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ratings

Its ratings. Its all about ratings.

All day long i was hearing about Paris Hilton’s interview on Larry King live at 9:pm. I thought I would watch it but when it was time for the interview, I was doing something that I didn’t want to leave in the middle so I didn’t go to the family room; and kept working on the computer. I knew that for the next day or two, it would stay on the news channels. Some one on some pretext would show the segments of this ‘Paris talking to Larry’ etc. I was not missing something important. I mean, I felt sorry for her when I saw her crying like how an ordinary, normal human being would do in such situation and I felt like comforting her like a mother would do to a child in trouble.

Then it was time for Anderson Cooper 360. This is not something that i would willingly miss. my work was finished anyways; so I went to join my hubby in the family room.

And there he was; our Anderson Cooper – talking about Paris and showing parts of the interview that had finished just a while back. There were three ‘experts’ with AC and with their help he was trying to understand who this Paris person really was.

People are not dumb. I am sure most of us saw what AC was doing. Every body knows Hilton is a ‘hot news’ right now and he was doing what he was supposed to do …. working for the ratings. Oh its fun watching these media people dipping their fingers; now how difficult was that to see? I love Ac. I really do. He is smart, he is sophisticated, he is intelligent and he is sly too. Has anybody seen a silver cheetah with black spots? AC, with his intense, boring down glance often reminds me of that sly cheetah. so the cheetah was out tonight hunting for the ratings. The world was shut out. PARIS HILTON was on; the world could wait.

With a little smirk lurking behind disdain he was trying to understand why people like her? What is it that has made her popular?

Well, didn’t he know he was doing the same thing. He was helping her gain this popularity that he said he didn’t understand.

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hello

my blog is officially on today.

it was my younger son who said, ma I am going to set up a blog page for you.
actually, it started even before that. my web page was so old now that it had lost all its luster. I was not adding anything new. people had stopped visiting, sometimes leaving a message suggesting to update the page, or emailing, telling me to wake up. So I told my son that enough was enough, and I was bruised all over with all the elbows I was getting from all directions. Better roll the red carpet – which was not red any more – and pull down the shutters. It didn’t happen right away but I knew he had listened and it willhappen in due time.

So when he was ready he told me he was setting up a blog for me. He gave me the instructions to navigate, what, where, how and when of what I would be doing. He said I was already kind of blogging when hardly anyone was doing that. And how was that? It was a place in my old website, that I had started many many years ago and where I would go when the mood would strike and write my inner thoughts, excerpts and snippets from my correspondence, from my stories, or from whatever I had read and it had left some kind of impression on me. that corner was my ‘retreat’.

hmmmm so my son was reading what i was writing. felt good to find that out:) he himself is an accomplished writer, photographer and movie maker….

to be continued …

june,26 9:47pm

sorry, it took me so long to get back. i was busy. actually i still am busy. i am doing some translation work …from English to urdu. its a commencement speech for the Graduation Ceremony in some university. its a
good speech. impressive i should say. i am sure the grads liked listening to it. contains lots of good sense and it would do them good to remember it while walking through the life.

to be continued …

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orange blossoms

when my son was visiting his friend in France, he sent a picture he had shot there. A woman was sitting on one end of a park bench, looking up at a very blue sky with wisps of white clouds floating around. There was another woman on the bench, but she was lying and her head was resting on the sitting woman’s lap. They were mother and a daughter enjoying the great outdoors in French countryside. A ninety something years old mother, resting in her sixty seven years old daughter’s lap. He had captioned the photograph:

HAVE YOU SMELLED THE ROSES LATELY?

Today, we all went to Turkey Lake Park to have a day out. It was a pleasantly warm day after a very long spell of very wet and cold week. I wanted to go somewhere near the sea. It has been almost a year now that we went fishing or just to look at the big waves and the surf. But my older son said that this being the Bikers Week plus Spring Break, Daytona Beach, New Smyrna Beach and Cocoa Beach were not the places for family oriented outings. So we went to Turkey Lake State Park. The Sun was out and in this bright haze, spun cotton like white clouds were skimming the edges of a blue sky.

Both my sons, my daughter in law and my granddaughters and of course my husband – love of my life – and myself were all there at one time and at one place which does not happen everyday.

After lunch they took the girls to the kiddy park. By this time the sun was getting hot and it was making the slides too hot for a little girl to enjoy the simple fun of a fast slide. She burnt her buns. When they came back her rosy cheeks were red and there were tears shining behind those beautiful black eyes. When she saw me, she ran and landed in my arms. What is wrong bibi? I asked. I went on the slide Daadi and it was hot. I got burnt. It was endearingly funny the way she said but how could I laugh at this tragedy? Not only was she deprived of sliding through tunnels, she burnt her cute little buns too. Soon she was comforted and pushing the slide shock back, she was her sunny self again.

I had brought my knitting bag, a book I was reading and my note book – my standard paraphernalia that goes with me wherever I go. I didn’t knit nor did I open the book. There was no time or need for that. The sky was blue and the sun was heady. It was the first Saturday of March and the air was fragrant with the smell of orange blossoms. I was savoring the precious moments. Once the children grow up and go their ways, empty nest syndrome sets in. I thank my stars that now our family has extended and there is not a dull moment in our lives.

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in paradox…

Note: A while back someone sent this to me to read and enjoy. Please share if you know the name of the author…

In paradox with his barbaric character, Taimur also possessed the ability to appreciate beauty and refinement, a tendency which matured unhampered by his savage nature. It is said that when he came to Shiraz, he summoned the legendary Persian poet, Hafiz and questioned him about his famous couplet:

Agar aan Turk-e-Shirazi badast arad dil-e-maa ra
Bakhal-e-Hinduash bakhsham, Samarakand-e-Bukhara ra.

(If my heart could lay its hand upon that Turk from Shiraz, I would give away Samarkand and Bukhara over his dark mole).

“I have spent the wealth of nations to beautify Smarkand,” said Taimur angrily, in response to the couplet. “How dare you say you will give it away over some harlot of Shiraz!” To which Hafiz replied with his proverbial wit, “It is due to such extravagance that I have to live in abject poverty.” And appreciating the poet’s rejoinder, sent him away with gifts. Taimur even brought other poets and men of art from Persia to live in Samarkand and enrich the culture.

There is a less reliable tradition which declares that in Damascus, Taimur held a discourse with the famous historian and sociologist, Ibne Khuldun. If that ever happened, one wonders if the scholar had a chance to share with the conqueror his famous theory about the fate of dynasties. Khuldun had propounded that the glory of a dynasty seldom lasted beyond four generations. The first generation is inclined towards conquest, the second towards administration. The third generation, being free from the necessity to conquer or administer, is left with the pleasurable task of spending the wealth of its ancestors on cultural pursuits. Consequently, by the fourth generation, a dynasty has usually spent its wealth as well as human energy. Hence, the downfall of each royal house is embedded in the very process of its rising. According to Khuldun, it was a natural phenomenon and couldn’t be avoided. If so, then the House of Taimur was going to prove him wrong.

Taimur’s most deadly battle was fought against the Ottoman ruler, Bayazid. It started with a skirmish about a certain border territory. Bayazid, who had started a wave of conquests across Christian Europe, didn’t pay much heed to the barbarian and when Taimur persisted he wrote a derogatory reply, which Taimur’s historians consider too offensive to copy. Some believe that the Ottoman had challenged Taimur’s virility while others suspect that he had threatened to rape Taimur’s wife, Sirai Khanum (whom Taimur had married after killing her husband, the brother of Oljai). Whatever may be the case, Taimur defeated the Ottoman ruler at the Battle of Angura and captured all the women in his harem, including Bayazid’s favourite wife, Despina. She had to serve as a naked waitress while Bayazid was forced to watch this as a ‘guest’ during the feast of victory. Despina was later returned to Bayazid, who died of grief soon afterwards. The Ottomans couldn’t recover from this trauma, and the kings of that dynasty never married again, so that no future enemy could humiliate an Ottoman queen. The heirs to the Ottoman throne were begotten from slave girls.

Taimur could have invaded Europe after the defeat of Bayazid, but did not. Maybe he was pleased with the Christian kings who had congratulated him on his victory over the Ottoman giant. Or maybe he wasn’t interested in Europe because Genghis Khan had also never paid attention to that territory. Whatever the reason, he turned instead to China and, just as his armies were about to embark towards the Great Wall, Taimur died at the age of seventy on February 9, 1405.

The House of Taimur had its first brush with civil war soon after his death. Taimur had nominated his grandson, Pir Muhammad as successor. Pir was the son of Taimur’s favourite son Jehangir, now dead for a long time, but Taimur’s will was soon overruled by many generals who asserted their tribal right to choose their own chief from the house of the dead lord. Pir was away in India, and could not come home before the defecting generals had enthroned another grandson of Taimur in Samarkand. This was Khalil, who was begotten when Taimur’s spoilt son, Meeran Shah raped Jehangir’s widow, the Princess Khanzadeh.

Pir returned, but lost his battle. Khalil married a dancing girl and commenced a series of orgies that enraged the generals. They threw him into prison while his queen was subjected to public humiliation – the soldiers’ revenge upon a dancing girl for daring to marry a prince!

The last remaining choice was Shahrukh, a peace-loving son whom Taimur used to hold dear, but didn’t think him capable of running an empire. Shahrukh emerged an excellent ruler. He was known for avoiding warfare as far as possible, but also proved an effective general if waging war was a necessity. His scholarly traits were magnified in his son, Ulugh Beg, who became famous as an outstanding intellectual of his day. Accomplished in mathematics, astronomy and poetry, Ulugh Beg built an observatory in Samarkand and compiled an ephemeris that was to remain the standard instrument for casting horoscopes for more than a century.

Taimur cannot be compared with Alexander, Caesar or Napoleon. He can best be compared with a huge devastating earthquake – something like a beast of nature working on a scale larger than that which is humanly possible, and without motives that can be completely understood in terms of human ambition. When he came, Asia was a graceful cradle for many civilizations. When he left, it was reduced to rubble, but from this debris was to spring a world. The credit for this rebirth doesn’t go to Taimur. It goes to all those who displayed human courage and started over again just like people do after an earthquake or holocaust. Or after a ruler like Tamerlane has wrecked their world.

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gulab jamun

  • 2 cups sugar
  • 2 cups water
  • 2 cups carnation milk powder
  • 3 tbls ( heaped ) all purpose flour
  • 2 tsp ( level ) baking powder
  • 3 tbs vegetable shortening
  • 2 eggs

Directions

Mix water and sugar in a saucepan. Boil. Then let it simmer, but do not make it thick and sticky. Keep it hot till the gulab jamuns are added.

Mix milk powder, all purpose flour, baking powder and shortening. Mix thoroughly with hands.

Break eggs, one at a time and mix with milk powder mixture. Knead to make it smooth , dough like.

Take a small portion of the dough and rolling it on the palms of your hands, make a ball. (makes about 24)

In a wok, heat oil ( vegetable oil ) To test the temperature, put a small bit of this gulab jamun dough in the oil, . If it rises up immediately, the oil temp is accurate, if it does not then wait for a few moments and then reduce the temperature to medium and start frying the gulab jamuns. Fry till they are deep brown. Put them in the syrup. Crush a few cardamoms and sprinkle over gulab jamuns. Cover the pan. Let it stand for fifteen minutes. Gulab jamuns will become fat and juicy.

Serve and enjoy !! Or if you prefer, store them in the fridge to make them cold.

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angst

deep inside the house the girls are laughing. peal after peal of their lovely laughter. they are playing house. one is pretending to be mama and the other one is baba – the father and they are also their own children. i am sitting in the patio. in fact i am sitting in the back and they are in the front portion of the house. i am waiting for the namaz time and after that – i don’t know what i would like to do. watch ‘lost’ ? no, we always record our favorite program to watch later on without the commercials.

watch the news? which is always the same. one trying to outdo the other, exaggerated expressions high pitched voices, know alls feeding people on their masala – dish.

or read the magazine ‘vegetarian’ i received in the mail today. we are trying to change our eating habits. no red meat at all. lots of vegetables and fruits. beans and lentils are my favorite. i can eat a bowl of rice with beans and lentils and a little bit of hot chutney on the side, any day. but … i think i am not yet ready to check this magazine out. the truth is i am not ready for anything. i just want to sit here an relax, watch the planes flying low to land or soaring in the evening sky, on to their faraway destinations.

little girls are playing house. they have all their future ahead of them. everything is new, so interesting and amazing. so much to know to have to give to share! they are playing house and learning. time flies. before they know it, they’ll be in the midst of it.
i know it. because i was also there once. we all start the same way and we all go to the back patio to rest and relax with angst nibbling at our hearts.

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down the memory lane to the valley of dreams.

when did the night fall and the pitch black darkness descended? no one had any idea. How could we notice? we were in Mingora Bazar after all. The tourist destination where one cannot measure time in any sense of the word. Where there are endless rows of shops lined on both sides of the road and they are overflowing with goodies from all over the world plus local handicrafts, antiques. pattu, pashmina and kashmiri shawls and jackets in all hues and colors.

Suddenly the shopkeeper raised his – so far silken – voice. “shut up shut up” waving both his hands over his head. Startled, we looked at him. He was looking at the entrance of the shop where a man was standing. “shut up, shut up” the shopkeeper shouted again and this time showing us the way out. I suddenly realized that there were only four of us in the shop with these two men we didn’t know anything about.

“kho, why do you say shut up shut up? say ‘time to shut the shop up’. Shut up means don’t talk and I don’t hear anyone talking. Don’t be rude to the girls.”
the shopkeeper turned red in the face and this time just waved his right hand to tell us to go. Like lambs, we put whatever we had picked up to buy, back on the shelf and turned to get down the steps. Still we didn’t realize that it was long past the time we were supposed to be in the Bazar. the whole street was bright with electrical lights, but shoppers had gone. A few people here and there, roaming around but none from our group. still no need for a panic attack.

“doesn’t matter. Its not very far. we can walk back to the hostel.” said BF (my best friend)
“if any of you remember, I told you to leave the rest of the shopping for tomorrow. CG (our colleague) said.
“don’t panic, we are not too far from where we are staying. I tried to be brave.
“isn’t this what someone said a while back?” my dear sis added.
we all fell quiet and concentrated on finding out how fast our feet could carry us to our safe haven.

Suddenly the mingora bazar and its bright lights were behind us and we were walking through pitch black darkness.
didn’t I tell you to….” it was CG
“oh just shut up” BF seethed.

We heard a smothered laughter not very far behind us. a cold wave ran down my spine and like a cat I felt my hair on my neck rising.
BF hiccuped.
“who was that?” sis whispered.”
“oh my God, oh my God I promise I would never go out with these reckless girls ever again, help me Allah, save me Allah.” CG started making pledges with God only for her own safety.
“stop whimpering, concentrate on walking” BF said.

an owl hooted over head. something stirred in the bushes. wild pears and almond trees so alluring in the daylight were like ghosts – silent and waiting to pounce on us. it was time for a panic attack.. I felt dizzy. ” BF, I am feeling sick, I whispered.”
“no you are not. keep walking. with a kid and a loony in the tow, you cant be sick. pull yourself up.” she pressed a cold and wet hand in my hand. ” all of us hold hands and feel strong. no one can harm us.” BF took charge.

“My shoe strap is broken.” CG said
“we don’t see any cobblers here. leave it on the road.” I whispered.
“my best sandals.” she wailed.
“oh just shut up”BF said it again and again there was that muffled sound of someone laughing.
” I am going back and ask why he is following us.”
“no you are not.” I tightened my grip on her hand.
“I am scared” my sis said. I put my hand on her shoulder. “I am here with you.”
I heard her crying.

Our mother didn’t want her to go on this trip. but my sis pleaded and pleaded with her and finally got the permission to go. She was happy and she had brought all her saved money to spend and have fun. she definitely was not prepared for this neither was anyone of us.

I don’t remember how and when or why our college decided to have a four day trip to the Swat Valley and the surrounding areas. we were going to make day trips to see and know this beautiful part of our country.

I was waiting for my Masters results – Masters in Urdu Language and Literature. I had just been home and relaxing that I got a call from a local college where I was a student before going for my masters degree. The principal wanted me to come and take urdu lit classes. I joined. It was a temporary assignment which became permanent. The teacher I was filling in came back but the principal didn’t want to let me go. So I was teaching the girls almost my age and having fun. Six months into the job and we were on the road to Swat, Mingora, Miandam Bahrain and Saidu Shrif.
we wanted to go to Kaghan too to see the Lake Saif al Muluk where – the legend is – fairies come at night to sing and dance and leave right before the first ray of sunlight comes down the mountains. This lake is right on top of a mountain surrounded by other higher mountains.

(((once traveling to Skardu, I saw this lake from the plane. It was just unbelievable what I saw – a big round , emerald bowl sitting atop a mountain.)))

” I think we are halfway now ” I just wanted to say something.
“oh goody good !” CG snorted. she had just one shoe on now and was walking like a camel.
“lets sing ” BF said.
no one said anything. We were almost running now. There appeared a bend in the road – a dangerous place to be on a dark night. mountains on one side and a bottomless dark pit on the other. we had to slow down but keep moving almost hugging the mountain. it felt endless. but soon as we came out, there was our hostel, with every window lit and some restless souls walking the grounds. I am sure we all felt like hugging the building the grounds and the ones walking the grounds. CG was about to sprint forward.
“stop” I said. ”
“he is not following us anymore”
“oh misery – go back, bring him, Ms urdu department is sad” CG said and started laughing. You all are unmarried, free like larks – as they say but I have a husband and some children to think about. I was scared for them that what would they do without me.
“oh just shut up” BF said and we all laughed.
“so , if someone finds out we are coming back so late, what are we going to say?”
“they left us there. the bus left without us, without making sure that everybody was on the bus – not our fault – what are you talking about.”
“I was supposed to be with my class. CG said. “and so were you ms zoology”
BF didn’t say anything.
we started moving towards the building. no one noticed. we went to our room and flopped on the beds, exhausted.

A girl knocked on the open door. “dinner time, miss.” she said and went to the next door and then the next …
dinner hall was packed. almost every one was there. we sat down with the students, though there was a separate table for the teachers. they were serving rice, spinach with big chunks of meat in
it and fruit after the meal.

I like rice and spinach and always enjoy it heartily. I had hardly eaten a little bit that my fork touched something different than a chunk of meat. I fished it out. it was a bug – a big, bug with huge wings green with spinach all over. horrified, I looked around. No one was looking at me. I put my napkin over it and pushed the plate a little away. “why?” BF asked. “not hungry” ” why?”
“don’t panic but look whats on my plate.” I lifted a corner of my napkin. “o ma !” she almost choked. CG and sis also emptied their mouths on their napkins. Just then our principal came to our table. “We haven’t seen all of you all day. Come to my room after you have finished.” ” oh sure, we’d love to” I said. “would you like to see something” BF said sweetly. “yes, sure, what is it?” She bent over our heads to see. BF lifted the napkin up a little.
“delicious. want to have a taste?” our dear principal took a step back and almost ran to her table.
“she knows. question is, who told her”
“some ‘khudai foujdar” (some one from God’s army)
“you have no idea …” CG was nervous
“of what?”
“all three of us were responsible for our girls – our classes”
“yes, but did anyone look for us before they left.
” teachers are responsible for their students, not the other way around.”
“we made a mistake. you are right.”

we took some fruit and left the dining hall.

The next morning right before we mounted the bus for our trip to Bahrain, our principal received a message from the Wali of Swat (the ruler of Swat)

“last night your bus left the Bazar without four of your beautiful girls. My people are honorable and you are our guest. we don’t harm our guests. but you must know that human nature is not hundred percent predictable. if our man was not accompanying them, there was a chance some one said, “finders, keepers”.

“now tell your cooks to have a day off and give us the pleasure of taking care of your dinner for tonight.”

Wali’s messenger was standing behind the principal. it was the same man who we saw standing in the doorway of the shop and telling the shopkeeper ‘shut up’ was a bad word.

Note: CG got her missing shoe back, With the strap mended, it was left on veranda, near one of the pillars.
Lucky for her that no one noticed before she saw it.

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visitation

Why did you leave me? Asked my son
I looked at him and saw the pain
Sitting heavy like a granite slab
On a sad little chest

I wanted to say something but found the words missing
He looked at me and I at him, and still there were no words.
I was the one to look away, to look far outside the window
Wishing for a guide, a consumer report for some ready answers

But it was cold in the ice cream bar and cold outside the window
The rain was falling, smudging the edges; mist was all around.
All in all, it was a sad afternoon hushing every sound.
There are no words for heartache,
Come rain or mist or sunshine.

Why did I leave her? Or did I?
When did we stop loving each other? why love went sour between us?
Why visions blurred and silences sat down like heavy dust
Stifling every channel
Why empty spaces crept in.

I did not know what to tell my son
I had no ready answers.

I killed the love that once was; and killed a little boy’s dreams

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karbala calling

This is Karbala, the same Karbala where some fourteen hundred years ago Hussein fought the last battle of Islam against Yazid. Yazid, hated by Shias and Sunnis alike. It’s the same Karbala where seventy-two companions of Hussein laid their lives down for an ideology, a faith that the last messenger of Allah gave to humanity. It’s the same Karbala where Ali’s son Hussein fought valiantly. He was the last man standing, facing Yazid’s army. He had lost his sons, his nephews, his half brother and friends in the battle. Now it was his turn. He knew he was going to die… they were not going to spare his life; and for what? His friends were gone. The male members of his family were gone. There was no turning back.

His sword in his hands the lion charged , ran straight into the lines of the enemy;
you killed my six months old Asghar?
you killed my Akbar- my eighteen years old Akbar? You did’t see how much he resembled his grandfather, the messenger of Allah? you killed him. And my brother too? A brother like Abbas! He was just getting some water for his niece and you cut both his shoulders? You killed him? Here take this, and this, and this one is for my nephews. You think you will get away with your injustice, your blood thirsty impure hearts? Here, I will show you … you cannot. You killed my brother Hasan’s son and I let you go? NO. (MAQTAL)

And now it’s the same Karbala where Sunnis and Shias are killing each other, not realizing that Yazid is still alive. Right there in the heart of their world he is alive and breathing fire.

You think Al Sadr and Maliki are good people? They might have been so if they had not created a wider and deeper schism between Shias and Sunnis. If they are trying to resolve existing problems then they have selected a bad mode. If they are settling some old feud, even then it is bad timing. Divided they will never get what they want. Divided they are weak and easily trampled upon. And once fallen, it is hard to gain strength and stand up on your own feet.

I see death and destruction where once, long ago, there were rows of nice and clean houses, pink houses with green awnings and heavy iron gates. Rosy cheeked little children playing in front of the houses. Old men sitting in the souq, talking and discussing world politics or playing chessboard games, drinking Qahwa and exuding peace and tranquility. Young couples walking the blooming gardens, and lush green fields growing the sweetest corn. … rows of date palm trees bearing fruit in abundance. Now there is carnage and rot and no one to take care of this wounded country.

Karbala, where once a battle between ‘haq’ and ‘batil’- right and wrong was fought is quietly watching and listening and waiting. “Hal-min Nasir…” is there any one who would help?