I have moved. Long story.

banterandbattlefield.wordpress.com

I am in a dark place. A place where nothing makes sense. Where I try not to judge or be judged but fail and struggle every day. Where everything swims in the sea of confusion. Where I have lost my directions and I desperately need to go home because I can’t hold my pee any longer. Where rockstars are no longer my good muslims but just good people. I wish good muslims were good people too.

I just need hugs and kisses and chocolates. No flowers please. Thank *you* for hearing me out.

p.s. (the friends came, i baked a nice chocolate cake, drowned it in a buzzing chocolate sauce. smoked the water pipe in my bedroom. laughed and felt better about things. Allah always listens. thank you Allah thank you lovlies)

Facebook, will your wonders ever cease?

hi there hope u are fine and hope u remember me or not i dont kw i am really puzzaled rite now should i write you this message or not as i kw that u will not going to belive what am going to say rite now as i have no other way to contact u so i may tell u all that
the day whn i saw u at wedding ceremony I decided tht I have to find u and was in search of u. i knw u wont be able to belive it but i saw u there and i also try there as well to talk to u but I didn’t get chance you with ur family i think , its been a year to that wedding so may be u will not recall it … hmm u may say that after one year how come i found u so i been searching for u this whole year but unable to find u actully i look for u on msn then yahoo then orkut after that fb and on fb there were so many gals with ur name there were 500 search result i search one by one … hmm just to get the gal of my dearm
hmm khar btw i am salman ahmed. Lucky to see u again,
now i have told u all my feelings and stuff that i wanna to tell u since a year now its all up on u dear take it or leave it dont take it as a jok or a prank please as my feelings attached to you and i dont want to be hurt again
I kw its too odd bt but it all true
hmm am also giving u my num if u think u can trust me thn txt me as i dont use net much
03132038000 is my num
i’ll be waiting for ur replay take care

Thanks
Salman Ahmed

(This email was sent out to my sister and two of her friends. Shudder)

I wonder who I am?

• Am I the person who lingers over Faiz and Pamuk and Greene or the one who thinks about simple, soulful words uttered by everyday teachers?

• Am I the person who wants to think long and hard over slivers of dark chocolate, morsels of fruit in warm chocolate fondue or over a simple cup of saadi, strong chai, perhaps on thandi roti and achaar?

• Am I the person who loves her prayers, conventional religion and zikr or am I the one to have non-stop conversations with Allah, classifying them as dua’as?

• Am I the one to hope and look smoking hot, with perfect etched on my skin or am I the one who wants to embrace modesty, my hijab?

• Am I the one who sings in her head, loves her playlist and watches a movie once-in-a-while and has a good laugh/cry or am I the one who doesn’t think music is zaroori, who can go  for days without missing it and who loves her silences?

• Am I the one who runs in the park and loves the warmth spreading like a hearty tickle in my lungs or am I the one who is too lazy to lock the door at night?

• Am I the one who loves to do klutzy, free-style dance with friends and going to shaadis where I know or not know people or am I the one who sits in her room, or on the jhoola all alone or with a book, just day dreaming?

• Am I the one who likes fast life, juggles with work, family, friends, commitments, passions or am I the one who skips a day and spends it getting her hair pampered and feet painted?

• Am I the one who glows with Allah’s pleasure or am I the one who often forgets the truth in a breathless blurry moment?

There is poetic romance between the people of subcontinent and their summer rains. Monsoon brings with it abundant crop, anticipation, happiness and reunion. One monsoon season, right at the beginning before any meaningful drop splattered in my tiny courtyard I prayed under the sky. My eyes kept shifting from the sky to my roof that leaked. I didn’t have enough pots to put under every leak. And I wanted to wait for him, so he could fix the roof, create a makeshift shed for the goats and sing to our children. This would be the fifth monsoon without him. I was counting because my youngest daughter was five years old and he hadn’t seen her face. Noorma, my daughter had his eyes, bright and laughing. Whenever she ran to me with a question I would bury her in my chest. She would look at me, half flattered, half annoyed. She would know she’s my tiny princess, her siblings Samia and Amjad have both at least seen their father once.

We were married before the rains began. He was sixteen years older to me and barely said a word unless it was needed. I treasured each word he said. If he said water at three in the morning I would rush to clay pot, to get it for him. If it were upto me I would bathe and clothe and feed him with my own hands. Marriage makes a woman, a slave bound by love. Three months later he was gone to Rangoon. I was so filled with love and his child that at the end of each day I thanked God for a newer day, a new hope. I couldn’t write so he didn’t send me letters. I lived with my mother whose fingers shivered every time they mentioned Rangoon in the village. I didn’t know if he was alive. But I imagined him buying silks and perfumed oils for me. My friend Naima’s husband also worked in Rangoon and got her a blue shanghai silk saree’s dress material. I kept touching it and my eyes filled with tears. I waited for my man and silk.

Next time when he came he met his son Amjad, a healthy boy who was born to me while I was working in the orchard. I was tending to the mangoes when the pains began. I knew it was going to come but I wasn’t ready. There were a few women who calmed me while Naima cut the baby’s umbilical chord. She even softened the mango between her palms squeezed its juice and put a drop in my son’s mouth. Naima was more than a friend, a sister, whose heart was softer and sweeter than the mango she fed my son.

We, the village women, rarely address our husbands by their first names so I always called my husband, Sahab or Mister. It was a form of respect, he came when Amjad was two years old. I wanted to talk to him about the silks and colours of Rangoon. But he was miserly with his words. This time, I felt anger creeping in my fingers, my throat, my toes. I still gave him water when he asked at three in the morning, but my walk was languid. I was in no hurry to please him. Even at night. Amjad cried a lot at night, often without breaks. All I wanted to do was disentangle myself fromSahab’s embrace and rock my son to sleep. Sahab never even looked at Amjad, he claimed that he didn’t have the time.

This time he left me pregnant with little Samia, my body was reacting strangely to this pregnancy, I was only seventeen. My mother gave me raw pickled mangoes to suck upon. I still worked because the orchard had to be tended. Sometimes I crossed the river, swelling with the rain-water. On my way back, I would dip my dupatta in the riverbed, like a net. When I was lucky I caught small fish wriggling to be set free. I wanted to set them free but fish was the only thing that I could eat that summer without retching. At home, I would fry them over a large, flat frying pan. Sprinkle generous amounts of garlic, salt and red peppers. Drizzle them with clarified butter and eat till I felt full. Naima could always smell me cooking fish. She would then join me and we would talk about our dreams. She was angry at me for having another child so soon. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I had no say. Confessing it would make me feel powerless all over again.

This time my labour pains didn’t bother me too much. I was done in thirty minutes and was back working after nursing my tiny daughter. She looked liked no one. I knew from the moment she was born that she was a listener. She was content to be ordered around and that ripped out a part of me. I knew I just could not dote on her as much as I should. Slept peacefully at night. Never bothered me, suckled quietly and I felt contempt for my perfect child. At night I kept both my children close. I didn’t miss Sahab’s scent. I didn’t miss his warmth. His being was need-based. I began to save a little money. Buy pleasures like popcorn dipped in pickles and molasses to make seera. I fed mother with my earnings. I wanted Amjad and Samia to learn to read and write. Something which lacked in me and I was fundamentally aware of it. Sahab felt alienated because I was illiterate. I know I have a sharp mind, I could have learned but he didn’t have the time.

This time when he came he was limping. He had fought a war. He wouldn’t explain which and where. He was more needy and wanted to touch me often. I saw at his temples turning ashen and bald patches on his head. Skin under his eyes sagged and he looked like a tired man. He sought me that night and I gave myself to him completely because this was the first time I saw him vulnerable. I made my children sleep with mother. By morning he was back to his old self. Silent. Commanding even. I was angry with myself, so angry that I wanted to scream till my lungs burst and cry till I go blind. But what you wish for rarely comes true. There were the children, mangoes and food to be cooked. Same routine followed night after night till it stifled me. Then he went away. This time I only gave myself to him once yet I swelled like the river during the monsoon season. Something strange was happening to my body. I cooked khichri, rice with sweet cinnamon, flaming turmeric, curry leaf and onion seeds.It was soothing, lulled the children into a dreamless sleep. Sometimes I made for the children some gurchopri /molasses diamonds. I heated molasses and clarified butter, added raisins and ground ginger and almonds and cut diamond shapes.  Mostly I ended up polishing off the whole thaal. I was bigger than before. More tired. I snapped at the children when they as much as played. I honestly cried once after I had put the children to bed. Mother heard my muffled sounds and coughed so I wouldn’t bother her while she slept.

I gave birth to two children, one girl and one boy. I called my son Noor and daughter Noorma. Noor means light. That was what they were for me: hope and happiness. Then one night Noor had a fever so high, I was up all night dipping cloth strips in cold water, caressing his tiny forehead. My little baby boy, I did all I could, but by morning, when the maulvis were calling out adha’an, my son’s body lay limp in my arms. My neighbor Subhaan Sahab dug a hole in the orchard, under the comforting, shady mango tree and my son was buried. I didn’t have the time to remember his features. Amjad lost his brother. I lost my son. My husband hadn’t even seen him.

This was five years ago.  This time when Sahab came he did his usual things on the first day. Went to the orchard. Walked over my son’s grave, his footsteps were steady and determined. Met the mother, the neighbors, the village policeman and school’s headmaster even. At night I knew he would come to me. So while the rains splashed mercilessly, I poured kerosene oil on myself. He smelt it on my neck. I was retaliating silently, feeling perversely happy. Sahab stuffed his clothes in a goatskin satchel that I had stitched for him and left in the middle of the wet night. Leaving behind intense, hopeful light that can only be felt after tasting blinding drops of darkness.

P.s. (I wrote this some time ago. I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t love it but I thought I’d share.)

There’s something amiss. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Or rub my thumb over it, in smooth circles, as I would have liked to. I’m never the chubby ballerina at work-sans makeup, in magenta shawl. But I am, today. I think this stretch will continue. Even though the shoes are sparkly to make up for the lost glow on my face, they just end up looking comically pathetic.

When I was a child, I grew up with lots of stories. Some of them date back to my grandmother’s childhood. Sometimes I made up my own stories, where birds with purple beaks and fiery orange wings sat happily perched on tree tops all day long. The conversations were fables. My adopted nieces no longer want to hear these stories. For them stories mean Nemo* or Dora or some other fuzzy cartoon character. Their eyes don’t light up when someone describes to them magical wings, and strange birds who talk, or flying carpets. They’ve heard it all. Seen even more.

When my baby niece threatened to sleep on me, lest I bombard her with my story, I really shut up and in my head created a story about a twirling ballerina who flew in her pumps. Somewhere along the lines, we have failed our babies.

*Personally I love nemo, but what about words sans visuals?

There are some mornings when the universe conspires against you. Whatever you do, no matter how early you wake up, you will still be late. You wake up at 8 in the morning, thinking “wow I’m up early.” But by mistake you end up waking your mum who wants to tell you about her day, then tries on clothes she’s bought on sale, then makes sure you eat the breakfast that will take the longest to chew as opposed to your glass of juice. Then somehow you rush to get to work, the songs are fabulous on the radio today because you are too busy worrying, and then comes the Governor with his protocol cars. You are stopped for a good three minutes. And the driver misses an exit.

What’s worse is that you do actually tell your colleague, I was late because my mum wanted to try out her new loot.Thank God it’s a long weekend. *A happy, klutzy dance.*

I have some words that I love. Their texture, the sound, the feel on my tongue. They are sensuous and sensible words and I want to keep them in writing.

Sprezzatura (Italian) – 1) A certain nonchalance, so as to conceal all art and make what one does or says appear to be without rffort and almost without thought. 2) A form of defensive irony: the ability to disguise what one really desires, feels, thinks and means or intends behind a mask of apparent reticence and nonchalance.

Saudade [Sao-daa-jhey] (Portugese) 1) Happysad. 2) Vague and constant desire for something that doesn’t and probably cannot exist. A turning towards the past or the future.

Heart-to-heart 1) An intimate converstation.

And I bought 9 books, 2 amongst them were brandnew from Liberty. Ordered 13 online. I have not even completed a single one. :/

I want to, on some days or weeks, make these “things I’m grateful for today” lists. I just read other people’s lists and they make me delirious with joy. Maybe not delirious but you get it.

1) My brand new gorgeous kola puris which K got from Lahore, even though it’s a small consolation for having missed that trip, but this has to be love. I love these guys and their random Lahore fun stories (but they can do away with some extremely fun ones.)

2) This guy at work who gives me green tea, in my own mug. The thing is he can talk but he doesn’t make any small effoort to carry out a conversation, yet he’s pleasant. I mean I did see his lips move once or twice. But the tea is ghhhooood.

3) This Saturday is off. Drum roll, confetti and nonalcoholic booze. I can sleep in, on a cold morning. Isn’t it amazing?