Some eyes I eyed last week

Every day, I come across many different people with interesting eyes.

I don’t talk to these people. I just like observing their eyes and imagining in my head what thing are like in theirs.

Here are a few observations I made, perhaps ignorantly, about the eyes I have noticed in the past few days. I don’t really understand the point of sharing this, but I really, really wanted to write about them.

Set number 1

There is a girl sitting in front of me and I have been stealing glances to look at her for the past half hour.

She is chubby, with a dimpled chin and thin lips. Her eyebrows, which look quite tense, have been plucked to a sharp line, under which her lush, long eyelashes flutter (even behind her prescription eyeglasses) as the wind blows in her direction.

She looks up and I see that her eyes are a very deep shade of brown and her lids droop at the outer corners. The eyes droop some more every time she checks her mobile phone for text messages, making her look sadder.

Perhaps she really is sad because I see her twice a week, but I never see her smile.

She is a girl from my university and she is always reading something.

Set number 2

He is a tough looking man, in his mid thirties. The look of his rough hands, face and body language tell me that he has worked in the sun for a long time. His skin is ashy brown.

He talks rarely but very fast and confidently. One of his eyebrows, which is naturally well-shaped, is always raised in a tense way, and his eyes move from one thing to another rather quickly. He looks like he is trying to make sure everything is under his control — as if he is supervising a bunch of small schoolchildren standing in an assembly.

But there is a certain innocence in these eyes — a childlike look of inexperience. These eyes are dark and they don’t shine even under the afternoon sun. They are almost wood-matte.

I got a chance to look at these eyes without them looking at me, a few times last week, because they were visible in the rear mirror of a car.

This set of eyes belong to a taxi driver.

Set number 3

Clad in an embroidered navy blue shalwaar kameez is a girl with a small forehead and a large face. Her nose sticks out a lot and her eyebrows are a set of impudent arches. The lids are shaded a deep grey at the corners. With a blue net dupatta covering her head, and with her broad shoulders, this girl looks like a future politician.

These kohled eyes are the most arrogant looking eyes I have seen all week and they blink at a fashionably slow rate. As rude as it may sound, the eyes are dull and they make the brain behind them look equally dull.

They protrude, looking unimpressed and pitifully gaze in superiority around everyone around them — everything is inferior.

This girl is in her mid twenties. I found later that she is a teacher.

Set number 4

They are a murky shade of green. They are small and full of youthful, flirtatious mischief — always open like flowers in full bloom.

Sometimes I wonder if they ever want to sleep.

In these unfeigned eyes, I see stories of friends and ambition to grow. They sparkle at everyone.

But sometimes, these alert eyes also tell a tale of missed opportunities, broken promises, delayed justice, unwilling sacrifices and undeserved deprivation.

These eyes belong to a watchman in his early twenties.

How to have fun in Dubai if you are broke

Sorry, friends. There’s absolutely no way to have fun in Dubai if you have no money.

The day I visited MQM’s Nine Zero

When I told my friends and family that I was going to Nine Zero for a class assignment, their reaction was an odd mix of excitement and trepidation. They were wishing me luck for some odd reason!

For those who don’t know what it is, Nine Zero ─ or 90 ─  are theMuttahida Quami Movement’s (MQM) headquarters in Karachi. I wasn’t alone; my classmates and teacher were going with me. I did not understand why everyone was so scared. What was so terrifying about Nine Zero, anyway?

Having spent most of my life in Karachi, I have heard the words “Nine Zero” uncountable times. As a child, I thought it was the name of a gang. As I grew older, I realised it was a place, but I didn’t know if it was the name of an area, or someone’s house number. All I knew was that it was a very popular place.

When I finally understood clearly what Nine Zero was, I was curious to visit. I found out that you cannot just visit; it’s a high security area and you need all sorts of permissions.

“Photo nahi lain! Delete karein isay!” said a guard to my classmate as we crossed the first barrier to enter the area.

(Don’t take photos. Delete the one you just took!)

I immediately decided to be on my best behaviour.

We were taken to the seminar hall for a lecture on the local governance system in general, and the SPLGO 2012. Hyderabad’s former mayor, Kanwar Naveed Jamil, and ex-MNA Ameenul Haq were to deliver to us a lecture on the topic.

As it was my first time meeting officials of a well-known political party, I expected them to have an attitude to match – possibly arrogant with their noses in the air, and very, very formal. However, to my surprise, they were as humble and welcoming as they could be. It was almost as if they weren’t attending to a class of journalism newbies, but their friends.

There were seats and microphones set up for them on the stage of the seminar hall, but instead they sat very casually on the stairs and began to lecture. It went well, and though they didn’t have enough time to answer all our questions, they did go out of their way to answer a few.

We stepped out of the seminar hall and were guided to a table where snacks had been served for all of us. This followed a nice, detailed tour of the area.

From what I had heard, Nine Zero had seemed like a very scary place.

The reality couldn’t be more different; it reminded me of a peaceful 90’s Karachi. The streets were clean and children played ball outside. Despite there being lots of goats and cows tied outside homes for Bakra Eid, the area was very well-maintained. I found the cleanliness factor very commendable.

There were modern-looking lamp posts and benches on the corners of all streets for people to sit on and just have a good time in the evening. Despite being so well-maintained, I found that it did represent the middle class perfectly. You would expect too much to be spent on polishing the look of a political party’s hub, with expensive-looking homes and flashy cars, but it was the opposite. One could tell that where the party’s motto was to serve the middle class, it also focused on making the area look the part.

“This is so peaceful. I’d love to live here,” said my friend Laraib as we ventured through the gullies of Nine Zero without a worry.

A bunch of girls wandering in any area of Karachi would attract attention of the men there, but that wasn’t the case here. No one ogled at us. The residents greeted us with warm smiles, and you could tell that these were out of respect and humility.

Soon we were at MQM leader, AKA ‘Quaid-e-Tehreek’ Altaf Hussain’s house. Mr Ameenul Haq showed us around and even allowed us to take photographs, which wasn’t the case at the entrance of the area, probably because of security reasons.

It was a small house, neatly kept. The white sheets spread on the floor reminded me of my grandmother who hails from Delhi and tells me that laying white sheets neatly on the floor is a very Muhajir family thing to do. Beside a new paint job and installing air-conditioners, I don’t think much was done to the place since Altaf Hussain lived here. I was tempted to tweet a picture of myself sitting on a sofa at his house, with the caption, “Just another day in my life, chilling at Altaf Bhai’s place,” but I held back my excitement.

We then ventured to the monitoring room – a ‘state of art’ monitoring room as a friend calls it. It literally had walls made of televisions screens and, well, technical stuff, like any good monitoring facility should. They have three years worth of televised programmes stored in their database.

Five hundred volunteers are working only on monitoring social media. Yes, they work and report, unlike many other political parties’ social media monitors who participate and engage in an annoying kind of interaction way too much.

In all, it was a great and very well-organised experience. I would like to clarify that I am not affiliated with the MQM; I am only a journalism student who likes to appreciate what is appreciable.

This post originally appeared here.

Pakistani women in the Pakistani advertisements world

Yes. The ultimate weapon of the Pakistani woman is a toilet cleaner.

“Main iske elaava kisi aur pe kabhi aitemaad nahi karsakti. Bhalay aap koi bhi aur lay ayein, main isko nahi chhor sakti. Ye mera partner hai.”

(I cannot trust anyone but him. Bring whatever you can, I would never leave him. He is my partner.)

A woman saying this must really like the person she’s talking about. The statement shows that she trusts him immensely and loves him enough to find him irreplaceable. It seems like they have a strong emotional bond; maybe it’s her husband or a friend she confides in?

Isn’t this what you would ask yourself if you heard a woman speaking of a man with such endearing enthusiasm?

Well, if you did

it to be a beloved, you are sorely mistaken. This lucky, irreplaceable entity is actually not a person at all. It’s a detergent. Hah! Doing better than men, isn’t it? By making such a colossal, largely-documented impact on women all over Pakistan, this detergent has certainly defined the everyday milestones of Pakistani women. Whether it’s about saving face at a social gathering, polishing a dull marital relationship, or ensuring a healthy family life, this detergent does it all!

Oh, and it cleans your clothes, too.

I hope by now you all can guess what I’m talking about; Pakistani television commercials. I have never been crazy about them, to be honest. I’ve always found that we try to sell ‘everything’ through song and dance. Be it achaar (pickle) or real estate, there has to be naach gaana (singing and dancing) and halla gulla (hullabaloo).

Proper conceptualising can go fly a kite.

However, recently, I have noticed a certain pattern in these commercials; projecting all little everyday commodities to be the Pakistani woman’s ultimate achievements. This trend hasn’t emerged recently. It has been in advertisements for a long time ago but it went unnoticed, at least from my eyes. Of course, too much of the same can make people numb.

Now that we are talking about this detergent, might I add that the Pakistani woman’s biggest problem is not being able to get that saalan ka daagh (curry stain) out of her husband’s dress shirt? When her husband’s honour is stained along with his shirt and he raises that you-are-so-dead eyebrow, she will be reminded of her place! Her son’s academic report card can wait; but the ‘minus five’ on his cleanliness report have the ability to quake the earth under her feet.

The Pakistani woman’s ultimate hathyaar (weapon) is a toilet bowl cleaner, and I’m just telling it like it is (on TV). They are shown to be very zealous about something as ordinary as cleaning the pooper. Never have I seen a man in a Pakistani ad worrying about why the surface of his toilet bowl isn’t spotless.

Let’s not forget how important it is to cook. Now I understand that cooking is an undeniably routine part of the Pakistani woman’s life but is cooking perfectly the epitome of her goals? Will adding a little bit of chicken-flavoured masala to her daal really please her mother-in-law to heights so high, she gives her the house keys or promote her to ‘kitchen in-charge’? More importantly, who wants to be in charge of the kitchen, anyway? Silly goose, your mother-in-law is tricking you into hard labour!

Forgive me for not comprehending what choice of milk brands has to do with the empowerment of women and their liberty to choose. I’ve recently noticed a certain milk commercial frequenting television channels. Until the woman in the ad actually stated that it was about a milk brand, I had no clue as to what it was about. It started off as a message about independence of women and their right to make choices and this so-called ‘choice’ was merely picking a brand of milk.

What hogwash! Pakistani women know better than sweating the small stuff. Woman empowerment lies in education. Their freedom of choice is being able to choose a career or a life partner. Their goals and promotions do not involve being in charge of the kitchen. They are mothers, daughters and wives, whose worries include raising good children, doing well in school and helping their husbands run a home.

I don’t understand why Pakistani advertisement makers prefer woman- and susraal (in-laws)-centricity over good, non-sexist ideas. I won’t even begin on skin lightening creams as I feel they are jeering South Asian women’s insecurities at the highest order.

It is really the triumph of misogyny in a society when products start selling on the basis of mocking what we assume to be the inabilities of the socially declared ‘weaker sex’.

This post originally appeared in here.

Child of war

His gun, he wears it on his shoulder; his morals somewhere in the trash. PHOTO: REUTERS

The child of war loses his mind; as bubbles of fire from yonder rain,

His youthful eyes no longer shine; he looks at all with much disdain,

The war shall leave in its remains, a man afloat, a childhood drowned,

A family was smashed and maimed in a sea made of clamorous sounds,

Out of order alphabets, scribbled across his only book,

The walls, although, his best work yet; displaying all lives he took,

His gun, he wears it on his shoulder; his morals somewhere in the trash,

Emotions die as he grows older; his torrid heart now only ash,

Upon the prisoners he has freed his narcissism and his pride,

Evils of heredity and creed, are his only foes and by his side,

Anaesthetised, dead and numb; his torment is not to be told,

His mocking honour’s made him dumb, the scorching desert’s made him cold,

Anarchic birth is celebrated, objectives of hatred revised,

Barbaric instances are stated, with great aplomb are plans devised,

Today, a rebel is unveiled, to do something they’ll all condemn,

He aims to not let peace prevail, through his sadistic stratagem.

Forlorn: A daughter’s plight

Mama jaan… I want you to come to London immediately. Please don’t say no.

Uzma’s eyes were fixed on the clock. She had to wait for nine more seconds till it was exactly 3:00am. Her trance was broken by the scorching last breath of the cigarette between her fingers. This pain was short-lived.

There were no signs of Ali’s return. Maintaining a smooth marriage was never on his priority list. Neither was this new to Uzma, nor was it the reason of her sleeplessness tonight. In her 12 years spent in London, she had experienced insomnia every December.

The melancholic mewling of very noisy Frederic III was becoming unbearable. Its monotony seemed to be drilling a hole from Uzma’s left temple to the right. She feared the noise would wake little Sana up who had fallen asleep after a long bedtime storytelling session. She smoothed her unwrinkled bed sheets wearily and stood up; gathering her hair in a taut, untidy bun which immediately fell back loose, unfastened. She walked into the lounge to find a big mess the cat had created; a chewed up family album was the first to alarm her.

Oh my God, what have you done, Freddie?

The cat responded by lovingly caressing her ankle with its head.

The ripped album pricked her like a needle in the heart. On the front page, the 80’s Kodak model’s colour-blocked face was now chewed to a distorted horror. Uzma fell to her knees and picked up the album. Memories of her childhood and teen years flashed in front of her already sore eyes. Almost 7000 miles away, this love felt the purest; family.

As she went through the album, she found not photos, but detailed bittersweet accounts of her life.

Uzma’s eighth birthday:

What a lovely day it had been. Of course, until Mama had told her to wait until her brothers had had enough cake.

“Badtameezi nahi karo! Behnein humesha bhaiyon ke bad khaati hain!” (Don’t misbehave! Sisters always wait until their brothers are done eating) she had said.

But mama always said this, and it did usually did hurt Uzma. Except, today, it was her special day. She deserved to be the first one to fill herself plump with her car-shaped cake. Uzma felt some heaviness in her chest but moved to the next photo.

Eid of 1988:

A sad pishwas-clad Uzma sat with her two brothers. The children had waited for their Eidi (money given to children by elders on Eid) all day. Mama jaan had given the boys a hundred rupees each. It was a big amount back then for a child to receive. Uzma eagerly awaited her turn. And then Mama jaan gave her, her Eidi: fifty rupees.

Uzma’s heart sank. She enquired as to why she was granted half her brothers’ share.

Her mother had said, again,

Don’t argue! You are a girl, Uzmi. You don’t have the kind of expenses your brothers have.

Shahid Bhai’s first child:

There it was; a picture of a proud grandmother who had flown in from Florida just to see her new grandson. She stood hovering a thousand rupee note over the child to ward off the evil eye.

This was the same grandmother who, four years ago, was satisfied with only some emailed pictures of Uzma’s daughter, Sana.

Her eyes welled up with tears. Mama’s favouritism for her sons was evident. The reminiscing had rejuvenated the suppressed heartache of a neglected daughter. How her mother had not attended her recital because she had to go to Shahid bhai’s annual sports day. How she had failed to remember Beena’s birthday numerous times but it was a tradition to feed the poor at Abdullah Shah Ghazi’s tomb on Ahmed’s birthdays. How Mama didn’t come to see her off when she left for Australia for her scholarship. How many times Mama jaan could have embraced her and she didn’t.

Uzma picked up the phone and called her mother.

How are you, Mama? I miss you so much.

I’m good, beta, just ate lunch. It’s

hot in Karachi tod–

Mama jaan… I want you to come to London immediately. Please don’t say no.

The wretchedness in her tone was easy for a mother to sense. Uzma sucked in her tears and swallowed the dense, obstinate lump in her throat.

Khairiyat, Uzmi? (Is everything okay, Uzmi?)

I feel depressed, Mama. Please come to me.

Stop crying, dear, things happen. Have you had a fight with Ali? It is called marriage, it isn’t easy. You are thirty-four, Uzmi. I brought you up to be stronger than–

Maa, are you going to come to London or not?

“I would have come had it not been for Shahid,” she said.

You know I cannot go on one day without him.

London Olympics 2012 opening ceremony: Unconventionality at its best

The long awaited London Olympics 2012 opening ceremony finally took place last night! Had it not been for the convincing tweets from literally everyone on my Twitter timeline, I don’t think I would have watched it, but I’m glad I did.

Here are some tweets that tempted me to tune in to watch one of the most glorious Olympics opening ceremonies I’ve ever seen.

Faizan Lakhani @faizanlakhani

Genius, that was really unexpected selection to lit the Olympic cauldron, liked it. #OpeningCeremony #London2012

Farrukh Not Farooq @Karafornication

The whole London Olympics ceremony is basically the opening theme of Game Of Thrones

Salman Ahmed Khan @SAKsays

Totally entranced by the opening ceremony of #London2012 olympics !!

So I’ve decided to share with everyone the highlights of the Olympics opening ceremony, directed remarkably by Danny Boyle.

All rise; the Queen is here:

This sequence is set in a perfectly British theme, of course; bobbies marching, the classical background music, a beautiful aerial view of the palace (royally shot, I must say). James Bond (Daniel Craig) steps off his car, dressed to the nines, at the palace to escort the Queen Elizabeth Windsor to the London Olympics. He makes his way through the palace ─ a smug look on his face. Upon entering her room, he is greeted reluctantly by Your Highness and they move to the royal chopper to head to the games. After being waved at by hundreds of enthusiasts, they reach the arena, where the Queen (her stunt double) takes off in a rather ’007′ fashion. She jumps off the copter, fastened to her patriotic Union Jack parachute! And what a sight it was! I mean, watching the Queen jump of a helicopter like a fiery Bond girl? Definitely a once-in-a-lifetime thing. Paired with classic James Bond music, this sequence had me laughing and appreciating the totally cool transition from naturally royal and conservative to hilarious and awesome.

Of course, the real Queen’s entry wasn’t compromised for the fun and she made a graceful entrance (through a proper door in the arena) with the Duke of Edinburgh.

Mr Bean’s antics at the Olympics:

Then the London Symphony Orchestra, led by Simon Rattle, began performing. Rattle conducted the orchestra to play “Chariots of Fire” and some seconds into the smooth melody of violins, cellos and double basses, a certain someone played a note on his keyboard. In his full-fledged Mr Bean character, Rowan Atkinson was dropping the beat like a pro! Atkinson has always been a silent winner as Mr Bean and made millions laugh with his antics. Having to play only a single key recurrently on the keyboard throughout, a bored Bean was seen checking his mobile phone, his watch, managing to sneeze and wiping his nose without missing his note. He is also seen sleeping and dreaming about cheating to win a race on the beach. He wakes up to a shocked Simon Rattle looking angrily at him playing his instrument even after the performance has ended.

This sequence cannot be explained justly in words, maybe because Mr Bean rarely uses any! It has to be watched to have a taste of the grand combination of a quintessentially British event paired with a comedic genius. Rowan Atkinson is easily the pride of British comedy!

Arrival of the Olympic torch:

Speed-boating along the Thames came the very handsome David Beckham with a beacon to light the Olympic torch. The dazzling boat, lit in pink and blue, streamed smoothly as firecrackers simultaneously spurted on the riverside to welcome it. Five-time Olympic gold medallist in rowing, Sir Steve Redgrave, awaited torch-in-hand for the celebrated footballer. When the boat halted, Redgrave lit the torch and paced, running upstairs to bring it to the stadium.

Construction workers lined up on the sides and the spectators chanted in excitement, applauding in joy, as the British sporting legend made his way inside the stadium. This almost ritualistic ceremony is always a reminder of history; of ancient Greece where it all began. The man running with a torch in his hand held up high has almost become an emblem of inspiration for sportsmen and fans around the world.

Portrayal of the Industrial Revolution:

What left me extremely overwhelmed was the Industrial Revolution sequence — a perfect orchestration of one of the most significant centuries of history.

Smoke puffed out of flue-gas stacks and an unwitnessed nostalgia filled the stadium. Drums played loudly and people from many different countries and ethnic backgrounds could be seen moving to a 17th century Britain. British soldiers donning red coats paraded by as an array of blacksmiths worked arduously on flattening and channelling molten iron into a canal that led to a ring. Rich-looking British men, with cigars in their mouths and top hats on their heads, roamed about performing a zealous dance routine and miming shovelling gestures that depicted the industrial revolution immaculately. Soon the whole canal and the ring lit up with bright, orange (and, of course, fake) molten iron and the labourers stopped their rhythmic hammering. The orange ring rose up into the air as four other similar rings came together and formed the legendary, flaring Olympic rings.

I believe Danny Boyle outdid himself with this particular exceptional piece of direction. It stood out the most to me amongst all the other very exquisite sequences in the opening ceremony.

Other important events included the participation of boxing demigod Muhammad Ali, and, of course, the heart-warming performance by rock living legend (and my perpetual crush) Paul McCartney.

I’m not an avid sports fan but this opening ceremony has shown great promise and I hope to follow the Olympics this year!

This post originally appeared here.

Social Media Mela or Twitterati Kitty Party?

Yesterday afternoon, I was at the Social Media Mela, (better known as SocMM12) at Avari Towers, Karachi. As I neared the hall where the particular session I had to attend was to be held, I heard they were running late ─ and fashionably so.

When I first saw #SocMM12 trending on Twitter, I immediately thought of guns (let’s blame rap songs on the radio for this). When I found out what it really was and I took a look at the event guide online, I made a biased assumption; this wasn’t going to really be a broad-horizoned ‘social media’ mela; it was going to be one big tweet-up.

As I sat outside the Indus hall for fifteen minutes, awaiting the session, many people who looked familiar walked by. These prominently included a spectacled, curly-haired girl, who turned out to be Mehreen Kasana; and a woman in a gaudy, yellow kurta with abindi on her forehead, who, to my surprise, did not turn out to be Marvi Sirmed.

Since the session I had to attend was delayed by almost an hour, I decided to attend Sana Kazmi’s ‘How I Got To Mohali’ session. Having heard her name on Twitter a lot, I was curious to see her in real life.

Upon entering the hall, I realised I was totally underdressed. Everyone else had suited up and here I was – hair unkempt, nose unpowdered, in my creased pick-anything-for-work outfit.

“So this is a tweet-up”, I said to myself, as I saw many prominent Twitterati in the hall.

Social media mela? I don’t know. I think it should have been called the ‘Indo-Pak Twitterati kitty party’ or the ‘Subcontinental Tweet-up’. And I say ‘Indo-Pak’ not because there were many Indians there, but because most Pakistanis were dressed like Indians. I thought they were from India until I heard them throw questions at the panel and tell them that they were Pakistani. Saris and bindis everywhere!

A way of welcoming our friends from across the border, perhaps?

With the exception of a few faces, all I saw was middle-aged, Twitter-savvy liberals kissing up to each other. They were chatting and laughing loudly, complimenting each other at any chance they could find. Some were seen looking like they we holding a very important discussion, but upon moving closer, one would discover that they were engaged in talking about something banal and obvious. In all, it looked like a kitty party of Pakistani elites who were friends and very active in the social media scene (just Twitter, really). They are often seen giving each other shout-outs on Twitter and inviting each other for dinners out of social media courtesy.

Sana Kazmi’s session went well. Although it seemed as though she had little experience addressing to an audience, I found her to be one of the most pleasant speakers there. It was quite an enjoyable half hour where she told about her amazing Twitter experience that landed her and her friends seats in the 2012 cricket world cup semi-final in Mohali. I’m glad I chose to attend this session because the one I was looking forward to ─ The Maya Khan Takedown: In Praise of Slactivism ─ had little to offer.

Probably, the only entertaining bit of the Maya Khan session was moderator Faisal Kapadia’s humorous remarks. The little enlightenment anyone got from it was points raised by Beena Sarwar. Occasional laughter was heard over Kasana’s comments, who I found to be as funny in real life as on her blogs. Upon being asked what we’ve gained from the Maya Khan takedown, Marvi Sirmed digressed into irrelevant details of unrelated things. After a good five minutes of incessantly telling everyone how she was suspected to be a CIA agent at age eight, she was interrupted by Kapadia to answer the real question. This did not stop her from going on another five minutes; only this time, it was a tad relevant.

A person from the audience I totally expected to raise his hand was Mohsin Sayeed. And, boy, did he have an agenda! He barely gave the panellists a break to respond and went on about how he thinks that slactivism targets are misogynistic picks. I don’t understand how this is misogynistic because the list includes Amir Liaquat and Mubashir Lucman, too. Saeed basically ordered everyone to point fingers at Kamran Shahid.

When I got done with the session, I moved to the refreshments section to see the speakers off stage and possibly talk to some ─ but for the most part, to grab something to eat! Of course, they were too busy talking to each other. A generally loud, jolly Mohsin Sayeed was seen hugging a confused, unwilling looking Sabeen Mahmud. A bunch of girls flipped their hair and occasionally talked in Urdu in their broken, made-up accents.

I sighed and moved forth to get my hands on some cinnamon sticks – easily one of the highlights of my day.

This post originally appeared here.

Once upon a monsoon in Khulna

“I am NOT Shona!” protested Naina, who wasn’t a fan of her childish nickname. PHOTO: AP/Channi Anand

“Sit still, Shona!” yelled an agitated Tara, washing her younger sister’s feet, “I will pour this water on your head if you move your feet again!”

“I am NOT Shona,” protested Naina, who was now six years old and did not like her childish nickname very much. “Leave me alone. Mashima washes my feet better than you, anyway. Somebody help me! Didi is trying to drown me!” she yelped.

The 400 yard house echoed with Naina’s routine bellows. Everybody knew that her daily tantrum had begun. Mashima – otherwise indifferent to Naina’s behaviour – told her to be quiet.

“Shut up! Can you not see I am tuning my sitar, you brat?” she shouted from eight feet away.

It was a sunny July afternoon in Khulna, Bangladesh. The garden smelled of last night’s rain and mango; freshly sliced and spiced mango that lay on bamboo sheets to dry so that it could be used to make pickle, murabba (mango preserve), and aam ka papad (mango crackers).

In accordance with the family custom, everyone washed their feet before coming to the table for lunch, and washing little Naina’s feet was an ordeal every day. Feet half cleansed, she quickly wore her slippers and began to run away from the porch. Despite her aunt’s warning, the rebellious little girl refused to have lunch and loudly announced her next destination.

“I am going to play under the coconut palms!” declared the spoilt child. “I hate your cooking, Didi.”

Her thanklessness fuelled her sister’s resentment.

“Fine, go away. That leaves more jaggery kheer for me after dinner”, said the sister, maintaining a calm tone. “But don’t go any further than the palms!” she warned, tucking the pallu (loose end) of her blouseless mustard sari into her petticoat.

Bummed out Naina sneakily gathered as many mango slices as she could from the garden and left. Her unkempt oiled hair and sweaty face glistened in the 3 o’clock sun. She wanted to be away from her family who she always believed was conspiring against her.

“I will stay out for hours so I can skip my class”, thought Naina, whose homeschooling had begun a month ago.

She wasn’t a fan of the family tradition of learning to play stringed instruments. Percussion was her thing. She was often found in the veranda, where she spent most of her time, dancing to her grandfather playing his tabla. The seventy-year-old music aficionado often told her about her deceased mother’s love for music and dance.

“You are just like your mother,” he would say. “She found music in the sound of raindrops hitting leaves and danced to the melody they produced when they fell on our tinfoil roof”, told the reminiscing old man.

It made Naina proud.

Naina wandered for two hours, occasionally stopping to play with street children. It did not take long before she bumped into her friend Punit. This wasn’t surprising; Punit was always outside playing. The rain, sun, storm, nothing stymied this seven-year-old boy into staying at home.

“Are those mango slices? Give them to me!” he demanded.

“No! You look filthy. And why are you always shirtless? Clean yourself up and I just might share,” replied Naina, oblivious to how much she was like her family members, who she thought were nothing like her.

The lean-framed boy snatched the slices from her and ran. When she lost sight of Punit after a long chase, Naina gave up, resorting to sitting in a corner. She was now in a marketplace where she had never been before. Everything was overpowering; the cacophony of a crowded bazaar, the stench of rotten meat, and the half-naked fishermen carrying basketfuls of shrimp.

Then it hit her; she was lost.

She swallowed a dry gulp and was surprised by the sudden realisation of how hungry and thirsty she was. The young girl who was always being spoiled and spoon-fed now found herself without a hand to hold. Tears filled her eyes.

“Mashima, Didi!” Naina cried in panic and despair, clutching at her heart.

It was raining again. She struggled, creeping between the crannies of the congested bazaar, and came into the open, wiping her tears with her sleeve – her skirt now filthy from colliding with a pile of fish viscera.

She prayed she would be rescued.

I will do everything they tell me, God! Please magically send me back home!

Then she heard someone calling out to her.

“Naina!” cried her sister from just feet away – a look of anxiety on her damp face which was strewn with her dark, wet fringes; her sari now almost translucent.

“Didi, you’re here!” Naina screamed in joy, her throat still hurting from choking in tears and bitter from the taste of anguish.

“Oh, come into my arms, my Shona!” exclaimed the aching sister, embracing the apple of her eye.

The nearby river, expectant of a storm, seemed to subdue its roars and the melody in the raindrops had returned.

I will never force you to wash your feet again!