Scribbles of a Pajama Girl

No one will read this

2011-04-21T14:15:00.003+05:30

That is what I have to tell myself before I blog these days, because I am too afraid and too silent. So you are not really reading this. :)
....
... I'm blocked again, because I acknowledged you.

I wish I was Mary Oliver, kind and old and wise. But especially I'd have liked to be kind, to myself, to you. Here is what Mary Oliver would have said:

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

and here is what I can say...

...
...

Looking at You

2011-04-19T16:50:00.000+05:30

You sit quietly so well:
your hands don't fidget,
your lips do not tremble.

If it were not for your eyes,
your large, overwhelming eyes,
I would not know you were
crying.

I wrote the above but I do not like the above. Mainly because it ends with 'crying' - I wish I had found another way to say it, but right now am not keen to find another way, am lazy - and I just want to get this on paper before it disappears like other lines in my head. Lines like:
"I like to stare at dead things." I'm going to try to put that in a story. A story that has another line like "Then why do you keep our pictures still?"

Cinco Poemas de Amor

2011-02-14T09:53:00.000+05:30

Pride has no place on overcrowded
buses on longish journeys.
the seat next to mine is empty
i saved it
for you.

***********************************

S. during Cairo Revolution, on Facebook

its not possible

to say something normal

 except, i wish i had a girlfriend

i could talk to in the night

when the day is over

 but probably it would weaken me

and take too much time

 so i wish i could read a story

or at least have the time for it

because in my phantasy i wanna go away and far

 to a marvellous place

where there are stories

 about humans

***********************************

Definition: Found Poetry

Poetry that finds you
You find it back sometimes.

***********************************

Do you still have feelings for him / her?

Do you still have feelings?

That is all right perhaps, because then

He / She too may have feelings for you, and

You still have feelings.

***********************************

Pretty thoughts pass my mind so often

But they pass like clouds

and I forget or fail to collect

the words they rain on me.

***********************************

Cairo to Mumbai: Home away from home

2010-12-06T18:28:00.000+05:30

When I left India, we left Nasik via "Bombay" to get to Cairo. Now, 18 years later, I've returned to "Mumbai" to make a home. Coming to "Mumbai" feels like coming home, but still nothing like Cairo, the mother's heart, the "Um el Dunya" (Mother of the World).

I'm fortunate to live in a very green part of town in Bandra. Every now and then, the greenery catches my breath, and so do the stars overhead. It's less polluted here, but still polluted. Sitting in a rickshaw while riding makes commuting a noisier (and bumpier) experience than ever before - more than Cairo cabbies, one would never have suspected! Still, people brave the day, and the night: the other day I found a group of cyclists at Carter Road at 9.30 pm. They were training other beginners in the art of safe cycling.

The city is always abuzz - things take place every day: poetry slams, board game nights, dancing, music, culture, there is so much to explore - and it seems the geography of wealth is reversed - from the developing North Mumbai to the opulent South. I'm learning names, and am blissfully unaware of so many things. It feels so good to not know; to not know a face, not know all the big names, not know the proper way about things. It forces me out of my 'self', forces me to ask others, and to acknowledge my dependence. Equally, I think, it jolts others into realizing that what is familiar and assumed can be foreign and not so to others.

Luckily my friend MD has moved to Mumbai around the same time, and there is a bit of Cairo in Mumbai. I am still seeking for someone to speak with in Arabic, and want to actually overdose on it, read, watch, eat all things Egyptian. I've never before read the Daily News Egypt as much, nor tweeted as much, and I'm even considering going back to Facebook (the shock! the horror!).

I'm happy to be here - I have a voracious appetite for the city, but am slow on my heels to explore it. Bit(e) by bit(e), I suppose.

Tonight I'll read "Empty Handed" at a poetry slam, or so is the plan, carrying Cairo in to Mumbai. Let's see how it is taken.

Regrets

2010-10-01T04:23:00.000+05:30

...if i shut my mouth, most of the time, the heart would be a lot lighter.

These are moments when I wish this blog were even more anonymous.

When you write...

2010-08-26T23:43:00.000+05:30

Now that you have written,
you remember it only as you wrote.
Your poetry becomes your truth.
Beauty that makes sense cannot be true.

Enjoy Me.

2010-08-21T19:14:00.001+05:30

I'm just passing through...

Watan / Nation / Homeland

2010-08-20T23:26:00.000+05:30

"Why didn't you speak in German?"
Her son is annoyed.

Martha tried for years
to hold her tongue just right
so she could catch the 'ain.

Her blonde hair went gray
and wrinkles covered over her paleness.
Finally, she can pass as one of them.

She would probably agree, though she doesn't know,
that it is only because she promised
to be one with John, in life as in death.

She will take this rebuke from her son,
rather than explain.

Martha does not mind waiting a few minutes - even hours -
with her son and grand-daughters,
outside the door to the embassy,
of what was once her Heimland.

Empty-handed

2010-08-20T22:32:00.000+05:30

"No files," says the voice emboldened
by the bullet-proof glass.
"Just take out all the necessary papers
and put them on the tray."

The tall, long-limbed, and Sudanese man
is visibly at unease in his dark coffee skin.
He gives an awkward smile while fumbling with his papers.

"Etfadalee," he says, asking her politely to proceed.
She proceeds.
"Why do you want to go to Germany?"
"Why is your son living in Germany?"
"Will you come back?"
"Wait, do you have permission to live
here?"

Hassan from Djuba village answers
deferentially
His son, Djamal, is an engineer in Munich,
Hassan says it with a small hint of pride
for Djamal is not a refugee.

"Yes," he says, "I will come back."
He does not say, "Insha Allah.
I am old and will soon die,
and life - I know - gives no guarantees.
For what happens if there is a volcano cloud
laughing ashes on your plans?"

Hassan had seen the man before him in line
refused an appointment, "You forgot
your medical insurance and bank statement.
Please make another appointment."

He saw the man gather his papers,
heavier with disappointment,
"Please," Hassan begged God, "For once, I pray,
Let me return empty-handed."

how to deal with people ignoring you

2010-08-20T04:19:00.000+05:30

1) Do what a friend of mine used to: actually call out to people who had deliberately ignored him, and if they looked down, he would bend down to look up at them and wave and say "HI! It's me! N...." :)

2) Call them on the phone while standing squarely in their line of vision. When they see it's you that's calling, say "Yes, I thought the bell would ring. Am I on your phone still? Good. I thought you knew me too."

3) Ask a common friend to introduce you. Better yet, ask someone they don't know to introduce you to them. Imagine the confusion when they find someone they don't know is introducing them to someone they already know but tried (unsuccessfully) to ignore. "Hey {their name, cos you know it}, how are you? Meet {your name}."

4) Conjure funny scenarios in which people ignore you, and you get them back with your supreme wit, and hopefully both parties laugh. Cause laughter, my friends, is the manna of the gods.

Yeah yeah. :) Next time I'll try the other options :)

both

2010-08-19T00:33:00.000+05:30

i'm old and i'm wise

but i'm also a young child.

what good...

2010-08-19T00:22:00.000+05:30

what good is time -
if waiting does not stop,
what use is a clock?

what good will words do
if they cannot bring him back from
leaving: that other kind of death?

On forgetting

2010-08-14T17:59:00.000+05:30

After a time, you would forget. First, you would forget his chin, and then his nose, and after a while, you would struggle to remember the exact color of his eyes, and one day you wake up and, pfft, he's gone: his voice, his smell, his face. He will have left you. And then you can begin again.

- "French Kiss," said Luc to Kate

that's what i would like to say

2010-08-11T16:24:00.000+05:30

" If mine,
it would be the secret dream
of walking alone across the floor of my life
with an easy grace, and with love enough
to live on at the center of myself."

- Ted Kooser, Daddy Longlegs

'ats wat 'e sayz

2010-08-11T15:01:00.001+05:30

more bukowski on writing

so you want to be a writer? by Charles Bukowski

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.
if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.
don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.
there is no other way.
and there never was.

writing saves

2010-08-10T12:14:00.000+05:30

nothing can save
you
except
writing.

it keeps the walls
from
falling.

- excerpt, Bukowski on writing

reading kills

2010-08-10T00:49:00.001+05:30

From Way Back

2010-08-04T22:25:00.000+05:30

An old poem I found...

Moments slip like coins,
clinking down a red-brick wishing well.
A penny for some silver thoughts,
Only a penny....
for a priceless dream
of calling back
a few moments with him.

Bed Head

2010-08-03T18:01:00.000+05:30

messy morning hair
shows that i've been taken
by love or by a dream.

salsa

2010-08-02T03:52:00.000+05:30

Today my feet are so full of dance,
lingering in the ache around my toenails,
thumping in warm, swollen, tired feet.

i would promise them cold, cold, water,
but i worry that may wash this night away.

Recent Poems on the Past

2010-07-28T16:58:00.000+05:30

Presents

I have yours in four books,
in a necklace with matching earrings, in some lost-and-forgotten things
in a small teddy bear, and in anklets I never wear,
in many, many, letters I re-read, and in wishes every night before bed.
You have mine in music,
in a handcrafted wood box that holds your name card
in a long, unusual letter that won back your heart (if only for a while).
in a picture of two pairs of interlocked hands.
in messages sent on phone between our desert lands.

Will

i will be reading a book when you arrive
i will be writing notes in my diary
i will be singing on overcoming
i will be tying the last knot
i will be occupied
i will be busy
i will be
i will
be
I.
Will I?

20 July 2010

Something to remember

2010-07-21T15:55:00.000+05:30

Cascando

1

why not merely the despaired of
occasion of
wordshed

is it not better abort than be barren

the hours after you are gone are so leaden
they will always start dragging too soon
the grapples clawing blindly the bed of want
bringing up the bones the old loves
sockets filled once with eyes like yours
all always is it better too soon than never
the black want splashing their faces
saying again nine days never floated the loved
nor nine months
nor nine lives

2

saying again
if you do not teach me I shall not learn
saying again there is a last
even of last times
last times of begging
last times of loving
of knowing not knowing pretending
a last even of last times of saying
if you do not love me I shall not be loved
if I do not love you I shall not love

the churn of stale words in the heart again
love love love thud of the old plunger
pestling the unalterable
whey of words

terrified again
of not loving
of loving and not you
of being loved and not by you
of knowing not knowing pretending
pretending

I and all the others that will love you
if they love you

3

unless they love you

(Samuel Beckett, 1936)

maybe the same poem

2010-07-02T03:28:00.000+05:30

My poem left me. She walked away.
I’m tracing the echoes of what she said.

Each day is a brief relief -
Breathing in the day that is lived,
Breathing out the day that is lived.

"The Power of the Present"

2010-05-30T01:55:00.000+05:30

In one of the exercises in a workshop I took today called "Igniting the True Purpose of Your Life", we had to visualize what we would do knowing we only had five minutes to live. The exercise would demonstrate "the power of the present."

Our moderators gave us the exercise and left the room. Although this was the last exercise, I think it should have been the first.

It set me completely at ease. Instead of worrying over the past or future, it had me completely where I was, more focused on my environment and at ease in it rather than wondering/wandering. Also whereas the entire session I was thinking about how to apply these skills and how they would work for me, this one time I was just living the moment. I remember similar exercises with Paul Mitri in theater class where you just got a handle of where you were - felt where you were, smell, touch, taste.. so on..

I was just immensely comfortable, and felt like talking to the people around me. I tried to - to these two girls, but I think they didn't appreciate the intrusion. Yeah maybe I wouldn't either in my last five minutes. That relaxed state was strange, and I cannot recreate it. Even now, I am tense - jaw tense, frowning, mind-boggled.

I often look back, and want to smooth over the past, and erase so many things. And I want to be more open, more honest, but it's such a risky task. The world is not so kind, and I come off as naive rather than trusting - as if to trust was a stupid thing to do.

On my drive home, I just shared a friendly conversation with this taxi driver, and he asks if I would go to "'Aasal Iswid" with him. Crash right there, rescind all trusting fingers back into my closed fist. Jaw tense, frown in place, mind-boggled again.

When I was younger...

2010-05-05T02:13:00.000+05:30

The Beatles make even the bad sound so much better.

I wish I knew a prayer that I could repeat to myself
On nights like this

When I don't know who I am
I could reach for You, and it would make sense.

I thought that life could be ticked off using achievements. Done this, got that, am here, over that. It's only recently I realized how restrictive that structure is - how much like a narrative - with a clear beginning, middle, and end. Emphasis on "the end" - as if things could be neatly tied up. That when you got your degree you could take it home and put it on the shelf and that would be it. That when you faced a fear, that you were its master. That you did not have to pull it out again, and prove it every day - who you are, what you stand for. Even if it were only to yourself.

Then again, what you are, what you want changes. And that that too is okay.

Desert Places

2010-04-13T19:16:00.001+05:30

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars--on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.

- Robert Frost, "Desert Places"

As you go along..

2010-04-07T04:59:00.000+05:30

I make it up.

I make up days and months and letters written and torn over this loss.
I make up work and nights and waking dreams.
I make up my face, my mind, my resolve, then break it, and make it up again.

As you go, I go, too, back and forth, on my word, on my mind,
up and down with moods, up by day time and night time, with rational season and seasonal reason.
I make it up - like food, like poetry, like pottery.
then eat it, and breathe it, and break it. It goes in and out of existence.

Is it getting over and getting better, or maybe just forgetting more and forgetting better?
But now and then, here and there, time and again,
it does get better, as you go along, and as I make it up.

As I lay myself to sleep

2010-03-19T06:25:00.000+05:30

As I lay myself to sleep
Thoughts rise up from the deep.
They keep me awake.

It's too hot; it's too cold;
I can't forget what I've been told
that day.

Dreams I've dreamt, loves I've left
Rise up from the place I've left
inhabit me.

Words and thought and metaphors
The turns I shall use in my prose
visit me.

Thoughts on a sleeplessness night, and remembering how when I put my head on the pillow I knew how I'd write this article.

Lessons from James Cameron

2010-03-07T20:37:00.000+05:30

In this youtube on Tedtalks, director James Cameron talks about his work as a director, and the less-known work as an under-sea explorer and adviser on NASA.

Here are some of the lessons he found important to share:

1) Curiosity is the most powerful thing you own.

2) Imagination is the force that can manifest a reality.

3) Respect of teammates is something greater than all the laurels in the world.

And unlike what NASA says, failure is an option, but fear is not. Take the risk. Take the leap. This reminds me to get over my fear of not being able to complete my metro tour project, and just going out there and doing it.

Absolutely WRITE

2010-03-05T04:18:00.000+05:30

Tonight I can write so many lines... (that's a play on some Pablo Neruda poetry)

I have been greatly inspired by this artist that I met up with yesterday. I met her at a party where she told me about her peripatetic project in Cairo. I asked her if I could walk along with her, and write about it as an article.

So just from meeting her at a party, I had an idea for an article. And walking with her has taken me down so many avenues of thought already, although it was only yesterday that we walked together.

I also realized that much as she breaks out of her ken by walking with different people, I break out of mine through my job as a journalist. I write about people and experiences I have never known before, and my job forces the structure of my approach. I go, I question, I find out, and I write. And like her, I have had accompaniment on all my journeys; in my case, a more or less constant one: my editor, Joe. And Joe has often pushed me to go at a faster speed, or to go beyond my imposed self-restrictions, basically beyond my set route or map to discover newer terrain, just as Amira discovers new places and experiences the city anew with people she goes with.

I was also thinking about how I get ideas for writing my articles. I remembered that while attending another concert yesterday as well, I sat next to this bunch, and I ended up eavesdropping on their conversations. Their comments will no doubt make their way into my writing as they did in my observation of the event. And the were also talking about Cairo Ultimate - a frisbee sport group which I then looked up on facebook, and then pitched to another editor as a story for an article.

It is funny how comments, conversations, and the stuff of everyday life makes its way into your work, and your writing. As is right. Absolutely!

The Shape of My Days

2010-02-26T00:41:00.000+05:30

life's been treating me really well. Most of all, I've been enjoying the fact that I've been getting up in the morning. It has changed the light and shape of my day - I have much more time to do things, I have things to do, and I'm relaxed doing them. I am taking care of myself in the meanwhile too.

Among the things I'm doing are going back to cycling and the environment - attending lectures and conferences. It is stimulating meeting new people and coming across new ideas. I have met some really interesting people lately and like Joe said sometimes it's just enough to get to know someone stimulating to spark your interest in life again. Also I've been reconnecting with people I knew before. And somehow, the more I do, the more energy I have to do more.

I think it started with just pampering myself one day at the salon. That rolled into going out for a whole variety of activities, and then rewarding myself for them afterwards.

Recently I got a job recording sounds for a textbook at a studio. It involves doing voices - adult and children voices - saying simple things so that young learners can understand. Then it also involves singing, and I have earned a rep for having some musical talent. And so we sing jingles in the mikes too. It's quite fun.

And the other day after work, I went salsa dancing. Besides the beginner's course, I wanted to try the intermediate 1 course. There weren't enough people for that level so the teacher hiked me up to intermediate 2 level and I ended up doing quite well, and dancing well the rest of the night - better than I have in quite a while. So I feel I have 'levelled up' in salsa :) It feels like good progress.

So that's that. All in a day's work.

A Day Well Spent

2010-02-17T00:20:00.000+05:30

Today was productive.

In the sense that I got my hair done, went to salon, and worked on an article and some arabic.

And even though hair looks okay, in the sense that it seems like I've brushed it quite a bit, but not like I just came out to party. And and article is not the best effort, and I was late to arabic class, we in Egypt say "alhamdullillah".

Thanks to God! A day well spent is a good day indeed. :)

P.s. and Oh, I finally posted a blog post. :)

Somethin to think about...

2010-01-05T21:33:00.000+05:30

Before you can win, you have to believe you are worthy. - Mike Ditka, American coach.

can always count on BrainyQuote to give you something to think about..

I suppose the hard work is as much for ourselves to believe that we are worthy for the win.

Revolutionary Road

2010-01-04T04:18:00.001+05:30

I finished reading the book about two days ago, and I watched the movie too. I found the book far superior, if only because it's much richer in its themes and doesn't just have one single narrative understanding of what's going on.

There were two things I liked most about the book - the confession at the very end that this contract between both parties had been a whole pack of lies (The movie doesn't give that impression in as definite a fashion) - that it was a whole thing that snowballed from being nice to a boy at a party into a marriage, three children, 'i love you' and 'you're the most valuable thing, a man.'

The other thing I liked was the link to insanity. That the female lead's closest ally in the whole book was a man in an insane asylum. He had called her "female" and the male lead "male" for deciding to start a whole new life away from the "hopeless emptiness". the fact that these two had confronted it - and found camaraderie in a madman for doing so - and wanted to get away from it, made them both exceptional and like everyone else that thinks that they're stuck in a rut, can't get out, until they think they can if they just run after this crazy exit. Theirs was France.

My France is Creative Writing at the New York University (or some other uni).

What's your France?

Pajamas: Pink t-shirt, and grey bottoms, and a grey cardigan to keep us warm

The Way Back Home

2009-12-06T19:32:00.000+05:30

The way back home was three months long. What were the three months in India like? people ask. And I find myself at a lack for a summary that I could provide. They were long, confused, mixed months filled with family and a few friends that I can still find in India (MD and Hansa and Niraj and now Dharini). Then there was my cousin's wedding, which was large and spread out over 4 days, despite its attempts to be otherwise. So, overall, my time was good, in the way that life is good when you look back on it, but can be painful and tedious while you go and grow through it.

Despite friends' complaints that I wasn't my usual gchat self, I was actually regularly tied to email. And the internet was my tether to the Promised Land of Cairo. And while in Goa, I could not help but think of Gouna, and Mumbai was laden with comparisons to Cairo - mainly about how easily I could move from one place to another in Misr.

So it's good to be back. Back to my room, my bed, my laptop (which was also in Cairo), and mostly back to my self. The chill here in Cairo (comparative again to the 30-odd degrees celsius in Mumbai) is pleasant. It makes me take pleasure in the warmth of Indian tea, and even in the cold breath I take in - which tricks me into thinks it's fresh and unpolluted by Cairo traffic. Soon I will complain... As one guy said about Palestine, you can only call a place your own when you complain about it... I'm looking forward to it.

The Road From Jhumritalaiyya to Pani Puri

2009-10-06T13:44:00.000+05:30

Jhumritalaiyya is a Place

And not merely fiction. It is in Jharkhand (previously part of Bihar), next to Ranchi.

This I know because the pani puri walla whom I regularly visit is not a Mumbaiyya by birth. He is the first of his family, Ajay said, to come out and see the city quite a distance away.

He arranges his audience clockwise around him, and then serves puris to them, picking each one up with a flourish, filling it with moong/boondis, then tamarind water, and then pani puri water. One plate of pani puri costs Rs. 20 and is good for 6 puris.

At first bite, you crunch into the puri, then the water’s taste fills up your mouth, and the softness of boondis, and coriander finally hit in last, freshening the breath.

After serving the 6 puris, he offers you an extra helping of the water (paani) and an extra puri with boondi-moong, and masala. I get a customized serving of a little bit of tamarind in my final puri. Like me, he knows the tastes of many regular customers. I hear a man behind me introduce a new customer to Ajay, ‘This is actually my brother.’

Ajay regularly arrives at about 11 to the Lokhandwala Chat Center and takes a break around 2, then he starts again about 3 or 4 and goes on to 11 p.m.

I have asked him a bit about himself, and tried his servings, but I wonder how many faces he has seen, and stories he’s sampled sitting just on this one little corner in Lokhandwala.

in pajamas: green top, yellow bottom with flowers
till:2 p.m. roughly :)

Fruit tales in Mumbai

2009-10-01T23:18:00.000+05:30

I went grocery shopping the day befores with my mother. We came along tomatoes, potatoes, zucchini, water chestnuts; we passed by pineapples and apples, and I remember we stopped at papayas. They are a rich, sweet fruit.

The price negotiation factor is a real test of character. Bargaining shows the inner you. The seller in this case, without stating the real price put two papayas in the bag, confident that he would get the price. Meanwhile, Mom and I felt that since was so certain that Rs. 60 and then Rs. 55 was the price, that we should actually pay him Rs. 45. When he took his Rs. 50, he raised it to the god Hanuman before pocketing it.

Because of our (unfair) haggling, he refused to deal with us further. I felt awful about the callous manner in which he was speaking to Mom, so I intervened and said, “You talk like this with your customer, and then you put your money to a god,” trying to point to his hypocrisy. That infuriated him and he raised his voice and refused to talk to me.

Meanwhile, Mom had already agreed to a bargain price of Rs. 60 for oranges, which was unbeatable in other places, but because of what I said, he was unwilling to trade.

After about 15 more minutes of shopping, I still could not shake off the feeling that I’d done something wrong, so I went up to him to apologize.

I could not immediately spot him among fruitsellers, even though I was on the lookout for the Hanuman picture near his stall. I found him sitting down with two other neighbour fruitsellers; probably they had discussed his woes.

All I could do was fold my hands in greeting.
He accepted my apology, “I said too much.”
He acquiesced. “No, it’s just that I sold you the papayas even at a loss, and still you wanted a bargain.”
After some kind-talk of me saying “Please don’t hold this at heart,” he let me go with “Babaji ka aashirwaad hai.” (May the lord bless you).

Sounds a lot like “Salam aleikum” (May peace be upon you.)

God I miss Cairo!

In pajamas: green top, yellow bottoms with flower print
Time: 2 p.m. (lovin the stinky afternoon pajama feeling)
Motto: I’m lovin’ it (borrowed from McDonalds)

Cafe Riche Conversations

2009-07-05T15:35:00.000+05:30

As I passed by from the KLM office having bought a ticket to Germany, I stopped at Cafe Riche... Earlier I had stopped at the Dar el Kutub el Iraaqi and looked at their Arabic collection.

In Cafe Riche, as usual, sat Magdy - the co-owner of the restaurant; the other owner is his brother Mikhail. I came in to say Hello and mention that I'd be writing an article on Um Kulthum, and would pass by Sunday or Monday to see him. Instead, he sat me down for at least another 2 hours, where we talked about the people, and the times, that made Cairo what it is today.

He showed me a folder - which he remembers as the red folder - where he had saved announcements of shows being performed at the Cafe Riche. Among them is the opening of Um Kulthum's first show at the Cafe Riche.

He tells me it was Sheikh abu Alaa` who brought her here in 1923. And at the same time since her hiatus in 1921, Mounira el Muhallaiyya sang again in 1923, too, in Cafe Riche theatre.

That Rose el Yusuf and another woman (Laila Mourad?) were three women that first performed at Cafe Riche. I tell him the times seemed ot have passed, and that I want to write about Um Kulthum in her context, in her time.

He pulls out Abd el Rahman El Refai's "Thawra 1919" - Taarikh Masr el Qawmi 1914-1921.

He says how Cafe Riche again was a central part of that time, being one of the secret places for discussions.

Among other "muntaqqa sirri" (secret places) were the Old Groppi (didn't know there was one - apparently on what is now Abdel Khaled Tharwat street, and was then Sharia Manakh), Beit el Umma, on Dar Ibrahim Basha Said, cafe Salt on Fouad Street, Bar el Lewa (lewa means General) which is in Amarat el Lewa, Ahwa (cafes) Guindi, and Salam, both on Midan Opera, Dar Abd el Rahman Fahmy Bek in Kasr el Aini, Dar Amin Bek El Refai in Helmiyya, Dar Mustafa Sheikh Ayyati in Sukkarriyya (Mahfouz's "Sugar Street"), Dar Mahmoud Sulaiman Pasha in Falaki, and so on...

I tell Magdy I also want to write about Ahmed Fouad Negm. He tells me Cafe Riche is where he first met his first wife: Safeyya (Safinaz on the internet).

Negm even wrote a song on the Cafe Riche he said, that was sung in Algeria by Sheikh Imam. Magdy says he has the original paper on which Negm wrote the song.

Everywhere I look I find signs of the one that is missing, not realising instead that I should have felt fullness instead of lack

We talk about writers and the times past, and somehow, Enaam Kejaji and "The American Granddaughter" came up. Magdy corrected my pronunciation of her last name - told me more than I knew about her: that she had written an article "attacking" him (then he later rephrased to criticising), and that her husband owned a sheesha cafe in France which shut down because of the public ban on smoking, that he had given her a picture of Um Kulthum for the cafe, that she came when she was in Cairo to visit him, and that she had given him a signed copy of her book.

Apparently in the article attacking him, she'd said that "Here is a fat man, who sits in the cafe and does not change, while the world changes around him."

Magdy invited me to come sit in the cafe every now and then and talk to people. They were the minds, he said, the real source.

Adli Rizkallah, painter and illustrator, walked in. He said I should perhaps talk to people that were more into talking. Anyhow he gave me his card and said he would go on a 3-week isolation into his studio. Magdy informed me that Rizkallah was friends with Ahmed Fouad Negm, and that he was the one that had first brough Kejaji to the cafe.

A world passes through his cafe, doesn't it? :) And revolves around it... like conversations. :)

what am i doing?

2009-06-06T18:33:00.001+05:30

I'm sitting across what appear to to be two korean girls practicing their arabic: a picture postcard of purpose and dedication to it.

Staring at gchat and skype - realising for the umpteenth time how uncomfortable I find it to be alone with my thoughts.

Still writing, despite it, so that I can.

I met Lawrence Rudic yesterday - who was in Antigone with Wi and I. We talked about how writing kept us centered and rooted. Kept me honest, kept him sane. Talked of Wi's advice to keep breathing, and how basic, important, and easy to forget it was. I remember that I slept last night because I reminded myself of it.

so my two humble projects for the moment are to breathe and write.

and i've added reading to the list. Currently on bookshelf:
1) Your First Novel (a guidebook on writing)
2) Incredibly Close and Extremely Loud by Jonathan Safran Foer (already love it/him)

and am debating which two to borrow from following three:
1) Teach Yourself: Creative Writing
2) Kiran Desai's The Inheritance of Loss
3) Ian McEwan's The Innocent

I think I'm leaving McEwan for later.

haiku on mobile phone

2009-06-06T18:31:00.000+05:30

We stared so much, it
was bound to happen.
We kissed.

catching the bouquet!

2009-04-26T18:53:00.000+05:30

Yay! I thought it would never happen to me - it's a moment out of movies! :)

B. said he asked his wife M. to throw the bouquet at me, and I was a bit disappointed that it may have been rigged --- until M. said she threw it without any design and thus it was "from the heart."

I'm happy with that explanation ;)

I plan to leave the bouquet at a church as advised by someone and offer a few prayers for the newly-wedded couple, for myself, and for one of the girls with me who didn't catch the bouquet (and I gave her one rose from mine, saying "Ow balik" - now odd, but oddly right then).

French class memories

2009-04-18T04:36:00.000+05:30

Ou etes vous? Lizzard et Luc... Psylvia... Attendez moi.

Un petit coin de parapluie, contre un grand paradis... Elle avait quelque chose d'un ange

Next time you meet me...

2009-04-18T01:51:00.000+05:30

....ask me if I've started to write again.
....ask me if I've picked up my guitar, if I've started to take guitar lessons.
....ask me how it's going with salsa.
....ask me something in Spanish, and ask if I understand, or if I'm making progress there.
....speak to me in Arabic, and insist I reply back in the same.
....ask me if I've been reading, and what I think about it.
....ask me if I've taken time out for myself - to be silent, to be alone, to be happy.
....ask me if I've taken a trip around the world, or around Cairo, or even around the block.
....ask me if I've cooked something new. or just cooked something I was proud of lately.
....ask me about how it's going with him. (yes you can!)
....ask me if I'm writing letters again.
....ask me if I want to draw.
....ask me if I just want to be silent with you.
....ask me if I've (ever/lately) seen the sun rise.
....ask me if I'm getting better at taking photos.

and then....
.....ask me not to ask too much of myself still, but do things a little bit at a time.

look how pretty...

2009-03-22T21:31:00.000+05:30

http://teaforjoy.blogspot.com/

and...
decor8blog.com

If I were braver, I would...

2009-03-06T17:04:00.000+05:30

talk to him; maybe email, or leave a note saying something light like 'Where have you been? Lets meet for coffee.' Or even, 'We need to put what is past behind us. Bury it with me, please.' And see if there is something that lives today - friendship, or love, or anger that needs to be sent off on the waves, and just let go.

if i were braver i would just not be afraid to be alone right now. and do whatever it is that i am afraid to do. cry perhaps. but i wouldn't know what it is i'd cry about anyhow. perhaps because i am not alone. i fill my loneliness with all this blabber that i call writing.

i would look at myself clearly - and see the black as well as the white, the wrong, the you're-not-so-innocent, not-so-friendly, not-so-blameless side. look at it long and hard, long and hard , and then maybe.

maybe if i were brave, i'd change it. me. it in me.

maybe i'll just start by being brave.

(funny little postscript: i remember after a long fight with dad in my late teens / early twenties i said something perhaps wise-sounding, and he just hugged me and said 'be brave, my girl, be brave.')

(i think i love my Dad... more than i know.)

Packing for a trip

2009-03-06T16:50:00.000+05:30

and suddenly panicked
because i may forget to pack
poetry.

Bukowski on writing

2009-03-04T19:47:00.000+05:30

writing

often it is the only

thing

between you and

impossibility.

no drink,

no woman’s love,

no wealth

can

match it.

nothing can save

you

except

writing.

it keeps the walls

from

falling.

the hordes from

closing in.

it blasts the

darkness.

writing is the

ultimate

psychiatrist,

the kindliest

god of all the

gods.

writing stalks

death.

it knows no

quit.

and writing

laughs

at itself,

at pain.

it is the last

expectation,

the last

explanation.

that’s

what it

is.

by Charles Bukowski
from blank gun silencer - 1991
stolen from: http://zosome.blogsome.com/2007/03/22/writing/

Stanley Jordan....

2009-03-04T19:38:00.000+05:30

I should have a list of "God made..." items (as my friend Maz would tell you).

and God made Stanley Jordan. He is music sweet and perfect. At his concert yesterday at the Cairo Opera House - where I magically got a ticket when the house was full! - I couldn't help thinking of Harpo Marx from Marx brothers over and over again - in that one time where he plays on the harp.

I remember once when my cinema teacher had gone scene by scene in a Marx Bros film. At this scene, he (must have) had said something like, "See, how he plays like an angel."

"See, how he plays like an angel, this Stanley Jordan..."

25 Things About Me.

2009-03-03T04:48:00.000+05:30

1. Two things inspired me to write this list: all these lists on which I’ve been “tagged” on facebook, and Mary’s latest entry. If you’re reading this, chances are I want to know 25 things about you and more.

2. I am embarrassed and scoff at my own New-Agey nature. I also celebrate and love it.

3. I am highly self-critical and highly narcissistic. I will scorn and worship you equally.

4. I think in poetry. Example: paper = white = cloud = bird/dove = dove/love.

5. I don’t think I hate anybody; probably because I consider it a waste of effort.

6. I will text you things like, “the clouds are beautiful out today.” If you think texts are purely for sending information, I will probably bombard you with said messages.

7. I like annoying. I like pushing. I like being ironic. But I don’t like those things being done unto me.

8. I discovered speed dialing only recently. People on my speed dial (in order that their numbers are recorded) are Kailash (my brother), Mom, Dad, Joe, Nagham, Youssef. (I don’t have international dialing). Only 2 of those know about this blog. (As of 6 March, 3 people know, welcome Nagham!)

9. I love Kailash the most.

10. I think most people are lovable. I just don’t love them all; may again have something to do with effort. I often let my friends choose me, rather than vice versa.

11. I would like cats more if they liked me more. I love dogs unconditionally.

12. I love quotes. I used to keep diaries full of them, even the ones I didn’t like. Most of the times when my friends think I’m being “wise,” I’m just recycling quotes.

13. I have a good memory, I just wish I could remember right now what is the nature of things I remember well. Ah mostly they are the “you said…” type of memories.

14. My biology teacher – who tends to be quoted a lot in recent conversations – told me that I displayed a good grasp of things but sometimes had “alarming gaps in my knowledge.” This holds true for all areas of my knowledge. Some of you may remember my, “but wasn’t (Gamal Abdel) Nasser also assassinated” faux-pas.

15. History bores me. I think I want picture books about it so it’s easier to understand.

16. I learn a lot from picture books and cartoons. I was watching “Alice in Wonderland” today with Katherina, gaily clapping hands, and asking her questions. I don’t know why I don’t agree to sit and watch cartoons with her more often.

17. I think the universe sends messages to us. So when I watched “Alice in Wonderland,” it told me that when you need to be tiny, the world will send you a “drink me” and “eat me” potion that makes you tiny so you can fit through a door. The world will send things your way to help you with what you want to do.

18. I think that formal education is shit. I wish I could take Katherina out of school to a place where she studies music, dancing, and just being her. I still think I’ve had a fine education though.

19. If there’s one thing I could have changed about my education, it would be doing an MFA in writing instead of an MA in Comparative Literature. I think I may have at least come out with a book instead of bipolar disorder.

20. I’m happiest when I’m dancing or having a super witty repartee. And you can see it all over my face.

21. You can see me all over my face. I am pretty transparent. It’s a shame, because people can easily tell if/when I’m bored with their conversation.

22. I cannot read books, or do anything linear. Step-by-step bores me. I like leaps and bounds, and ages of rest.

23. I like the number 23. And I used to like the number 5. Numerologically, it works, because my birthday is 23rd May (05) 1979. But someone worked my numbers out and apparently I’m numbers 8 and 9, but more 9. I don’t really consult numerology.

24. In an interview for “International Student Leadership Conference,” I think they asked us what we’d like engraved on our tombstone. I had said, “She loved.” I think now my answer would be, “Yes, she loved you.” (Maybe because that’s what I think people coming to my grave would like to know, and what I’d like to tell them. Here is where this post again resembles Mary’s).

25. I think I’m still going Indian style – cremation. If you love earrings, you may end up in my will. :)

Comparisons

2009-01-20T00:42:00.000+05:30

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Can always count on Max Ehrmann's Desiderata for comfort.

New Year Resolutions

2009-01-18T18:21:00.000+05:30

..come fairly late in the new year.

1. Cook more.
This was the first resolution that came to mind at the terrace of my cousin's house in Bhopal, India. He asked all of us to put our hands out and make one resolution for the new year. The pundit that he is, he resolved to "pray more."

I've had a hiccupy start on cooking.

2. Dance more! In fact, I may as well lay it out. I want to be a salsa / ballroom dance instructor. So a good long year of dancing should do it :)

3. Play the guitar.

4. Learn more Arabic / French / German / Spanish. I need so much help on this.

5. Buy a new bike, and use it!

6. Learn how to drive, and get a car and move around town more.

I think those were it, but they're plenty.

7. Write, write, write.

Pajamas: Pink with some blue. (baby pink and baby blue)
Time: 3pm plus! yay

where am i...

2008-11-15T21:12:00.001+05:30

..somewhere in between

thoughts of changing the world

and poetry

Pajamas: discarded fairly early (but i got up really late - somewhere early noon), blue and white. :)

I could be...

2008-11-13T19:01:00.000+05:30

...charging my mobile phone, which makes complaints like an underfed pet.
...watching two youtubes, one finished loading, one still loading.
...working on my unfinished, sometimes unstarted, novel.
...writing poetry.
...writing postcards to friends as I had imagined (the imaginary postcards, not the friends).
...taking a shower, being in daytime clothes, appropriate for the present hour of 3:33pm.

...but then I would not be a Pajama Girl. And you know what, that is such unmissable bliss - why give that away? :)

So, speaking of pajama habits, which will be recorded henceforth.

Presently: blue pajamas, with dark-grey anorak to keep off the cold filtering in through my balcony. Said balcony brings in air from the Nile, of which I do have a not-too-bad view, albeit blocked by a few piles of concrete. (Although one must remember, one lives in said pile of concrete, too).

Time till which was in Pajama-uniform: 3:36 plus.

Yesterday I went to a poorly-attended desi concert at the Gomhorriya theatre, featuring some really commendable performances by Indian artistes. It felt so good to go up to countrymen after and talk to them. They were all very cordial, too. I would love to culturally liaise with India. It's a very tempting thought, that might almost convince me to stay. It would be like having one foot in each of the worlds I love best: Egypt and India.

For long now, I've been waxing nostalgic and pathetic about moving back to India - coming up with the hackneyed, "but the pani puri of India," and "but the Diwali of India," and "but the movies of India," and sometimes even "but the boys of India." (look what I've come to).

So yeah, at times, it does seem like I've reached high time to leave Umm el Duniya (Egypt), and return to the MatruBhumi (India). And following on that temptation, I have applied to publishers a la HarperCollins, hoping they'll give me a second glance. :)

Reasons they should take me.
1) I am funny. I can talk like an Indian and walk like an Egyptian.
2) I know I am funny. I was and am mental - I admit.
3) That makes me funnier. If I can make fun of me, you can make fun of me. What an irresistible offer.

Plus, I like pajama-lifestyle. How no-fussy can you get? Feed me pani puri, show me Indian movie, give me a holiday on Diwali and dangle a picture of Abhishek Bacchan at me - and I'm sold. Will work. How hard is that?

But I don't think HC are reading this, and if they are.... well, they should take me! :)

Otherwise, I'll be shaking hands and taking pictures with the Indians that make it here for concerts, lectures, talks, events... and write about them.

Signing off - the phoenix rising from her bedcovers. Pajama girl signs off at late afternoon 3:45 pm. Proudly Pajamas.
love.

EGOogling

2008-11-10T16:39:00.000+05:30

...is ego-googling, on those days that you wonder where you are situated online and try to find the threads that tie you to the world wide web. At least, many of us can make our own home here.

On one such search, I discovered www.facesaerch.com (misspell is accounted for), and found that omigawd they have stolen pictures of people online!! grrr!

Otherwise, EGOogling led to the revelation that someone else picked up article I had written for the local news. It's good to know that people as far away as Ireland are following the literary goings-on in Cairo. :)

the content of my days...

2008-10-25T21:11:00.000+05:30

Don't quite know how, but I've managed to fill my days with so much of doing not much. would like to post more...

Main yahaan ajnabi hoon...

2008-10-11T16:32:00.000+05:30

...and maybe the sense of being foreign to a place is really not that foreign. :)

It doesn't have to be a country, it could just be a roomful of "friends" that aren't quite that - but uncanny faces that you just did not anticipate. The familiar turns unfamiliar.

Perhaps it is good for the eyesight. Perhaps it is a reminder that you are not blind - that things you see are not even.

As a result, I approach strangers cautiously now. Even I am turning unfamiliar to myself.

I bought a book on psychology, presumably to understand minds better - but I think the mind that most fascinates me is my own. I don't know it at all.

afterthought...

2008-10-07T04:33:00.001+05:30

...come to think of it, that moment of articulation was actually in an online conversation, which involves written as well as 'spoken' speech.

that is where the catalyst kicks in then.

***********

on another poetic note, i read ondaatje again after a long, long while..

The Cinammon Peeler
By Michael Ondaatje

If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbor to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.

I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
-- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers...

When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said

this is how you touch other women
the grasscutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume.

and knew

what good is it
to be the lime burner's daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in an act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of scar.

You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler's wife. Smell me.

say what?

2008-10-04T05:25:00.000+05:30

because for hours now, and for the past two posts, i have been skirting around the issue - and i should just say it.

i'm a good evader.

but Brian McFarlan's Drop the Pink Elephant, which is devoted entirely to correctness in one's spoken interactions, has had me thinking. I can be unkind in speech.

I remember this allegory someone sent once. A boy's father tells him to hammer nails into the fence every time he feels angry. The boy starts out with many nails a day, and slowly there are less nails in the fence. Then for every day that he isn't angry, the father asks him to remove the nails.

Each nail, the father points out, is like a harsh word said in anger. The hurts go deep, and what's worse is that you cannot really take them back. When you remove the nail, the hole is still there.

And I've said harsh words in complete jest - because I find it makes one tough - what with one's British education. And I often find that among journalists - a clique to which I do not entirely belong, but to which I often aspire - snideness is the rule of the day; it's what sets you apart.

Because saying, "You're smart, aren't you?" is just so much more of a sharper nail than "Stupid."

My bookshelf

2008-10-04T04:43:00.000+05:30

1. Drop the Pink Elephant
By Bill McFarlan. This erstwhile BBC-walla will now tell us how to get the fat, unnecessary stuff out of the way in conversations, and perhaps get to the bone. I'm on chapter 3 - what I have learned so far seems insightful.

2. Not Buying It
Judith Levine goes on about a year of not shopping. Her style is known for engaging political, cultural and economic macro-concerns into daily life. I'm looking forward to being intimidated and enlightened in equal measure.

3. Eat That Frog
and once you get that over with, metaphorically speaking, says author Brian Tracy, you can spend the rest of your day working in the relief that the worst is over. The run-on title is "21 Great Ways to Stop Procrastinating and Get More Done in Less Time."

4. Your First Novel
by Ann Rittenbergy and Laura Whitcomb - self-evident as to its content (another how-to guide), but has been lying around and been renewed for too long. Apparently someone at British Council Library wanted "How to Mind Map" by Tony Buzan and had it reserved, so I had to return it. It is both with relief and disappointment that I realised it wasn't the write your novel book they wanted but an organising tool. sigh.

5. Shantaram
by Gregory David Roberts, a tale of Mumbai's world of crime, sex, drugs, and anything else that sells I suppose. It's about a 1000 pages, and I've perhaps read 10, but hope springs eternal. The only element of fiction in my collection of self-improvement-centered reading. :)

Also:
Am watching a josei manga anime on youtube (thank you, youtube!).
and fawlty towers also sits on shelf waiting patiently to be viewed, and perhaps reviewed.

Isn't it ironic?

2008-10-04T03:48:00.000+05:30

The titles of my blogs...particularly the last three ones go.

"Let's not talk."
"Why this is hard.."
"Talking makes it easy."

Talking makes it easy....

2008-10-02T01:10:00.000+05:30

Last week, when I was writing a review on this musical performance of oud (stringed lute), these are the words that i wanted to articulate. I didn't arrive at them for purposes of the article, but tehy came much easier when i was talking to a friend:

one of the functions of music may be to point to silence, to elaborate on it, like lace.

Looking back at many conversations i have had, i find that they act as catalysts to thoughts, even the articulate ones. But strangely enough, I've been told on more than one occasion that I articulate myself better in writing than in person.

I have many an msn chat, however, that is full of amazing repartee that I don't think I could duplicate in writing, should I be writing with me, myself, and pi. :)

Why this is hard....

2008-09-23T05:04:00.000+05:30

...because nighttime is full of memories..
...because memories are full of songs...
...because songs are full of longing...
...because longing is full of yearning...
...because yearning is filled to the brim, and overflowing...
...like the moon, like love, like the night...

And in a mood like this one - irrational, poetic, romantic, perhaps even pathetic - it's easy to doubt, to think of why-nots, and if-thens, and sighs and perhaps not yet goodbyes... but oh que bono? - just what is the use of all that thinking, yearning, feeling - except for poetry.

"let's not talk"

2008-09-20T02:58:00.000+05:30

...has been the hardest thing I've ever said, and the hardest resolution to follow through as well. It takes a kind of hard-hearted courage that does not come naturally.

And I have brilliant excuses to come off of the resolution - most notably, the Cosmic Excuse.

The Cosmic Excuse is that the universe is one, people are one, and equal, and equally lovable. Everyone is (like) me, and I am (like) all people. To deny someone my company, is to deny or reject myself. Thus, really I shouldn't be asking people not to talk to me.

Also Steve Pavlina confirms the interconnectedness between people in a nice article, saying how one should really not let fear come in the way of relationships...which could lead one to mistakenly think he is supporting the Cosmic Excuse.

But thankfully he is not. Pavlina himself gave the answer in another article:

You won’t be able to attract what you want while you’re still tolerating what you don’t want. You have to say “I quit” first. This is life’s test of courage. If you can’t summon the courage to quit what you know you don’t want, you certainly won’t have the strength to receive and hold onto what you do want. So you have to pass through this qualification test first. I know it sucks to have to go through it, but it’s there for a good reason.

You’re being asked, “Are you willing to step up? Are you willing to demand more from life? Can you prove you won’t settle for less than what you want?”

Yoko Ono once said that if she could only say one word all her life, that word would be "Yes."

Sometimes, in order to say "Yes," you have to say "No."

I Come From There

2008-09-16T23:15:00.000+05:30

And interestingly, a friend sent me this on the day I wrote the first blog entry.

Apparently it was also submitted to that website by a C.K. It's a poem by the recently deceased Palestinian poet, Mahmoud Darwish, and touches on some of the same thoughts I found myself turning over on my plate the same day.

I Come From There

I come from there and I have memories
Born as mortals are, I have a mother
And a house with many windows,
I have brothers, friends,
And a prison cell with a cold window.
Mine is the wave, snatched by sea-gulls,
I have my own view,
And an extra blade of grass.
Mine is the moon at the far edge of the words,
And the bounty of birds,
And the immortal olive tree.
I walked this land before the swords
Turned its living body into a laden table.

I come from there. I render the sky unto her mother
When the sky weeps for her mother.
And I weep to make myself known
To a returning cloud.
I learnt all the words worthy of the court of blood
So that I could break the rule.
I learnt all the words and broke them up
To make a single word: Homeland.....

Submitted by C.K.

Mahmoud Darwish

Home Away from Home

2008-09-14T21:29:00.000+05:30

I was born in one place, and my family moved to another place before I had a sense of place or time. There are so many ironies I could see in how mobile my life has been, coming from an already displaced race of people, but I'd rather not go down that spiral...

I have, though. Today, there was an over-dramatic quibble with the maid over some broken glass - and she flung the "No Egyptian would ever do that," statement at me. I literally held the door open for her. I did not want to hear it.

My sense of home is apparently more fragile than glass, because crying over it for hours seemed like a good idea. And if I poke at it, I'm sure I could prick out a few more tears. That is enjoyable and entertaining sometimes - feeling sorry for oneself.

But it has me thinking. I had disposed those questions of identity as outdated and 90s even earlier, when reading Camus was in fashion, and i was out-of-fashion (more lately it has recurred in The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri - and again, i remain behind the times).

Those questions remain - where do I belong? What do I call myself? I feel offended when people say I am not one identity - be it sindhi, or hindu, or egyptian, or muslim, or indian, or sufi, or whatever else i have elected myself to speak work act be...

And it bothers me, because others can break what has been after all forged by fire and breath - much like glass.