Bahrain, the country where I grew up, is in the midst of a law and order situation at the moment. Anti-government protesters have started attacking both police and civilians, blocking roads and causing mayhem in this otherwise peaceful country. Things are spiralling out of control and people have been advised to stay indoors. I am fearful for my family and friends who are living in the midst of this chaos. When I told mom that she and dad should think about coming back to India, she said, “If something has to happen it can happen anywhere.”
Bahrain is a tiny little island country that I considered very very peaceful. That was probably because I lived in an ignorant little expat bubble. But never has something to this effect happened before. It just goes to show that anything can happen anywhere.
I’ve had two experiences that I believe can be classified as near death experienced. It’s not like I think about these incidences on a daily basis. But when I do, I remember to thank God that I am alive today. They made me realise how close death is to us all the time. Walking with us like a shadow, ready to snap us up in an instant. Like most of you, I too believed firmly that death was a distant foggy eventuality that will occur when I’m nearly a 100. These two incidences shook me out of my reverie.
On 1st October, 2002, around 10 am, I was sitting in the balcony of my parent’s house in Goa. It was the year I had graduated and instead of continuing my studies in Mumbai, I decided to come home and look at my options there. Mom and I would usually spend some time in the balcony after breakfast. On this particular day she was speaking to my dad over the phone, while I was going through the morning newspaper. She finished her conversation, switched off the cordless phone and looked up to see two navy planes in the sky. The airport is close by so the sound of planes landing and taking off is a constant. As I read the newspaper, I heard her say, “It’s falling! It’s falling!” I look up and see a plane headed towards us! That moment is frozen in my memory forever. The nose of the plane. It was right in front of me. Or at least it looked that way.
Even as we stood up and made towards the front door, I wondered why we were running when death was chasing us at such a speed. At the speed of a plane. By the time we reached the front door, the plane had already flown past the top of our house,the mosque nearby and crashed into a recently completed bungalow beyond it. A mushroom-shaped ball of fire rose into the air, just like in the movies, I thought.
The bungalow belonged to some family friends. They were due to move in to their new home shortly. We later learnt that two naval planes collided in mid-air. My mother watched the first one turn nose down and the other head towards us. All the 12 individuals aboard the two planes were instantly killed, along with 3 on the ground.
If that plane has hit the ground 3 seconds earlier, it could have been our home.
*******************************************************
On 9th May 2009 I was at my parent’s home again for 2 months, with my 1 year old daughter. We usually slept in the downstairs bedroom but the air conditioner wasn’t working so we slept in an upstairs bedroom. Only my grandma was sleeping in her room on the ground floor. Saturday night, I woke up a little after 1 AM when my daughter stirred in her sleep. She usually needed a bottle of milk in the night and I decided to heat the milk and be back before she woke up completely. I’m generally quite scared of moving around a big house in the middle of the night and I would have woken my mom up to do the needful, but she was sleeping so peacefully that I decided to go downstairs on my own.
I probably was downstairs only for 2 minutes. Mom always keeps a dim light on in centre room so that the house is never in complete darkness. I went to the kitchen, heated up some milk and took it upstairs. After feeding my daughter, I fell asleep soon. I woke up when the alarm clock rang at 5:30 AM and I saw mom going downstairs. After 2 minutes I could hear her shouting. I grabbed my sleeping child and ran downstairs. Mom was is the bedroom downstairs and saying something loudly which I couldn’t really grasp. My grandma who was woken up from her slumber was looking confused. I walked into the room and it sank in. Every drawer and cupboard door was open and the things within were ransacked. There were things strewn on the bed, mostly empty jewellery boxes.
The robbers got away with a lot of gold and some cash. Artificial jewellery was inspected and left behind on the bed. I guess we were dealing with expert thieves. A briefcase containing passports and important documents was missing too but discovered later behind the house.
The thieves broke open 3 doors to get into the house, entering from the kitchen. How they managed all this without waking anyone up is a mystery. Someone from the nearby mosque mentioned that they saw a car parked near the house after midnight but didn’t think anything could be fishy. The police did the whole investigating shebang - from finger printing, sniffer dog, to questioning suspects but arrived at zilch.
But what really rattles me up, every time I think about it, is – were they in the house when I went down to heat the milk? Or were they hiding just beyond the kitchen door and waiting for me to go back upstairs? What if I had come face to face with them? I guess it doesn’t matter now because it’s all in the past. Yet I can’t help but think sometimes – what if?
Monday, March 14, 2011
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Short Story: Coming of Age
I wrote this last year. It is based on real events that took place in the life of someone I know.
**********************************************************
“Zaid? What happened to you, son?”
It was Ibrahim, the salesman at Zaid’s grandfather’s garment shop. He lived a few doors away from the store.
Holding the 15-year-old by his arm, Ibrahim ushered the quivering boy into his home.
“Put on your clothes. Didn’t you hear about the attack that occurred last night? You should have stayed home.”
Zaid answered in monosyllables. He hadn’t realised he was freezing; he was still carrying his warm clothes under his arm with his books. Soon there were several people around him. They were Ibrahim’s family, most of whom Zaid recognised vaguely. Someone sat him down on the heavy woollen carpet, placing some extra cushions behind his back. But he couldn’t sit comfortably; his rear hurt too much. He wished he could stand up again without offending the person who had so kindly placed the cushions for him. Someone put a blanket over his shoulders. Someone gave him a tiny cup of piping hot kahwa. Everyone spoke in tense and sympathetic whispers.
“Drink. You will feel better,” said an old man, shaking his head in sorrow.
Zaid did as he was told. The tiny cup was being refilled. The saffron tea warmed him, but also made him aware of the blinding pain that radiated from his bruises. He was embarrassed to be among these kind people who fussed over him. He masked his pain, displaying no discomfort and thanking people randomly.
He finished his third, maybe fourth, cup of kahwa and slowly stood up.
“I’ll go home now. Thank you,” he said again.
The people around him exchanged worried looks. Ibrahim spoke then.
“You can’t go back the way you have come. They’ll finish you off. I’ll come with you across the river. After that, take the Nawa Kadal bridge back across the river and go straight home. Do you understand?”
Zaid nodded, only dimly registering the instructions. An old lady in the room recited some prayers for his safety. She came forward and touched his cheek. He nodded to everyone and left.
They stepped outside; the cold air instantly gave some clarity to Zaid’s thoughts. Ibrahim hurried Zaid down the road and then down the steps where the bridge had once proudly stretched across. “Had it been burnt down only a week ago?” Zaid thought. Things seemed to be changing so quickly, he couldn’t believe it was the same sleepy valley of his childhood. So much of Kashmir had changed beyond recognition, right in front of his eyes.
The Aali Kadal bridge was one of the nine bridges that helped people cross the Jhelum, the river that ran through the valley and divided the city of Srinagar into two parts. Zaid had been taking the Aali Kadal bridge everyday to reach his classes, but it had been burnt down by militants recently under the cover of darkness. A three-minute boat ride in a naav, a boat that could seat at least fifteen people, for five rupees per person was the only option left to commuters whenever one of the beautiful wooden bridges was burnt to a cinder.
A thick rope now stretched across the river in place of the bridge. Once Ibrahim and Zaid clambered into the boat the boatman guided the boat across by tugging onto the rope. Zaid watched as the boatman steadied the boat and tugged at the rope with effort, keeping the boat from being carried away by the rushing icy waters. He kept his eyes on the young man’s energy, watching him single-handedly battle the hurrying tide to get the boat safely to the other bank. The man frowned and huffed, letting out a low grunt with each mighty tug. Zaid tried to get his mind to focus on the tugging. He knew he must not think about anything else now or his emotions would easily get the better of him. He forced his thoughts to go blank, swaying gently with the boat, as the water flowed hastily below him.
On the other side, Ibrahim walked Zaid up the steps and repeated his earlier instructions, telling him to take care. He then walked back down to the waiting boat and waved to Zaid as the boatman pulled away, the grunts barely audible to Zaid now.
Zaid hurried across the lanes of Rehbab Sahib and took a U-turn at the lane where his classes were held. The area was almost as deserted as Aali Kadal. He looked up at his teacher’s window; it was shut and the curtains drawn. He headed towards the Nawa Kadal bridge, which mercifully, the militants had spared. He tried to run across the bridge, irrationally imagining the militants setting the bridge on fire behind him. But he was in no state to run. He hobbled and his shoes made loud knocking sounds on the wood. He was sure the soldiers would hear the sound and chase after him, to finish him off, as Ibrahim had said.
If you stop or turn to look at us, I will kill you. The words echoed in his ears. Or did he hear them spoken behind him? He walked faster, not daring to turn back and confirm his fears.
Zaid struggled the whole distance home, fear overtaking the pain and the cold. He reached Narwara where nothing seemed amiss. People went about their daily business like nothing had happened. The Border Security Force had probably not bothered this part of town. His eyes misted over with tears when his home came into sight. He would be safe inside. He carefully covered his face with his muffler. He didn’t want to startle anyone with his bruises.
He entered the heavy metal gate and walked down the pebbled path up to his three-storey house. The original house had been built by his great-grandfather in the 1920s, the extra storeys being added by subsequent generations to accommodate the expanding family. His family shared the house with 5 other families consisting of his father’s brothers, unmarried sisters, cousins, nieces and nephews, and uncles and aunts.
The door was ajar. Zaid stepped inside the threshold and took off his shoes, placing them in the shoe rack under the staircase. He noticed there was a flurry of activity happening; some of his aunts were getting ready to go out. He caught snatches of their conversation.
“The funeral is after the Asr prayer.”
“We better hurry.”
“Where is my grey dupatta?”
“May Allah give strength to his family.”
Zaid gathered that there had been a death in the family and his mother and aunts were going to the deceased’s house, ahead of the men, to pay their condolences.
Zaid decided to escape to his room. He climbed the stairs trying not limp. His mother was hurrying down the stairs while securing her head scarf with a pin. She passed him, lost in her own thoughts.
“Namra, please bring my purse with you when you come downstairs. Zaid?”
Oh! She had noticed him. Zaid turned to look at his mother, his face still hidden behind the muffler. Zarina was looking at her son in concern. She probably noticed a limp.
“Zaid? Is something wrong?”
“Wrong? I’m just going up to my room.”
“Did something happen to you?”
“What are you talking about, mamma? You’re going to get late. I’ll see you later.”
With that Zaid climbed the stairs and fled to his room. Someone pulled his mother towards the front door, telling her that they were already late. She would confront Zaid when she was back, she promised herself.
Zaid entered his room and shut the door, locking it. He took off his muffler and pheran and lay down on the beautiful red and beige carpet that was spread from wall to wall. He would have to tell his mother when she got back home later; there was no way to hide his injuries. But until then, he wanted to be alone. He stared at the white ceiling and the ceiling fan that had been unused for almost three months. He thought about what he had lived through this morning. Haphazard images flashed in front of him. He felt a scream rising from his chest. But it stuck in his throat, chocking him. Tears spilled from his eyes, wetting his hair and the carpet below him.
This is not the life I choose to lead, Zaid told himself. Just one more year, and I will free myself from this madness.
Earlier that morning...
Zaid hurried down the road shivering in the biting cold of a January morning. He didn’t want to be late for his science tuitions again today. Yesterday he had arrived just 10 minutes late and had received a stern warning from Yunus Sir. He quickened his pace but the chill hit him with even more force. His multiple layers of clothing seemed insignificant protection against the frosty chills of Kashmir.
He was dressed in the customary pheran, a loose fitting overcoat that flapped in the icy breeze. Under it he wore a heavy woollen sweater over his shirt and trousers. The maroon muffler his mother had knitted last winter was wrapped around his head and the lower part of his face and kept his teeth from chattering. His hands were drawn into the pheran, holding his books close to his chest as he ran along the route he had been taking daily for a month now.
The new school session would begin in March and Zaid’s parents wanted him to be well prepared for it. His mother always said, “You must score high marks in your exams this time.” He wanted to ask her if his previous scores had not been high enough for her, but he would just nod. She would smile and plant a kiss on his cheek and carry on with her chores.
His mother, Zarina, was a housewife who had given up the perks of a teaching career at a government school to take care of her husband’s ailing parents. She was hardworking and amiable, loved by all in the household. Everyone vied for her attention, and Zaid seemed to receive very little of it at the end of the day.
Zaid had always been a high achiever at school, but strangely in never seemed like it was enough. His father maintained that he expected more from his only son.
“You are capable of much more, Zaid. You need to put in your best efforts. If only you wouldn’t waste time in front of the television.”
If only he had not been so interested in playing cricket with his rowdy friends, if only he would concentrate, if only he had an ambition, if only.... It was always some rebuke or the other. Zaid gritted his teeth, wishing he had the nerve to stand up to his father and tell him to just leave me alone, dammit.
He knew that was something he could never do. Etiquettes, in the conservative family he belonged to, did not allow him to look his father in the eye, let alone raise his voice in rebellion. It was unheard of for children to argue with their elders. Old-school decorum and family-taught values were revered and followed to the letter. At least it was assumed that they were.
Things hadn’t changed much in their home for years. Kashmiris devotedly followed their customs, keeping them alive for generations to come. Though they competed with one another on the scale and quality of their children’s weddings, the dowries they sent with their daughters, the size and beauty of their houses, and several other material possessions like clothes and jewellery, they shielded all these frivolities carefully within the boundaries of age old traditions and the respected customs of their forefathers.
He sprinted in the freezing air, his mind jumping from one thought to the other till he realised he had reached Aali Kadal. He was about 200 metres away from the river when he noticed that the lanes were deserted except for the usual Border Security Force soldiers. Patrolling BSF personnel were a common yet intimidating sight in Srinagar.
Things hadn’t changed much in Kashmiri households, but everything had changed outside those homes. The recent insurgency had altered the lives of Kashmiris entirely. He hardly remembered how it had felt to walk these lanes without any army presence. Curfews, gun shots, and grenade attacks were common occurrences these days. But the sound of gun fire, even from a distance, was something Zaid knew he would never get used to. He waited for the day he would finish his schooling and leave this beautiful, disturbed land which he loved so dearly. He wanted to be away from everything his life represented now, dreaming of a life free from fear and control.
“Hey, hero! Come here,” called a soldier sternly, stepping forward from a strategically placed bunker in the narrow lane that led to the bridge.
Zaid had seen the soldiers but wanted to hurry past them without drawing any attention. His grand-father’s store was just down the same road, right before the river. He hoped he had enough time to stop by the store and say hello before rushing off for his classes. It had been a while since he met babajan. But it looked liked the soldiers wanted to make conversation with him. He was going to be so late!
Zaid stopped and turned to face the soldiers. Three pairs of eyes fixed their gaze on him. Only then did he notice the shattered glass windows, the debris, the partly destroyed bunker, and the blood stains on the tar road. There must have been a grenade attack here, thought Zaid, understanding why the lanes were empty. A couple of windows opened a crack from the surrounding houses, fearful eyes peering down at him.
The soldiers walked towards him. Zaid sensed anger in their eyes. Anger and grief. He wondered if someone had died in the attack.
“Take off your muffler. What’s your name?”
“Zaid.”
“Where are you going?”
“For my tuitions... across the river.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’ve seen you passing through this street every morning. What have you got under your pheran? Show us your hands.”
“I’m carrying my books,” Zaid said quietly freeing his right hand and showing it to them. As he tried to remove his other hand while holding on to his books, the soldier raised the butt of his rifle and struck Zaid’s left arm with it. The books tumbled from under the pheran onto the ground.
Stunned, Zaid bent down to pick his books up. A powerful kick to his rear sent him hurtling to the ground face first. The assault began then. Kicks, punches, slaps, and hits from their rifles rained down on him. Zaid had no time to understand or to react to the situation. It took him a minute to find his voice and he began to plead to them, telling them he was just a student, he hadn’t done anything. But the mauling intensified. They couldn’t hear him above their own fury. They shouted out profanities and yelled at him to removing his outer clothing, wanting him to feel the full force of their blows.
Zaid took off his pheran and his sweater and dropped them to the ground. In his shirt and trousers now, Zaid continued to plead, pointing to his books lying scattered at his feet. He tried to reason with them, knowing that it would make no difference. He was faintly aware of warm pee running down his legs, wetting his trousers. It brought a sense of reality to the absurdity of what was happening.
It felt like an eternity had passed. Zaid wondered if they would take his body home after they killed him. Or would they just dispose of it somewhere? Ten minutes of torture later they were done.
“Pick up your things and run,” barked a soldier cocking his gun at Zaid. “If you stop or turn to look at us, I will kill you.”
Tears streaming, Zaid picked up his books and clothes and limped away from where the soldiers stood, smouldering pain slowly rising from his injuries. He kept walking
without looking back, expecting the sound of a gunshot to slice through the cold air.
He shambled along the road, still heading towards the river. A few minutes later he was still alive. The soldiers had spared him. He shuffled on aimlessly taking the same route he had taken every day to his classes.
He heard some shouts ahead and a BSF search party of about twelve soldiers materialised from the curve of the road. They were heading towards him. They were on a rampage, shattering the glass windows of shops and houses on both sides as they trudged down the lane. Zaid trembled thinking about what they could do to him. But he kept ambling along, as fast as his swollen limbs would let him.
They saw him. A soldier among them held his gaze for a second. Zaid tore his eyes away, choosing to stare at his feet instead. The soldier laughed, noticing his bruises, and a few of his comrades joined in the laughter. Zaid held his breath and walked past them as they jeered.
Zaid began breathing again once he was out of their sight. He reached his grandfather’s shop, but it was shuttered like all the other shops in the area. He heard a door open behind him and someone call out his name. It was Ibrahim.
Zaid shut his eyes now, as he lay on the thick carpet of his room, his tears dried up but hair and ears still wet. He didn’t want to think anymore. Sleep enveloped him gradually, and he let his thoughts drift to the blissful freedom of only a few years ago.
**********************************************************
“Zaid? What happened to you, son?”
It was Ibrahim, the salesman at Zaid’s grandfather’s garment shop. He lived a few doors away from the store.
Holding the 15-year-old by his arm, Ibrahim ushered the quivering boy into his home.
“Put on your clothes. Didn’t you hear about the attack that occurred last night? You should have stayed home.”
Zaid answered in monosyllables. He hadn’t realised he was freezing; he was still carrying his warm clothes under his arm with his books. Soon there were several people around him. They were Ibrahim’s family, most of whom Zaid recognised vaguely. Someone sat him down on the heavy woollen carpet, placing some extra cushions behind his back. But he couldn’t sit comfortably; his rear hurt too much. He wished he could stand up again without offending the person who had so kindly placed the cushions for him. Someone put a blanket over his shoulders. Someone gave him a tiny cup of piping hot kahwa. Everyone spoke in tense and sympathetic whispers.
“Drink. You will feel better,” said an old man, shaking his head in sorrow.
Zaid did as he was told. The tiny cup was being refilled. The saffron tea warmed him, but also made him aware of the blinding pain that radiated from his bruises. He was embarrassed to be among these kind people who fussed over him. He masked his pain, displaying no discomfort and thanking people randomly.
He finished his third, maybe fourth, cup of kahwa and slowly stood up.
“I’ll go home now. Thank you,” he said again.
The people around him exchanged worried looks. Ibrahim spoke then.
“You can’t go back the way you have come. They’ll finish you off. I’ll come with you across the river. After that, take the Nawa Kadal bridge back across the river and go straight home. Do you understand?”
Zaid nodded, only dimly registering the instructions. An old lady in the room recited some prayers for his safety. She came forward and touched his cheek. He nodded to everyone and left.
They stepped outside; the cold air instantly gave some clarity to Zaid’s thoughts. Ibrahim hurried Zaid down the road and then down the steps where the bridge had once proudly stretched across. “Had it been burnt down only a week ago?” Zaid thought. Things seemed to be changing so quickly, he couldn’t believe it was the same sleepy valley of his childhood. So much of Kashmir had changed beyond recognition, right in front of his eyes.
The Aali Kadal bridge was one of the nine bridges that helped people cross the Jhelum, the river that ran through the valley and divided the city of Srinagar into two parts. Zaid had been taking the Aali Kadal bridge everyday to reach his classes, but it had been burnt down by militants recently under the cover of darkness. A three-minute boat ride in a naav, a boat that could seat at least fifteen people, for five rupees per person was the only option left to commuters whenever one of the beautiful wooden bridges was burnt to a cinder.
A thick rope now stretched across the river in place of the bridge. Once Ibrahim and Zaid clambered into the boat the boatman guided the boat across by tugging onto the rope. Zaid watched as the boatman steadied the boat and tugged at the rope with effort, keeping the boat from being carried away by the rushing icy waters. He kept his eyes on the young man’s energy, watching him single-handedly battle the hurrying tide to get the boat safely to the other bank. The man frowned and huffed, letting out a low grunt with each mighty tug. Zaid tried to get his mind to focus on the tugging. He knew he must not think about anything else now or his emotions would easily get the better of him. He forced his thoughts to go blank, swaying gently with the boat, as the water flowed hastily below him.
On the other side, Ibrahim walked Zaid up the steps and repeated his earlier instructions, telling him to take care. He then walked back down to the waiting boat and waved to Zaid as the boatman pulled away, the grunts barely audible to Zaid now.
Zaid hurried across the lanes of Rehbab Sahib and took a U-turn at the lane where his classes were held. The area was almost as deserted as Aali Kadal. He looked up at his teacher’s window; it was shut and the curtains drawn. He headed towards the Nawa Kadal bridge, which mercifully, the militants had spared. He tried to run across the bridge, irrationally imagining the militants setting the bridge on fire behind him. But he was in no state to run. He hobbled and his shoes made loud knocking sounds on the wood. He was sure the soldiers would hear the sound and chase after him, to finish him off, as Ibrahim had said.
If you stop or turn to look at us, I will kill you. The words echoed in his ears. Or did he hear them spoken behind him? He walked faster, not daring to turn back and confirm his fears.
Zaid struggled the whole distance home, fear overtaking the pain and the cold. He reached Narwara where nothing seemed amiss. People went about their daily business like nothing had happened. The Border Security Force had probably not bothered this part of town. His eyes misted over with tears when his home came into sight. He would be safe inside. He carefully covered his face with his muffler. He didn’t want to startle anyone with his bruises.
He entered the heavy metal gate and walked down the pebbled path up to his three-storey house. The original house had been built by his great-grandfather in the 1920s, the extra storeys being added by subsequent generations to accommodate the expanding family. His family shared the house with 5 other families consisting of his father’s brothers, unmarried sisters, cousins, nieces and nephews, and uncles and aunts.
The door was ajar. Zaid stepped inside the threshold and took off his shoes, placing them in the shoe rack under the staircase. He noticed there was a flurry of activity happening; some of his aunts were getting ready to go out. He caught snatches of their conversation.
“The funeral is after the Asr prayer.”
“We better hurry.”
“Where is my grey dupatta?”
“May Allah give strength to his family.”
Zaid gathered that there had been a death in the family and his mother and aunts were going to the deceased’s house, ahead of the men, to pay their condolences.
Zaid decided to escape to his room. He climbed the stairs trying not limp. His mother was hurrying down the stairs while securing her head scarf with a pin. She passed him, lost in her own thoughts.
“Namra, please bring my purse with you when you come downstairs. Zaid?”
Oh! She had noticed him. Zaid turned to look at his mother, his face still hidden behind the muffler. Zarina was looking at her son in concern. She probably noticed a limp.
“Zaid? Is something wrong?”
“Wrong? I’m just going up to my room.”
“Did something happen to you?”
“What are you talking about, mamma? You’re going to get late. I’ll see you later.”
With that Zaid climbed the stairs and fled to his room. Someone pulled his mother towards the front door, telling her that they were already late. She would confront Zaid when she was back, she promised herself.
Zaid entered his room and shut the door, locking it. He took off his muffler and pheran and lay down on the beautiful red and beige carpet that was spread from wall to wall. He would have to tell his mother when she got back home later; there was no way to hide his injuries. But until then, he wanted to be alone. He stared at the white ceiling and the ceiling fan that had been unused for almost three months. He thought about what he had lived through this morning. Haphazard images flashed in front of him. He felt a scream rising from his chest. But it stuck in his throat, chocking him. Tears spilled from his eyes, wetting his hair and the carpet below him.
This is not the life I choose to lead, Zaid told himself. Just one more year, and I will free myself from this madness.
Earlier that morning...
Zaid hurried down the road shivering in the biting cold of a January morning. He didn’t want to be late for his science tuitions again today. Yesterday he had arrived just 10 minutes late and had received a stern warning from Yunus Sir. He quickened his pace but the chill hit him with even more force. His multiple layers of clothing seemed insignificant protection against the frosty chills of Kashmir.
He was dressed in the customary pheran, a loose fitting overcoat that flapped in the icy breeze. Under it he wore a heavy woollen sweater over his shirt and trousers. The maroon muffler his mother had knitted last winter was wrapped around his head and the lower part of his face and kept his teeth from chattering. His hands were drawn into the pheran, holding his books close to his chest as he ran along the route he had been taking daily for a month now.
The new school session would begin in March and Zaid’s parents wanted him to be well prepared for it. His mother always said, “You must score high marks in your exams this time.” He wanted to ask her if his previous scores had not been high enough for her, but he would just nod. She would smile and plant a kiss on his cheek and carry on with her chores.
His mother, Zarina, was a housewife who had given up the perks of a teaching career at a government school to take care of her husband’s ailing parents. She was hardworking and amiable, loved by all in the household. Everyone vied for her attention, and Zaid seemed to receive very little of it at the end of the day.
Zaid had always been a high achiever at school, but strangely in never seemed like it was enough. His father maintained that he expected more from his only son.
“You are capable of much more, Zaid. You need to put in your best efforts. If only you wouldn’t waste time in front of the television.”
If only he had not been so interested in playing cricket with his rowdy friends, if only he would concentrate, if only he had an ambition, if only.... It was always some rebuke or the other. Zaid gritted his teeth, wishing he had the nerve to stand up to his father and tell him to just leave me alone, dammit.
He knew that was something he could never do. Etiquettes, in the conservative family he belonged to, did not allow him to look his father in the eye, let alone raise his voice in rebellion. It was unheard of for children to argue with their elders. Old-school decorum and family-taught values were revered and followed to the letter. At least it was assumed that they were.
Things hadn’t changed much in their home for years. Kashmiris devotedly followed their customs, keeping them alive for generations to come. Though they competed with one another on the scale and quality of their children’s weddings, the dowries they sent with their daughters, the size and beauty of their houses, and several other material possessions like clothes and jewellery, they shielded all these frivolities carefully within the boundaries of age old traditions and the respected customs of their forefathers.
He sprinted in the freezing air, his mind jumping from one thought to the other till he realised he had reached Aali Kadal. He was about 200 metres away from the river when he noticed that the lanes were deserted except for the usual Border Security Force soldiers. Patrolling BSF personnel were a common yet intimidating sight in Srinagar.
Things hadn’t changed much in Kashmiri households, but everything had changed outside those homes. The recent insurgency had altered the lives of Kashmiris entirely. He hardly remembered how it had felt to walk these lanes without any army presence. Curfews, gun shots, and grenade attacks were common occurrences these days. But the sound of gun fire, even from a distance, was something Zaid knew he would never get used to. He waited for the day he would finish his schooling and leave this beautiful, disturbed land which he loved so dearly. He wanted to be away from everything his life represented now, dreaming of a life free from fear and control.
“Hey, hero! Come here,” called a soldier sternly, stepping forward from a strategically placed bunker in the narrow lane that led to the bridge.
Zaid had seen the soldiers but wanted to hurry past them without drawing any attention. His grand-father’s store was just down the same road, right before the river. He hoped he had enough time to stop by the store and say hello before rushing off for his classes. It had been a while since he met babajan. But it looked liked the soldiers wanted to make conversation with him. He was going to be so late!
Zaid stopped and turned to face the soldiers. Three pairs of eyes fixed their gaze on him. Only then did he notice the shattered glass windows, the debris, the partly destroyed bunker, and the blood stains on the tar road. There must have been a grenade attack here, thought Zaid, understanding why the lanes were empty. A couple of windows opened a crack from the surrounding houses, fearful eyes peering down at him.
The soldiers walked towards him. Zaid sensed anger in their eyes. Anger and grief. He wondered if someone had died in the attack.
“Take off your muffler. What’s your name?”
“Zaid.”
“Where are you going?”
“For my tuitions... across the river.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’ve seen you passing through this street every morning. What have you got under your pheran? Show us your hands.”
“I’m carrying my books,” Zaid said quietly freeing his right hand and showing it to them. As he tried to remove his other hand while holding on to his books, the soldier raised the butt of his rifle and struck Zaid’s left arm with it. The books tumbled from under the pheran onto the ground.
Stunned, Zaid bent down to pick his books up. A powerful kick to his rear sent him hurtling to the ground face first. The assault began then. Kicks, punches, slaps, and hits from their rifles rained down on him. Zaid had no time to understand or to react to the situation. It took him a minute to find his voice and he began to plead to them, telling them he was just a student, he hadn’t done anything. But the mauling intensified. They couldn’t hear him above their own fury. They shouted out profanities and yelled at him to removing his outer clothing, wanting him to feel the full force of their blows.
Zaid took off his pheran and his sweater and dropped them to the ground. In his shirt and trousers now, Zaid continued to plead, pointing to his books lying scattered at his feet. He tried to reason with them, knowing that it would make no difference. He was faintly aware of warm pee running down his legs, wetting his trousers. It brought a sense of reality to the absurdity of what was happening.
It felt like an eternity had passed. Zaid wondered if they would take his body home after they killed him. Or would they just dispose of it somewhere? Ten minutes of torture later they were done.
“Pick up your things and run,” barked a soldier cocking his gun at Zaid. “If you stop or turn to look at us, I will kill you.”
Tears streaming, Zaid picked up his books and clothes and limped away from where the soldiers stood, smouldering pain slowly rising from his injuries. He kept walking
without looking back, expecting the sound of a gunshot to slice through the cold air.
He shambled along the road, still heading towards the river. A few minutes later he was still alive. The soldiers had spared him. He shuffled on aimlessly taking the same route he had taken every day to his classes.
He heard some shouts ahead and a BSF search party of about twelve soldiers materialised from the curve of the road. They were heading towards him. They were on a rampage, shattering the glass windows of shops and houses on both sides as they trudged down the lane. Zaid trembled thinking about what they could do to him. But he kept ambling along, as fast as his swollen limbs would let him.
They saw him. A soldier among them held his gaze for a second. Zaid tore his eyes away, choosing to stare at his feet instead. The soldier laughed, noticing his bruises, and a few of his comrades joined in the laughter. Zaid held his breath and walked past them as they jeered.
Zaid began breathing again once he was out of their sight. He reached his grandfather’s shop, but it was shuttered like all the other shops in the area. He heard a door open behind him and someone call out his name. It was Ibrahim.
Zaid shut his eyes now, as he lay on the thick carpet of his room, his tears dried up but hair and ears still wet. He didn’t want to think anymore. Sleep enveloped him gradually, and he let his thoughts drift to the blissful freedom of only a few years ago.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Still I Rise by Maya Angelou
I wanted to write a poem for International Women’s Day. I tried a couple of times but nothing inspiring came to me. Then I came across this poem by Maya Angelou on this blog. I had read it years ago but it got lost in the corridors of time. I can’t think of anything that would be more befitting as a blog post on this day. So whether you are male or female, old or young, black or white, rich or poor – read this. And take pride in who you are. I hope it has the same effect on you as it has on me, every time I read it. Happy Women’s Day everyone!
Still I Rise
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
Still I Rise
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Super-Nanny Wanted
Disclaimer: No offence meant to anyone who has or has gone through a life-threatening disease. Nor to someone who has seen a loved one suffer. Offence is meant, however, to the loony ones like me who perpetually play tragedy queens in their boring lives.
You’ll have to get a sonography done.
That’s what my gynaecologist told me last week when I went to her about a persistent problem. I shrugged and said okay. It sounded a bit ominous, but I really wasn’t worried. In fact, I wondered what would happen if the report showed I had a life-threatening disease. Instead of the thought scaring me, it kind of... well... sounded pretty cool. Does that make me morbid? Or just a really weird person?
I caught myself day dreaming about how the doctor would study the report, frown and study it for a few minutes. Then she would look at me concerned and break the unfortunate news to me gently. I would look at her shocked, unable to think. The good doctor would press her lips together and give me her practiced sympathetic look.
Deciding to be strong about it, I would look at her and ask rationally, “What are my options?”
She would rattle off a list of tests, procedures and therapies that would have to be conducted immediately. “But you have to understand,” she would switch her tone from professional to sympathetic again, “there is no guarantee. We can only delay the inevitable.”
With this optimistic thought in my mind I would walk out in a daze and wonder what to tell my family. What would hubby say? More importantly, what would he think? Would he start making plans of marrying again once I’m out of the picture? Naturally, Wife Bina Life wouldn’t appeal to him much, considering there are two little issues (as they call them in matrimonial ads) to take care of.
But what about me? Do I want him to remarry? Hmmm... that’s a tricky one. My answer would have been an outright NO if we didn’t have kids. I mean, why should he when he can spend his free time praying that he joins me as soon as possible, in heaven or whichever place I’m enrolled for in ‘ever after land’. But the equation changes when there are kids to think about. They need parents, right? Not just a dad, who in all likelihood, will continue being at work 16 hours a day. And suddenly, just like that, I’m playing Kajol’s character in ‘We Are Family’. Or rather, Susan Sarandon’s role in ‘Stepmom’, which, by the way, is a movie that I looooooved.
I wondered who could fit the stepmom’s role in my kids’ lives. No one I know at least. What kind of person should she be? If I am going to kick the bucket soon, I would really like to recruit a person for the job well in advance.
This is the requirement:
1. Most definitely, NOT sexy and svelte. She must NOT be fat either but should have at least a slight problem maintaining her weight which tends to sit on her thighs more than other places.
2. She should be reasonably healthy otherwise and devoid of any life-threatening disease.
3. She must NOT have thick glossy hair. Her hair must be slightly rough, of medium length and she should have a bad hair day at least three times a week.
4. She should NOT be instantly endearing. My kids should dislike her slightly at first and then slowly warm up to her kind ways.
5. She has to be a super cook who insists on eating the healthiest food, made from scratch. None of that ready-made nonsense. Please refer to this post for more details on the same. She must bake.
6. She should have some experience working with little kids. Like a governess or sorts who has worked in one of these new age schools who know exactly how to deal with errant children. Just a firm and unflinching voice that reasons rather than scolds, and the kids will magically turn into angelic little cherubs.
In short, I want a not-so-attractive super nanny.
Come to think of it, my hubby needn’t remarry after all. Super-nanny can be just that – a nanny. A paid one. Brilliant. Stepmom can so kindly go take a hike. Of course, hubby will have to be convinced about there being no need to remarry, but he’ll give in eventually. One has to fulfil the wishes of a woman on her deathbed, right?
So then, point #7 will be.
7. She must be a widow in her fifties, religious, with absolutely no interest in younger men. Or any men for that matter.
On second thoughts, I would not even have to die for super-nanny to enter the household. Yay!
So when I actually went to the doctor’s office with the scan report, and she frowned when she looked at it, I got a little worried. I’m not ready to die yet, I wanted to tell her. Let me live a few more years in comfort since super-nanny will be taking care of the kids and home, while I relax with hubby on a beach in Maldives. But then I saw her smile and say, “It doesn’t look like anything is wrong. No need to worry at all.”
Okay, then. No problem. Then, why am I feeling slightly disappointed? Where’s the fun in telling everyone that there is absolutely nothing wrong with me? I guess I was kind of getting used to the idea of being the tragic heroine in the movie of my daydreams.
Oh well, at least super-nanny’s awesome made-from-scratch chocolate chip cookies will cheer me up.
P.S.: Those of you who fit the description mentioned in the post, please send in your resumes.
You’ll have to get a sonography done.
That’s what my gynaecologist told me last week when I went to her about a persistent problem. I shrugged and said okay. It sounded a bit ominous, but I really wasn’t worried. In fact, I wondered what would happen if the report showed I had a life-threatening disease. Instead of the thought scaring me, it kind of... well... sounded pretty cool. Does that make me morbid? Or just a really weird person?
I caught myself day dreaming about how the doctor would study the report, frown and study it for a few minutes. Then she would look at me concerned and break the unfortunate news to me gently. I would look at her shocked, unable to think. The good doctor would press her lips together and give me her practiced sympathetic look.
Deciding to be strong about it, I would look at her and ask rationally, “What are my options?”
She would rattle off a list of tests, procedures and therapies that would have to be conducted immediately. “But you have to understand,” she would switch her tone from professional to sympathetic again, “there is no guarantee. We can only delay the inevitable.”
With this optimistic thought in my mind I would walk out in a daze and wonder what to tell my family. What would hubby say? More importantly, what would he think? Would he start making plans of marrying again once I’m out of the picture? Naturally, Wife Bina Life wouldn’t appeal to him much, considering there are two little issues (as they call them in matrimonial ads) to take care of.
But what about me? Do I want him to remarry? Hmmm... that’s a tricky one. My answer would have been an outright NO if we didn’t have kids. I mean, why should he when he can spend his free time praying that he joins me as soon as possible, in heaven or whichever place I’m enrolled for in ‘ever after land’. But the equation changes when there are kids to think about. They need parents, right? Not just a dad, who in all likelihood, will continue being at work 16 hours a day. And suddenly, just like that, I’m playing Kajol’s character in ‘We Are Family’. Or rather, Susan Sarandon’s role in ‘Stepmom’, which, by the way, is a movie that I looooooved.
I wondered who could fit the stepmom’s role in my kids’ lives. No one I know at least. What kind of person should she be? If I am going to kick the bucket soon, I would really like to recruit a person for the job well in advance.
This is the requirement:
1. Most definitely, NOT sexy and svelte. She must NOT be fat either but should have at least a slight problem maintaining her weight which tends to sit on her thighs more than other places.
2. She should be reasonably healthy otherwise and devoid of any life-threatening disease.
3. She must NOT have thick glossy hair. Her hair must be slightly rough, of medium length and she should have a bad hair day at least three times a week.
4. She should NOT be instantly endearing. My kids should dislike her slightly at first and then slowly warm up to her kind ways.
5. She has to be a super cook who insists on eating the healthiest food, made from scratch. None of that ready-made nonsense. Please refer to this post for more details on the same. She must bake.
6. She should have some experience working with little kids. Like a governess or sorts who has worked in one of these new age schools who know exactly how to deal with errant children. Just a firm and unflinching voice that reasons rather than scolds, and the kids will magically turn into angelic little cherubs.
In short, I want a not-so-attractive super nanny.
Come to think of it, my hubby needn’t remarry after all. Super-nanny can be just that – a nanny. A paid one. Brilliant. Stepmom can so kindly go take a hike. Of course, hubby will have to be convinced about there being no need to remarry, but he’ll give in eventually. One has to fulfil the wishes of a woman on her deathbed, right?
So then, point #7 will be.
7. She must be a widow in her fifties, religious, with absolutely no interest in younger men. Or any men for that matter.
On second thoughts, I would not even have to die for super-nanny to enter the household. Yay!
So when I actually went to the doctor’s office with the scan report, and she frowned when she looked at it, I got a little worried. I’m not ready to die yet, I wanted to tell her. Let me live a few more years in comfort since super-nanny will be taking care of the kids and home, while I relax with hubby on a beach in Maldives. But then I saw her smile and say, “It doesn’t look like anything is wrong. No need to worry at all.”
Okay, then. No problem. Then, why am I feeling slightly disappointed? Where’s the fun in telling everyone that there is absolutely nothing wrong with me? I guess I was kind of getting used to the idea of being the tragic heroine in the movie of my daydreams.
Oh well, at least super-nanny’s awesome made-from-scratch chocolate chip cookies will cheer me up.
P.S.: Those of you who fit the description mentioned in the post, please send in your resumes.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Kitchen Banter
Today I made some pizzas. Actually, you can say I ‘assembled’ the pizzas and heated them in the oven. ‘Assembling’ consisted of buying ready pizza bases from Monginis, spreading Maggi Hot & Sweet Tomato Chilli Sauce, adding sliced chicken sausages that were lying in my freezer, putting in some chopped capsicum, shredded processed cheddar cheese (I had cheddar so didn’t bother buying mozzarella) and finally topping it all with sliced black olives – straight out of a jar. This master piece was then heated in the oven till it could pass off as respectable pizza.
I served it with a flourish at tea time being mighty pleased with myself, considering all the effort that when into ‘assembling’ it. My daughter immediately refused to eat it unless ALL the toppings were taken off. After much deliberation (read threatening) we reached a truce and only the sausages and capsicum came off.
The MIL, who was feeding the ungrateful little child, said “The bread is ready-made, na?” I smiled weakly and nodded. In our household ‘ready-made’ is a bad word. Ready-made. Ready-maid. Like when one talks about a person being ‘easy’. *wink, wink* And the use of these ‘easy’ items amounts to cheating in cooking. There was a time when I would make the pizza from scratch - knead the bread dough, cook up a luscious red tomato and oregano sauce and use freshly cooked chicken pieces. But those were the carefree days, when cooking was not a chore, it was an art form.
For some who grew up in Bahrain on a hugely unhealthy diet of frozen meat products, packaged munchies, school canteen sandwiches and weekly take-out dinners, I learnt that cooking needn’t be a big pain. You just need to know how to manipulate the original recipe by using the various products available in supermarkets. And voila! You can dish out scrumptious dishes with minimum time and effort expended. Though I loved cooking when I was younger, I quickly realised that I only enjoyed it when the recipes were super easy. I mean, why would anyone in their right mind spend hours in the kitchen when consuming the results only takes minutes?
So tomatoes got replaced by packaged tomato pur̩e, real coconut got beaten down by its powdered and desiccated clones, lemon juice came out of a bottle, and everything got a dose of that wonderful magic ingredient Рchicken stock that comes in a cute little packaged cube.
Well, as fate would have it, I got married into a family who doggedly believed that food must be as fresh as fresh can be. If the chicken was not walking around on its own an hour before it was served on the table, it is inedible. Frozen or packaged food were looked upon as the freaky, tattoo sporting punk distant cousins of ‘real’ food. Ready-to-cook food like instant noodles were eyed supiciously, as if they would instantly wreak havoc in unsuspecting bellies.
Right after my marriage when hubby and I were trying to settle into our new home in Bangalore and I was learning the ropes of managing a kitchen all by myself, I brought home a pack of tomato purée. I told him this would save me time in the morning before rushing to work – I don’t have to chop tomatoes or wait for them to soften before adding the other ingredients. He looked at me incredulously, like I was a mad woman talking and finally said, “You have got to be kidding me!” I tried reasoning with him and when that didn’t work, I turned the tables on him and looked at him like he was the crazy one, saying I used this all the time in Bahrain. He smiled and said as sweetly as possible, “That was in the freaking desert! This is Bangalore. You get fresh vegetables here, sweetheart.”
And that was that.
However, after five years of steady brain-washing I have succeeded in getting him to go easy on my ready-made cookery. Okay, actually we’ve met half somewhere halfway. I now try and use the ‘ready-maids’ sparingly and occasionally. Sometimes I do cheat and add them when no one’s watching, telling them to hush when they giggle and gurgle in the gravies.
After having kids I’ve realised how important it is to eat healthy and now I’ve started obsessing about them eating the freshest of the fresh. And when my daughter points to packet of munchies in the grocery store, I look at her and say, “You have got to be kidding me!”
I served it with a flourish at tea time being mighty pleased with myself, considering all the effort that when into ‘assembling’ it. My daughter immediately refused to eat it unless ALL the toppings were taken off. After much deliberation (read threatening) we reached a truce and only the sausages and capsicum came off.
The MIL, who was feeding the ungrateful little child, said “The bread is ready-made, na?” I smiled weakly and nodded. In our household ‘ready-made’ is a bad word. Ready-made. Ready-maid. Like when one talks about a person being ‘easy’. *wink, wink* And the use of these ‘easy’ items amounts to cheating in cooking. There was a time when I would make the pizza from scratch - knead the bread dough, cook up a luscious red tomato and oregano sauce and use freshly cooked chicken pieces. But those were the carefree days, when cooking was not a chore, it was an art form.
For some who grew up in Bahrain on a hugely unhealthy diet of frozen meat products, packaged munchies, school canteen sandwiches and weekly take-out dinners, I learnt that cooking needn’t be a big pain. You just need to know how to manipulate the original recipe by using the various products available in supermarkets. And voila! You can dish out scrumptious dishes with minimum time and effort expended. Though I loved cooking when I was younger, I quickly realised that I only enjoyed it when the recipes were super easy. I mean, why would anyone in their right mind spend hours in the kitchen when consuming the results only takes minutes?
So tomatoes got replaced by packaged tomato pur̩e, real coconut got beaten down by its powdered and desiccated clones, lemon juice came out of a bottle, and everything got a dose of that wonderful magic ingredient Рchicken stock that comes in a cute little packaged cube.
Well, as fate would have it, I got married into a family who doggedly believed that food must be as fresh as fresh can be. If the chicken was not walking around on its own an hour before it was served on the table, it is inedible. Frozen or packaged food were looked upon as the freaky, tattoo sporting punk distant cousins of ‘real’ food. Ready-to-cook food like instant noodles were eyed supiciously, as if they would instantly wreak havoc in unsuspecting bellies.
Right after my marriage when hubby and I were trying to settle into our new home in Bangalore and I was learning the ropes of managing a kitchen all by myself, I brought home a pack of tomato purée. I told him this would save me time in the morning before rushing to work – I don’t have to chop tomatoes or wait for them to soften before adding the other ingredients. He looked at me incredulously, like I was a mad woman talking and finally said, “You have got to be kidding me!” I tried reasoning with him and when that didn’t work, I turned the tables on him and looked at him like he was the crazy one, saying I used this all the time in Bahrain. He smiled and said as sweetly as possible, “That was in the freaking desert! This is Bangalore. You get fresh vegetables here, sweetheart.”
And that was that.
However, after five years of steady brain-washing I have succeeded in getting him to go easy on my ready-made cookery. Okay, actually we’ve met half somewhere halfway. I now try and use the ‘ready-maids’ sparingly and occasionally. Sometimes I do cheat and add them when no one’s watching, telling them to hush when they giggle and gurgle in the gravies.
After having kids I’ve realised how important it is to eat healthy and now I’ve started obsessing about them eating the freshest of the fresh. And when my daughter points to packet of munchies in the grocery store, I look at her and say, “You have got to be kidding me!”
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Turning 30
One of the many reasons I love Facebook is that today it made me feel like a superstar.
I turned 30 today, which in itself is a depressing fact. It was difficult enough reconciling with the fact that I’m no longer a teenager. All of the sudden nature conspires against me by making me 30. Where did the last decade vanish? Oh yeah, I was busy graduating, getting married, learning to cook, finding a job, trying to get pregnant, having a miscarriage, finally having a baby, being terrorised by the baby, moving cities, and finally having a second baby. Whoa! No wonder my twenties whizzed by. I completely forgot to stop and smell the roses.
Coming back to Facebook, I am truly touched and humbled with the numerous wishes flooding my wall. More so because I am very very very bad at wishing people on their birthdays and anniversaries. Firstly, I’m bad at remembering dates. Other than my own birthday, that is. Secondly, I guess I am just plain lazy. I mean, the names are there staring at me every single day on Facebook and I choose to ignore them. Today, was an eye opener for me. Some of the people who wished me are on my friends list, but aren’t really my ‘friends’. You know how it is. I probably just added them because we went to the same school. Or because she is someone’s brother’s wife’s cousin who I once chatted with at a wedding. We added each to our respective friend lists, being happy in the knowledge that our number of supposed ‘friends’ is going up, but didn’t really bother to even say hi after responding to the friend request. Who can say that that’s wrong when the feeling is mutual?
But after receiving birthday wishes from almost everybody but Obama and Sanjeev Kapoor (yes, I admit it, the latter is on my list), I’m speechless. Thank you, everyone. Thank you for the wishes, love, regards, prayers, calls, messages, missed calls (sorry about that), everything that made an ordinary girl feel extraordinary. I now vow to stop being so damn selfish and take some time to bring a smile on my ‘friends’ faces when their big day comes up. I’m hoping these little gestures will help build some bridges and then we can finally stop being just another number in each other’s lists.
I turned 30 today, which in itself is a depressing fact. It was difficult enough reconciling with the fact that I’m no longer a teenager. All of the sudden nature conspires against me by making me 30. Where did the last decade vanish? Oh yeah, I was busy graduating, getting married, learning to cook, finding a job, trying to get pregnant, having a miscarriage, finally having a baby, being terrorised by the baby, moving cities, and finally having a second baby. Whoa! No wonder my twenties whizzed by. I completely forgot to stop and smell the roses.
Coming back to Facebook, I am truly touched and humbled with the numerous wishes flooding my wall. More so because I am very very very bad at wishing people on their birthdays and anniversaries. Firstly, I’m bad at remembering dates. Other than my own birthday, that is. Secondly, I guess I am just plain lazy. I mean, the names are there staring at me every single day on Facebook and I choose to ignore them. Today, was an eye opener for me. Some of the people who wished me are on my friends list, but aren’t really my ‘friends’. You know how it is. I probably just added them because we went to the same school. Or because she is someone’s brother’s wife’s cousin who I once chatted with at a wedding. We added each to our respective friend lists, being happy in the knowledge that our number of supposed ‘friends’ is going up, but didn’t really bother to even say hi after responding to the friend request. Who can say that that’s wrong when the feeling is mutual?
But after receiving birthday wishes from almost everybody but Obama and Sanjeev Kapoor (yes, I admit it, the latter is on my list), I’m speechless. Thank you, everyone. Thank you for the wishes, love, regards, prayers, calls, messages, missed calls (sorry about that), everything that made an ordinary girl feel extraordinary. I now vow to stop being so damn selfish and take some time to bring a smile on my ‘friends’ faces when their big day comes up. I’m hoping these little gestures will help build some bridges and then we can finally stop being just another number in each other’s lists.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Still Alive and Kicking Folks
Life is crazy at the moment. 'When was it not?' I hear you all collectively say. Yes, but only a mom with 2 small kids will know what I'm talking about. Correction. Only a mom who has a child remotely like the fussy, cranky, moody, bossy, accident-prone, hurricane Z has turned out to be, will have an inkling of my whirlwind days.
For those of you who don’t know, I had a darling little baby boy on the 28th of October, 2010. Incidentally, his name starts with Z too so I have to figure out what to call each of them on this blog. Creative suggestions are welcome.
So while I scrounge around for time to collect my thoughts and put my efforts at being supermom up for display through this blog, I’ll leave you all to read a story I attempted a few months ago. Be kind with your comments... I'm a novice, for God's sake! :)Happy reading...
THE DREAM
PARADISE.... I MUST BE DEAD, THOUGHT SARAH.
Everything around was perfect and beautiful. The sky was a luminous shade of blue, expanding spotlessly as far as she could see. There was no sun in sight, yet sunlight seemed to touch everything. A gentle breeze caressed her skin, offering a hint of coolness to the pleasant warmth. She walked barefoot on a carpet of moist grass. Huge comforting trees sheltered her as she walked, urging her on with the gentle sway of their leaves. A clear stream gurgled a few feet away and delicate lavender flowers peppered her path. She could hear melodious sounds filter down through the lush foliage of the trees. She saw tiny bird-like creatures singing to her from the branches above. They chirped and sang their songs to her earnestly from every tree. The melodies reached her ears and formed clear meanings in her head. She understood them but wanted to plug her ears with her fingers and shut out the sounds. She didn’t want to hear… or to know.
The beauty around her did nothing to make her feel better. She was petrified. She wanted to stop, to turn around, to wake up. In a small corner of her conscious mind she was aware that this was just a dream. But a familiar feeling of helplessness gripped her, weakening her belief that this was unreal. As she walked she realised she was silently resisting something... what? She couldn’t see what she was fighting. There was an unmistakable force that made her keep walking. From a distance she saw a tree that appeared to be slightly illuminated. She knew she had to walk towards it, even though she didn’t want to. She could feel a scream threatening to escape her lips. An invisible fist tightened around her heart, intensifying her panic. But her legs continued to carry her forward...
Sarah woke up abruptly. She had an odd feeling of being between two places, between sleep and consciousness. She roused herself slowly, deliberately shaking off the images of her unconscious mind. She was in her bed, fully awake now, lying between her sleeping husband and their baby daughter.
The dream had recurred on and off for about a month. Persistent dreams disturbed her. But this time the dream did more than that. It terrified her. Sarah’s hands were cold with fear. She felt a tremor run through her body at the memory of what she had felt in the dream. It seemed to be revealing something to her slowly - bit by bit. Each time she felt she had walked a little further; seen the surroundings a little more clearly; felt a little more helpless.
Today, yet again, the dream had left Sarah emotionally drained, tired and numb with fear. Instinctively, she checked Nida. She was asleep and probably dreaming of angels, for she had an angelic hint of a smile on her tiny lips. There is a popular belief among Muslims that when babies smile or laugh in their sleep, they are in conversation with angels. Sarah softly kissed Nida’s forehead, reciting a quick prayer for her safety and happiness.
Nida used to wake up several times each night and Sarah struggled through those nights, rocking, singing and nursing her back to sleep. But thankfully, her 10-month-old had recently started sleeping well throughout the night.
Right around the time the dreams had begun, Sarah thought absently.
Sarah turned towards Yousif. He was fast asleep, evident by his snores. She snuggled close to her husband, trying to go back to sleep. But her thoughts kept wandering back to the dream.
Sarah was no stranger to the world of dreams. Thinking back, she believed she had spent half her life in this parallel world. She was both mesmerised and repelled by them. She was fascinated by them from a purely academic standpoint, being a student of psychology. But she hated the fact that they stole her peaceful sleep and replaced it with a cryptic maze of hidden messages that she had no choice but to psychoanalyse. She hated that, more often than not, the dreams tormented her with clear hints of the near future.
She shuddered involuntarily.
She didn’t get any sleep till well after 4 a.m.
“I had that dream again,” Sarah told Yousif over breakfast in the morning. He looked up from his parantha and cauliflower sabzi and raised an eyebrow.
Yousif was a man of few words. He didn’t really air his views unless he was compelled to. But after hearing the intensity of the dream, he was a little concerned.
“Isn’t this the fourth time? Sarah, you should speak to someone about it. At least talk to Ammi. You know how good she is at interpreting dreams.”
“Fifth. And yes, I thought about talking to her but I don’t want her to get worried. Not that there is anything to worry about...” she trailed off, suddenly remembering the feeling of helplessness. Steadying her voice, she looked at him pointedly. “I’ll go see her this afternoon.”
Sarah and Yousif owned an apartment in one of Bangalore’s most upmarket locations, and Yousif’s mother lived across the street from them with her eldest son Qasim, his wife Zeba and their 5-year-old son Ayaan.
Sarah was extremely fond of Ammi and vice versa, a fact that surprised both of them and everyone who knew them. Sarah had lost her own mother when she was five. Though her father took good care of them during their growing years, Sarah and her sister were often saddened by the absence of a mother’s love. This gaping maternal void that Sarah grew up with was easily filled by Ammi’s presence. They shared a relationship akin to that of a mother and daughter who had been close all their lives. They struck a chord from the very first day, when they met at a wedding six years ago. Sarah’s sensitivity and grace had floored Ammi, which led to her playing match maker and getting Yousif and Sarah to tie the knot soon after. Almost immediately they became inseparable friends, confiding in each other. Sarah knew at last what it felt like to have a mother.
It was only a year later that they realised that their camaraderie had more to do with things that did not meet the eye. They both shared a gift. They both saw dreams that told the future.
Yousif’s father had died three years ago. Ammi knew about it a month before that fateful day when he had a massive heart attack. Since she had been warned by her vision, she didn’t go into shock. But it changed her. Once a cheerful, witty and energetic woman, Ammi now preferred to spend most of her time on her prayer mat. After Abba’s death she tried to be happy but it was obvious that she couldn’t get over her loss. Her eyes always had a far-away look and Sarah wondered how often she thought about her own death. It pained Sarah to look into Ammi’s eyes.
That afternoon Sarah made some gajar ka halwa for Ammi, dressed Nida and carried her and the halwa to the building society across the street. Zeba greeted her at the door with strained enthusiasm.
“Sarah! What a pleasant surprise!
Zeba and Sarah never knew what to say to each other. Initially they had tried to be friends, but some things were just not meant to be. Misunderstandings had put a crack in the possibility of a friendship and the undercurrents of tension remained long after the rift was forgotten. What remained was a deliberate formality and an effort to stay out of each other’s way.
“How are you, bhabhi? How is my darling Ayaan? It’s been a week since we saw Ammi. I hope she is fine.”
“Her knees have been troubling her a lot nowadays, especially since these unexpected chilly winds began.”
Just then Ammi walked into the living room with Ayaan pulling at the end of her dupatta. Sarah let her sister-in-law take Nida from her arms, while she hurried to embrace Ammi. Their embrace was warm and lingering.
She laughed as she picked her cheeky nephew up, noticing his Spiderman T-shirt.
“How have you been, hero?”
“I’m fine, chachi. Can Nida play football with me now?” he pleaded.
“Well, she’s trying to take a few steps herself now. Why don’t you help her learn to walk? Then she will soon be set to play football with you.”
She put Ayaan back down and they all watched, carefully controlling their chuckles as Ayaan held Nida’s tiny hands in his own and urged her to walk, counting “One, two, three....” while he walked backwards.
“Ayyyaaaa. Tu tu tu,” babbled Nida, humouring her cousin.
She tottered after the third step and fell forward squealing with laughter, toppling Ayaan along with her onto the floor. The kids grinned up at the adults and everyone laughed. Ammi held Sarah’s hand then and led her to her room. Sarah glanced at Zeba and noticed a slight frown appear on her face before she turned her attention back to the children and started talking animatedly. It was obvious to everyone that Sarah was Ammi’s favourite daughter-in-law; a fact that Zeba never could come to terms with.
“Yousif told me you wanted to talk to me about something,” enquired Ammi once they were seated in her room. “He didn’t say much so I got a little worried. I hope everything is alright.”
“Oh, it’s nothing Ammi.” She was perturbed that Yousif had made Ammi anxious unnecessarily. “I’ve been having a disturbing dream, that’s all. I didn’t think much of it initially but last night was the fifth time. I can’t see anything of importance in it. But it’s frightening.”
Ammi listened intently as Sarah narrated what she saw in the dream. Sarah told her what she saw, the place that felt like it was God’s paradise, how she felt she was being urged on, and how the dream had ended before she reached her destination. She also told her how frightened the dream had left her, how she didn’t want to reach the destination, but was being forced to, and how each time the dream seemed to take her a little further, closer to the climax.
Ammi looked at Sarah with a puzzled expression on her face. She then asked her to narrate it again, this time slowly, trying to recall any minute details and bits she could have forgotten. Sarah closed her eyes and tried to visualise the dream again. Strangely, she didn’t have to try very hard. She remembered things in startling clarity as she put her vision into words. She began retelling the tale of her dream. She described the beautiful place and what she saw and felt, the sounds, the smells, all in explicit detail. And then…
She was walking on the moist grass once more, among the lush trees, with the pleasant breeze tingling her skin and the sparkling water flowing beside her. She heard the bird-like-creatures and looked up as they urged her on. She wanted to tell them that she was scared, that she didn’t want to go any further. She wanted to turn and run. But she kept walking towards the radiant tree, beckoned by an unseen force. Fear grew with each step, from the pit of her belly, till it suffocated her, clogging her senses and restricting her breathing. She knew reaching that tree would bring her face to face with a certainty she did not wish to realise; an end she was too scared to face. A flash of light blinded her eyes and a single word took its place, forming clearly in her mind. She felt a chill run down her spine.
“Chai, chai.”
Sarah’s eyes flew open and she stared at Zeba with an expression of fear and astonishment. Zeba stood there with a tray of tea, biscuits and cakes. Ayaan followed her into the room, leading Nida by her hand. She looked like she had already gotten better at walking. But Sarah didn’t notice.
She felt she had just woken up from her dream. Her eyes couldn’t see clearly for a few seconds and her limbs felt numb. Her hands were clammy from fear. She felt a little faint. Without thinking, she bent down to touch the soles of her feet. They were moist.
What just happened here? She tried to recall. She had been describing her dream to Ammi and had suddenly slipped into the dream in the middle of her narration. How was that possible? And how much had she told Ammi? She hoped she hadn’t said the word aloud, the word that had appeared in front of her. Ammi didn’t need to know about that.
She saw both Ammi and Zeba peering at her wondering what had happened to her. She blushed scarlet, realising how odd her expression would have looked to them. Ayaan saved her from any further discomfort.
“Look at her walk, chachi. I taught her.”
“Yes, you did, sweetheart.”
She gave the children quick hugs and excused herself to go to the kitchen so that she could warm a bottle of milk to feed Nida. She had to give herself a minute to get composed and stop her hands from shivering. With painstaking care she completed the task without spilling anything. When she returned, Ammi and Zeba were discussing the menu for dinner, but broke off when she entered. They looked at her, Zeba inquisitively and Ammi expectantly. She ignored their looks and told them about a delicious and recently discovered brinjal curry recipe. She did her best to ignore Ammi’s questioning eyes. She didn’t want to think about the dream. Not now at least.
After half an hour of light conversation, Ammi decided not to remain patient anymore.
“Sarah has been seeing a strange dream repeatedly,” she told Zeba. “She was just telling me about it.”
“Oh, really? Do tell me more.”
Sarah noticed the sarcasm. Zeba never took Sarah’s dreams seriously. She laughed at her behind her back, wondering how people could be so superstitious in this day and age.
She had often expressed her thoughts about Sarah’s childish beliefs to Qasim. “I can understand someone like Ammi believing this mumbo jumbo, but Sarah? I thought she had better sense,” Zeba had said incredulously to him one night, after hearing about a particular dream which seemed to hold everyone’s interest.
In the dream Sarah had seen her own sister Mizba browsing through jewellery in a store, but instead of purchasing jewellery, she bought a pair of shiny knives. Mizba was eight months pregnant at that time and Sarah understood what the dream had implied, after discussing it with Ammi of course. Mizba soon delivered a healthy baby girl... through an emergency caesarean section.
Zeba had laughed off the explanation that jewellery meant a girl and knives a C-section. “You certainly have a wild imagination,” she had remarked rudely to Sarah.
“It’s nothing important.” Sarah now brushed the sarcasm aside and got up to leave. “I really must be getting home. I haven’t worked on my thesis this whole week,” she said before Ammi could protest. A few months after Nida was born Sarah had decided to pursue her long standing desire to get a PhD in Psychology.
Once she was home and Nida napped, Sarah busied herself with dinner preparations and then sat down to work on her thesis. The topic of her study was ‘Precognitive Dreams’, something that she felt she needed to study in order to understand herself and how her mind worked.
But she couldn’t concentrate. She kept thinking about what she had experienced in Ammi’s room this afternoon. It had been a first. But what was it? I wasn’t asleep, she told herself. I was narrating the dream to Ammi. And suddenly I was in the dream, going a little bit further....
She shivered remembering the word that had materialised clearly in her mind.
DEATH
Sarah wanted to talk to Yousif about it when he got home at 8 p.m. But what would she tell him? She felt she just needed to give herself a break and not think about the dream for some time. I might soon lose my mind otherwise. Or am I already on the road to losing it? she thought wryly.
She decided not to say anything to Yousif at all. Ammi enquired about the incident the next morning over the phone but Sarah vaguely said that describing it had frightened her again, that’s all.
Two nights later, she was in the dream again.
Everything was the same as before. But Sarah sensed subtle changes. The air was thick with a peculiar scent. It hung heavily around her. It was a smell that she seemed to remember... it had hung around the house when her mother died and again when her grandmother died a few years later. It conjured up images of clean white shrouds, aromatic incense and the recitation of the Qur’an. She could hear the clear recitation now, the song of the birds fading into the background as she proceeded to the tree. It was a young man’s voice; he was barely 20. She knew this even before she saw him. His voice rang clear as crystal in the heavy air, strong and resonant as he recited the holy verses. She followed the sweetness of those verses, of that voice, in a trance. She was engulfed in its melody and wondered why she had been afraid. The heaviness seemed to lift gradually as she approached him. The fear evaporated. A peaceful calmness set in. Sarah knew she had to keep walking and see this through.
He sat on a rock below the luminous tree, the Qur’an in his hands, rocking gently to the rhythm of his own recital. He was about twenty feet away from her. She tread gently, not wanting to disturb him with her footsteps. But he seemed to be unaware of her. He sat elegantly in a white kurta-pyjama with a skull cap on his head. She noticed something else now. He recited a few lines and then turned to his right to speak to someone. He then recited the next two lines and again turned to speak to the person sitting next to him. He seemed to be explaining the verses he recited, smiling and gesturing with his hands. She approached cautiously now, noting that a young girl sat beside the boy. She couldn’t have been over 16. She was wearing a powder blue salwar-kameez with the dupatta loosely draped around her head and over her shoulders. She was listening to her companion in rapt attention, unable to take her eyes off him. Sarah inched closer, not wanting to bother the couple, but she had to know.
She was standing in front of them now, looking down at them as they sat in their cosy nook. They slowly turned their faces up to look at her; smiling, radiant, joyous faces that seemed to expect her and welcome her. Sarah did not flinch in recognition. She began to cry, silent tears falling down her cheeks.
“You’ll be alright, Sarah,” Ammi said. Abba nodded and took his wife’s hand in his.
“Sarah? Sarah, wake up. You’re having a dream again. What happened? Calm down, sweetheart.” Yousif held his wife in his arms as she sobbed softly into his shoulder.
“I don’t want to lose her. I don’t want Ammi to die.”
Yousif continued to hold Sarah as the words sank in.
Facing the next morning was difficult for Sarah. She knew it was just a matter of time. She had no control over the inevitable. How was she was going to live without Ammi? She didn’t know the answer to that question.
Ammi was strangely cheerful when Sarah met her. She went about her tasks with a sudden vigour and swiftness, like she was in a hurry. She laughed often and whole-heartedly, something she hadn’t done in a long time. It was a complete change and it startled everyone. She visited close relatives, spent time with her family and hugged Sarah at the slightest pretext. Once, during an embrace, she whispered, “You’ll be alright, Sarah.”
Ammi died peacefully in her sleep the following week. Sarah never told her the dream. She didn’t have to.
For those of you who don’t know, I had a darling little baby boy on the 28th of October, 2010. Incidentally, his name starts with Z too so I have to figure out what to call each of them on this blog. Creative suggestions are welcome.
So while I scrounge around for time to collect my thoughts and put my efforts at being supermom up for display through this blog, I’ll leave you all to read a story I attempted a few months ago. Be kind with your comments... I'm a novice, for God's sake! :)Happy reading...
THE DREAM
PARADISE.... I MUST BE DEAD, THOUGHT SARAH.
Everything around was perfect and beautiful. The sky was a luminous shade of blue, expanding spotlessly as far as she could see. There was no sun in sight, yet sunlight seemed to touch everything. A gentle breeze caressed her skin, offering a hint of coolness to the pleasant warmth. She walked barefoot on a carpet of moist grass. Huge comforting trees sheltered her as she walked, urging her on with the gentle sway of their leaves. A clear stream gurgled a few feet away and delicate lavender flowers peppered her path. She could hear melodious sounds filter down through the lush foliage of the trees. She saw tiny bird-like creatures singing to her from the branches above. They chirped and sang their songs to her earnestly from every tree. The melodies reached her ears and formed clear meanings in her head. She understood them but wanted to plug her ears with her fingers and shut out the sounds. She didn’t want to hear… or to know.
The beauty around her did nothing to make her feel better. She was petrified. She wanted to stop, to turn around, to wake up. In a small corner of her conscious mind she was aware that this was just a dream. But a familiar feeling of helplessness gripped her, weakening her belief that this was unreal. As she walked she realised she was silently resisting something... what? She couldn’t see what she was fighting. There was an unmistakable force that made her keep walking. From a distance she saw a tree that appeared to be slightly illuminated. She knew she had to walk towards it, even though she didn’t want to. She could feel a scream threatening to escape her lips. An invisible fist tightened around her heart, intensifying her panic. But her legs continued to carry her forward...
Sarah woke up abruptly. She had an odd feeling of being between two places, between sleep and consciousness. She roused herself slowly, deliberately shaking off the images of her unconscious mind. She was in her bed, fully awake now, lying between her sleeping husband and their baby daughter.
The dream had recurred on and off for about a month. Persistent dreams disturbed her. But this time the dream did more than that. It terrified her. Sarah’s hands were cold with fear. She felt a tremor run through her body at the memory of what she had felt in the dream. It seemed to be revealing something to her slowly - bit by bit. Each time she felt she had walked a little further; seen the surroundings a little more clearly; felt a little more helpless.
Today, yet again, the dream had left Sarah emotionally drained, tired and numb with fear. Instinctively, she checked Nida. She was asleep and probably dreaming of angels, for she had an angelic hint of a smile on her tiny lips. There is a popular belief among Muslims that when babies smile or laugh in their sleep, they are in conversation with angels. Sarah softly kissed Nida’s forehead, reciting a quick prayer for her safety and happiness.
Nida used to wake up several times each night and Sarah struggled through those nights, rocking, singing and nursing her back to sleep. But thankfully, her 10-month-old had recently started sleeping well throughout the night.
Right around the time the dreams had begun, Sarah thought absently.
Sarah turned towards Yousif. He was fast asleep, evident by his snores. She snuggled close to her husband, trying to go back to sleep. But her thoughts kept wandering back to the dream.
Sarah was no stranger to the world of dreams. Thinking back, she believed she had spent half her life in this parallel world. She was both mesmerised and repelled by them. She was fascinated by them from a purely academic standpoint, being a student of psychology. But she hated the fact that they stole her peaceful sleep and replaced it with a cryptic maze of hidden messages that she had no choice but to psychoanalyse. She hated that, more often than not, the dreams tormented her with clear hints of the near future.
She shuddered involuntarily.
She didn’t get any sleep till well after 4 a.m.
“I had that dream again,” Sarah told Yousif over breakfast in the morning. He looked up from his parantha and cauliflower sabzi and raised an eyebrow.
Yousif was a man of few words. He didn’t really air his views unless he was compelled to. But after hearing the intensity of the dream, he was a little concerned.
“Isn’t this the fourth time? Sarah, you should speak to someone about it. At least talk to Ammi. You know how good she is at interpreting dreams.”
“Fifth. And yes, I thought about talking to her but I don’t want her to get worried. Not that there is anything to worry about...” she trailed off, suddenly remembering the feeling of helplessness. Steadying her voice, she looked at him pointedly. “I’ll go see her this afternoon.”
Sarah and Yousif owned an apartment in one of Bangalore’s most upmarket locations, and Yousif’s mother lived across the street from them with her eldest son Qasim, his wife Zeba and their 5-year-old son Ayaan.
Sarah was extremely fond of Ammi and vice versa, a fact that surprised both of them and everyone who knew them. Sarah had lost her own mother when she was five. Though her father took good care of them during their growing years, Sarah and her sister were often saddened by the absence of a mother’s love. This gaping maternal void that Sarah grew up with was easily filled by Ammi’s presence. They shared a relationship akin to that of a mother and daughter who had been close all their lives. They struck a chord from the very first day, when they met at a wedding six years ago. Sarah’s sensitivity and grace had floored Ammi, which led to her playing match maker and getting Yousif and Sarah to tie the knot soon after. Almost immediately they became inseparable friends, confiding in each other. Sarah knew at last what it felt like to have a mother.
It was only a year later that they realised that their camaraderie had more to do with things that did not meet the eye. They both shared a gift. They both saw dreams that told the future.
Yousif’s father had died three years ago. Ammi knew about it a month before that fateful day when he had a massive heart attack. Since she had been warned by her vision, she didn’t go into shock. But it changed her. Once a cheerful, witty and energetic woman, Ammi now preferred to spend most of her time on her prayer mat. After Abba’s death she tried to be happy but it was obvious that she couldn’t get over her loss. Her eyes always had a far-away look and Sarah wondered how often she thought about her own death. It pained Sarah to look into Ammi’s eyes.
That afternoon Sarah made some gajar ka halwa for Ammi, dressed Nida and carried her and the halwa to the building society across the street. Zeba greeted her at the door with strained enthusiasm.
“Sarah! What a pleasant surprise!
Zeba and Sarah never knew what to say to each other. Initially they had tried to be friends, but some things were just not meant to be. Misunderstandings had put a crack in the possibility of a friendship and the undercurrents of tension remained long after the rift was forgotten. What remained was a deliberate formality and an effort to stay out of each other’s way.
“How are you, bhabhi? How is my darling Ayaan? It’s been a week since we saw Ammi. I hope she is fine.”
“Her knees have been troubling her a lot nowadays, especially since these unexpected chilly winds began.”
Just then Ammi walked into the living room with Ayaan pulling at the end of her dupatta. Sarah let her sister-in-law take Nida from her arms, while she hurried to embrace Ammi. Their embrace was warm and lingering.
She laughed as she picked her cheeky nephew up, noticing his Spiderman T-shirt.
“How have you been, hero?”
“I’m fine, chachi. Can Nida play football with me now?” he pleaded.
“Well, she’s trying to take a few steps herself now. Why don’t you help her learn to walk? Then she will soon be set to play football with you.”
She put Ayaan back down and they all watched, carefully controlling their chuckles as Ayaan held Nida’s tiny hands in his own and urged her to walk, counting “One, two, three....” while he walked backwards.
“Ayyyaaaa. Tu tu tu,” babbled Nida, humouring her cousin.
She tottered after the third step and fell forward squealing with laughter, toppling Ayaan along with her onto the floor. The kids grinned up at the adults and everyone laughed. Ammi held Sarah’s hand then and led her to her room. Sarah glanced at Zeba and noticed a slight frown appear on her face before she turned her attention back to the children and started talking animatedly. It was obvious to everyone that Sarah was Ammi’s favourite daughter-in-law; a fact that Zeba never could come to terms with.
“Yousif told me you wanted to talk to me about something,” enquired Ammi once they were seated in her room. “He didn’t say much so I got a little worried. I hope everything is alright.”
“Oh, it’s nothing Ammi.” She was perturbed that Yousif had made Ammi anxious unnecessarily. “I’ve been having a disturbing dream, that’s all. I didn’t think much of it initially but last night was the fifth time. I can’t see anything of importance in it. But it’s frightening.”
Ammi listened intently as Sarah narrated what she saw in the dream. Sarah told her what she saw, the place that felt like it was God’s paradise, how she felt she was being urged on, and how the dream had ended before she reached her destination. She also told her how frightened the dream had left her, how she didn’t want to reach the destination, but was being forced to, and how each time the dream seemed to take her a little further, closer to the climax.
Ammi looked at Sarah with a puzzled expression on her face. She then asked her to narrate it again, this time slowly, trying to recall any minute details and bits she could have forgotten. Sarah closed her eyes and tried to visualise the dream again. Strangely, she didn’t have to try very hard. She remembered things in startling clarity as she put her vision into words. She began retelling the tale of her dream. She described the beautiful place and what she saw and felt, the sounds, the smells, all in explicit detail. And then…
She was walking on the moist grass once more, among the lush trees, with the pleasant breeze tingling her skin and the sparkling water flowing beside her. She heard the bird-like-creatures and looked up as they urged her on. She wanted to tell them that she was scared, that she didn’t want to go any further. She wanted to turn and run. But she kept walking towards the radiant tree, beckoned by an unseen force. Fear grew with each step, from the pit of her belly, till it suffocated her, clogging her senses and restricting her breathing. She knew reaching that tree would bring her face to face with a certainty she did not wish to realise; an end she was too scared to face. A flash of light blinded her eyes and a single word took its place, forming clearly in her mind. She felt a chill run down her spine.
“Chai, chai.”
Sarah’s eyes flew open and she stared at Zeba with an expression of fear and astonishment. Zeba stood there with a tray of tea, biscuits and cakes. Ayaan followed her into the room, leading Nida by her hand. She looked like she had already gotten better at walking. But Sarah didn’t notice.
She felt she had just woken up from her dream. Her eyes couldn’t see clearly for a few seconds and her limbs felt numb. Her hands were clammy from fear. She felt a little faint. Without thinking, she bent down to touch the soles of her feet. They were moist.
What just happened here? She tried to recall. She had been describing her dream to Ammi and had suddenly slipped into the dream in the middle of her narration. How was that possible? And how much had she told Ammi? She hoped she hadn’t said the word aloud, the word that had appeared in front of her. Ammi didn’t need to know about that.
She saw both Ammi and Zeba peering at her wondering what had happened to her. She blushed scarlet, realising how odd her expression would have looked to them. Ayaan saved her from any further discomfort.
“Look at her walk, chachi. I taught her.”
“Yes, you did, sweetheart.”
She gave the children quick hugs and excused herself to go to the kitchen so that she could warm a bottle of milk to feed Nida. She had to give herself a minute to get composed and stop her hands from shivering. With painstaking care she completed the task without spilling anything. When she returned, Ammi and Zeba were discussing the menu for dinner, but broke off when she entered. They looked at her, Zeba inquisitively and Ammi expectantly. She ignored their looks and told them about a delicious and recently discovered brinjal curry recipe. She did her best to ignore Ammi’s questioning eyes. She didn’t want to think about the dream. Not now at least.
After half an hour of light conversation, Ammi decided not to remain patient anymore.
“Sarah has been seeing a strange dream repeatedly,” she told Zeba. “She was just telling me about it.”
“Oh, really? Do tell me more.”
Sarah noticed the sarcasm. Zeba never took Sarah’s dreams seriously. She laughed at her behind her back, wondering how people could be so superstitious in this day and age.
She had often expressed her thoughts about Sarah’s childish beliefs to Qasim. “I can understand someone like Ammi believing this mumbo jumbo, but Sarah? I thought she had better sense,” Zeba had said incredulously to him one night, after hearing about a particular dream which seemed to hold everyone’s interest.
In the dream Sarah had seen her own sister Mizba browsing through jewellery in a store, but instead of purchasing jewellery, she bought a pair of shiny knives. Mizba was eight months pregnant at that time and Sarah understood what the dream had implied, after discussing it with Ammi of course. Mizba soon delivered a healthy baby girl... through an emergency caesarean section.
Zeba had laughed off the explanation that jewellery meant a girl and knives a C-section. “You certainly have a wild imagination,” she had remarked rudely to Sarah.
“It’s nothing important.” Sarah now brushed the sarcasm aside and got up to leave. “I really must be getting home. I haven’t worked on my thesis this whole week,” she said before Ammi could protest. A few months after Nida was born Sarah had decided to pursue her long standing desire to get a PhD in Psychology.
Once she was home and Nida napped, Sarah busied herself with dinner preparations and then sat down to work on her thesis. The topic of her study was ‘Precognitive Dreams’, something that she felt she needed to study in order to understand herself and how her mind worked.
But she couldn’t concentrate. She kept thinking about what she had experienced in Ammi’s room this afternoon. It had been a first. But what was it? I wasn’t asleep, she told herself. I was narrating the dream to Ammi. And suddenly I was in the dream, going a little bit further....
She shivered remembering the word that had materialised clearly in her mind.
DEATH
Sarah wanted to talk to Yousif about it when he got home at 8 p.m. But what would she tell him? She felt she just needed to give herself a break and not think about the dream for some time. I might soon lose my mind otherwise. Or am I already on the road to losing it? she thought wryly.
She decided not to say anything to Yousif at all. Ammi enquired about the incident the next morning over the phone but Sarah vaguely said that describing it had frightened her again, that’s all.
Two nights later, she was in the dream again.
Everything was the same as before. But Sarah sensed subtle changes. The air was thick with a peculiar scent. It hung heavily around her. It was a smell that she seemed to remember... it had hung around the house when her mother died and again when her grandmother died a few years later. It conjured up images of clean white shrouds, aromatic incense and the recitation of the Qur’an. She could hear the clear recitation now, the song of the birds fading into the background as she proceeded to the tree. It was a young man’s voice; he was barely 20. She knew this even before she saw him. His voice rang clear as crystal in the heavy air, strong and resonant as he recited the holy verses. She followed the sweetness of those verses, of that voice, in a trance. She was engulfed in its melody and wondered why she had been afraid. The heaviness seemed to lift gradually as she approached him. The fear evaporated. A peaceful calmness set in. Sarah knew she had to keep walking and see this through.
He sat on a rock below the luminous tree, the Qur’an in his hands, rocking gently to the rhythm of his own recital. He was about twenty feet away from her. She tread gently, not wanting to disturb him with her footsteps. But he seemed to be unaware of her. He sat elegantly in a white kurta-pyjama with a skull cap on his head. She noticed something else now. He recited a few lines and then turned to his right to speak to someone. He then recited the next two lines and again turned to speak to the person sitting next to him. He seemed to be explaining the verses he recited, smiling and gesturing with his hands. She approached cautiously now, noting that a young girl sat beside the boy. She couldn’t have been over 16. She was wearing a powder blue salwar-kameez with the dupatta loosely draped around her head and over her shoulders. She was listening to her companion in rapt attention, unable to take her eyes off him. Sarah inched closer, not wanting to bother the couple, but she had to know.
She was standing in front of them now, looking down at them as they sat in their cosy nook. They slowly turned their faces up to look at her; smiling, radiant, joyous faces that seemed to expect her and welcome her. Sarah did not flinch in recognition. She began to cry, silent tears falling down her cheeks.
“You’ll be alright, Sarah,” Ammi said. Abba nodded and took his wife’s hand in his.
“Sarah? Sarah, wake up. You’re having a dream again. What happened? Calm down, sweetheart.” Yousif held his wife in his arms as she sobbed softly into his shoulder.
“I don’t want to lose her. I don’t want Ammi to die.”
Yousif continued to hold Sarah as the words sank in.
Facing the next morning was difficult for Sarah. She knew it was just a matter of time. She had no control over the inevitable. How was she was going to live without Ammi? She didn’t know the answer to that question.
Ammi was strangely cheerful when Sarah met her. She went about her tasks with a sudden vigour and swiftness, like she was in a hurry. She laughed often and whole-heartedly, something she hadn’t done in a long time. It was a complete change and it startled everyone. She visited close relatives, spent time with her family and hugged Sarah at the slightest pretext. Once, during an embrace, she whispered, “You’ll be alright, Sarah.”
Ammi died peacefully in her sleep the following week. Sarah never told her the dream. She didn’t have to.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Terrible Tuesday
This morning has been quite a strain on my nerves. I woke up to find that the constant hip ache that has plagued me since the start of this pregnancy has decided to do some more damage. The pain is currently radiating to various connecting bones and stretching right down to my toes. Now my penguin walk (given the size of my ever growing belly) is even more pronounced and I feel like a penguin with crutches. At least that’s the pace I’m walking at.
The pregnancy has been weird for Z. As a toddler she finds it difficult to understand why her mamma is suddenly so tired all the time, why she can’t play wrestle and tickle games anymore, why she can’t sit on mamma’s tummy , why mamma won’t pick her up and carry her around (my heart breaks when she asks, so I do pick her up at times, only to be scolded by those around), among other things.
My lethargy has resulted in Z constantly running late for play school for about a week. The teachers at school usually take a few minutes of tardiness in their stride but today when we arrived a good 20 minutes late, the teacher-in-charge thought it best to bring it to my attention that being late is causing Z to miss out on the funnest part of school – nursery rhymes. I already knew this. But as I heard her gently and most politely give me a lesson on ‘Time and tide wait for no pre-schooler’, the blasted pain in my hips threatened to explode and my legs were ready to buckle. Not to be left behind, the little one growing in my womb decided to make a statement with a powerful kick. I struggled to be composed as I apologised for being late so often and assured her I would try my best to bring Z to school on time. I hope she didn’t notice the tears pricking my eyes, as she enquired about my health and commented on how weak I looked. Unable to handle the sudden concern about how I felt, I quickly ended the conversation and turned to walk back home, tears spilling over. The rain clouds gathered and decided to keep me company with their own tears and I wondered why oh why I was being so silly and full of self pity. The answer lies in this post – I hate messing up what I do and Z becoming a tardy child because of my problems is unforgivable.
Also it was just one of those days. The combination of physical discomfort and sleep deprivation was getting to me. Not to mention, the frustration of dealing with a tantrum-throwing toddler and the jitters of knowing that I’ll soon have to handle and be responsible for two children (not counting the hubby). Also, today is the day my feet have started to look a little swollen. I can only pray that I don’t end up with elephant feet like the last time I was pregnant. Lastly, I’ve been waiting all these months for the shiny and luscious head of hair that pregnant women can flaunt, but it just didn’t happen this time. *sigh* Okay, I’m done with wallowing in self pity.
The pregnancy has been weird for Z. As a toddler she finds it difficult to understand why her mamma is suddenly so tired all the time, why she can’t play wrestle and tickle games anymore, why she can’t sit on mamma’s tummy , why mamma won’t pick her up and carry her around (my heart breaks when she asks, so I do pick her up at times, only to be scolded by those around), among other things.
My lethargy has resulted in Z constantly running late for play school for about a week. The teachers at school usually take a few minutes of tardiness in their stride but today when we arrived a good 20 minutes late, the teacher-in-charge thought it best to bring it to my attention that being late is causing Z to miss out on the funnest part of school – nursery rhymes. I already knew this. But as I heard her gently and most politely give me a lesson on ‘Time and tide wait for no pre-schooler’, the blasted pain in my hips threatened to explode and my legs were ready to buckle. Not to be left behind, the little one growing in my womb decided to make a statement with a powerful kick. I struggled to be composed as I apologised for being late so often and assured her I would try my best to bring Z to school on time. I hope she didn’t notice the tears pricking my eyes, as she enquired about my health and commented on how weak I looked. Unable to handle the sudden concern about how I felt, I quickly ended the conversation and turned to walk back home, tears spilling over. The rain clouds gathered and decided to keep me company with their own tears and I wondered why oh why I was being so silly and full of self pity. The answer lies in this post – I hate messing up what I do and Z becoming a tardy child because of my problems is unforgivable.
Also it was just one of those days. The combination of physical discomfort and sleep deprivation was getting to me. Not to mention, the frustration of dealing with a tantrum-throwing toddler and the jitters of knowing that I’ll soon have to handle and be responsible for two children (not counting the hubby). Also, today is the day my feet have started to look a little swollen. I can only pray that I don’t end up with elephant feet like the last time I was pregnant. Lastly, I’ve been waiting all these months for the shiny and luscious head of hair that pregnant women can flaunt, but it just didn’t happen this time. *sigh* Okay, I’m done with wallowing in self pity.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Wedding Anniversary Special
I completed five years of marriage today.
Last night I revisited the Sumira who existed 8 or 9 years ago. Hubby and I took a trip down memory lane. We went through the numerous cards and letters we had given each other during our courtship. It was a wonderfully sweet experience to relive those first flutters, those hopes for the future, those tender, earnest and heart-breaking young promises. The words we chose in our correspondences made me smile at their innocence, laugh aloud at the lovey-doveyness and get all teary-eyed at the journey and the story behind it all.
It’s the story of two college kids who fell hopelessly in love. It’s the story of two individuals who come from starkly contrasting environments and cultures, who met in Mumbai and decided to spend the rest of their lives together... It’s the story of a boy and girl who came face to face with plenty of opposition to their union, but overcome it all and finally won everyone over. It’s a true story. A happy story. A story that came rushing back in all its beauty at 12 am, 5th September 2010 as the couple sat on their bed and tried to read the cards and keep their impish 2-year-old daughter’s hands from destroying them. You know that feeling makes you feel warm and safe and happy? The one that tells you, right now, in this moment, all is right with the world and that you are truly blessed to have what you have? That was the feeling that enveloped this small beautiful family last night.
********************************
After getting all that mush out of my system, I think I should end on a cute note. Z was feeling a little left out as we were reminiscing about our wedding day. She was wondering how she wasn’t a prominent character in the story. If you’ve met my daughter, you’ll know how much she loves being the centre of attention. She decided that desperate times called for desperate measures. She must soon say something to divert the family attention and conversation back towards herself, and fast. She picked up the nearest cell phone and pretended to make a call. This is what she said, with a dead serious and straight face.
“Hello? Ummm... mujhe aapse shaadi karni hai”
(English translation: Hello? Ummm... I want to marry you.)
She then looks at the phone with a shocked expression and says, “Arey! Ye tho band hogaya!”
(English translation: Huh? The line went dead!)
Last night I revisited the Sumira who existed 8 or 9 years ago. Hubby and I took a trip down memory lane. We went through the numerous cards and letters we had given each other during our courtship. It was a wonderfully sweet experience to relive those first flutters, those hopes for the future, those tender, earnest and heart-breaking young promises. The words we chose in our correspondences made me smile at their innocence, laugh aloud at the lovey-doveyness and get all teary-eyed at the journey and the story behind it all.
It’s the story of two college kids who fell hopelessly in love. It’s the story of two individuals who come from starkly contrasting environments and cultures, who met in Mumbai and decided to spend the rest of their lives together... It’s the story of a boy and girl who came face to face with plenty of opposition to their union, but overcome it all and finally won everyone over. It’s a true story. A happy story. A story that came rushing back in all its beauty at 12 am, 5th September 2010 as the couple sat on their bed and tried to read the cards and keep their impish 2-year-old daughter’s hands from destroying them. You know that feeling makes you feel warm and safe and happy? The one that tells you, right now, in this moment, all is right with the world and that you are truly blessed to have what you have? That was the feeling that enveloped this small beautiful family last night.
********************************
After getting all that mush out of my system, I think I should end on a cute note. Z was feeling a little left out as we were reminiscing about our wedding day. She was wondering how she wasn’t a prominent character in the story. If you’ve met my daughter, you’ll know how much she loves being the centre of attention. She decided that desperate times called for desperate measures. She must soon say something to divert the family attention and conversation back towards herself, and fast. She picked up the nearest cell phone and pretended to make a call. This is what she said, with a dead serious and straight face.
“Hello? Ummm... mujhe aapse shaadi karni hai”
(English translation: Hello? Ummm... I want to marry you.)
She then looks at the phone with a shocked expression and says, “Arey! Ye tho band hogaya!”
(English translation: Huh? The line went dead!)
Monday, August 23, 2010
Kashmir
Yes, I'm back to blogging. What have I been up to during these 3 months of hiding? Well, mostly procrastinating, among other things. But I thought it was about time to get cracking with my blog again. Lots of things to talk about. Today, let me tell you about Kashmir.
The family and I visited Kashmir in June to attend a wedding. This was my second trip there and I was so looking forward to be steam-rolled by hugs and kisses from the family, as well as by the overwhelming beauty of the place, people and culture. The first time I visited the valley, last year, I was highly apprehensive, being completely aware of the extent to which I would be scrutinized. You see, a girl from Goa visiting her Kashmiri sasural is a big deal. Aunts, uncles, grannies, distant cousins, neighbours and probably even long lost relatives flocked to see the spectacle of a ‘South-Indian bahu’ in their midst. I do believe they were half expecting me to show up slightly intoxicated, in beach shorts, sporting tattoos and a phoren accent. But I disappointed big time by showing up as plain old me; someone who easily blended into the Kashmiri background, except for my complexion and inability to speak the local language. I like to believe I warmed up to them and vice versa. And I truly enjoyed the entire experience. I soon realised that all the descriptions I had heard of Kashmir, from hubby, in-laws, friends who had visited, travel shows, websites, and books, did not do a shred of justice to the place. Their traditional houses, their rich food, their over-the-top hospitality, their elaborate handicrafts, their immense pride in their culure and roots... everything about them is wonderful and unique. I tried my best to not let the 'daughter-in-law visiting her sasural' factor colour my obsevations. That helped me completely appreciate the depth of culture I was experiencing.
This time round, the Goan bahu was familiar with the drill. So I was going there minus the anxiousness and without a fear of the unknown. I was merely going to visit family and get drowned in the splendour that is Kashmir. Anyone who has visited Kashmir will know that it is not just the natural scenery that makes the place special. Kashmir resides in a world of its own. It belongs to another time. It is a place that has been blessed by many many wonderful things. Except peace.
The situation in Kashmir took a turn for the worse while we were there. Due to which we didn’t get to see much of Kashmir, but we thoroughly enjoyed the elaborate and expensive Kashmiri wedding. Unfortunately, Z got a raging fever bang in the middle of the merry making. Once she was a little stronger, curfews kept us indoors. We heard of several lathi charges on the stone pelters, and even on innocent residents trying desperately to get along with their lives in the midst of a crippling situation. If we had stayed longer than we had, we probably would have been witness to full-fledged protests and clashes, for shortly after arriving in Mumbai, we heard that more and more people were braving the bullets and the beatings to protest against the way they have been treated and continue to be treated in their own land.
I am not going to discuss right and wrong here, nor am I inviting debate. All I know is what I’ve seen and heard from the Kashmiris themselves, and I pray with and for them for peace. For freedoms that we take for granted every day. For freedom of expression, for freedom from fear, for freedom that allows their children to play in the streets without fear. For development, for jobs, for opportunities, for growth. For the things that have been denied to the youth and thus forces talented, educated and bright individuals to search for opportunities elsewhere. After years of being ignored, I see subtle signs of progress. This 15th August, when my daughter was waving the tri-colour she brought home from play school, I caught myself instinctively thinking about her cousins in Kashmir, a generation that was born into turmoil. Freedom. A word that will come to mean so much to Z a few years from now, as she grapples with what it means to be a Kashmiri.
The family and I visited Kashmir in June to attend a wedding. This was my second trip there and I was so looking forward to be steam-rolled by hugs and kisses from the family, as well as by the overwhelming beauty of the place, people and culture. The first time I visited the valley, last year, I was highly apprehensive, being completely aware of the extent to which I would be scrutinized. You see, a girl from Goa visiting her Kashmiri sasural is a big deal. Aunts, uncles, grannies, distant cousins, neighbours and probably even long lost relatives flocked to see the spectacle of a ‘South-Indian bahu’ in their midst. I do believe they were half expecting me to show up slightly intoxicated, in beach shorts, sporting tattoos and a phoren accent. But I disappointed big time by showing up as plain old me; someone who easily blended into the Kashmiri background, except for my complexion and inability to speak the local language. I like to believe I warmed up to them and vice versa. And I truly enjoyed the entire experience. I soon realised that all the descriptions I had heard of Kashmir, from hubby, in-laws, friends who had visited, travel shows, websites, and books, did not do a shred of justice to the place. Their traditional houses, their rich food, their over-the-top hospitality, their elaborate handicrafts, their immense pride in their culure and roots... everything about them is wonderful and unique. I tried my best to not let the 'daughter-in-law visiting her sasural' factor colour my obsevations. That helped me completely appreciate the depth of culture I was experiencing.
This time round, the Goan bahu was familiar with the drill. So I was going there minus the anxiousness and without a fear of the unknown. I was merely going to visit family and get drowned in the splendour that is Kashmir. Anyone who has visited Kashmir will know that it is not just the natural scenery that makes the place special. Kashmir resides in a world of its own. It belongs to another time. It is a place that has been blessed by many many wonderful things. Except peace.
The situation in Kashmir took a turn for the worse while we were there. Due to which we didn’t get to see much of Kashmir, but we thoroughly enjoyed the elaborate and expensive Kashmiri wedding. Unfortunately, Z got a raging fever bang in the middle of the merry making. Once she was a little stronger, curfews kept us indoors. We heard of several lathi charges on the stone pelters, and even on innocent residents trying desperately to get along with their lives in the midst of a crippling situation. If we had stayed longer than we had, we probably would have been witness to full-fledged protests and clashes, for shortly after arriving in Mumbai, we heard that more and more people were braving the bullets and the beatings to protest against the way they have been treated and continue to be treated in their own land.
I am not going to discuss right and wrong here, nor am I inviting debate. All I know is what I’ve seen and heard from the Kashmiris themselves, and I pray with and for them for peace. For freedoms that we take for granted every day. For freedom of expression, for freedom from fear, for freedom that allows their children to play in the streets without fear. For development, for jobs, for opportunities, for growth. For the things that have been denied to the youth and thus forces talented, educated and bright individuals to search for opportunities elsewhere. After years of being ignored, I see subtle signs of progress. This 15th August, when my daughter was waving the tri-colour she brought home from play school, I caught myself instinctively thinking about her cousins in Kashmir, a generation that was born into turmoil. Freedom. A word that will come to mean so much to Z a few years from now, as she grapples with what it means to be a Kashmiri.
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