Peace To The Ignorant

Mullah Mchungu is preparing to return to Dar es Salaam tomorrow so has dropped by home to say goodbye. He says he’s not sure if I’ll see him again because he feels the angel of death is paying him real close attention. I laugh away, thinking the old man is jesting but the Mullah’s face remains static, as bitter as his nickname; I shut up real fast.

We are seated in my living room this time; it is too cold and windy outside, one of the few rare such days in Sanford, Florida. I feverously pray the tea he is now sipping is not followed up by the customary nasty Indian beedi he likes to smoke; for I will surely have to deny him that pleasure. And who can tell what calamity will that bring about? But he senses my unease and refrains himself, chewing instead on my Paan Parag and 160 pareeki concoction with aplomb.

‘This stuff is good, Kisukaali, very good,’ he affirms, nodding. ‘What’s in it?’

‘Oh, that’s proprietary information, Mullah Saheb,’ I joke cheekily, ‘It will cost you pretty plenty.’

The guy does not find it funny and stares at me unblinkingly, making me want to cringe; I give up and promise myself I’ll keep humor out of all future conversations with this grouch.

‘Did you hear Ammar Nakshawani’s lecture yesterday?’ He asks suddenly, catching me off guard. The guy has a tendency of doing this, taking pleasure in changing subjects of conversation to gauge my reaction.

‘Yes,’ I say after trying to read his mind unsuccessfully, ‘Yes, I did.’

‘And?’

‘Um, and what?’

I know what he wants me to say; he wants my opinion of some controversial issues Nakshawani brought up in his lecture at HIC yesterday, opinions I prefer to keep (safely) to myself. I brace for an outburst when the Mullah’s face clouds up with ire, but just as quickly, he relaxes, exhales deeply and gives me an obnoxious sneer.

‘You are such a chicken, Kisukaali and a skinny one at that, trying to be all diplomatic and nice-nice. Well, I have no such inhibitions so hear me out.’

I settle in for the majlis.

‘The guy Ammar is very good and I like him, no matter what others think of his lecture fees, hair transplant or tattoos.’

I am taken aback. Really? Nakshawani has a hairdo and a tattoo? News, really, to me; good for him! I open my mouth to ask how he knows such intimate details on the guy but the Mullah puts a finger across his lips and gestures me to shut up; I close my mouth and recede further into my soft sofa.

‘Listen up Kisukaali, before you have to start reciting fateha on the news of my demise. We Khojas have an irresistible itch for conspiracy theories and controversies; we thrive in such foolishness. Perhaps we lead boring lives and need this for cheap entertainment? We expect our aalims to be old farts, wear drab cloaks with an amaama and keeleemba. Sheykh Jehad wears fancy shoes and dresses smart; we go bananas. Sheykh Ammar gets a tattoo; we cry blasphemy. An aalim flies business class; yaa Allah, what calamity. The man gets a hair transplant; snicker, snicker. The ideal aalims should be almost poor, always looking for handouts. They should do no wrong, as if they are infallibles. Bizarrely, we digest and poop out everything they say from the mimber as gospel, unchecked or verified.’  

Mullah Mchungu pauses for breath and closes his eyes but opens them when I begin to fear he has passed out from the effort of his lecture, asks for more pareeki, helps himself, smacks his lips in appreciation and continues.

‘Now then, about Ammar and his lecture yesterday. I thought what he said made perfect sense, nai?’

I take my time responding, my brains in full gear. I really do not want to voice an opinion.

‘Well,’ I begin, ‘Sheykh Ammar covered a lot of subjects, what exactly...’

‘You are useless, Kisukaali, a meatless chicken, I say. It would be futile making you halaal, there would be no meat to enjoy. You know exactly what I am talking about. The soora from the Quraan that Ammar quoted, you know it? Never mind. I’ll give you an English translation since both of us are fools and don’t understand Arabic. It is from chapter number 25, verse 63, Al Furqan and it goes something like this:

‘And the servants of Allah, Most Gracious, are those who walk on the earth in humility, and when the ignorant address them, they say, "Peace!"’

This command of Allah refers directly to Salman Rushdie and the editors of Charlie Hebdo. Allah has given us Muslims the best defense with this command. Had A. Khomeini not ordered the killing of the fool Rushdie and the lunatics not killed the French editors, Islam would have been better served.’

I am and look shocked, for Mullah Mchungu smiles at me mirthlessly.

‘Think what you like, this is a fact. 99% of the Muslims who protested against Salman Rushdie did not read the novel in question. Yes, it was insulting, yes it was hurtful but the fatwa made Salman a very popular and wealthy man. He is a mediocre writer, his works are hard to read and it takes a seasoned intellectual mind to comprehend what he writes. The best response should have been to snub his ignorance about our Prophet and shown him the middle finger and said ‘Peace.’ Same with Charlie Hebdo. The rag was selling about 3,000 miserable copies of their magazines a week, look what happened. Ask yourself this question: Are we Muslims better off in our reaction in both instances, did it achieve anything but grief? Logically, you must agree that the Quraan’s command was the only way to react. And that is what Ammar was saying. I agree with him. One hundred percent.’

The Mullah turns quiet; I remain quiet, afraid to say anything or make a movement. We stay like this for a long time.

‘I have the highest regards for A. Khomeini; he was a great aalim that etched Shia Islam into modern world history, no doubt. I have the same high regard towards other great ulemaas as well. But remember, they are humans, like you and I, pious, educated and wise for sure, but not infallible.

A car beeps outside, signaling Mullah’s ride is here. He gets up woozily and we say formal goodbyes.

‘I hear you are coming to Dar in March Kisukaali? Do look me up; I’ll treat you to the ghastly kahaawa and kashata you like so much. It’ll be a cheap treat from me. If I am gone, do come by the kabrantan and recite a fateha.’

With that, he limps away.

Okay, this Blog is going to ruffle a few feathers, surely just as the sun will rise from the East tomorrow. Spare the comments (the nasty ones) for Mullah Mchungu in Dar; if you can find him.

Aamir Khan And Everything First Class

Cranky and groggy, I appear before the Etihad check-in counter at Mumbai International Airport at 2AM for my flight to Abu Dhabi, connecting to Dallas, TX. The middle-aged woman in a sari with a bulging midriff sharply draws breath through very white dentures and flashes them at me.

‘Sorry Sir, the flight is cancelled. Heavy fog in Abu Dhabi has closed the airport.’

I sober up real fast. Cancelled? Ya Allah!

‘Now just a minute, Ma’am,’ I start to argue... Vaapi! Nothing comes out of it except more sparkle from her teeth and a steady head wag. She cannot tell me when Etihad will be able to transport me back home but offer to put me up at a local hotel for the time being. I try to get a flight out of Mumbai all morning. Incredibly all flights, economy and business classes, in all airlines heading to the US via Europe are packed. I try for a seat via the Far East; same result. I am stuck! Not a bad thing actually, stuck in Mumbai, but I have a waiting daughter who starts school in a day.

After spending hours on the phone, Emirates comes through. They can upgrade a business class ticket to first class using my miles, the only cabin where seats are available; desperate, I grab the seat. Emirates may be pricey and arrogant at times, but you can’t beat their operational superiority in the Middle East and Southeast Asia. Now, I have been upgraded to first class on Emirates before, but this one, on a brand new A380, is different. A treat, for sure.

An attractive Emirates stewardess, a brunette (from Bulgaria I later learn), flutters eyelids at me and escorts me to my seat, makes me comfortable and assures me she is at my service. My, my! When I return from visiting the washroom, there is a mini riot near the first row seat. Passengers and some cabin crew are crowded next to my seat, talking, giggling and clamoring for the attention of a passenger seated next to me, his face hidden from my view by the privacy partition. Probably some politician, I assume. I scowl at the crowd, hoping they’ll move, but my facial expressions seem far less important than my neighbor. Rumjana, the Bulgarian brunette, comes to my rescue and shoos away the crowds, who reluctantly leave, but not until their angry looks let me know what they think of me. I really do not care; I have over 23 hours of flying and stopover in Dubai and want to sleep, bas.

Alas, it is not to be. After takeoff, my neighbor accidently releases the privacy divider and reveals himself – Aamir Khan. Yup, him. The super-star of Bollywood. Seated right next to me. I do a double take and blink my eyes in (pleasant) surprise; he smiles.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ I say, ‘no wonder there was a hungama here.’

He laughs. He sounds exactly like he did in the 3 Idiots! He closes the divider between us and resumes watching laptop movies. Then come the crowds again, from business class as well, giggling teenagers, excited children and overdone grease-painted middle aged women; some men too, all wanting Aamir’s photograph. To his credit, the guy humors them all, excusing himself past me several times to walk to the gully and pose for mugs; I do not sleep.

Aamir Khan is big news in India and among the Asian diaspora in the West. All his recent movies have been sensible and family oriented, with a reasonable social message; blockbusters all. His most recent movie, PK, grossed the biggest intake in Bollywood history, an amount not to be sneezed at. I wish I could have talked to him, but being Aamir Khan has constraints on conversation with strangers. At Dubai immigration, crowds of fans eagerly eat him up, including immigration officers with silly smiles on their lips at the sight of the hero. We part ways with a simple goodbye wave from him.

Even the luxury of a first class Emirates A380 is lost on me at 2:30AM. I finally look forward to some sleep on the 13 plus hour flight from Dubai to New York. The stewardess, Anna, a Filipina this time, hovers over me like a moth near a candle, wanting to make sure I have everything I don’t need; I wave her away.

After a restful six-hour sleep, I wake up to the smell of food and Anna by my side, asking me if I had showered, or so I thought. Eh? What an odd question! Do I smell? Wondering if she had lost her mind and curtly wanting her buzz off, I realize she was asking me if I wanted to shower. Wow! I nodded sheepishly; that would be a first time experience.

The bathroom on an A380 is bigger than mine at home, with every conceivable bathroom amenity at my disposal, from soft fluffy towels to very pricey skin toners. Imagine, taking a hot shower at 39,000 feet in the air! What will they think of next? It is a treat nevertheless. My only anxiety is Anna insisting she stand right outside the door, just in case. When I tell her I do not need her there, that I know how to shower, she giggles, covering perfect set of teeth with her petite hand.

‘No Sir, I must be here, for you. Rules, you know?’ She giggles some more. ‘In case of turbulence or if cabin air decompresses.’

I am given forty minutes to complete the three S’s a man needs every morning for a successful, productive day.

‘Have a wonderful shower, Sir,’ singsongs Anna, then reminds me, with a serious look on her face. ‘Remember, I am right outside the door, just press the call button if you need anything.’

Huh.

The remainder of the flight flies by with me splurging on a calorie busting prime beef rib eye steak and all the Godiva chocolates I can glutton, with Anna keeping a constant caregiving eye over me.

Money, money, money, it’s a rich mans world.

Taking A Break – Contrasting Bangladesh

I clear immigration at Dhaka airport and head towards the domestic airport, a short distance away. An armed policeman, a kid really, stops me and asks for my passport in Bangla; I give it to him. His face lights up.

Ah, American hay? He says in broken English. Very nice. Where are you headed?

Chittagong. Tourist.

Very nice. Chittagong very nice. You have baksheesh? For me? Only ten dollah?

No, I say firmly, I have no money.

The kids face clouds up. He looks around, pokes a finger in his nose, extracts a booger after a brief struggle, examines it intently for a moment and flicks it away; it lands on a nearby door of the transit divide. He turns his attention to me, blows stale breath my way and gives me a toothy grin.

No money? You tourist and no money?

I sigh, dig into my pocket and come up with a fifty Takka bill, about forty US cents, which I give him. The kid looks wounded and would have burst into tears but I snatch the passport from his hands and walk away, least he touch the passport with a polluted finger.

One of the perks for working for CAI is the opportunity to visit far-flung exotic gateways and this one is no exception. I have a few days to spare so I am headed to southeast Bangladesh for some R and R. I need the solitude and space to rejuvenate my sagging sprits in light of recent personal life turbulences.   

Bandarband, which literally means monkey forest even though I meet no monkeys there, is a tribal area some seventy-five miles from Chittagong, severely restricted by the authorities; only a lucky few get to visit, under constant surveillance. An acquaintance (lets call him Yakoob) with good connections has gotten me the permit and I look forward to three days of hiking, meeting remote people and trying different foods. 

Yakoob picks me up at Chittagong airport and fights the ghastly-polluted roads and traffic to his splendid house, where I am made comfortable for the evening; we depart for Bandarband after Jooma next day. Yakoob, I quickly realize, is a BIG businessman. I get a massive room to myself and am fed feasts that would make King Abdallah cringe in envy. Three very inquisitive dogs and two cats that roam about the house are my only fear but they leave me alone after Yakoob sternly reminds them to.

As a foreigner, I am made to register twice before actually entering Bandarband. It is a town nothing special to write home about; same grime and pollution, same chaos, same unruly traffic that honk until I worry I will go insane. It has become very chilly in the hills so a thick sweater comes handy.

There are eleven separate tribes, mostly Hindu, that make up the minority tribes in Banderband. A King, who speaks to the Muslim majority government to press for the tribe’s rights and complaints, unites them all. It is the King’s birthday so the authorities have relaxed the ban on alcohol consumption for three days. This is an annual event where throngs of people, majority poor and illiterate Muslims, gather at Banderband, get sloshed and have a huge party. The King receives his subjects bearing gifts of chicken, eggs or a maybe a pig, perhaps from the more affluent ones. We visit the gala event the first night but rowdy crowds and all the locally brewed booze on sale quickly put me off.

A local guy, Yakoob’s friend, takes us boating the next day, and keeps on chattering about how beautiful Bandarband is; I have yet to see much beauty. But it does get quite scenic once we leave the town behind. Two hours into the ride, the boat owner cuts the motor and we sit in complete quiet, save for the river and some birds making merry. Suddenly, a school of large fish takes flight for quite a distance; a truly amazing sight, one I have never before witnessed.

Barracudas, whispers the friend.

The greenery, solitude and pristine waters lull us into a trance broken only by fishermen rowing past us with their catch. Bangladesh gets abundant protein from seafood and you can this bounty in their meals; breakfast, lunch and dinner. We have our meals at a local very busy restaurant where the calorie-laden food is always fresh and wholesome.

It is the final day in Bandarband that makes the trip memorable. The drive to the top of the hills, to Nealgirri is breathtakingly beautiful, through winding roads and floating clouds. Every security post has advance notice of my arrival; wonder what the authorities are paranoid about? I get to hike through local villages and meet people who have yet to leave their villages - ever. The tribal people of Bangladesh are much fairer than the coastal populations and the women strikingly attractive. I see many young men with a bobtail on the front of their scalps; this signifies their bachelorhood; too bad I have lost my hair.

It is the fairer sex that proposes marriage in this culture and the man has to pay the asking price; two pigs (more if she is pretty), an adequate plot of land and absolutely no interference from his parents; they stay separately and she won’t even cook for them. The wife dominates the family and is very protective. The man must reward his wife with a silver belt every year of marriage; gold if he is affluent.

The air, scene and foliage are fabulous and breathtaking at places. The earth, like elsewhere in the country, is fertile and uncorrupted, with groves of banana, pineapple and papaya in abundance. The Hindus of these areas are carnivores so pigs are abundant in all villages.

Later that day, I am in conversation with the Governor of Bandarband who wants aid for an orphanage he is a patron of. He invites the young manageress of the orphanage to come by so I could meet her. Zaw Prue is a strikingly beautiful woman of about twenty-five. She comes by and does something that both shocks and revolts me. Taking off her shoes, she bends down and prostrates to the Governor, to Yakoob and then to me, her head touches my shoes. I leap up, my heart thumping and the hair of my arm all excited.

Bangladesh is, still, pretty much, a landowner’s fiefdom. These few control the wealth of the country and hold enormous sway over the poor, including such obeisance. Although Yakoob, red faced due to my reaction, explains this form of respect is normal in these areas, I am pretty unnerved by this drama.

This fact is reinforced my last day in Bangladesh. Yakoob takes me to see his 590-acre plantation back in Chittagong. It is massive, yes, rich in timber, a variety of fruits, bamboo, wildlife and rubber, all income producing. Squatters take care of the land, all in awe and subservient to Yakoob, the absolute master. At the bottom plateau of the land is a spectacular lake, ideal gateway from the throngs of people, pollution, traffic and commotion barely three miles away. The plantation is appraised at a cool US$65 million.

Talk of contrasts!

Click here for a few photos of my adventure.

Mullah Mchungu Rants

It seems Mullah Mchungu has had a turbulent childhood and adolescent. That upbringing, and the fact he is celebrating his seventy-eighth birthday today, has put him in an even grumpier mood than usual. He is in Sanford once more, on his biannual visit to see his only son and grandchildren, who he adores and daughter-in-law (DiL), whom he detests. The feeling, I bet, is mutual.

He comes calling home one crisp bright Florida day and immediately bellyaches about his DiL, even before he limps on his danda to my back porch.

That woman, he grumbles irritably, will give nobody any peace. Can you imagine, she would not drop me here earlier because she had to catch up on missed episodes of those ghastly serials due to Muharram. She gets up at ten, watches those accursed dramas and then does nothing all day long. Spoilt my birthday. Not that I have much to celebrate at seventy-eight. DiLs these days, Kisukaali, are a pain in the rear; spoilt, lazy and a ticking time bomb for their kids. Guess what, the idiot had her entire home painted with a cleanable coat that they simply wipe off when their kids write on them. Can you imagine? Instead of training the kids what is right and wrong, they pay two grand extra to have this paint finish. Looney, nai? I wonder what do they do when visiting other peoples homes.

I keep my trap firmly shut; there is no way I am going to comment on his family affairs. I make sure he is comfortable in an easy chair, make him tea the way he likes it, karaak, serve him some khari maani and I can see he is less edgy now. He has another cuppa tea and predictably lights up a stinky Indian beedi, clouding up my porch with smoke; I join him with my own rollup and we both sit in silence, enjoying the weather only Florida can offer in winter and take pleasure in destroying our lungs.

The Mullah is a mean, ill-tempered crabby old character, very set in his old-world paradigms and intolerant towards anyone who does not share his mostly controversial opinions. So why do I give him a share of my valuable time? Well, he is my elder for one and lifelong guidance from my parents has ingrained respect for elders. Moreover, I know I will be his age one day, if Allah grants me the privilege, so my juniors will hopefully grace with the same respect and courtesy? More importantly, the Mullah frequently, without malice, speaks his mind, and I kind of like that trait in people. His insight into harsh realities of life, whether I like it or not, stimulates my thought process and I begin thinking out of a box, so to speak. After I calm down, that is. Today is no exception, for he finishes his beedi, hacks like a gasping fish out of water, spits into my lawn, recovers and begins his tirade.

Hey Kisukaali, what’s with that peculiar smell at HIC? Smells like a horse’s ass in there as soon as I enter the place.

I immediately want to quip if he has ever been that close to the animal’s ass but control my tongue. The guy carries a hefty danda and is known to have occasionally used it detrimentally on humans.

Oh, I say casually instead, the carpets were waterlogged recently and management will change them for new ones once the comprehensive repair process is complete.

Ahem, you can get hemorrhoids breathing that air...

Again, I stay non-committal.

Tell me, what do you make of the Zaakirs who come and recite at HIC, especially in Muharram?

I startle visibly, and the Mullah allows himself a mirthless sneer.

They are okay, I guess, I say cautiously. They come for a purpose, for us to honor the memory of Imam Hussein (A) and to pay our respects to the holy progeny of the Prophet (S), for us to renew and strengthen our love...

I don’t think so, the Mullah cuts me off, flailing and flicking a hand in contemptuous dismissal.

So I shut up and regard him warily, hoping this is not going to be one of the long drawn lectures he is prone to give me.

I’ll tell you what they want us to do. They all want to stop us from using our Allah given brains, for us not to think. Perhaps not intentionally, but they do it nevertheless, they are a part of a group that consider themselves holier than thou. They think they are the only ones who love and honor the Ahlebeyt (A) and we are all pieces of yesterday’s kaka.

When I open my mouth to protest this accusation, the Mullah places a finger on his lips and gestures me to shush; I bristle.

Let me speak, young man, he says. You may learn a thing or two from this old fart.

Well, he just called me young and himself an old fart, so I recon we are even for being rude, so I do.

Let me prove my point; ninety-nine present of the Zaakirs do the following. Mullah holds up a finger. One. Defend Imam Ali (A), as if the Imam (A) needs defending. Another finger joins the first. Two. Lambast the Sunnis, make mockery of them or goad them with taunts. Have you read or heard of any of our Imams (S) ever doing that, Kisukaali? Two fingers become three. Criticize other Zaakirs or us for questioning cultural Azaadari practices. Now, we can discuss this topic until I turn blue from death.    

Why are they so defensive when it comes to the holy Imam (A)? Why defend? Why preach to the choir? I do not care an ant’s stinking ass what a Sunni or Christian or Jew or an atheist says about my Imam (A), good or bad. It suffices my belief that Imam Ali (A) is an Imam immediately after the Prophet (S), appointed through a divine order. Period. No ifs or buts about it. For heavens sake, Kisukaali, use your goddamn brains. If these Zaakirs constantly feel the need to come to the defense of Imam Ali (A)’s legitimacy, they are a sorry lot and I question their conviction about Imam Ali (A). It is only the guilty that feel a need to defend themselves. Constantly.

I stare at the old mam in astonishment. There are a lot of rebuttals that come to mind instantly but I keep mum.

As for taunting the Sunni’s and taking pleasure in badmouthing their Imam’s these Zaakirs are aces. Needless to say, they have given us Shias much pain and grief. Nothing more to say. As for Azaadari, Imam Hussein (A) is much more, much, much more than beating our chests, whipping with knives and slitting children’s foreheads; all barbaric, I say. The Imam (A) stood and died for truth and justice. Period. None of our Imams (A) beat themselves, used knives or hurt children as young as two weeks, like they do in India. Or Iraq, or whatever country that practice these rituals. These Zaakirs, some Uleemas also, say these acts are highly recommended, an act of sublime worship of Allah. Strangely, I never see them whip or cut themselves silly, ever. If it is highly recommended, why don’t you see them do it? Eh? They recite the majlis, come out, drink tea and you see them smoking in the baraaza. Bah! They should teach us to be good humans first, not to cheat, not even the government, not backbite, be charitable to all Allah’s creatures, never stand of injustice, help the oppressed. That is what Imam Hussein (A) lived and gave his life for.

Boy, these are serious statements. These words can bring about a death sentence. I tighten my lips even firmer. Then the Mulla’s facial expression relaxes and his tone changes considerably, becoming soft, earnest; it feels like he is almost pleading.

Don’t you see Kisukaali, maatam, or beating of our chest, is a symbol of our grief, in a gesture of pain for a loss. We can only do this when we are on sure footings, after we have truly strived and understood the Imam’s mission. Then, even one strike to the chest is enough for our redemption. This is what the Imam wants. What we do is purely cultural and culture has no place in Islam. We blindly follow what we found our forefathers did. The Quraan has a brilliant answer to Prophet Ibrahim (S) father when he used the exact same argument about worshipping idols.

The Mullah’s majlis goes on for a good hour but I have tuned him off. My life is precious.  

How Ameera Won Her Wars

Once upon a time, some twenty-three years ago, in a place called Bombay (then), in a squalor camp outside the city called Govendhi, in a tiny shack consisting of a single room made of corrugated tin sheets for walls and roof, a frail girl child was born to a middle aged couple; let us call them Soogra and Aslam Hussein; this was their seventh child. Soogra struggled through labor with the help of a local dai, grunting in pain while silently cursing Aslam for making this happen again while he sat outside the hovel, smoking beedi after beedi, cursing his luck and trying to contain the other six kids, all boys, all rowdy and adventurous, from meandering off into the narrow alleys of the shantytown, least one of them fell into the many stinking open sewers or worse, get stolen into slavery of begging.

When the wry dai emerged from the hovel to inform Aslam of the birth and asked him to go purchase some necessary herbal medication and some strong thick barley soup for his weak wife, Aslam scowled at her. What did she think he was made of, rupees? The list of medication was lengthy and in whose care was he supposed to leave the six little rascals? So he begged a neighbor friend for the money and sent him off for the chores.

The baby was named Ameera the next day, after an actress from a Pakistani drama serial that Aslam had an open crush on, much to the consternation of Soogra, who detested watching such dramas. Not only was the glamour and attire the actresses wore unattainable for her, even if only to interest her husband’s meandering eyes, she barely had time to visit the loo trying to cope with her litter of kids. More importantly, being a very devout Muslima, Soogra considered the watching of such serials as haraam. Indeed, did not Maulaana Sadiq Hassan decree it recently so on WIN TV? So she quietly tolerated her husband’s admirations of Ameera on TV with indulgence and forbearance. When Aslam informed her of his decision to name the infant Ameera, she flipped and there was a shouting match that she predictably lost, as the name was officially registered the next day. Soogra never called the child Ameera however; she stuck to her choice of Zainab. So the perplexed child responded to both names, depending on who was calling her.

Ameera, or Zainab, had to constantly battle through her infancy, childhood and teenage years. She was born weak, being the seventh; Soogra kindly teased her that the preceding six greedy boys had used up all her nutrients; there was not much left for her daughter. But Ameera took that jest seriously and fought back. Since Aslam was a lowly plumber earning just enough to get by and pay the hefty interest on long-term loans he had taken over the years to sustain an untenable brood, resources at home were scarce and it was survival of the fittest. Even though Soogra shielded her only daughter from the onslaught of her son’s selfish assaults on available resources, Ameera had to battle for her share. 

Ameera shook off chronic infancy ailments, outdid others in elementary school, even though she had only one school uniform that she washed and ironed every Sunday, even though she had to wear her brother’s faded shoes at the expense of unkind and cutting mirth from classmates, even though she had to do her homework assignments with the aid of a lantern every night, even though she had to beg or borrow from the library pricey books Aslam could not provide, even though, being a girl, cooking and cleaning rested on her shoulders by default, even though both her parents frowned upon her going to high school and were adamant against her going to college at age sixteen, insisting on an early marriage as soon as an inexpensive suitor was miraculously found.  

When Ameera rebelled at that command, there was much disquiet in the house, with daily conflicts and recriminations. It was impossible for the nine of them, now all grown up, to live together in one room. Things got a little better when the two eldest sons married and left home to begin their own families, but seven adults in one bedroom hovel was torture, especially for Ameera, who had her own special teenage girl issues to deal with.

With excellent grades from high school, Ameera was instantly offered admission to a premiere college in the city; if she could afford it. When she was told the amount, at the amazement of the college counselor, Ameera burst out laughing. Mirth that eventually turned into hot tears of frustration and despair. She would not ask her parents, of course. She tried her eldest brother, now working in Dubai, earning a respectable income; he laughed her off and told Ameera to see reason and get married. She did, Ameera almost did. She decided to throw in the towel, get married, hoping the husband she found was an educated and understanding man who would let her continue her education after marriage.

Strangely, all risteys that came along stalled and retreated as soon as Ammera’s education background was disclosed; the prospective suitors bolted. Everybody at home was unanimous in reprimand: we told you so. At wits end, Ameera, through a colleague, came to know about Comfort Aid International and applied for a grant. CAI arranged a scholarship / loan package for Ameera to complete her college and this is how Ameera won her wars.

Ameera is now a qualified dentist and works at a reputable hospital in Mumbai. She has repaid the loans taken from CAI. She met her future husband during internship and is now married, planning to start a family soon. Insha’Allah.

The events in this Blog are fact, of course, but the settings and environment is my imagination. All names are fictitious.