Same Old, Same Old

The baraaza area outside HIC in Sanford wears a forlorn look, the cold and wind making it uncomfortable to socialize. Usually it is busy with people chatting, smoking or smacking lips (or spitting) with Mehboob’s paans; the rising smoke from beedis, cigarettes (regular and the modern E) reminding me of choma kuku dhabas around the Khoja mosque in Dar es Salaam. I have to satisfy my nicotine itch before I venture in so I light up, all lonely.

At one corner of the center, I notice a teenager, huddled shivering inside a parka, smoking away. We make eye contact and he waves a salaam my way; I reciprocate. He ambles over after a while and stands by me. I smile in camaraderie, since we have both poisoned our lungs and polluted the air.

‘Are you Yusuf Uncle? The Kisukaali guy?’

Surprised, I nod, hiding my ire for being called ‘uncle’; a title that gives me (severe) allergies. We chat for a while. I have seen him around sometimes but do not know who he is. I am about to enter and welcome him in but he refuses.

‘No Uncle, all that does not interest me, same old, same old.’

Intrigued, I pause and look at him sharply.

‘Aw, come on, we’ll still learn something and get some thawaab.’

The guy snorts contempt and then laughs.

‘No Uncle, I’ll fall asleep, like the rest of you, except you’ll have your eyes wide open, glass-eyed and I’ll probably start snoring. There is nothing I will learn that I have not heard before. It’s all like a broken record...’

Now I become a little more irate.

‘That’s not a nice thing to say, young man. It is a majlis in memory of our Aimaas, yes? Isn’t that plenty reason to sit and listen?’

The young man lowers his gaze and shakes his head.

‘Sorry, Uncle, I don’t mean to be mean or disrespectful. I am here because Dad feels bad if I don’t accompany him. But I feel very estranged in there; almost all of us are far removed from what is said in there. Sorry.’

Now I am even more intrigued, so I play hooky as well and chat with this young man, about the same age as my own son. So we light up again and he opens up to me. I feel he wants to shed some load off his shoulders, so I encourage him to speak. This, he does.

‘You see Uncle...’

I stop him and ask him to call me Yusufali instead of Uncle. He looks confused for a moment but then smiles.

‘You are all right, you know Unc... sorry, Yusufali?’

I nod and smile encouragement, so he continues.

‘Do you see boys my age in there? Maybe one or two, no more. Even the good boys,’ he gestures quotation marks with his fingers, ‘they are out, helping make tea or cleaning up. You know why?’

I say nothing, wait for him to continue.

‘Because they have no connection with what is being said in there. I attended all the lectures when I was younger, my dad forced me to. But then I rebelled, when I realized all that is being said is repeat. Really, Uncle! Oh, sorry, so sorry. I am made to feel guilty for being a Shia. We always seem to be on the defensive, trying to prove our beliefs against Sunni accusations, over and over and over. It is non-ending! Abu Bakr did this; Ommer did this or that, the Fadak fiasco... There is not one Shia who disputes the facts regarding the atrocities meted out on the Aimaas. Not one. All these are facts that we have accepted. We grieve for them, we hurt for them. Fine. Why the need to prove it over and over again? I can understand it being related to us once, twice, thrice; but every lecture?’

For someone so young, I am struck with the depth of grasp he has on the complexity of subject matter.

‘You know what my mind thinks about? Perhaps I am different. I think about ISIS and their atrocities to humans in the name of Islam. I worry about my future in this country because of these animals. The general public does not discriminate between the terrorists and us. The tag of Muslim is like an enigma, a real problem. Especially in my potential employment when I graduate. With all that is going on, you think a Muslim stands a chance against other competitors? I worry about my mother and sisters wearing hijab in a public place. You think us harping about the Sunni Shia divide will help us in this bread and butter issue?’

It is getting quite cold out here; the majlis in well underway inside, but this kid has me captivated.

‘You know what my friends are up to? You’d be surprised, shocked, even. They are more worried about Madonna falling off the stage. They are interested in girls, how to win over easy college girls, or boys.’ He must have seen me flinch, for he nods energetically and continues. ‘Yes! Boys! They drink beer on weekends and some even do drugs, disguised in sheeshas. Tell me Yusufali Uncle, you think the subject matter discussed in the lectures inside,’ he jabs a thumb towards the centers wall, ‘will interest or hold them? Guide, correct or reform them? If we people are supposed to lead this community after you guys are gone, I despair.’

Jeez. This guy is a shaana, talking about me kicking the bucket already. The kid has some pluck.

‘I am not trying to say all that is being said is not true, sure it is. But it is a broken record; way overdone for sure. We are not going to achieve diddly-squat by making the same issues our theme song. If we must do it, let's not do it in front of the choir. If we feel brave enough, let's take it to the battlefield. But we want to do it in the safety of our mimbers. Surely Sir, Islam, our beloved religion, is much, much, more than this?’

Huh. I do my hujjat to the kid, advising him that history shapes the future, it’s important. I try and explain that zaakirs have limitations, they do their best, research and prepare and do us a huge favor by coming and giving the lectures. If nothing else, we should respect them for this effort and sit through the lectures. The least we will accomplish is thawaab for the reverence we pay to our Aaimaas.

But I can see the kid is not convinced and people are coming out with steaming cups of tea and kabaabs. They come out and start complaining about the cold and the wind. I head inside for some warmth and tea and kabaab.

Note: I am certain some zaakirs reading this Blog will take offence, so I sincerely offer my apologies. My aim is not malicious; Allah is a witness to this fact. The kid might be off track somewhat, but his thinking should resonate with anybody willing to think outside the box. And surely Allah knows best.

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.