(Author’s note: this is based on a true story. Some details were also altered a little and  names were changed. All for privacy’s sake.)

Summer afternoons are treacherous. better not rely on them.

When Nooran came to clean the house, no one was there to tell her chores of the day. First she thought she would go back and tomorrow if the Khanum enquired she would say she did clean the house and went back home. But then her good conscience scolded her for making up a lie and the resultant hell fire. She touched her ear lobes said a prayer and picked up the rag and the big broom to start her cleaning work. She was not aware someone in the house was watching her.

This was Asad. the young lad of the house who had recently joined the ranks of the “I dream of  Jeannie” brigade.  He had seen Nooran almost every day but a couple of weeks ago he saw her in a different setting, and could not get her out of his system. That historic day, she was hanging the laundry after washing it in the courtyard. Her clothes all wet, her hands stretched heaven word spreading a towel on the line, she looking interesting. She was not a “hoorie or a parie”  woman but there was something about her that day that Asad got smitten by and the venom was rushing through his veins madly. He started watching her… biding for an opportunity to be close to her. Today was his day. When she came to his room with the big broom in her hand and a folk song on her lips, he was ready.

She put down the broom and rolled her sleeves up once again and bent down to pick up the broom. Asad who was hiding behind the door, shot out of his hiding place and put his arms around Nooran and tried to turn her around towards him. Nooran, frightened at this sudden intrusion, let out a blood-curling scream and pried open the hands squeezing her and faced the culprit.

“Asad? is that you Asad?” she almost spat the words out.

“You- this and that- how dare you? You…”  She picked up the broom and started hitting Asad.

“I will give you what you were looking for… you- my husband will be happy to to give you- this, oh just you wait.  You can have all you want- all you want- your mother will be home soon- you- this and that …”

Asad forgetting his failed amorous attempt, tried to dodge the thrashing and ran out of room chased by her.

“You think you will get away with your-? Oh no, I will give you … ”

Now they were running in circles around the water pump, trash bin and a couple of weather beaten rattan chairs in the courtyard when suddenly the door opened and in came Asad’s  taya- Nasir. He stopped in his tracks when he saw his nephew being chased around the courtyard by Nooran with her big broom which had gotten loose by now- its long bristles scattered all over the courtyard.

“Hoy. Whats is this? what is going on. Why are you both running around? Stop it Nooran! What is going on? Shame on you, you are beating a Syed with a broom? no respect for a Syed? Have you lost your senses?”

“Ask your- nephew,  this syed son of a Ranjha here, ask him because I am mad, too mad. If I tell Dulla – and I certainly will – he will kill this- this…” she threw down the broken broom and started crying. “We are poor people but we are honorable people. This thug, this… tried to violate this poor woman’s honor. Look at him… he is just a lad, a chhokra. But if you look at him but inside?  He is the granddad of shaitan”  She sat down on the ground and covering her face with her dupatta, started wailing.

“What did you do Asad?” taya Nasir turned to Asad, who just stood there, looking at his bare feet.

“Hoy, I asked you something” Taya Nasir thundered.

“Nothing”  Asad confessed meekly.

“Nothing? Then why this woman is crying?”

“Don’t know taya.” Another meek answer. “Swear to God, I didn’t do anything to her.”

It was becoming difficult for Taya Nasir to contain his laughter.

“Chal ja apne kamre mein! Go to your room and wait there. I will come and talk to you later.”

From the corner of his eye, Asad looked at Nooran and went to his room. Once he was gone, Taya turned to Nooran. but before he addressed her, he put his hand in the side pocket of his kurta and seprated a few notes from the wad of currency he always carried in his pocket.

You never know when you would be in dire need of some cash… Money is the ultimate solution to every problems, was his philosophical approach that he applied to any situation he faced. It certainly helped further his political aspirations.

“I am sorry Nooran. I will take care of that stupid boy. I assure you that I will make sure he never ever dares bother you again. Just forgive him this one time. Chal uthh puttar, go home and take a day off. Don’t upset Dulla. Whats the use anyway. Asad’s parents will be upset too and you both will lose your jobs. Of course you don’t want that to happen, so what I would do is not tell them either.”

Nooran slowly got up then sat down again to collect the bristles to tie back the broom.

Go home Nooran, I will take care of that. Here, take this and buy yourself a new broom. He handed her the money. Her eyes widened when she saw the numbers, then she was out of the door in a flash.

Taya Nasir, pleased with himself, gave a little chuckle and went to Asad’s room.

“OK khotiya, now tell me why she was chasing you?” Then he gave a long and hearty laugh… “As if I don’t know what happened, but, I want to hear it from you. chal shabaash, ho ja shuroo…”

He gave another booming laugh and laid himself down on Asad’s bed plumping the pillow and taking a comfortable position.  He was ready to listen to an amusing ‘anecdote’.

I was alone and lonely but I think I was quite used to it now.

I was seventeen years old. Just finished my second year of college and for not getting enough marks in one subject, could not get into the third year of college. The subject in question was English language… barely passed but not good enough. I was scheduled to appear in Compartment Exams after three months and that would be September. Study time was summer with the accompanying grueling heat and discomfort. But if I wanted to go to college – which I did – I had to clear this exam. And to achieve that, I had to study, and study hard.

Now at this stage in my life and with all those years behind me, I can understand why I didn’t make it in that subject.

I was the brightest student in my class. Active participant in all the projects, ever ready to help fellow students, loved to read Shakespeare out loud while others at the first mention of this name would have an Epileptic fit. Whenever we were given an assignment to give our views on some particular piece of literature, I would have a field day. In fact that was my favorite thing and – alas – the reason for my downfall, meaning not getting enough marks in my English Lit paper to get admission in third year of college.

One question in my English lit paper was about a green door (I am sure the color was green). Let me rephrase: there was a short story in my English Lit course about a man and a green door that during the course of his life, he would suddenly see. Why was that? It was not explained in the story. I do not fully remember the whole story now but the question delighted me because it was a simple and easy question. Then I made the mistake. Instead of sticking to the point and just writing down when and where he saw that green door, I strayed in the sense that I started analyzing why he saw those doors like a psychoanalyst would probe and dig and try to go deeper down your psyche. When I reluctantly finished the “answer”, I had used up half of my allotted time. I rushed into the rest of the questions and my answers and obviously didn’t impress the person who corrected my paper. Though, I tell you, I am very proud of my treatment of that particular answer to this day. A psychoanalyst would have been impressed. Alas, the examiner didn’t share my sentiments.

Now, we go back to the beginning.

So lonely and alone, a girl was studying her English Lit course once again in the sweltering heat and humidity of a long summer. I would go in the spare room in our house and study the course with a dejected heart. I had fallen from grace and everybody ignored me. Well that’s how I took it at that time. It could have been something else, like giving me some space to study undisturbed.

My mother had stopped talking to me because she had said how inconvenient this would be for the family. It was not going to be easy to take me to another city to appear in the examination. Naturally I reacted to this comment. What do you expect from a teenager after all? So the argument between a mother and her ‘aflatoon’ child earned the child her mother’s regal wrath, I was the pariah, the social outcast of the family. I was certain my mother hated me. I resigned to this and tried not to cross paths with her.

Confined to my environments, I would sometimes miss meals, or if wanted to eat, I would go to the kitchen and make a cup of tea and toast some bread with it, or bring a banana or an apple to my room to eat later when hungry. This went on for one whole week. Then one night when the rest of the house was asleep and I was so tired of my books and everything that I, spreading my arms on the table, put my head on the open book and started crying, the last thing a very proud, sure of herself teenager would do.

Suddenly I felt a hand on my head that made me sit up and see who it may be. I don’t know who told her or how she found out but there she was standing beside me, stroking my head.

“It is hard, I know it is hard. I never went to a formal school or maybe I did, but it was just a Middle School, but I can imagine, I can think. You are going through a bad time, but it will pass.”

Then she pushed a small bowl full of almonds, on the table. You are not eating properly. How do you think you are going to remember anything if you deprive yourself of nourishment. I do not want to say more because you are an obstinate child, your father’s child. Now go to bed. You can start again tomorrow. She smiled and left the room.

So, she loved me after all. I too smiled and went to my bed.

What could be the reason? Why was sleep so elusive? Was it because of a crossword right before going to bed or it was something on my mind- and to escape from that thought, I had picked up the newspaper and started doing the daily crossword? I don’t know. Mind has its own ways to deal with ‘thoughts’.

I have endured insomnia and have fought a losing war with it. I lived in Sakardu, Pakistan for almost over a year. Not being used to living at high altitude, I was edgy and restless at first and then developed insomnia. It was really bad. But then after a couple of months things started to improve and I was able to get some decent amount of sleep and felt refreshed. Though, I cannot say that I was completely cured. Without any warning, I would still stay wide eyed till the early hours. But I was young and healthy and a very happy and proud mother of- now, a five month old first born. What was a year or two of sleeplessness going to do?! right?

A friend working in the Pakistan Army was also stationed there. He had the same problem and his doctor had prescribed Valium and told him to have half a pill (I do not know the potency) at bedtime. Being a good friend he advised me to do the same. Who, me? No sir, not in a million years. Thank you very much. I have a mortal fear of tranquilizers. I weigh my options first before a final decision to even take a painkiller like Tylenol.

Anyway, that was a long time ago. We finally bade farewell to K-2 and the other snow bound mountains and came down to the land of five rivers. Sleepless nights lost reality. Only once in a while when nostalgia strikes, we still take those times out of memory bank, dust it lovingly, handling it like something precious then putting it back in the vault for other times. I even talk about my insomnia, like a good old, long lost friend.

So what happened now that robbed me of my good night sleep? I think I have found out why.

I like making crosswords. Have been doing it for years now. But always in the morning, after breakfast I go over the headlines, read, if something seems interesting – a column, a letter to the editor, editorial, some sales announcement – anything.  After that it’s the crossword on the last page and me. Once done, I am ready to embrace my day.

It was an important appointment on the other side of the town and for that I had to start early. Everything was done on the double. There was no time for a relaxed sitting with the newspaper or a game of crossword. After dinner, all things done and taken care of, I picked up the newspaper. Big mistake!

Now that I have learned my lesson, I am going to follow these two rules.

Rule # 1: Never pick up a newspaper around bedtime.

Rule # 2: No matter what, do not attempt to solve a crossword near bedtime. This will jog your brain cells too much and turn you into a night watchman – short of making you, every now and then, shout a warning to the sleeping population… “jagte raho!” (stay alert!).

This winter I didn’t watch Dr, Zhivago. It was a long hard winter… too cold for this sunny state of Florida.

I have always loved winters. So when winters come, on an appointed day I bundle up in my warm clothes, sat myself down in front of TV and begin the annual rite of watching Dr. Zhivago. It didn’t happen this year. Not because of winter blues or any other winter related reason. It just didn’t happen.

I was scheduled to go under my Surgeon’s scalpael and because of Holiday Season … Holiday Season? how ironic!! Anyways, because of the timing, I had to wait, I was put on hold, to wait for my turn on the assembly line. I was left with apprehensions, what ifs and… Ok, enough. I don’t want to sound bitter, which I honestly was not. I went from shock to anger to self pity to resignation and in this choppy state of emotions, I did not watch Dr. Zhivago. I didn’t want to adulterate my feelings associated with this movie. Finally the Holiday Season was over and the good Surgeon was back from his vacation. The assembly line started moving and I braced myself for whatever was in store.  By the time I came back home and started recuperating, the short lived Florida winter was almost over. I don’t mull over the loss of a rhapsody. But watching it has always been like renewal of an old promise.

Speaking of Dr. Zhivago, there was another favorite movie. Come September with Rock Hudson, Ginalollo Brigida, Sandra Dee and Bobby Darin. It was the late sixties when it came to our town. It was Rock Hudson that made all the girls skip class and head for the movie theaters. At least this is how it was in my college. Girls swooned when Rock Hudson’s name was mentioned (no one knew at that time that Mr. Heart Throb was gay). I have a friend, a University Professor whom I love and respect dearly. A while back we were talking about movies, favorite movies and not so favorite movies. Come September crept up in the conversation. HE HADN”T SEEN THIS PICTURE!  NOT EVEN HEARD THE NAME!! Sacrilege, Blasphemy are the words I am sure my friends would have uttered if they had heard him say that.  But of course he liked to watch Marilyn Monroe. We understand.

Another rage was Ben Hur. That also came out in sixties. That was also watched, vanishing from Ms. Ali’s English Lit class. Half the class feigned a stomachache. Asiya, the college canteen owner was blamed for feeding the girls her gone-bad sweet potato and chana chaat. Poor woman swore on her mother’s head that everything was fresh and as always, prepared in the morning. (sorry Asiya!) This excuse was fabricated in Bhai Sahib’s workshop. Bhai Sahib was a very tall girl who had broad shoulders and heavy arms, hence the nick name. She was  in our group and loved – to the point of addiction – watching English Films. Always telling us about which picture house was showing what. If you don’t see Bhai Sahib in our English Lit class at 11 in the morning, she surely could be found in a Cinema place watching some foreign movie.

One day, our brother came home early from the office. He had taken half day leave from work.  He had a surprise for his two college going little sisters. Would not say what the surprise was. Office transport came in the evening and the three of us left the house. After a short drive we were deposited at the gates of one of our local Cinema Houses. SURPRISE!! We had come to watch Ben Hur the second time over. But of course, he didn’t know anything about the stomach ache that would only go away if the girls watched a Certain Movie…

By the time it finished and we came out , the night had fallen. Our driver was no where to be seen. We waited for him to return from where ever he had gone but it didn’t happen. People for the next show had started forming the lines when our brother hailed a ‘tanga’ (a horse-drawn carriage) and we started our long journey home through the dark, unlit streets of the town. At one point my younger sister asked him why he was taking the back streets. He said  “shush, khamosh”…

“Why?” She was surprised at this sudden change of mood.

“Don’t you see we are cutting through the residential areas. Its late and people are sleeping.” He sounded very stern and serious.

“What about the horse’s clop, clop?” she wouldn’t stop.

“Be quiet” He beamed his search light  on her face (he never left home without his search light). My sister looked at me.

“What’s wrong with him” she whispered.

“He is scared” I whispered back. and we started giggling. Suddenly a dog barked somewhere.

“See you are waking the people up!”

“It’s a dog, Bhai!”

“Be quiet, I said be quiet” he hissed again, and again and we almost rolled off the back seat. Poor man really was scared riding through the dark by-roads with two young and beautiful girls acting irresponsibly, not listening to his commands and going into fits of laughter with each new threat. The tanga wala once or twice tried to intervene on our behalf but was rebuffed sternly, so he retreated, only once in a while talking to his horse which made our brother grumble some more… under his breath, of course!

At last our brother’s ordeal was over and we reached home safe and sound. We both jumped off the tanga and ran inside the house and into our room. we were rolling on the bed when we heard our brother complaining to our mother…

“… and mother, I promise, I, never, ever am going to take them out anywhere … again. there is no use doing anything good for them. ungrateful…” which sent us into new fits of laughter.

PS: does any one remember a very old song Those were the days, my friend… We thought would never end …. it was Mary Hopkins… or was it?

Today I sat myself down and read N.M. Rashid out loud to myself… in a clear, loud voice like I was at some poetry recital, a mush’irah, and there was a room full of people sitting in front of me. Afterwards I felt fulfilled and satisfied with my performance. The best thing is, that nagging feeling of loss went away leaving me happy and relaxed.

When I was doing my Masters in Urdu Literature and Language, N.M.Rashid was our favorite – I loved Jilani Kamran too but he was my late night companion. When everybody was in their beds and the house had settled down for the night, I would pick up his collection of poems, “Astanze” and read the poems I could read without opening the book or turning the page. That was me, just for me.

And N.M.Rashid? He was for everyone. Between classes, suddenly Zafar Iqbal would start reciting Rashid which would lead to his “Hasan, Kooza gar” (Hasan, the Potter) and suddenly we would have an impromptu poetry recital. Hasan the Potter, everybody’s favorite!! If Shehzada Hasan was on the grounds and spotted a small, passionate group doing “wah, wahs” he would be there, joining us in no time… time to watch out for reading mistakes. He was a stickler for spelling and pronounciation.

Oh blessed are the days when we were young and such “aflatoons” (self-appointed intellectuals).

A few years back someone sent the English translation of “Hasan, Kooza gar.” It was amazing how the translator had captured the inner beauty, the essence the pain and longing in the original poem. I asked who the translator was, but my friend didn’t know. It was just perfect. Flawless. As if it was actually written in English. I had to know who was so good in this field. I mentioned it on my web site and asked if anybody knew. After some time I got an email with this information: Dr. Prichett. She had translated this poem. Shabash Ms. Pritchett, well done, hats off to you!! I had the privilege of talking to her a couple of times in the past, but that was a long time ago and though I wanted to call her again and talk about her excellent work, I never did.

Now for some time I was again under Hasan Kooza gar’s » spell. I wanted to read it. I can read. Yes sure I can read but I didn’t want to read it alone, I wanted to share it. Who with?

Chunan qeht saale shud ander Damishq

Good old Sa’di… “this year the famine in Damascus was so bad…”

So today I read “Hasan Kooza gar” to a room full of invisible people…

In the waning light of dusk, the lake looked beautiful. So calm and serene. A family of ducks ever so slowly gliding on the glassy surface and the houses across the lake reflecting like in a mirror. It all looked Picture perfect !

Slowly the night started falling and darkness spread. For the first time I noticed there was no light in those houses. There were a couple at the end of the long row of these that had the light coming out of their windows but the rest were all standing there like shadows of a long forgotten past.

We all were hanging out in the patio, waiting for the first burst and boom of fireworks. But nothing was happening to stir the silent air. Suddenly dada remembered buying some sparklers for the girls to have their own fireworks on July 4th. Between peals of laughter and excitement our seven years old and a soon to be five started having fun. Someone on the other side of the lake saw this and with a flash light started sending light beams across the lake to where we were sitting. No fireworks yet.

My younger son, a true Virgo, had told me that because of weak economy the Government has decided not to have fireworks on the 4th of July. But I never thought that this most important holiday would really go down without illuminating the sky and that at every burst of colorful rosettes, the thunderous applause and approval of the onlookers would not be there to further exhilarate your heart.

This not only robbed the man in the street, of simple fun and a firm reminder of being a part of a powerful country he calls home but it also put some fear, some insecurity in his heart. I agree with my son  that this was a most damaging idea. When the government starts cutting corners, it sends negative messages.

Some hundred years ago the poet Sa’di said

chunan qahat saale shud andar Damishq
keh yaraan framush kardand ishq

Which means –

the famine hit Damishq (Damascus) so hard and so bad
that the good people even forgot love

But I would not end it on a sad note because as we were getting ready to go inside the house, suddenly there was a crack and a thunder and a cascade of stars of all the colors of a rainbow were falling from the sky.

Later when my beautiful granddaughters were getting ready for bed they had smiles all over their cupid faces.

They were safe in a country they call their home.

I have been, reading a book which I am not sure what to call. A history book? travel book ? memoirs? or may be all of these and some more.

Its an entertaining book by William Dalrymple and the title of the book is City Of Djinns. Its about Delhi and its past. History tells us that Delhi was ruined and plundered by invaders many times and rebuilt again as many times. This book is about the present day Delhi and the Delhi under British Rule.

At times the vagaries of time are so pointless, so cruel, I just put the book down, take a deep breath and try to make something out of those incidents that contribute towards the making of a nation and breaking of the other. At the same time something just spurts out of the pages that is so funny that again I have to put the book aside to have a hearty laugh. I would like to share some of these moments with you as I progress but first; let me astray a little. I will be back, don’t worry.

The man in the East is generally a polite, kind and hospitable human being. When it comes to welcoming a guest he will go all out to make his guest feel it is his house more than the host’s. I have heard the stories of such hospitality where, there in the middle of the night, a lone traveler, tired and weary with hunger and thirst, knocked at the door of the first house he saw during his long drawn travels.

“I need a night’s rest and something to eat and drink”

It so happened that the people living in that house were not so rich either and there was nothing in the house worth a decent meal to serve to the guest except a camel which was used for going about. The man of the house decided to slaughter it and prepare a hearty meal for the traveler and take care of tomorrow when tomorrow would come.

Now you would expect the traveler to thank his host and after a night’s rest, go on his way, and this is what usually happens. You don’t hear or read that the traveler didn’t leave the next morning but stayed on for one more day and then one more to the point where he not only took control of the house but also the wife, children and all. This is what happened when East India Company started arriving in India during the later years of the Mughal Rule. These British traders were welcomed with open arms by the king and its subjects. But the British, with their one foot in the door, soon pried open the whole door and strode right in.

This is what British East India Company did to India, its rulers, its people. For two hundred years they looted, they plundered, they mistreated the local population, dethroned the King, murdered his family and reigned in the whole of the sub continent of Asia. Those who welcomed them with open arms, provided them safe passage were now apartheid in their own lands. I don’t want to stray too far. The rest is history and I believe every body once in a while, reads history books.

But I would be fair and say that what happened had something to do with the fightings among local Rajahs and Maharajahs too. Some of them were greedy and power hungry and always fighting with each other. They didn’t see the danger that had come ashore in trade ships. Its a different subject and there will be times to discuss it too.

Having said that, I will now come back to pick up the thread where I left it.

The book, City Of Djinns.

And the author is talking about Delhi – old and new – showing the city that is now and the city chronicled by the people, serving in the British Raj. One such family was Fraser family from Scotland. Five brothers from this family worked in the subcontinent. William, the first one to arrive in India, “had become completely hypnotized by the great capitol.” But I would write about another lovable soul first. He was equally captivated by the charms of the city. He was Sir David Ochterlony. He was fond of “hookahs, nautch girls and Indian costumes.”

” Although known to the common people as ‘ Loony Akhtar (or crazy star), when in the capitol he liked to be addressed by his proper Mughal title Nasirud daula (defender of the state) and to live the life of a Mughal gentleman. Every evening all thirteen of his wives used to process around Delhi behind their husband, each on the back of her own elephant.”

Two of the participants in the forum were quite old – maybe in their late 60s or early 70s; dressed in all white with white turbans and long, flowing white beards. Looking at them one would think they were a pair of mullahs with jihad and militancy on their minds. They were not fat though; they didn’t even have hanging down bellies which is usually the first sign of corruption in a mullah who uses religion for his personal gains. As the discussion progressed, it appeared that they were in fact two simple figures with an unassuming attitude and they were first rate scholars. Well read, well acquainted with world history and current world affairs. They were healthy looking, sharp, alert and intelligent people.

A young listener in the audience asked why a student, even after finishing college, does not know what he wants to do in life.

One of the bearded smiled and recited a couplet in Persian and then translated it.

many blessings on my father who took me to my teacher and told him to teach me LOVE.

And then he concluded his answer “with love in our hearts, we can achieve anything.”

They tell the weak, and the poor and impressionable minds to go and do the suicide bombing, lay down their lives for the sake of Allah. Wipe out the enemy. They sit on the pulpits and malign their young hearts, feed them on anger quench their thirst for knowledge on their own personal agendas.

I am not generalizing but look at the Moulanas of Lal Masjid. This is what they were doing. They say they were teaching them religion. If so, then why were these moulanas arming these young boys with guns and grenades? and young, burqa clad girls with batons? Why were they sending their student to drag the women folks from their homes just because this self styled army of good governance didn’t approve of their way of life, their being modern. Or, storming the businesses because they do not want female sales girls to serve their male customers.

They were trying to establish a government within a government.

And now when the authorities came to warn them of the consequences, they took oath from their students on Quran to fight with the law till the last drop of their blood but themselves they were making plans for their own escape to some safe place.

One of them tried to escape with a group of women. He was wearing a burqa and holding a hand bag when a ranger spotted him/her. This was the ‘Khateeb of the Masjid who was escaping Without any care for all those young boys and girls who listened to him and more than anything trusted him. Listened to his sermons every morning because he was the ” Khteeb ” of the masjid !! Shame on him. He is a blot on the name of Islam.

Islam, a peaceful religion. Preaching tolerance and brotherhood. Sending the message of love and peace.
Islam that favors the color green … the color of peace and tranquility.

Not Lal – red – the color of aggression.

” The secret of a long and fruitful life is to forgive everybody, everything, every night , before going to bed “