It’s the little joys in life That lift and hug the soul; It’s the little brushes with sublimity That paint the rosiest strokes
It’s the steaming mugs of tea shared With a friend, over confidences and laughter; The mugs wrapped in hands as warm as the hearts That are bonding, ministering, healing ... and after Memorializing that perfect little moment of joy.
It’s the sudden cool breeze that caresses the cheek And then wraps me up in its vital embrace; It’s the happy burst of a monsoon shower As she dances and cleanses; prances and quenches Leaving behind her intoxicating petrichor In a joyful bouquet of nostalgia and grace
It’s the intrepid, songful, mirthful mynah That unexpectedly struts right up to my feet Warbling of little delights; trilling with all her might Laying her little heart bare in melodious refrain It’s the big, big soul in that fragile frame That reminds me of the precious little joys.
It’s the beautiful Sakura tree, bounteous in its white and pink Waiting for a wayward breeze to stir up her flower-bedecked limbs; It is seeing the frolicsome duo of tree and breeze Create magic in a moment they mutually seize As the blossoms flutter down in lusty effusion Covering the ground with inflorescent profusion An enchanting, enthralling moment of joy.
It’s little kindnesses wrought in the moment A helping hand on a busy street, A warm smile in the milieu of rushing feet A tender word to the transiently fallen A little something more for the lonely and forgotten It’s seeing this shared transcendental camaraderie That gives me that small little rush of joy.
It’s looking up into a clear night sky And finding Orion and Taurus winking up high It’s watching the Big Dipper look tenderly upon Little Ursa Minor nestling just under the moon It’s seeing our little world from the vastness of space That fills me with joy and bolsters my faith
The quickening string that binds us all Our whole web of life; all living creatures Are these startlingly simple acts of joy These wondrous, alchemical creations of nature It’s this coming together of life’s vital energy That lifts and elates with its mystical synergy This is the mannah that nurtures the soul Mending our cracks and making us whole.
This is well meaning satire. (Clarifying for the benefit of those readers who are still in awe of the Royals and may feel quite contrary about such outrageous literary endeavors 🤓) Read to the lilt of “Mistress Mary, Quite Contrary, How does your garden grow?”
Harry Harry! You’re so contrary How does this scandal go? With Meghan talking The Monarchy balking And the Commonwealth all in a tizzy so.
Hairy Hairy! The story’s getting scary! As Archie’s peaches’n’cream glow ... Was once under suspicion Since the pasty skin condition Is vital for the bluest blood to flow.
Marry Marry! In crowns and skirts a-flarey You had to jostle the imperial bough ... Daddy did the right thing Big brother duly followed him You went and started a socio-cultural row.
Goblins and Fairies! You wish that you could tarry In Nevernever Land with Cap’n Hook ... For reality’s a-biting This game of thrones is frightening And it just seems nicer to be hiding in a book.
For Friends and Adversaries! To know was necessary That is how great changes take root ... So keep the commoner cloak on The scandal’s far from being gone Granny too’ll want to stomp her august boot.
But when all’s said and done ...
Its hurrah hurrah Harry! You’ve been extraordinary For calling out the system so ... The bigoted beast’s a-fester Of king and queen and jester Dang! It’s been a cracker of a reality show!
Day ends and darkness sweeps in, Enveloping the ready and the unready into its blackened folds. It scuttles into crannies and leaps into fissures, Blotting out the light for another 8 hours ... or eternity... Tonight, am I happy to be in its restful, warm embrace Galvanizing my body and my spirit for tomorrow? Or am i dreading the walk with Erebus* in the murky corridors of gloom? The choice is mine to make.
Night ends and daylight marches in Casting off the monochromatic grey-black silhouettes. Lingering shadows disappear; the sounds of silence explode into daytime clamor. Exultant photons ricochet through the air As Earth waltzes around her own cosmic maypole; one dance done, another begun. Am I ready to seize the day today? Or am I dreading the tread of Helios* outside my bedroom window? The choice is mine to make.
The gods of Myth and the gods of Now Continue their battle in the sacred space of my heart. They wrangle with each other, the twain never meeting; Perpetuating confusion, torment and intrigue; Shredding my soul as the spoils of their unholy war. Will I continue to shed blood, lose hope and malinger for the false prophets within? Or am I ready to make this day, this life, my own? It is MY choice to make.
The Joy of Being is not by chance, but by Choice
*Erebus: The god of Darkness in Greek mythology *Helios: the god of the Sun in Greek mythology
Our Earth, now home to almost 8 billion humans. Also home to 153 million orphan children. Also the nursery to 140 million new births every year. Empirical population statistics when you look at each one individually. But when you connect them via the human equation, one can see the bizarre manifestation of our humanity gone awry.
The need to procreate has been so essential to our culture, beliefs and even our biology, that to build a family unit without passing on our exclusive DNA to our progeny is unthinkable; even unchristian, unislamic. And so, we continue to go from generation to generation, bequeathing with unrelenting tenacity, not so much our values, ethics and a spirit of industry, but the genetic codes that cellularly define us. We proudly bring another nestling into the world, the amalgam of our essential genomic structures, while another child somewhere not far off, adds to the global orphan count. The latter faithfully, effortlessly remains a de-sensitised statistic.
Even organized religion has given in to its baser instincts; and via insidious cloak and dagger plots of familial temptation and intrigue, has summarily discouraged adoption. For how can an adoptive father not be carnally tempted by the fact of the unshared DNA; or an adoptive mother blame herself for her lack of love and care for the child who is in fact, not her child. These are the ugly predispositions that guide our belief systems. And so it has come to pass that some of the most devout nations on earth continue to have the highest birth rates in the world.
I don’t profess to being maternal. The sum total of my maternal instincts extends to my niece and my nephew (they’re as close to my own children as I’ll have), my team in my corporate past life, the support staff in and around my regular surroundings, and the animal world. (It would appear, there are vestiges of the instinct after all; just not in the customary manner of speaking!) However, I have seen many, many… too many snot-nosed little kids that have become a part of the crazy, conveniently distant tumult on our busy urban streets. And I have heard countless … heartbreakingly countless horror stories of the forgotten children that are manipulated and mauled in the same orphanages and sanctums of faith that avow to protect them. Somehow, somewhere down the line, we have forgotten that we, the human collective, are the nurtures and providers of all the children that we bring into this world.
I am also not a detractor of the traditional family unit. It is, in fact, still one of our conventional social constructs that constantly reminds us that we are innately compassionate, loving and tolerant. However, I am a detractor of every dogma, ideal and manifesto that equates those same human qualities with the sharing of DNA. I am a detractor of all the myths and parables that typecast the concept of adoption in anything but the most judiciously humane light. In our current existences where economic inequality is shamelessly rife, the right of every orphan to be loved and cared for, unassailably surpasses our own need to perpetuate our heredity. The traditional family unit has to evolve into a more conscionable, accepting and diverse whole. The patriarchal ego has to take a back seat as we gradually but steadfastly make the word “Orphan” obsolete.
We no longer have the luxury of compartmentalising the children of our planet into a hierarchy of care, based on genetics. It is high time in fact, that we rallied together like the proverbial village to raise all the children of our world.
“There can be no keener revelation of a society’s soul than the way in which it treats its children.” – Nelson Mandela
*Title inspiration from a 2006 dystopian science fiction movie thriller of the same name.
The crew with hearts of gold pressed latinum and the luck of the devil!
My trek across the galaxy that began with Star Trek, Deep Space 9 (DS-9), has continued with the constant state of high adventure of the Voyager. Although I’m still traversing the Delta quadrant with the intrepid crew in the middle of season 6, the glimmers of home in the alpha quadrant seem brighter with each episode. And after almost 150 episodes, I feel like I can put some pixel energy behind the cause of the on-screen Voyager effort.
Straight off, I have to get this little confession off my terran, earth-bound chest: the Voyager despite its majestic galavanting across uncharted space, just doesn’t warm the cockles of the heart as DS-9 did. The fact that DS-9 was a space station and therefore some semblance of “solid ground” where the inter-galactic shenanigans took place, could have been the magic bullet; or it could just be the quirky wholesomeness of all its alien characters. Either way, my sojourn with Voyager has seen its fair share of hoping for a quick photonic catapult to Earth, which would also gracefully allow me to wormhole out of a few episodes! And when frustration with the elusive Caretaker and his speed devil of an invention becomes over-powering enough for me to pull the plug on the whole thing, a fabulous little episode or two come along and I continue to fondly persevere through yet another ST-Voyager cloaked pandemic evening.
All the main characters of Voyager appear to be doppelgängers of the primary DS-9 crew: Tom Paris is fashioned after our endearingly narcisstic Dr. Bashir; B’ellana Torres, like Kira, is as fiery as she is compassionate; Harry Kim is the youthful avatar of Chief O’ Brian; Tuvok is as painfully forthright as Odo and carries himself with the same idiosycratic panache of one who is obliged in his professional capacity, to deal tolerantly with the rabble around him; Neelix is like a glorified Rom, compassionate and wise under a jocular exterior; the good doctor is a combination personality imbibing traits from across the spectrum while holographically catalysing the episodes where the usual flesh and blood would put a quick (and gruesome!) end to the story. With his cool temperament, Chakotay is the Jadzia Dax of Voyager, bringing that essential equilibrium and balance to the management equation. Seven of Nine is definitely the embodiment of many an adolescent male’s fantasy: beautiful, robotic and not shy. Captain Janeway though makes a much better captain than her DS-9 counterpart. That husky voice and the southern drawl combined with her peculiar professional maternity quite nicely clinches the part.
Other Deep Space Distillations:
-The staff quarters are like 5-star hotel suites, roomy with panoramic views of the stars and any number of cosmic aurora borealis. The experience is further authenticated with the complimentary chocolates (read: replicators!) and floral arrangements from across the galaxy.
-Many of the episodes are tear jerkers in their overload of drama and emotions. I admit to having wiped a tear or 3 at the fag ends of an unusually large number of episodes! (I did put it down to PMS the first few times but the Voyager and I have been steady roommates through the last 5 weeks and the lachrymal glands continue to keep pace).
-There is little to no chemistry between Torres and Paris, except maybe of the phonetic kind regarding their last names. The directors did well to keep that relationship nuanced rather than giving it an all-out screen presence. However, Seven of Nine’s largely unemotional “Borgness” and the Captain’s authoritarian maternal aura were spot on; permanent/ deep-seated love interests would have detracted from the believability of their characters.
-The little red thread that goes through most of the Voyager episodes is the almost fable-like quality of its various plot lines. Social issues across a wide gamut are sometimes playfully and sometimes poignantly portrayed. From wars, to parenting, to AI/ holographic rights and ethics, to sexism and racism, the intergalactic heart is mostly in the right place, even if human ethnocentricity does come across from time to time. (After all, as far as we know, the audience species for the series is one: Earthly and humanoid!)
-Since the DS-9 and Voyager productions overlapped for over 4 years, there was a fair amount of character trading as the same actors embodied various species and personalities aboard the 2 galactic strongholds. A few noteworthy examples are Tony Todd who was Worf’s brother and an older Jake Sisko in DS9, was also an alpha hirogen in Voyager; J.G.Hertzler who played General Martok on DS-9, was also a johnny-come-lately, well-meaning hirogen in Voyager; and Jeffery Combs who played Weyoun and the relentless Ferengi, Brunt in DS-9, continued to be the wringer of inter-galactic skill and strength in Voyager as Penk, the insidious organizer of galactic gladiatorial competitions.
I have about 40 episodes to go before Voyager reaches home or arrives at the fate sketched for it by her creators. And I still have to see a heart-warmer akin to the Vic Fontaine episodes of DS-9. The Voyager crew, however, does make ample use of their holodecks to recreate 19th and 20th century European utopias such as they are/ were. And so, between leisurely trips to Sandreine’s in scintillating Paris, and Fair Haven in old world Ireland, the crew and I are calling upon all our Netflix binge prowess to go a-tripping across the last 30,000 light years or so to the final finish.
Will I be embarking on another Star Trek sojourn after this? Unlikely until Discovery puts forth new material.
Until then, live long and prosper and while you’re at it, stay safe and be kind to one another.
It was slow I admit, the glimmerings of a connection with the ST-DS9* characters and their Deep Space shenanigans. But by season 2, I had developed a mild fondness for the Captain and his Federation crew. And by season 4, the affection I felt for the space Station denizens was deep-rooted and personal. By season 5, I was already forlornly anticipating the end of the series and feeling at odds with the rest of the Netflix science fiction repertoire.
That is not to say that i was blinded to the obvious shortcomings of the production; they just became tenderly blurred as the characters became increasingly larger than life. I still remember cringing slightly during season 1 and wondering for the 347th time why i felt such a compelling commitment to see every series through, dubious and otherwise, that I’ve embarked on. Here’s what I remember even as I dredge up the memories from the practical, unemotional series-bingeing depths of my mind:
The characters were more than a tad over-dramatic – Captain Sisko often comes across as a stand up comic endearingly poking fun at would-be space bigwigs; while the good Doctor Bashir appears so entranced by his own look, feel and sound that one would be forgiven for mistaking him for the English, Space version of a Doogie Howser impersonator. Major Kira (Colonel now!) is relentless in her adolescent knee jerk outbursts of anger, vengeance and the insatiable need to be the biggest bully in the Alpha quadrant…. nah… all Space. Then there are the dated special effects: the barely camouflaged fluorescent primary coloured lights blinking on 24th century tricorders and control panels; the landing/ disembarkation pads which look like ponderous railway tunnels; the defiant, brave little ships in space, dithering ever so slightly against their starry backdrop – trembling reminders of their actual minuscule size and mass; the phasers and other laser weapons put to shame by the contents of aisle 15 in Toys ‘r’ Us. But…. like i said, i had to laboriously dig up these first and not so lasting impressions.
What I do remember effortlessly is the superb characterisation of Quark the quintessential Ferengi who’d grown a heart and a bit of a conscience over the course of the 7 seasons; Garak who was as devious and resourceful as he was genteel and intrepid; Dukat the bipolar Cardsassian who fought a war of conscience for most of the 7 seasons, finally relenting with a Bajoran bow and a twisted flourish to his dark side; Weyoun, the Gamma quadrant clone who was as duplicitous as he was “god-fearing”; and of course Vic Fontaine, a holographic throwback to the 1960s Las Vegas rat pack style entertainment who was as good a singer as he was a psychothera-pal for the DS9 crew. All in all, the alien characters of DS9 delivered a far superior performance to that of their human counterparts.
The piece de resistance of the series however, is definitely its ability to take its viewers on a compelling, emotional journey into the lives of its main characters. The cloak and dagger plots set a million light years away from earth still took place in what was essentially a little town with its very own set of the good, the bad and the alien. And that was ultimately what made the series so memorable.
Other Deep Space Distillations:
-The mainstream ethics/ moral compass portrayed by the Federation of planets, while being lofty and aspirational by our boorish 21st century standards, was still shown to be insidiously riddled with intrigue and deception; its Section 31 dutifully and covertly performing all its ungallant business. I suppose some things are so hard-wired into our psyche, a basic distrust of anyone different from ourselves being at the top of that list, that no amount of evolution and sophistication can wring it out of our DNA.
-America, as is customary across the Hollywood universe, bravely endeavoured to save the day or lead from the front. And so unremarkably, Uncle Sam continued to fill in most of the shoes of the DS9 and the Federation nawabs*.
-I discovered a new-found love for Frank Sinatra’s soulful crooning. I’ve had his vocal jazz and swing numbers on quick recall on my phone for the last fortnight. Vic’s repository of the legendary tunes pulls at all the heart strings!
-The MC at Joe Biden’s inauguration ceremony sounded eerily like Worf, the Klingon!
I watched the last show of the last season last night. A net total of 176 episodes viewed, imbibed and psychoanalysed nostalgically during the last 4 weeks. Almost made me forget we’re in the middle of a pandemic as I traversed through space and time with the crew and the citizens of Deep space 9/ Terek Nor.
I leave you with a nostalgic old Sinatra refrain sung by DS9’s own Vic Fontaine, just because it’s such a lovely old song and even half a millennium on, it resonated richly, poignantly, on a space station somewhere in our cosmos.
*ST-DS9: Star Trek – Deep Space 9
*Nawab:a male title which literally means Viceroy; the female equivalent is “Begum” or “NawabBegum”. The primary duty of aNawabwas to uphold the sovereignty of the Mughal emperor along with the administration of a certain province. In modern times, it is often used to denote men of power.
I have now been using these four-stroke creatures to transport me around the island for the last 5 years, and I have to say that we’ve developed quite a lovely (e)motional symbiosis. They take me where I have to go, and I help them log a part of their daily distance while we both also get in a bit of a quaint conversation. The tuk tuk chatter ranges from Imran Khan’s political likability (he’s at least universally loved by the SL 3-wheeler brigade), to expertly compressed 6 minute summaries of their lives delivered amidst unexpected swerves, dodges and lurches, as my driver looks back during the choicest parts of his particular narration. I react congenially enough until imminent death threatens our largely blindly-pitching carnival of drama. Then I don my mother superior mantle, cut my voluble driver short and tell him if he doesn’t focus on getting me to my destination still in possession of my earthly form, that I will disembark right there, right then. That works, because losing a “hire” is almost as bad as having an animated conversation killed at its apex – this tuk tuk double whammy is a thing to be avoided at all costs. So the rest of the journey continues in inhaling the toxic and nauseating but thankfully silent, and undramatic fumes of over-taking vehicles.
Tuk Tuk drivers come in all manner of forms, from the road runners to the pavement huggers and a whole colorful gamut in between. There are the staid, honest types who drive in sedate silence (a perrenial favourite and an increasing rarity); the sly, intrepid ones who will take you on wildly circuitous routes to your destination; the meter cheaters who with undisguised enthusiasm will punch in 10 extra buttons on the instrument to awaken the tuk tuk Beast of Deceit; the MI6 Hall of Famers who will glance suspiciously at every other vehicle they pass, with special x-ray vision scans reserved for when they stop at traffic lights. The ones that are big fans of external trappings, their carriages outfitted with WiFi, a DVD player, a 15 inch monitor, sanitizer, a tissue box and, wait for it…. seatbelts! The nervous, anxious ones driving barely intact tuk tuks that groan and whine in anguished protest – (I tend to tip them the most generously. My sentimental, rooting-for-the-underdog knee jerk reactions continue to be alive and well). The Goodwill Ambassador who will, over the 10 minute ride, deliver a heart warming speech on the goodness of his countrymen and the many wonderful bounties of his paradise isle. Then there are the tenacious shopping mall 3-wheeler brigades with ethics that are as dubious as they themselves are territorial – one has to spew some quantities of brimstone and hellfire to get out of their clutches; also probably the only contingent that all the other tuk tuk drivers hesitate to lock their … headlights with!
This endearingly sensationalist lot also believes in pithy, public declarations of the meaning and gist of their lives, emblazoned as they are on their autos. There’s a sweet, almost nostalgic obsession with certain historical personages and quaint adaptations of favored English idioms: Like Che Guevara who always wants the tuk tuk contingent to rebel; Bob Marley who would like them to forget their woes in most likely, a moonshine-steeped, reggae-rocked weekend. Then there is the tuk tuk driver throwing out a barefaced challenge asserting “if you’re bad, I’m your dad“; or the one who’s had it with arrogance saying “fly not high so you fall not low“; or the myriad others who loudly declare that their hearts are up (on their tuk tuk behinds) for the taking, and as many more who have publicly closed themselves to love… certain lady passengers always being an exception!
On wet days, of which there are many on this tropical island, the rickshaw drivers will race home largely oblivious to the desperate hails of rain-soaked pedestrians. The ones with a flair for a bit of perverse drama, will even pretend to slow down and then rev up almost immediately, leaving momentarily buoyed spirits crashing into the puddles forming all around; revelling in the reversal of the supply/ demand structure for the course of the monsoon torrent. I have tended to see the comic relief in this too as I have been lured and then abandoned by the fickle advance and departure of an unoccupied tuk tuk. Like they say, everyone needs their own particular form of catharsis!
As colourful and varied as the character spectrum is on these public carriers, they, one and all, manage to go where no other/ bulkier vehicles can. Through nooks and crannies, brushing, with millimetres to spare, past a lumbering bus, racing down paths barely wide enough for 2 people to walk abreast. There is something of a mild urban censure of these contorting asphalt plyers – many say, a menace on Colombo’s narrow roads that are already burgeoning with their automotive burdens. But for us, the carless, environment-preserving lot (inadvertent as this reduced CO2 footprint state of being may be!) they are our reasons for remaining happily mobile across our neighbourhood geographies.
And so, as I spend my days roaming the city in between bouts of reading, writing and grocery shopping, I have formed an almost affectionate bond with the tuk tuk posse of the metropolis. Despite the ravages wrought by the pandemic of 2020, they remain optimistic, enterprising, courageous and cheerfully defiant on the roads. I still call them out for over-charging, they still respond with outlandish excuses but together we go pitching and careening across the city in a haze of mutual appreciation.
Another end of year has trundled in at last - Dawned is far too genial a word to use for what’s been a blast Of a year, of our lifetimes, of living memory too they say So on this blessed December day, I’m wishing it all away!
May the Corona perish in the gentle warmth of spring Helped along by its archnemesis, the grand old vaccine. May the dear departed find rest and cosmic grace; May their earth-bound loved ones begin to make their peace With losses, grief and tender hearts; With new endings and even newer starts.
But most of all, let us hold on to the quietness within, The fruits of all those locked-down hours of introspection; May that stillness guide us in the years to come, To live a life more fulfilled, to let our purposes be done; To become intimate again with our humanity, To learn to give, to love, to coexist more easily.
Another end of year is upon us once again Nuanced as it is with a ragged, shadowy mein. Even in its greyness, it is ripe with the promise of better days; Of togetherness and laughter, of joy and celebration, Of birthdays, anniversaries and triumphant graduations.
May 2022 be a soulful, wholesome distillate Of all the growing-up we’ve had to do over the last year; May it help us recover our little magical moments The joyful alchemy of all that we hold dear.
So family, friends, neighbours and those merrily blundering on this digital wire Have yourselves a very merry Xmas and a happy new year.
De Khudai pe aman
*Title inspired from A Walk to Remember, a 2002 American coming of age romantic drama
**Read the highlighted words in sequence from top to bottom for the Blackout poem/ phrase within the poem. It reads: December 2020 a year bound with losses, but our humanity once again is ripe to recover all that we hold dear.
I probably would not have been able to write this piece as intrepidly as I am doing now had I been in the motherland. And therein lies the basis of the conundrum that is our religion: an ideology that is deeply, consumingly rooted in loathsome patriarchy with a formidable intolerance for debate and discussion.
1400 years after the Prophet Muhammad brought the message of peace, tolerance, equality and most importantly, the elevation of the status of women in the fabric of our religious and social structures, we have not only forgotten the essence of that message, but have regressed in ways that would be considered somewhat extreme even in the wild misogyny of ancient Arabia. Islam, in the developing world, led ideologically by our oil-rich Arab brethren, has degenerated into a cacophony of fear mongering, at the heart of which is a gender bias so sick, it is boggling to the mind in the 21st century. So embedded is that illogical, bald-faced chauvinism that its nefarious cultural roots are no longer visible in the milleu of religious (mis)interpretation and ritual. In the masterful manipulation of all organized religions, Wahabi/ orthodox Islam too wields its power by staunching all debate that questions its ethical and moral viability for the current times – for to question is to be a Kafir* and thus branded, you may be exposed to the unwitting but ferocious wrath of the rest of the believers; or if you’re lucky enough to escape that gory end, you are forever a pariah in the fatherland.
I consider myself privileged for growing up in that little bubble of sanity that floats just atop the rest of the malignant mass that is our socio-religious national fabric today. Our generation of females in the family, led by absolutely prodigious women of substance, has been bestowed with those critically strategic opportunities to break through the debilitating and handicapping proverbial glass, nay granite ceiling. We have been raised to believe that the only people who are better than us are those who bring more to the the table as human beings, and that does not include their inadvertent Y chromosome. And yet, during my time working in the corporate sector which is known for its gender inclusivity with its strategic human capital goals of at least 45/55 percent female to male ratios, I was reminded on not infrequent occasions, that to be a man regardless of your professional acumen was to have a clear advantage. One example of this state-sponsored misogyny is the weight/ bearing of a woman’s signature on a legal document. Two female signatures are required for every one male signature for the document to hold up in a court of law. And so on more occasions than I care to remember, the resident tea boy who had nothing to do with the legal gambit or the event (except for the steaming cups of tea in our hands) has put down his testosterone-fortified signature as a legal witness, because I, the woman who was leading the charge on the matter, was not deemed fit enough by our state legislatures to understand it as well as any male can, including our tea boy – who, quite frankly, was a good soul but had limited knowledge of BPRD* circulars and responses to the State bank.
And so this system of overt bias is perpetuated to keep our gender from ever reaching its full potential – an unmitigating stream of psychological and jurisdictive attacks cloaked in fuzzy patriarchy to keep 50% of the country in a constant state of entropy.
Despite these disabling encumberances, our generation has forged ahead – thinking, questioning and expanding our minds and our hearts to become more of the emotionally, mentally and spiritually replete beings that we inherently are. This has also led to a sizeable denominator of women being essentially left in limbo viz-a- viz workable/ aspirational personal philosophies. On the one hand, the religious and cultural ideologies of their forefathers no longer fit their lives in any manner that is respectful, empowering and enriching; on the other hand, any discourse or analysis that could lead to a more gracious and inclusive embodiment of religious tenets is tantamount to sacrilege. This is the state of half the population of the Muslim world; the state of almost a billion people on the planet. I am one of those women.
As we continue to the top of the personal ideological food chain, the number of denizens occupying those upper tiers get very much fewer. The ironic paradox with this food chain is that the apex means surefire disenfranchisement, backlash and predation. Like I said, it is still a rare privilege to be born a female in a truly enlightened Muslim family – I am grateful to be one of those. But our numbers are few and the patriarchal landscape is vast and riddled with a hatred for dissidents that has only become more fanatical through the centuries. However, every revolution of the hearts and the minds begins with a few intrepid idiots calling out the injustice and the oppression. I am also one of those women.
And so I’m diving into my ideological debate with some essential satire on a salient reward of the Hereafter; a lustful vision so unashamedly made synonymous with goodness that it has compelled the righteous to decimate entire populations and on frequent occasions, themselves too: the 72 Hurs or splendid female companions of Paradise. Promised to every believer. I’m a believer and I think I’m a good human being; (I’m also as straight as they come!) So is that vision, touted as it is in every inspirational Khutbah*, an enticing end to a life well lived? I’m going to hazard a guess on behalf of us Muslim women who are almost a billion strong: Nah!
The religious conversation needs to evolve beyond the all male-corridors of our masjids*; beyond erotic visions of the afterlife as the penultimate reward, to a wholesome, dignified ideology of life itself.
It is time, ladies and gentlemen, to take Islam out of the Neanderthal man caves into the light of the 21st century.
*Hur: a “splendid female companion” in the afterlife epitomising the spoils of a righteously led life for every devout Muslim man
*Kafir: unbeliever/ infidel. The term refers to a person who rejects or disbelieves in God as per Islam
*BPRD: Banking Policy and Regulations Department of the State Bank dictating the rules of business engagement for all banks
*Khutbah: A Muslim sermon that is delivered at places of worship mainly on Fridayswhich are considered holy daysinIslam
*Masjid: Islamic places of worship predominantly visited by only men.
**There's a sad sort of clanging from the clock in the hall And the bells in the steeple too. And up in the nursery an absurd little bird Is popping out to say cuckoo cuckoo, cuckoo... Regretfully they tell us But firmly they compel us To say goodbye... To YOU!
And so my dear Mr. President I wrote this ode for you, for you. Your time is up, you tried so hard I always rooted for you, it’s true!
Despite intuitive knee jerks to the contrary I kept steadfast in my fidelity to thee. And now you’ve been sadly booted out By the insidious US political machinery.
‘Tis true you created gross divisions In a fundamentally diverse United States But you were only showing up what was so viscerally embodied By large swathes of the American electorate
‘Tis true you were the Demonizer-in-Chief You gave the Corona Ravagement Envy You were gleefully racist, bigoted, xenophobic But you were only exemplifying what so many were intrinsically; Not just quietly closeted anymore with those lofty ideals But free to strut them, and really relish the feels!
And although there was now all that national drama There was also the new MAGA*-powered Sovereign Fiefdom You uplifted the cause of exclusionary statehood Allowing The rest of the world that rare freedom To regroup, repair and renew in a space Not perpetually imprinted with Uncle Sam’s face
You were summoning home all American troops As you rolled back on the US’ war waging strides You were making your America great again And letting the rest of us get on with our lives. But you were unique in your internationally disinterested approach, Since America had always been that one invincible roach That brazenly roams your kitchen by day and by night Leaving you with the detritus of its pillaging might.
Your political incorrectness was apostatized To paint you as the resident devil incarnate Your incongruous presidential demeanor Was touted to be the fall of the American super state. And so 45th, you have been summarily dismissed As a globally failed one term president no less!
But I mourn your hyper-blustery POTUS days, And Im hazarding a guess that I’m not alone. The last 100 years of American politics Have elicited their fair share of planet-wide groans. Another 4 years of you would have at least shaken The memory of a bullying, blood-letting American nation.
Now vestigial shadows of America’s wars Are rearing their ugly heads once again to explore New conflicts, new conquests, new treasures to be taken; More intrusion, displacement, refugees, coercion, Every ounce of dignity and fair play foresaken. There seems to be naught but more US agitation Writ portentously large on our collective horizon
And so in ending, to the @realdonaldtrump I say, We will indeed miss you HUGELY sir; Your autocratic, Jesus complex, Your dash of frankincense and myrrh. Now is also the time for the rest of the planet To take to their tranquilizing zen spaces; My crystal ball tells me we’ll soon be battling again, In America’s brand new edition of The Hunger Games* Races.
De Khudai pe aman
Choices…. choices!
**lyrics from “So long, farewell” from the movie The Sound of Music *MAGA: Donald Trump’s political slogan - Make America Great Again *The Hunger Games: A 2012 apocalyptic science fiction trilogy where children battle it out to the death in a bizarre state run electorate-subduing campaign
I’ve been meaning to put this hitherto confusing, emotionally wounding mass of thoughts to paper for a while now. So far, through all the varied attempts over the last 10 years, I’ve always choked on the words in my mind; cocooned in a kind of benumbing Writer’s Block if you will.
So here i am today, feeling a little more intrepid, a tad more emotionally sound and spurred on by a medley of bittersweet reminiscences, to finally reflect on the vital importance of End of Life acceptance, dignity and preparedness.
To die is inevitable; to lead a life well-lived is a choice. And yet, we leave so much to providence while we can still exercise our power to choose, and put up formidable bulwarks of resistance when faced with the inevitable. This is a construct and a bullheaded perpetuation of our modern times, urged on by medical advances and their preserving effect on our life expectancy. While we are living longer, we have also developed an almost combative relationship with the End of Life. Even when everything is pointing towards the inevitable final exit, we choose to fight. We push back, we suffer, we agonize and we degrade, physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually as we try and keep the “monster” at bay. A lot of times, that militancy is dispensed by the people closest to the terminally ill; and despite their good intentions, end up reducing their already suffering loved ones to little more than vulgarised shadows of their former selves.
In 2008, my mother was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer. She lived with the disease for four years with the dignity, grace and courage of the superwoman that she was. Never once did she put on the mantle of the reduced or the afflicted or the invalid. Right to the end, she remained the gracious matriarch of her warm, welcoming home. Towards the end, the final two days to be exact, when she should have been allowed to make that Final Walk with the same beautiful poise with which she had lived her life, we, her family and her medical specialists intervened with all of our might to fight off the inevitable. She was taken to two different hospitals over the span of the last 3 days where the vitally alive battled to avert or at least delay an end, that became heartbreakingly beleaguered.
My final memory of her last day with us, has nothing in the way of any gentleness, love or the deep peace of final goodbyes. It is a memory fraught with fussing, poking, prodding Medical Staff intubating, pulling and pushing her as they, with determined professionalism, executed their Hippocratic oaths. The memory of her looking right at me, confused and exhausted as they inserted the ET tube down her throat is still searingly painful.
For a full two years after that, I thought of that terrible, terrible last scene every single night before i allowed myself to sleep. Perhaps it was my form of emotional self flagellation for being a well meaning party to the inadvertent indignity and torment my mother suffered towards the end.
And then, I’m not sure whether it was a providential helping hand reaching out from my own subconscious to finally pull me out of my emotional abyss, or the tender, cosmic reverberations of the maternal bond that helped me to transition to my current state of mental well being. That said, it was a dream that gave me back some semblance of my peace. So lucid, potent and reassuring was the vision of my mother being well and happy that i woke up with the sheer visceral force of the feeling – the warmth of her touch still lingering on the skin of my hands. (I have written about the dream in another post: https://theroamingdesi.org/2020/03/09/thank-you-for-the-joy/ )
And so, I finally did surface from the viper pit of guilt and grief and i have since, forgiven myself.
All living creatures are the sum total of their experiences and if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from my experience of losing someone close to me is the ability to see death for what it is – unavoidable. While I have lost my fear of the end, i also now understand the profound blessing a quick (relatively painless) exit is. That a departure that is underscored with acceptance, essential conversations, tranquility and quality time spent together becomes the blessed catalyst for more fully celebrating the lives of the loved ones we’ve lost. That the ability to see life and death with more ethereal eyes, to help us to grieve a little less and remember with joy so much more, are the cornerstones of a loving, respectful parting.
These End of Life conversations need to logically start in the hallowed halls of medical science. Medical caregivers need to bring more depth to their oaths taken for preserving the well being of human life, to include the dignity of death. These conversations need to become mainstream; to change the culture of the crusading and contrariness around death. In our current approach, we are left with too little in the way of the love and grace of final farewells.
It will take a consummate change in our emotional and social makeup and temperaments to begin to ennoble death even half as much as we do life. Given the current state of our world, this gracious labour of love around Final Partings may be the panacea for reminding us of both, the wonderful alchemy of the state of being alive and the eternal fragility of life itself.
As the pandemic marches on, this is more true than ever. I have felt impelled to write this piece mostly because we have all now, as a planet, lived through a year of the Covid-19 blight. All 7 billion lives have, in some measure, been affected, afflicted or completely upended. And the sobering truth is that there is no real end in sight yet. These past 8 months have also seen families not only devastated by the virus in many parts of the world, but crippled also by the general economic slowdown/ shutdown.
We in the South Asian belt have been relatively more fortunate with regard to our pandemic mortality rates. The conjectures and theories on how the delevloping world is coping so peculiarly well with the disease are varied and many. Call it providential or karmic or the universe finally lining up all the fortuitous constellations in our Asian skies – that is how it is and for that we are grateful. Grateful while still being aware of the economic ravages wrought on the healthy but the vulnerable; the uninfected but the reduced; the vigorous but the poor. Which brings me to the mission of this piece – the importance of being kind. Of engaging in little everyday gestures of generosity to alleviate in some part the struggles of the less fortunate members of our communities.
Start with your neighbourhoods.
⁃Give just a little bit extra to the tuk tuk driver who’s been whisking you about town (or running errands for you) through blazing hot days and even the errant tropical storm. Even if you don’t get into his carriage much or at all these days, tip him for all his gracious service and for persevering still, to earn a decent living despite bleak business.
⁃Patronise your local fruit and vegetable sellers and your standalone neighbourhood grocery stores rather than the larger franchised establishments. The balance sheets of the latter will survive a year or so of beleagured business; the former, however, will be forced to shut down their doors permanently, changing the fortunes of entire nuclear and extended families forever.
⁃ Even if you’re of the genteel old school of thought, for whom the hawkers of malodorous incenses, oddball children’s story books and car cleaning paraphernalia are persona non grata in the general milieu of roadside traffic, be kind. At the traffic lights, despite yourself, roll down and buy some incense, buy a book or buy a cleaning product. Be gracious with your privilege.
⁃ With restaurants and bars in operational flux, if you do go out, tip generously. For most of the kitchen and serving staff, your service gratuity makes all the difference between being able to send a child to school or not.
⁃ For those that are now enjoying, in the safety of their homes, the gastronomic pleasures of Italy, Pakistan or the entire junk food spectrum of the Americas, tip the delivery staff openheartedly. For many of them, their endless google mapped excursions around the city are second and third jobs taken on to supplement incomes made ever more meagre by the pandemic.
⁃Be kinder to your domestic staff, those consummate companions one can’t do without in keeping the household engine well-oiled and chugging along immaculately, peaceably. It’s also no secret that a lot of domestic bliss is owed to their inimitable roles in our daily lives!
⁃ And last but not least, our usually bustling towns and cities are also home to a multitude of scavenging animals. These urban-bred packs of stray felines, canines and even a sizeable number of the avian population depend on the scraps and oddments of the teeming human millions going about their usual day. That food source has become unreliable at best. Do your bit by putting out some water for our creature cohabitants, and food if you’re blessed with an outdoors.
These neigbbouhood civics, in my mind, are fundamental and therefore incumbent on all of us. They are the very basic protocols of social decency and community living, but have over time, and as i look around me, lost their place in our intuitive DNA. And hence, as with so many other virtuous but faded/ lapsed communal interactions in our lives, the need to recall, restore and revitalise is important.
And so, this petition is meant as just a little scratching of the surface to that human part that is intrinsic to all of us bad eggs, good eggs, tough eggs, quirky eggs and all.
I’ll leave you with a cheeky little refrain as a gentle reminder of the compassionate beings we really are, and for when we lose that thread now and then in the frenzied rush of life.
I was a hard boiled egg Less sugar, more spice It’s taken a pandemic To remind me to be nice!
Ranga and Travis at the Sugar Bistro, CrescatThe resident cat family at the Habarana LodgeA tufted grey langur resting a while in the balcony
Mahvash Mohtadullah 