A Total Dichotomy Of Islam!

It is a beautiful morning outside my house here in Sanford, FL; clear blue sky, not a cloud in the sky and comfortable 70F. I hear birds chirp friskily outside; hear thuds and hammering of final homes being completed in the subdivision. We could do with some rain however, the grass, although still lush green, look stressed out at places, even with twice a week sprinkler watering. Water in Florida is pricey; I learnt this the hard way. My first month’s bill last June was over US$1,200, giving me heart palpitations I thought was Israeel come knocking. But then, everything in Florida is pricy compared to Texas. That however, is another story.

I am on my laptop trying to bring alive a pretty female character in my novel but she stays elusive, like a stubborn, sly maiden convinced her suitor has not done enough justice to his wooing efforts. Just when an creative idea pops in my mind, my cell phone goes off. This early? The display flashes Gulam Chotaaro, my friend from Canada. Ever since we talked after forty years of separation, Gulam has been in regular contact. I have been trying to counsel him regarding his rebellious teenage son Sameer’s wandering ways and misuse of Muttah practices. But it is only nine in the morning here and seven where he lives in the West; this must be serious, so I brace myself for potential bad news.

Vipi Kisukaali...habaari akhee, hujaambo?

The tone is jovial; I relax my tensing nerves, although it is odd for him to be calling for a chat this early on a Saturday. We swap pleasantries; I ask about Sameer; Gulam’s voice sours, becomes instantly quarrelsome.

Do not ask me about that khabees; I ran him off from home after his latest girlfriend’s father came to my house and demanded we keep Sameer’s dirty Muzlim paws off his daughter or else. You know how these Russians are, don’t you? Their women can be stunningly beautiful but their men are ruthless; they go after their enemy’s crown jewels, chop them off! I hope that will teach Sameer a lesson, living as a paying guest somewhere, always on the lookout protecting his jewels, without home cooked food, but I doubt it. His mother cooks tons of food and sneaks them to him.

I feel queasy about anybody’s crown jewels being chopped off, but I also feel sorry for poor Gulam, my heart goes out to him; Sameer has been like a bone stuck in his fathers throat that refuses to budge. But it is not Sameer that Gulam is calling me about this morning; the matter is more spiritual than personal this time.

Have you seen a protest that some Muslim bozos have taken out in someplace UK? Gulam demands. I tell him there are protests by Muslims in the UK almost every day, which one is he referring to? Subeeri, he says, I am sending you the clip now, watch it, you on your computer, siyo? So I wait and then watch a five-minute YouTube clip of very unruly, impolite and downright nasty men in long beards and naqaab-clad women shout abuses at British police and the government, calling for their demise. They swear that “Muslims” will establish a Khaleefat domain over the UK, tell onlookers they will go to hell because they are “unbelievers” and a women protester abuses a bystander, calling her a whore for being dressed the way she is. The video, for me, is disgusting, unacceptable but I play the devils advocate nevertheless.

Well, Gulam, they seem to be British citizens, they have a right to voice their opinions... There is an audible catch of breath at the other end and then silence; I begin to think he has hung up on me, mad. He is mad all right. I cannot believe my ears, Kisukaali, you, uttering this garbage? You? They have a right to spew out this kind of garbage? You disappoint me, Kisukaali, really... I stop him.

Gulam, I agree what these people say is wrong, in action and spirit of Islam. Our Prophet (S) would certainly have not tolerated this behavior. But they and we live in a supposed democracy where this kind of protest is legal. As long as violence is not resorted to, they do have a right to voice their opinion.

You know what, Gulam almost shouts, we Muslims are the problem. Not happy in Gazza, Iraq, Iran, Yemen, Bahrain, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Syria, Lebanon, Saudi, Egypt... So we lie, cheat or beg to get a Green Card or permanent residence in the US, UK, Australia, Canada.... And when these countries, in their generosity, and stupidity sometimes do grant us the right, we rush in happily. Then something happens in our dudu filled heads; we blame them for everything - from being kafirs to whores. We forget we were unhappy back home amongst our filthy, corrupt, obese rulers, the murderers and brilliant thieves. Is this the logic that Islam teaches you, Kisukaali? Gulam is so mad, I can hear the venom in his voice and recoil at the saliva splatter that must be hitting the telephone mouthpiece. Bah! This is a total dichotomy of Islam.

I hear the slam of telephone and the line goes dead. Hmmm, dichotomy...I have heard this word before. I open my online dictionary.

A Toilet With Tiles

The area around Chatrapati Shivaji International Airport in Mumbai is not very pedestrian friendly; certainly not a place to unnecessarily walk about. With snarled traffic most times, drivers intent on out-hooting each other, metro and overpass construction, decibel levels that render blood pressure medication useless and a stink that can curl up toenails, it is a wonder to see people up and about. I have no choice, I have to put in my hour of walking exercise, else metabolism in my system take very long stubborn naps.

I navigate another heap of rotting, stinking garbage, paying very careful attention for human or dog poop mounds; they can spring a nasty surprise on unsuspecting footwear. Immediately past this eyesore is a grimy Muslim restaurant with white-capped customers enjoying early morning spicy concoctions of eggs and potatoes and steamy tea. A teenager in filthy once-white waist perches over on a veranda edge tending to a boiling wok of bubbling grease with jaleebis sizzling in agony.

A mile up the road and I walk into slum India, a community of humans packed into ramshackle dwellings surrounded by garbage, grime and a peculiar foul smell that stays with me even as I walk faster, trying to escape it. There are flies that ignore frantic waves of my hands and sorry looking dogs that scavenge near an open nallah that runs along the tarred road I walk; I eye them cautiously, they have rabies written all over them, maybe? When I look up and around, swanky, tall glass buildings sprout all over, catching the glint of a raising sun; The Leela, Marriott, InterContinental, Sheraton…mocking my astonishment, at the fallacy I see.

I think I’ve had enough exercise and want to return to my hotel, a much modest Suba International, shower, have a luxuriously slow breakfast and a nap before heading to the airport and back home to Sanford when I walk into a sort of a maidan, a clearing. To one side is a pukka two-storied hut that stands isolated, in a midst of mountains of litter; newspapers, soda cans, plastic bottles, plastic bags and liners, metal cast-offs, auto and bicycle tires…even a rusting auto rickshaw, long dead. In between the house and trash heaps, sits a charpoy. A thickly bearded man wearing a Muslim cap sits on it, blows on a murky glass held by the tips of fingers, puckers his lips and takes a tentative sip; hot tea perhaps. Trios of chicken peck on the dirt near his feet and not too far away, a half naked toddler with an effusive runny nose plays with dirt.

I pause by the rotting rickshaw to observe the child, busy with a stick that s(he) is bent on interring into the dirt with very little success; frustrated, it begins wailing, there is instant reaction. Aree, aree, abhee kya hoowa, mai aye, mai aye… A young girl, hair covered with a dupatta, comes jogging from the house, carrying a large tub full of splashing water. She places it down, lifts up the toddler, places a series of ringing kisses on his face, removes the vest and immerses the now naked boy into the tub and begins a vigorous rub down with a bar of soap. I wish I had a camera; this would be an interesting shot. I sense a movement inside the rickshaw and nearly jump out from my skin in fright. A young boy, no more than ten, twelve, very dark, sits inside a tiny space grinning at me. We stare at each other, him grinning silly, I trying to steady a wayward heart. The boy juggles his eyebrows, Hello hero, show khalaas, soo rupee, holds out a palm. Astonished and somewhat amused, I turn around and start walking away but the boy is nimble as a monkey, out and blocking my way, palm held out. Show not pree, says he, in Bollywood fashion, ek soo rupee, dedo fast, fast.

Perplexed, I want to ask him why but a short sharp smack on his head sends him scrambling away. The man I had seen sitting drinking tea now stands in front of me, frowning. He is wearing a colorful lungi with a thin fading white kurta over it. Forgive him, sahib, he has lost his manners. Ever since carorpatti kutta tamaasha, Munna thinks he can extort money from strangers. Please ignore him, go in peace. Or perhaps I can offer you some tea?

I sit on the charpoy with Abdul Raheem and warily sip piping hot tea from a not-so-clean-looking glass, hoping all germs have been eliminated; I do not fancy a Mumbai belly on the long flight home. A bashful Zakeeya Bano, the young woman I saw cleaning up the toddler, her youngest brother, serves the tea. Zakeeya Bano and nimble Munna are Abdul’s children, two of nine from two wives, all living in that house behind me. Abdul is a scrap dealer, has been since moving to Mumbai from somewhere in UP. He was dirt poor when he first arrived in Mumbai, spent months living on streets with his first wife and two daughters, Zakeeya Bano one of them, the older one is married and lives in Malad slums with her family. Abdul was among the first ones to claim this piece of property as home, then a strip of marshland adjacent to Chatrapati Shivaji International Airport.

Nobody cared about recycling fourteen years ago; Abdul traded in newspapers, magazines and other paper products, scraped a living. Then suddenly, commodity prices took off faster than fastest jet planes Abdul had ever seen and recycling became fashionable, and profitable. He saw profits and competition escalate so everybody in the family joined in the business and he made money, got a good rishta for his oldest daughter, could afford the dowry for the boy from a decent family. With the savings, he expanded the business, acquired more land by paying off harassing police, sharks and other squatters. And he married, again.

Why, I ask. Abdul looks at me in surprise, frowns, strokes his bushy beard thoughtfully, as if I have asked him a profound question that needs contemplation. Then he smiles, revealing strong white teeth in between peppered whiskers. Arre Ali Mia, why not? I am a man, I have needs, no? He gives me a knowing wink but then his face sours. And I could afford it. Then… His second wife Shabnum Bano joins us, carrying a steel plate each of sweetmeats in assorted colors and savory concoction of fried daals, pea and cashew nuts; Abdul encourages me to take some but I politely decline. When I ask Abdul how he manages living with two wives and nine children in one house; his face darkens some more. Hmmmm, he says irritably, very difficult, that is why you don’t see the first one here…gone maike. He joins fingers of right hand and flaps them, yap yap, all day long, tongue never stops, saali troublemaker. I ran her off to her mother, let her go and yap all she wants there. She’ll be back soon enough, and eat my head again. I suppress an urge to laugh; Shabnum Bano has a smug look on her face.

Abdul, his family and residents of this slum are a worried lot however; their fortunes and lucks have taken a severe trouncing, dark thunderous clouds gather in the horizon and the future looks gloomy. Due to the fall in worldwide commodity prices, recyclables demand is down and prices almost halved. But not police haftas, these increase in tandem with price of daals, always soaring like those aircrafts taking off and landing, forcing a pause in conversation every few minutes. Slow business and police bribery is okay however, not the big anxiety; business has ups and downs, always, Abdul has survived worse times ago. The slum dwellers have been served eviction notice by GVK, the airport developer; they will have to move – in the very near future, perhaps within three months. Why? This entire area will be part of the new airport, a showcase for India to show to the world.

And what do they want to show us, the citizens of this community, asks Abdul. A less than 400 square foot apartment as compensation in some fancy high-rise coming up Allah knows where, when. For this, I had to bribe the government land department at Adheri ten thousand rupees to get a piece of paper affirming I live here. Ten thousand rupees! Can you believe the goondagheeri of our officials, Ali Mia? This is my house and my compound, which I bought and paid with my sweat to the Tamil land shark at exorbitant rates. Now, I have to bribe some haraami so that a piece of paper says it belongs to me. You have to go through this kind of goondagheeri back in Amrika, Ali Mia? I shake my head. Perhaps you can highlight our plight in Amrika? Talk to your Sarkaal? Tell them to urge the government of India not to rob us so much? I want to tell him there is nothing the US can do about his plight but remain quiet instead, it would be too much trouble and I am sure nothing I say will make him feel better.

What am I supposed to do in an apartment, hmmm? Will they let me sell scrap there? They say it will have a proper bathroom and a proper kitchen with gas connections, it will have 24-hour water supply…but I have to pay for it all. Have you seen the price of a gas cylinder bottle lately Ali Mia? The developer boasts that toilets will have shiny tiles in them. What for? Am I supposed to admire my bum’s reflection in them? Bah! Tiles indeed, for a few minutes, in company of filth and smell. I don’t need a tiled toilet for that, I go round the corner and do it there, in the large cesspit. No lines, no waiting. How will the nine of us fit in the toilet all at once, bolo? Want to see or use our toilet, Ali Mia? No tiles, but first class nevertheless, fresh air and lots of space… I must have visibly paled; there is hearty laughter from those gathered around us.

The heartiest laughter comes from Munna who has joined several others that now squat about the charpoy, come to see the pardesi from Amrika, perhaps make them famous and wealthy as well, like carorpatti kutta lot from a different not so distant slum? The group is all male with few dupatta clad women standing at a suitable distance, huddled with Shabnum Bano and Zakeeya Bano, gossiping and giggling, frequently glancing our way. Munna abruptly shuts up when he sees Abdul scowling at his overdone harsh laughter, shuffles away, the earlier whack on his head still on his mind perhaps. Attention on me fades; the group takes over discussing their imminent demise as a community, their future economic wellbeing and most critical, where and when the new apartments with tiled toilets will be available for occupancy.

After a few minutes listening to them, I get up to bid farewell, tell them I have a flight to catch later that afternoon. They are disappointed, but wag their heads in understanding and smile shyly as I shake hands around. Munna stands at a distance, bashful. I go to him and hug him, discreetly fold one soo rupee bill into his palm; he beams, radiates joy. Abdul protests, tells me not to reward the badmaash but relents because I insist. Shabnam Bano comes hurrying, a piece of green cloth fluttering on her fingers. She ties this on my right arm. It is for safety and good luck in my travels, from a shrine of a saint near her village in UP. They troop after me to the main road. Allah hafiz, they repeat several times as I board a rickshaw towards my hotel. I am late; I have a plane to catch.

The Miracle Of Giving - Sirsi, UP...Bad link to photos fixed!

I got an avalanche of protests from several about the link to photographs on this writeup not working. It's now fixed; click here.

Pole saana.

Ali Yusufali
Sanford, FL

The Miracle Of Giving - Sirsi, UP

Sirsi is in Uttar Pradesh, India, some six hours drive east of New Delhi. It is a poor mid-size village, mostly Shia Muslim, mostly farmers. When I was first driven there in the company of Aliakberbhai Ratansi of NF some five years ago, I complained nonstop. It was a hard drive, very bad roads; the place, when we got there, full of mosquitos, hotter than hot, power cuts ruled supreme and the place was generally depressing. In a pretty four-acre compound, there was a run down school, a run down mosque, a medical clinic and grimy staff quarters. This was a project obviously in decline, had seen better days.

The primary concern, for CAI, was the school. Aliakberbhai, known for his ability to turn hopeless education institutions around, had inherited the school when it was at its bottommost point and could not sink lower. Student enrollments were declining dramatically; the school was in debt, teachers’ salaries unpaid, staff moral was pathetic and overall situation in ICU. What inspired CAI to act was level of poverty that prevailed in Sirsi; with intense and proper care, the situation could be turned around. An opportunity for our children’s education was paramount; letting the project die was not an option.

With a lot of hard work, especially from those on the ground at Sirsi, namely Asgharbhai Shah, financing from CAI donors and Aliakberbhai’s administrative acumen, Sirsi Bahman School is the best school in Muraghabad and I am so proud CAI has been an integral part to her revival. Here are few facts about our school:

. Enrollment increased from 400 to 1,210 within 3 years.
. 14 new classrooms constructed, clearing hallways of students.
. Complete renovation of dilapidated school building; from a dim grimy structure to beautiful, all-tiled, bright and airy classrooms.
. 24 brand new computers added to a first ever computer lab.
. Added a physics, chemistry and biology lab.
. Added a library.
. 7 brand new buses added.
. Obtained board certification from UP to prestigious CBSC with affiliation to CBSE Board. Principal Syed Abbhan awarded the best educationalist in Muraghabad, UP.
. 400 plus very poor students study almost free; these would have not attended school otherwise.
. 200 poor students study at subsidized fee rates; these would have not continued without this subsidy.
. The school now has a waiting list of students from affluent families ready to join.
. The school has positive cash flow standing.
. An oasis of opportunity for our children, to pursue a quality education and relief from cycle of poverty, especially for our girls.

These school activities opened up other humanitarian opportunities at Sirsi:

.. A brand new beautiful purpose built boys orphanage.
.. A brand new girls orphanage.
.. Economic empowerment loans for many in milk producing animal husbandry.
.. Economic empowerment loans in transportation industry.
.. A 50 home project for very poor and destitute Sadaat families with preference to widows.

Please click here to view some delightful photos from our community in Sirsi.

This Sirsi project is sure testament of how donor funds can benefit an entire community - a very proud CAI / donor undertaking.

Lies, lies, lies!

I meet Habeeb at Dubai Airport Terminal One Lufthansa lounge; we begin chatting, killing time before flight call. The conversation develops to be extremely intense and dramatic over the course of about seven hours it takes us to get to Frankfurt, Germany. Habeeb (can’t remember his last name, something ending ‘pour’?) was born in Isfahan Iran, to a middle class family of carpet traders. A well-groomed, well-versed man of about fifty, he now calls Frankfurt Germany, his home where he has several retail carpet outlets all over the country; he is transiting in Dubai from Iran headed home. I am headed home to Sanford, FL transiting in Frankfurt.

I always find Iran / Iranians interesting, the revolution of late seventies / early eighties and dramatic world limelight she dominates influences my (and yours, I am certain) opinions and economic wellbeing. So I ask Habeeb about his take on current Iranian affairs and leaders, especially in regards to my (adopted) country, USA; I get a mouthful.

Khomeini, says Habeeb, was a world-class leader, with balls not equaled in modern history. I loved him, he was my hero and I miss him, Iran misses him. It has been downhill for Iran after Khomeini, only a miracle can save it now. Ahmadinejad did have some promise, it was nice to see him make some of you bloody khod-khah (selfish), monaafekh, (hypocrites), haaram zadeh (bastards), Americans squirm, but he has lost his mantle, caught up in struggles from where it is hard to see him come out a winner.

I want to protest the use of cuss words for a country that has, for me, given (gives) generously, where I am generally free to worship the religion I love, where I live in peace and security, where my family and I have a home; but it is almost two in the morning, I have long flights ahead of me, I want no arguments, I let it go. Habeeb however, has other ideas. He switches seats so we can be together and to my horror and dismay, orders wine as soon as we are airborne, laughs at my discomfort.

Aagha Ali Jaan, Habeeb laughs, you are not an old fashioned Muslim, are you? He flutters fingers in the air like a frantic butterfly, makes a dismissive sound only the Iranians can; thucth. I was like that some thirty years ago, like you perhaps. This, he raises his wine glass and twirls its bloody content, is jaam. It relaxes me, gives me company and is never disloyal. Never. You should try some, Aagha Ali Jaan, you will lose the troubled look that marks your face so prominently. If looks could kill, I would be a mass murderer; this look stops Habeeb cold, so he sobers and shuts up quickly, albeit briefly. The silence lasts only until he returns from the bathroom.

The current leaders of my great country (Iran, he means, not Germany) are a bunch of bloody ahmaks, nincompoops; all of them, all they yearn is power. Usurped power, at any cost, to hell with the consequences. But my people, aaaaah, my beautiful, gullible people, they are the real Aryans, the king of lions. They can take on any power in the world, including yours, the great lying, arrogant, servant of Israel’s poop, the U.S.A. Alarmed, I eye him nervously; has the wine taken hold of his emotions already? That was pretty nasty, what he just said. I keep quiet and close my eyes, hoping he would take cue and let me be.

Do you like it in the US? I mean you are not an American American, your roots are not from USA, right? Don’t you feel you are living in a monaafekh country as a Muslim, obviously a practicing one? I sigh, open my eyes and keep my face averted from Habeeb, only because the stench from his wine tainted mouth is offensive. Since he asked and been rude with his opinions, it is my turn to give him an earful.

Well, I begin; I do like it in the USA, very much. It is a country that welcomed me with open arms, made it possible to complete a quality education and appreciated my services afterwards with ample rewards, way beyond what I expected. Even deserved, sometimes. She does not look to see my skin color or national origin and more importantly, for me, the free practice my chosen religion. Yes, there are positions, especially on Middle East that conflict with my own, serious ones, but these I am unable to influence as an individual, so I use the ballot box to try and alter them. Not the most effective way perhaps, but it is the one I can lawfully exercise. No, I do not feel I am a hypocrite, not at all, just as I do not believe you, born in Iran now living in Germany hypocritical. I doubt Iran would have been as welcoming when I needed these opportunities.

Habeeb makes a face; thucth, that dismissive sound again. Please do not be angry, Aagha Ali Jaan, I am just so very frustrated with the whole Iranian situation at the moment, you know, with war looming; very bad for business. Brilliantly orchestrated lies that Western countries, led by the USA, is dancing to, intoxicated on power plays manipulated by the Zionists. Lies, lies lies, all lies, aired by Badmaash Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) and others! And the tragedy is, these lies get readily consumed the public in the West. You know what I talk about, don’t you? If you eat good, wholesome foods, you supposedly get healthy reasoning faculty. How can you guys, sorry…sorry, how can the American public not see through such falsehoods? You Americans do eat wholesome food, don’t you?

Hmmm, what to answer? Well, I am not a politician…

Aw, come on, Ali (Aagha / Jaan dropped?), that is a copout response, you know very well what I am talking about. You Americans elect the strangest leaders. That idiot Bush, the younger one, brains stunted by all the pork rinds in his genes. He appoints a supposedly very intelligent black woman who uses her brains to lie. Her lies during Iraq war…have you seen anyone so ugly? A face with teeth the size of piano keys walking around with a smile matching that of a prized horse from Aga Khan’s finest collection… Now, you have crappy Clinton, whose husband was a believable liar at least, open her mouth and a stench permeates with rotten lies she shamelessly speaks. A first class hypocrite as well, what gall! Condemning China and Russia for vetoing UN resolution on Syria! What jerks! America has vetoed over 200 UN resolutions that condemn Zionist Israel, from cold murder to usurp of land! And you say the US are not liars and hypocrites? I thought you are an intelligent man, Ali.

Ears ringing with insults, I find my blood pressure rising and want to lash out, retort. But I pause, reflect. Apart from silly personal insults he used, there is merit perhaps to Habeeb’s rant; I cannot honestly defend his accusations of hypocrisy.

My friend, I say as calmly as the irritating din from food being served will allow (why would anybody care to eat a steak at two in the morning anyway?), at a micro level, these issues do not affect my living in the US, as a Muslim. As I said, there are issues regarding my government’s foreign policies I may disagree to, but there is very little I can do except work with my Senators, Representatives and educate them about my feelings. I might not get immediate results, not even in my lifetime perhaps, but this is the only lawful way I can express my opinions.

Perhaps, says Habeeb as he attacks a slab of meat and replenishing his wine glass, perhaps. The sharks from your country and the UK, another Zionist ass-kissing country are closing in on Iran, ready to shed innocent blood. It won’t be so easy, mark my words, Ali. We’ll take a hit all right, but we have balls of steel, hardened by all your sanctions, and you guys are soft, very soft and comfortable. And very exposed.

I roll my eyes up to heavens, fully recline my seat, blanket up and leave my neighbor to his steak, wine and anger.

Saira's Story

This saga is of nineteen-year-old Saira Ashrafi who CAI donors sponsored towards software programming courses sometime in 2010. Daughter of a clerk earning less than US$200 per month, Saira contacted CAI for help continuing her education. When she did not submit 2nd year progress and exam reports, I wanted to know why. She remained elusive however and I spent quite some time tracking her down. When I did meet her in Mumbai recently, I was shocked to see not the teenager I had first met, but a woman matured way beyond her age, about eight weeks pregnant; and a widow. You may find the following narrative disturbing perhaps, my choice of words uncouth perchance. So be it, I make no apologies; Saira's saga is fraction of what girls from illiterate homes in India endure; there are, to me, no better, alternate way of putting Saira's anguish more aptly. The following frightfully frank conversation took place at Costa Coffee on Yari Road, Andheri W, Mumbai between 1 and 3 PM on Saturday February 18. The words are all Saira's, presentation mine. All names have been altered.


After seeing her brand new husband's body carried off from the hospital morgue for rituals and burial, Saira returns to her parent's house and tries to sleep, but slumber is elusive. She caresses her belly and wonders about the growth of life taking hold within; will it be a boy or a girl and immediately, fervently, wishes for it to be neither. She wants to pray for it to abort, but has lost all faith in God, so she cries instead, something she has done a lot past couple of months....


Saira is third child to poor parents whose ancestry originates in Utter Pradesh; two sisters precede her. After fervent prayers to God and beseeching every saint known to her parents, Saira is rewarded with a brother, triggering intoxicating joy to her father and immense relief to mother, a plain, obedient women who deems questioning a husband's actions, however irrational, deviant.

When Saira is old enough to realize brother takes precedence to all available resources in the family, she takes it in stride, when older sisters are yanked from school and married off, barely teens, she prays hard her future does not hold a similar fate, but when her father announces there is no money for Saira to continue studies after high school because he has to save for his son's (enhanced) education, Saira rebels. This rebellion serves to harden her father's convictions; educating a girl only makes it harder to marry them off.

A friend introduces Saira to CAI; we agree to fund tuition fees if Saira's grades stay at current B average or better. Happily, diligently, she pursues a diploma in computer programming that will have her easily employed after three years. She returns home from school some eighteen months later to be told by an agitated mother to get ready and wear her finest; there is once-in-a-lifetime rishta, the (elderly, unmarried, live-in) sister of the boy is coming to officially ask for Saira's hand in marriage. Everything is agreed and arranged, this is just a formality; they want it all done before Muharram begins. The boy's side has not asked for anything in return, nothing, can you believe your luck? Aree, they are even gifting your father a brand new motorbike! Now be a good girl, hurry up and get ready fast-fast; they'll be home by nine...

Saira's protest is stifled by the iron fisted father and a teary, pleading mum. The months between rista, magni and nikkah are a blur of events where Saira feels detached from reality, surreal and utterly crushed and defeated; eyes and heart that do not stop weeping or hurting. The 'boy' Shadaab is an overweight manager of a wholesale food supply chain, chain-smoking, gurka chewing man twenty years her senior. Jilted by an earlier engagement due to his weighty issues the ex fiancée felt he was too slow is tackling, Shadaab promises Saira he would lose the weight, stop smoking and guzzling gudka; he does none to the day he dies.

To his credit, Shadaab, albeit in reprimanding mood most times, is an attentive and doting suitor, buying her gifts of stifling clothes and expensive candy Saira does not, cannot wear and has no appetite eating; her brother and sisters take on that task. As promised, father gets a swanky new Honda Hero motorbike. On wedding day, decked in oppressive feeling gharara, garlanded by flowers that seem to choke her, a worried Maulana has to ask her at least five times before Saira can croak acceptance for the nikkah recitation to begin.

On nuptial night, after Shadaab mauls her and promptly falls asleep, Saira, sensing a thunderstorm, opens her eyes but realizes it is only her husband snoring; she covers her ears and grids her teeth. When the racket does not lessen in about ten minutes, she gently prods the massive belly laying lopsided by her; Shadaab simply grunts, farts violently, changes sides and resumes snoring; Saira begins crying softly.

Tears of frustration, despair and self-pity wash over her as she sobs, stifling the sounds with a fist in her mouth least her husband of few hours will rise irate and lecture on proper wifely behavior yet again, an art he has remarkably, progressively improved since magni. It was not supposed to be like this, this hurried up affair; for Saira had dreams, very different dreams. Dreams she would graduate, become financially independent, fall in love, wed.

Within weeks of marriage, medical tests confirm her pregnancy and Saira recedes into deep melancholy; she has dreaded this exact situation, had insisted no pregnancy until after graduation. Shadaab had countered there is no need, he needs to be a dad soon-soon, he is not getting any younger. As a matter of fact, he wants as many kids as possible. No need for Saira to work, he earns enough and has saved up plenty. Shadaab rants at her despair, complains to his sister and her parents; they confront her with tongue-lashings and reprimands. Saira contemplates suicide.

The angel of death has different ideas however, Shadaab croaks instead, simply does not wake up one morning after a night of fierce arguments between them. A massive heart attack stop his heartbeats; the doctors blame overweight, overworked heart and smoking as reason, the sister in law openly cries murder and much to Saira's distress, her parents, too, look at her with reproachful eyes.

Looking straight into my eyes, startling me silly, Saira asks if an abortion would be an option. I am so very despondent for this girl, beyond words, numb, unable to react for quite sometime. What can I say? I am not in a position, not qualified to judge or advise in this extreme, delicate situation. I do warn her, however, that Islam considers abortion a heinous sin. I offer to pay for professional counseling, continued support for her to complete education and monetary support for her baby. After some thought, Saira says she is too muddled up to make a concrete decision, wants time to weigh her options, discuss with parents if she has their support going forward.

I tried my best, will follow up when I visit India next May / June insha'Allah.

Burp!

With 2 weeks to kill before a (very uncomfortable) foot long stent can be removed below my kidneys in Mumbai India, I decide to visit CAI projects in Tanzania, specifically construction of a completed modern physics / chemistry laboratory at Jeffery School in Bukooba.

You may find the following narrative (and accompanying photos) informative.

Dar delights
Dar airport is not as crowded as I have found her in earlier summer visits and the air-conditioning system at the airport, although lethargic, does provide bearable relief from the stifling heat outside. An imposing immigration officer, twanging bad American accent to foreign passport holders, hurries me through visa formalities and I, remarkably, clear immigration and customs in 30 minutes. Now, luggages go through a scanner for customs so bottlenecks, questions and bribes are much minimized.

The pains, frustrations and complaints from (Khoja, mostly) residents living in this city can be longer than most monthly grocery lists; Tanzania Revenue Authority harassments, spiraling inflation, rampant bribery, anemic infrastructure, power woes, water woes... My observations are somewhat more optimistic however, perhaps due to extensive exposure to state of affairs in dismal countries such as Afghanistan etc. I find Dar progressively modern, with new handsome buildings mushrooming everywhere in the city, roads relatively well maintained, clean and traffic no worse than Dubai, even. Walking the city center around the Khoja mosque after magreeb, I feel safe, strolling through placid beggars lounging around shuttered shops amid drifting, overpowering odor from barbequing pits of sidewalk restaurants.

It is summer here and, for me, a feast of fruits. I go bananas, literally, when my eyes set on all the exotic array of fruits on sale; pineapples, mangoes, jackfruit, soursop (ramfal), zambarao, kungus (and thanks to Liyaakat Alloo, the badaam in it as well, something I eat after a gap of over 30 years), shokeshoke (lychees), apple mangoes, papaya, madafu, passion fruits, bananas...I want to eat them all, I eat them all - burp. Then there are different exotic foods that only original Tanzanian ingredients can stand up to a heavenly palate. Nundu, mushkaaki and kuku ya kuchooma at Mambos and Muchachos, of course; there is sanene (crispy fried grasshoppers), dagga with ugaali, matoke; fried and with nazi milk, KT Shop kebabs, mandazi, kitumbooa - I want to eat them all, I eat them all - burp, burp. I tell ya, I am alarmed at my ballooning midriff (no jogging permitted until after follow-up surgery) between all the fruits and food I consume on this trip, thanks to my good friend Murtaza Bhimani family generous cooking.

Banana country
Bukooba, when I get there, accompanied by Murtaza Bhimani, flying Precision Air landing on a hardened dirt runway, is refreshingly cool, for me, although Bokoobans lament the summer heat. This is banana country, with plantain groves everywhere I see. It is a quaint little town, quite neat and clean. I am told Bukooba had a budding, wealthy Asian community once and this shows in the handsome houses of worship of Muslims (Shia and Sunni), Hindus, Sikhs and Ismailis next to each other. All Ismailis have migrated out, so the Jamaat Khana is now a high school run by the Khoja Shia community, necessary to stem the migration of her community for want of higher education facilities. Irony no, non-Ismailies could not set foot in Jamaat Khanas ago... It is here that a CAI donor sponsored a new modern laboratory. I am much impressed by the progress of the school and the efforts to expand it.

We are guests of current President of Khoja Jamaat, Murtazabhai Visram, a highly energetic and dedicated person to the community. Murtaza Bhimani, who was born in Bukooba, reveals in nostalgic memories of his growing up here as we tour the town. There is a strong Catholic Christian missionary movement in the area, with many imposing churches getting ready for a papal visit later in the year. Stuffing myself with fruits and food, including introduction to sanene (crunchy crispy grasshoppers), 5 pounds heavier, we head back to Dar and get ready to drive to Tanga next day.

Tanga tangle
Although I was born in Arusha, I spent most of my adolescence in Tanga, once even more thriving than Dar; I have some amazing memories of her. Joining me in the taxi are friends Murtaza Bhimani and Sadiq Merali as our extra careful driver Yahya tries to avoid the ever-omnipotent traffic police in futility; we are stopped 7 times. One time, the cop checks everything; documents, insurance, medical kit, fire extinguisher... Everything is in order; he throws up his hands in disgust. If you keep everything straight, what are we supposed to eat, he grumbles. Well, quench my thirst instead... give me something. Yahya parts with 2 thousand shillings. Haraam sadeqa, he grumbles.

In Tanga, we put up at Inn By The Sea, a deteriorating Bohri owned hotel near Raskazoone, easily compensated by the sea, scenery, mind blowing sea breeze and tranquility; I have a wonderful relaxing 2 days of recuperation. I visit all places that have influenced my life. Saint Anthony's Elementary School, Popatlal High School, our (diminishing with robustly squabbling members) mosque, childhood homes I lived in, the grocery shop I successfully ran as a teenager, cinemas I frequented on special Sundays, grounds I played cricket and volleyball, where I went swimming on Sunday mornings after salaat, and to Raskazoone wearing (limited) swanky attire - to gawk at girls ... I gorge on food, of course; famous nylon bajeeas at Blue Room where, as a teenager, I used to look in through the (still unchanged) window front, mouth watering, tummy rumbling, because I did not have money to go in. I thank Allah (S) again and again for the wonderful opportunities He has bestowed on me, especially the then hard times, so I can fully appreciate the current blessed ones...ah, what memories, yaar! Zindeghee ke safar me guzar jaate hai jo makaam, whoo phir nahi aate...

Much, much heavier, cursing my seemingly evaporated self-control, I depart back to India for the stent removal and much more pressing CAI tasks that await me. Burp.

I encourage you to visit these photos, especially ex-Tangawalles; I am certain you will enjoy.