Sunday, September 11, 2005

Wild, wild, wild world

Loads of craziness going on.

  • Kayne West's comments are censored but won't go away. And then Moore's letter arrives. Things keep getting worse for this president, and I'm not disturbed in the least.
  • Orhan Pamuk has to face a court for calling Armenian deaths a genocide. A genuine case of life imitating art, I'd say, as people adhering to the simplistic version of histories are already portrayed in his book, Snow.
  • They meet, but there's more - To the supporters, I ask, how can anyone be naive enough to think that restoring diplomatic ties will win us any strategic favours. What did the Palestinians gain when they did the same? And to everyone who went on the piece-meal strike on Friday, what's there to loose if all you do is talk? This is recommended reading.
  • Mutawakil, the face of Taliban as their FM, writes a book. What can I say, there's all sorts...

Saturday, September 03, 2005

Reading and wondering

The time for political novels has past, but Pamuk handles it well. Snow starts with a poet coming back to Kars, a remote town in Turkey. The official line is that he's here to find out about a line of suicides amongst the head scarf girls. But once there, Ka the poet, questions whether that is the real purpose he came. What is it about the snow as it cuts off the small town from the rest of the world, as it falls like a blanket on the city reshaping everything insight, covering up the present, blocking out the future, until the past is the only thing left? And the voice is superb, as it gravitates towards the centre of the book until it reaches a point where it is lost in bewilderment, just like our poet.
This is the kind of book that explores the historical past, the present and the future through the tools of fiction. As the line on the jacket says, "Pamuk is narrating his country into being". Can there be a case for 'fictional truth' just as there is for the Poetic truth?
Poetics...which reminds me, Juan Elia is gaining praise post-humously. Isn't that the way of life (or rather, the way of life after death) for Urdu poets? Left to themselves while alive, they only gain recognition once they are gone. What notions prevent us from taking an Urdu poet seriously while he's alive, that suddenly vanish when he passes away?
Anyway, I am going through 'Shayad', an amazing collection, but what caught my attention isn't the book, as much as its introduction written by the poet himself. Elia makes a few observations in his 'Muqaddama' that are worth noting down. I'd like to translate the whole thing, once I get the next few days of my chest.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Been catching up on the hindi movies that I haven't seen, and the general impression remains the same. Big strides for bollywood, small steps for mankind.
The election fever is gone. Came and went with surprising calmness, something no one could have predicted. The people embrace it. Turnouts are high. 'We do what we can, the rest will follow', which reminds me of Plato, 'Who will guard the guards?'
A few nights ago, I sat bored hearing a relative/acquaintance rant about how he found his better half. It was an arranged affair and the selection had been made through photographs. How can someone find a wife by looking at photographs of women? Isn't that like finding love online? And how do these photographs make the rounds? I suspect someone makes the rounds carrying an album in their bags.
My circumspection amazes my relatives. They think I've turned too Canadian and this is the effect of the last few years abroad seeping in into my attitude. But photographs... why don't they just put up a website, and gain a global market? Blah!

Friday, August 19, 2005

LB Elections

The polling is complete. By hook or by crook, some have arrived, some have left. As Cowasjee kept repeating on the televised debates, it was a matter of choosing the lesser evil. I don't know about the rest of the third world countries, but in Pakistan, that usually is the case.
The government has deemed the exercise successful. The foreign commentators seem satisfied. My own mind is stuck on a news item from a polling station in NWFP, where not a single female voter turned up the whole day. Maybe they all caught rabbies!
Watching some of the candidates in Karachi and hearing their supporters, I was wondering if we could have a Local Bloodies election sometime soon. People would get a chance to vote for their favorite leader, who'd be transported out of the country to live in exile for the rest of his/her unnatural life. All on tax-payer money! Its an easier way to reward these criminals, then putting them back in office where they would be responsible for the affairs of many. And we'd root out the fake degree mafia at the same time. Splendid, no?
Any which way, the agenda of globalization continues. Weak central governments that bow down to pressure from the financial centres of the world, while the people are busy keeping records of who paved the roads and when? But why complain, when we can still watch the tantalizing climax of this week's Sussar bhi kabhi damaad tha?

Monday, August 15, 2005

The long road home

Standing in front of a PIA passenger plane, staring at the green streak on the white body of the aircraft to my mid-morning walk in North Karachi, I seem to have travelled light years. And yet here I am, where I had always been.
The plane journey was uneventful. It began with the mild nuisance of dealing with people crammed in a small space. Travel agents across Toronto had told me that seats weren't available for PIA flights till August 18th. And yet, the seat beside me sat empty. I could picture someone in a PIA uniform laughing somewhere, and had to shake my head to get it out of my head. On the other side of the aisle, a passenger got too chummy and inquired whether I was returning home to get married. I mumbled something about Pakistanis in general, and that was the end of that.
On the window seat was M, who did a wicked impression of a PIA hostess announcing a flight when we landed at Manchester. Highlight of the whole 18 hour flight, I assure you! She pointed out that PIA was probably the only airlines crossing the Atlantic with an all male steward crew. No sir, we're just too proud to parade our women in a small space serving tea and selling duty-free cigarettes. (btw, wicked rates here for someone used to the prices in Canada.)
I landed at Islamabad airport at around 6pm. The doors of the plane opened, and a humid air surrounded me. It clung to me like a long lost relative, embracing me as if I was the one it had missed all along. And i was a child again, struggling in the bear-hug of an old aunt, desperately wanting it to end.
As I waited for my luggage, I looked at the staff staring stiffly at the few women daring enough to have come home in western clothes. This is still consy town, no matter what they show on television. Once my luggage had arrived, I ventured outside. I was to continue my trip to Lahore on bus from here. But, outside, the vultures had gathered to skin me alive. One cabbie demanded that I pay Rs. 500 for a trip from the airport to the Daewoo bus station. We settled at 120.
Pindi appeared to be a mess on first glimpse. The streets were ripped everywhere. Huge construction equipment sat blocking traffic on both sides. As we approached Saddar, I was struck with disbelief. Every corner that I had known, from the PC hotel to the race course grounds had been bulldozed over. No more trees lining the sides, and footpaths to walk on. An endless spread of grey being trampled upon by cars and trucks of all sizes. In the war with progress, the dark barks and the green leaves had no one on their side.
The Daewoo station looked like a train wreck. Cars here, buses there, and all the passengers in between. I recalled a small station with an even smaller waiting area. By comparison, this was an airport with people strolling in and out, a crowded ticket counter where one would have to lean in just to hear the person on the other side. Getting the ticket turned out to be a semi-jihad, that I fought with an ever decreasing vigour.
Once the bus started moving, all I could hear and see were cellphones. Thumbs started ticking, buttons flew, and ring-tones vaguely familiar began to sound off. I felt like I a small town simpleton dumb-founded by the city experience. But that impression didn't last. A Maulana was sitting in front of me. His discussion with his family implied that he was returning from a trip to Sawaat. Another sat behind me. During the trip, the air conditioner broke down, and we had to take an additional stop, where I phoned home to let everyone know that I was on my way. My brother asked whether I was calling from Toronto. "Nopes", I replied, "Kalar kahaar!"
At the unscheduled stop, the Maulana sitting behind me disappeared. The AC was fixed and we were ready to leave, and a hunt was launched for him. He and his fellow traveller had ordered dinner at the local restaurant and were adamant that they wouldn't leave without eating. When the driver threatened to leave without them, they returned to their seats, and immediately asked the stewardess to bring them the complaint book. Then, they sat back and wrote for a full hour. I could hear some of the subject as was being dictated by the Maulana to his accomplice. I wondered if I could have come up with a better improv, and that too, on paper.
The stewardess was called every fifteen minutes after the incident. Twenty four hours ago, the people around me would have considered this behaviour outrageous. But righteously so, this is consy town, where a dose of harassment dished out by a loud Mullah was ignored by all.
Finally, I reached Lahore. Met my parents after a good three years. Mom looked like she had lost weight. No doubt, every ounce gone was spent worrying about me. Dad seemed composed, but later on, I noted that his temper comes quicker now. A slight nuisance, and his nerves give way.
From there on, I spent a few days in Lahore, and now I am in Karachi. With cousins and family, I barely get time to read. This is the first time I have ventured online in almost two weeks. Pamuk's Snow is in my briefcase, and every time I open it I wonder when I will get a few hours of down time to enjoy it.

Friday, July 29, 2005

Leaving Toronto

I was supposed to have left Toronto by now. But the blunders of a travel agent, and an ill informed friend resulted in me turning around from the airport. Will try again today.
I am leaving without definite plans, and also, without saying my good-byes to all. I was never good at either.
See you all when I return, and behave while I'm gone.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

Poetry - Pablo Neruda

And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.

Taken from here.