On a long tiring flight, I was not too amused by another predictable rant on “Intimidation in Tehran” in the Time magazine. However, while browsing through, I could not help notice a stunning photograph taken by Olivia Arthur. (more…)
I posted an article on female stereotyping at All Things Pakistan blog. There was a bit of discussion but I was also chided as being partial, class-ist and insensitive to men.
Here was this humble blogger, on the defensive: (more…)
My young friend has translated Fahmida Riaz’s words, and how inspiring these are.. (more…)
Sometime back I had written a piece on the Kafkaesque nature of our history. The recent events though not altogether unexpected nor peculiar reminded of how the bizarre is almost normal. (more…)
Raza Rumi was interviewed at the Pak Spectator blog. My interview is nothing but rambling galore; but I did relish answering the various questions. I am not sure why I was asked about my preferred travel destination[s], but I did enjoy the day-dreaming:
That top most travel destination would have to be Turkey. I am fascinated by the confluence of civilizations and cultures that is embedded in contemporary Turkish reality. You move from one town with Greek remains and enter into an area where Roman splendours or ruins await you and then you hear the sound of azaan and it just becomes an incredible journey into history and world cultures. And of course, Konya where Rumi lived is also in Turkey.
My second choice would be Indonesia: another country with beautiful rainforests, mountains, beaches and rich history. I love Java Island and have written a little bit about it as well.
I suppose the third choice is the African continent. There is immense, raw beauty there that brings once closer to the primordial connection with Nature. I want to go there again and again. I haven’t been to Western and Southern parts and am eager to go as soon as I have some savings for this purpose.
Read the full interview here.
Shameless self-promotion!
Truly, those who are faithful
and do righteous deeds,
the Compassionate One will endow with Love.
- The Quran, (19:96)
India’s eminent singer Vidya Rao has contributed this piece for Jahane Rumi. In this personal account she writes about her recent visit to Vrindavan, near Mathura, which is a major place of pilgrimage for Hindus. It is said that this area had the woods where Krishna frolicked with the gopis and tenderly wooed Radha.
Vrindavan is always a moment of pure magic. This time too.
This time, after the morning darshan, Acharya Shrivatsa Goswami took those who stayed and had the time to smell the flowers, about 10 people— to the site of the old temple where Radha Raman ji had manifested–in a basket of shaligrams– in 1542. He was lovingly brought by Gopal Bhatt to a tiny temple where He lived for several years–in fact till 1861.In that year, He moved to the present larger temple built for him by Kundan Lal and Phundan Lal, courtiers and sons of Shah Bihari Lal, lately of the court of the deposed nawab of Avadh,Wajid Ali Shah, and now seeking shelter in Vrindavan in– as Shrivatsa ji put it– the court of the greatest king. What is interesting and moving about the tiny old temple is the small room (actually the largest space in that temple) that is the kitchen, which houses the eternal fire. This fire was lit in 1542 to cook the deity’s first meal after He moved here, and the same fire burns today too. It has never been extinguished. When Shrivatsa ji said this, when I looked at the glowing embers of that ancient fire, I thought of the arani sticks. Going in search of these eternal fire sticks, Yudhishthira met and answered the riddles posed to him by Dharma (his father, lord of justice and of death) in the guise of a yaksha. What is the riddle that I must answer as I stand here in search of this unextinguished fire? What is this fire? The fire of nurture? Of passion? Of creation? Of destruction? Of transformation ? Of the energy that keeps the universe spinning? All of these? None of these?
The kitchen is still in use in 2007 and it is here that, even today, Radha Raman ji’s meals (8 in all– for each seva) are lovingly cooked by the priests (Shrivatsa ji and his sons and nephews). Surely this cooking is the manifestation of vatsalya bhava– the emotional universe of the mother and her love for her child. The meals are cooked in huge gleaming kansa vessels that are coated with a thick layer of clay to slow down the process of cooking, to retain heat, to impart flavour– and perhaps to remind us that all is contained in the womb of muddy matter.These meals of course are the juthan, the prasad, that is shared with hundreds of pilgims every day. (Yummy, I might add.) Lightly cooked, steamed vegetables, dal fragrant with the most delicate spices, perfect fluffy phulkas and steaming hot pearls of rice. Dahi, of course and kheer too, fresh ghee and butter, straight from His mouth. Now we who eat the prasad are experiencing vatsalya bhava– which mother had not picked up her child’s half-eaten plate of food and made a meal of those leavings?
There is something so incredible happening here. The recieving of food from ‘the mouths of babes’(!), so food as Truth? The world made ’streemay’, feminised, by these burly (and burly they are) priests as they take on the womanly tasks of cooking for, and feeding the child-God, and for the child-God manifest as the world and every person in it. The priests also clean the kitchen, wash the cooking vessels, again feminine tasks, tasks that bring to my mind a beautiful poem in the tamilpillai poetic tradition, where the all-too-human baby girl-child, rocking to and fro on her mother’s lap, is addressed as Meenakshi, Queen and Mother of the universe, lovely bride of the beautiful bridegroom (Kalyana Sundaram is Shiva’s name in Madurai) who is here just a little girl playing house- house with the universe.
The poem says (and I translate badly) Little girl, playing house-house — you take Mount Meru and make it the pillar of your toy house, spread over it the canopy of the sky. You pin to that canopy the twinkling lamps of sun and moon and stars. You wash the soiled vesels of the worlds in the crashing flood-waters of the pralay-deluge, and you neatly stack them, lovingly, in your home. Then that madman, your husband, comes dancing into your courtyard and overturns your work, messes it all up. You don’t say a word– only smile and pick up the pieces and begin all over again.
Are the priests, washing the vessels of the worlds, sweeping the kitchen of creation, mirroring Meenakshi? Who is human here– who is divine? Who is man/woman/child?
Shrivatsa ji spoke of the daily seva for this child-lover god. He is a rasik, Shrivatsa ji said, a lover of all things beautiful, so we dress him in beautiful clothes and jewellery and we sing for him, we please him. Those who are his lovers sing for him.
I remember what musicians say– ‘Raga, rasoi, pagri, kabhi kabhi bante hain” (Perfect music, that special taste to one’s cooking, the perfectly tied turban– these happen but sometimes). Raga, rasoi, pagri– these echo the nitya seva of raga, bhog, shringar (music, food and ornamentation/clothes/also love, devotion, bhakti) that is offered every day, eight times a day to the Beloved.
And I understand too why the word for kitchen (and by extension, for cooking) in Hindi is rasoi– this is the place of rasa, taste, yes, but also enjoyment, immersion in the essence of all aesthetic delight.
What a strange and powerful experience that was to be there before that 500-year old fire, with those muscular, feminised men, to know the temple as the kitchen of the universe (and so to also know the kitchen as the temple of the self) from where (as my dear friend Ramu Gandhi had put it in when speaking of Sita ki rasoi– “Sita’s Kitchen”) every creature in the universe receives nourishment– “sab ko khurak milta hai”.
And that this ‘khurak’ is only apparently bread– the same bread of which Jesus had said “man does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God”. In Radha Raman’s old temple-kitchen I realise again, powerfully, that Life, Truth IS bread, khurak, that nourishes us so deeply– physically and spiritually; and that bread, my humble sookhi roti IS– none other– every word that proceeds from that baby mouth, every kiss of that Dark Beloved’s lips.
Mealtimes will never be the same again!
I have been upset the entire day. Perhaps it does not matter in the larger scheme of things. But this is a sad, sad day. Qurratulain Hyder, the literary giant of our times is no more. At a personal level it is not just the death of another literary figure but it is far greater and deeper than that. Ainee inspired generations of Urdu readers and there is not a single Urdu writer of post-independence era who has not been influenced by her.
Ainee had a civilizational consciousness that took us beyond the nation-state identities that we are so familiar with in our everyday lives. And, of course there was romance - the notion of eastern and Indic romance - that touched our lives. As I wrote earlier, that the way I have understood the world and perhaps parts of myself were deeply influenced by Ainee.
And now her death is a blow that this source of inspiration is not there anymore; as it is we are living in barren times where literature is about marketing and packaging and catering to consumers.
Ainee primarily wrote for herself but reached out and made her mark - and in the process she connected with millions of readers. And I am just one of them. My friends and I have talked today and we recounted how she shaped our inner lives.
I have at least avoided a regret - I met her after years of longing. Met her twice at her house in her frail state and enjoyed the hours. The impressions were indelible. Of course, the ambitious self had planned a meeting later this year.
But there will be nobody in that Noida house. That little temple opposite her house will remain and the sound of Azaan from a neighbouring mosque will also heard. But the hearty laughter, quick witted lines and inimitable writings will not be there.
However, as a friend said - writers die, their stories don’t -makes me a little content.
Farewell, Ainee Apa. May God keep you happy wherever you are..
Black and white photo is by Prashant Panjiar - the others were taken by me
To celebrate the Indian Independence day, Hindustan Times has published a rather interesting list of 60 best books from India. From the list, my favourites are:
Aag Ka Dariya:Qurratulain Hyder’s generation was divided by Partition. But she refused to make an irrevocable choice and instead found home in both India and Pakistan. In this magnum opus spanning centuries, she narrates the tragedy of being forced into such a choice.
Train to Pakistan: in a far cry from his usual lighthearted and witty style, Khushwant Singh somberly etches out the agony of a village brutally torn apart at independence.
Rasidi Ticket:this autobiography of the popular Punjabi poetess Amrita Pritam created controversy when it came out, which was predictable given her unconventional life lived very much in the public eye.
English August:Upamanyu Chatterjee’s fresh and quirky take on the dilemmas of a young civil servant who finds himself ill at ease in small town India.
God of Small Things:mix a fractured family from southern India and a gifted author. Result: a Booker-winning gem from Arundhati Roy.
Golden Gate:690 wonderful sonnets describing the life, love and times of San Francisco’s young professionals by Vikram Seth.
Tamas:this powerful Bhisham Sahni novel captured the country’s imagination when Govind Nihalini turned it into an equally forceful telefilm. Sahni drew upon his experiences as a relief worker during Partition to write this anti-communalist saga.
Terhi Lakeer:Ismat Chugtai’s magnum opus centres on the rebellious affirmation of female desire: “A woman’s heart has so many chambers, a mother’s love residing in one, love for her husband in another, for her beloved in a third. Then Shaman tried to peep into her own heart.”
This is a painting that I revisited and converted its earlier abstract form into a calligraphic experiment. Now the challenge was that in addition to the lack of training in oil painting…
This weekend was remarkable: visions and confusions found their way on a plain canvas and before long I was in a strange dialogue with the canvas - here is the result of this dialogue: Full entry here >>
The current controversy on Rushdie’s knighthood has several dimensions. Amid the knee-jerk reactions alluding to the grand-conspiracy-against-Islam, it brings out various layers and levels of literature’s role and position in societies and now in the globalized world.
I was once a fan of Rushdie and avidly devoured his books with great admiration. From Grimus to The Moor’s Last Sigh, I marveled at his playfulness with the english language and its idiom which undoubtedly he has enriched. The collection of essays titled Imaginary Homelands was a combination of disparate but original writings. Somewhere during this process came the ridiculous Satanic Verses which other than its blasphemous content and brazen disrespect for a vast majority of Muslims was a bad piece of writing!
The decline of Rushdie as a writer, finally, was confirmed by the trashy “Ground Beneath Her Feet“. Thereafter, one read strange, ignorant pieces of his non-fiction in the Western mainstream media that needed his stature to find a rationale for the imperial projects in Afghanistan and Iraq.
Shalimar the Clown, his recent novel was even worse as it proved to be bereft of subtlety and re-invoked all the crappy, soul-destroying images and cliches of our times. In a non-serious piece, published in the Friday Times (Pakistan) in December 2005, I wrote:
Salman Rushdie’s new novel, Shalimar the Clown, is enough to add to one’s misery. I finished browsing it; what else can you do with such stuff posing as quality fiction? As if the name of the central character “Shalimar” was not enough to offend a native reader such as I, the heroine “India Ophuls” changing her name to “Kashmira” was the ultimate illustration of cheap exoticism and a hackneyed dive into passé magical realism. Alas, Rushdie has started believing in his own mantra and the twisting of historical narrative. It simply does not work now. He is more of a bard for the ascendancy of the global tide against Islamism and perhaps he should stick to that. Better if he were to provide some intellectual depth to Fox News, or even better, if he started writing scripts for his young wife’s tele-plays. Shalimar successfully completes the trilogy of Rushdie’s worst novels, the other two being The Ground Beneath Her Feet and Fury . Aijaz Ahmad, a US-based academic, argued a long time ago that Rushdie and Naipul were avatars of ‘oriental’ consciousness. Small wonder that they are reviewed, exalted and globally hyped.
Much to my delight, a friend – an aspiring critic – sent me the review by Theo Tait of the London Review of Books: Noting what Rushdie’s style produces in the novel, Tait writes that it “ .. . is a cross between a piece of magic realism which displays all the worst vices of the style, and the contemporary international thriller. It is passionate, well-informed and sometimes interesting; but also hackneyed, simplistic and often very, very silly…”
Today, I read this brilliant article published in the Guardian written by a noted academic, Priyamvada Gopal that essentially is a lament of all that Rushdie and his new writings stand for:
Sir Salman, on the other hand, is partly the creation of the fatwa that played its role in strengthening the self-fulfilling “clash of civilisations” that both Bush and Osama bin Laden find so handy. Driven underground and into despair by zealotry, Rushdie finally emerged blinking into New York sunshine shortly before the towers came tumbling down. Those formidable literary powers would now be deployed not against, but in the service of, an American regime that had declared its own fundamentalist monopoly on the meanings of “freedom” and “liberation”. The Sir Salman recognised for his services to literature is certainly no neocon but is iconic of a more pernicious trend: liberal literati who have assented to the notion that humane values, tolerance and freedom are fundamentally western ideas that have to be defended as such.
Vociferously supporting the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq on “humane” grounds, condemning criticism of the war on terror as “petulant anti-Americanism” and above all, aligning tyranny and violence solely with Islam, Rushdie has abdicated his own understanding of the novelist’s task as “giving the lie to official facts”. Now he recalls his own creation Baal, the talented poet who becomes a giggling hack coralled into attacking his ruler’s enemies. Denuded of texture and complexity, it is no accident that this fiction since the early 90s has disappeared into a critical wasteland. The mutation of this relevant and stentorian writer into a pallid chorister is a tragic allegory of our benighted times, of the kind he once narrated so vividly.
In any case, Ali Eteraz is right when he states that what’s there is a colonial siege of the minds in this whole issue.
And, please also see a sensible editorial by the Pakistani newspaper DAWN here.
This dubious honour is yet another endeavour to reward the constructed clash of civilizations. The fact that Rushdie has accepted it, further confirms his degeneration as another script writer of this “theory”. Meanwhile, the protests in Iran and Pakistan only reinforce this vicious cycle of neo-orientalism .
Shameful indeed.
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