Tonight: Dancing in the Streets of Astoria

18 days of beautiful revolution, one amazing outcome.

RAHALA MUBARAK!! WOOTTT

MABROUK

MABROUK

MABROUK

YA MISR!

Tonight: Partying on the streets of Astoria...

Where were you when it happened?

The Thin Line Between Sad and Happy

I hate saying this, but what I thought would be a horribly sad and depressing day, turned out to be one of the best in a while. I shouldn't be surprised. There's something wonderful about being around people you care about and love at the passing of another. I remember, when my dada-ji passed away - or even my grandparents from my mom's side of the family - the entire fam-bam came together almost every single day for about two weeks. We'd all bring food and gather at someone's house (usually at my vadaa dada's - grandpa's older brother). Us kids, we were still kids then, would run around the house playing games that we'd made up, would watch movies, and terrorize the adults (and the kids younger than us - although, they used to terrorize us back with equal glee). We knew we were at a sombre affair, but then we'd look at the adults, cousins - most of them, and watch them talking and laughing and smiling and enjoying life, and then go back to being ourselves. 

As we got older, the same tradition continued. The people in my family, up until my father's generation, have always worked together, and lived together until being forced out of their homes in Africa almost 40 years ago. As the years went by, the family started getting more nuclear, but would bond - instantaneously - at death, or birth, or other celebrations. When vadaa dada-ji passed away, we all gathered at his house. The oldest of us kids were now almost adults, and had a better sense of what was going on. But our fun and games continued. We didn't make them up, or watch movies back-to-back (that was the purview of the 3rd and 2nd batch of kids, respectively). We sat around the small food bar in the kitchen, with a bunch of our younger aunts and uncles, other relatives and friends, and joked around, while the others did the same in the dining room. And when we'd go home, I'd leave with a sense of joy and, more so, a desire that all of us would be able to get again and do the same. 

It's almost like the same thing is happening right now. A friend of mine passed away this Summer and his memorial was held, here, yesterday. Friends from around the country, who I had spent the Summer with in India and who also knew this friend who passed, flew in for the memorial. It was wonderful to see them again, and we kept on reminiscing about the thousands of things that we had done, or had seen in Lucknow a couple months ago. In a series of hard days over the past few weeks, it was a wonderful release (and relief). The ceremony was sad. I don't cry when I'm deeply saddened, but started crying (for about 15 seconds) during the shabad at the service. Afterwards though, it was back to the traditional mode of dealing with death - laughter.

Funny story. When my mother's father passed away (my nana-ji), we all gathered at his/my nani-ji's house. This was the first death in my mother's family and so everyone was super sombre and super quiet and super sad. Having dealt with death multiple times before that, I wasn't as affected as my other cousins and relatives. We were all sitting around in the living room, when my mother got up and wandered around, looking for her phone. She had just gotten it and was still getting used to it. Having found it, she started fiddling around with it, but it wouldn't work. She asked me to help and told me that it wasn't turning on even though she had pressed the power button multiple times. From across the room I semi-shouted, "It's dead!"

Everyone looked up. Stared at me. I realized what I'd said and chuckled. Everyone kept on staring at me in shock and horror, and then finally one person laughed, then another, until the entire room was giggling. It broke the ice, and the awkward tension that had settled over the room dissipated quickly thereafter. When my nani-ji passed away, a couple years later, my mother's family was much more open and calm (and prone to fitful bursts of laughter).

I hate saying this, because it's just so wrong, but a part of me misses those days when we got together. And I know I'll miss this weekend, because of the same reason.

RIP those of you who have moved on. Till we meet again.

Untitled

I've always loved this one. Heard a version by Mukhtiyar Ali today  - absolutely beautiful.

Hor ki mangnaa main rabb kolon,

Nitt khair mangaa tere dam di.

Nitt khair mangaa soneya ve tere,

Du'a na koi hor mangdi.

What else would I ask of God? I asked for the well-being of your life-breath.

I asked for your well-being, my  love; and not for any other blessing.

RFS - Reminiscings from Selfistan

There's a part of me that loves this constant moving around;
There's a part of me that hates it.
That hates having to say goodbye and not knowing when we'll see each other next.
But that also loves that anticipation of not knowing. Of not knowing who I'll be, who you'll be, who we'll be, what we'll be, where we'll be. That sort of thing.

There's a part of me that misses you - you person, you life, you lifestyle, you dream and dreams - that misses what I had become, what I was becoming, and what I had left behind.

And now that I have found what I had left behind, albeit in a different form, I miss having left it behind and having walked away, maybe run away.

I miss the late nights spent poring over words - my words, your words, our words, his words, her words. Words written. Words spoken. Words hidden. Words open.

I miss the late nights that will remain unremembered. Hidden somewhere beneath the layers of ash, beneath layers of that which is ever-forgiving, ever-haunting, ever-losing. That which intoxicates, toxicates, makes us sing words uttered by God and written by Man, makes us want to reach out and be yours, makes us want to stop and stop and stop until nothing remains.

I miss the late nights spent wide awake, staring. Or listening. Or dreaming. Or screaming.

I miss the last few days, when late nights turned into glorious mornings. And glorious mornings turned into sad afternoons, that turned into relaxing evenings and boisterous nights that turned into glorious sunrises, with a little headache.

And now. I sit here rambling. Uncertain. Of where I stand, or sit.

Waiting for another glorious morning - just like that (almost) penultimate one.

Let's Start the Decade with some Ramblings

Twelve days into the New Year and nothing to say. Yay for holiday-induced apathy.

It's 2010. Freak-out time. The end of a decade, the start of another, and a birthday coming up that pushes me over the edge into almost-grown-up-ville.

The horror.

No. I'm serious.

The horror.

The peace - and piece - is still missing. Or eh-wall. Yes. Eh-Wall.

El.

Lauw begins with El...

On that note.

Khumaar - Part 2

Du'a

کہ تمہارے قدموں کی خاق سے خدا انسان بنائے

(Ke tumhaare qadmon ki khaaq se Khuda insaan banaaye)

Bollywood-Love

Khair maangi sajan main ne teri, du'a na koii hor maangi.



The Song:



For the video:
YouTube

Adamo-Love

Simon and Garfunkel-Love

LOVE LOVE LOVE!

Beatles-Love

One of my favourite Beatles songs of all time. That girl wiping away tears? Ya - that's me...(I wish)

Be my Diary for the Night

This just happened to me, and I'm blogging about it not necessarily so that you can read it, but that I can remember it. Let's call this a diary entry of sorts.

Last night, as I was walking home from a late-night study session at the library, a homeless man called out to me from the steps of a church. I had no cash, and wasn't ready to part with the bagel I'd just purchased because I had no food at home. I had just dialed my father's number and was listening to the ring when he called out at me. He called thrice. A bit louder each time. And each time I pretended to have not heard him.

I kept on walking; went to the drugstore to get cereal, and thought about the guy as I made my purchases. What he was doing, whether anyone had given him food, or if anyone had even acknowledged that he'd been sitting on the steps. Maybe he hadn't been a beggar or even be-ghar. Maybe I'd dropped something or maybe he just wanted to talk to someone. But it bothered me all the way home, and especially while I was wolfing down my bagel. I felt selfish and horrible. And promised myself that I'd try to be less selfish and more conscientious in the future.

After I got out of the gym today, I went to the supermarket to get some juice and granola bars. I'd heard a couple of my friends talking about the Luna Bar - which is supposed to be designed for women, so I bought one of those. Not sure whether it'd be good or not, I also bought a Kashi bar - a fudge sundae one mmmmm (healthy actually...). I paid and left the supermarket.

Standing outside was a man - very small, wearing an oversized blue raincoat, and with his hand stretched out. I stopped, and asked him if he wanted a granola bar. He smiled and said yes.

I reached into my bag and pulled one out. It was the Luna Bar. 'Oh! This one's for women!' I exclaimed. He laughed and said 'no worries - it's ok.'
'No! There's another one.'
And I reached into my bag again, found the Kashi bar and handed it to him. He took it, said thank-you (still laughing about the women-only bar) and smiled. And I left for the library.

I can still see that laugh. And I'm still laughing as well...

NYC Dogs - Part I

Part I because this post was supposed to be about them and is now about something completely unrelated that came up in a conversation with BKScope.

Here it is:

It's like he's become a part of you and you don't really know why or how you let him do that. And you'd like him to leave you alone, but he kinda gives you solace by being there. But it hurts...and oh it's so complicated. And then you can't decide whether you're happy or sad that you miss him...

Men.

*shakes head*

Tear you apart and don't even know it.

A Night with the Angels

Tonight was, for Isma'ilis anyway, Laylat-ul-Qadr - the night of power, the night on which it is believed that the Prophet Muhammad (saww) first received the Qur'an's verses. I have family in town (yay!) for the US Open, and so, we decided to meet up for dinner tonight. It got cancelled this morning, and then because the rain kept on coming down incessantly, was rescheduled (for the same night, of course). Excited about being with family and of getting out of the house, I got ready really quickly and got into a cab.

As you may know already (I can't remember if I've written about the many random and odd conversations I've had with cab drivers - but I've had quite a few, including one where I was so scared I almost thought of getting out of the cab immediately), I speak to cab drivers. So when this one opened his mouth, I thought he sounded Italian - so I asked him if he was from Italy. Turns out, he was from Ecuador, but had Italian parents (score! I'm awesome - teehee) who had emigrated to South America. Anyway, we started chatting about this and that and it was quite amusing. He found out I was studying South Asian politics and then went on about how it was religion that was tearing the world apart (which - I agree with) and how he couldn't understand how Partition ever occurred.

He asked me what my religion was. And remembering the last time I'd discussed my religious views with a cab driver (a year ago - I was between agnostic and atheist, and had received a 20 minute lecture on how I needed to believe in Allah and His messengers - my views have actually changed since then - not on account of that lecture of course), I decided to tell him I didn't believe in God. Given his already-affirmed semi-negative views on religion, I figured that it was the safest option and, thankfully - because I was in no mood to discuss my own religious views - it was. Anyway, so we also discussed men and how apparently, with my new hair, I look like Cleopatra or Isis and how I'm a very shy person and perhaps conservative with a mix of Wild Western thrown in, and how I shouldn't go out with a Desi guy because they're all really boring (FYI - I opposed this statement of his vehemently!) etc. and then he dropped me off at the restaurant with a 'goodbye senorina'.

So I got out of the cab, and went up to my aunt who was standing outside, talking on the phone. And - dinner plans had just gotten cancelled because my uncles had JUST received a call from the USTA, telling them that the tennis matches were about to resume. Having spent a lot of money and having travelled across the continent for the matches, they sped away to Flushing Meadows, and we 3 women were left dinner date-less.

My aunt and her friend are quite the religious people and had come from JK (Isma'ili version of a mosque) just for dinner. I hadn't eaten, and they offered to take me out for dinner. But I could see that they wanted to get back to JK for the various prayers. Anyway, then my aunt had an idea - she said, why don't you just come to JK with us, there's food there (Gujarati food - yummy!) and then you can sit and pray if you want. We'll leave after the 12am prayer and you can go home.

Now, being quite lonely and hungry, and not particularly excited about going back home, watching tv, reading this article I still haven't finished, and ordering-in Thai food, I acquiesced (*collective gasp*). For those of you that know me, I'm quite the un-Ismaili. I went to Alma Mater for 5 years and never figured out where the campus JK was, let alone went to it. I've been here 5 days (not counting the days my parents were here), and about to go into JK. Helloooo!!!!

When I got into JK though, it was an amazing feeling. No No. Not the spiritual kind, but the one where you feel completely comfortable. Having been in places and situations that are completely and utterly new and different, it felt amazing being somewhere where I didn't have to constantly wonder or worry about what was going to happen or how to act or what to do. And when I had that pilaf. OhEmJee. I almost cried. It made me miss my mommy's food even more because it tasted exactly like it (except the salt content was perfect - my mother comes from a family that uses very little salt).

As far as the praying part goes, I'm more Muslim than Isma'ili (no - not the same thing), and so it wasn't too fulfilling spiritually. It was ironic though, for sure, given that I'd just denied the existence of any religiousness within myself an hour or so before stepping foot into JK and then had partaken in a ceremony that only 'the very faithful' go to.

Oh So Funny.

Right. It's now 2am, and my sleep angels are waiting for me to fall asleep. But first, the tooth fairy wants me to go brush and floss my teeth - so sleep will have to wait a little while longer.

Night ya'll and remember...to be born again, first you must die.

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle - NYC Style

This city is starting to get on my West Coast-let's recycle everything we can find-and use cloth bags for our groceries etc-mentality's nerves. It's insane. I went to the grocery store today to buy eggs, milk, flour, veggies and that sort of stuff. I'd gone gro-shopping a week ago at this place and the veggies were pretty bad. So I walked a couple extra blocks to the Garden of Eden and stepped into fruit and veggie heaven, and recycling hell.

The grapes were in paper - the type I use on the tops of gifts that have been bagged. And in more paper than I would use for the biggest type of bag.

Anyway. So I got all my stuff and proceeded to the check-out. I had my cloth bag with me and told the lady I'd put everything except the milk and eggs in it. She looked at me like I was from another planet and proceeded to hand me my sugar and to put the rest of the items into two massive plastic bags. It bothered me. So much so that I walked briskly back home, threw (well - placed) my eggs and milk in the fridge and signed on to blogger.

Right. Now - back to unpacking. Ugh. Or to Skype...hmmm

ps. I didn't buy any apples...not yet ready to fall from Grace

Dwindling Agnosticism

Echoing adhaans in Sultanahmet

Complete peace in the Blue Mosque

Tears at Maulana's grave

An intense longing

ishrat-e-qatra hai darya mein fana'a ho jaana

Arziyan - Delhi-6

Another masterpiece from the team of Prasoon Joshi and A.R Rahman!

Arziyan

Arziyaan saari main, chahere pe likh ke aayaa huun,

Tum se kya maangu main, tum khud hi samajhlo maula,

Maula maula mere maula.

Maula maula maula mere maula,

Maula maula maula maula,

Daraarein daraarein hain maathe pe maula,

Marammat muqaddar ki kardo maula, mere maula.


Tere dar pe jhuka huun, miTaa huun, banaa huun,

Marammat muqaddar ki kardo maula.


Jo bhi tere dar aayaa, jhukne jo sar aayaa,

Mastiyaan piie sab ko jhuumtaa nazar aaya;

Pyaasein leke aayaa thaa dariyaa woh bhar laayaa,

Nuur ki baarish mein bhiigtaa satar aayaa.


Maula maula maula mere maula,

Maula maula maula maula.

Daraarein daraarein hain maathe pe maula,

Marammat muqaddar ki kardo maula, mere maula.

Jo bhi tere dar aayaa, jhukne jo sar aayaa,

mastiyaan piie sab ko jhuumta nazar aayaa.

Ho ek khushbuu aati thi,

Ho ek khushbuu aati thi, main bhaTaktaa jaataa thaa,

Reshamii si maayaa (?) bhi aur main thaktaa jaataa tham.

Jab teri gali aayaa, sach kabhi nazar aayaa,

Mujh mein hi woh khushbuu thi, jisse tu ne milvaayaa.

Maula maula maula mere maula,

Maula maula maula maula.

Daraarein daraarein hain maathe pe maula,

Marammat muqaddar ki kardo maula, mere maula.

TuuTke bikharnaa mujhko zaruur aataa hai,

Par na ibaadat ka shahuur aataa hai (?).

Sajde mein rehene do, ab kahiin na jaaungaa,

Ab jo tumne Thukraayaa to savar na paaungaa.

Maula maula maula mere maula,

Maula maula maula maula.

Daraarein daraarein hain maathe pe maula,

Marammat muqaddar ki kardo maula, mere maula.

Sar uThaake maine to kitnii khwaahishein ki thi,

Kitne khwaab dekhe the, kitnii koshishein ki thi.

Jab tu ruubaruu aayaa,

Jab tu ruubaruu aaya, nazarein na milaa paayaa,

Sar jhukaake ek pal mein,

Sar jhukaake ek pal mein, maine kyaa nahiin paayaa.


Maula maula maula mere maula,

Maula maula maula maula.

Mora piyaa ghar aayaa mora piyaa ghar aayaa (x6)

Maula maula maula mere maula,

Maula maula maula maula.

Mere maula maula maula maula,

Mere maula.

My Beautiful Star

The twinkle in your eyes has disappeared, replaced by complete blackness, as if something has died inside you.

But you will live again and twinkle brighter than before. Have hope my beautiful star.

A Hate/Love Relationship

I admit it - I hate Christmas. Hold on, before you get your rope (or whatever else) in a knot, let me contextualize and define that statement. I don't hate the festival of Christmas, I hate the materialism that comes along with it. For years, around 3 or 4, I've railed against the horrors of materialism that befall our society every time Christmas rolls around. Shops start advertising the event months in advance, small children start writing letters to Santa (or their parents if they've gotten over the Santa myth) outlining (often in excrusciating detail) their profligate desires, and people whip out their credit cards to scoop up as many things as possible. To me, it seems, or seemed, a complete waste of money and time. To me, there were better things to celebrate, better things to throw money at (well not 'throw; 'donate' would be a better word), and better ways to practice writing.

I don't know why, or even when , I developed this hatred of Christmas. Perhaps it was a result of my family's Christmas celebrations, that usually ended with my little sister in tears because my parents bought her something she didn't want. She'd come down the stairs in the morning, excited to open her presents. My parents would be grinning, expecting my sister to love her gifts, and then she'd open them and complain. And then sulk for the rest of the day. I'm not sure if I sulked as much as she did, although I remember certainly doing so when I got a minidisc player and not the cd player that I'd wanted. Looking back, that was a stupid reason to sulk - minidiscs were state-of-the-art then, and CD players were already becoming obsolete. But, being a kid, I really didn't know the difference. All I knew was that all my friends had CD players, and I had something else. After 3 years of failed Christmases (and yes, we only had a tree with presents for three years), my mom decided that she'd had enough, and announced that she (and my dad) would no longer buy presents. My sister was devastated. I was surprisingly happy - maybe because I was older and knew that my mom's decision was the right one.

This year, I don't know what it is, but I've felt the Christmas spirit that everyone's always talked about and that I'd never felt. I don't know if it's because of the recession, or because of the freakishly cold weather we've been having this year, or because I'm a bit more sentimental this year given that it's probably my last winter in this city, but it's been different. It all started with me asking my mom to get a real tree this year (we'd had a fake one for a couple of years). This is only our 2nd or 3rd real tree ever, but it's by far the best one we've had. For one, it smells beautiful. The shape is also amazing. As well, it doesn't have any of that cheap tinsel that I hate, and is decorated pretty nicely (kudos to my sister for that).

I've also noticed people being much nicer this year - randomly. I've seen more people donate their time and money to the less fortunate this season than I have ever before; and I've seen people smile more, talk to each other more, and be in better moods generally. Maybe I'm imagining things, looking at my city through rose-tinted glasses, but, in all honesty, I don't think so. I don't know how to prove this to you, so you'll just have to believe me.

Maybe it's the recession's effect, but I haven't seen people going wild on spending this year either, which to me, is a good thing (not the recession of course, the curbed spending).

Whatever the case, Christmas this year promises to be special, and I've pretty much decided to make every single Christmas after this one as special as possible. Heck, it only comes once a year, and is a time when everyone can get together and celebrate. It may be religious in origin (Christian, Roman whatever), but in my mind, it's the coolest secular event of the year (more so than Hallowe'en as well!).

Merry Christmas everyone, and Happy Holidays!

More Late Night Music-ing

And now Tiziano's making me cry..

Silver Bowls Full of Thoughts OR How I Wish I Were Dumbledore

I have an interesting, yet odd, life. Well, let's phrase that again. I think I have an interesting and odd life, one in which things occur that probably don't occur in the lives of others. Being the person that I am, I tend not to share these occurrences with many people - it's not because of a fear of being judged, but rather, a desire to keep those things that are special and important to me special and important. I've always found that things become less exciting once you tell another person. Secrets that only you know about are so much more cool than the morning's gossip.

But it's hard sometimes to keep things inside you for so long, especially when you're the type of person that remembers exactly when something happened, right down to the time and what you were wearing and what the weather was. Can you tell that I'm a person that does that? And when you wake up one day and realize that its the anniversary of something momentous in your life, and have no-one to share it with - because you don't want to share it, or can't share it - it gets even harder.

As silly as this may sound, I wish there was a way I could take a part of my memory and store it somewhere. Erase all knowledge of it from my brain, and yet keep it somewhere for those days that I need it to function - sort of like the pensieve that Dumbledore has (or had, now that he's dead *sobs*). It would make days like these so much easier.

*to be born again, first you must die*