Reviving An Old Resolution

Well-wishers have been urging me to pick up my pen and write poetry with it rather than prose. Would-be poems lie neglected in some unknown crevices of my sub-conscious, the poetry pen turns rusty, the ink gelling into a semi-solid. "The world isn't going to get better if you sit here glumly, Noor," one friend scolded. "Go and write some poems - that's something you can do!" It was good advice. 

 Yesterday, I decided to pick up that wretched pen and shake it awake from its long dreary slumber. It's game time, pen, I thought. So, I revived my Chai and a Poem series, which was my resolution to write a poem every day. I was not going to pay attention to the writing, worry about how good a metaphor was, fret about what the structure said about a poem - I was simply going to write for the sake of writing. I started the Chai and a Poem series last Fall. At that time, I was posting all poems for this series on Desi Writers Lounge, an online writers workshop. (I edit poetry for DWL. We also release a bi-annual magazine by the name of Papercuts.) Once the poems started coming with some regularity, the content improved, the technique started to shine, and some of my later poems in the series have been selected for publication in the upcoming issue of Papercuts. 

 This time, I wrote my first poem for the Chai and a Poem series last night and sent it to my good friend and inspiring writer Usman Malik. He panned the poem. His comment to me, quite simply, was "This just isn't good enough. These are superficial phrases that do nothing for the reader. Show me more. Where's Noor?" His words were brutal, but true. My pen sure was rusty! This morning after getting ready for work, I sipped water in front of the kitchen window and saw the city scintillating below me. Smoke emerged from the chimney of the house across the street from me and dissolved into the fog that hung like a blanket in the air. That image struck something, so I wrote another poem and sent it to Usman. He immediately wrote back "Now that's what I call a Noor. Barring a couple minor nits, this is quintessential Noor with her power to surprise me." I was delighted! Chai and Poem had rescued me again. There's a lot more land to be covered, but at least I am not lost.

More poems to come. 

Genocide in Pakistan

What is a human life really worth? Maybe I should specify the human - that will make it easier. How much is the life of a Pakistani Shia child worth?

"Islamabad, Pakistan (CNN) -- A series of blasts in the city of Quetta in southwest Pakistan killed 93 people and wounded 169 Thursday, police said.
Children were among the dead, officials said."

 Why don't these numbers shake the sensibilities of everyone who matters in Pakistan? Why doesn't the world grieve? Why is there no voice given to these massacred people, many of them children? Just because the world does not see them, is their life worth only a headline? How long will minorities be trampled in the Islamic Republic of Pakistan and how long will it be tolerated?

 Pakistan is burning. The countrymen watch, throw a few twigs into the fire, someone brings a few bucketfuls of fuel and feeds the flames. Those people who are burning are invisible. No one can see them. And that's why if they turn to char, it doesn't matter at all.

New Year, Same Me

A few weeks ago, I blogged about finding happiness in little things like wearing earrings and make-up to work. The new year brings with it the predictable buzz of resolutions (made by other people, not me - I resolved not to make any resolutions this year). 

Everywhere I turn, there are enticing advertisements promising to turn me into "the new me." Who is this elusive new me? What is she like? Is she thinner, prettier, fashionable, well-read, the epitome of grace and poise? Does she wear high-waist slacks that I have always wanted to wear but never been able to pull off? Does she have those two extra inches in height that I have always wanted? Does she have a library with a mahogany desk and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves? Does she have leather journals full of intelligent essays and beautifully rendered poetry that she has penned herself ? Does she know how to read music? Does she play the piano? Does she know how to cook healthy food that tastes great? What is her style - understated and minimalistic, bold and forward, or does she simply exude a quiet brilliance? Does she like eating fancy things like oysters? Is she above feeling guilt and remorse for things she can't change? Does she have time for spas and charities and fundraisers and exercise and wellness? 

 The questions are endless.

Here's the thing. I don't want to be "the new me." I like me! I am happy being me even when I am in my cotton pajamas ALL DAY on my days off. I am fine with that. I am OK with writing blog posts that are about both the significant and insignificant parts of my life because they mean something to me, and I'd like to think that this emotion gets translated into my writing. I like playing episodes of The West Wing while I work on (and simultaneously curse at) my macbook with Usman's snores in the background. I love planning meals and hunting new recipes for tried and tested favorites like Chicken Karahi, Korma, Bhuna Keema. I am perfectly comfortable with cooing to Jahan in a really annoying baby voice that singsongs and lisps and makes her laugh uncontrollably. I think being the current me is fine, especially if it involves driving through the breathtaking scenery of the peninsula every morning, listening to a great audiobook, as dawn breaks in orange-grey streaks on the horizon, clouds hug the mountains at a distance in a cottony embrace, and fog lingers in the air.

 New year, same me, except I have decided to add "wearing heels" to the list of things that boost my happiness along with earrings and makeup. So far, it's going great.

The Curious Case of Missing Butter

Last night after dinner, I had to complete the mundane task of emptying and sorting three bagfuls of groceries. Bread, eggs, broccoli, mushrooms, milk, tilapia fillets, et cetera. Usman and I were talking about a few things that we should institute into our daily lives - important things, you know - such as exercise, which is completely absent from my routine. I think it was a subtle hint given by my very tactful husband. Jahan was playing with the grocery bags as I was putting away the items. 

 When everything was sorted, I opened the pack of Tilapia and soaked four fillets in vinegar (doing this for 10-15 minutes prior to seasoning gets rid of the fishy smell), and started making a small salad. When I was almost done, Jahan started to complain with her arms up in the air and her face set in an irresistible pout: it was time for bed. 
 
I quickly seasoned the fish and started to look for the pack of butter we had just bought to start cooking. I scanned the fridge from top to bottom. No butter. Weird, I remembered holding it with the eggs just a few minutes ago. I searched the fridge as fast as I could while being thorough, checking off each shelf and drawer one at a time. No butter. 

"Am I losing my mind?" I mused. 
"Probably," said Usman without looking up from his game and without asking me why I said that. "What's going on?"
I explained. We started to look for the butter together while a very angry 15-month-old kept tugging at our clothes. We searched everyhwere, and I mean everywhere. Under the sofas, in the toy box, in the kitchen cabinets, in the trash, under the beds, in the bathroom, in the closets, on the stairs, in the pantry. NO BUTTER!

We deduced that Jahan had stashed it somewhere in the few minutes it took me to put everything away. 

All night I had dreams about a mound of golden yellow butter melting, melting, melting, flowing river-like, snaking its way into my clothes, dishes, carpet, bedspread...

I have to find this butter!     

Anybody Home?

When I thought two weeks ago what I would do over my winter break, the thing that was foremost in my mind was this blog. I was going to write to my heart's content. I was even planning to attempt another poem after months of being inspirationally barren. I was going to edit a friend's novel. I was going to cook. At least I did that along with cuddling with my baby endlessly.

I also did a lot of thinking. And I mean A LOT.

 Most of the thinking was fueled by the terrible news I've been reading, both domestic and international. Dangerous and melodramatic questions like "What is the meaning of this all?" and "What will become of us?" kept me awake at night. Most nights, I was not able to fall asleep before 3AM. It was like someone had constructed a long winding staircase in my brain. Every night, I opened a door and ended up at the topmost stair. It was a long fruitless task to make my way one step at a time downward. I gained nothing, but I could not help myself. I did not have the discipline to hold back, wait a little, just stop. 

 Before sleeping, my last thoughts were usually "I never want to go back home" or simple old-fashioned nostalgia, but I felt nostalgic for this moment, my present (aptly described by Gretchen Rubin in her new book Happier At Home). This is my perfect time, the three of us together, happy, content. But what about that nagging negative? Not wanting to go home? Isn't this home? Is Lahore, even after all these years, still home? 

 The answer came to me suddenly just now. I was making my way down the wretched staircase when a realization dawned on me like a wave on a cold Northern California beach hits your feet and knocks the wind out of you. I must, no, I need to go home. I need to go back to Lahore. I need to go back and fret and worry and get food poisoning and obsess over Jahan's health and breathe in that air and taste that food and...

 It has been ten years. 10 years. A decade. That is a long time to not see your father's face. It is a long time to be away from the ones you believe you still love even if you don't feel the love. I need to go back just to know if my father's hugs feel the same as they used to, one arm loosely around me, while I hugged him back with both arms holding on for dear life, dear love. I need to go back to see if the street I grew up on still looks the same, if jasmines still bloom everywhere, and if the Moon Market still has the same kebab-walla and Chinese-walla. I need to go home for reasons both big and small, but mostly I need to see the faces I can't picture anymore when I close my eyes. 

 There are very important reasons for the three of us to go to Lahore - Jahan still has not met most of our family - but that is not my reason. That is one reason, which is also an obligation, but it is not the cause that draws me towards Lahore tonight. It is not what calls to me as I sit in my comfortable house with central heating and readily available gas and hot water.

My reasons, as I said, are big and small. I must see my father's eyes. I must taste Lahori barbecue. I must visit the Lahore Fort. I must embrace the only living grandparent we have left - Usman's grandmother. And even if I get food poisoning and if Jahan gets sick, I will give her a taste of the street food of my city, so help me god. 

Hope


There is nothing more dangerous than hope, you know, and nothing more kind either. It can make you hold on to your last few breaths. It can make you forget the pain you are enduring. It can also make the physical ache of grief - the feeling of a fist around your heart - a little dull as time goes on. Hope, quite simply, heals.

 It is found in strange places - that infinite moment that hangs inside a child's smile before it bursts into a cackle of laughter; in the state of dreamlike stupor when you're awake and aware of your surroundings, but not quite in your body because you can feel that you are where you really want to be (maybe next to a loved one who is no longer with you, in the home of your childhood, in a place of contentment); in an old anthology of poems in which someone long ago circled a line that causes a soft bell to chime in your heart and you feel a weight lifting, evaporating, disappearing; in the shallow breaths that ebb and flow as you repeat a phrase of comfort learned in another world over and over and over...

 ...Inna Lillahi Wa Inna Ilayhi Raaji'oon
Truly, to God we belong and truly, to Him we shall return. [Noble Quran 2:156]

Winter Memories of Lahore

Recently, my dear friend Shivneet invited us to her house for brunch. After serving delicious aaloo parathas, she prepared "Indian coffee" for us. She used Nescafe instant coffee. She took equal parts of coffee and sugar and added just a few drops of water to this mixture. She then whipped it vigorously for several minutes until the dark brown mixture changed to a luminous golden color with a creamy consistency. Each of us then added a spoonful of this mixture into our cup and poured hot milk over it. The result was a perfect cup of frothy coffee with the taste of home.

 In Lahore during the winter, a magical thing used to happen. The street food vendors of the city sprouted a new variety of specialty stands or dhaabas. Overnight, right next to the seekh kebab, burger, and shawerma stands, a small row of carts appeared selling delicious and satisfying foods perfect for the dry chill and thick fog of Lahore. Hot and sour and chicken corn soup were the best! Sometimes I used to stop at the market twice in one day just for a large bowl of steaming soup that was brought to my car right in the middle of the shopping area. I would add generous amounts of thinly sliced Serrano chilies, vinegar, and a special red chili sauce and enjoy the soup lazily. 
Large carts served as makeshift street shops for sellers of nuts and dried fruits. They displayed heaps of almonds, walnuts, pine nuts, and peanuts still in their shells along with dried berries, apricots, and prunes . We used to buy them by the pound. Then in the evenings, my sisters and I used to sit in front of the TV and crack nuts while we watched our favorite shows. I always started a knitting project in the winter and tried my best to multitask, but was always left with an unfinished scarf by the end of the season. The blaze of the gas heater was a warm comfort and we tucked ourselves under my mother’s heavy chenille comforter – green with fuchsia roses – all three of us huddled together.

 One year my eldest maternal uncle visited us and dropped off a  winter specialty that I had never had before – hunter beef. According to Wikipedia “Hunter Beef is native to Pakistan. The beef is marinated in spices and Potassium Nitrate and then baked. It is usually used in sandwiches and salads.” It was DELICIOUS! Sometimes on particularly cold nights, I crave hunter beef and wish I could go back to the dimly lit kitchen of my mother's house. She used to keep slabs of plastic wrapped hunter beef on a crystal tray. I used to take a little piece as I passed through the kitchen and munched on it in the drawing room with a copy of a book of poems in my lap and the fog making strange shapes outside the windows. 

And then there was coffee. Small, neat looking stands in busy marketplaces boasted the perfect cup. Back then, for a few rupees and a few minutes of your time, you could take your pick between a Styrofoam cup of fake coffee spat out by a machine with capsules of artificial flavors...or...you could witness a work of art. The seller would make small heaps of instant coffee and sugar in a porcelain cup and whisk it with water deftly and swiftly. You could see the mixture turning thick and creamy, changing color, looking ready for that steaming cup of milk. He would then add the hot milk to it from a steel saucepan being heated on top of a portable gas stove. The liquid hitting the cup would make thick sloshy appetizing sounds. Foam would rise to the top of the cup and settle there like a small sea of bubbles. The perfect cup of street coffee. There used to be nothing better on a cold winter night back then.

Today, after having a particularly depressing conversation about the state of Pakistan - safety gone to hell, country splitting apart at the seams, large expensive restaurants serving all cuisines of the world, street food close to forgotten,  and 70% of the population going to sleep with an empty stomach, I - in a state of guilt and disillusionment - took out the small jar of Nescafe from my pantry and threw a spoonful in a cup with two packets of Splenda. The result, though imperfect, was tasty - it induced nostalgia and inspired this post. My endeavor can be seen below in pictures. 


 


An Elf Who Writes Poetry

Ten years of living in California, more than half of them alone, has made me a realist (those who knew me best in my past life in Pakistan call me cynical), and has also taught me the value of both having and not having household help. I love cooking and cleaning; the former learned like a science with sheer force of will to conquer my husband's palette and make him realize that I am not a failure at anything, not even at the art of cooking perfect biryani; and the latter coming naturally to me as a product of loving order and aesthetic (my father would argue that it comes genetically from him). 

This particular love for both acts makes me happy that having household help is the exception rather than the rule in America. We are the true "servantless cooks" as the great Julia Child called us. We plan a party from start to finish, from nibbles to appetizers to entrees to desserts, from china to music to candles to flowers, it is all up to us, and all this is accompanied by the less than charming chopping, cutting, washing, frying, dusting, vacuuming, scrubbing, and shining. There are days now when I really don't want to do the dishes or wipe down the counters or pick up scattered toys after Jahan is asleep. In these moments, I find myself wishing for my own little elf, a full-time maid like we had at my mother's house, unintrusive and vigilant, she would hover at the edges of all messes, clean them up like magic, assist with the annual winter cleaning (we undertook large cleaning projects in the winter in Pakistan because the spring/summer monsoons generally made everything very messy) by dusting, folding, wiping, mopping, et cetera. She would wash the dishes as my mother cooked, and by the time the meal was over, the kitchen would be sparkling clean. At night, she would tell me and my sisters stories. In the morning, she would iron our uniforms and wave from the gate as my mother pulled away from the driveway to take us to school. I loved her. 

 I am reminded of her now close to twenty years after she stopped working for my mother (she got married), because my sister-in-law, Maham, has just hired a new maid. A few days ago I saw Maham's tweet:
"Been having the TOML [time of my life] winter cleaning with an elf I can call my own! Yay Nazia!"
We then spoke on Skype and I had the pleasure of meeting Nazia. About fifteen years old with large eyes, an open unassuming countenance, and a ready smile, Nazia fluttered on the periphery of the view. Maham raved about her manners and quickness in learning, her love for reading, and drive to succeed...and her poetry. 
In Pakistan, there is such an overwhelming majority of the population under the poverty line and lacking even primary education that there are always children as young as ten or eleven who are compelled to work to support their families. I will give you an example. My mother is currently employing one full-time maid who is about 15 years old. The maid's mother has passed away due to a sickness that was probably as treatable as pneumonia, but due to lack of resources and healthcare, she was not able to get treatment. Her father has some kind of mental illness (what it is, no one knows, because there is no infrastructure for the poor to see doctors and get diagnoses). His two daughters are currently living in my mother's house. The older one, the 15-year-old, helps with household tasks like cooking and cleaning. The younger one, about 8 years old has become the new apple of everyone's eye and has been enrolled into a neighborhood school to study. The older one is also getting lessons from my sister at home. With the best luck, these two little girls will stay in their present situations for a few years (if their father doesn't try to move them to better paying jobs), get a basic education (not all employers are able to offer the same charity to the household help - yes, getting them an education is considered charity, because it's money coming out of the employer's pocket with no way of knowing whether the servants will even stay with the same family - it's a complicated relationship), and then marry one rung above their social status, best case scenario - to a day laborer, driver, shopkeeper's assistant, etc., so their children don't have to clean people's houses for a living and can get a proper education.  
Many of the patron families are gentle and loving. My mother has always treated household help as  part of the family. It is the same in my mother-in-law's house. It is the case in many middle-class, educated, genteel families. However, in certain cases, the household help is abused by the hiring family, and on the flip side, there are cases where servants rob their employers, abuse children they are hired to look after, etc. There is a whole spectrum of unfortunate circumstances. All different kinds of people everywhere, that's what it boils down to in the end.
But let's focus on the fortunate events, shall we? So, Nazia has come to work for my sister-in-law for two months. Hearing that she likes to read Urdu digests and the poetry of Faraz Ahmad and Allama Iqbal piqued my attention. Many of the maids who come from suburban towns and villages are completely illiterate. To hear that Nazia can read and write made me happy and sad at the same time. I will explain why in a second. I asked to talk to Nazia and she came forward shyly. 
Me: "What do you like to read, Nazia?" 
Nazia, the poet and reader
Nazia: "Urdu novellas and stories."
Me: "Maham told me that you also write poetry. Do you?"
Nazia: "Yes, in Urdu and Punjabi."
Me: "Wow, that's great shaabaash [good job]. Can you recite one of your poems for me?"
She did. It was good. Full of pining love and woes of a broken heart.
Me: "Nazia, did someone break your heart? Are you sad? Or do you just write these because you like to?"
Nazia: Laugh. "I haven't done anything that would break my heart, Baji [big sister]. This is just what I think of."
I then asked her if I could write about her and put her picture on my blog. At this, Maham quickly pulled up this blog on her computer and told Nazia that this is Baji's "magazine." Maham looked at me to ask if this explanation was alright. I nodded my assent. Nazia got really excited about being featured in my "magazine."
Nazia: "Baji, thank you for thinking I am worth writing about."
I wanted to cry a little bit. Here was a brilliant young woman with all the passion of the world in her poetry thanking me for considering her worth writing about. If only it was within my power to let her know that she and others like her should be worth much more. Worth free government schools and vocational training and a movement for girls' education. I, being disillusioned with Pakistan for so long, saw promise in this young woman. Here was true Pakistan. A girl from a village with one school for miles and one medicine dispensary selling cough and fever remedies. This girl probably sat on bamboo mats in a mud hut with a thatched roof  to take her lessons. And here she was in one of the biggest cities of the country happy as a lark in her present situation.
Me: "When did you drop out of school, Nazia?" 
Nazia: "After 8th class. There were no more classes in our village school. But I wanted to study more. I wanted to be something."
Me: "What would you have become if you had studied more?"
Nazia: Shy laugh. "A doctor or something."
I said I would explain why I was happy and sad when I first learned about Nazia's poetry. I was happy because I had no doubt that Nazia's children would have an education. She would make sure of that. Her mother had done her a great service by sending her to the village middle school. She was now much better prepared to do more than that for her own children. I was sad because she could have been more if only she had the resources. A doctor or something. 
But for now, I am happy that Nazia is lighting up my house in Pakistan. She is helping Maham with the housework, going shopping with her for clothes, buying lots of Urdu digests to read during the day, learning how to cook from my mother-in-law, and is content overall. She is wonderful company for everyone and a comfort for my mother-in-law who flits about the house all day like a worker bee. To me, she is a satisfying presence in the background of Skype calls, sitting in her corner of the room she will share with Maham for the next two months, snug under the covers with a pile of books next to her, engrossed in her digest, looking up periodically to wave and smile at me.
I am waiting for this little elf to write some of her poetry down so I can send it to Urdu magazines to be considered for publication. I have promised myself that this will not be the only "magazine" in which Nazia is published.   

Heroine for a Day

“Happiness is a place between too much and too little.”
-Finnish proverb


Aerial view of Lahore Fort
I am somewhat embarrassed to admit that by the time I was in high school I had my entire wedding planned out down to the music, lighting, venue, dress, and potential guest list. The venue was going to be the majestic Lahore Fort. I was going to wear a maroon-green-gold lehenga with a long trail. I was going to walk towards the dais through a pathway lit with tall torches separated by a fence of tube roses to Chopin playing in the background (tradition be damned). 

My actual wedding took place in a squat looking structure in the middle of Fremont, California. It was a restaurant that doubled as a banquet hall for parties. To call it charming would be egregiously generous of me. Since our wedding party did not have enough people to fill the banquet hall, we only rented half of the place and I sat on a make-shift stage in a cheaply made shalwar kameez bought in haste from an Indian store in Berkeley while complete strangers sat a few feet from us enjoying their meal. If there was music, I don't remember it. 

I had resigned to an acceptable wedding (as opposed to that of my dreams) when we first realized that it would be best for visa status purposes to get married in California rather than traveling back to Lahore, but I had not imagined that the day would end up reminding me of tacky ceremonies that my mother dragged me to when I was a child, in which the bride wore cheap crinkly chiffon-blend outfits with blush streaked across her cheeks in two well-defined diagonals, and the groom sat next to her with an overbearing mustache and a garland of roses or one made of five rupee notes (anyone remember those?). 

Well, it wasn't as bad as all that. 

My wedding outfit
But it was supposed to be my day, you know? It was supposed to be the one day in my whole life on which I felt like a Jane Austen heroine at the end of her novel embarking on a journey of love and freedom and romance and what have you. It was supposed to be the one day, just the one, I would want to remember and relive forever. Instead, my best memories of it conjure the word "mediocre" from the crevices of my vocabulary. My only thought was "Is this really happening?" Our extended families surrounded us and took pictures from their phones and cameras to share with our immediate families who could not be there for the occasion on account of visa difficulties in Pakistan. And herein lies the problem. I could not be the aforementioned heroine for a day because our families - parents and siblings - were not able to attend. 

It still would have been alright. We would have been able to have a wedding that made me feel like a heroine of just slightly less consequence than the heroine of the Lahore Fort had we not felt compelled to downplay celebrations as much as possible. There was no one person who intimated that we should forgo wedding festivities (like having a nice dress for me, a photographer to capture all the moments of the big day, etc.), but it was the collective response of loved ones and strangers back home alike that made my heroic day so unacceptable and downright scandalous "What? No family? And you are still going ahead with it? Why would you even consider? The eldest daughter/eldest son getting married in the absence of parents? Really? Haww haye."

I don't want to get into the reasons for not delaying the ceremony to a time when our families could attend. Suffice to say they were unavoidable, less romantic, and more practical than one would think - completely work and residency status related. Be that as it may, did I still not deserve to be that heroine for a few hours? Maybe for that afternoon in October of 2008, I should have forgotten about disappointments of others and just been the bride I wanted to be. I should have worn a gorgeous maroon-green-gold dress, we should have rented the whole god-forsaken-sad-excuse-of-a-banquet-hall, I should have given them Chopin's Fantasie Impromptu to play, and there should have been a professional photographer to cue me to behave demurely (or however heroines and brides are supposed to behave).

Because now, the disappointments are nowhere to be found. Our families appreciate the low-profile wedding we had, and everything that followed (the actual marriage: our togetherness as a family, frequent visits of loved ones from home, and Jahan, of course) has given them nothing but untainted joy. And I know, I know it is not about the wedding, it's about the marriage, which is nothing if not happy. 

Like the Finnish proverb says, "Happiness is a place between too little and too much," and sometimes I can't help but wonder if this place is closer to "too much." So, I should have gone ahead and had a nice wedding. I should have been a heroine for a day.