Peregrine Flight

Remembering Anarchy..

2011-09-11T23:13:00.000-07:00

“I wouldn’t just oppose Hitler for his massacre of 6 Million Jews, I would condemn him if he even killed one. Killing an innocent human being is never justified. Not even by religion.” – Ahmed Deedat

The above quote is not verbatim. But this was the essence of the words delivered by the Sheikh.

Why quote this?

Simple, Muslims and Jews have been at it for a long time. If its not the land, it’s the morals. If its not that, it’s the ideals and teachings. And people might think that muslims would have celebrated Hitler doing off with so many of the Jews in his Kreig across western Europe. Enemy’s enemy is a friend right?

Wrong !!

This is what Sheikh Deedat thought of that. It doesn’t matter who is the killer and who is the victim. Kane and Abel were both sons of Adam. One was a Murdered and One was the Murdered. One was the Oppressor and one was the Oppressed.

Throughout the past week, I’ve been getting consistent updates about the 10 years since the fall of the WTC. I still remember standing in my Nani’s place, packing my stuff to come home for holidays when the attack happened. I was watching live news on Star News and stood there agape. If someone would’ve asked me if 10 years later I’d have seen that one attack take more than 100000 lives in 2 brutal wars being fought World War style, I’d probably have said no. I’d no clue what the repercussions of the WTC would be. I’d no clue that 10 years on, muslims would still be asked to apologize for this.

Before you go wild on the comments, the above is not heresay. I’ve had countless arguments where I’ve personally apologized for the WTCs, only to have been laughed at, to have been insulted. I’ve had people throw insults at my faith, my belief, my history and all the respected people in my history because a few morons decided to go trigger happy on Uncle Sam. But I recently realized, its not Islam's mistake..Its not the mistake of the 99% of the Muslim populace that 1% of them are blood thirsty mentally deranged beasts who will claim everything an act in the name of God nauzubillah !!

As I was saying, throughtout the week, I’ve been seeing the WTC 10th anniversary being covered in almost every newspaper. Every website has some update or the other. And it goes without saying that the images of people dying in the 9/11 attacks hurt me as much as the attacks anywhere in the world, be it on Muslims or not. A life is a life. Beholding the ebbing life dying in front of your eyes on live TV does not make you question if that man is a muslim, christian or hindu. You just think… “OH GOD NO!!”

Agreed that I’m not the first person to agree to the official version or the conspiracy theories of what happened on that morning of September 11th 2001. But I know that neither versions are entirely true.

There is a famous saying that goes, “There are always 3 sides to a story…Your side, My Side and the Truth.”

Do you know the Truth? Do I? Your guess is as good as mine….

9/11 has been etched in each of our minds as the turning point in history when America turned from Bruce Banner into the Incredible Hulk. But how many such dates do you remember??

Do you remember Al Nakba?? Do you even know what that means??

Do you remember the Cave of Patriarchs Massacre? The Vietnamese My Lai massacre?

No !! of course not. The world forgets. Or does it?

The world has selective amnesia. Its fuelled by what the media deems sensational and what it doesn’t.

How many days of solidarity did the world hold up against the recent Gaza massacre? Heck amongst my friends, very few even bothered to look at the Carlos Latuff posters I’d put up.

Why doesn’t the world remember this? Why no worldwide solidarity campaign against the 3rd world??

Pop quiz….Do you remember Shock and Awe?

Sure you do….Bush Jr. stepped into a phone booth and emerged as Superman. And Despite the world’s top officials saying, “Yo Chill Dude”, he screamed “Charge” at Saddam’s stash of Weapons of Mass Destruction.

I was watching the Shock and Awe covered live by BBC. How many do you think died that night?

No no…not stupid saddam’s republican guards or army men…How many civilians died that night??

UK’s independent research organization states 6,616.

If there was a solidarity event for those people, I didn’t get the invite.

My point is not the eye for an eye story. No. Islam says you have the right to avenge the wrong done to you, but to forgive is better. I’m a purveyor of that teaching. As much as possible, I chose to take the peaceful way out.

"But if they (the enemy) incline towards peace, do you (also) incline towards peace."Qur'an, 8:61.

1 American’s death is NOT equal to 1 Arab’s death. Nor is it vice versa. Many people went gung ho about the status I put up where my friend showed a statistic which showed 29 Iraqis and Afghanis killed for 1 American life. Its true that statistic is a dangerous one.

We are not givers of life to take it away or value it. Its value is with its creator.

And that is the exact issue here.

The lives of the thousands and thousands of people who’ve died and are still dying in those warzones are also LIVES !!!!

Your heart should skip just as many beats when you see a drone attack as it did when you saw the planes attack the WTC

Your eyes should cry just as many tears whether you see the dust and debris covered faces of the WTC survivors or the Children’s massacred by the Kunduz strikes by the NATO (German) forces.

Your fists should clench just as much whether it’s the thought of the orphans of WTC or the orphans of Iraq and Afghanistan and Gaza.

My question is…..Do they???

In the Shade of a Fruiting Tree

2011-06-26T06:56:00.001-07:00

There is something about returning to the town where you spent your childhood.

Even for a few minutes or days, it’s a visit that opens the floodgates of memories. Returning to Umm’Said, a once quaint little industrial town in the little country of Qatar, is just that for me. A dam whose operators decide its time to let the water flow. No I don’t mean tears. I mean thoughts.

Immersed in these thoughts I walked on, the bags gently rustling against my jeans. I saw a silhouette In the distance near the local masjid beside my home. The man was dressed in a white robe. Customary to the Arabs in the region, but he didn’t wear a gatra or the headscarf which told me he was probably an Indian, Pakistani or Bangladeshi man. When he came closer, I recognized the walk and it was my old Quran Teacher. My Ustaadji. When I say old, I mean he taught me Quran about 15 years ago. I had many Quran teachers and he was one of the most memorable ones. He recognized me and walked up to hug me and proceeded to ask how I was doing, how was my job and everything a teacher would ask. He asked me how many years since I was working and I replied, 3 and a half. The surprise on his face was evident as he said, “Really? It seems like just yesterday you left home.” I smiled and said I felt more or less the same. We spoke for a few moments more and then parted ways.

Immediately the floodgates opened full capacity. Took me back to the time when I was a little boy who came from school at 2:30 pm, lunched and waited for my Quran teacher to come at 4 pm for the 1 hour session after which the playground would beckon until sunset. My first Quran teacher was a Pathan who was actually just a laborer. Sometimes I’ve seen him as a Gardner, sometimes a handyman or sometimes working off with construction equipment. He was strict and always brought a stick in case I hadn’t done my lessons and rarely smiled. But I have come to respect him so much more today knowing how much he gave me as a foundation in those early days of “Alif, Beh, Teh”

My second teacher was the opposite. He was a thin man with a smile on his face and loved to hug and kiss me when I did well and would reprimand me in the nicest manner possible when I messed up.

My third teacher was the one I met today, who was the most inspirational ones I had studied under. He’d keep a sort of a Quran recitation competition in the nearby masjid for all the kids of the locality, prepare us for the competition and call a senior cleric to adjudicate the competition. And somehow, we all walked home with prizes. Now that I think of it, it was his little plan to get us all kids out of the summer sun which our moms couldn’t get us out of and occupy us with learning, practicing and memorizing a part of the Quran with a little bit of competition in mind. Eventually, everyone was a winner, who walked home with a brand new shiny Quran, or some books, or a stationary set. As small or inexpensive the gifts were, the feeling of having achieved something brought us closer to reciting the Quran in the most beautiful manner.

I would say those days were the beginning of the ambition I had of always trying to recite the Quran in the most beautiful voice with the right rhythm and intonation so as to express and feel the message of the unmatchable verses.

My next couple of teachers held their posts for very short times. But my last one was the one who left the most lasting image on my heart. My last Ustaadji was a fair old man from Bangladesh who had a very handsome and smiling face. He tried to perfect my recitation better than anyone else before, made me repeat the parts I would go wrong in and helped me memorize the most important parts of the Quran. He would enthrall me with stories of the Islamic history. Stories of the Prophet PBUH, his companions, the older Prophets (PBUT) and the kings and caliphs of old, fallen empires, sinners and saints. He built my knowledge base which fuelled a desire to study and learn about world history and world religion, an endeavor that I carry to this day, having read as much as I could not just about Islam, but everything which makes the world as we see it, the history, the religious diversity, the cause and effect of superstitions, events of political chaos, wars, discoveries, inventions, knowledge and ignorance.

Some of my closest friends know that I believe the first 8 grades of my school life were very bland. It was only in 9th and 10th that I truly started exploring the world, a result of dad sending me out there to see for myself what it was all about. But in the first 8 grades, I realize now, I was subconsciously being prepared to explore. And it was all these gentlemen who were preparing me.

Which brings me to another realization. If Allah had not sent these teachers, and had they not taken the effort to put their heart into teaching me, I’d probably still be a bland old guy just existing. After these gentlemen, I really took to understanding and bonding with my teachers. At St. Joseph’s Central, Mysore, I found some of my most valuable teachers. In 2 years I made more relationships with my alma mater than in the 8 years in Doha.

Which brings me to an apology I owe all these teachers. I realized, I never really thanked them for being the architects and masons of my mind. We all thank our friends and family for everything. True isn’t it, whenever something great happens to us, we share and thank our friends and family. When something bad happens, we look to friends and family for support. What about teachers? They aren’t friends because there is a code of conduct based on respect. They aren’t family. But then again, they are a bit of both. They are parents who give us knowledge and build our personalities with their artistic hands, yet as we grow older, they laugh and share their lives with us. Yet, few of us ever thank them.

How many of us remembered our teachers in our prayers recently??

How many of us visit our old schools??

We all remember the school days and the fun we had and the teachers who were quirky and funny and plain ol’ idiotic. But do we remember the teachers who actually are responsible for who we are today?

This is my thanks to all my teachers. From my Quran Ustaads to my strict and stern principles, and all the way to my motherly class teachers and in special mention, Ms. Carmel, my English teacher cum inspiration cum stage musical director who made me fall in love with the language, not to mention made me believe that I could act in a musical and do that while sporting a faux French beard which is the inspiration to my current look.

Today people say education is a business where teachers are not really bothered where you are headed, they are just there like a GPS guidance system which will chart you through your subject courses unlike the humane guide who takes you through the beautiful buildings of engineering, the amazing scenery of geography and ancient history, the trauma and tragedies amidst victories of history, the lessons in life which charted social studies and the pure artistic beauty of description of it all in the language studies.

The parable being akin to a traveler who stops by to rest under a tree. A fruit bearing tree which unselfishly shades the traveler, providing a calm and cool rest, and feeds him with its precious, delicious and beneficial fruits, expecting nothing in return.

This is my heartfelt gratitude to all my teachers. Whether I studied under you for years or whether you just taught me how to make an omelet, know that as long as there is air in these lungs, it runs a mind which is striving everyday to better its mental capacity in your honor, and a heart which is filled with gratitude, undying respect and unequivocal love for you.

Of Strength and Survival !!!

2011-03-28T22:22:00.000-07:00

By any chance, sometime during the last week of February this year, you happened to be in the Karamah area of Dubai, near Lamcy Plaza, you would have seen me.

I was waiting for a friend. Karamah is usually a very busy place and the area near Lamcy is more so. So it is pretty evident that I whiled away my time observing the multitude. A gentleman caught my eye. He was dressed for a meeting, but his behaviour in one word was Haywire. He was on the phone, walking from here to there, walking into a financial institution and then out, walking towards the shopping centre and then out and so on. He was on the phone and his manner was hurried as if a train was going to leave.

And then he met a person (presumably the one he was waiting for so anxiously), exchanged a quick greeting and a few notes and he ran into the financial institution. In the meanwhile my friend came, we spoke a while and were about to move to my car. I passed by a car and the man was sitting inside. I’d missed his coming out from the building. He sat still in the car’s driver’s seat. My car was parked opposite his and I just observed him for what seemed like a couple of minutes. His expression was what caught me.

His window was opened just a little and he was staring out of the opening at the sun setting behind Lamcy. His fist on his chin, an upturned face from Rodin’s Thinker and he had a painful look in his eyes. I wouldn’t be guessing if I said that I saw his eyes were glistening with tears but he wasn’t crying. His lips quivered as he tried to maintain a straight face, closed his eyes and mumbled to himself which I’m assuming was a prayer. My friend called me and I realized I’d been staring as he waited to get into the car. We got in and drove out. So did that man. I’d swear I could see him wipe his eyes and smile deeply but then……..

The above is just another episode from any crowd in any city of the world. If you are keen to observe, you will see how we’re part of a world where everyone is alone in the crowd.

Reminds me of a piece of wisdom which goes, “Be nice to everyone you meet, they are all fighting a tough battle of which you have no idea about.”

Take a look around when you are free and waiting in a crowded area. You will see what I mean.

I guess February – March was a tough month for most, no clue why. But most of the people I met had something going on. Some near and dear ones too. Proud to say that all of them have hung in there.

That’s when I realized that the human spirit is an unfathomable thing.
People ask what is the purpose of life. As a muslim, I know that the purpose of life is to Worship Allah.

Hold on though, Worship does NOT mean living an ascetic life. Worship in Islam means doing everything as it is supposed to be done. It goes to the extent where looking at your wife with love is also considered a worship (to Allah not to her ;))

And Worship also means, taking everything that comes at you as you walk through life, EVERYTHING.

No matter what life throws at you, you take it head on, never look away, never back down and absolutely never give up.

Suicide is a cardinal Sin.

And Despairing is as good as going into disbelief.

Allah says in the Holy Quran,
“Allah burdens not a soul beyond what it can bear….” (2:286)

In simplistic terms, it means that if you are given a tribulation, from a thorn prick to a paraplegic body, you are given the mental strength and the grit to bear see it through. It is just a matter of believing it.

These are not just words pulled out of a Motivational speaker’s hat. Nope.
I’ve lived this, but more importantly, I’ve seen people live through worse. I’ve seen my parents grit and bear stuff which would have probably killed me. I’ve seen my best friend give life a run for its money. I’ve seen my brother bear pains too great for his young and confused heart. I’ve seen my sister fight destiny with tears in her eyes and prayers on her lips. I can go on and on about the inspirations in my life. Their strength is something they themselves cannot see, but I can.

The man in the car by Lamcy could not see the transition of helplessness to pain and misery to relief back to helplessness and then to a nervous smile of hope. I could.

I don’t believe strength comes from having resources to take care of your problems.

Strength is something much more deeper, much more complicated than that.

I believe, that it is in your weakest moment is when you actually define the strongest you have in yourself to be. It is in your most helpless situation that you define how much are you going to help yourself.

It is when you are left with no options from life, that you decide that it’s time to make your own options. The realization that you’ve hit rock bottom and the only way is Up. If not directly upwards, then sideways and THEN up!

At the risk of sounding repetitive, The strongest steel is actually forged in the hottest of fires !!

If you’ve followed the Adidas Campaign with Mohammad Ali, you’ll know this bit from the marketing quote: “Impossible is not a fact, it’s an opinion. Impossible is not a declaration, it’s a dare. Impossible is potential, Impossible is temporary, Impossible is nothing!”

Now re-read that statement, only this time, replace Impossible with Weakness ;)

See what I did there??

It doesn’t matter how many times you fall, it only matters how many times you get up again.

In mathematical terms, in life, you are not a failure if you fall “X” number of times.
You are a failure only if you do not get up “X+1” amount of times.

The Criterion - Part 3

2010-09-16T05:23:00.000-07:00

The year is 570 C.E.

Among the arabs of Makkah it was known as the Year of the Elephant. For a good reason. A king of Abyssinia, rode into Arabia with the intention of demolishing the Kabaa. And he brought along the world’s earliest weapons of mass destruction.... Elephants.

The Makkans were stumped. They’d never even heard of bloody elephants, much less seen one.

But the Kabaa isnt the Arabs’ property. Its called the BaitAllah. The House (of worship) of Allah.

So Allah would protect his property. He sent a counter attack to stamp out the Abyssinian army.

Birds.

Little swallow kinda birds decended from the heavens (Ababeel in arabic). Flocks and flocks of birds. And these birds launched the first aerial military offensive in the history of the world. To be precise, the first carpet bombing technique.

These li’l things carried li’l rocks which were thrown at the army. Literally millions of rocks rained down on the conquering Army. Killing everything !!!

The arabs just stood there, stared at the destruction of the massive army.

Then they looked at each other, shrugged, and went back to eating dates and reciting poetry.

In this year, in the house of the Chief of Makkah, Abdul Mutallib, a boy was born. The Boy was the Grandson of Abdul Mutallib. The son of his youngest son, Abdullah.

Abdullah had passed away a couple of months before the birth of the boy. Aminah, the widow of Abdullah gave birth to a boy. And on that night, it is said that light shone from her womb, illuminating castles far off. A sign that this was no ordinary boy. He would be the change agent of the entire Arabian peninsula. He would bring the arabs out of barbarism, and make them a force to reckon with on an international scale. He would take these lazy lumps of traders and turn them into scholars, educated rulers, judges, philosophers, warriors, scientists, legendary polymaths and make them the first generations of a ummah (nation) which would be known as “Khairal Ummati Uqrijat Lin’naas”... or The Best of Nations evolved for the benefit of Mankind.

Ladies and Gentlemen.. Muhammad Ibn Abdullah (PBUH) had touched down on planet Earth.

SubhanAllah.

Fast-forwarding the narrative, Muhammad PBUH’s mom Aminah died when he was 8.

After a few years his grandfather passed away. The orphan was taken into the house of Abu Talib. Where he grew up a normal boy.

As he grew, his beautiful nature became the talk of Makkah.

In his youth, he was known as Al-Ameen. The trustworthy. He never passed anybody without a smile. He helped anyone and everyone. He was thoroughly honest in anything he did. All in all, one of the most perfect characters in Makkah.

There are many tales of his growing up but will take up quite a lot of time.

So to get to the point, when Muhammad PBUH was in his 20s, he did a trade run for an affluent businesswoman of Makkah. Her name was Khadijah Bint Khuwailid(r.a.). She was a widow, running her own businesses. So he did the trade on her behalf, and her hand maiden, who saw him during the entire trade caravan, was majorly impressed with his honesty and his mannerisms of dealing with people. She returned to Makkah and unloaded the entire report to Khadijah (r.a.) , who fell in love with this man. The proposals ran out, and Muhammad PBUH,aged 25 years old, married Khadija (r.a.), which was to be one of the best wedding couples ever.

Polygamy was a common thing in Makkah those days. But Muhammad PBUH never took another wife. Many years later after Khadijah (r.a.) died, he re-married. But until his death, he never loved any lady as much as he loved Khadijah (r.a.).

What’s that thing about your first love being eternal?? Right??

So well, rewind a bit from her death.

When Muhammad PBUH was 40, he had an event. He was a sort of a recluse. A very kind and loving person, but every once in a while, he would make some food and go into the mountains to meditate. There were small caves in these mountains and he would stay there, sometimes for 3-4 nights in a row, praying in his own manner, thinking, pondering and in general, meditating.

One night, I cannot tell you which night, it was one of the last 5 Odd nights of this month (Ramadan). So it could’ve been the 21st night, 23rd,25th, 27th or like tonight is....the 29th, he was sitting in the cave of Hira on Jebel Al Nur (the Mountain of Light) and he was approached by someone.

It was Gabriel (Jibraeel). The Archangel. The biggest of all angels, the Mr. President of Angels in fact.

And Jibraeel said, “IQRA” (Read)

Muhammad PBUH said, “I cannot read”. True this was, as he was illiterate. He couldnt read or write.

The Angel once again said, “IQRA”. Muhammad PBUH replied the same.

The Angel grabbed him and hugged him tight and squeezed the living daylights out of him. So much so that Muhammad PBUH felt he was gonna die. Just then the angel released him and repeated his command.

“IQRA”

Muhammad PBUH tried resisting it. The Angel did the bear-huggy-squeezy thingie again.

And then finally the angel said

“Iqra bismi Rabbik allazee qalaq. Qalaqal insaana min Alaq. Iqra wa rabbukal Akram. Allazee allama bil qalam. Allamal insaana ma’lam ya’lam”

“Read, in the name of thy lord. Who created man from a clot. Read and your lord is most generous. Who has taught (by the) pen. Who has taught man what he knows not”

This is the first revelation of what will become a guideline for mankind. A book so perfect in its revelation that even the arabs were mystified by its literary awesomeness. A book which is the Word of Allah, as given to his noble messenger and prophet, whose coming was foretold in probably every culture preceding his birth. This was the first revelation of the Holy Quran.

Armed with this, Muhammad PBUH would change the face of Arabia. This would in turn change the face of the world.

This is the last and final word of Allah. The essential guide to living. As was the nature of the arabs, when they loved or adored something, they gave it many names. Allah has 99 other names which are his excellent attributes. They had hundreds of names for camels, swords, dates etc. And so did they name the Quran.

One of the names of the Quran, as it comes within it too, is Al-Furqan.

This means, the Criterion.

It is the criterion of judgement between what is right and what is wrong.

The Quran is not just a play of rhyming words and narratives of yore. It holds the guidelines for a society within it. It holds the guidelines for human beings to be more than just animals. It holds the guidelines for not only muslims of arabia. But for the entire humanity which came after it.

Until Jesus PBUH, all messengers and prophets were sent to a particular nation or tribe. Muhammad PBUH was sent as a messenger and prophet to ALL of mankind. Massive responsibility that.

That night, in the cave of Hira, was the revelation for all mankind. The Decree for all mankind. It is known as Layl atul Qadr. The night of Power, The night of Decree.

Tonight might very well be that night. But we will never know for sure right now. The Prophet PBUH asked us to be awake and in the mode of worship in the last 10 nights (specifically the last 5 odd nights), seeking the night of decree, as praying in this night would be equal to praying the same prayer for a 1000 nights. Do the math. Its a mother load of blessing concentrated into one night. May Allah accept the prayers of all of us who seek it, and guide us, and bless us with this night.

From that night, it took 23years for the Quran to be revealed, bit by bit, verse by verse, into its complete form.

I wish I could tell you what the Quran is. But its an ocean with unfathomable depth. You will have to read it yourself to find out.

What I can tell you is this.

This book, brought by this excellent man, changed the face of Arabia forever. It brought them knowledge, wealth, power, sophistication, and led to the dawn of the golden age of islam. Which many scientists till date regard as the best part of the middle ages.

This book contains information of science which wasnt even known until recent to be accurate. That is standing proof that this book was not written by any human mind. No sir. The Quran contains descriptions of geography, astronomy, biology, the animal kingdom, the plant kingdom, our atmosphere and most awesomely, the human body. One of the most signature aspects of the Quran’s definition of science is the sheer accuracy with which it describes Embryology. The growth of Human beings from clots into full functional crying, cooing and pooing bits of cuteness.

The book contains the rules of behaving and running a society. I can go on and on about why and how it is so awesome. But you will never get its awesomeness until you read it for urself. This book is like swimming. I can give you lectures and demonstrations forever on how to paddle, stay afloat or the different strokes involved....but you will never get anywhere near understanding me unless you step into the water for yourself.

Misconceptions in the world think that this is a book of hate. Its a book teaching how to systematically murder and conquer. Its a book on how to beat and subjugate your women. Balderdash !! This book is a book of truth, justice and love. It is a book which teaches you how to bring social order and discipline in a world of chaos (and trust me our world is in absolute chaos right now). Its a book which liberates women and gives them rights much before anyone else did. Its a matter of perception how you look at it. You will ask me, There is no smoke without fire dude, so if the people say all that about the Quran, there is gotta be something there that talks similar stuff right?

And i’ll say, of course there is. But you will never hear it from what the world talks about it in the media and the papers. You will learn if you open the pages and read. And dont stop at reading. Question the book. The book is a challenge for everyone on the planet to take up.

This is my invitation to all of you to give this book a read. It will challenge you, it will make you think, it will surprise you, it will astound you, it will make you question, it will make you seek answers, it will make you wonder and it will not stop at that. It will change your life...... FOR THE BETTER !!!! There are not many things I can promise you in this world, but the thing about this book changing your life for the better.....Thats a Sureshot promise.

Just read it with your heart in the right place ;)

All Questions welcome

If not, then Thanks for reading May Allah bless you.

The Criterion (Part 2)

2010-09-13T23:08:00.000-07:00

So,

Where were we.

Right, the Arabs and their language skills.

So here we are in present day Arabia, (we’ve just time travelled back to about half a century after Christ’s time)

And well, the Arabs in Makkah were really doing great. They were following the Abrahamic creed and all was fine. But then something went wrong.
They lost the creed and went bonkers. For your reference, the abrahamic creed as it is known as is the monotheistic creed.
Abraham PBUH, the grand papa of the Arabs and the Jews, struggled to find truth in his life, and he ended up finding it (Good for you Sir, and might I say thank you so much)

He realized the reality of One God. Allah. The supreme ruler of the universe. Wasn’t easy dawning on him, but the story of how he found his path is a long one, and it would be a tangent. But bottom line is that he realized that it is One Allah who created and controls the entire universe, and we’ll proceed with that.

So among the arabs, there is brought forth a new idea which sort of destabilizes the whole idea of monotheism.
Islam says, One Allah. One God. Whatever you want, ask HIM. No one else. Direct line of contact from the heart of the being to Allah.
But one trader comes along and says Nooooooo. Here’s another idea. There are angels who are daughters of Allah, and they are your intercession to gain his favours. So worship them, and they will lead you to Allah. Slowly, the worship split between Allah and his so called daughters, who were idolized. And idolizing was not part of the Abrahamic creed. So in effect, the whole creed and ideology was falling apart. So were the rules and regulations of society.

There came a point when they had ignored the holy laws and made up their own laws entirely. Sorcery was rampant. They made important decisions based on how arrows would fall out. Casting the arrows, was a mystic tradition which came from some guy who smoked too much of desert grass. They had 3 arrows in a basket, one had the word YES, other had the word NO, and the third one was 50-50. So if the third one came up, it meant you had to cast the arrows again until you got a definitive Yes or No. (Frankly I dunno why bother with the 50-50 in the first place). Anyway, major decisions were made with the help of these arrows. The “Priests” would cast them for the decisions after conferring with their mystic imaginary God of arrow casting.

Imagine this, you are a trader with 5 kids, and business is bad. And you go to the priest to ask for divine help. Islamic wisdom says, Call onto Allah. But then, it was easier to have faith in a guy who sits in the Kabah and casts arrows than believe in something you haven’t seen right?? Well thats what Faith is. And that is what the Arabs lacked then.

So you, the trader tell the priest, “Holy Dude, my business is screwed up majorly. Halp !!!”

The priest, says, “Sure thing, give me a donation” (wait where’ve we heard that before)

And he would draw arrows, and say, “Arrite, sacrifice your third son at the altar of so-n-so god and your business will pick up”

And trust me, if you really were the trader back then, you’d do it. Else you’d be annoying the God. And trust me you don’t want that.

Here’s a few more small points you might want to consider.

You have about 50 camel right? You’re a millionaire in arab terms. And one day, one camel of yours, whom you have lovingly named Camel, grazes into another guy’s land. I mean, come on, Camel doesn’t know which grass belongs to who right?? He’s not read the power of attorneys and the legal docs??
So what happens, War breaks out.

No seriously I kid you not. War would break out between the guy who’s field had been defiled by the innocent camel and he’d choose to drag his entire clan against you in battle.

Think about this in your terms, here and now. You have a pet chicken who pecks in the farmhouse of your neighbour and voila, before noon you’re having gun fire and mortar fire with Mrs. And Mr. Happy Couple next door.

Jokes apart, The society had come to such a despicable position where it was considered a major shame to have a daughter born in your home. It was considered a matter of pride to bury your infant alive.

The mother of a companion of the Prophet PBUH, Sumaiya her name was. She narrates how lucky she was to be born. How she was supposed to be buried like the 2 sisters before her. She narrates how her father, while mercilessly putting the 2^nd daughter in the grave, (still alive mind you), began putting the sand over her. And the li’l infant, reached out and grabbed the father’s finger. You’ve all been there right?? You’ve held a fragile baby in your hand, you’ve heard it coo and make those loving sounds you cant describe and how it tugs at your heartstrings. And you’ve all, i bet, have had goosebumps all over you when you gently nudge her hand with your finger and she grabs your entire finger in that teeny tiny hand of hers. You have wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. Even you, the GUYS, you’ve also wanted to go all mushy, don’t deny it.

So the baby in the grave held on to her murderous papa’s finger for dear life. And for some reason, the arab, he couldn’t pull his hand away. He just knelt there, having thrown dust over his daughter’s face, and letting her grasp his finger in her fist. And slowly, that grip, weakens.....and finally loosens away.

Take a moment and imagine the monstrosity of this event.

Imagined?? You see what I mean here. You see why this period was called the Jahilliyah (The Barbaric era)??

You waged wars with someone who pricked your inflated ego with a pinch because the social norm dictated it.

You didn’t bend down to pick your fallen brother because the social norm dictated it.

You enslaved POWs in your home to bathe you and cloathe you and literally worship you because the social norm dictated it.

You sacrificed your kids at the altars of man made laws because social norm dictated it.

You usurped the properties of orphans and widows because the it showed how big a daredevil you were, which you had to show off, because the social norm dictated it.

You sold women in marriages to each other because social norms dictated it.

You didn’t give women any rights of inheritance and treated them like a piece of garment to be worn and discarded because the social norm dictated it.

You didn’t let women live, killed them at birth................because the social norm dictated it.

For the record, the father of Sumaiya (R.A) didn’t bury her, he ran out of the house when she was born, screaming that he couldn’t do it again. That he would NEVER do it again. Sadly, not all arabs melted like that.

The society in Makkah was shambles. And thats when Allah decided.

Enough.......is Enough.

“I’m sending in the Best of the Best.”

- To be Continued

The Criterion (Part 1)

2010-09-13T23:04:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer, This is not an intended Religious Sermon or a book-thumping session of any sort. This is just awareness which I’m encouraged to bring out in response to the call of the times.

From ever since man has existed, Religion has existed alongside.

There can be long debates as to which one was the first and which is the latest or whatever. But I’ll give you an Islamic perspective of things.

Allah (God), created man from clay, and from his rib, fashioned the woman. Which is why in Islamic wisdom, a man is told not to put a woman on his head (to rule him) nor at his feet (to be a slave to him), but to be treated in the rightful manner as to her origin, under the protection of his arm, and closest to his heart (RIB PEOPLE, NEAR THE RIB !!), So this is a metaphorical slap-answer to the super-feminists and the weirdos out there who say Islam calls for the subjugation of women.

Okay back on topic.

So ever since man was created (not evolved from Monkeys), its been a constant development phase (read GROWTH). You know the route it took, stone age, metal age, feudal age, imperial age, industrial age, information age etc.

So well, Allah sent guidance to Man through all these ages. He didn’t just put us on the planet n say, “Go wild guys !!”

Nope, every age had guidance, in fact the Islamic wisdom goes to say that every tribe, ever community had guidance. These came in the form of messengers, angels etc. These people were special clues which helped man to understand many things.
The type of guidance came according to the age and developmental stage of the human society.

For example, in the time of Moses (PBUH), Ancient egypt was full of mystical growth. Royal Magicians would turn crocodiles into soft fluffy blankets, and turn a camel into a vase of mayonnaise, that sort of thing. So what was Moses’ (PBUH) weapon of choice. A staff which turned into a snake. When the Royal magicians saw that, they handed in their resignations to the big kahuna (Pharoah). I’m guessing their resignations in hieroglyphics were on pink sheep skin, and looked like a man setting himself on fire (Oh yeah he was fired big time)

In the same manner, in the time of Jesus (PBUH), the language of Miracles was profound, and Jesus (PBUH) performed some real awesome miracles. I mean he conducted a grand luncheon out of a handful of bread and fish. Event organisers of the day went insane trying to figure it out.

Likewise, when the time of Muhammad (PBUH) dawned, the arabs of Makkah, to whom he was sent, were a totally chillaxed (chilling and relaxed) tribe. They spent their days letting someone graze their camels and sheep. And since Makkah was the hub of the peninsula, the yearly caravans passed through the city, so business came to them, and if you hear the tales of the caravans consisting of hundreds of camels, you can assume that Makkah was home to the Warren Bin Buffets, the Anil Bin Ambanis and the Bill Bin Gates of the day and age. So they had a lot of time on their hands. And trust me when I say A LOT. They had so much time, that they sat around and developed Language.

Try that, develop a language, it takes hell lot of time to decide upon words and usages and grammar, and these guys were masters of Arabic. And well, it goes without saying that as far as expression was considered, Arabic was right up there with the best of the languages.
One of the arabs most prominent skills was Poetry and memory. It was not just a skill, it was a super skill. Check this out, you could sit down under a cool tent, sipping date juice with your pal and go, “Hey Bro, lissen to this awesome verse I just heard.”

And you go off rattling a 100 verse poem, at the end of which your pal would go, “Woah… that’s real sweet bro, mind if I use it in my next school reunion??”

And you’d go, “Fo Sure bro, go on ahead.”

And he would.
Just like that, he’d remember the 100 line poem just like that, after hearing it once, and will recite it with amazing flair.

Here’s another one. A group of highway robbers (sort of arab cowboy outlaws) stop a travelling old merchant and tell him, “Ol’ pardner, yer time’s up, hand over yer money bag n yer fine camels n we givez you time to sez your las prayers before ye meet yer lord”

The merchant sighs and says, “Arrite take mah money ye evil and vile scumbags, but do me a last favour, a dying man’s last wish should be fulfilled right? Its only fair”
The robber thought for a moment and goes, “Arrite we can do that, name it ol fruit !”

(Many historians like Albert Shakespeare, Happy Singh and Aalo Bin Par- Hatha believe, this highway robber began the tradition of asking a person’s last wish before execution.)

And the old merchant said, “Deliver this verse of poetry to mah daughter who lives near the flowing river under the shades of mountains yonder”
And he narrated the single verse of poetry. I don’t know the exact verse but for illustration this might be it,

“The old and dying camels chew grass watching in the pond a floating bobber”

The highway robber went like O_o (HUHH??)

And he scratched his head, asked the old man if he was sure, and the old man replied in the affirmative.
So the robbing and the killing and burial was done.
After which the robber felt obliged to go pass on the message to the old man’s daughter. Oh that’s another thing, the arabs held their oaths in the highest of regards. And sure as hell there was some honour in this thief. So he went in search of the daughter, knocked on her door, and waited. She opened the door, he gave his best possible smile, handed her a small packet of dates and said in a sombre tone, “Ah be yer ol dad’s business partner, unfortunately he passed away ta his lord on our way back. The trip was a failure, all I has for ye from his left overs are these dates.”
The daughter burst into tears.
The imposter then said, “He did ask me to deliver a verse of poetry to you, said it was a family tradition and blessing and whatnot.”

“The old and dying camels chew grass watching in the pond a floating bobber”

The girl went O_o (HUHHH??)

And then she gave a smile, and told the imposter, “Please uncle come on in, make yerself feel at home. I’ll go fetch my ol mother, so she can thank you for your generosity, and I’ll bring some food for you.”

The imposter, pleasantly surprised but also happy for the free meal, walks in and starts making up stories of his “business partner” and himself to narrate over the meal.

The girl, walks back in with the cops,

TADAAAA

Who place the big oaf under arrest for murder.

Apparently, the daughter figured out the 2^nd line of the poetry couplet which the father sent. This (for illustrative purposes) might have read as follows:

“The old and dying camels chew grass watching in the pond a floating bobber,

This fat sonnofa gun my darling daughter, killed me, he’s a highway robber.”

I.e. the Arabs just had to hear one part of a poem and complete the other part purely because they had owned the skill. They were the Zidanes and Schumachers of poetry, and not just one or two, almost every one of em.

So I guess it would be safe to say, that the stupid highway robber, carried his own death “sentence”. PUN INTENDED !!!!

- To be Continued

Always Remember !!!!

2010-06-30T05:20:00.000-07:00

I don’t know what it is about packing and un-packing which floods you with reminiscence which doesn’t span days, but years into history. Maybe your intangible attachment with those lifeless pieces of memorabilia which each carries a story with it is the reason.

Today is my last day in this office. No I’ve not quit nor have I been given the bullet/pink slip/or the bangalori “haath”.

No, we’re shifting base to a smashing office in Dubai. The entire team will have moved by the time I return from my short vacation. So everything will change when I’m back.

Rewind to the end of Nov 2007, when Mom dad bade me farewell at Doha Intl. Airport, as I took off to come to UAE, for my first job as an engineer. If I remember correctly, I was more or less a nervous wreck as the company was of German origins, and until then, almost all I knew about Germany was that they built awesome cars, got their backsides whooped in WW2 and their men wear leather pants and ladies dress as farmgirls. Oh and the misconception that their old Football goalkeeper was an Afghani Pathan (don’t blame me, the guy’s name was Kahn/Khan)

December 2007 I began my stint with my company, as a learning engineer. 2 and a half years later, I’m still learning, and growing, and yet I haven’t yet had the urge to scream at the employing powers. So not a bad run for a newbie engineers eh uncles?

A couple of weeks ago, for once I was in the passenger seat of my car, (which is my latest possession and means a lot to me) and my cousin was driving through a downtown suburb of Sharjah, called Rolla/Al Jubail. This is where the bus-stand for Sharjah was situated. And this was the area where I began my life in UAE.

I first lived in a hotel for a while, and then got accommodation with a family in Sharjah, which didn’t last long. I moved to Dubai, and travelled between my office in Dubai and Sharjah (about 30-50 kms) by buses,taxis and walks. For 2 long years I’ve done so. Today, after having a car, I’ve forgotten how it feels to be at the mercy of public transport. That day, as I passed by the bus stand, I got thinking of the seemingly difficult beginnings I had.
Of course, I don’t think I will ever work as hard as dad, coz his hard work has reaped rewards for me and my brother where we have an awesome education and jobs awaiting us. But the initial work we did put in, however infinitesimal, is dear to me.

Looking back, my day would begin at about 5:30 or so, when I got up, dressed and walked to the Dubai bus terminal or took a taxi. Then the bus ride to sharjah, after which I took a taxi to office which was on the outskirts of Sharjah, reaching by about 7:30 or 8 am. In the evenings, same routine in reverse, reaching home at about 7 pm or 8 pm, too tired to do anything else. Today, the same route would take me 25 mins or 30 mins maximum.

Is it a feeling of pride? Or a sense of achievement? Is it legitimate for me to be proud?

I abhor pride as it makes men feel like kings. I’ve seen success change people, and I’ve seen success humble people more. I like the latter. And I would like to be the latter. If I can call myself successful in any sense of the word, I want to feel absolutely insignificant. And that is exactly what I felt passing by the Sharjah bus stop. I asked myself who is really responsible for me being where I was….

The primary thanks goes to my lord and master, Allah Subhanawataala, for everything he has bestowed upon me. And I mean EVERYTHING. Even the trials and heartbreaks. They’ve been my toughest and most fruitful teachers.
Then, Mom and Dad, who I am and where I am, is a fact mainly due to their prayers and sacrifices. I’m incomplete without them.
And last but not least, those friends who have slowly owned my heart with their presence and absolutely adorable love. You know who you are.

And this just doesn’t go for me. Look into your lives; you may be a successful super-engineer, hi-fi doctor, jet setting business person or a highly promoted banker or whatever. You will loose all your credibility if you forget where you came from.

I’ve seen people forget their old friends when they get a better position than before. They don’t carry the images of their past into their present. And that’s just plain unfair, because who you are today, is a person made by the person who you were yesterday, and the people who were With you yesterday. Get me?

If there is one prayer I want to make right now, its that whenever I’m out cruising in my lovely car, Allah should not make me forget those long solitary walks in humid nights whence I arrived home with a shirt drenched in my own perspiration. And if there is one request I make of you, it is; do not forget the moments of sheer helplessness you faced once upon a time, be it in your exams, or episodes in your public or personal lives, or just plain moments when you’ve felt pangs of desperation…Remember those desperate moments.

Remember the time when you couldn’t walk because you were too sick
Remember the time when you wanted to laugh but you were busy crying
Remember the time when you heard yourself branded an utter failure
Remember the time when you cried bitterly amidst your incessant trying

Ambition brings you to greatness, but true humility keeps you there long after you’re gone.

As I pack my favourite coffee mugs and look around this old office one last time, I’m filled with awe at the way Allah has led me on this 2 and a half year old short path, how mom dad have supported it, how my friends have cheered it, and how I, with the little bravado I’ve had, have walked it….with never as much as a tear of regret…

The next time you look into the mirror and smile and are pleased with yourself, and the least hint of vanity strikes you, remember the time when your face had contorted into the most vivid expression of relentless pain and anguish, and in that one moment, be thankful you didn’t falter, be thankful you overcame, be thankful for your happiness. If you can master this, you will be ever so close to the closest you can be to a perfect human being.

Do you want to be remembered for what you are?
Then make sure, you do not forget what you were !!

Before We Fade

2010-06-22T01:49:00.001-07:00

If you get a knock on ur door,
And you open to find the angel of death.
Sullen in face with a sad job to do,
His work at your threshold is anyone's bet.

Would you turn to your safe, full of gold
Or turn to your sleeping child and wife
Would you go all nervous and cry so hard
Looking into the mess you called your life

Would you look back at the tears you caused
Would you look back at the smiles you creased
Would you look at the moments you remained true
Or look back at all the wrong people you pleased

Some lives are designed to make a difference
Some lives will eventually into oblivion fade
All lives are witness to learning and practicing
But all lives come to end with a digging spade.

Standing on the brink, would you regret it all?
Would you turn your head and tell the angel NO!
Would you run from death, like we always do
Or would you bow your head, and calmly Go

Make a difference, to even one life if you can
On the last day you will have a watering eye
A small flicker of light, makes a dark cave bearable
Even one voice by your grave,is a sweet goodbye

Forgiving Tides

2010-06-19T23:10:00.000-07:00

I don’t know what it is about walking on a beach
That most profound thoughts drift within immediate reach
The midnight air must be the intoxicant de nonsense
Each small wave makes me loose a little of my balance

Each step in the cool sand sinks a little bit deeper
I reach into the depths of my life’s memory keeper
I recall each moment of sadness, each moment of joy
I rewind back from a young man to a young little boy

I yearn to reach out and right all the wrongs
I wish to rewrite my life’s most painful songs
I wish to erase all the wounds and the scars
I raise my eyes and look at the dancing stars.

I forgive all the ghosts which haunted my childhood
I forgive all the storytellers who made them come alive
I forgive all the pranks my elder friends played
I forgive all the failed attempts at swimming pool dives

I forgive my relatives for not believing in me
I forgive the hatred which said I was worthless to all
I forgive all the teachers who called me a fool
I forgive every prank and every insulting call

I forgive the taxi drivers for not picking me up
I forgive the restaurants which served bad food
I forgive the richer men who belittled my existence
I forgive the songs which always made me brood

I forgive the people who laughed at my good ideas
I forgive those who agreed with my bad ones
I forgive the stones which made me trip and fall
I forgive the bad jokes made, and all the bad puns.

I forgive my friends for hurting me by mistake
I forgive my enemies for hurting me by purpose
I forgive the bad luck episodes which lasted forever
I forgive the entire world, like every mature one does

The waves splash at my feet as I turn to walk back
And I see my footprints chart the way I came along the shelf
Wave after wave washes the deep prints away
I smile…as for all the mistakes, I forgive myself

Arrivederci !!

2010-06-19T22:58:00.000-07:00

The smiles are hard to come by,
Harder they run away, the harder I try.
Moments locked in time seemingly fade,
Resonating in my ears are the goodbyes I bade.

Life would come inevitably to this, I knew,
The many years passed seem but so few.
Seems just like yesterday that a veil was raised,
And everything just passed by, as I sat and gazed.

The walk towards me seemed uncertain and slow,
The walk away was as certain as the morning glow.
Many days have passed, months and years as well,
Yet the waves keep on rising, the more i try to quell.

I look at the dropping sunset, another sign of passing days,
Must be the mist that blurs my eyes with another teary haze.
I tear the letter into tiny bits, and fling it in the deep blue,
And turn my back on the only time, I'd sincerly said I Love You.

To my 20 Year old Duck

2010-06-19T22:57:00.000-07:00

(Originally Dated 25th May 2010)

2 Decades ago, around this time, I was being shepherded into a small ward in Shankarambal nursing home near Bangalore’s St. Mark’s Road. I remember vividly that I had dressed in one of my favourite deep blue jeans and possibly a blue shirt, as 4 and a half year old me walked into the ward ushered by my Grandfather (maternal), who was grinning under his thick handlebar moustache. Inside, my mom lay on the bed, with one arm extended sideways. Under the arm, there lay a small package, bundled in blankets. I was told that this was my brother.

This is more or less what I remember of this day, 20 years ago, when Faiz, my younger brother hatched.
I say hatched, and not born, because as one of our favourite uncles (Dad’s friend) described him at birth, "he was like a Baby Chicken hatchling", hairless and shrivelled and so white that he was pink (if you know what I mean)

First few months, I remember not being allowed to lift him coz apparently he’d come with a dismantled neck, which required 6 months to assemble itself. By the time he was 7 or 8 months old, he’d become pretty heavy to lift, so I guess its safe to say that I probably only cuddled him when he was asleep or in someone’s lap or in his favourite place, the hammock. I remember dad singing him to sleep, and mom having a couple of bottles ready for when he woke up with a shrill scream. I mean, the guy had a siren in his throat, more effective than most fire engine sirens, and its always been used for conveying one state of his being --- HUNGER!!! (This holds true even today ;))

As Faiz grew up, so did his cheeks and I could see that he was going to be the cute one, but at that age, I didn’t know what that meant, except that most of my cousin sisters preferred to cuddle him than me. I was losing the ladies (again, if u know what I mean) to my younger sibling.

The years passed with us playing games, me learning and teaching him quite a few, and he always winning them after learning from me. Although I must say, apart from chess, all the other games, he won by crying. I, being the elder one, was advised by my parents to concede to his whims. So in carom, I would pocket the coins, and it was payday for him. In cricket, he never got out, and he never bowled or fielded. In tennis, the ball was always IN. As of now, he'd prolly whip me in any game I guess...sigh, the changing times :P

Sadly our parents didn’t let us play boxing as a sport.

Needless to say, being the younger one, he was the more pampered one of the family. And he had a sharp tongue, yes sir, when he learnt to speak, he shut everyone else up. When my friends would tease me, he has taken it upon himself to get back at them, coz back then, I was as talkative as a boulder.So snappy comebacks were as much a part of me as morality is a part of our politicians.
I can proudly say that he alone is enough, to literally shut every relative of mine. If you ever are lucky enough to witness him taking on my entire extended family, in a battle of wits, you will probably see the wit-war equivalence of 1 man invading the Normandy coast and bringing the Nazi empire to an end. And No I am not exaggerating.
Sad part is, I am not allowed to let him loose upon them.

Btw, Faiz, if you’re reading this, you are not allowed to gloat. :P

As I said, he was the most pampered one, which made him quite a bit stubborn. Dad called him a Bengal Monitor once. (Google it)
The stubbornness got him in trouble with mom more than once. My mom believed in the idiom, “Jab Paap ka ghada bhar jaye, toh phoot jata hai” (When the Vessel of sin is filled, it will Break)
So Faiz & I, whenever we screwed up, it would register itself in mom’s head. She wouldn’t do anything except give us “The Eyes” (An eye stare that even makes her family members go “OH DEAR LORD HALP!!!”)
And getting the eyes meant 2 things
1. We’re Dead
2. But not today.

Coz the register was like a ticking time bomb, the more screw ups we did, the faster it ticked. Until one fine sunny day, the fuse would reach culmination, fizz and silence…………AND KABOOOOM !!!
Weapons included belts and hangars and rulers. And she would do the American Police thing, she would recite all our crimes as she whooped our sorry backsides. Things we’d have forgotten, she’d recall n go, “On so-n-so date, at so-n-so’s house party, you just HAD to touch the glass jar when I told you faiz NOT TO TOUCH the glass jar”. Before he could think “Which Glass jar??”, his ear would have been twisted like an old Fiat car key where the engine refuses to start.

First he’d scream and yell and beg mercy, and once the spank took place, I’d hear his tears break out. That was when my brain would scream, “INTERVENTION”.
And I’d run and stand between him and mom n go “Nooo mom Noooo he’s sorry he wont do it again.” I remember mom would try to hit him from around me, I’d feel him cringe behind me n hold my shirt as a human shield, and I’d get the whoop on my arm.
This always worked ;-) Atleast one way it did. Coz when I was getting whooped, Faiz would probably be hiding under the dining table or in the closet, thinking, “I hope she finishes with him and forgets what I did at last week’s party, else I’m dead too.”

He’s grown into a major Pain in the backside for people he likes and doesn’t like equally, into a funnyman who is the live wire of almost all of his social gatherings, and into a cuddly buddy for young kidos (which we both inherited from dad)

He also invented his own language, for more info on that, you should contact him, for I fear I will be killed for revealing it here. :P

If you don’t know yet, he is one helluva talented chef, and has surpassed his teacher (mom) in preparing the most amazing Grills you will taste.
His passion is Aeroplanes. Name a plane or a type of plane or a function related to it, and chances are he will talk to you about it for hours together.
He loves listening to stories. He was the first person who listened to my stories, and requested an encore every night. He is a person who seldom expresses his feelings...but if he really loves you, trust me you will know it.

As we grew up through our teens, I’ve seen him go from silly and childish to crazy and angry to calm and flamboyant in his ways. He’s still a Bengal monitor at times, but then...we all have our flaws.

Looking back now, those were some real crazy times I had with this li’l tyke. 11 years ago I left home to study and have been out since, so interaction with him has been limited, unlike most siblings. Yet we love each other to death. I remember the first time I felt really proud & sure of him was when he exhibited maturity beyond his years in 8th grade. Before that I just loved him, but after that, I’ve come to respect him too, in a way a younger sibling should be.
For those of you who have younger siblings, if you already dont respect them, start right now, trust me it makes a world of a difference.

I’ve lived a life where I’ve had friends walk in and out of life. Having a brother means having a friend who wont walk out on you, no matter what the circumstances. He is a shadow of mine who knows my darkest secrets and my deepest fears, and yet will not cease to love or respect me. He is a confidant I can share anything with. A partner in crime with whom I can plan to perform evil tortures on annoying people as well as pull of pranks on unsuspecting friends. He is that companion in boring parties, with whom I share amazing ROFLing moments with our inside jokes about everyone concerned.
He is a mirror image of me, opposite in almost every manner of being, yet someone I can love from the bottom of my heart for all his zaniness.
More than anything else, he is a 20 year old personality who fills the character gaps I have, someone without whom my parents would probably have half a son, someone who simply completes me.

Happy Birthday Li’l Brother…. BarakAllah Feek. May Allah Bless you with a long, prosperous and happy life in both this world and the next.

Love you !!

Kudos !!!!

2010-04-28T01:29:00.000-07:00

Thanks Meetz for the Amazing sketch which now adorns my Blog page. Its simply spellbinding how awesome the sketch is, and even more super that I was gonna ask you anyway to design something with a Peregrine theme.

And I couldnt find a better verse than Allama Iqbal, which would go with the sketch.

JazakumAllah Khair wa BarakAllah Feekum

Ur the Absolute Best !!!! :D

Fwoosh !! - Chronicling a Bird-Brain

2010-04-27T05:38:00.000-07:00

My name is Fwoosh. Don’t ask me why I was named this. Ask my silly uncle Dash.

I mean, if you could find him, you could ask him. He has been overtly eccentric, Grand-aunt Hiddil says he was eccentric since he was born. His tales go to describe that he’s been far and wide, that he’s seen the hopping 2 legged deers with a pouch on their bellies in a place named Ouz-Tralya. And he’s sipped chilled water with Emperor Penguins further south. Before he was caught by a hunter and made a slave, he was pretty much a free bird….Pun Intended.

Before I proceed any further, a bit about myself.

As you’ve already noticed, my name is Fwoosh. Mom says that the initial idea was to name me Whoosh !!, but they decided against the H and prefixed an F ‘coz some shoe maker cobblers named Nike or something said that they named their trademark as Whoosh. Frankly, if you ask me though, it looks like a tick mark, and nothing like a Whoosh. Whoosh was my great grandpa. He lived much before the days of human shoes, so no one could sue him for being named so. Oh boy could I tell you tales about Granpa Whoosh. I mean, Mom rarely talks about anything else than how awesome he was.

So there you have it, Corporate Lawsuits determined me being named Fwoosh instead of Whoosh.

By the way, I’m a Falcon. Although I hate to admit that. ‘Coz I suck at being a falcon (even If I do say so myself).

Why you ask….? Well. I guess that’s because I’m Acrophobic. No no need to run for your google search-bar. Acrophobic means….ummm…well….means that I’m kinda, you know…a bit, not much….a wee bit afraid of heights. STOP GRINNING !!!!

So I’m afraid of heights, and being my species of falcon isn’t easy with having a height problem. My cousins are all high-flyers. Dad cant stop raving about how I am silly and all that. He goes on about how Peregrines are wanderers and how we should fly high, how we get closest to God up there in the sky. I mean, I agree with all of that, he’s truly right you know. But it’s not like I’ve not tried. Heck I even tried to dive that famous Silent Dive. You know, the one where we hit speeds of 300 or so killer-meters per hour or something. Oh I dove, I dove….but I didn’t do the upward twist n nosedive properly, so instead, my wings got all tangly, lost a lot of tailfeathers and more than diving, I was falling, I must confess here that I was slightly overweight by then. My entire life flashed before my eyes. I landed on a low flying pelican, and boy was he pissed. Lost more tailfeathers when Dad got his hands on me. Poor Dad, how hard he tried to teach.

Oh and my dad, he’s a very respectable falcon. Never fumbles on his dives and is very religious you see. I sometimes think he’s more a BIRD OF PRAY than a BIRD OF PREY !! (Sorry…Falcon PJ)

What can I say though, I’m learning impaired. I mean it…. I still don’t understand why B comes after A. Do you know why it is so?? If so, please teach me that.

My teachers in Flight School call me a dimwitted smart-tail (I’m sure you humans have such names too).

So you ask, What does a peregrine who fears heights do good in life. You must be thinking I’m a loser right? Ahaah….thats where you’re wrong.

I am not a loser. I’m opinionated. Contrary to what you might think, they are both NOT related. Highly Opinionated at that. And I’m a connoisseur of fine literature.

Recently a friend of mine told me that people who liked the “written word” and are opinionated, they should write.

The first thing I think I should write about….is Humans.

The scientific fraternity calls you Homo Sapiens. The humans think that is some sort of “Oh-so-awesome-legendary-latin-fancy-shmancy-name”. In reality, it’s an abbreviation.

H.O.M.O. -- S.A.P.I.E.N.S

First name defines you in simple terms, the 2^nd part of the name defines some of your attributes.

Higher Order Monkey-like Organisms – (HOMO)

Superbly Active (Mentally & Physically)

Phenomenal Imbeciles (seriously, whats with all your wars & battles)

Egoistic & Narcissistic SpingelDinks** (SAPIENS)

**(Spingeldinks is a word I cannot explain. My mom is very particular about insults. I hate the taste of soap you see)

Haah, not so proud of your scientific nomenclature now are you !!!

Oh and before you look at our scientific name to “return” the joke, I’ll tell you myself

Its FALCO PEREGRINUS.

We coined that name ourselves. Peregrin – US !!!

SEE what I mean?

So What do I think about humans?

Firstly, let me tell you what the other birds think.

The Eagles, they’re ‘Merican you see, so they think that Humans should pretty much be under their wings. The bald ones are spectacularly proud about their rarity and elegance. I think they’re major imbeciles too. Seriously, they are demented. Have you seen a bald eagle?? Its got FEATHERS ON ITS HEAD. Its not bald, who the heck named it bald?? He must’ve been a mental human as well, so I don’t blame the eagles for wanting to take over humanity.

The Owls think humans have their biological clocks fixed all wrong. Psst, between you and me, they’re pretty nutty too, they wake up in the nights, and party when the whole animal & bird kingdom is asleep. Waitaminnute, don’t you do that do humans??

Well well, if the Eagles manage to take you over, no second guesses as to who will be writing your social calendar eh?

The Pigeons and Seagulls think Humans are good for target practice. And I shall not elucidate that as I’m sure little kids will be reading this too.

The Ostriches are what happens when you don’t take your flying lessons seriously, so they being 2 legged like humans, are empathic to your kind. I personally don’t trust the emotions of a bird who hides his head in a sand. Run you overgrown duck Run ... when you have danger coming in RUN!!!

((Sorry got off the topic))

The ducks think you’re incessantly annoying with your blabber. And they take major offence that you name your incompetent doctors after their calls. Beware of them, that’s all I can tell you.

The Swans are mainly from erstwhile U.S.S.R and they’re all named Boris. And they don’t care.

The Peacocks are preparing to sue you for taking their feathers so often. They are from India. And the ladies (peahens), they just hate you all for not giving them the awesome attention their males get. There are Peahen N.G.Os which are planning a major uprising against humans for being Gender-biased.

The Sparrows are too busy to even notice you. So to them, you’re no different than trees which block their ways. They don’t stop to smell the flowers.

The Hummingbirds, they just stop to smell the flowers. More like eat 'em. They too don’t notice you. They classify objects as Flowers and Non-Flowers. You are non-flowers.

The Penguins are voting on whether they should demand royalty from you for copying their style. You know, your formal tuxedos and all that black tie jazz. They want in. They think all your fashion designers are quacks. (By the way, the ducks hate the penguins too. Main rivalry in our Olympics Swimming events)

That leaves us with the Chickens. Who are frustrated beyond all parallel. Well, there isn’t much I am allowed to speak about them. But word of caution to the wise, they are sick and tired of being eaten. **whispers** There is word of revolution in the air. Initial targets are said to include a white suited Colonel’s Army HQs who claims the chicken are finger licking good. They deem that obnoxious and there are elaborate preparations for vengeance.

Now after all this, I finally come to my opinion about Humans.

After studying the entire world history and the whole ideas and thoughts of other birds and some animals of the kingdom, I’ve reached the conclusion that on the whole, absolutely unbiased in my evaluation, And I ascertain that this is the Truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the absolute truth. So help me God, and may my wings turn pink if I’m lying. Conclusively, I think humans are Phenomenally Hopeless.

Take Wing Funny Humans...and Happy Flying !!

Of Iqbal and a legacy of greatness.

2010-04-03T08:43:00.000-07:00

I’ll be upfront and frank about this. I find it hard, really hard to consistently hate Pakistanis. I mean, ever since the nation took birth, it has been a political thorn in my country’s neck (figuratively and geographically). But all these details of their irritating nature came to be understood by me when my age ran into double digits. That is, I learnt about Pakistan somewhere after I was 10 years old.

I had lived with Pakistanis for a long time, much before that.

Growing up in a quiet neighbourhood in Umm’Said, Qatar. I had few neighbour kids with whom I could share my age. And they were all Pakistanis. I remember Ali, Hasnain and Zeeshan. The four of us regularly played cricket or football and pretty much grew up fighting and exploring amongst ourselves. At that time, all I knew about their homeland was that Pakistan was a country near India with whom we played cricket a lot.

So I knew Pakistanis, before I knew Pakistan. This statement will explain itself in the next few minutes.

On Tuesday last week, I took a drop from a colleague somewhere on the outskirts of Sharjah’s industrial area, and hitched a taxi.

The driver who stopped had a very dignified look about him. Now I’ve seen some really fashionable drivers, some really messy ones, and quite a lot of indifferent ones. If you have read my blog before, you’ll know what I mean when I say I’ve also met some exceptionally interesting ones. This time was no different.

This man had a very neat look about him. And his face shone with a discipline which said he’d been living a principled life which wasn’t his choice, but something that had come with his birth.

I gave him directions in Urdu. And after a few minutes of silence, he asked me where I was from. I told him I was from south India. He must have had a surprised look on his face which I missed as I had sat behind with an intention of sleeping the trip off. His next sentence was ,
“Aapki Urdu badi saaf hai.” (Your Urdu is very polished)

I said, “Shurkiya, yeh hamare walid sahib ki badaulat hai.” (Thanks, I owe it to my Father)

He was pleased at that. And I told him that some of my earliest childhood friends were also from Pakistan.

I asked him, “Aap Karachi se hai?” (Are you from Karachi?)

He was surprised again and said , “Ji par aapne andaza kaise lagaya.” (Yes, how did you know?)

“Maine dekha hai Karachi walon ki urdu, baaqi pakistaniyon se kaafi shaffaf hoti hai.”

(I’ve noticed that Karachi people speak a more purer/clearer Urdu compared to other Pakistanis, [Who have an accent])

He asked for my name, I told him my name was Luqman. And his name was Tariq.
Tariq Chacha.

The conversation immediately jumped to current affairs. And he smiled and asked me if I’d heard of Shoaib Malik & Sania Mirza’s wedding announcement.

I laughed and said, “Definitely, hamari ladki aapke ghar bahu banke aane wali hai inshaAllah.” (Our Girl is coming as a daughter in law to your home)

He laughed and went on to marvel at how matches are made in heaven, without any regards for man made lines.

He expressed grief over so much we share as a race, yet how far apart we are.

I told him how our national song was written by someone who went on to be a Pakistani.

Allama Iqbal. His face shone with pride and I knew we’d found common ground.

We discussed at length about Iqbal’s poetry. I told him how Ghalib was a famous urdu poet of our nation, but how I regard Iqbal as unmatchable by anyone. He agreed.

He told me how his Father studied in Punjab University in newly formed Pakistan. And how he and his friends would run from the university to a nearby masjid for early morning prayers. They would pass by a small chalet and would hear a voice reciting the Quran with a feel of every word. The voice would sometimes even cry while reciting the Words of Allah.

Upon inquiring, the caretaker told Tariq chacha’s father that that voice belonged to none other than Sir Mohammad Iqbal.
The poet, the philosopher, the thinker of a nation as described by the masses. Who didn’t only write poetry, but lived the advices they presented.

I couldn’t help but go on about how I first heart Iqbal’s Shikwa & Jawab-e-Shikwa (two of the finest works in Urdu poetry) and he was gushing with happiness. Dad introduced me to Shikwa and Jawab-e-shikwa. In a nutshell, the 2 works are inter-related. Shikwa is the complaint of a Muslim to Allah, and Jawab-e-Shikwa is the reply Allah has to each complaint the crier has.

He began talking to me about Sir Syed Ahmad Khan, Gandhi and Jinnah, how the fathers of our nations made the mistake of partitioning one entity. Although, if Pakistan had begun its life on the teachings and guidelines of Iqbal, instead of Jinnah, I feel that there could be no better neighbours in the world today like India & Pakistan. He readily agreed with what I commented about the issue. He sighed aloud saying, if only their leaders and our leaders got to the end of their arms race, got out of all their petty differences and just ended the crying over Kashmir, then the most to benefit of this would be the common man, who is as of now the most affected by this conflict.

Conversing with Tariq Chacha was one of the most interesting and beloved talks I’ve had in a really long time. I felt like I knew him intimately. He told me how his parents and aunts and uncles and grandparents cried inconsolably when they had to leave Jalandar and move to Pakistan. How they got into the last train of the partition and saw the brutality first hand. There was a painful tone in his voice as he smiled and said that even today, a lot of his aunts are buried in India.

This is the ground reality. Take away all the nuke races we are having between our nations, the politicians on their side calling us manipulators and the politicians on our sides calling them terrorists. Take away the fact that men on either side of the border have created death and havoc in the eyes of the world. Take away the un-ending argument of who is right and who is not. And at the end of it you will get people like Tariq Chacha who are really sorry we parted ways. People who believe that we share more than we differ about. People who truly believe that once you take out the respective leaders and bureaucrats and the finger pointing, and you have 2 brothers from one mother who fight and argue but in the end just love to play cricket and tease each other about their respective performances.

He loved his motherland, I accepted that.

He respected my motherland too, and I simply admired the man for that.

I don’t ever think I’ll be able to convey the brilliance and the peace there was in our conversation. But I will share this.

Iqbal wrote the song, TARANE-E-HIND. Which is the national song of India. A song Mahatma Gandhi sung tirelessly during his days in jail. A song to which our army sets its quick march. A song which cannot stop gushing with pride on the greatness of India.

There is a stanza in that poem which doesn’t find its way into the traditional version of the song, I don’t know why. I recited that stanza for Tariq chacha,

Yunan Misr-o-ruma sab mitt gaye jahaan se

Baaqi magar hai ab tak, Naam-o-nishaan hamara

Kuch to baat hai ki hasti mitt tee nahi hamari

Sadiyon Raha hai dushman, daur-e-zamaan hamara

Greece, Egypt and Rome (empires such) were wiped from the world,

Yet stands alive even now, our name and our mark

There is something that our definition does not fade away

Even though time in all the ages has been an enemy of ours

(Rough translation, please excuse the crudeness)

When I finished that recitation, he wasn’t jealous or envious that Iqbal had written such defining words for us. He was proud, he was happy and if his hands were not on the steering wheel, I’m sure he would have applauded at the praise of my motherland.

We are 1 nation, divided by a line of lies, deceit, hate and power gamble on the part of a few people.

When a matter of the masses comes, we’re two bodies with one heartbeat.

The Most Understated Human in the World.

2010-03-28T04:18:00.000-07:00

All praise is to the Almighty in whose hand rests my soul, and the dominion of the heavens and the Earth.

Of all of Allah’s magnificent creations, one of the most misunderstood creations is The Father.

Yup, in continuation of my last post, this one is to the Man of the house. The Captain of the ship, the Commander in chief of the Space Mission called Family life.

My dad, to begin with, is amazing. The only regret is that I realized it pretty late. Don’t get me wrong, I loved him a lot. But admiration of someone comes out of the deep thought and understanding in what that person does. You will never respect a car unless you understand how a car should behave. Similarly, you will never understand family life unless you understand how the Father behaves, and once you see a fine example of a house, look at the paternal leader and you are sure to find (8 out of 10 times), a disciplined, principled and magnanimous face lined with seriousness towards the emotion known as Love. (Feminists who are reading this chill out, Mothers play an equally important role and I understand that ;-) so put away your pitchforks.)

Fathers, unlike mothers, have a very short lived span in which they can love a child without any barriers. This lasts from the teary moment they first hold their baby in their arms, or in some cases, from the first instance when they know they will be Dads, and it culminates on the most impressive and lasting step of the child, The First Step.
That is, more often than not, the last time a Father will show his emotions of love, pride, joy and thankfulness with absolutely no barrier. Holding a child’s hand with his fingers, he’ll guide it to take its first unbalanced step, and hold up the childs entire weight so that the kid doesn’t have to balance its lard, but just move those chubby squiggly feet in a walking fashion. This is the beginning of the end so to speak.

From here on, as fast as the child learns to walk and run, the father understands the need to regulate where the learning feet wander. And slowly begins the masking of that display of love and affection which until now was filled with kisses, childish screams with the kid, hugs and night long vigilances humming songs so that the apple of his eye can fall asleep.

My Father, was out of the country while I was preparing to touch ground in Bangalore.

He spent the last few days before my birth in teary prayers for mom’s health and my safe arrival. He didn’t know what he was getting, but he prayed that it comes safe. I’ll confess that during my high school days in Mysore, I chanced upon his old collection of personal diaries. And the suspense was too much to push away. I picked up the brown one with the leather engraved numbers 1985. And turned to November. I could see the entries of 13, 14 and 15 were besought with prayers and hope and small details of his job where he probably had no focus. And then I turned to November 16…..He had written a small paragraph stating how the delivery had gone fine, and that entry ended with one line…

“I HAVE A SON.”

I could imagine his eyes welling up in tears, his dimpled cheeks in a gratitude filled smile as he bowed his head and made dua for my entire future to be blessed. To this day I pray and hope that someday, I can do the same for my kids.

Again, its sad that I have no memory of the way dad first held me in his arms, how he carried me around and sung me to sleep. I saw it all when I was 4 years old and my little bro was born. But I still missed the memory of the time he pampered me, bought toys for me without me asking them, laughed with me and tried to understand me when all I could babble from that toothless mouth was phenomenal amounts of gibberish.

If only that memory had sustained, I would probably not have cribbed the dad didn’t love me, or didn’t buy me stuff, or laugh at my jokes, or even the classical, YOU DON’T TRY TO UNDERSTAND ME DAD kind of lines.

The moment he held my hands and taught me to walk, he morphed from Mother part 2 to Father, where it became his foremost duty to make sure I didn’t run around too carelessly, didn’t speak out of turn, learnt manners of sitting and talking to people, learnt the duties of being a man in short. Mom would teach the same, but bringing the authoritative and proverbial iron fist down on our stupid little craniums is not what moms are built for.

But the entire disciplinarian deal goes pretty long way. They mask the love they wish to show to their kids at special moments. This kind of hampers the growing child in a way. At first I thought it was wrong on their part, but then, watching my dad I learnt that it wasn’t his fault, he was programmed that way.

His Father, my granddad, who fathered 10 kids (8 sons and 2 daughters) had to have a strict outlook to keep the brood contained. So all the kids grew up with a level of discipline where they have NEVER looked their father in the eye while talking. His way of showing affection was different. If ever he scolded one of the kids, that evening, that kid would be treated extra specially. Grandpa would ask him to sit next to him at dinner, a place of honour. And he would explain a simple philosophy which my dad resonates to this day, he would say, “Son, I had to correct you today and get angry at you. Because what you were doing was wrong. I had to show anger because that is how I love you. You will not understand this today, someday, when You are a Father, you will.”

In urdu it went like “…..Kisi din jab aap sahib-e-aulaad banoge, tab aap samjhoge…”

Those words are etched in my heart so deep that I understand how hard it is to be a Father.

Being strict is pretty easy, but being strict for the right reasons, with the right intensity, that requires character and a persona reeking with selflessness.

A Father will scold you, beat you, yell at you in front of others, for a reason. He wants your perfection. He knows it comes at the risk of the child losing his love and grumbling at him even though it is for the child’s own good, yet he does it unwaveringly.

This has a domino effect. The child grows up fearing things which he/she has been taught are wrong. And the deeper this lesson is taught, with the catalyst information of Why somethings are wrong, the longer the lesson’s effects remain. This in turn results with the son becoming a better father tomorrow.

A father has to buy stuff for the family, and there are times when he has to reject the wants of his kids. Because he understands where to draw the line between pampering and making absolute spoilt brats.

They say that to learn swimming, you have to jump in the water first. A Father is a launching mechanism which throws you in the water.

My dad made one tough choice back in 1999. To send me away to India, far away from him and mom, to study and learn to swim the seas on my own. All I had were his prayers, a few of his habits and his love for reading.

Those three combined to give me an understanding of him in specific and Fatherhood in general over 8 years, that he would never be able to put in words over 80 years.

That’s the thing about Fathers, they are hopeless with words. They show their love in the most un-expected of manners, and they don’t feel heartbroken that we don’t pick up the signs. For them, its enough that they love us and they know it. They live with this firm belief that someday, we will understand what it is like to be in those tough shoes.

I admire this generation of fathers a lot though, they are slowly moulding in the fact that saying I LOVE YOU SON does not make them sound weak. And here’s a standing ovation for my dad who’s said it so many times to me, and so many many more times to himself. For making an effort dad, Thank you.

All in all, as you grow through teens and even later, you will resent your dad a lot, and he knows this. Oh he knows it wayyyy to well. But mark my words guys, someday, when you have a toddler just 5 minutes old yelling at the highest shrillest note its brand new voice box can manage, you will know exactly how your old man felt.

Fathers don’t cry, not in front of their kids, but I know for a fact, that there are innumerable moments when a father, hidden away from the entire world, including his wife, sits in front of Allah, head bowed, hands raised, tears welling up in his eyes and quivering voice….asking for his child to pass his exams, to make it through his tribulation, to get well from an illness or simply, to be happy.

Sit back, close your eyes and think about the awesome times you’ve spent with your dads. They are rare, but each one of them has a fragrance which will last hundreds of years to come. Think about the times he has beaten you or slapped you, and try remembering why he did that, 9 out of 10 chances are that you behaved like a stubborn ass. Try remembering the astounding amount of pain he's borne to put you all through your education and manage the entire family. The sacrifices he's given to pay for your small happinesses, and the unaccountable times he's fought for you. Be thankful for them today, else your kids will not be thankful for your efforts tomorrow. And then, call/msg/write or face your dad, look into those eyes which have been so understated, look into the experience they have accumulated, and just say, I love You dad. For all I know, he’ll feel like he has been hit by a thick pillow, will stumble upon a few words and mumble an I love you too ;-) And that’s what makes such a dramatic effect. That he makes the effort to say that.

Mom always told us, that Jannah (Paradise) is at a Mother’s feet, but she always used to add, That door to Jannah is locked, those keys are at your dad’s feet. ;-)

Jannah

2010-03-17T05:03:00.000-07:00

I don’t really know what prompted me to write this. Maybe the recent trip home.

I’ve been away from home for a decade and a year almost. But even today, leaving home makes me the same 13-14 year old nervous wreck. Except that I controlled the goodbye tears. But the lump in the throat just never leaves.

And the entire journey I think about the first lady in my life. That big chubby angel of purity and love who loved me before she could see me. Mom, or Mamma as I call her.

Lemme introduce my mom to you, anyone would tell you this line, “My Mom is the best in the world, no contest.” And well, I am no different.

Mammas of the world are really smashing humans Allah created to be classified as All heart.

I guess the recipe of a MOTHER looked something like this.

1 Cup Chocolate

¼ Teaspoon Anger

1 Universe load of Unconditional Love

Equal amount of Forgiveness

2 Glowing moons which will always look at you in a way no one else can

1 Big bucket of Tears (serve all purposes)

10x Normal Human’s Pain-bearing-capacity

10 Million Zillion Hugs

Unlimited Smiles & laughter

1 spoon Natak and Nakhra (to taste)

Mix it all into a smooth batter, add 4 Drops of unique fragrance. And mould.

It’s a sad sad thing that most of us have no memory of the times when we were loved beyond our own meddling control. When we were infants. I can only imagine how much she must’ve showered me with kisses, hugs, spent hours with me in her arms just looking at me and seeing daydreams 20 or maybe 30 years into the future.

Before that, I can imagine how much she already loved me and had to control herself immensely to wait for my arrival in those gruelling 9 months of labour. Not to mention the time I did make a landing. I don’t believe any amount of empathy can make anyone of us imagine how that must’ve felt for her. And then, as we were helpless little munchkins who knew nothing but how to eat/drink,cry, sleep, cry, poop and cry, she seemed to love every bit of it. For her, every day began with all of us screaming on our top decibel ranges to announce our hunger or wet nappy. And it ended with us getting so restless to sleep that she had to hold and rock us till we zonked out. Amidst those two extremes of the day and night, she would’ve said a million I love yous and smiled at every smile, giggle, turn, tear and better believe it, even at our farts and burps which at that time sounded like a palm size balloon going out with a short SQUEEE or BRAPPP

I can imagine the peace she felt when she held us close to her heart, amidst 2 strong arms giving out the most gentlest of hugs.

I can imagine her just sitting n resting her forehead n nose against mine n thinking, “Life just cant get any better than this.”

I can imagine her looking at my squiggly laughter and thinking, “I’ll just blow up the entire world if it ever makes that laughter stop for ANY reason.”

I can imagine her putting me in my stroller or my high chair, keeping me up on the big table (locked into my seat’s harness) and making real conversation with me, and me stuffing my fingers up my mouth thinking where the heck in the pacifier. And whenever she would say something a bit high pitched, I would probably reply with a “EEEYAAA?”

I can imagine her unadulterated delight when I’d making gurgling and laughing noises and wave my hands up n down as a thank you for the fresh diaper or possibly for no reason at all.

I can imagine her first tears when I might have cried through the night from a fever or tummy ache which I could only convey by wails.

I can imagine her going all ALLELELSHUNUGOOPUSHUFARRUFARRUMELABETAAAAA. Of which I would understand nothing but would still show the toothless grin, which would brighten her day more than 20 suns working together.

I can imagine her singing or humming me to sleep

I can imagine her trying to make me talk, to repeat ALLAH, or MAMMA, or PAPPA even though she knew I wouldn’t speak for a long time. (Time is proof that the day I did start, I wouldn’t stop….Sorry maa)

I can imagine her tears of joy when I took my first unsteady steps and rushing towards me when I’d loose balance n land on my knees and palms, or more safely, My cushioned bum.

I can imagine a million other moments which are etched in her mind forever, which are invaluable to her, which she will share with my children inshaAllah, and then I will see them for real.

But there is one other thing I can imagine, the deep longing in her heart whenever I leave home. Or the deep longing in every mother’s heart when their kid grows up and starts thinking that that display of affection is “embarrassing” or “Eww”. Or when hugs are not reciprocated like before. Or when she realizes we cant be kissed or cuddled. When her most awesome display of affection would be a stroke of our big head. I probably can never tell the amount of regret she would be having which goes like, “I should’ve loved n cuddled him more when he was younger.”

Mamma, this is me, saying Thank you for every ounce of love, every tear, every hug, every comfort and absolutely everything that you have done for me. What I am, is because of you. And I know I don’t say this enough, but I really really Love you. And I am infinitely indebted to Allah for giving me YOU !! I beg forgiveness for all the times I’ve let you down, or hurt you. I am sorry. And I know that my thank yous and sorrys do not register in your all loving and all forgiving heart. InshaAllah I promise not to break your heart, and be everything you hoped and dreamt from me on 16 ^th Nov. 1985, and ever after.

May Allah bless you with a really really long healthy and successful life in both worlds.

O humankind! Be in awe of your Lord and Sustainer, He who created you all from a single soul, and created from it its mate, and from the two of them brought forth many men and women. Be in awe of Allah and of the wombs (that bore you). Surely Allah is watching over you. - Surah an-Nisa : Ayah 1

P.S.

Shahjahan Mamu, the love bitten emperor of India, said once that Paradise on earth is Kashmir.

I beg to differ old fruit, Paradise is At Mamma’s Feet…..Period….

Jewelery Nightmare

2010-03-16T05:05:00.000-07:00

((Written On 24th February 2010. Posting Today))

The thing about love that stands clear from all the other aspects it has, is the willingness to do anything for the one you love. And I mean anything.

Not being new to this aspect of being a sentient being of emotion, I began this day with a lot of excitement to the forthcoming events in my life. All beginning with Today, mom and dad’s 25^th Wedding Anniversary. The Silver Year.

To say I was on top of the world would be a slight understatement. Sure I was up on top, sitting way up on the apex and smiling at the world below, and at times during the day, cursing others in this world. Nevertheless, the evening had a different agenda. I had to shop. For mom and dad’s gifts. And I had planned what they would each get.

I wanted to get Mom a nice piece of jewellery, and Dad was going to get a swiss watch. The latter part of the task was the easier of the two. Quite simply as I was shopping for something I understood about. Picking out a sapphire crystal swiss watch for dad was a fun experience, not to mention it took me not more than about 17 minutes to enter the shop, run through the options, select one which said CLASSY and MODERN at the same time, smiled at the knowledge that dad would love it, swipe the card and get outta there. 17 minutes. Heck I was a swiss watch myself.

But the OTHER part of the endeavour. Hoo boy. I was sure I wanted to get Mom jewellery. And that’s a big deal. Simply coz My mom is a connoisseur of Jewellery. It was the equivalent of picking out a car as a gift for Micheal Schumacher, picking out a punching bag and gloves for Muhammad Ali, picking out a suit for SRK…..you get the picture don’t you? My brother warned me against it. But me being ME, I had to go do it.

So with a lot of apprehension and a face oozing confidence, I stepped into Al Fahidi Street, which is the Commercial Street of Dubai to many people. Filled with a lot of Gold Shops, most of them branded stuff. Name a gold designer and chances are they’re there.
I was petrified.

The only times I’ve been to a jewellery store, I’ve been under the wing of mom, my aunts or cousins or sisters in law etc. NEVER ALONE. This was my Normandy. Except, this was all alone. Imagine one Allied forces soldier standing on the beaches of Normandy alone, looking around at Zee Germans and getting stared back at. Pretty much the same scenario took place with all the ladies around the gold market staring at me. I wish I could tell you how I looked into each of their eyes with a confident look. Oh hell No. This allied soldier had his head down, guns behind my back, walking through the lines with a “Excuse me, Pardon me, Sorry don’t mean to intrude, KLANG!! (Hitting a signpost is inevitable when you walk with your head down right?)”

But nope, I love you maa. So I braved the first onslaught and went up to the counter, blabbered something about diamonds and the yellowy coloured metal which ladies find so fascinating. Hooo Boy…. I first saw Pearls. Who the hell first came up with the idea to say, “Hey lets dive so deep into the oceans that our lungs burn and find those clammed up shells, pull them to the shore, pry them open with a mallet and a nail, and voila, round white thingie which shines !!” I mean seriously, how the heck did that happen?

Then moved to the diamonds. Found one I liked, and the shopkeeper blabbed about cents and carrots and Belgian cuts and I was thinking, this guy’s a chef who turned jewellery salesman. Then I saw it. He called it the MOM pendant. The name sounded perfect. And when I laid eyes on it, it looked it too. It is a tear drop gold outline with the Arabic word UMMI or MOM, set in calligraphy and lined with diamonds.

A few deliberations and a few conversations with my Bhabi, and yup, the pendant adores a black velvet box on its way to its recipient. I just hope she likes it. If not for the design, atleast for the sheer guts it took me to walk up among that horde of chattering females and staying alive and awake through the entire experience, walking out with a smile.

Love you Mom.

Love you Dad. Wish you both a Happy Married Life for another 25 years inshaAllah. And furthermore may Allah bring you together in Jannah for all eternity.

I guess its true then, Diamonds are forever. **SHUDDER**

Paradigm: Magic !!

2010-02-14T04:52:00.000-08:00

A few days ago I read this guy’s blog. His name I do not know. Blog post was named Rainbows. And this post got me thinking. This guy had sort of persuaded dying embers into crackling a slow fire to warm up the mind.

The post he wrote dealt with how beautiful an imagination was back when we did not know any better.

He goes on a limb to describe how amazing a rainbow is, magical even, if you totally ignore the fact that it’s a physics phenomenon of nature’s rainy summer days.

So I just thought, why just rainbows.

The entire world always looks so much nicer when you throw logic out of the window and look through 5 or 7 year old eyes.

For the rest of this post, I don’t want you pointing out the logical fallacies of my words. I hereby acknowledge that there is going to be none, so don’t bother.

The earth is Flat. No Spanish moron’s ship is going to sail down the horizon with its flag slowly dropping lower and lower until it disappears. My guess is that the monsters at the end of the earth are slowly gobbling them up.
Night falls bcoz the sun drowns in the sea, and swims under us and comes up again next morning.
Stars are diamonds. You can keep your big balls of fire theory for someone of boring existence.
Boys, Girls are Slimy
Girls, Boys are disgusting
Flowers are pretty “things”. Not organs of plants’ procreation.
Rainfall is someone opening up taps in the sky.
Say CHEEZE for Lightning flashes
Adults are silly.
Thunderstorms are scary. Hugging a grown up or your friend during a loud thunder roar is perfectly normal, adults don’t do it coz they are silly.
Ghosts exist. Period.
Table manners are over rated. The messier the meal, the fuller the tummy. The back of your hand is more efficient in wiping your mouth than any napkin in the world.
Chocolates are the healthiest of all foods.
Green stuff is for cows to eat. Not us
One word…RUN…there is no such thing to worry such as stamina or tiredness.
Fairies exist. And they look like Granma when she was younger.
Cartoons are real people. Bugs Bunny and Tom n Jerry are out there.
Rainbows are Magical
Spinach is Ewyuck !!
Someone falling down is funny.
It is okay to cry.
There is only 1 disease….Fever.
If you don’t know my Cousin Pinky or Bade Papa, you aren’t from this earth.
If you are 6 and a half now, and I am 5, I firmly believe that next year I will be able to overtake you.
"Tag….You’re it" & "Beat You to it...." Coz everything's a race, from drinking milk (bleh) to getting dressed to running from point xyz to finish line, i.e. Mom.
Silly rhymes about colors are good jokes. Blue Blue, You ate Glue
“Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” is a perfectly sensible question. “We’ll get there when we get there.” Is a Stupid anser
Stupid is a bad word.
Pens are magical and for big people. No matter how much you write, you don’t have to sharpen them.
Exercise?? Whazzat??
If you become too fat one day I will poke you with a needle and you will blow up like a balloon.
Wave to the aeroplanes, they can see you from there.
The bogeyman exists to make sure we behave.
Boys : Animals are fun, frogs, cats, birds, dogs….
Girls : Boys will never understand Dolls
Eenie Meanie Minie Moe is a perfectly correct manner of solving any conflict.
Breaking a pinky swear will have bad bad baddddd results
Responsibility??? Whazzat???
Any game involving you having to sit down is boring.
“Mom I want a snack”. “A Fruit?” “HUHH???”. “Almonds?” “HUHHHHHH??” “CHIPS??” “Chilli Tomato Flavor Please”
If your parents don’t buy you what you want, they don’t love you. (This usually lasts for 5 minutes or a few days, depending on how stubborn you are)
All stories Grandma tells are true, the morals are something she makes up though.
If the hero dies in the movie, he is really gone. Crying is okay again.
Superman CAN FLY. No arguments whatsoever
You can never have enough toys.
Doctors are bad. All of them. Specially dentists.
You are my best friend, you too, you too, you too…and you and you and …….
The only way to laugh is to laugh until you roll over holding your stomach.
Milk is a bad Idea.
Chocolate milk is a Great Idea, and if you don't have a milk mustache, you are not doing it right.

P.s. The Original Post which inspired the rambling you see above

http://farrago-mish-mash.blogspot.com/2005/10/rainbows.html

Nanabba

2010-02-06T13:49:00.000-08:00

Solitude is a writer’s best friend. No I don’t mean in the sense that to be a writer you should shun all company. But when you want to write something, try sitting by someplace empty, someplace vast…someplace quiet..

Its 11 pm on a Saturday evening, There is this field on my way back from the gym. Its an old abandoned football field, with two old goalposts being the last remaining signs that the grounds saw a lot of matches between young ones from the residential area it stood in.

I sit on a stack of bricks with some milk and a soft melody in my ears. And let my mind drift.

Today morning started with a hazy dream where I heard my roommate talking. I woke to the news that one of my roomies had lost his Nana (maternal grandfather) today. I’d heard him speak about his Nana many times, and he had been really really close to him all along. Being an NRI almost all my life, this situation had raised its ugly head more than once with me. Problem with the employed here is that our passports are in the hands of authorities to avoid us running off to home countries after committing some crime or fraud. And when a tragedy strikes, the first place we run to is the authorities and the airport to get a damn flight home. All for that one last glance.

My roommate didn’t get his chance to see his Nana. Chance plays an evil hand sometimes, and it’s a situation where your hands remain tied up. He came home from office, after resigning from his duties, and sat silent almost the whole day. We stood in the balcony after lunch, sipping tea and gazing at a cloudy Saturday sky. Moments such as these when even the most eloquent of speakers are stumped for words. I put my arm around him saying nothing. And he burst out. About not being able to see his Nana one last time. Words are weak consolers so I kept them at a minimum and let him cry.

That’s when I felt my skin go frigid and the moment took me back to the mid 90s when I was in a similar situation.

One of the toughest news my dad had given me was of my Nana passing away. I still remember the moment when he told me Nanabba (Grandpa) was no more, I was around 11 or 12. What first started as a shock (it was the first time I was fully comprehending death of a close one) later lead to me breaking down seeing mom in tears. Dad told me he and mom were going to India for the funeral and I was to look after Faiz, stay with neighbours and wait for them to return. I was not going to get my last look. So my mind raced back to the last time I had seen Nanabba. Hardly a year ago.

My Nana and Nani had performed their Hajj, one of the major and later duties of being a Muslim. And they had stopped over in Qatar for a month before heading back to India.

I begged them not to go back so soon, to stay for another month or two. But nanabba smiled and told me they had to go, and that they would see us in India soon.

I sat on my bed and watched Nanabba dress up for the flight. He wore his favorite safari suit of smokey blue color and spoke to me in his commanding but compassionate baritone, I remember him advising me to study well, and to be a good elder brother, to be a good and obedient son. Nanabba was a headmaster in a school in Bangalore, and education was something he was very particular about. He loved the reading habit in me and nurtured it with books from his school library. He always wished Faiz to develop it, but my brother was destined to earn his knowledge from Nat-Geo and Discovery more than printed pages. I’m sure nanabba would be equally proud of Faiz’s knowledge today.

I remember him talking to me, and I looked at him, nodding my head and saying yes. He took out his shoes, and proceeded in his disciplinary fashion to turn his socks the right way, dust the soles of his feet and wear the socks. He took out his little talc powder dispenser, and puffed it a few times into each of his shoes before slipping into them. He stood up to his full height in front of the mirror, set his famous handlebar moustache right, and wore his prayer cap. He looked at me, put his hands into his pocket and took out money, and slipped them into my hands with a smile. I remember hugging him, crying my eyes out and continuing my requests to not go away. My eyes fill with tears even today when I recall that moment he and Nanimmi walked into the airport departure gates in their slow and composed manner. That was the last time I saw Nanabba.

Everyone tells me that he is one of Allah’s most blessed beings. How with his modest salary and circumstance, he raised 3 kids, married them all into good homes, and completed all his duties before returning to his Lord.

For me, he was the paragon of principles. A disciplinarian who loved people in his manner. People of Richmond Town’s Serpentine street and Johnson market would stand and give their Salutations to him whenever he passed by with his umbrella and schoolmaster bag. Echoes of “Assalam Alaikum Shariff Saab” still fill those streets for me.

The moment I got my engineering degree and rushed to Mysore where my father was on holiday, I hugged and told him I’d passed with disctinction. He was speechless as he hugged me with a big smile. My oldest uncle cried joyfully in front of my dadajaan’s photograph. I never saw my Dada but have heard him to be a great figure of Mysore as well. But Even to this day, I hold this thought dear to my heart, that had Nanabba been alive, there would be no happier soul on the face of the planet on that day. Not a soul more thankful to Almighty, not a soul brimming with more pride over his Engineer Grandson.

I am a tough person to break into tears. He was too. Everyone says I am a lot like Nanabba. Probably since I was the first grandchild of the family, he was happiest when I was born, Mom talks about how he went mad with happiness and gave away money to all the nurses around. As per the custom of our Noble Prophet PBUH, every newborn is made to taste something sweet (Dates or Honey). And this duty is generally done by the Father. I tasted honey from Nanabba’s hand. He gave the first Azaan (Call to prayer) in my 1 day old ears. I dress like him, carry a bag all the time and share a lot of his traits. I know for a fact that I could never be even a percent of what he was. AlHaj Janab Mohammad Azeezullah Shariff Saheb’s legacy is that of respect and reverence in the old city of Bangalore. And I cannot thank Allah enough to be a part of it.

I miss you Nanabba. Thank you for everything. Specially for the love, the prayers and the values. I Love You !!

P.S.

I’m sure everyone of you have had someone like Nanabba in your lives. I’d love to hear about it. Sit back, let your mind wander to the past and pull out the memories and re-live them. Cry if you can, these tears have a bitter-sweet taste.

Two-Light?? – The Third Light :D

2009-12-29T03:46:00.000-08:00

**WARNING, NONSENSE AHEAD**

Yes, I know I’ve already poked loads of fun at Twilight.
Amongst my friends are die hard fans of the franchise, to whom I must profusely apologize at yet another effort to generate laughs out of the whole Human-Vampire-Wolf Love triangle.

By introducing another angle :D

Heh heh

According to newspaper sources (yeah lets make this sound tabloid-ish)

According to newspaper sources and sources close to the stars, The protagonist of the Vampire saga, the chick also known as Dumbella, is madly in love with a vampire who cannot understand her (or see through her as it may seem).
Why Girls fall for slow guys, and then crib for their entire lives about him being as sharp as a rubber duck, is beyond me. And I’m sure beyond you too.

So as per the movie, she falls for this guy, who, as stated in my previous write up too, is not a conventional model Vampire, he doesn’t burn under the Sun’s rays, no sir, he sticks his tongue out at the sun and sparkles. And he can run faster than Usain Bolt, much much faster. So the sparkly guy is the object of the dumbell’s affection. And vice versa. He digs her coz, for the life of him (or the death of him as it may seem), he can not see what goes on in her mind…..Welcome to the Relationship Club Sparkles…

By mid-term of the school (yeah the vampires go to school to avoid suspicion), Dumbella becomes a “pet” to the family of sparkles.

Mr. And Mrs. Sparkles even host a dinner for her, and the entire family chips in to save her life from the evil vampire who dines on Human blood. The sparkles are “Vegetarians”, so umm…. (WHAT THE HECK WERE U SMOKING STEF???)

Anyway, by the end of the first movie, they are all one big happy family of vampires, with a human “friend”.

Girls went all “AWWWWW THUNKK!!!” over the movie. Paramedics stood by with Defibrillators to revive those stooped females.

Lookie poster below.

And as if the first part wasn’t enough, the movie makers came up with a part 2 of the franchise. Love was already explored in the first movie, hence they needed a new angle in the 2nd one. They added a new angle.

Tadaaa…. Welcome Mr. Hairy Doggy. Yup, since that cloudy misty town in America was luckily where the Vampires were staying, it had to have rivals. Hence the werewolves were thrown in. Among them was one really “hot” werewolf. A guy who runs around in Denim Shorts Only. WHY?? Coz when you transform from human to a wolf, you grow so fast, you burst out of your clothing, so to minimize ur wardrobe you wear a bare minimum. Also, wolves in shorts kinda look dorky. I mean, imagine the wolf found a really tempting fire hydrant. The Stand on 3 legs and lift the 4th leg formula wouldn’t work there. Would it?
Major inconvenience

So Sparkly got bored of Dumbella coz she was like a stuck record, “MAKE ME A VAMPIRE, MAKE ME A VAMPIRE MAKE ME A VAMPIRE” On and on and on and on….Nag Nag nag nag nag nag….(( Again, Welcome to Relationship Club Sparkles ))
So he tells his bro to fake an attack on the human, while he “saves” her and then tells her that his family is too dangerous for him (For real??). And leaves her in the middle of a forest n runs away.

Enter the hairy Werewolf, who loves cliff diving, and swimming ala Micheal Phelps. (This franchise could have its own track and field team)

He loves the dumbbell, who is so grief stricken that she sits in front of a window for the whole damn year. God save the person who had to clean that chair. **Shudder**
Hairy gives her a new lease of life, and well, she starts finding ways of seeing Sparkle’s ghost whenever she’s in danger, so what does she do? Jump from a cliff. I actually let out a whoop and a standing ovation when she did that, only to be drastically disappointed in the next scene where hairy saves her.

And the story drags on and on for infinity and beyond. (chk poster below)
Clearly, this girl has major major issues...

So now that the whole thing’s become a 2 movie success franchise, its time to make a Threequel.

Yup, Vampire saga is going part three.

And keeping in mind the queer attribute of Dumbella to fall in love with the most weirdest of creatures, i.e. a vampire and a werewolf, part three brings to you the most awesome of the three creatures.

He’s tall
He’s muscular
Can fight worth shit

Can run through those forests with more speed, agility and dexterity than sparkly and hairy.

Best of all, he has his own exotic pet which flies.
Say hello to Dumbella Swan’s latest arm candy

Jake Skully :D

KA-CHING !!!!

Biking Maniacs

2009-12-17T00:24:00.000-08:00

There are two kinds of people in the world.

The Bikers……and the rest…….

Yup, it’s a pretty simple classification of petrolheads. I’m gonna go on a limb here and say that biking is by far one of the most complete man-machine-road experiences you are going to get. Yeah, even better than being enclosed in a 4 wheeled room with screaming kids and nagging wives, or vice versa if you are my Uncle Asif.

I’ve always been fond of bikes. The freedom of just being alone with a machine on an open road, on a cold dawn, a bandanna on your head and knuckle gloves on ur palms is unmatchable in any other automobile. Cold air whipping at your face as you gear up 1^st and the torque almost pops a wheelie, the air just increasing in its speed at you as you work up the gear box, the howl of the engine through the 3^rd and 4^th gears building into a scream where your heartbeat increases its credence along with the engine’s, and when the engine can scream no higher, a swift engage-disengage of the clutch with the intermittent gearing up, all in a fluid second, resulting in the fresh howl of the engine in top gear…….

Trust me when I say, it can’t get any better than this. Just can’t.

So you could imagine my childish excitement when I first realized that I’d be biking to work with a friend. Rumour had it that he was a maniac on the road. I remember being a sort of a maniac whenever I used to get a bike. We biking maniacs are the rare breed you see weaving in and out of traffic with surgical precision using instinct as our scalpel and adrenaline as the sedative. Yup, you need to be as calm as an unconscious body to pull of that kind of nonsense and live to tell the tale.

Although, there is one thing about us maniacs worth knowing. We acknowledge each other and respect each other. But we sure as hell don’t get on each other’s bikes without a pretty large chunk of doubt in their menace (unless you’ve rode many times with them, in which case). In any case, the first ride with a fellow maniac is filled with doubt.

Bike in question, Yamaha RX-135. The successor to Yamaha RX-100, which if you are a biker in India, would know that it is more than a bike, it is a Legend. Also the first bike I learnt to ride, popping a wheelie in my first go. The absolutely massive torque in the 2 stroke 98cc Engine was so insane that Indian government banned it. Probably coz they didn’t want the youth sacrificing themselves at the altar of speed, leaving the country in the hands of the TVS Scooty riders. Both these Yamahas were only superseded by the Yamaha RD350. **ALL BIKERS SALUTE**

In terms of pure bike royalty, it would be the RD350, RX100 and everything else comes next.

RX135 is a more tamer version of the RX100. So I didn’t give a second thought to the fact that I was sitting pillion with my friend, wearing the dorkiest helmet money could buy. I wont even put you through the agony of having to imagine what it felt like. All I can say is, I’d rather be shot dead at point blank range with a howitzer cannon than wear a helmet like that again. But it was Yamaha, and it demands you keep your helmetty pride aside.

He kicked, and the engine howled to life in the car-shed of my building, resonating and waking up every person in the ground and first floor, (For better waking effects, try a YEZDI ROADKING or a BULLET)

The air was chilly and wind was at about 14knots. And the highway was free. From Dubai to Sharjah, morning traffic is almost nil. From Sharjah to Dubai, its Hell. Imagine a 5 lane highway, about 10 kms long, taking you not less than an hour (in the least) to cover. Yeah, people spend 1/3^rd of their lives here with their butt on the carseat.

But my side of the highway was open, and the maniac at the handle went beserk.

4 lanes of highway, when compared to the dual carriageways of India, are huge. The wind whips around the light bike like it was made of cardboard, and holding it steady is more a challenge than it seems. I was getting suspicious that I just might be getting into a wee bit of trouble, i.e. my last bike ride.

The bike would scream itself hoarse on the top gear, and just when the road ahead cleared off with someone changing lanes, he’d gun the throttle higher, damn thing had torque even in top gear.

We did come to a traffic jam, its inevitable. But when we did, we just passed between the hundreds of cars and casually walked right up to the front of the signal. Its like being in a ticket line for a movie everyone wants to see, and you come from behind, walk through the queue with a sarcastic “Excuse me, hehe, pardon me, haha, Ooops sorry about ur side mirror, ROFLOL” (except of course you cant ROFLOL on a bike, but you sure can LOL)

And then you get to the front of the queue, and get your thing done, and no one can say or do a bleddy thing about it.

Heights of sadistic pleasure that….;)

The lights turned green, and he took off. My legs were like…. “LETS GOOOOO,” and the rest of my torso was like, “NAAH maybe next year….”

I kid you not, I felt quite a crazy pull in my upper thighs whenever my friend gunned the engine. He had told me he’d installed an RX100 Bore in the engine, I understood the implications of that now. To those who dont, imagine Pierce Brosnan with Sean Connery's heart....

I peeked over his shoulder to see the speedometer to gauge what speed we were going at, and I saw the speedometer needle broken and just spinning round and round and round.

Suspicion had turned into Conviction….I was dead meat.

A curve in the road approached, and at the speed we were going, we had to lean the bike over so as to keep the turning radius of the curve. And then my friend did the best thing a maniac could do, half way through the curve, he gunned the engine. Oooooh the centripetal pull of the bike in the cradle of the wind….It gives you a rush which makes you forget all your worries and think, you are indestructible to the problems of the world.

Who says bikers cannot be thinkers??

I didn’t have a full face helmet, so at that speed, the effect of wind to my skin was equivalent to a sandpaper on peanut butter. And my frame was bigger, much bigger than my friend, so every time he changed gears, the bike threatened to lift off into a wheelie, for which I had to consistently move myself around on the back seat so as to keep the centre or gravity pushed in the middle of the bike.

Painful journey, although fast.But worth every screaming groaning howling decibel of the 14 horses. I got off the bike with a big grin on my face, and arrived at office feeling fresher than ever in the last 6 years of my grown up life. :D

Bugzapping on a Holiday

2009-12-06T04:17:00.000-08:00

I’m pretty sure most of you have heard of parasites.

You probably know them by other names, i.e. Relatives, Exes, material friends and boring people.

There is however, another kind.

The one who suck your blood. I know all the above do it as well, but that is metaphorical. The real parasites suck your blood….for real.

Eg. Mosquitoes, Bedbugs, Leeches etc.

We know how to handle mosquitoes, being from india, we grew up with them. They are easy to handle. Simple coz they are pretty daft. We kill them all the time with Claps and slaps.

Bedbugs on the other hand (as my article will tell you) are not so easy.

They are slow and daft too, slower than mosquitoes. But, they breed like no tomorrow. You kill 1 bedbug, and a 100 take birth in his/her place.

Old people say, never smash a bedbug (Shucks !!) Throw it away in water. No idea why, so don’t ask. But we do it religiously; we pluck em off the walls with tapes n throw em alive. Yet, in my room, they thrived.
I don’t know if it was the ambience of lazy bachelorhood living that made them feel welcome, or simply that they wanted to irritate us. As you might have read, all bedbugs are named Martin.

“Hey martin, what do we do this weekend?”
“I dunno martin, lets go infest Faraz’s room”

“Good Idea, fat bugger has loads of blood in him, and its easy too, like filling a syringe from the ocean”
“Haha, very funny Martin”
“Thank you martin”

So they came to my room and nested all over the place. They favour cracks in the walls and those plastic wire holders.

Bedbugs are essentially Indian or Chinese,

They survive almost anywhere
They suck your blood
They all have one hobby, Procreation.

Essentially, my populace seemed to be Chinese, coz they were over-staying their welcome. Like, arrite guys come on in, have some blood, enjoy yourself, and GET LOST. They took the first few invitations punctually, and happily ignored the GET LOST.

I was stuck with little china. Filled with bedbugs.

And they happily moved on expanding their colonies.

Imperialistic Bedbugs.

So feudal Bedbugs were making a massive attack on my room. And well, I never really suffered from them as I took Gandhiji’s way. Absolute Non Co-operation. I refused to acknowledge that they were there. I saw them, and pretended not to. My roomies would run around with tapes to catch them, I slept soundly. Even when they bit me on rare occasions, I never got up in my sleep abusing the biting bedbug’s mother or sister.

All in all, I reallllllly pissed them off.

And well, my peers suffered their wrath.

So last Wednesday, on occasion of the National Day, we had a day off. So we decided to do a mass-execution on them bedbugs.

We received 2 canisters of Phyotoxins from the municipality.

Most of our roomies had ran off to India. Left back were me and Tabraiz.

Tabraiz was the Don who planned it all, I was the executioner elite :D

First step was to seal off any possible entrant point of fresh air. This was going to be a concentration camp for them. Ergo, the A/C ducts were sealed off with a big dustbin bag. And loads of tapes. Next was the huge window we had to the balcony. Sealed from every corner, also granting me a nice deep cut on my finger. Oh well, no war is won without the spillage of blood. (Thanks I inherit the melodrama gene from my Ammijaan)

So then, I had to mask myself, pulled out the canisters from the storage. And placed those tablets all over the room.
Boy do those things stink. I mean, 2 minutes of straight dosage is enough to knock you straight out. And I mean DEAD. And as I realized this, my mask started to slip. And the tablets got stuck in the canisters. Brilliant eh. The manufacturers of the toxins thought it was funny to make the openings of the canisters smaller than the tablets themselves. Sadistic morons.

So well, a step that was supposed to be done in 4 minutes flat took me almost 15. Which culminated in a ceremonial radioactive de-contamination shower. Sadly, we had only water to make do with.

We put a sign on the room door after taping it shut, so as to warn the neighbours and other visitors that this room shouldn’t be entered for the next 24 hours.

The rest of the 24 hours passed in a beach trip and staying over at a cousin’s place. Early next morning, we returned to a devastated room.

Dead bodies all over the place, a deathly stench of homicide (by pesticide) hung in the air. I saw small clusters of bugs lying dead across the amirah. Seems like they were heading back home from the pub when the deathly cloud engulfed them and sucked the life out of them.

Me and my roomies exchanged Hi-5s and set about airing the room out. Proceeding with 2 hours of tedious cleansing, beginning with removing the ash powder which was all that remained of the toxic tablets

Unlike most of my blogposts, This has no point to make in the end of it. Except maybe, If you’ve visited my room in the past 4 months or so, get a pest controller down to your home. Or pay my air fare and 3 Star accommodation and I’ll do it for ya.

All Said and done……This is just one of the ways to kill bedbugs. Become Inglorious Basterds.

The 8th Wonder of the World

2009-11-22T03:56:00.001-08:00

“

INDIA

IS MY COUNTRY AND ALL INDIANS ARE MY BROTHERS AND SISTERS”

How many mornings in your life have begun with this pledge? Innumerable right. And yet, it says something about our country that we seldom fail to understand.

It stands for the deep rooted conviction in the fact that all Indians are brothers and sisters, related by motherland. Since we have ONE mother (i.e. India), its safe to assume that the siblings share one father.

This is something which every Indian proves every day when he is on the road.

When he rides, or drives or walks……He is living proof that the road….is his BAAP KA MAAL, (Father’s Property)
Think about it, the road is India’s and we are its children. So the next time when you are riding haphazardly, and someone screams behind you, “TERE BAAP KA ROAD HAI KYA??” Proudly say, “YES !!!”

In fact, go ahead and say, “HAMARE BAAP KI HAI BHAIYA.”

I was in India this October. One of those holidays, I had rode all the way to Jayanagar from R.T.Nagar. Its like a 45 minute ride. On the way back, my brother accompanied me, on another vehicle. Honda Activa. 102 cc automatic step through scooterettes, and might I add, one of the finest on Indian roads.

He overtook me at one point, and I did the same after a while. Little did I know, this was as good a gesture for a challenge as slapping his face with a gauntlet. Hence began a road race through some of Bangalore’s most crowded roads. And boy was it a rush. In my prime I was uncatchable on Bangalore roads. Junior here seemed to carry the gene pretty well. I always considered myself an instinctive rider. He does too.

The first leg of the race was through the metro-work-in-snail-pace-progress filled roads ofBasavangudi. And well, he thumped his friend’s activa over humps of every size imaginable, while I glided his activa with care. I mean, the vehicle wasn’t even 6 months old. Babies’ necks don’t stand straight in 6 months, this was a machine. So I rode quick, but carefully.

I saw a grey figure whip past me, one hand on the accelerator, and the other showing the “L” Sign with the thumb and forefinger, raised up high.

Bed-wetting-teddy hugging Junior was taunting me.
The race continued on an even pace, until I got lost somewhere near Golf Course (curse those new deviations) But he knew the place like the back of his hand. And by the time I had got back on track, he was home sweet home. I could imagine him and his smug grin and the “L” sign on his hand. I gunned the vehicle to almost 70kmph on the last 2 stretches. But the damage was done. I lost to my toddler bro.

What amazed me was the subsequent observation I made of the Indian roads.

The world complains that it is haphazard and unruly and crowded. Arjun wrote on his blog about the many many hazards on Indian roads. And I agree with him. Our roads are crowded with 2 wheelers, 3 wheelers, 4 wheelers, 18 wheelers, 2 leggers, 4 leggers, and during Dasarah, 6leggers (Mahout and Elephant) The 2 wheelers can be further broken down to engine and non-engine. The non engine can be further broken down into pedalled, hand dragged, hand pushed,seater skate boards for the physically impaired, so on and so forth.

So if you are a foreigner reading this, this would be a right time to drop your jaw.

If you are an Indian reading this, lets see that proud smile.

Coz believe it or not, these unruly roads are our lifeline. And these unruly roads make us some of the best drivers in the world to be reckoned with. Roads laden with potholes which the whole pro-western crowd cries about are actually a boon. A road with potholes keeps all drivers on their tippy toes. Show me one Indian driver asleep on his wheel (unless he is drunk). You just wont find them. We are precision drivers who have to keep an eye on the road’s skin structure.Coz it changes more often than Paris Hilton’s boyfriends. The pothole you saw last weekend might just be filled up, and a new pothole would be available a few co-ordinates north-west to it. The topography keeps changing, and the Indian driver needs to be alert. I’ve seen cases of drivers asleep while at the wheel, over here in Dubai and heard fatal cases of sleepy drivers in Saudi and Qatar. And the roads are impeccable. Other than a few over-worked truck drivers inIndia, the common public using the roads are actually more alert than F1 Drivers. We are pretty much the top guns of the road, the world over.

When I joined a driving school in Bangalore. I was told to adhere to one rule only. “LOOK STRAIGHT”

The usage of the side mirrors is a joke in India. If you have them on your new Maruti today, they wont be there tomorrow. Believe you me, the best way to keep your side mirrors intact is to keep them folded, or keep them at home.

This one rule of LOOK STRAIGHT. The drivers who are in a hurry will look to their right and left and over take you anyway. But for safe driving, just look ahead. And you’re halfway there already.

Owing to the crowds on the road, The average speed an Indian rider can reach is about 50kmph. This is about the same speed as the Mongolian Wild Ass.

High speed accidents in Dubai cause this.

High speed accidents in India cause this.

You see, the Indian roads are pretty perfect as they are.

Dynamic potholes keep drivers guessing and thereby more alert
High speed accidents result in a broken headlight and black eyes
Cows are nature’s moving speed breakers
Girls are nature’s moving speed breakers –THE SEQUEL. (At the risk of sounding an MCP, they actually drive like the car/bike was a nuke submarine in a mine field, which is awesome. We need them like a nuclear fission needs slow and fast moving sub-atomic particles)
Crowd means less boredom, look around at the “speed breakers”
All are equal. Whether it’s a millionaire in his E Class Mercedes, or a bespectacled nerd on ascooty, the road doesn’t discriminate. Ask all the silver sedan owners who cover up the infinite scratch marks with stickers and their wives’ mascara.
You need papers to drive on those roads, they come in denomination of 10s, 20s, 50s and 100s with Gandhiji on them (Depending on the size of your vehicle)
Two words : DHOOM MACHALE

Print it in the Lonely Planet and all the tourism guide books of the world. Indian Roads are the 8th wonder of the world. Which operate so efficiently based on Trust, Instinct and sheer dumb Luck. If you doubt me, Youtube Indian Traffic / Indian roads. Enjoy ;)

All those who say that the current situation of roads in india is a cause of accidents, trust me, 80% of the developed nations in the world also have deaths on the roads. I’ve seen some of the best roads in Dubai and Riyadh. Yet ppl keep banging around here a lot. And there are no potholes even. They need to get some of those.

Goes to say that an accident isn’t necessarily the fault of the road. It’s the imbeciles who are given the driving permits. They just don’t have the necessary traffice sense. We Indians don’t have it as a sense, we have it as instinct.

Infallible.

Think about it, why change something that’s actually perfectly fine. So you waste a li’l time, big deal. Tokyo is one of the worlds most expensive cities, and the most congested. Same goes forLondon, Dubai and quite a few ‘Merican cities too. Consider your city in the elite group of such cities.

So relax with all the “BETTER OUR ROADS” grumpy nonsense. In fact, petition a few more potholes.

When I become President of India, I’ll order all cities to host a day every 6 months where the elephants will be taken onto the roads and allowed to play Hopscotch.

You meet the most awesome people in a Toyota

2009-11-19T09:32:00.001-08:00

Honda might kill me for taking their line and rehashing it, but then, I just couldn’t make do with a title carrying other words.

This is my consecutive third post regarding the people in the public transport industry, and I’m beginning to think, that I’m beginning to learn more from these people than a lot of wise cracking teachers I knew (not all, but most of them who haunted me through the schooling years).

Anyway, I left office in a real stressed out mood today. Morning began with a training and presentation session I had to give at a client’s office, which was a cleanly coordinated disaster, I mean, it was like I had planned for my train of thoughts to conveniently derail in front of the more experienced engineers. But well, I managed to hold off somehow.

Anyway, NOT the point. I rushed back to office and had quite a bit on my hands which I completed way after my closing time. Followed by frustration that A project I had worked on for a while with a lot of effort was seemingly gonna go down the drain ‘coz some other sonnofagun had outdone mine and my colleague’s awesome design. Although I am sure the other design is a dud.

I finished my prayers, after which I caught a bus from my office (first time, as I usually use the taxis there). The bus ride was okay, and Instead of catching another bus to Dubai, I got down at the square in Sharjah and jumped into the next taxi available. A Toyota Camry (Same as Khan Chacha)

At this point I questioned myself, was it worth paying 20 AED extra for the taxi, to save me the 30 minutes of walking. I was too tired to answer that question, so I rested.

The taxi driver in question was a burly man, again a Pakistani or Afghan, the kind who beats people to pulp when he’s bored, with bare hands. With a close cut beard. Nothing like Khan Chacha’s amiable face. This guy had a rougher exterior. He looked like those Pathan bakers who pull out scalding hot bread from the tandoors, with bare hands.

I’ve this thing, I sit in the rear seat of the taxi, not because I like having the feel of being driven around, but its because I have the whole seat to laze up in. I rest my head on the C pillar and doze off listening to, in today’s case, Mohammad Rafi.

The taxi caught up in the middle of a road, traffic jams for the simple reason that it was the weekend. I closed my eyes, and after a while, I had the feel that our car was still standing still. What the heck, I continued listening to Rafi saab crooning.

The nagging feeling didn’t leave me, that we were standing still for a while longer than necessary. I opened my eyes a peep, and I see Tandoor Khan half on his seat and half hanging out of his door.

Goes without saying that my eyes peep popped open. I was thinking, “HUHHHH?????”

I must tell you that this was one of the main roads of Sharjah. Where crossing the road is nigh impossible. This guy was hanging out of his door, touching the road. My brain was thinking, “DUDE, you dropped a quarter??? Here have mine, Lets just go before a trailer uses us for a tire wall.”

But nooo, he continued reaching down for the quarter as cars whizzed past him. I was too shocked to even ask him what he was doing. And just as I am thinking, “GODDAMN QUARTER GET IN HIS HAND.” He goes from Doing the unthinkable to doing the abso-frikkin-lutely Stupid. He reaches back to his belt clip, clicks it open and jumps out of the driver seat to go after the quarter.

Needless to say, I am smashed with the realization that I am sitting in a driverless car, without the handbrake up, in the middle of a busy road on the weekend (where motorists use the freeway as a speedway). I might as well have started saying my prayers, when I saw him pick up the quarter and stand up.

One second I’m like, “PHEW, FINALLY GOT HIS QUARTER”

And then he runs, across the front of the car and towards the shops lining the main road.

And I go, “I AM A SITTING DUCK IN WABBIT SEASON !!!”

He runs to the place between two parked cars and bends down and throws the quarter on the ground and runs back towards the car. My mind thinks, “HOLY CRAP IT WASN’T A QUARTER IT WAS A PIECE OF TISSUE OR SOME GARBAGE HE WAS CLEANING OFF THE ROAD, followed by HUHHHHHH?????”

My eyes remain fixed to the ground where he threw whatever he did. As he ran back to the car, My eyes opened as wide as possible to see a little greyish thing. The thing opened its wings and staggered towards the pavement.

My jaw dropped, and immediately closed in a big grin as realization struck home. Tandoor Khan had stopped in the middle of the road, risking a minimum fine of AED 500 (more than a day’s target), not to mention the wrath of the police out there who are insufferable, to save a dis-oriented pigeon who wanted to commit suicide by jumping in the middle of a busy road.

My mind raced back to the hundreds of pigeons, dogs, cats and other animals who’ve been mercilessly run over by cars and bikes here and in India. And realized I was sitting with a rare breed of road users.

Tandoor sat back in his seat, gave a last glance to the bird to make sure it was headed back to the pavement and not towards the road again, and gunned the car down the road in case the police were following. I gaped at him in awe, as he resumed his burly manner, listening to the urdu news crackling through the AM frequency.

I closed my eyes with a grin and rested on the door cushion, thinking, This guy made my day, so did that suicidal pigeon. What are the odds ?!?!

I opened my eyes a peek to get glance at him, and saw him look at me, sprawled on his backseat with my head on the window sill, in the rearview mirror. I closed my eyes and rested with Rafi saab crooning “Aaya re khilone wala” and I heard the soft click of the doors being locked. And the grin widened.

In case in my sleepy stupor, I happen to pull the door handle, I might fall off right? He made sure I didn’t.

This blog is named after a bird I adore.

Tandoor Khan saved 2 pigeons. One from death and One from absolute irritation at the whole world and possible falling out of a car.

2 Birds with 1 Stone. Couldn’t have been more apt.

Narated By Abu Huraira: Allah's Apostle said, "While a man was walking on a road. he became very thirsty. Then he came across a well, got down into it, drank (of its water) and then came out. Meanwhile he saw a dog panting and licking mud because of excessive thirst. The man said to himself "This dog is suffering from the same state of thirst as I did." So he went down the well (again) and filled his shoe (with water) and held it in his mouth and watered the dog. Allah thanked him for that deed and forgave him." The people asked, "O Allah's Apostle! Is there a reward for us in serving the animals?" He said, "(Yes) There is a reward for serving any animate (living being)." – [Bukhari Vol. 8, Book 73, #38] & [Muslim Book 26, Chapter 39, # 5577]

P.S.

I’d like you, dear reader, to try and tell me what can you guess about this man from reading this episode.

Because I have made an inference. I just want to check if I am right.

P.P.S.

I questioned myself if it was worth it. Needless to say, every penny paid :D

Epilogue to "Khan Chacha"

2009-11-12T03:30:00.001-08:00

Epilogue

In hindsight, Encounter with Khan Chacha and Satan clearly marked out the stark differences between that generation and outs.

Them:
1. Passionate about whatever they do. Giving 100% not because they can, but because that’s the only way to do stuff.

2. Planning in advance, with a contingency plan.

3. One word, Experience. Being a driver, chacha knew about the problems a car would face.

4. The world survives on helping each other.

5. Style and Pure Class. He would gun the car on stretches of road where it was needed, and was very careful about his positioning in the lanes.

6. Still make sacrifices for the younger generation.

7. Patient.

8. Striving to better self. Chacha’s target was 300 AED a day. He did 400 as his basic target

Us:
1. Selective Passion, depending on whether we want to do it, or because we have to.

2. Too much in the speed lane to stop and plan.

3. Yet to learn the importance of knowing the intricate details about what matters most to us. 8 out of 10 among us cant differentiate between a sound made by a loose bearing and Himesh Reshammiya bellowing through our stereos.

4. Help yourself.

5. Had the speed of a cheetah, and the manoeuvrability of a penguin.

6. Wouldn’t sacrifice our afternoon siesta for the sake of even Armageddon.

7. Always bladder filled.

8. **SNORE**

Khan Chacha

2009-11-12T03:07:00.000-08:00

Wisdom is an ability in which you learn most profound things, from the least expected sources.

To elucidate, knowledge is thrown at us from all possible directions, some useful, some crap. Its upto us to pick them up and process them. Specially at times when we don’t want to be educated.

I wouldn’t say I am a wise person, but I did come across one. Who was kind enough to share it with me. Which led me to think, “I am such a numbskull !!!”

He’s a Taxi Driver.

Tuesday evening I got dropped off at a signal by my friend, from where I jumped into the nearest taxi available. I was greeted by this man who is old enough to be my grandfather.

He was fairly wheat skinned, possibly an Afghan or Pakistani, white hair crowned with a black prayer cap. But his best feature was the snow white beard framing his face in the most regal manner. The kind of royalty on his face that makes you immediately respect him. And the kind of a big broad shouldered frame which made you want to cuddle in his arms and crib about everything in the world. Okay I’ll get out of my 5 year old self.

I was having a rough week as I had had two major brawls with my close friends. For trying to be honest about something. This apart from other issues haunting me.

Me : Assalam Alaikum Khan Saab, Bur Dubai chale

(Peace be on you Mr. Khan, to Bur Dubai please)

Taxi Chacha : Walaikum as salaam, Main to nahi chalunga, par doosra driver bhej dunga aapke saath. Sach baat batau to poora din zaleel hua hu, abhi abhi workshop se nikla hu aur meri halat bohat kharab hai.

(And Peace be on you as well. Well, I wont be able to take you, but I will have another driver drop you, In all honesty, I have had an insulting day and returned from the workshop just now, I am very tired)

I asked if I should get down, and if he wanted to go home and rest. He said he would go home anyway, but would leave me with his partner driver to drop me to my home.

For those who don’t know, In UAE, every taxi has 2 drivers. One for the daytime, and his partner for the night. This way, taxi operates 24x7, and drivers get to decide with their partner which shift goes to whom.

There on ensued a conversation which made me realize some simple truths I’d conveniently chosen to forget in my week long cribbing mode.

Apparently, Chacha’s driving partner was a younger man, a newbie in the taxi world. I don’t know his name either, but I will use the name chacha gave him……Satan.

Apparently Satan was the reason why Chacha had had a very very bad day at work (sounds familiar doesn’t it). So Chacha had told satan for quite a while to get the car serviced, seems some bearings had come off, and satan kept procrastinating saying, “karenge karenge”. Which means, “I’ll do it, I’ll do it.” Which in turn means, “HAAAH In your dreams!!!!”

Eventually, Chacha let the car in the workshop on Monday evening, and early morning on Tuesday, went to the workshop to get it, which was again delayed for almost half a day…or maybe 3/4ths of his shift. No surprise that the workshop will filled with Satan’s minions. So After a lot of pushing and pulling at that front, he got the car, and by the time he was on the road, he had managed to do just 1/3^rd of his daily target. Which meant his monthly target percentage would come down. Which meant he would get lesser salary this month. All because Satan was too lazy.

Chacha went on to tell me how satan had once jumped a red light, got caught by a policeman, and had no knowledge of Arabic or English. The smart cop told him, “Accept either that you jumped the signal, or you were speeding and couldn’t stop on time.”

Satan weighed his options and thought, “Haah, a light should be a lesser punishment than the speeding, speeding could have killed”. And he pleaded guilty for Red Light Jumping.

Cop went, “HAAH, Sucker!!!”

All in all, He was slammed with a fine of 30,000 AED. Which amounts to about 3.9 Lakh Indian Rupees. Obviously, Satan came crying to chacha for help.

And Chacha told him a loophole through which his fine could be waived. Chacha’s condition was simple, “DO NOT TAKE MY NAME.”

As you might have guessed, He got the partial waiver, AND he took Chacha’s name.

Another story about how the front tyre had gone bald and Satan was too afraid to go to the depot to get a change. He sent Chacha instead, saying that “I have a red mark in my file, they will fine me for the bald tyre and lack of Stepney”

Chacha promptly went and got it done, and when the question came about who was responsible, the authorities knew his partner was the clumsy oaf. Chacha had a clear record.Because of this, Chacha wasnt being assigned a new taxi either. As his partner had the Accuracy of a pelican.

I told Chacha to stop helping him.

Chacha let out a sigh and told me, “I don’t bother much now. My elders used to tell a story of a traveller who saw a scorpion sinking in a bucket of water. The scorpion struggled to get out, and the traveller put his hand in, and took the scorpion out, which conveniently stung him. The man dropped it back. And people asked him, “Why did you put your hand, you know it’s a scorpion and it will sting.” And the traveller replied, “It is my habit, I cant let him drown, and he stung me according to his own habit.”

Just like that traveller, I cannot change this guy, but if he is in trouble. I cant stop myself from helping.”

And then he pointed his forefinger to the sky and said the magic words. “I do it in the name of Allah. He knows my deeds and my intentions. And those who do it for him, they leave it to him with faith."

Here was a personification of the phrase, “Neki kar aur dariya me daal” (Perform Good deeds and throw them in the ocean)

A big grin crossed my face and I opened my eyes to this age old lesson.

What made the maximum impact was, that even after all this crazy day antics he had been through, his shoulders were still firm, his neck was held upright, he had the same voice which makes you call out to your enemies and say, “Touch me, my grandpa will tear your limbs with his bare hands.” And his demeanour was nothing but Energetic.

I was Stunned. This man was fighting to survive and keep bettering himself, at an age when he should be snoring on porch chairs with a cup of tea resting by him alongside open books written by dead poets. And he was full of life at it. Not a hint of complain.

I felt like saluting him, and slapping myself. I couldn’t help but deciding that this is how I am gonna live my life.

Journey was coming to an end, he slowed down searching for Satan to take over.

Now I knew for sure this wasn’t the same satan who possesses little children and makes them talk in weird voices. But when I saw him, All I could think of was, “You serious?? This guy?? He isn’t even capable of possessing his own undergarments.”

He turned around and gave me a grin like he was happy to be alive. And then he drove like he wanted to die.

P.s. Chacha is going to get a new partner, an old timer like himself, from his own village back home. And both the old timers are eager to get started. And they will be getting a brand new car too :D

Thank you for being Happy

2009-10-25T02:27:00.001-07:00

When you step out of K.K. Manzil at #3333, Anegundi Road, Mysore, the road stretches from the seemingly quiet Eidgah area to your left into the bustling old city market area joining Sayyaji Rao Road, right into the middle of a speeding life where standing still is punishable by death. And this transitory road passes right by my doorstep. Facing me on the threshold of my home is another house which is almost half the age of my century old manor, and is known through the ages by a catchy name. Sher Ka Bungla (The Lion’s Bungalow).The reason for this name is the relaxing lions built on the corners of all the bungalow’s roof.

Towards the left of the Lion’s bungalow, one can always find a few rickshaws waiting.

How many times I have travelled to school or college using these rickshaws, I couldn’t count. There were 3 auto drivers I remember specifically. An elderly man named Sardar Bhai, who drove an old front engine spluttering vehicle. Maula Bhai, who was a maverick among the drivers, and the third one whose name I never asked, but he always smiles when he sees us, so we’ll call him Hasmukh Bhai (spare the eggs).

This time when I went, his smile was as prominent as ever. He had been sitting in the nearby tea shop, talking to the passers by and the tea shack frequenters. He saw me and walked with a quick step to his vehicle. Greetings were exchanged and he asked me how I was, where I was coming from, and where I was going to. He made a passing comment how I didn’t see him the last time I passed by from that place.

I asked him how he was doing. As we ask almost everyone. He replied with a reply he probably gave everyone, but the tone was as though it really mattered to him that I asked.

He asked me about my life in Dubai, and my job. And that is where I started feeling queasy. I tried changing the topic from MY life to the happenings around my old area. I asked him how was Sardar Bhai. I could sense his smile go quiet, he turned around with a grave look and whispered that Sardar bhai had passed away almost a year ago. Then he turned back around to keep his eyes on the road. And he proceeded to tell me that from all the people I knew, He was the only one still about. I didn’t dare to ask him what he exactly meant. He figured my queasiness and changed the topic, He told me about how people who used to give them new clothes (read used clothes) during festival time, forgot him and his friend this time around. This was followed by small talk. But my brain was already in hyperspace. Far far away from the snaky ride up the DhobiGhat area, my mind was free running through the past.

These men, seemingly unimportant as they may seem, at one point of time, played a very important role in my life. They were, metaphorically speaking, the men who gave me piggy back rides in their rickshaws to and fro the places I had to go. Agreed that they charged me, but what separates this relationship from a pure business transaction, is that even today, after almost 6 years, they still care to ask me where I am, and smile when they know that I have progressed from a uniform clad school boy to a decently dressed young man. In that smile, they give you the warm feeling that even though life for them is at its saturation point, that they have done all they could and this is a last plateau of their career graph, they still are very happy to see that your graph is snaking upwards.

My own uncles probably wouldn’t grin as much as Hasmukh Bhai did.

Needless to say, guilt hit me like a bolt out of the blue. I felt guilty at how I had used them. They had given me a step up, and not only had I taken their hands, I’d taken a step on their shoulder, paid them for it, and moved on. And never as much as thanked them.

That’s right, it all comes down to a little feeling of gratitude I never had for them, or showed them, which made me feel like a miserable pathetic materialistic human that I am.

How much would a rickshaw driver earn?? How much property would he leave for his children? You can answer that question as well as anyone. We stand on the threshold with potentially the whole world before us, our entire lives waiting to be “cashed” in. And these men are at the end of that road, without having made any contribution to their lives.

Yet, they made a contribution to my life. And the best part, they never rubbed it in, or felt jealous that I had moved on, while they remained pinned to their fate in time.
This made them much better human beings. Humanity is derived from being human. And if smiling at other people’s fortunes isn’t humanity, I don’t know what is.

I said a silent prayer for Sardar Bhai’s soul. And an apology, that I never really thanked him for being happy for me. How he passed away, how many people attended his funeral, what his family went through, I may never know. What I will know is this, that he left a mark on my heart. And I know that I am not the only one.

When someone wins a major award, they stand up and thank the Almighty, their parents, their friends and family members, their pets and lovers (I’m making no connection trust me).
But if we all looked into our lives, we all have a Sardar Bhai and a Hasmukh Bhai who’ve made maybe a miniscule, but a pivotal contribution to our lives.

This is a big thank you from a lousy human, who might never have the ability to undo this aspect of his past, to all the people who made a contribution to me.

This is to all the auto drivers, Sardar bhai, Hasmukh Bhai, Maula Bhai and Saleem bhai (My school automan). To all the baker men who gave fresh hot piping biscuits on cold nights and cold drinks on warm ones. To all the provision stores guys who were a source of love in form of stickers and teasing jokes amongst the boring days. To all the maintenance and non-teaching staff in schools and colleges whose eyes pop wide when they see me so grown up (physically atleast). To Ibrahim bhai at the canteen, with his sons, To Babu bhai at the photocopy & tea shop and Chandru at the STD Booth, to the bus drivers in my old school, and To the didi who cleaned my messy room and helped me tidy up my stuff, I love you all, and sorry I am so late in realization.

Thank you for making me the person I am, and the person I will be.

May Allah reward you for your deeds, forgive your sins, bless you in this life and the next.

Take a Hike !!!!

2009-10-04T04:57:00.000-07:00

Each one of us, at some point of time or the other, emulate someone famous.

This is the story of me emulating Robert Freaking Frost (excuse the tone)

I for one do not hate the guy, I mean, he was nice. My legs on the other hand, beg to differ.

Thursday 1st October 2009.

I was to go home from office, and I was stone broke. Stoopid bank didnt want to transfer my money, knowing that I'd be waiting for it. Oh well, shit happens right? So what do I do...easy, I have awesome roommates who are like brothers to me, so I can hail a taxi and allow them to pick up the tab and score brownie points with the guy upstairs.

I could choose a "route less traveled by."

Robbie Frost wouldnt have written that poem if he hadn't taken the Other route. And I wouldnt be writing this if I hadn't either.

I chose the latter too. To Walk ! From work to home, or atleast to a point where I could say to myself WOW !!!

For those who do not know, I work within the trade boundaries of the Sharjah Airport International Freezone. Which is in one corner of this meteorological hell, and I live in Dubai, the other corner. From my office to Dubai border, its a distance of roughly 8-9 kms if I choose the highway, which is frequented by cars whose drivers have to take a leak, ergo rushing at atleast a nominal speed of 120kmph. Or take the route into the city and then onwards to Dubai, slightly longer, but a piece of cake (HA !!) And yet again I choose to be Frosty.

I take off from my office at 5.30 pm. And as soon as I step outside the gates, I realize that i've been pretty much on a liquid diet the whole busy day. Wicked !! Here is what the route looks like when you step outside the freezone authority

That horizon is about 2 kms away. And continues onwards to exit onto the Emirates Highway bridge which will take me straight into Dubai. An "Easy Peasy" Grin crosses my face.. The moment I stepped onto the pavement of this road, I was shaken awake from the grin with a car whooshing by at the speed of a dog from a neutering doctor.

The walk to the Bridge exit took abt 30 mins. Good speed I thought. I stopped on the bridge for a bit of a lookie at the sunset. And that is when it dawned on me, what I was doing was for a reason. A lesson by the Boss upstairs. You see, the week was going pretty rough. And I was in for a rough weekend too. The sunset always fills me with a calm (yeah I know everyone says that) and I looked into the dusk thinking of the simple rule which governed time. Sunrise n Sunset. So it had set, no one in the world could do anything about it. But it will rise again, and yet, no smartass in the world can do anything about it.
In that moment I realized, No one can control my bad time into lasting forever. And no one can prevent the good days from dawning even if he is named George Bumbling Bush. Thats simple philosophy, yet, the effect it fills you with, i.e. a HOPE FILLED SMILE. That is pretty powerful.

I took a prayer break and gulped down liters and liters of cool water from the Mosque taps. A weird thought came to my mind, about the bladder being overloaded. A phonecall from my brother distracted that.

The walk continued, pretty much uneventful until I reached a bridge called National Paints Bridge. I stood there and watched the hundreds of labourers and bachelors milling around the shops. Most just sitting by on the pavement in the humid evening (although it was a cool atmosphere, within the industrial region, humidity is always there) For a moment i was shaken by the living conditions which were so crowded. And I saw them laughing and doing their weekend chores with casual carelessness.

A line spoken by someone wise came to mind, everyone is fighting their own battles, in their own ways, in their own worlds.Also a line from the Quran which says that No soul is burdened beyond its capacity to bear, yet no one is free from tests and problems to solve.

Shitty human tendency,that we tend to feel better when we hear that we're not the only ones having Gigantic Crap in our lives. Again, another smile, this time, one placing a reassuring arm around my shoulder saying I wasnt alone.

I continued at the same speed for another hour or so, occasionally stopping by under bridges to watch the cars zoom by. I was probably passed by a few thousand cars every hour. Trust me, heavy rush on weekend evenings. A particular car caught my eye, or rather my ear. A Red Toyota Supra with a specially loud silencer (oxymoronic on purpose)

I crossed the Sharjah-Dubai border and I could choose to stop. Yet somehow, as I kept pondering to stop or not, I passed on and on along the Dubai Highway. I dint feel like stopping. The route was getting a bit tougher as I had to walk across the sloping banks of the highway. Yet a voice inside me kept asking a question, How far would my fitness regimen help me walk. And to get that answer I kept walking and walking, leaving exit after exit into the city.Further along the highway I walked. A particular song played on the mp3 player. Reminding me of a special buddy of mine who always has been encouraging me saying that I had more in me than I knew, that I was stronger than I ever realized. A grin widened, the wet Tshirt gave a cool hug and I kept walking.

Came to a point where I saw this particular view. Some worker's expression of love. And the grin turned into a laugh in the middle of the highway. Have a look

In the middle of an unforgiving desert, this sight is awesome to say the least.

My roommates started calling and screaming at me for my stupidity. feeling guilty that they didnt come 2 pick me up. I told them the straight truth, that I did what I did not to prove anything to them. Or make them feel guilty. But to see if I could do it.

5 Hours after the start of the walk (with an hour or 45 mins of break) and 17 Kms of walking, the feel good factor was at its peak. And then I realized I had done it all with a 6-7 kg Backpack on my shoulders. It was like Mr. Hilary stood on everest and Gave a little jump, just to prove that He had been higher than Mount Everest too.

Oh, btw, the 4 hours of walk (give or take a few mins) did teach me a lot of stuff.

1. Begin with the end in mind. (I had the image of a cool shower and angry roomies pictured in the mind, their faces)

2. Sunsets are ALWAYS followed by Sunrises. Hope never gives up on you, choice is yours if You wish to give up on it or not.

3. Everyone has battles. You arent alone in cursing the elements

4. Some battles are tougher than you could dream of.

5. Always take breaks in life, if you wear urself out, you will cover lesser distance in the longer run. Chill out, live longer.

6. Always have friends who will scream and kick you (Yup, my roommates kicked me right after they saw me, AFTER THE 17 KM WALK, THEY KICKED MY &%*$*"("$ LEGS) --- Shows that they care

7. Marathon runners never stop for loo breaks coz they sweat it out.

And the most important lesson

8. Never take such long walks In a Jeans !!!!!!!!

P.s.

This has opened a bit of wisdom in my crazy brain.
Whenever in life you feel there are insurmountable obstacles,here's a simple advice

Take a Walk.

The road never ends ;-)

Phir Bhi Dil Hai Hindustani

2009-08-30T11:59:00.001-07:00

Disclaimer: I am not being racist, Just a tad too factual.

So I land in Munich airport once again. Always a nice feeling to drop down below the clouds and see a carpet of different shades of green lain out to welcome your 350+ tonne behemoth. Not to mention the peaceful countryside lined with sloping roofs and a feeling of being on a vacation from the first sight.

And then you land at the airport, and the feeling is thrown into a nuclear reactor.

Airport authorities of the world these days are in a bad mood, between terrorists and carrier diseases, they’ve their work cut out in a real sad manner.

Germans are pretty much right up there in the Bored and Silly mood list. The guy who stamps my passport gave me a glance and stamped my passport. Now this is not very usual, I sport a beard, and most of the times I get the look of suspicion wherever I walk. This guy didn’t give me a second look, I was perturbed. Ah well, the feeling of meeting an old friend didn’t let me give it a second thought, and as I walked out, a cute lady officer smiled at me, I smiled back, and she said, “Excuse me sir, Customs Check.”

MENTAL NOTE: Never smile at ladies in uniforms. Never even Look if you can help it !!!

Nevertheless, like I said, meeting and old friend was worth all this.

But the next few days I spent there in Germany, gave me a pretty clear idea of the people.

Earlier, I didn’t know what they spoke (In my last trip I mean) So I thought they were an okay bunch, just a tad cold.

This time, I caught quite a few mannerisms of speech which went out to say, Dude they aren’t cold, they’re frikking 40 Below Zero.

I don’t know what it is, but Germans get a lot of business from foreigners, who wish to escape a blistering 45C desert heat for the cool shades of Bavaria. Yet, when they look at foreigners, its with a look of contempt. Trust me, I’ve got that look from many many old people there. Its not a good look I’ll tell you that.

Here’s an instance to elucidate. I was sitting in front of the townhouse and sketching the entrance. Medieval architecture always fascinates me a great deal. The moment I started sketching, an old lady (the age of my grandma in Bangalore) walks by in a blue ensemble holding grocery bags and looks at me as if I just dropped a load of horse dung on the road. And she mutters something. I beg her pardon, and she huffs and leaves. What do I care, she’s Nani’s age. What got my noodle was, she passed by me atleast 3 times with the same look, grumbling something. Now here is a lady I’ve never seen before, and never will probably, and in the few minutes that she saw me, she made me feel guilty.

I Love my motherland, The only problem is, when we have foreigners, we are like kids on Birthday mornings who cant wait to show off their gifts to anyone willing to look.

I understand Europeans being proud of their pristine nations, but seriously, you need to go back to the first rule of Kindergarten…Share !!!

Here’s another event that happened and it got my noggin as well. After a long day of walking around, I was on my way to the hotel with my friend. He suggested that we take a Pizza for dinner. I agreed and we stopped by a place nearby our hotel. For some reason we couldn’t fathom, the owner had named it KRUELLA’S PIZZA. For the uninitiated, Kruella De Vill was the evil lady who wants to skin the 101 Dalmations for her fur coats.

We walk in and try to order a pizza. The chubby german lady took our order and we sat down to wait. I looked around the interior and suddenly over the door of the kitchen, I noticed a thread binding a few green chillies and a lemon. I was stunned. Trust me, it’s a feeling of absolute unparalleled joy in a foreign land when you see something familiar. I pointed it out to my tired friend and he was pleasantly surprised. We loudly discussed the possibility of an Indian head cook or something. We got the feeling of being stared at, and we looked over the counter to see a pair of familiar eyes gazing at us with a forlorn look. “Aap log Hindustani hain??” (“Are you people Indian??”)

The grin that crosses your face at that line, Amazing !!

We both replied in the affirmative. And Our host, we learnt was an immigrant from Punjab who had spent around 30 Years in Germany. Words fall short to describe the feeling of conversing in Hindi with someone in a place you least expect. He asked me about my job, Dubai and how things are. I was only too glad to yak my lungs out with him. He offered us Beer, which we politely refused. And when the Pizza came, we stood up to pay and leave, And he refused to take money from us. Stunned again. We were speechless and mumbled incomprehensible words of refusal at his Kindness. He wouldn’t budge. Neither could we.

He told us, “Its not everyday I get an Indian guest here. Please, its on me.”

We insisted and he consented to taking a Euro or Two (although the Pizza costed more than that). We walked out of the restaurant with a dazed look in our eyes.

I turned to my friend and said, “That right there is the heart of a Hindustani” My friend silently agreed. He told me how his grandmother had taught never to take anything free if you are not able to return it. I remember same virtues.

Yet, that was the most amazing Pizza I’d had in a long long time. I remember the smiles of the Indian crew in the restaurant, who came one by one to peek at us. It never fails to make me smile. The Pizza, an Italian invention, made in German ovens, reeked with fragrance of the heart of an Indian hospitality which left a deep mark on my memory of the place.

Europeans will smile at you, they will serve you as their duty is. But never once do you get that glowing warm feeling that you get in a desi smile. Maybe they get it amongst themselves. Maybe not. When I see Germany in these parts of the world, they don’t care much about foreigners, and to a large extent, don’t care much about people from back home either, (You may beg to differ but I have seen a few examples of this). They are actually a nice bunch to be with.

Goes to show that A German is a German only in Germany. But an Indian is an Indian all over the world.

Proponents of Indian History say that Indians are a hospitable race who love to love others, which is one of the reasons why We never conquered any other country.

I beg to differ. The way I see it, We’re pretty much conquering the World. And continue to do so everyday, in simple ways like the Pizzaman from Sadda Punjab.....

Conversing with a Photograph

2009-07-14T05:58:00.000-07:00

Here is a little story, heed as I tell
Beyond the majestic guardian Alps’ Bell
Is a place known by few, yet I know too well
As here does a little angel dwell

She’s made of chocolate, and sweetness abound
She talks like a child, but with maturity around
Like melting butter from a buttery mound
She’s a treasure out here, waiting to be found

Her laughter echoes with childish glee
Like an albatross she soars, high and free
Her smile makes you forget what you ought to be
She’s just the perfect gift god sent to me

As playful as a butterfly, she’s a blessing to all
If you want to jump, she’ll be there to break ur fall
They say the world is big, but I feel its too small
To hold her big heart’s love, yes, its too small

Forsooth they don’t make friends like her
She’s as honest as the softness on a bunny’s fur
She’s a voice of warmth, like a kitten’s purr
In the world of friendship, she’s frankincense and myrrh

Welcome To Anarchy !!! RIP Sister Marwa

2009-07-09T02:12:00.001-07:00

I am Angry.

Fire and Brimstone to be exact.

Today morning started off with a casual glance at the papers, and the top left headline carried a picture of a lady in a headscarf accompanied by the words, “EUROPE ‘HIDES’ HIJAB MURDER”. Considering the whole controversy surrounding Mr. Sarkozy in the past weeks, this was enough to set my blood plasma at a boiling point.

Firstly, Sarkozy’s remarks towards the Hijab being a “Sign of debasement/cut off from society/a life for women without identity” are open proof of his illiteracy of the term Hijab and the details into WHY Islam asks for it.

To cite a simple and oft cited example, place the Hijab alongside a catholic nun’s habit.

How many Sarkozy’s have gone forward and looked the Pope in the eye and said, “Mr. Pope, your nuns’ dresses are a symbol of denouncement to their gender, they live a life without identity and without social interaction like our “free” women in France.

Many would say, Hey a Woman who takes a nun’s vows does so of her own free will. Well helloooo, There are a majority of the women out there who don the hijab of their own free will as they know what their religion requires of them.

If you say that NO, the muslim women are FORCED into hijab, well ever considered the fact that maybe, Just maybe even the nuns are forced into a life of celibacy and dedication to the church??

It swings both ways people. There are differences between muslims regarding the importance of covering the face. But 99% of the sunni scholars accept the fact that wearing a headscarf is an uncontested issue. Shias are more strict with regards to hijab.

Anyway, the wearing of the scarf is not the issue here, the issue is Identity. Mr. Sarkozy says that the woman behind the veil lacks identity, FYI Mr. Sarkozy, A woman in hijab is distinctly identifiable as a Muslim lady. So that gives her an identity. She chooses to wear the Hijab as she understands who she is.

And please do not go on about how the civilized world has given the Woman a distinctive position in society.

Islam gave the rights to vote and rights for work and inheritance to women a long time before the western world woke to this. You still contest the rules because you fail to understand the wisdom behind which they are placed.

Come to the freedom of expression bit, so a woman can go dressed as she wills, even next to naked on the ramp walks of Paris, but not in something she chooses in accordance with her religion?? Excuse me for asking, wasn’t your country on the forefront of the cries for Freedom of Expression when the Muslim world was up against the Danish cartoons??

And now this, the murder of Mrs. Marwa Al Sherbani. In the very “Temple” of neo civilized nations which announces their superiority with laws and justice. A man has the time and ability to stab a woman in the court of law more than 18 times and the police shoot the husband who runs to save her. This is your civilization??

Forgive me, but I belong to a nation which is not very advanced in its military and police, But aren’t you Europeans warriors since forever?? How difficult was it for a courtroom full of policemen to identify the man with the knife??

This legal system, which gives you immense pride, crumbled to bits in these few moments of anarchy. And it worsened when the governments chose to remain silent about this failure. I applaud the entire legal system of not only the country in question, but also the whole Democratic European world which has chosen to remain silent on the Broad daylight murder of Sister Marwa, or as she will henceforth be known, the Hijab Martyr.

I will not be surprised if the murderer is let off with a fine of a few thousand euros. I mean, even if he pays this lady’s weight in gold, her 3 year old son Mustafa will live through his life with one of his earliest memories being his mother being stabbed in a courtroom full of civilized people, and collapsing into a faded oblivion.

Rest In Peace Sister Marwa, May Allah bless you with Jannah

9:30 pm

2009-06-27T10:41:00.000-07:00

"Another day has gone

I'm still all alone
How could this be
You're not here with me
You never said goodbye
Someone tell me why
Did you have to go
And leave my world so cold"

- Micheal Jackson "You are not alone"

He sat by the candle in the room and opened the letter. The open window let in cool air from the nearby lake and ruffled his hair across his face, pushing them aside, he proceeded to read his best friend's letter.

Sometimes I think to myself, who am I? whenever I ask myself that question, Its probably a sign that I have spent a considerable amount of time alone and silent. And that some things have happened which make me go into one of those pensive moods that I have come to loathe. The moments where I write to TRY to express my feelings. But Never get them across. Maybe its because I have never turned my heart inside out to anyone, save maybe one or two people.

When I feel that amount of lonliness, the first instinct inside me makes me want to run to someone I could hug and cry. And 99 times out of 100, I am in no position to run, financially or geographically or maybe just coz there is no one to run to. When I say that, it means I cant run to anyone who could listen to what I have to say.

In my entire life, people have meant the world to me. So much so that I have loved each more than the previous. I heard a line in a movie once, which stuck with me, it went , "Give so much love, that it never falls short...." to which the protagonist adds, "But it always falls short."

At the time I heard it, it was just another moronical filmy line. But as I went through life, I for one felt that line embodies a lot of spirit and truth in my state of being. Maybe its just the way I am made, or rather, the way I have made myself.

Some people say I am sensitive, some say I am mad. I say I am both. I guess it just happens that I love people so much that I make myself an integral part of their lives. It goes worse when they like me back. This is where it goes wrong, at this juncture, I expect the people to make me an integral part of THEIR life. Well its better now actually, I dont go nuts totally, earlier, if someone I loved even a little lied to me, even if it was to protect me, I would go beserk. Now I dont, Now i just give it time. And I feel at times it doesnt work. So even though I still love them, and they love me, after a stage, I break. Its become so much that it has formed a forever repeating cycle with me. I thought I came to terms with it when I got life's biggest shocker. But i guess its one of those things you never get used to, no matter how hard you try.

I asked my friend why it is that I go down the throes of disappointment in such scenarios. He said that it is because I am meant to love and not to be loved. And if i looked at life that way, it would be much simpler and much more nicer to deal with. There comes a time when you look deep inside your life and you feel that its a life you dont want to live. You analyze the day and how it passes, and you dont want to live it through. You look forward to what is about to come, and an omnious voice inside you says it wont be any better. At this juncture, you do what I am going to do.

To all the people in my past and present, I love you, and I always will.

Forgive me for any wrong I have done to you, it was not intentional.

Monday - 9:30 pm

He closed the letter and felt his eyelid let go of the one tear that always escaped his eye. As the tear rolled down the cheek, he whispered to himself, "You should have given me one chance to reply to this letter my friend. One chance."

He folded his best friend's last letter and put it back in his wallet. He extinguished the candle and put it back in the shelf. He walked out of the very room where his friend had shot himself 2 years ago. He had read the letter every monday at 9:30 pm. He closed the room with his left hand, and wiped the lone tear with his right.

P.S.

The above story is a foray into the mind of a pyschologically disturbed human being. Inspired by a story I had read a long time ago.

An encounter with a Super-Hero(ine)

2009-06-02T23:02:00.000-07:00

There is this square. In the middle of the mall I go to. The mall has a Gym wherein i've been a member for a few months now. And its sort of become a ritual for me to finish gym and head for the prayer hall and after the night prayers, spent a while sitting on the benches in that square, listening to Outlandish or Jal or some other soft music. The most soothing part of this is the waterfall created. A semi-concaving stone wall, upon which water decends slowly, as if walking down a staircase. The lights from the little pool below make it all the more enticing to glare at. A perfect soothing place after a nice workout.
Yesterday was no different. After a long workout, I finished prayers and walked to the square. It was empty as usual (one of the reasons I like it so much) In a daze i was pulling at the doors, and then the ol' brain (which was resting after the heavy weight sessions) kicked in and said, DUDE...PUSH !!! It worked. I went and slumped on the bench, pulling out my phone to listen to something soothing. The week was going tiring. Physically and Mentally. I had quite a lot on my mind. From financial issues to other people's dirty laundry (metaphorically speaking). I was ready to brood my mind away listening to some sad stuff and gazing at the waterfall. I was tired. Really really tired. Again it was more mental than physical.
*SIGH*

At that very moment, as I stood on the threshold of Depression Room, the square's door opened. At first I couldnt see who opened it. In the next fraction my eye flicked to a short figure using its entire strength to push the glass door open. I smiled at the sight of the little curly haired blondie who managed to keep the door open so as to stand there right in the middle of the air conditioned lobby and the square. "Excuse me", she said. The smile on my face widened. Its not everyday that pretty young ladies come up and make the first move at me, okay THEY NEVER DO. This time it was different. This 4 year old gorgeous was speaking to me, unless of course there was an imaginary friend she had. "Yes??" I hollered back.

"There is a mouse in there...Two of them", she warned

I almost let out a laugh at the little one's inconsequential fear. I mean, I had bigger things to worry about right?
But then I stopped myself. If there is one thing I know about kids, is that they will take much more interest in speaking to you or paying attention to you if you treat them like grown ups. So laughing was out of the options list.

“I don’t think a mouse would come out to me, mice are scared of me” , I offered.

“But you cannot kill them !!!” she said with shock on her face. The idea that humans can be more powerful than mice was clearly very new to her 4 year old self.

“But I can throw them off the roof” I offered. I mean, come on, I had just done bicep curls with 25 Kg barbells. A 50 gram rodent is probably going to be the least of my lifting problems. I wouldn’t even have to bend my knees.

“Did you see the mice here??’’ I asked her

“Yes…Yesterday I saw 2 mice here” , she said.

“Well then they would have gone to another mall by now right??”, I offered.

“Noooo” she said. “The mouse is not by Allah. It is Shaitaan (The chief devil) who put them here. They are not good. Shaitaan is doing it.”

I was stumped here. I mean, 9 times out of 10 I have an answer ready before my debating opponent finishes her/his sentence. This 4 year old girl had just scored the 10th time. I had no logical answer to continue my argument with her. After a pause of 3 seconds, (Which in debating and argumentation is eternity), all I could manage was
“Where did you hear that??”

“I told you, Yesterday I saw three mice here” she explained
((Before I could cut her off about the previous statement under oath wherein she mentioned 2 mice, she cut her self. ))

*Holding up 2 fingers* “NO NO, TWO MICE..I saw two mice here yesterday”

I couldn’t help but smile at this sharp one. This was one awesome devil’s advocate in the making. “What’s your name li’l one?” I asked.

“I don’t know” She said

I raised an eyebrow, probably she didn’t hear me. You see there was about 3 meters between her and I. The distance stayed that way for the entire conversation.

I repeated the question, “You don’t know your name?”

“OH…My name is Alena” she replied as if it didn’t matter. Surely the Mice-warning was more important than her name here right??

At this point I just wanted to pounce on her and cuddle the heck out of her. Oh and her cheeks were the colour of li’l peaches. Which went really well with those yellow hair.

She renewed her warning to me. “I am telling you there are mice here”

I looked around and said, “I don’t see them, see… they are afraid of me”

Her face changed. She had a “HUFF” in her body language which said WHY DOESN’T THIS GROWN UP TAKE THIS SERIOUSLY….WHY DOESN’T HE UNDERSTAND?? She was on the verge of marching up to me and slapping me for my insolence. And I was on the verge of pouncing on her and showering her with kisses.

She figured it was a lost cause I guess, and she asked me,
“What is your name??”

I smiled and said “My names is Faraz”

She ran the name through her head. After a few seconds, she looks at me with an impassive face and said “That is a very nice name”

Wallahi, the way she said that, was in-describable in words. I was this close to bursting out with laughter. The Kid-Adult rule kept me silent. I don’t remember the last time when a lady looked me in the eye and in an unassuming manner told me that she found my name nice. I smiled at her, and I could swear she smiled too. A moment of friendship was afoot I presumed. I was delighted at the hope that she’d walk up to me and shake my hand.

“Listen,” she said. “There are two mice here. THAT’S IT, I cannot understand you”

With that she walked off. Or rather, Marched off. The huff was big. Reallll big.

I was alone again. And I just couldn’t stop grinning at the little encounter.

I ran the entire conversation through my head again. I looked out through the glass walls looking for her. She was walking around, serious and in deep thought of whom to save next. She was like a little superhero. Or Super-heroine if you please. For her, the most important thing was to make people wake up to the danger facing them, and saving them. I was a lost cause to her, but that did NOT deter her from her aim to save the planet from the evil mice.

Suddenly, my problems didn’t seem so big. My financial worries were passed off by my mind as “WE’LL CROSS THE BRIDGE WHEN WE GET TO IT”
My problems with the close ones in my life was passed off with “WHATEVER”

And so on and so forth.

I thought of those days when I used to pretend I was a super hero. Come on, we all have. Which of us hasn’t nourished the dream of growing into a caped crusader, to save the planet from eternal doom. For a few moments I went back to my childhood, those days with wooden swords, towels around my neck, big jumps off the sofa sets. How the world didn’t matter then. At that time my opponent was an imaginary villain who threatened my loved ones. I never tired of fighting them. Just like Alena never tired of warning and saving people.

Suddenly, 4 minutes with a 4 year old made me realize that through your eyes, your problems are big. We dont tire of fighting them when we're young, Why give up when we grow older?? Moreover one day you will outgrow these eyes, you will see more of the world, then look back and realize, “Damn. I have fought lions in my life, to think that once I was worried about mice??”
To elucidate, At that time, my son’s problems will be peanuts for me, but for him, they are real problems. REAL BIG problems. Suddenly….life seems manageable.. To summarize it, I have 4 words
“…THIS TOO SHALL PASS !!!”

Post Script
Alena also happens to be the name of my new born niece. Whom I never dreamt of speaking or beholding, because of the distance separating us.
Ironical that the little angel comes to me in a disguise. I pray my niece grows up to be just as fearless, bold and utterly adorable little super-heroine as my last night’s Dame in shining armor…..

Gratitude to Life !!

2009-05-18T00:51:00.000-07:00

You, Reader…. I’d bet my socks that you probably wouldn’t know more than half the people on this list, coz it’s My List. But I would also bet that you have a list just like this. Chances are that every person you read about here, you have them in your life as well….just under different names. There are many ways to file such a list, but the best way is to go Chronologically.

~ Thank you Allah… for deciding to unleash me into this world, as a boon for some, and a bane for many. And I specially thank you for the conditions and circumstances under which you let me loose on Earth, specially the fantastic genetic donors whom you sent me through.

~ Thank you Mom and Dad, for deciding to have me.
~ Thanks Mom for carrying me for 9 long months, through smiles and grimaces of pain. I am sorry for all the twists and turns and all the kicks, which caused you a lot of discomfort, specially in your sleep and other unexpected times. It was unintentional. Honest!! And ever since, thanks for the amazing upbringing, the way you taught me to love ppl and to try to help everyone I could and how to be a great friend.
~ Thanks Dad for taking care of mom through those 9 months, for those un-relenting teary prayers for my safe arrival, for the Flower of Maryam and for the un-explainable joy with which you celebrated my home coming. I’ll never forget the magic in your written lines declaring “I have a Son.” Thanks for the ethics and morals you have imbibed in me, the gift of reading and being my most influential teacher in Islam.

~ Thanks Mom for bearing me through those stupid nights where I ruined your sleep with my incessant crying and still having the patience not to throw me out of the window. Thanks Dad for singing me to sleep every time. Although I didn’t get the songs then, I heard them again when you sung Faiz to sleep. You rock Guys !! I Love you a lot !!

~ Thanks again Allah n My parents for giving me Faiz, the best brother a guy could as for. Sure he cried a lot, fought a lot, was a stubborn ass. But I don’t think anyone would stand up and tease the people who bugged me like he could (although he took personal sadistic pleasure in making ppl weep)
~ Thanks Faiz, for being so loving. I’d rather have you beside me in a fight than any beefed up wrestler. Thanks for all the times we’ve laughed to tears, when we’ve spent late nights talking, and thanks for listening to my stories even though they made little sense. I pray we stay like this forever inshaAllah.

~ Thanks Dada-Abba for the great legacy you’ve left me with. Although I never met you or saw you, I’ve heard so much about you, and I want you to know that I truly respect and admire you for being such a great man, a giant among your peers and a legend in the old circles of Mysore. Thanks for all the blessed prayers you made for me and Faiz years before we were born, They still continue to decorate our lives.
~ Thanks Daadi-Maa for holding the family together for as long as you lived, and being the support system for the huge family. Thanks for the amazing pickles and the smuggled 2 rupees you gave for my pani-puri escapes. Thanks for all the blessings and the shade you cast upon the family through all sunny days

~ Thanks Nana Abba for the gift of Education. I am sure you would have been the proudest and happiest person on earth to see me Graduate. I missed you when I held my final report card. I miss you still. Thank you for inspiring education and making me understand that wisdom & true success is not in marks you obtain, but in the marks you leave behind.
~ Thank you Nani Ammi for the bedtime stories, the baths you gave me whilst reciting prayers, the amazing dishes and the protection from bad nazar you always gave us. Thanks for being a strength to me in my bad days, and for all the duas you still make for me. I pray you live long enough to tell bed time stories to my kids and more

~ Thank you Aani and Qalu for being my second parents, for the prayers, for the awesome spicy gosht dishes, and for the late night scoldings and relentless care through my engineering. I am sorry for all the worries I caused with my carelessness.

~ Thank you Ather chacha and Saeeda Chachi, for looking after me in the most delicate years of teenage, from 10th grade to 12th, thanks for all the protection from my environment. Thanks for the unwavering trust in my abilities, and the prayers which helped me be where I am.

~ Thank you Bhaiju & Bhabi for my first influences in lateral thinking, and for giving me my first bug in photography and for being the first people to inspire me to write poetry. (Coorg Photograph).

~ Thank you Mummy for those discussions and explanations about Mirza Ghalib's stupidity and his genius, the forced lunches and faux anger. Miss you a lot.

~ Thank you Afshaan aapi, for the continued inspiration in everything, those lessons in Micro-biology and wisdom, and for teaching me the invaluable lessons in courage and strength. I learnt more from you than from most of my teachers. Not to mention, the tag of L.B.B.

~Thank you Rumi, for being my first sister. Although we were cousins, I loved you like a real sibling. Rest in peace Angel !

~ Thanks Ameen Bhaiya for the amazing times I had as a Kid, You were my brother before Faiz was born, Thanks for the long baths in the bathroom with the worst possible singing we could manage, and the long bike rides singing PAPA KEHTE HAIN along the streets of Mysore. Thanks Muzzy for all those long talks and the amazing Algebra lessons. I’ll forever remember the force and acceleration formula F=MA (maaaa !!)
and Ehtesham Bhaiya, for the long late night walks and the laughs and gossips about the world. You guys are amazing cousins. I love you guys a lot, I wish we are all together once again like old times.

~ Thank you Edris Bhaiya for being the source of so much happiness for me and my family.
~ Thank you Zareen Bhabi for those amazing dahi vadas in the Ramadhan of 2007.
~ Thank you Irfan Bhaiya and Seema Bhabi for a Home in this lonely city of Dubai.

~ Thanks to the rest of my relatives for Not believing in me, for thinking I was not good for anything. You pushed me to achieve whatever little I have managed to. And you taught me some of my most important lessons in life. In everyway, I owe you guys for creating the situations which have made me the person I am today. I hope someday, everything returns to normalcy.

~ Thank you Nasreen Aunty for being my first Baby sitter, Tasneem aunty for having us all through our holidays and hosting the most amazing holiday getaway at the Al Sadd home, Adila aunty for the games and jokes, Nishad Aunty & Arifa aunty for considering me with so much regard that you put me in charge of your little ones. Its been an honour having all of you as mother figures.

~ Thanks all the corresponding uncles of the above mentioned ladies for marrying them. You are really lucky men. Alhamdulillah

~ Thanks Farhan & Shazaan for being my first partners in crime, I mean, wow, its been a helluva ride growing up with u guys, The Volcano experiments, Power Rangers, Night outs at farhan's place, reruns of the Champ and Ace Ventura movies and all the hogging on chocolates n snacks..Its been a pleasure guys.. Thanks Faizaan for being another li'l bro to me, you're an awesome kid, Pray u grow up in2 an awesome human. Mannan & Aiman too, Stay awesome guys.

~ Thank you Vipin and Vinod, for being my best friends for whatever short time we had together. Its been fun guys !!

~ Thank you Shagu,Salma, Hajira and Mahera didz for being adorable sisters..Hope married life gives u all the joy and happiness you girls always dreamed off..

~ Thank you all my teachers in St. Josephs, for the amazing 2 years of schooling which were a million times more awesome than the 8 years in Qatar. You Ladies rock, (So do you Ramsingh Sir). Specially Ms. Joyce, Ms. Nirmala, Ms. Shaylaja, Ms. Mathur, Ms. Carmel, Ms. Veena, Ms. Asha and Ms. Rosy... I miss you alll soooo much.... Love you all

~ Thank you N.R. Rao sir, for the amazing Math tuitions. They have been unforgettable. We Miss you !

~ Thank you Faraz Affaq Sir, for urging me to write. Thank you for deluding me into believing that I could write ;-)

~ Thank you Neethi, for being an amazing pal through 9th n 10th.
~ Thank you Anu, for the wisdom you showed at that age too.
~ Thank you All my class mates from school, The goa trip rocked.
~ Thanks James, for being a pain in the ass in school, and such an amazing buddy after. And Thanks for making me a proud teacher by being such an amazing Snooker player today ;-) But your biggest gift to me was Maa. Dawn Aunty You rock, Wish I was in Mysore more often. Miss your pampering. And I miss Kingsley uncle’s talks too. Love you loads. Yo Zane, thanks for being so cool.. Stay Awesome.

~ Thanks Cindy and Preetz for being such sweet pals. Cindy, ur the best gal I could imagine being teased with..haha.. I pray u smile all thru. And Preetz, You’re a rock dude…Thanks for keeping the group together. keep those poems coming.

~ Thank you Niki, for being my sister from another mother. Thanks for being my sibling, for all the love, care, prayers and thrashings. For all the fights, and the long talks. Thanks for listening to me whine, for giving me so much care, for being my biggest strength through my weakest days in life. Thanks for believing in me when even I doubted myself. And thanks for never letting me miss my relatives. For all the long hours we spent with our group in coffee day, cross words etc, and those crazy moments of uncontrollable laughter. For standing up for me and thrashing the ppl who hurt me, Thanks for being my angel in disguise and for giving me another Mom in Aai. Tell Aai that the Biryani was amazinggggg. I Love you loads.

~ Thanks Sammy and Wahid, for the adorable stupidity in life. For the moments of amazing memories we created. For the hide n seek game in the Malls, and specially for the Teary Hugs. They mean the world to me.Thanks Wahid for those longgg nights on the hostel terrace, star-gazing and talking about all the inconsequential things in life, and the crazy rolling laughter over our jokes....not to mention, my last sem of awesomeness..

~Thanks Tannu for being my sunny sunflower..met u just a couple of time, n spoke even less, but I still have ur duas, wishes and thoughts in that li'l blue book of mine....n i carry it with me always...may you be happy and peaceful wherever you go..inshaAllah

~ Thanks Ausaaf for being a cool friend, we’ve had our moments of craziness, sorry for the yelling. I hope we remain buddies forever inshaAllah.

~ Thank you Gudiya for bringing so much joy into my life. For being the gullible li’l angel that you are. For adoring me so much and trusting me so much even though we never met. For that innocence which makes me wanna pull ur cheeks everytime. For making Bhaijaan such an awesome word and a title of such honour.

~ Thank you Reyaz Sir and Bhai. You guys were the best seniors I could ask for. Thanks for those amazing moments of support, and the best times of laughter and un-matched stupidity which we had. Thanks Reyaz sir for the amazing hostel cooking, and Thanks Bhai for making us study with those angry eyes.
~ Thanks Umar for being such a great buddy. You are one of the most amazing human beings I have ever come across. You are deadly unique. Stay that way. Wish You all the success Umrao Jaan ;-)

~ Thanks Mohsin, Shanu and Sandy for being part of the most amazing study group ever put together. I’ll miss the night outs, the tea breaks, the music in the darkness, the sheer anxiety before the paper and the chilled out moments after. The splitting of syllabus, teaching each other and the amazing synergy through it all. We rocked Guys !!!

~ Thanks Kashif for those amazing jokes and those nights of unstoppable laughter

~ Thanks to the rest of the Amazing gang in Hostel, Zafar, Rizwan, Farhaan, Musta, Shafquat, Shanawaz, and everyone else.. You were the most amazing gang EVER !!!

~ Thanks Shadab Hali for making Bakr-eid so unforgettable in the hostel. That 3 kg Dish and 40 Rotis was the Best breakfast we ever had in Bakrid away from home.. Missed you lots, I hope wherever you are, you're rocking.

~ Thanks Baba Safiullah for making us fall in love with Engineering Graphics. And for being such an amazing professor. Not to mention the most adorable one too. I don’t think in the history of education, an over-weight teddy bear has mastered the art of drawing 3D machine assemblies on a blackboard.

~ Thanks to all my juniors and the gangs of Ramadhan party, for the hysterical water wars on the 2nd year rooftop, for the last minute rush before the iftaar and yet managing to put on a great spread. And also for the madness unleashed during college days. Specially Khalid, Ehsan, Musavvir, Siddiq, Hasan and Ibrahim.

~ Thanks B.P. for the amazing dinners which made us survive through the college years.

~ Thanks to the college mess, for making us eat vegetables we didn’t know existed.

~ Thanks to the entire Auto Rickshaw Drivers in Bangalore who taught me Kannada, and also the rally-adaptive talent of riding on Bangalore roads.

~ Thanks Nauman, Bumble Beez, Nuu and Asif..for all the solid times at Qwickies and CCD. And our picnics too. Cant wait till the next one.

~ Thanks Fasi for being a hilarious friend, your stories are always fun to listen to, I hope you and Afshan have a great life together and may Allah bless Yousuf with a lovely future embedded in deen and duniya

~ Thanks Guddu for being a sweetheart. You’re a great kid, and I hope you will grow up to be a greater human inshaAllah.

~ Thanks to the guys from Calvin and Hobbes, who thought I had a sense of humour, and who accepted me as a part of the looniness. Neo, Sanjog, Lava, Ajay, Farheen,Suzie, Darthy, Sangy, Saurabh,Lazy-Crazy (ravi), Adi, Ani, Sammok, Sorcy, Jaycee, Anshy, and not forgetting Owner Mama, my partner in crime from Andaz Apna Apna and everyone else at TCS for making it an online home. Thanks for the SHARKY Tag. It’s one of the best names I’ve ever had. Hope we all get together someday and really crack it.

~ Thanks Lava for being the wackiest teen I’ve come across, keep rocking.
~ Thanks Shaivy for the never ending shayari tennis we've had..Keep writing.
~ Thanks Sana for the Grunge Tag..
~ Thanks Aishu for showing me that teenagers can be deep. Do take care of urself and remember that you are more valuable than what u think.
~ Thanks Zaid, for being my Soul brother. For the amazing jokes we’ve laughed our guts out on. For the “Samandar Khan Dreams”. And for the li’l miracle smile machine Maddy.
~ Thanks Farah for being an amazing friend. Even though we’ve never met, feels like I know you very well. May you become an awesome doctor n fulfill all your parents dreams like you wished :)
~ Thanks Ayesha for opening my eyes to Human Hibernation.Its awesome in its logic and its relation to the Holy Quran.

~ Thanks Moin for making me a part of the Wacky group in Dubai. Its awesome.
~ Thanks to All my roomies in Dubai. Specially Zubair, Irshad, Tabraiz, Fahad,Jinnu and Zulfi. I'm so glad that I have you crazy bunch as my roommates. Thanks for all the support and the care through these almost 2 years. Specially the weekend fun..Its been awesome..
~ Special holla to Irshad for being my partner in crime out here, for the crazy laughs and long night outs and for our sheer awesome bonding (Chal ab paise de tera naam liya aur ek baar :P)

~ Thanks Meetz for being the most amazing friend anyone could ask for. Not just a friend, an amazing teacher. You’re one of the most exemplary people I’ve ever ever EVER seen. And words will never be enough to tell you how special you really are. You are a Gem, and trust me when I say this, I am not the only one who believes so…. You are an integral part of many peoples lives, and as much as you hate to admit it, they admire you more than you will ever know. You like a shooting star, who doesn’t know the impact it carries, or how beautiful it really is. Cant wait to meet you ;-) I hope you write many many more books and publish em too. Thanks for making me Hobbes :-D
And since the first time we met, thank you for adding so much value to my life, my character and my every single day. You are truly an angel and I cant even begin to describe the amount of heartfelt prayers that come for you my friend.

~ Thanks Serdar for the amazing friday lunch in Furstenfeldbruck. I was close to tears that day out of happiness and how a simple halal dish of eggs and sausages made life in a foreign land so much better. Your mother is truly an angel, SubhanAllah. I Pray you and your family is blessed always

~ Thanks Toufik for taking me around Munich. It was spectacular to see those sights and I am glad I had you for company bro. Next time inshaAllah we will visit Neuschwanstein as well.

~ And last but not the least, Thanks Arjun. I dunno if I should call you my buddy or my li’l brother. But whatever I call you, I want u to know that ur spectacular. You’re the best fruiter in the world. Thanks for the amazing time in Mysore. Next time I promise we’re gonna go on a Road trip to a far off place. Oh yeah, thanks a lot for the idea for this article.

And all of you up there, A big thanks once again...It's been a real pleasure knowing you all. And inshaAllah will continue to be so...

For those of you who didn’t find your names……….I’m sorry I am a forgetful person……But you’re still awesome.And you've made a difference in my life, for which I love you.. So Stay awesome ;-)

Addendum….

From my previous update….lets pick it up where we left off….

In the 2 years since, this list has just grown and grown well.

~Thanks Devika for all those awesome talks. It was fun learning so many things and teaching you so many things in turn. It is epic that we agree on so much and disagree on so much…

~Thanks Aaliyah baby for bringing such joy into the lives of my family. I mean, you have GOT to be the cutest, sweetest most adorable kid in the whole world. For all the laughs, for all the trips you made me take just to see your smile and hear you talk and play, for making mom and dad feel so full of life just by being your adorable self, Thank you. And I hope you grow up and keep your cuteness, innocence and sweetness intact. Thank you Fathima Dii & Shekhu bhai for gifting the world with Aaliyah...

~Thanks Huda for making me appear in Gulfnews through the community portals. It is an amazing honor that you consider me and my picture worthy of the print space.

~Thanks Zaki bhai for making me join Heriot Watt instead of UOWD. It has made the world of a difference already and I’m still waiting to see what the next year unfolds.

~Thanks Priya for being the first friend in MSc. From the empty lectures of Process Intensification, to waiting for the bus, the “Cappuchino” nickname and responding to a gift with a “WHAT THE….?” :D
Thank you for being such an adorable pal and making the group so much more awesome by your presence. And for all the amazing laughs we had which I cant put up here coz they are wayyy to damn many….Stay awesome and remember your promise to be a friend for life (and your promise to come to my wedding with the rest of the gang below)

~Thanks Sarath for reading the damn newspaper and identifying me out of the crowd and that li’l spark which started a friendship with you which lead to the group coming together. Remain your bubbly self. And you are welcome (for the matchmaking). Remember “Over My Dead Body”

~Thanks DJ (Tushar) for all the crazy ass laughs, the pranks and being partners in crime. Lets make it a point to always get time to get together for a cup of Moroccan tea whenever life gets a bit tedious. You are playing the music @ my wedding and if you ditch us then, you will need a doctor. "Call me a doctor doctor...to bring meeeee back to lifeee"

~Thanks Vimal for being awesome fun. For the comfort of your home for our studies, for the crazy ass laughs and for the E-moron-ness !! You have a good heart dude, keep it that way. People can count on you and it is an amazing and rare quality. But don’t let people take undue advantage of you.

~Thanks Tina for being my little widdle sweety sis... I can’t believe how grown up you are and still how much of a kid you feel like to us. You have a lot of love in your heart to give out to the world kido, and it is a special special thing. Your biggest strength is your smile and your family….keep them close always (Both families I mean ;)).

~Thanks Ahmer for the great run we had together. Its sad we had some misunderstandings but the chat by the Sharjah corniche, the time at college and the long crazy chats are forever.. Good luck with your poetry bro….And hope we can sort everything out and return to being Bubbles & Butterfly.

~Thanks Nithin for the Prado drives, the long discourses about World of Warcraft, the stupid giggles and for understanding my jokes. Good luck with your career mate. And Indulgence FOREVER !!!!

~Thanks Rameez for teaching me photography (I learnt by watching), for the awesome BBQ days, the amazing pics and most of all, thanks for the madness of the desert safari in the Tahoe. That is one unforgettable night. Next time, we combine the camping and the dune bashing in one mad evening. And yeah, I’m bringing my Civic over again.

~Thanks Tijo for opening up your home for our final group studies. It felt like home truly. And for being such an amazing guy. Your jokes crack everyone up and it’s a startling revelation how we all thought you were just a serious career minded guy who was solitary but boy did you shock the crap out of us (Imagine that)…. For all the mad dumb charades (specially Saddi Gali)…Cheers

~Thanks Jovin for being an eye opener. Your honesty is both your strongest and weakest quality. But it is a quality I wish more people in the world have. Its been an honor to know you as a friend and also as a business associate (you still dint give me the order). I wish you achieve all your academic goals and change the world as you set out to be.

~Thanks Nida for being such a cutey pie. Your strength, resolve and confidence hit me hard when we first met, and it has just kept growing. You have an amazing talent in almost everything you do kido. And I wish you the best of both worlds inshaAllah. And I just love the fact that unlike most of the teens at your age, you are not uptight and love your family and your siblings and are close to them.This is a very big deal in today’s world. Keep it on.

~Thanks Asif for becoming a part of the group again. Its amazing having you as a roommate. I hope and pray Allah grants you amazing levels of success in this world and the next and fulfills your dreams ;)

And there we go….for now….

If your name is still not up there, Then know that its on purpose….its coz I don’t want the world to know about you yet ;) And Yes….I still Love you no matter what….

Thanks for Reading

- Faraz

Heading Home -2

2009-05-03T05:58:00.000-07:00

I land in Bangalore after a butt-aching 4 and a half hours of flying.
The MP3 Player is playing some sweet homecoming stuff which is kinda
emotional, I think its from Westlife (WIPE THAT SMIRK OFF UR FACE!!! I
DONT LIKE EM, but the song has a nice lyrics about going home to the place you love.)

So the song plays in my ears as I walk towards the aircraft exit. My eyes fall on the business class airhostess, and she looks like she’s younger than the rest (probably 45 years old I guess)
The pilot walks out and I can almost imagine him re-fixing his dentures (okay so I am making a mountain out of a molehill. But it’s the oldest crew and plane I’ve EVER been in a long time. The plane didn’t even have an inflight entertainment facility. NO TV !!!!)

The ol’ pilot parked the plane in some in-accessible corner of the airport, so we had to get a bus to the airport from the plane. I stepped out of the plane to a familiar smell of the Bangalore night… Ahhh, Home Sweet Home!! Its indescribable really, but even if you had blindfolded me, and put me on the runway at night, I’d have no trouble differentiating the greenery induced fragrance of Bangalore to the dusky sandy fragrance of Doha. I got into the transport bus, and unlike other airports, this bus driver waited until the bus was filled with enough people so that each one’s arm was jammed under another’s armpit… Ahhh, Home Sweet Home!!
Immigration check and collection of baggage was too slow, funny how Einstein’s relativity works isn’t it? And then I literally ran out of the airport and saw the taxi rental stand. Since no soul in India except a certain fruiter was aware of my arrival, I had to take the taxi. I smiled at the suited-up man in the booth and told him “R.T. Nagar Please !!”
And he goes, “Certainly sir.” And picks up a laminated sheet of paper to look up the rates. “That would cost you 800 Rupees Sir”, he says with a smile. And I feel a punch land in my stomach, (just so you know, a taxi from the old airport to my home costed 400 Rupees, and this one was supposed to be CLOSER !!!) Clearly, this guy was ripping me off with his BRANDED SERVICE. At 11:45 in the night, it didn’t look as if I had much choice, I reached for my wallet, Ahhh, Home Sweeeeet Home!!

This was my first landing at the new Bangalore airport. Not bad, the old fogies had managed to make a decent place. I walked towards the taxi stand and was welcomed by a dog snoozing on the road.. Ahh..Now I am TRULY HOME !!! The red eyed taxi driver started up and drove me home, along the way, there was this HUGE grin plastered over my face. The White street lights like 2 strings of pearls lined the road, I passed by signboards showing familiar Indian Celebs selling everything from a toothpaste to a Blue Whale, I passed by a road lined with red mud which smells all to familiar to me, instantly bringing a host of memories, the cool wind through the open windows beat every Air conditioning system I’ve ever enjoyed, how it caressed my hair like a loving mother, and how it threw a hundred kisses all over my face. And then, I passed by a small bridge, over an open sewer, for some strange reason, the smell of it, just made my smile a little more wider….I was Home….

Heading Home - 1

2009-04-27T09:56:00.000-07:00

I guess there are few feelings in the world which are more emotionally
spellbinding than that of going home. And that is directly proportional
to the time you?ve been out of home.If you are the sort who doesnt
understand proportion, think of it as the months long hungry shark from
JAWS going all guns blazing at the nearest bunch of surfers.

After 14 months, I was spellbound alright. The final week leading to my
April 10th Departure from Dubai was probably the longest week I?ve had
in a long time (and no the recession did not give me as many sleepless
nights) nor have I been looking forward
To anything, so expectantly for a long time.

I entered the Dubai airport with a lot of apprehension, as I was
carrying more than 35 kgs of weight (And NO I AM NOT TALKING ABOUT MY
BELLY)
The suitcase was pretttty heavy. Nevertheless, I cleared all the
formalities of the travel, thank god. And climbed aboard the Air India
flight which was on time (which means it was 45 minutes late IST, or the
other way round lol)
And to my ?ABSOLUTE UNFATHOMABLE DELIGHT?, all the airhostess were older
than the Stonehenge. Which meant that if I wanted an airhostess to
attend to me, I?d have to ring the bell last week. Which is all very
well, coz I was busy with Nick Hornby?s High Fidelity. AND I had an
overtly enthusiastic goan couple sitting next to me. True, as the plane
was going to Goa and onwards to Bangalore. **SIGH**
In a nutshell, the couple next to me were the contemporary Goan couple.
HE was bald and had a look like a goan rockstar who played in fenny bars
and punched dead pigs for exercise. And SHE was a fire hydrant. As in,
she kept drinking water and my life was hell (as I had scored the aisle
street) Every few minutes, the couple would LOOK at me. Without a word.
And well,
When you?re in a small plane, when someone looks at you, your brain
feels the strain of the stare. I?d turn towards them and they?d give you
that smile, Which is supposed ?HEY I GOTTA GO WEE WEE.? And I?m like,
that?s the 15th time in the last 10 minutes. Okay I?m exaggerating, but
it was pretttty frustrating. Problem is, I cant really say?NO, M NOT
MOVING..She?d only make it worse for me by ruining the seats. And she?d
get down at goa and I?d be left with the stinking seat all the way onto
Bangalore. Not my idea of a joyous home-coming.

Nevertheless, the thought of seeing my family keeps me from throwing
those two off the plane. The air hostess on Indian Airlines are directly
recruited from the Old Age homes i guess. For service is slow, and the
food is all the healthy stuff which tastes like grass (Not that i have
actually ever tasted grass).