MUSINGS

Musings of the Heart

With more time on my hands, I often find myself reminiscing. There is a bitter-sweet pleasure in looking back and picking up the threads from the days when life was a  "Milky Way" and the entire universe looked like a 'Galaxy'. One of my favourite memories is the time when I arrived in Lahore for further education and the wonder (coupled with bewilderment) I felt at every new experience, as days went by. Following is an account of my early days in Lahore, and the newly awakening love I felt for the place.

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I cannot say that it was love at first sight.

It just grew upon me-like a rose-bush that would creep and crawl , slowly and steadily, leaning  against your garden wall – and suddenly one day you would be engulfed in the sweet scents without even realizing its coming through that back door you cross  each day without a glance towards the surroundings. You would follow the whiff-and there it would be – a fiery blaze of red, swaying gently in the breeze, beckoning to you, dazzling you, curling its way into the deep recesses of your heart, its fragrance nestling warmly in the intricate maze of your mind.

And so the love of the city grew- bit by bit, day by day.  

Looking back at those early days in Lahore, I can almost relive the moments when initially, I used to cringe at every foul smell, jerk at every fire-cracker thrown at my feet   (well, almost) as I picked my way back to the college hostel after a tiring tour into the cramped bazaars for my weekly shopping, and burst into tears at the mere sight of a lizard strolling around, the biggest beneficiary of democracy in the country.

I look back now and I smile.

Those days soon swept into oblivion. And were replaced by the more pleasant era of happy, care-free days of  youth, long walks in the garden, mingled with choruses of  sing-song voices after the daily ritual of dreary drab dinners in the hostel mess, and rounds of coffee back in our rooms, which always followed the same pattern…locking the door, sneaking out the electric heater, putting on water to boil in a stained yellow saucepan, the rigorous beating of coffee and sugar in the huge porcelain mugs and finally… the heavenly aroma penetrating the air in the small, cosy room filled with a dozen or so home-sick girls gathered to find solace in each others’ company.

The city itself unfolded a new wonder each day. I slowly began to associate with the typical characteristics of Lahore and its dwellers. The tinkling bell of the milkman’s bicycle each morning signalled the time to lock my room and hurry to my first class of the day. The ‘masi’ hovering around in my room, would give me subtle hints about this poor boy who had to pay his fee today or would be expelled from school, and that poor girl who was trying in vain to collect enough money to buy medicine for her little baby    (the first boy after five girls and so even the more precious). And I would quietly slip a red note in her palm after which she would leave, beaming affectionately at me. I began to love the morning smells and sounds : the dust in the air, the fresh dew on the college lawns, the monotonously consistent rattle of the auto-rikshas, the ecstatic belching and mooing of the cows being herded across the busiest roads of the city on top priority, the blaring horns , the roads giving off heat as they snaked across the length and breadth of the city, and thousands of people milling around at all hours of the day, each with a different story to tell, a different burden to carry.

My love for the city was infectious and it spread to my life veins permanently. I was destined by fate to marry a staunch Lahoriite  and settle down in the city of my dreams permanently.

The romance continues. 


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THE VEIL WAIL

The nation is still reverberating  with outrage and insult at the (un)ceremonious exit of one Raymond Davis and the plight of (its daughter) Aafia Siddiqui and has hardly had time to come up for a breather when it has been hit with the French ban on the Muslim veil too. There is such an uproar in all circles in all possible manner that it seems as if the entire nation has been stripped in public and is left with no option but to squeal.  Being Muslims, the veil and all that it implies is indeed sacred to us, (even though much evidence of it is only seen on the newsreel and anyone foreign to the country can have no hope of understanding the true identity of a Muslim woman). But being Muslims we also need to go back into history and study very clearly defined paths that we are expected to take in an event exactly such as this. Let us not forget that France is an independent and non-Islamic country and follows its own law. All Muslims, regardless of nationality that migrate to the country for permanent residence or in any other capacity choose to become by law the citizens of France and, therefore, its subjects.

What message does Islam give to subjects of a country in regard to ‘obedience to the state’? 

God states in the Qur’an: ‘O ye who believe! Obey Allah, and obeyHis Messenger and those who are in authority over you. And if you differ in anything among yourselves, refer it to Allah and His Messenger if you are believers in Allah and the Last Day. That is best and most commendable in the end’. (4:60).

Today we feel justified to wage a verbal war and even go to the extent of violent protests against the state at the drop of a hat.  The issue at hand - wearing the veil, covering the face, in a foreign land, is actually a non-issue. For those who have not had the privilege of reading the Quran or knowing its translation, the modern version should suffice: ‘When in Rome, do what the Romans do. (this does not mean one has to (un)dress like them entirely, though anyone  eager to use this as an excuse is welcome to it).This simply means you follow the rules of the place you are living in. And it is but an echo of our own supreme teachings of the Holy Prophet (pbuh) and the Holy Quran.

Within our own Muslim community we have such diverse examples that it is almost impossible to present a unified picture to the western world which may help them to determine a more conciliatory approach towards our attire or make allowances. We are basically a confused society. We have still not drawn specific borders to outline our demeanour to the rest of the world. We are both veiled and unveiled, we are hidden and revealed, we are conspicuous and obscure. I am certain there will be no dearth of these very traits on exhibition by Muslim women in France and other Western countries. Who will decide what is best for which school of thought?  Thus the only resolution is to decide what is best for a country. How should people with different beliefs react is clearly stated above.

The Holy Prophet (peace and blessings of Allah be on him) said; ‘After me you will see injustice, rights suppressed and others given preference over you. You will see matters that you will disapprove of’. When asked what was the commandment in such circumstances, the Prophet (peace and blessings of Allah be on him) replied, ‘pay their [leaders’] rights to them and ask God for your rights.’ The Holy Prophet (peace and blessings of Allah be on him) also said: ‘Whoever disapproves of something done by his ruler should be patient, for whoever disobeys the ruler even as little as the span of a hand will die a death of ignorance.’

It is amazing therefore to hear cries of discontent and anger at not being able to pursue one’s religious obligation, and to be so ignorant of another country’s religious obligation at the same time. True, it is a matter of disconcert for the entire Muslim world, not just Pakistan. But whereas women in other Muslim countries have an analogous appearance, we do not. The middle-east countries favour the black abaaya-clad women in a majority. Iran and Afghanistan also ensure that their female population is identifiable as a true follower of Islam in form. We prefer to follow the ‘moderate’ course. And we argue that we have the right to choose how we wish to present ourselves. Accepted. However, even the  Muslim world in general does not strictly adhere to the conventional ‘niqab’ which allows to reveal the eyes only. We have a wide range of treatment meted out to the hijab, which sometimes is only limited to covering the head, sometimes woven around like a cocoon and sometimes simply left dangling above the shoulders. How then can we imagine we can influence the right of another country and another religion altogether and force our views upon them? Why can we not be conscientious enough and generous enough to allow them their code of dressing in their own land? It might not be too far-fetched to twist the adage a bit and say “reforms begin at home”. 70% of the country’s population lives in rural areas and its women do not use the veil as it interferes in their daily chores. I have yet to hear the voice of Islam demanding that they do so. The urban woman does not hide behind a veil either (except for a small minority). But all of us combine to assert that the Muslim woman living in France should be allowed to do so despite State orders, rather, the state should not be allowed to practice its rights either, since it does not suit us Muslims. How ignorant and intolerant can one be?

In another example of intolerance we see that the Christian community in the North of Brussels, Belgium, went so far as to erecting a cross and burying a swine head on land that was being used for the construction of a mosque. How far can this hate-wave go? And what consequences will such fanaticism bring?

We need to stop and think.

The interior minister of France insists that “…the ban would be enforced, in the name of ‘secularism and equality’ between men and women . . . two principles upon which we cannot compromise."

"The police and the gendarmerie are there to apply the law and they will apply the law."

In the same instance, two Muslim women appeared in public wearing veils in retaliation to the law and were arrested. To what purpose? If we are religious enough to insist on wearing a veil in a foreign land in violation of a rule, we should be religious enough to know what God ordains in such a situation: : ‘…and Allah loves not disorder.’ (2:206)


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TO COURT OR NOT TO COURT

I happened to visit a local court today.

The story should have ended here. But how would I then satisfy my penchant ?  So it has to be told.

Well, then, I visited a local court today. It had been one of my life-long ambitions to see the inside of a courtroom. My son too was eager to find out what reality looked like, away from the movie sets he had had occasion to see up to now.

We drove through the crowded roads and a maze of winding twining narrow lanes in the heart of the city to arrive at the gates of the ‘Civil Court’.  It turned out to be an almost dilapidated building stretched over two blocks of patched cement and peeling paint joined by a narrow overhead bridge. We stood beneath the bridge, squinting in all directions to find a way in, and up to the third storey where we were expected to see the honourable civil judge. We were given a long, complicated plan to walk right round the two blocks, and emerge at the so-called front gate which we had failed to notice at first glance behind the dizzying throng of people, and, after panting across the entire distance we found ourselves standing beside the same black gate we had started from. Three flights of stairs waited mockingly just behind the red brick pillar we had been leaning against.

Gasping for breath, I stumbled into a small room and flopped on the first chair I could find. Across me three pairs of beady eyes watched on with dull interest. My son was extremely anxious to locate the honourable judge and so we looked around us with renewed energy to spot someone who resembled him. An almost emaciated, dhoti- clad person sat on a broken chair with a couldn’t- care- less attitude, yawning at all and sundry with an appreciable level of boredom. In front of him was a semi-circular table, and beyond that a high desk. Pushed away from it sat a high chair, sheathed in green with a distinct intricate designing in gold at the back that indicated the ownership of someone in high office. Upon asking if the chair belonged to the honourable judge, he nodded with great difficulty and went back to his dreams. I did not have the heart to torture him further by asking where this distinguished person resided at the moment.

With unlimited time on hands (my lawyer said he would be around in 5 minutes) I started contemplating the atmosphere. Those three pairs of beady eyes belonged to two men and a lady, all hanging to dear life on their last breath, or so it seemed, holding greasy files overflowing with yellowed papers, talking to each other in hoarse whispers. The cemented floor around my feet was coated with layers of dust, and on a table in one corner, a huge pile of dog eared books and papers rustled under the creaking fan. The windows were bare of blinds and two gaping squares stood wide open just next to the split ac on one of the walls. Good preparation for load-shedding, I thought. But would they be having it at all? Around me people came and went. The high, carved chair, made for a king, remained empty.

Forty-five minutes later, an extremely flustered middle-aged man hurried into the room, scanned the faces and walked up to me with a nervous grin. He was my lawyer. (At least the 5 minutes part was a good guess.) Accompanying him were two sombre looking young ladies holding files and other paraphernalia that hinted on their being lawyers too. The judge, he said was crammed with hundreds of cases and was too busy to attend to mine just today. He had granted him special permission to record my statement in the presence of the ‘commission’, (the two young ladies) and would be very graciously awarding me another date to appear before the court in a month’s time.I looked at my dusty, aching feet , thought of the three flights of stairs I had puffed my way up, and signed the papers thankfully. At least I was getting another chance. Those three beady eyed people were here for the sixth time, I was told.

There was a burst of laughter as I rose to leave. My son, driven by curiosity, peeped through the open door of a small adjoining room and found four people comfortably seated on cushioned chairs around one person of seemingly higher rank, on a higher chair. The dozing man beside the circular table raised his head and mumbled that the judge was holding conference in the next room and ought not to be disturbed. The judge? My attention was riveted. I too had never seen a real judge and what better opportunity than this to see a real judge in conference? I moved hastily towards the room and barely had had the chance to peek at the men laughing uproariously, the table laden with tea and delicacies and the ‘judge’ lounging in his chair with his booted feet on the table, that the door was slammed shut , missing my intruding nose by a few centimeters.

‘Why did they have to shut the door like that?’ my son asked, 'we just wanted to see the judge.'

I trudged back with a heavy heart. 
Isn't this the dilemma of the whole nation? Doors are being shut on us by the very people who were selected to open them for us.

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SOULMATE to CELLMATE

 

She was sunk in the sofa, diminutive, shrunken. The once sharp eyes were dim with age, the flawless skin slightly crinkled, the forehead lined, the back bent. But the smile was still in place. It was that same worldly-wise smile I had last seen twenty-seven years ago and her quizzical look seemed to challenge me even now. I remembered so vividly, the days when I used to stand in her presence with awe and admiration. In my eyes she could do no wrong.

She was our next door neighbour , in another time, in another world. I grew up following her footsteps . To me she was the fairy godmother that had changed Cindrella’s life. I believed she could change mine too. And she did. In a background of fanatical moral and social restrictions, my soul was a caged bird that she let free with her careful manoeuvering . She had great influence over my parents and so she managed to convince them to send me away for higher studies, a gigantic leap in their secluded world, strictly guarded and monitored by the so-called head of the family-my uncle. And so I escaped and went in search of my own nirvana.

Decades later I chanced upon her daughter and all those memories came flooding back. I couldn’t wait to meet her. But, I would have to follow the same ritual that she had exercised all her life. I would have to wait till she was ready to receive me. Her daughter rang fifteen days later to say that Mummy would be happy to see me the next week.  And so I found myself in her presence once more, with ecstatic pleasure mingled with awe .She had the same regal presence, her dyed black hair tied into a neat bun at the nape of her neck -not a single strand out of place, and her entire family quietly, respectfully assembled around her. An hour passed in emotional highs and lows, quiet reminisces and hearty laughter as we recalled several incidents of my childhood and peered at black and white photographs of those days together. I saw her glancing at her watch discreetly and knew my time was up. As we walked out of the vast drawing-room she offered to show me her room.

Feeling as if a knighthood had been bestowed upon me, I followed her to the entrance of a side-door and stood still in open-mouthed amazement. It was not one room, but two large rooms joined together on one side. Let me explain. The middle wall that would normally have served to separate two rooms, was broken halfway so that one side made a long oblong hall. On the other side was a half-wall and two single beds could be seen set in opposite directions with their headstands against the wall on both sides.Her bed lay on one side, shielded by the wall, and her husband’s bed lay on the other side, partly hidden from view. The rest of the space was furnished beautifully with lush settees, low coffee tables, a television set, a mini library  and a rocking chair by a  fire-place. It was almost ethereal. I turned to look at her, and she smiled happily. Yes, she declared proudly. Everybody  is surprised by her unconventional architecture..

“But,” she said, “At my age, you want to have peace. You need to have your freedom, and your own time to sleep. This way, we both have each other’s company and our solitude too. If  ever I need him, I know he is just a call away. And it’s the same for him. But we don’t cause inconvenience for each other. Your uncle wants to sleep early. I like to read late into the night, so I can switch on my table-lamp and read at will. Your Uncle does not like the fan on, and I cannot sleep without it. This way we both do what we want and have our peace. We have had such a good life, why make it difficult for each other now?”

Her words reverberated  in my mind long after I reached home. What a practical approach to healthy living. What a realistic attitude.  I thought of those numerous times when I’d had to leave the warmth of my blanket to come and sit so uncomfortably  in the silent, cold living room at nights, just because I couldn’t sleep. I would have loved to snuggle in my bed with a book for company, but my husband had to sleep -- in pitch darkness. My husband snored and I talked in my sleep ( that too in English!). Most mornings saw us stagger out of the room, grouchy and grumpy because one or the other had disturbed our sleep in some way. But we were soul-mates. We just had to be together. Even if we ended the day on a quarrel sometimes, we would make sure we were found together in our room in the morning when the maid arrived. Or she would whisper across the entire neighbourhood , “ SSsssh. Mr. and Mrs. so and so were sleeping in separate rooms yesterday!” And that echo would make the rounds of clubs and dining halls long before the night was out. What an embarrassment that would be.

My question is: Why? Why would that be an embarrassment?

Why do almost all societies and communities follow that husband and wife have to share a room till their last breath?  That they may  well haw and hammer at each other , despise the other’s presence, long for freedom of action, yet be forced to stay in one room and live like cell-mates rather than soul-mates. Why can we not enjoy each other’s company and be free to enjoy our own time too? Yes, husband and wife may be soulmates, but they are individuals too, who need their own breathing space. Why can they not live as such?

What would 'you' choose for yourself?        
Soul-mate? Or... A Cell ?   

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SOS

There are voices all around the place. Muffled sounds, excited whispers, soothing murmurs, low monotones, children’s shrieks, gruff reprimands, happy laughter, joyous welcomes, tearful goodbyes.

The fragrances still hang in the air. Peace, love, the aroma of cooking, the scent of jasmine, the dampness of walls, whiff of Aerial from freshly laundered clothes , the Friday perfume , the sweetness of prayers.

She stands amidst echoes of bygone days. Was it only yesterday?  She had stepped into the house, gingerly, looking around for the familiar face. It was right there. She was quickly engulfed in the warm embrace, in those protective arms, and her world was safe. Her haven was untouched, unharmed, timeless. Her forehead still bore the mark of a gentle kiss, her hair still smooth with the touch of a soft, caressing hand. The dying flames of her broken spirit rekindled, and her eyes lit up with that angelic smile. Her existence revolved around that heavenly being; her universe.

Sounds float up from her subconscious. Another argument. Another  tussle. ‘You have not eaten again!’ ‘You have not changed your clothes?’ ‘Why didn’t you scold the maid. Look what she’s done!’ ‘Don’t open the door to strangers.’ Don’t walk all the way to the market!’ ‘Now… you just sit down here, and do as l tell you. You have no regard for yourself !’ Another win. He had always let her win.

The scene  changes. ‘How’s my dear daughter today?’ He is holding her face in his soft hands, peering at her closely. ‘You look tired. Sit down, I’ll get you a drink.’ ‘No, don’t get up. Put your feet on this table - here. You never take care of yourself.’ He is busy skimming the papers. ‘I found a very good piece on how to improve your health with vegetables. Here, you sit and read this. The boys will do whatever is to be done.’ Then he turns to the boys. ‘Take care of your mother, boys. There’s no one who needs it more. Parents don’t remain forever. Value them.’ And he shuffles to the kitchen. She follows him. Another squabble. She wins again.

Now he is seated at the table. And she is putting away pots and pans the maid has left strewn around. The tea is ready. ‘Now we’ll both sit and chat.’ She announces. He smiles happily. ‘The cake is delicious.’ She beams at him. ‘I knew you liked this flavor. And did you have the peanut pastry?’ ‘Oh yes, first thing.’ ‘ aur ye meri beti ka hissa.’ He is so content. He wants nothing more.

The silence is overbearing. Dust lies on window sills. It coats the floors, the walls, the mind. It rises in the stifled air and settles down ever so silently upon the stifled heart. The smell of parting is pungent. It envelops the empty rooms, the deserted clock on the wall, the calendar marked with birthdays of loved ones, the electric motor that still awaits the skilfull hand to splutter it to life, the gas lamps so painstakingly installed once, the radio rack, now devoid of both radio and sound. The telephone bell hangs desolately from the wall. ‘I can hear the sound when my dear children ring from far away’ The wires are cut. Life snatched. The dried, gnarled branches of plants look on – blindly. The gate remains closed.

She sits outside in her car, watching. Waiting. ‘ Dad, please go inside na, why do you stand at the door? Its not safe.’ ‘ Achha betay.’ He mumbles, but stays. Quietly reciting verses. ‘ mein apne bachhon ke liye dua parrhkar dumm karta hoon ke Allah unhein  apni amaan mei rakkhe. Khair se ghar wapas le jaaey.’  There is no shadow in the gate today. No prayers in the air. No arm waves. Dusk settles  into darkness. Into her life.

The house is sold.

It was an SOS call. Sold Our Souls.

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History.

After my dear father’s demise, we sold the house and sent all his furniture to a relative’s home. I visited them for the first time after 3 years, saw some of the familiar things ... and this story poured out...

It stood in a corner against the wall. As I approached, a thought struck me. What a beautiful colour. The rich brown self-print of the upholstery appealed to my senses immediately. From nowhere, a little boy scampered across my vision and jumped onto it. A scream froze in my throat. “STOP!” “ Don’t climb on it with your  shoes on! It’s my....”  But the words drowned somewhere deep in my subconscious. And I moved on.

It was a hot June day. The scorching heat had left everyone panting for breath. The stifled room was over-filled. Faces stared at me as I passed by. Several mute looks followed me into the next room, as I searched for someone familiar. Trying to sidestep the jostling around me I tripped over something and held on tightly to a square wooden table. Something familiar. The bare surface was etched with marks, scribbling  and  lines spiralling in all directions. I looked down at the offending rag beneath my feet and drew in my breath. The dusty maroon and beige pattern looked up at me forlornly. The rich hues were buried under a mass of miscellaneous objects on both sides. I gazed hypnotized.  It hadn’t been so dull and listless all those years ago?

Then I saw her. My cousin. She beckoned to me to come and sit beside her. The rich brown upholstery of the chair mocked me again. She was seated on one. I sat on the other.  There was another one, tucked away in a corner. The four legs bent outwards on all sides, the thin rods at the back hanging loose, out of their joints. “Look at me.” It seemed to wail. “I miss my master.” My blurred sight spotted two more orphans. They seemed to have shrunk with age. Their shiny complexion had faded to a withered, battered, colourless tinge.

“Which  one?” My heart trembled, sobbed and became silent. “Which one was it?  The one with that tiny, plump seat tied with ribbons at its back? The one that had seated its master so  proudly for years and years. The sacred one. Which one was it?” 

The room was filling up quickly. “Lets go to another place,” Fatima whispered in my ear. But where? Everywhere I looked , a sea of faces surrounded me. Then the frenzied sounds rose to a high pitch. The bride was coming.  “Make way, make way!” Urgent, fierce voices echoed through the room. Fatima ducked away, grasping my hand, and we hastened to clear the path. A door stood ajar on my left, and I sought shelter beyond it. It turned out to be the kitchen.  A row of gleaming pots and pans on a short, narrow counter met the eye at first glance. I ventured further, compelled by thirst.  Reaching out for a glass, I spotted a big blue box, half hidden behind a regiment of bottles. Its white lid was dusty, tightly shut - shutting out the world where a big  blue ice-box with a white lid, accompanied its owners , a small happy family, to the deserts of a middle-east country, its sea shores, its one and only small rocky mountain. The blue box was silent now. The lid seemed eternally closed. The stove. It was there too, sharing in the quiet solitude.  The tale-bearer of 30 years ... witness to thousands of sumptuous meals that regularly simmered upon its flames once, witness to its Mistress’s endless work , umpteen hours spent before the once shiny brown surface so lovingly, anticipating the family’s delight in eating them, the oven door continually opening and shutting as heavenly aromas of baked dishes wafted across the entire house...  looked alien now. Aloof. Uncaring.  “If you can forget me, I can too.” It seemed to sneer at me.

Fatima’s voice drifted over the humdrum to me. “Where are you?  Come quickly, the bride is leaving.”  All around me women pressed forward for that ‘one’ precious glimpse. Sighs of pleasure escaped many wide-eyed innocent maidens, whilst the sharp calculating eyes of the older ones tried to gauge the value of each piece of jewellery that bedecked the bride. Her large sad eyes stayed downcast. A tear rolled down her painted cheek. She was going to be estranged. Her own family was  disowning her. Sending her away. How could she tell them, make them understand? She would never be the same. She would wither, become battered, grow listless.

But the decision was made. She would have to go. Her sojourn in the house had come to an end.  “ Nobody asked me.” Her heart wailed.

“Nobody asked me.”  The chair, the rug, the blue box wailed.

‘Nobody asked me.”   The stove, the table, the glass- top trolley wailed.

“Do come again.” Fatima urged as she bade me goodbye.  

“Would I?” I wondered , as my tired eyes darted across the empty room.  Saturated, the horde of onlookers had left. Chairs were strewn around, furniture scattered, walls clothed in eerie silence.

The bride had left.

She was history.

And all else too.

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THE NINE WOES

I feel I MUST share with you these wonderful observations of Kahlil Jibran which force us to stop dead in our tracks and THINK.

Where as a nation do we stand in view of this description? Where are we heading? What are we planting and leaving behind for our successors?

THE NINE WOES 

• WOE to the nation that departs from religion to belief', from country lane to city lane, from wisdom to logic.
• WOE to the nation that does not weave what it wears, nor plant what it eats, nor press the wine that it drinks.
• WOE to the conquered nation that sees the victor's pomp as the perfection of virtue, and in whose eyes the ugliness of the conquerer is beauty.
• Woe to the nation that combats injury in its dream, but yields to the wrong in its wakefulness.
• WOE to the nation that does not raise its voice save in a funeral, that shows esteem only at the grave, that waits to rebel until its neck is under the edge of the sword.
• WOE to the nation whose politics is subtelty, whose philosophy is jugglery, whose industry is patching.
• Woe to the nation that greets a conquerer with fife and drum, then hisses him off to greet another conquerer with trumpet and song.
• WOE to the nation whose sage is voiceless,whose champion is blind, whose advocate is a prattler.
• WOE to the nation in which each tribe claims to be a nation.

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