hayethim

Seeking Paradise

2011-03-23T16:16:00.000-07:00

Summers wearing on… the dustbowl of India’s western state Rajasthan… Simmering, barren and golden Thar.. Spread, far and wide…

Braving the heat and desert, am heading towards the Gharib Nawaz shrine in Ajmer, where Sufis pray to find their way in this life and the path to the next.

Hot and thirsty, I halt at a roadside dhaba and call out for some water and lemonade. A succession of a few cars appears over the horizon, winding their way through the dusty scrub of the highway amidst large swathes of the desert.

In my quest for inner peace, I resume my pilgrimage.

The only colours that respite the drooping eyes are that of the gigantic turbans of the Rajasthani men along the highway, for who the desert seems to be air-conditioned. For me, it is level and featureless.

The radio in my car starts catching intermittent FM radio frequency. Ajmer is nearing; the desert is giving way to concrete roads and habitation. Each hook and nook of Rajasthan has million tales to tell… stories of honour and pride, tales of bravery… romantic sagas of love and sacrifice… all with epic dimensions.

My car is now pulling into the Ajmer town. It’s my first visit here in 18-years. Much has changed over this seemingly short span of time. Both within and outside.

My driver parks (or should I say, is forced to park) his car in a shop-converted-into-parking. Like they do in Delhi, parking men have leapt on my car, each forcibly inviting us to park in their shops-converted-into-car-parking. Competition and stakes are high everywhere here. It’s Ajmer.

I step out. My pilgrimage on foot starts.

Slowly, but keeping my patience on the edge, I am walking towards the destination to which the crowds of other pilgrims are heading. A labyrinth of alleys and bazaars is leading toward the shrine of India's most revered Sufi saint, Sultan-ul-Hind, Hazrat Shaikh Khwaja Syed Muhammad Mu'inuddin Chishti.

Also known as Gharib Nawaz or 'Benefactor of the Poor’, Khwaja Mu'inuddin Chishti was a 13th century Muslim mystic who withdrew from the world and preached a message of prayer, love and the unity of all things. He promised his followers that if they loosened their ties with the world, they could purge their souls of worries and directly experience God. Rituals and fasting were for the pious, said the saint, but love was everywhere and was much the surest route to the divine.

As I pace up, the gate of the shrine complex starts appearing grander and broader, symbolizing how it embraces people of all hues and shades.

Like a paper kite that sometimes fly with the wind and sometimes against, I am walking towards the grand gate of the shrine, wrestling my way through the crowd coming in my direction and sometimes wading my way with hundreds like me, all lifting their foot to reach out to Gharib Nawaz. Tens of thousands of pilgrims from all over India are milling around the streets, pouring out of buses, unrolling their bedding on the pavement, and cooking their breakfast on portable stoves. From the different encampments on the outskirts—tent cities that resemble the halting place of some medieval army—rivulets of devotees are threading through the bazaars, forming larger streams as they converge on the streets leading to the shrine.

As the shrine is nearing, the crowd is thickening. It is said that a journey of thousand miles start with a single step. Today am realizing how a journey of miles ends with a step too. I have reached the entrance of the shrine complex. What I have seen so far in photos, is right in front of my eyes now. The dove white dome with golden embellishment. Like Moses standing before the Burning Bush, I remove my shoes and step ahead. The makrana marble is hot... my feet are burning.

The small provincial town of Ajmer has shrine as jewel in the crown. And today being nauchandi jummerat (the first Thursday of a lunar month), the shrine compound has transformed into a heaving, mystic metropolis.

The entire complex is alive with the intoxicating smell of roses, which the devotees are carrying in sweet-smelling punnets to pour great fountains of petals onto the saint's sanctum sanctorum. Its difficult to believe how this symbol of communal harmony, became the target of a terrorist bomb attack in October 2007.

The numbers are amazing, but what is even more remarkable in a nation polarized by religious differences is the different traditions from which the pilgrims are drawn. Many are Muslim, but there are also Hindus, as well as the odd Sikh and Christian, all queuing to pay their respects to the saint. Here, for once, you see religion bringing people together, not dividing them.

Sufism is not just something mystical, ethereal and otherworldly, I feel, but a balm on India's festering demographic wounds.

From the very beginning of Sufism, music, dance, poetry and meditation have been seen as crucial spiritual strides on the path of love, an invaluable aid toward attaining unity with God—true paradise. Music, in particular, enables devotees to focus their whole being on the divine so intensely that the soul is both destroyed and resurrected. At Sufi shrines, devotees are lifted by the music into a state of spiritual ecstasy.

Yet these heterodox methods of worship have divided Sufis from many of their Muslim brethren. Throughout Islamic history, more puritanical Muslims have claimed that Sufi practices were infections from Christianity and Hinduism, quite alien to the original principles of Islam.

I reach the main mazaar or tomb of Gharib Nawaz. The crowd is thick and jostling for space. Am unable to walk as there is no space... Suddenly there is a gush and am pushed inside the tomb area.

I am with Khwaja Gharib Nawaz now. What a relief!!

I am lucky to have found a tiny secluded space amidst the heavy crowd to stand and pray. I offer my respect to Khwaja Sahab.

Just as am about to raise my hands in supplication, a wild and hostile looking man starts yelling at me, for money to reach to Gharib Nawaz. What a conflict of ideologies!!

The saint must be feeling uneasy because of his behaviour. He is one of the traditional caretakers of the shrine and thus has the privilege to stand and rob pilgrims from inside the barricaded area of the main mausoleum.

“How can one be so rude and aggressive at such a pious place?” I wonder. But suddenly I notice his black cap, which quells my provocation. These kaali topis are a sect and were accused in the infamous Ajmer sex scandal that rocked the city in 1993. So this hostility is nothing.

Ignoring him and telling myself “I care two hoots”, I continue with my prayers. I raise my hands in supplication and pray for next 30-minutes. The kaali topi has vanished from my mind and thought as I close my eyes and connect with Gharib Nawaz.

I open my eyes and find the kaali topi robbing poor, who have come to the saint famous as ‘Benefactor of the Poor.’ I walk up to him and retort, “Who are you to come between me and my God and Khwaja Sahab?” Had it not been at the shrine, I would have comfortably showed him the proverbial middle finger. Over the last one year I have learnt never to let anyone have an emotional and physical control over me.

Before walking out, I get another chance and space to stand and pray. I step out and look back, promising to come again.

Outside, it is a Thursday evening. Am frequent to shrines, so I know during the singing of the qawwalis, the mesmerizing love songs of the Indian Sufis, the spiritual life of the shrine is to reach its climax. Yet the feeling here is different... It’s magical... mystical.

Huge crowds of pilgrims are already sitting cross-legged in the forecourt in front of the tomb, and the first qawwali singers are beginning to strike up their music. Around them is a press of excited onlookers. Most pilgrims have come with their families—groups of little boys with eyes wonderfully darkened with kohl, little girls who perhaps have been ill and have been brought for healing. At the shrine itself there are young women trying to tie small threads through the lattices of its screens, each one of them with some prayer or petition, usually a plea for marriage or children.

To one side is a huge cauldron of biryani that has just been carried in to feed the poor. There are Muslim grandmothers in black chadors from Bengal, Punjabi Sikhs in their blue turbans, Hindu women from South India with the large red bindis on their foreheads, all coming to pray to the saint, all coming to use Gharib Nawaz as their intermediary to God.

The crowd thickens.

Dholak beats.

Khartal rattles.

The tempo of the music quickens.

And some of the pilgrims begin to sink into a trance.

Old men are swaying now, arms extended, hands cupped in supplication, lost to the world; women are tossing their hair from side to side; and the first of a succession of dervishes rise to their feet to dance.

The atmosphere, already heavy with the rich scent of rose petals, grows heavier still, filled with the softly mouthed and murmured prayers, and with the passionate incantations and expectations of 5000 pilgrims.

I leave them there, with their prayers and petitions, seeking paradise in that most elusive of all destinations, the human heart.

A journey within: Pakistan

2010-03-15T08:14:00.000-07:00

“Tussi Awan ho? Yani Punjabi ho?” asks me a hurly burly gentleman sitting behind a passport control desk at the Jinnah International Airport. With a sense of a pride and an undefined discomfort, I reply in positive. His surname reads Baloch, he gives me a welcoming smile. An interesting start to my Karachi visit.

As I make my way through the golden glitzy corridors of the terminal, the sunrays filtering through the glassy corridors reflect back, glittering everything around. Allaho Akbar (Allah is the Greatest) of the Asr prayer welcomes me. Soothing sight and sound.

Its takes me a while to beleive that I am in a country, which I have not liked much so far. But, as I start my journey to Pakistan, I start yet another journey .. a journey within.

I come out of the airport and take a taxi. My Name is Khan’s “Noor-e-Khuda tu kahan chupa hai hamein yeh bata” attracts my attention. Its the melody coming out from my cabby’s stereo. Soon I start reflecting. Its difficult to beleive that I am in Pakistan. The only thing that separates Karachi from Delhi is the Urdu written on the walls.

Same humans, same spoken language, same rush of office closing hours.

Karachi is the largest city, main seaport and the financial capital of Pakistan. With a city population of 15.5 million, it is one of the world's largest cities and the 20th largest metropolitan in the world.

The city spread over 3,530 km2 in area, almost five times bigger than Singapore. It is locally known as the "City of Lights" and "The bride of the cities" for its liveliness, and the "City of the Quaid", having been the birth and burial place of Quaid-e-Azam Muhammad Ali Jinnah, the founder of Pakistan, who made the city his home after Pakistan's independence.

People are very warm and nice and most of them hug you, notwithstanding your nationality.

Soon, I reach my cousins’ home. They all come and hug me one by one. It has taken two decades and one-and-a-half hour to meet my brothers and sisters. They all resemble me, speak my language.

Seeing is beleiving. Hence, I have started liking Pakistan.

Everyone is like me. Kamil waltz into trance on Indian music, Ali mesmerises everyone as he gyrates on Kajrare, they all dance in circle on Indian and Pakistani songs alike. I also widen their circle as I get into their herd, dancing my way, mixing up in them.

I am enjoying each and every moment in Pakistan. Not every youth is Kasab here. No one is bothered about the ongoing Indo-Pak foreign secretaries’ talk in New Delhi. All of them have risen above the politics- the politics of hate and disbelief.

As my trip moves towards an end, I visit the Mazar-e-Quaid, the mausoleum of Muhammed Ali Jinnah. I dont know whether to offer Fateha or not.

As I bid a tearful farewell to my brothers and sisters, I realise I have lived one of the best phases of my life in these 20 days, in a country which I used to think was bad. My perception is changed now. You need to feel Pakistan, spend time there to like it. I have covered a journey within.

Today, I can proudly say, I like Pakistan and I am not a terrorist.

Can you hear me?

2009-11-19T08:52:00.000-08:00

A year ago, I started blogging with the following post.

"Fingers- so important to us, yet so neglected, we seldom do realize their importance.

If only index finger is shown- it can spell eternity to a sportsman and can send him back to the pavallion. Raised in air, it can mean to indicate the presence of the only God, if kept on the lips, it can spread silence. An indelible mark on it can mean we are free and are a part of democracy. It's the finger on which Lord Krishna carried his Sudarshan Chakra and eliminated many evils.

Just next to it is the middle finger, which flaunts an objectionable abuse.

And the very next finger is connected to heart, the wedding ring is flipped into it of all the five fingers.

The little most finger indicates answering the nature's call.

The thumb, can up and cheer the mood, downwards it can boo off. Through it we key-in the mushy, sometimes sad text messages on our handphones. Its suck can make a baby sleep.

Two fingers of the same hand in the air mean victory, two fingers of different hands mean a sixer or a simple gesture of a dance, dance of joy, fun and celebration- the celebration of being alive.

Together, these fingers can make some people express them more passionately.

Holding these fingers we grow up. Holding the tiny ones, we show path to our tomorrow.

They strike the chords, creating music, music that transcends borders. Their right movement on a bamboo stick create percussion.

The gap between them create a space for someone to come and fill in them .. with fingers.

They can feed a hungry stomach, these fingers can show the door to get out, they can slap and punch, they can rise in supplication to God. Blind men's eyes, mute people's tongue.

One day I decide to run them on the keypad like a maestro directing a chorus. A new journey commences ... my blog starts."

November 19, 2009 .. I have something more to add to it.

Your "friends" and people close to your heart, leave these same fingers when you are in distress, when you are in crisis. And you walk alone, with these fingers rising up in supplication, sometimes crossed with the hope that help in the form of a mere moral support would come soon.

The last nine months have been the most painful time of my young life. The pain and agony have been amplified with the attitude of people I considered close to my heart, sometimes as close as my real brother.

They have turned their back on me.

I have always respected them, looked upto them, fought for them, bruised myself for them. But when my time came, they dont even listen to my cries .. my cries for help .. my cries for a support.

It is only unfortunate they dont realise that when we are in distress, we reach out to people we cosider close to our hearts and not to any Tom, Dick and Harry.

Technology has brought all of us closer and together. We are just ‘fingertips’ away from our nears and dear ones, atleast from those who we consider nears and dears. But then, it takes a finger to disconnect a call and maybe.. to disconnect more than just a phone call. Sad!!

My really good and genuine friend, Simran rightly says, "Zaini, if they can not reciprocate, people should atleast respect the affection you give them."

There are some people, who I fought for, in the battle I had nothig to do with. Today I feel I have been used as a proxy or maybe as a puppet. Same people dont even answer my call, let alone do a small favour on me.

I have never felt so lonely in my life as much as I feel today. If I dont call them for days, they dont even bother to find out if I am alright, if the crisis I was in has got over.

However, ironically the help has come from an unexpected person, someone who I had very professional relations with, somene who I didnt even invite when my brother got married, someone whose call I always missed, he’s my hairdresser- Sarfaraz.

He not only calls me from time to time to find out how I am doing but also tries to place me well. He has a client, who is a big boss of a big company, in which my brother-like brother works. What my brother-like brother couldn’t do, Sarfaraz did. He organised my interview there. Sarfaraz, today I have another reason to bow my head in front of you. Hats off!

This time will pass off. But I will forever remember these heady days.

Onward,

Zain

Dassehra

2009-09-29T03:18:00.000-07:00

Dassehra was celebrated with great pomp and show, epitomising the victory of Good over Evil. Effigies of demon king Ravan, his brother Kumbhkaran and son Meghnad waited to meet their nemesis.

Demons could be seen across the country's capital. Many people burnt their inner evils alongwith the effigies. There were, however, few exceptions.

In the Ramayan-reversal of sort, Ravana was the first one to go- apparaently by mistake. Asardar Sonia Gandhi was here with Sardar Manmohan Singh. With the spectre of elections looming large on Haryanvi and Maharashtrian horizons, the duo must have thought to uproot their biggest enemy first- the way Ravana went up in flames first.

Kumbhkaran ate flames and slept- forever.

Meghnad followed his father and uncle. The crowd cheered.

In another Ramlilla, just a few days before the third anniversary of complete ban on child labour, these kids could be seen making human chain, protecting any intrusion or suspicious people.

The kid in blue, guard-like uniform is not participating in any fancy dress competition as I first thought seeing him. When I spoke to him, I got to know he has never been to school and has seen very little of Ramlilla performance as most of the time his back is turned towards the stage. Reminds me of a story, masons build our big houses but themselves live in shanties.

Dilli 6 looked nice, even as Allah and Ramleela coexisted.

Ram must have smiled as the exile he started on December 6, ended in Delhi 6.

Happy Dassehra to you all.

Foodaholics

2009-02-27T23:11:00.000-08:00

Hi all,

It is my pleasure to introduce to you 'Foodaholics', a cake and dessert company owned by my very good friend Kishi Arora.

As your cakesmith, she has come up with a range of cake/dessert/pudding assortments of exotic flavours from Blueberry to Orange Chocolate; Vanilla Bavarian and more which are made to order.

And to add the sweet touch to those Special Occasions there's nothing better than desserts laced with French and Belgian chocolate.

Hate the hassle of facing traffic jam to get your favourite cake/dessert??

Foodaholics has just the option for you-- Just email or call and the cakes will be delivered to your doorstep! The Cakes/Desserts/Puddings come in different sizes, listed below:

4" serves 2-4 people
6" serves 6-8 people
9" serves 10-16 people
12" serves 16-20 people

And if you have any reservation about eggs, Foodaholics has the eggless ones to offer you. So, become a foodaholic!! Order now, eat your cakes and have the icing too!!

Cheers!

Zain

Looking for Work

2009-02-09T02:12:00.000-08:00

*A Japanese doctor said, 'Medicine in my country is so advanced that we can take a kidney out of one man, put it in another, and have him looking for work in six weeks. *

*A German doctor said, 'That's nothing, we can take a lung out of one person, put it in another, and have him looking for work in four weeks. *

*A British doctor said, 'In my country, medicine is so advanced that we can take half of a heart out of one person, put it in another, and have them both looking for work in two weeks. *

*A Pakistani doctor, not to be outdone said, 'You guys are way behind. We took a man with no brains out of Nawabshah, put him in the President House, and now half the country is looking for work.'*

Duah

2009-01-22T09:48:00.000-08:00

Arziyaan sari mein chehre pe likh kay laaya hoon

Tumsay kya mangu mein tum khud hi samajh lo maula... Ya maulaaaa

Maula Maula Maula Mere Maula

Dararein dararein maathay pay maula

Maramat mukdar ki kar do maula ... Mayray Maula

Ek khusbu aati thi

Mein bhatakta jata tha

Reshmi si maya thi

Aur mein takta jata tha

Jab teri gali aaya

Sach tabhi nazar aaya

Mujh may hee woh khusboo thi

Jissay toonay milwaya

Maula Maula Maula Mere Maula

Tut ke bikharna mujhko zarur aata hai

Varna ibbadat wala saroor aata hai

Sajday mein rehnay do

abb kahin na jaunga

Abb jo tumnay tukhraya to

Sawar na paunga

(Courtesy: Delhi 6)

Nihari thi, Nihari hai, Nihari gi

2009-01-14T03:07:00.000-08:00

One misty wintery morning of January, after the Fajr Namaaz, eyes wake up. It’s too lazy to get out of the warm quilt. An aroma attracts. You slip on to your jumper, wear a woolen cap and start walking towards Kaali Masjid.

A sweeper is cleaning the narrow and dingy lanes; box rickshaws carrying school children are streaming the galees and koochas of Purani Dilli. As you walk a little bit, groping your way in the foggy roads, a clink of a larder attracts your attention, the aroma grows even stronger. A Nihari shop is found.

Nihari is an extremely popular dish among Muslims in India and even Pakistan. The word Nihar has its root in the Urdu word Nahaar, which means morning. Hence Nihari is traditionally eaten in the morning.

Known for its spiciness and taste, Nihari is a stew made from the shank of beef (or mutton) and spices. It is originally more of a delicacy with myriad variations on spiciness and texture.

Legend has it that in the Mughal era, a rich man fell ill with severe cold. A Hakeem prepared a medicine for him to be eaten empty stomach. After the man had had the medicine, his cold vanished.

That medicine kept modifying with time and came to known what now is Nihari.

Initially, it was a dish of the Muslim upper class society in Delhi but soon transcended its aroma to the other classes as Muslim ascendancy and power declined.

Today, Nihari is a rich man's delight and a poor's neccessity.

Famous Nihari shops in Purani Dilli

• Kallu ki Nihari, Chatta Lal Miyan, Behind Delite Cinema. It’s undoubtedly the best Nihari in the entire Delhi. Be there at around 4ish in the evening. If you are lucky, you can partake of his 30-kg degh, which cleans-up within barely 15-minutes of Bhai Kallu taking the lid off the degh.

• Qadeer ki Nihari, Gali Khan Khana, Inside Turkman Gate. Very authentic, finger licking, ‘intoxicating’. Available early morning. After the death of Bhai Qadeer, his sons have failed to maintain the age-old legacy but it’s not as disappointing as other Nihari shops that have mushroomed up in Dilli 6.

• Baradari, Ballimaran. One of the oldest Nihari shops, where even Mirza Ghalib used to frequent- to savor the Nihari and perhaps to pen the couplets.

• Baaray ki Nihari, Sadar Bazar. Once a very famous, now trying to live upto its old name and fame.

And finally, the recipe ;)

Ingredients

1 kilogram of Beef (with bones)
3 medium Onions (thinly sliced)
2 tbsp. of All-Purpose Flour (Maida)
1 small piece of Dry Ginger (Sounth)
2 Small White Cardamoms (Choti Safaid Ilaichi)
2 Bay Leaves (Tezz Pattay)
1 Cinnamon Stick (Dal Cheeni)
2 tsp. of Garam Masala Powder
2 tbsp. of Aniseeds/Fennel Seeds (Sounf) (grounded)
1 tsp. Red Chilli Powder (Pisi Lal Mirch) (or to taste)
2 pinches of Nutmeg
½ tsp. Turmeric Powder (Pisi Haldi)
Salt (to taste)
1 small piece of Black Salt (Kaala Namak)
1 tbsp. Garlic Paste (Pisa Lehsan)
1 tbsp. Ginger Paste (Pisi Adrak)
½ cup Plain Yogurt
½ cup Clarified Butter (Ghee) or Cooking Oil

Ingredients for Garnishing

1 medium Onion (sliced, fried to brown and dried) (or a cup of ready-fried onions)
3 Green Chillies (Hari Mirch) (chopped)
1 (2" piece) of Ginger Root (Adrak) (cut in strips)
A bunch of Fresh Coriander Leaves (Hara Dhania) (chopped)
1 Lemon
Nullies
Bheja

Directions

In a pot, heat the clarified butter or cooking oil. Once the oil gets hot add in the 3 sliced onions. Turn the stove down to medium. Fry the onions to golden brown. Remove from oil and put the onions on a paper towel to absorb any excess oil. Crush the onions.

Add the meat and garam masala powder (whole spices), plain yogurt , ginger paste, garlic paste, salt, red chilli powder, bay leaves, cinnamon and turmeric powder, continuously fry by stirring until the oil separates.

Add in the nutmeg, cardamoms, aniseeds and black salt. Stir, add in enough water to cover meat and cook on low heat covered for 2 to 3 hrs.

Once the meat is cooked and tender, add in the flour and cook on low heat for about another 10 minutes.

Garnish with coriander leaves, fried onions, green chillies ginger strips, lemon juice, nullies and bhejas.

Serving Suggestions: Serve Hot with Chapati Roti or Nan

Preparation Time: 3 to 4 Hours

Islamic New Year

2008-12-30T08:55:00.000-08:00

As Islamic new year begins today, here's a wish that may this year be good for everyone, especially in the Islamic World.

The New Year has come at a time when hundreds of Muslims are being martyred in Gaza. Special prayers for its people- who have been facing and fighting a war without end.

Islamic New Year begins with the month of Muharram. Shia Muslims mark Muharram as the anniversary of the Battle of Karbala when Imam Husayn got martyred at the hands of Yazid.

Prayers are due to Saddam Hussein, who faught against the US. However, he ethnic cleansed scores of Shias, it's only a coincidence that the month of Muharram begins with his martyrdom day.

The Pastry Shop

2008-12-26T03:08:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, in a far away kingdom, there was a rich merchant. One day he decided to open a pastry shop.

Both the merchant and his wife were very excited about the idea. There were already many bakeries in the kingdom but the merchant and his wife wanted their pastry shop to be cut above the rest- the best in the entire kingdom.

Soon the work began on the construction of the pastry shop. Its structure was easily the most massive of all the pastry shops in the kingdom. The upcoming pastry shop was already the toast of the town.

To give direction on how the pastries should taste and to add value to the shop, the merchant hired his old friend, who was very famous pastry maker of the kingdom. He was famous as Mr. Brave inside and outside the kingdom.

Mr. Brave was very meticulous about the taste and quality of the pastries. His knowledge and insight into the pastries were beyond doubts.

So that the pastries are of varied taste and high on quality, Mr. Brave hired his deputy- a young farsighted man, with many claims to fame. Despite his very young age, he was very respectable in the pastry industry. He was made the manager of the shop.

And began the countdown to the opening of the pastry shop. There was an excitement in the air. All the workers in the yet-to-be-opened pastry shop were working day and night. Various flavours of pastries were being made and tested.

The team of Mr. Brave, the young manager and hundreds of workers was the perfect dream team- an eye-soar for other bakeries for sure.

Suddenly one day, just when everything was ready for the pastry shop to be opened, everything collapsed.

The rich merchant and Mr. Brave fell apart- over the tastes and flavours of the pastries. The rich merchant and his wife especially, wanted quantity, whereas Mr. Brave was not willing to compromise on the quality. The entire kingdom was shocked as they were eagerly waiting for the pastry shop to be opened soon.

Immediately after the rich merchant and his wife fell apart with Mr. Brave, dark and ugly clouds gathered in the sky. The young manager who was hired by Mr. Brave was called in by some sycophants of the rich merchant. The young manager was asked to leave the soon-to-be-opened pastry shop.

His exit was very unceremonious as he was manhandled and almost bundled out of the shop, yet he kept a dignified demeanor. His exit became toast of the town. No one could believe how the rich merchant and his wife could stoop to that level.

And began another chapter in the history of that pastry shop.

(To be continued)

Weeweechu

2008-12-25T01:56:00.000-08:00

It's a romantic full moon, when Pedro said, "Hey, mamacita, let's do Weeweechu."

"Oh no, not now, let's look at the moon!" said Rosita.

"Oh, c'mon baby, let's you and I do Weeweechu. I love you and it's the perfect time," Pedro begged.

"But I wanna just hold your hand and watch the moon." replied Rosita.

"Please, corazoncito, just once, do Weeweechu with me."

Rosita looked at Pedro and said, "OK, one time, we'll do Weeweechu."

Pedro grabbed his guitar and they both sang . . .

"Weeweechu a Merry Christmas,
Weeweechu a Merry Christmas,
Weeweechu a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year."

MERRY CHRISTMAS ! ! !

Think positive, keep your minds clean and have a super wonderful fabulous fantastic rocking time this festive season.

Breaking News: The Shoes have been Traced

2008-12-19T04:02:00.000-08:00

The pair of shoes which was thrown by Iraqi journalist, Muntader al-Zaidi at Mr. Bush in Iraq has links to Pakistan, said a statement from Pentagon. They have the following proofs:

i) The journalist had visited Pakistan earlier this year. There he was inspired by the shoe throwing at former CM Arbab Ghulam Rahim and Sher Afghan Niazi.

ii) He received his training of throwing shoes by a Pakistan based Jihadi organization.

iii) The DNA sample of leather has revealed that the animal whose skin was used for manufacturing the shoe had traces of grass which is grown in North of Pakistan and this skin was collected by a Jihadi organization on Eid-ul-Adha this month.

Hearing this, President Asif Ali Zardari and Prime Minister Yousaf Raza Gilani have decided to launch a country wide crackdown against all the cobblers in Pakistan. Defense Minister Ahmad Mukhtar who also owns Service Shoe Company will lead the Task Force.

A House of Flying Daggers

2008-12-11T11:41:00.000-08:00

Scene this. You fall apart with someone dear and close to you. You think that as the time moves on, you will patch-up.

But... one day you get to know that that person has gone on far, perhaps never to come back. Will you then launch a frantic search for him? How far will you go in your search?

And what happens if you come across harsh realities your way? Will you be heartbroken? Will you cry? Or will you accept it stoically and keep living with a weigh on your soul?

‘A House of Flying Daggers’ is a story of two such friends, who didn’t choose their destiny but their destinies chose them.

Keep watching this space as I start telling you that story- the story of Hamza and Yovan.

Naya Banwas- by Kaifi Azmi

2008-12-05T06:17:00.000-08:00

Ram banwas se jab laut kay ghar mein aaye

Yaad jungle bahut aaya jo nagar mein aaye

Raksse deewangee aangan mein jo dekha hoga

6 December ko, Sri Ram ne socha hoga

Itnay deewanay kahan say mayray ghar mein aaye?

Jagmate thay jahan Ram ke kadamon ke nishaan

Pyaar ki kahkashan leti thi angrayee jahan

Mor nafrat ke usi raah guzar mein aaye

Dharm kya unka hai, kya zaat hai, yeh janta kaun

Ghar na jalta to unhe raat mein pehchanta kaun

Ghar jalanay ko mera log jo ghar mein aaye

Shakahari hai mere dost tumhare khanjar

Tumnay Babar ki taraf phaykay thay saare patthar

Hain mere sar ke khata zakhm jo sar mein

Paoon Saryu mein abhi Ram ne dhoye bhi na the

Ke nazar aaye wahan khoon ke gehre dhabbay

Paun dhoye bina Saryu ke kinare se uthay

Ram ye kehte hue apne dwaare se uthay

Rajdhani ki fiza aaye nahin raas mujheay

6 December ko mila doosra banvaas mujhay.

Mumbai

2008-12-04T08:20:00.000-08:00

Another assault, another wound
Let me cry …

Don’t stop me, let me lament
It’s not me, wounded and bleeding
Let me cry …

Oh my pride, my dear sea
How could you ferry them to assault me?
Let me cry…

I’ve been proud and have been loud
City of dreams, now a nightmare
Let me cry …

Oh my Saint, my people touch you with foreheads
Why then they died in heaps and bled?
Let me cry …

I feel like a dumb wanting to speak
I am frozen and numb
Let me cry …

The lofty and mighty gate, you were my pride
They battered me on your threshold
Let me cry …

I glitter and gloss, always
I glittered and bombed
Let me cry ….

My people had spirits high
When the waves were high
But today, let me cry …

I’ve been repeatedly assaulted and bombed
And I moved on courageously
But today, let me vent, let me cry.

Dervish

2008-11-27T13:01:00.000-08:00

Oh! Dear Dervish, come here, sit you by me,
And explain you all this intricacy to me
Why is there a never ending strife?
What to do all through this long life?
Why isn’t there happiness all around?
Why do I have to find sadness abound?
I wake up to search happiness everyday
It seems to me there’s only night in my day.

He smiled to say ‘Oh you Hayethim, how can I come and sit next to you?
You belong to this world, for happiness you have to search your soul through’
Oh! Dervish, can’t you see am sad, you don’t have to be so rude and so abrupt
Said he that your soul is in this world and has long become corrupt
I was shocked to see what he just said
If my soul is here, does he mean I am dead?
His smile was cryptic; I was not at all pleased
I beat my chest, in my eyes my angst could he read

Suddenly, along my chest, the drums began to beat,
Come with me Hayethim, let you feel the real soul’s heat
With this he now began to dance and twirl
"Desert your nafs and meditate a whirl"
I smiled for I had got the spark
Suddenly the Light had taken over the dark
While whirling, towards the sky my hands got open
I was in trance to receive my God’s beneficence

My eyes were closed as I was whirling and whirling
I felt the music had God’s word in my ear whispering
His white skirt was revolving
Like this wide earth rotating
Wandering ones gather honey
He begs door to door to distribute his earn of money
I now know when he asked me to leave soul, he was wise
I was now in trance and happy, I had got my paradise.

Unsung Hero: Uncle Ameria

2008-11-24T12:37:00.000-08:00

... And one day the God suddenly decided to stop writing his story.

Its the story of a man made up of grit and determination, its the story of a man who, like phoenix, rose from his ashes- rejuvenating not just himself but everyone around, its the story of a man who was more misunderstood than he worked hard and understood, its the story of an unsung hero, its the story of Uncle Ameria ... Madhav Lal Ameria.

How long can you fall, rise, fall and rise again? One day? Two days? One week? One year? More than fifty years!! Uncle Ameria, as I fondly called him, lived a life of upheavals for more than fifty years, not for himself but for others.

Dickensian childhood

Born in a very modest family on May 6th, sometime in 1950s, Uncle Ameria must have had been easily cut above the rest as a young kid. I never saw him as a child but I could see his turbulent childhood in his wide eyes at the age of 50. The eyes were tired yet passionate, they were critical yet so compassionate, had seen more struggle than success, they had witnessed the death of his father (Giriraj) when he was in playful childhood.

His father was a railway employee in Bharatpur- the dustbowl of Rajasthan. After the death of Uncle Ameria's father, the onus of bringing up the kids fell on his mother's (Misri Devi) shoulders. She was the station master at the Bharatpur railway station and was called Jhanday Wali, for her job was to show flag to the passing trains.

Uncle Ameria grew up in this kind of background, where the existance must have been hand-to-mouth. All this impacted young and emotional Uncle Ameria.

It goes without saying about him that the sparks can't get whimped down so easily. Uncle Ameria struggled his way to high school and onto college. And a day came, when the son of Jhanday Wali became an engineer.

To be very frank and honest to you all, I don't know how his life would have been in his youth but am sure, it must have had been more for others than for himself.

One day Uncle Ameria entered into a threshold of another life as he got married. And began another journey. Soon the family expanded and so did the dreams of Uncle Ameria. His main aim in life was to get his two children the best of education. He would work day and night and at the end of the month, used to hide his salary in his socks because the robbers on the way used to loot the travellers. For the betterment of his children, he left his nest in Rajastan and moved to New Delhi.

Successful yet empty

I first met Uncle Ameria on October 7, 2001. It was Sunday and he was at home. My first image of him is still etched in my memory. He was working and troubleshooting the computer in his house. Wearing the tiny reading glasses, Uncle Ameria was too busy to have had realised that somebody had rang the bell of his house. Such was his passion and insight. His face was down, so I could barely see his face.

After a while he entered the drawing room and greeted me warmly. Soon I found myself standing in front of a young, ebullient personality- which appeared larger than life. He was almost 6 feet, broad forehead, bushy eyebrows, big eyes. He was very easily more active and switched-on than his 25-year old son. We all dined together. After we got through, he drove 10-kms to drop me home.

He had a very decent living then- he had everything. But you scratch a bit and you could see a rusted base. He had left a cushy job abroad, moved back to India with his growing children, had to face some troubles on other fronts too. When a person is in trouble, his luck and friends leave him alone. There are only rare few who get support- more moral than financial. Uncle Ameria wasn't that lucky. He faced, braved and faught all that alone.

Dreams shatter

One day, he had to part ways with this occasional happiness unceremoniously. He remained dignified.. He rose again.

I observed how all this had made him distanced himself from everyone, including from himself. It seemd to me that the man would smile but not from the heart, he would feel happy but it didn't reflect and reach in his eyes.

My last meeting with him

While all this was going on, when he was lonely in the crowd, I went to his house. It was my last visit to his house, I saw him last then.

I still remember, it was March 9, 2003. He was too tired and perhaps too interestless to come and meet me. As I left their house and the family came to see me off, I gathered courage and peeped inside a room where he was there. He was sleeping and looked like a hermit in meditation. I filled my eyes with his glance. Somewhere in my mind, in my subconsciousness, I dont know how I knew that I was seeing him one last time.

I spoke to him over the phone twice after that. In one of my last conversations I asked him how he was, to which he stoically replied "Bas beta, jee rahay hain duniya daari mein" (Just living in the formality of worldliness). I could sense there was a storm growing in him but he was mum. It was dangerous. He had seen so much in his life that he was keeping a dignified silence.

And then came a cruel day. April 22-23, 2006.

Uncle Ameria slept at night, never to wake up again, never to rise again from his ashes.

He never troubled anyone in his lifetime and death. His transition to the another world was instant and sudden. Just like the failures and shocks had been to him when he was alive.

Today his children are well settled. Am not in touch with the family but I can feel that he is watching me from up above, peeping from the stars, witnessing my success, happiness and achievements and smiling.

Am sure, he has given enough to his children that they can't even reciprocate to him. Yet the man remains unspoken of- like an unsung hero, who lived for others, way beyond the formality of worldliness.

Do dastakein aisi bhi

2008-11-22T06:08:00.000-08:00

Ek shaam dastak huyi, aur main khud sey milna chalaa aaya

Samundar ki rayton pey, paon apnay chaap aaya

Aakay saans bhi na liya tha ki bahaar ka nazaara kuch ajeeb sa suna

Jhaank kay dekha to ek majmaa jamaa hua sa laga

Kaanpti awaz se socha ki yeh maajra kya hai

Maloom aaya kisi ko pakar liya hai

Isi shashopanch mein tha ki achanak... ek aur dastak huyi

Darwaza khola hi tha ki mujhko majmay nay ghaseeta aur raundh diya

Main ghabraa kay bachkay aakay baitha aur chal paraa

Apney paon kay nishan dhoondnay

Wahan ret ki chaadar thi jisko samundar ki maujon nay gheela kar diya tha

Main khud sey duur ho gaya tha

Samundar ki rayton pey, paon apnay chaap kay

To Alzheimer, with Love

2008-11-20T09:58:00.000-08:00

He has often looked back on life
And smiled his way forward

Suddenly the mist and fog surrounds the way
Can't look back, can only grope his way forward

Hear can he, the giggles and moans around
Can't but see the golden past behind

He now has to crawl and grope his way somehow
Oh! dear Alzheimer you are his new love now

You have engulfed him like a lover does to beloved
And he can't move his steps back now

You will make him forget everything, everyone
You two will be together with none

You have hugged him as he groped his way
He will now move ahead holding your hand forver his way

He has lost his soul to you
One day it will resurrect too

I give you his hand, Oh! dear Alzheimer
Atleast you be his lover forever

Give him all the love you can
Make him forget what he so far can't

With care you please lay him with your hands in his grave
He looks beautiful in sleep, give him a kiss before you leave his grave

Oh! dear Alzheimer I give his hand to you, give him love, take his care
Atleast you be his, so that he resurrects one day

Like in true love
When the soul is both destroyed and resurrected.

Fingers

2008-11-19T11:27:00.000-08:00

Fingers- so important to us, yet so neglected, we seldom do realize their importance.

If only index finger is shown- it can spell eternity to a sportsman and can send him back to the pavallion. Raised in air, it can mean to indicate the presence of the only God, if kept on the lips, it can spread silence. An indelible mark on it can mean we are free and are a part of democracy. It's the finger on which Lord Krishna carried his Sudarshan Chakra and eliminated many evils.

Just next to it is the middle finger, which flaunts an objectionable abuse.

And the very next finger is connected to heart, the wedding ring is flipped into it of all the five fingers.

The little most finger indicates answering the nature's call.

The thumb, can up and cheer the mood, downwards it can boo off. Through it we key-in the mushy, sometimes sad text messages on our handphones. Its suck can make a baby sleep.

Two fingers of the same hand in the air mean victory, two fingers of different hands mean a sixer or a simple gesture of a dance, dance of joy, fun and celebration- the celebration of being alive.

Together, these fingers can make some people express them more passionately.

Holding these fingers we grow up. Holding the tiny ones, we show path to our tomorrow.

They strike the chords, creating music, music that transcends borders. Their right movement on a bamboo stick create percussion.

The gap between them create a space for someone to come and fill in them .. with fingers.

They can feed a hungry stomach, these fingers can show the door to get out, they can slap and punch, they can rise in supplication to God. Blind men's eyes, mute people's tongue.

One day I decide to run them on the keypad like a maestro directing a chorus. A new journey commences ... my blog starts.