wait for their baggage, just like us mortals.
There is this middle-aged man sitting in the middle seat, a woman is at the widow seat and I am seated in the aisle. Drinks are served and the man, who later introduced himself as Kwaja, orders a whiskey with Sprite and downs it in one clean gulp, orders one more and exhales disgusting whiskey fumes all around. He orders a third drink during lunch and then promptly nods off to nap, snoring gently. Midway into our flight, Kwaja jerks awake and whispers that he has to urgently go to the bathroom, as if I am interested or care; I let him pass.
Kwaja is all exited when he returns to his seat; face aglow, eyes agitated and wagging his rattail like hair side to side, a generous double chin working overtime.
‘Did you see him?’ he breathes on my face, while I unsuccessfully try to avoid the fumes.
Eh? ‘See who?’ I ask.
‘Aree baba, it’s Ranbeer Kapoor! He is sitting in the seat after ours, on the other side, the one with sunglasses.’
‘Randhir who?’ I ask. The man was not making much sense, must be the whiskey.
‘Aree yaar, where are you from, baba! It’s Ranbeer, not Randhir! Ranbeer, Ranbeer Kapoor, the actor! You know? Rishi Kapoor and Neetu Singh’s son. The hero. You think he will sign an autograph for my girlfriend? She finds him real cute.’
Number I, since when was I his yaar? Number 2, I couldn’t care an ant’s ass who this guy is; I have absolutely very little interest in spoilt, overpaid, jerky Bollywood brats. I vaguely notice them on the screen when Tasneem and the kids sit watching movies that defy even the most illiterate human intelligence. Number 3, why was he traveling coach? However, it was good to know this ‘hero’ was experiencing the discomfort of cattle class. Curiosity getting the better of me, I crane my neck to look anyway. Yes, it looks like the kid I have seen on the tube, hiding behind dark, awful looking sunglasses.
But it is not only Kwaja who notices this dude, others have now begun clogging the alleyway as well and pretty soon it becomes a fiasco. Men, women, children, especially teenage girls, thrust all kind of paper, napkins included, towards the clearly uncaring hero, demanding autographs. The guys is unmoved, nose buried behind a glossy magazine. But Kwaja still wants an autograph for his girlfriend so I have to get up and let him through again; I hope the look on my face tells him I am not too exited by his behavior. Not that he cares, as he dashes out, stepping on my toes.
The food service crates from the front cannot move back, a white man, Russian, I think, from his accent, losses his patience and loudly demands he be let through; nobody pays him attention. He turns to a very pretty stewardess and demands she do something else he will wet his pants; the poor harassed women turns a deep scarlet and gestures frantically to a colleague at the back, who can’t get through as well. An old woman, leaning on a cane, returning from the bathroom at the back complains she is tired of waiting and must sit; a man vacates his seat nearby and she gratefully collapses into it.
I am getting increasingly alarmed the situation is getting out of control with the congestion, commotion and flaring tempers when the captain turns on the seat belt sign and like a teacher reprimanding unruly children, demands everybody to be seated; anybody not complying face arrest at Mumbai. The aisle gradually clears, albeit reluctantly. Kwaja returns to his seat, mumbling and grumbling, clearly crestfallen, the double chin wobbling like a turkey going to slaughter.
Thankfully, we land without further incident. As soon as the aircraft leaves the active runway, the hero is whisked up by the cabin crew, frayed torn jeans and scruffy tee shirt all, to business class and made to sit in a crew seat. A young girl, a Gujarati no less, no more than twelve perhaps, jumps up from behind and dashes forward screaming ‘Ranbeer, Ranbeer, Jaan…’
‘Aree, Ghadereeni,’ screams her mum, ‘beseeja, beseeja…’
The aircraft brakes, the girls stumbles, hits her head on an armrest and falls flat face on the floor; some people snicker, including our Kwaja. The sari clad mother, almost all her flabby midriff showing and dancing, yanks the stunned girl up, smacks her a tight, sharp slap and drags her back to their seat.
I see the hero again at the baggage belt, woodenly staring at the rotating loop. But he is well protected now, three baton wielding hawaaldars surround him, making sure he is not molested further. Again, I feel some satisfaction these super idols have to wait for their baggage, just like us mortals.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Sanford Musings
So Muamar Ghadaffy bites the dust, pulled out of a sewer casing like a rabid rat, dragged through the streets of his hometown, beaten up like a criminal, shot through the head, body unceremoniously dumped into an animal meat chiller and his people sneer and jeer in the backdrop. Surely he did, at one point or another in his life as a Muslim, read the Quraan and learn about the endgames of tyrants in pat history? Did he, even as recently as ninety days ago, even imagine this disgusting finale to his life? Allah (S) has a definite plan for such people; He is, after all, the best Planner, no? So there you are, glorified soul of Moosa Sadr, the evil spilling of your innocent blood avenged! Khalifa, Saleh, Saud, Assad…take keen note.
Isn’t it interesting how Allah, in His infinite wisdom made two very opposite commodities so alluring to humans? Gold, shiny and beautiful, you can hold in your hands, gives you a heady feeling of power and wealth. And oil, ugly, yucky, smelly and slimy to feel, gives you a heady feeling of power and wealth. Both these commodities making the world go aaahhhh, aaahhh, both these commodities responsible for so much bloodshed and death, the powers to be using both these commodities to make the world go ghoool, ghoool…
____________x_____________
The Florida heat and humidity is history for the year and fall cool and comfortable days are here. Sweaters and coats are out and the nippy morning weather makes for a labored awakening for salaat and run.
Fauja Singh, bless him, became the oldest man ever to have run a marathon, at age one hundred. What a wonderful inspirer! I go running on the shores of Lake Monroe yesterday, in crisp fifty degrees Sanford weather. My doctor in India has advised me to cut down on my running; I am getting older, he says. What backwaas! I usually run about eight miles four times a week but with Fauja Singh’s feat at the back of my mind, I did ten yesterday; I am still nursing the inevitable aches and pains. I hope I can do a quarter of what Fuaja Singh did even ten years from now, IF I am around.
____________x_____________
Finally, after five months living in Sanford, I cave in and attend the famous baraaza at La Fontana restaurant. My host Hassanain Aloo fails to show up, but the rest of the crowd more than make up for the hospitality with food, chatter and the matoosi. OMA, these matoosi’s would make even a seasoned sailor cringe in embarrassment. The word Kh…yo is so liberally used, it makes me dizzy. I realize they mean no harm, really; the word is so frequently and cleverly applied to East African Khoja conversation, however, it can loosely mean Son of a gun!
It can however have rather startling consequences. A long time ago, in Mumbai India, a prominent head of a local charitable organization overheard this word from a visiting respected East African Khoja and he picked it up. He then repeated the word several times at a meeting with another East African Khoja philanthropist. Needless to say, his organization did not get much funding from this particular donor.
The food is served at La Fontana is East African Khoja nostalgic; fried kebabs and fried mohoogo flow freely. This particular Sanford group love their food and have large appetites, mashaa’Allah; they eat and eat some more. I am advised meat pulao and samosas are in the cards for breakfast after fajr salaat tomorrow. Breakfast is served at the Sanford Center every Sunday and exotic dishes like khichroo, paya and even biryani is given due respect.
____________x_____________
I lost my dear paternal aunt in Toronto, Cana yesterday, the only sister of my father and last remaining sibling; she lived to be over ninety, mashaa’Allah. Soora e fateha, please?
____________x_____________
Well, I am off to Afghanistan, India and Kenya / Somalia / Tanzania tomorrow insha’Allah. Will blog after I return in three weeks insha’Allah. If the Talibaans and Shabaabs have not had me for kachoomber first, that is.
Isn’t it interesting how Allah, in His infinite wisdom made two very opposite commodities so alluring to humans? Gold, shiny and beautiful, you can hold in your hands, gives you a heady feeling of power and wealth. And oil, ugly, yucky, smelly and slimy to feel, gives you a heady feeling of power and wealth. Both these commodities making the world go aaahhhh, aaahhh, both these commodities responsible for so much bloodshed and death, the powers to be using both these commodities to make the world go ghoool, ghoool…
____________x_____________
The Florida heat and humidity is history for the year and fall cool and comfortable days are here. Sweaters and coats are out and the nippy morning weather makes for a labored awakening for salaat and run.
Fauja Singh, bless him, became the oldest man ever to have run a marathon, at age one hundred. What a wonderful inspirer! I go running on the shores of Lake Monroe yesterday, in crisp fifty degrees Sanford weather. My doctor in India has advised me to cut down on my running; I am getting older, he says. What backwaas! I usually run about eight miles four times a week but with Fauja Singh’s feat at the back of my mind, I did ten yesterday; I am still nursing the inevitable aches and pains. I hope I can do a quarter of what Fuaja Singh did even ten years from now, IF I am around.
____________x_____________
Finally, after five months living in Sanford, I cave in and attend the famous baraaza at La Fontana restaurant. My host Hassanain Aloo fails to show up, but the rest of the crowd more than make up for the hospitality with food, chatter and the matoosi. OMA, these matoosi’s would make even a seasoned sailor cringe in embarrassment. The word Kh…yo is so liberally used, it makes me dizzy. I realize they mean no harm, really; the word is so frequently and cleverly applied to East African Khoja conversation, however, it can loosely mean Son of a gun!
It can however have rather startling consequences. A long time ago, in Mumbai India, a prominent head of a local charitable organization overheard this word from a visiting respected East African Khoja and he picked it up. He then repeated the word several times at a meeting with another East African Khoja philanthropist. Needless to say, his organization did not get much funding from this particular donor.
The food is served at La Fontana is East African Khoja nostalgic; fried kebabs and fried mohoogo flow freely. This particular Sanford group love their food and have large appetites, mashaa’Allah; they eat and eat some more. I am advised meat pulao and samosas are in the cards for breakfast after fajr salaat tomorrow. Breakfast is served at the Sanford Center every Sunday and exotic dishes like khichroo, paya and even biryani is given due respect.
____________x_____________
I lost my dear paternal aunt in Toronto, Cana yesterday, the only sister of my father and last remaining sibling; she lived to be over ninety, mashaa’Allah. Soora e fateha, please?
____________x_____________
Well, I am off to Afghanistan, India and Kenya / Somalia / Tanzania tomorrow insha’Allah. Will blog after I return in three weeks insha’Allah. If the Talibaans and Shabaabs have not had me for kachoomber first, that is.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Sameer’s Muttah Museebat
I am in an exceptionally good mood today, sitting at my desk making headway on my novel when my cellphone goes off, displaying a number that is not registered in my contact list. Hmmm…
‘Hello?’
‘Hey Kisukaali, vipi? How are you, my friend?’
‘Good, alhamd’Allah, who’s this?’
‘Allah, wacha wewe, you think you are so savvy, travelling the world, you forget your best friend?’
‘Umm, sorry, I do not recall your voice…’
‘This is Gulaam, Bwana, Gulaam Chotaaro! Remember me now, you Jumping Jack Jitentra! Hahahaha…’
I remember him now, that laugh and the name certainly, (changed for the sake of his privacy). Gulaam and I studied Form 2 at Kinondoni Secondary School in Dar es Sallam, Tanzania in 1971 and were inseparable as friends. His dark skin color and somewhat curly hair earned him the nickname Chotaaro. His Dad, bless him, was doomed to earn a even nastier label – Khangaaro. For those unfamiliar with Kiswahili, khangaaro is a (very) derogatory term for phlegm that gets stuck in your throat and is difficult to dislodge. The Khojas of East Africa had (still have?) a nasty habit of ascribing (usually insulting) nicknames to people within their community.
I am unsure why we chose to call Gulaam by the label Chotaaro; I think it had to do with his father marrying a dark(er) skinned, curly haired Arab wife. It used to drive him wild if others called him by this tag, for he would come to blows with anybody that dared, but I was special; I could call him Chotaaro, or anything else for that matter. His Dad had a habit of a rich, prolonged, deep hack followed by loud expulsion of phlegm through our mosque windows during salaat sessions, thus the nickname.
Gulaam hated his hair and would go to extreme lengths to straighten them. He idolized Rajesh Khanna, the aging seventies Bollywood actor and constantly lamented God for not giving him similar tresses. Never mind that Rajesh Khanna eventually went bald and relies on wigs to sustain his faded image, but that’s another tale. Once, Gulaam bought hydrogen peroxide from a pharmacy and used it on his hair, hoping it would straighten the curls, to dreadful results; he was the laughing stock of the entire (unforgiving) school and community because of resulting bad blond hair color, let alone the thumping he got at home. He called me Jumping Jack Jitendra in turn, after another Bollywood actor, for I fancied his crazed jerky jumping, dressed in tight white pants and white shoes around pretty heroines.
Gulaam was the son of an exceedingly zealot religious father, so his upbringing was rather rigid at home; regular on-time prayers, madressa classes, no movies, no loud laughter, no smoking, no staying out late at night…certainly no girlfriends; Gulaam flaunted all these rules. Except for girlfriends, his luck was a zero in this score (family titles a handicap?) His dad and him were thus constantly at odds, with some very public and vivid quarrels at the mosque sometimes.
Gulaam loved Bollywood movies and would to considerable troubles and risks to squeeze hard to come money for movie tickets. He would either sway his mother or skim it from his elder working brother. Aping Rajesh Khanna, Gulaam would break out into a stanza from the latest Bolywood movie at the sight of (fair skinned) maidens; they would squirm and run for cover. Like other friends I had then, we lost contact; I vaguely knew him to be somewhere in Canada but never got a chance to contact or speak with him. Until today.
‘OMA! Gulaam Chotaaro? How in the world are you? Where in the world are you?’ I exclaim, genuine happiness in my heart. OMA, I used to be so close to this guy; talking to him immediately brings about happy memories with him.
‘I am in Vancouver man, (city name changed). I have been following your blogs and always wanted to get in touch, but you know how it is…work, wife, children…’
So we chitchat a few minutes, asking about each other’s life events over last 40 years since we saw each other. But then, suddenly, we are quiet, awkward, run out of things to say and I find this bothersome. I mean we could not stand to be apart more than a day and now, we are spent discussing 40 years of happenings after mere 10 minutes?
‘Kisukaali,’ he says, ‘I want your advise and help. I mean you are kind of religious, unlike me, although Dad was very religious, but he is no more.’ Before I can correct him about the worthiness of my holiness, he continues. ‘I have a problem with Sameer, my son. He is 18, supposedly in college and a huge heartache to my wife and I…’
I get about 10 minute litany of Sameers ills, from defiance, to smoking, to terrible school grades, to bad company, to girlfriends; in other words, Gulaam was describing himself when he was 16, except for the hair (and girlfriends). It seems Sameer inherited his mothers looks and hair; thick, silky, almost blond. Gulaam, you see, ended up marrying a white, blue-eyed Canadian, possibly trying to mitigate his own dark skin, curly hair ancestry. Perhaps defying his Dad’s choice of wife by marrying an opposite? Maybe. Anyway, Sameer’s greatest evils (in his parents eyes) are all his muttah relationships; his exceptionally good looks attract girls like flies to rotting fruit.
‘When he was younger, I persuaded my wife, (a non-practicing Christian) to send Sameer to the local madressa, hoping he would pick up some akhlaaq and discipline. Bloody hell, the only thing this khabees picked up was how to do muttah! Can you believe it? They hid this concept from us very well, but make it mandatory teaching these days! Sameer says he is doing nothing haram, shows me how do it all from a bloody website, can you imagine!’
I laugh, ‘Lucky Sameer,’ I quip.
But Gulaam gets mad, rebukes me for making light a serious matter. He has tried everything, he says, from counseling to several taweez, except whack his son for fear of arrest and imprisonment.
‘At least my Dad could relieve his frustrations by thumping me to a pulp; I can’t even pinch my son, even though the urge is immense.’
He is despondent and his wife so down, she suffers from depression, even. I am quiet for a few seconds, stumped for a suitable response. I am hardly the person for advise on such personal and complex issues of a wayward teenage son. I have my own battles to fight with my teenage son, nothing that comes close to Gulaam and his son, thank Allah, but battles nevertheless; common to all families, I reckon.
I have to disappoint Gulaam in the end; I feel real sad for him, poor fellow. I sympathize and speak kind soothing words to him; offer to speak to our young aalim here in Sanford, perhaps he can recommend a possible solution? He is reportedly good at counseling troubled teenagers. In the end, Gulaam says something that depresses me even more.
‘I think my problems are punishment from Allah for all the distress and heartaches I gave my parents, especially Dad; the shoe is on the other foot now. I think I’ll have to cut Sameer loose; seems it’s either him or us that can be happy, not together.’
I agree, but urge him not to lose hope, have faith, pray much and hope things turn around; through difficulties, Allah always steers us towards better alternatives.
My good mood nosedives.
Still, lucky Sameer.
‘Hello?’
‘Hey Kisukaali, vipi? How are you, my friend?’
‘Good, alhamd’Allah, who’s this?’
‘Allah, wacha wewe, you think you are so savvy, travelling the world, you forget your best friend?’
‘Umm, sorry, I do not recall your voice…’
‘This is Gulaam, Bwana, Gulaam Chotaaro! Remember me now, you Jumping Jack Jitentra! Hahahaha…’
I remember him now, that laugh and the name certainly, (changed for the sake of his privacy). Gulaam and I studied Form 2 at Kinondoni Secondary School in Dar es Sallam, Tanzania in 1971 and were inseparable as friends. His dark skin color and somewhat curly hair earned him the nickname Chotaaro. His Dad, bless him, was doomed to earn a even nastier label – Khangaaro. For those unfamiliar with Kiswahili, khangaaro is a (very) derogatory term for phlegm that gets stuck in your throat and is difficult to dislodge. The Khojas of East Africa had (still have?) a nasty habit of ascribing (usually insulting) nicknames to people within their community.
I am unsure why we chose to call Gulaam by the label Chotaaro; I think it had to do with his father marrying a dark(er) skinned, curly haired Arab wife. It used to drive him wild if others called him by this tag, for he would come to blows with anybody that dared, but I was special; I could call him Chotaaro, or anything else for that matter. His Dad had a habit of a rich, prolonged, deep hack followed by loud expulsion of phlegm through our mosque windows during salaat sessions, thus the nickname.
Gulaam hated his hair and would go to extreme lengths to straighten them. He idolized Rajesh Khanna, the aging seventies Bollywood actor and constantly lamented God for not giving him similar tresses. Never mind that Rajesh Khanna eventually went bald and relies on wigs to sustain his faded image, but that’s another tale. Once, Gulaam bought hydrogen peroxide from a pharmacy and used it on his hair, hoping it would straighten the curls, to dreadful results; he was the laughing stock of the entire (unforgiving) school and community because of resulting bad blond hair color, let alone the thumping he got at home. He called me Jumping Jack Jitendra in turn, after another Bollywood actor, for I fancied his crazed jerky jumping, dressed in tight white pants and white shoes around pretty heroines.
Gulaam was the son of an exceedingly zealot religious father, so his upbringing was rather rigid at home; regular on-time prayers, madressa classes, no movies, no loud laughter, no smoking, no staying out late at night…certainly no girlfriends; Gulaam flaunted all these rules. Except for girlfriends, his luck was a zero in this score (family titles a handicap?) His dad and him were thus constantly at odds, with some very public and vivid quarrels at the mosque sometimes.
Gulaam loved Bollywood movies and would to considerable troubles and risks to squeeze hard to come money for movie tickets. He would either sway his mother or skim it from his elder working brother. Aping Rajesh Khanna, Gulaam would break out into a stanza from the latest Bolywood movie at the sight of (fair skinned) maidens; they would squirm and run for cover. Like other friends I had then, we lost contact; I vaguely knew him to be somewhere in Canada but never got a chance to contact or speak with him. Until today.
‘OMA! Gulaam Chotaaro? How in the world are you? Where in the world are you?’ I exclaim, genuine happiness in my heart. OMA, I used to be so close to this guy; talking to him immediately brings about happy memories with him.
‘I am in Vancouver man, (city name changed). I have been following your blogs and always wanted to get in touch, but you know how it is…work, wife, children…’
So we chitchat a few minutes, asking about each other’s life events over last 40 years since we saw each other. But then, suddenly, we are quiet, awkward, run out of things to say and I find this bothersome. I mean we could not stand to be apart more than a day and now, we are spent discussing 40 years of happenings after mere 10 minutes?
‘Kisukaali,’ he says, ‘I want your advise and help. I mean you are kind of religious, unlike me, although Dad was very religious, but he is no more.’ Before I can correct him about the worthiness of my holiness, he continues. ‘I have a problem with Sameer, my son. He is 18, supposedly in college and a huge heartache to my wife and I…’
I get about 10 minute litany of Sameers ills, from defiance, to smoking, to terrible school grades, to bad company, to girlfriends; in other words, Gulaam was describing himself when he was 16, except for the hair (and girlfriends). It seems Sameer inherited his mothers looks and hair; thick, silky, almost blond. Gulaam, you see, ended up marrying a white, blue-eyed Canadian, possibly trying to mitigate his own dark skin, curly hair ancestry. Perhaps defying his Dad’s choice of wife by marrying an opposite? Maybe. Anyway, Sameer’s greatest evils (in his parents eyes) are all his muttah relationships; his exceptionally good looks attract girls like flies to rotting fruit.
‘When he was younger, I persuaded my wife, (a non-practicing Christian) to send Sameer to the local madressa, hoping he would pick up some akhlaaq and discipline. Bloody hell, the only thing this khabees picked up was how to do muttah! Can you believe it? They hid this concept from us very well, but make it mandatory teaching these days! Sameer says he is doing nothing haram, shows me how do it all from a bloody website, can you imagine!’
I laugh, ‘Lucky Sameer,’ I quip.
But Gulaam gets mad, rebukes me for making light a serious matter. He has tried everything, he says, from counseling to several taweez, except whack his son for fear of arrest and imprisonment.
‘At least my Dad could relieve his frustrations by thumping me to a pulp; I can’t even pinch my son, even though the urge is immense.’
He is despondent and his wife so down, she suffers from depression, even. I am quiet for a few seconds, stumped for a suitable response. I am hardly the person for advise on such personal and complex issues of a wayward teenage son. I have my own battles to fight with my teenage son, nothing that comes close to Gulaam and his son, thank Allah, but battles nevertheless; common to all families, I reckon.
I have to disappoint Gulaam in the end; I feel real sad for him, poor fellow. I sympathize and speak kind soothing words to him; offer to speak to our young aalim here in Sanford, perhaps he can recommend a possible solution? He is reportedly good at counseling troubled teenagers. In the end, Gulaam says something that depresses me even more.
‘I think my problems are punishment from Allah for all the distress and heartaches I gave my parents, especially Dad; the shoe is on the other foot now. I think I’ll have to cut Sameer loose; seems it’s either him or us that can be happy, not together.’
I agree, but urge him not to lose hope, have faith, pray much and hope things turn around; through difficulties, Allah always steers us towards better alternatives.
My good mood nosedives.
Still, lucky Sameer.
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