Kabuliwallah

On my way back from school, as I turned the corner of our dusty street, I came face to face with a familiar grin. Each wrinkle marking each eternal day of his life, Kashmiri’s long bearded face had broken into a toothy grin. ‘Of course, it’s Ramzan!’ I suddenly remembered. ‘Time he came for his annual trip.’ Aslam, simply called ‘Kashmiri’ by me and my siblings for as long as my memory goes back, seemed to live in a timeless time. He could have been 20, for his youthful laughter and twinkling eyes, or he could have been 80, for the tired lines that made horizontal patterns on his face, like fence wires. Sometimes I wondered if those lines were a map that he consulted everyday in the mirror, as he groped his way around misfortunes.
Every year, Aslam Kashmiri visits Delhi in the holy month of Ramzan, in the hope of earning a few hundred rupees by running errands for the families who knew him here, cleaning the masjid and some charity that people raised for him. After Eid, he would return to his family in the Dark Valley. He never called it so, but maybe he did. I do not remember why it stuck in memory as a ‘Dark Valley’. Maybe it was because of what I once overheard my parents say about him. Kashmiri had an old mother, a wife and two daughters at home, the elder of whom was roughly my age. His first born son was killed by a troop while playing in the street one day. No explanations were given, none were asked for. Just a few memories and some tears from a father who buried his own beloved son. And then, there was life. Back on track. ‘The Mare will come to my doorstep soon, Bibi’, he said one day. Kashmiri told me about the Mare of good Fortune that clip-clopped in the valley when good tidings were about to reach someone’s home. ‘What does it look like? Does it talk?’ I asked him. ‘No! One must not try to see it! That is important. If you hear the hooves of the Mare, you will be blessed with joys. But you must never try to see it.’ ‘Fine’, I thought. ‘As long as it’s bringing you some golden gifts.’
And sure enough, the following year, he brought us a present of a bagful of small walnuts that he grew on his small patch of land in the valley. ‘I have a little baby daughter, Bibiji!’ His eyes were dancing with joy when he handed the bag to my mother. ‘Did the Mare bring her? She must look like a fairy then!’ I piped up. ‘She does’, he replied. He took out a walnut from his pocket, broke the rock-hard shell with his teeth and fed me the kernels. ‘Kashmiri, how are your teeth so strong?’ I asked him, awed by the fact. ‘Bibiji, I rub my teeth with the raakh of these very shells. Haven’t you seen how Shaffo beats the metals with his iron hammer, and they obey his will?’ Shaffo the ironsmith made tools and pots of metal in his dingy little shop, the walls of which were always covered with soot. The analogy was lost on me, though, and I wondered how Kashmiri would look if he had teeth of that metal. Two years later, Kashmiri returned in December during Ramzan, with the news that his youngest daughter, (‘Fatima, we had named her’ he said) got hit with an iron pole when riots had suddenly broken out in the market where he had taken her to buy groceries. Fatima did not survive the blow, but Kashmiri did. ‘Did he try to glimpse the Mare?’ I wondered, but did not dare to ask because I could sense the grave air around him.
He returns every year, with his ‘salaam’ and wide grin intact, exactly the same as the year before. As he finishes his evening meal after breaking the fast, prayers constantly pour from his lips unabated. Our verandah echoes his words ‘May Allah reward you with the fruits and delicacies of paradise, for every meal that you feed me here.’ He rolls up the mat and leaves for the masjid where he sleeps at night.
The only other memory I have of being blessed with such fervent words, is that of a beggar who once arrived at our doorstep one freezing January night. He was hungry and cold, he said. I grumbled but got out of my warm quilt and took a little gravy and a piece of meat on a chapati for him. Never before had I seen a man eat so hungrily. After eating he thanked and blessed me with a heart wrenching voice that brought tears to my eyes. I could hear the Mare’s clip-clopping hooves.

“Religious Views: I’m spiritual”

Most profile pages on social networking sites these days carry this particular response, to an admittedly personal question. ‘I’m spiritual’ seems to be the hep thing to say, the politically correct thing too. Most ‘secular’ people would rather be called spiritual than assert any inclinations towards religion. Perhaps in these times of religious fanaticism and the skepticism any religious identity is subjected to, being ‘spiritual’ and not ‘religious’ is a clever standpoint. It conveys a secular orientation that steers clear of any leanings towards religion as an institution. One wonders then, whether this situation is snowballing into a phobia, an unfounded aversion to religion altogether. Spirituality is of course believed to be linked to a healthy, wholesome living. For many who live life in the fast lane, it is a make-believe source of comfort, one step to ‘save the soul’ in this stampede called life.
Religion in this scenario is relegated to a position of an unwanted tag of identification. Worse still, in this process it is left to be distorted and manipulated by a handful of fanatics who then claim a monopoly over it. Religion thus turns into an overpowering force beyond the control of ordinary, normal people. It is used as a tool to serve the personal ends of a small group. Quite a potent tool, too.
Given such distortions that the concept is subjected to, it is hard to recognize religion as a potentially positive force in one’s life. Setting aside the common markers of religiosity like praying and fasting (which do lend a certain kind of order and discipline necessary to life, but never mind), religion is a system beyond these tokenistic features. It is a whole way of life, if perceived in its holistic sense. It is a system that is not limited to abstract notions of love, harmony and piety, it goes on to provide a clear roadmap, answering all those ‘how to’s and ‘where from’s. For instance, it takes care of every aspect of one’s daily life- right from personal care, relationships, eating habits to communal living and even civic sense. As a system of values, religion provides a positive context for an individual’s life, prescribing the protocol for the individual’s interactions and for the society as a whole. Compared to these features of religion, spirituality appears to be slightly more abstract, though it is a necessary part of religion itself. Claims to piety and religiosity have been subjected to skepticism in this age of critical thinking, and rightly so. All institutions need to be revised over a period of time, to check unwanted elements that seem to get attached to them. Religion, like civilizations, evolves with time. It must be given its fair chance to survive in its true form.
The new age idea of spirituality fulfills certain purposes today, but at the same time, religion might also hold solutions. Instead of the off hand ‘I’m spiritual’, a chance should be given to ‘I’m spiritual and religious’. Religion has undoubtedly been the most inflammable issue in world history. It is one institution that is tainted with the blood of millions killed in its name. But that divisive force masquerading as religion must be shunned and disposed of. There might just be a religion beyond the politics of power that the world has seen for centuries. It must be given a life rope to hold on to, because it might just hold the key to many of the problems that societies today are grappling with.

Jagged Pieces

Tonight I am this sky
Darker than the inky sea
Not seen, not heard in a million years.
Darker than this emptiness
This hollow, shriveled self.
I am all the stillness outside
I am all the darkness in my veins

Groping to hold on to something
My fingers clutch the bitterness, so cold
It swallows me whole, yet it is elusive.
Now one image to behold, just this once?
No! A million shards it is.
Jagged pieces, each one a souvenir of an affliction
One failure after another,
Despair leading on to despair.
Hacking my soul with the sharp edges
Clawing at this self I had made
Piece by piece,
Illusion leading on to illusion.
I’m wretched now, bleeding a black blood
That runs in a burning river
Viscous, acid, poisoned.

I sit in this hell,
Is it the darkness or am I gone blind?
A hell beyond any hell.
And I wait.
Maybe I’ve been waiting all along
Maybe everything, everyone is waiting for that End
Some more deceived than the others,
But all like me, worthless dust
Raised to selfhood, yes, but dust nontheless.

Reserving Equality

‘Reservations’ has become a controversial word in the past few years in India. It doesn’t just concern the haves and the have-nots; it has much to do with power and politics. To put a complex phenomenon in simple words, reservations is not just allotment of seats to some people and blocking others from accessing them. There is a cycle that includes minorities, national integrity, vote banks and the development policy of the country.
This issue has been hotly debated on the national level and a crushing opposition has risen against it. Political parties have risen in protest of the bill on the grounds that it is ‘un democratic’ and it promotes ‘gender bias in favor of women’. There is also a sudden concern about voters being forced to elect ‘undeserving candidates’. These arguments may sound valid to some, but on a closer look, things aren’t so simple. Despite claims of ‘equal rights and opportunities’, the ratio of women parliamentarians to their male counterparts has been pitiably low. When half of the country’s population is comprised of women, reservation of 33% of parliamentary seats for them hardly seems like ‘gender bias in favor of women’.
Agreed, mere representation in the Parliament is not ‘The Solution’, but it is a good starting point for many reasons. To begin with, a minimum level of representation, even if tokenistic, at least puts across a message that half of India’s population does have a voice on the political stage, and has its representatives in the Parliament. As far as the question of ‘undeserving candidates’ is concerned, there are ways to counter such problems. There is always a possibility of ‘undeserving people’ enjoying power, and it is not restricted to the case of women alone. It is the responsibility of the legislators to ensure that no undeserving persons gain access to positions of power- be it men or women.
As Rajasthan CM Vasundhara Raje Scindia has recently informed the media, Rajasthan has successfully implemented such measures within the state and its administrative structure today has a strong representation of women. Reservations and special benefits for the girl child and for women in education and employment sectors, has yielded fruit in the past. So why not go a step further and include them in the legislative processes of the country? The proposed ‘quota within quota’ is an excellent means to ensure a more equitable representation. If women from minority communities get opportunities to access lawmaking, it would definitely be a laudable achievement for India.
Women’s reservation is needed today for many reasons. Its not because women are inferior than men in terms of education, skill or intellect. It’s just that they have not had sufficient opportunities to display and utilize these talents. Indian women do not need reservations to reach the parliament because they would otherwise be inept to do so, but because they have not had the means and resources to reach those heights. Its high time the law making body recognized these facts. It is my strong conviction that women do not seek the sympathy or the crutches of gender politics. What they seek is the recognition of their potential and a chance to use it to empower themselves. Those seats in the parliament are deserved equally by men and women, it is just the difference of who actually gets the chance to access them and prove their worth.

5 Things I Really, Really Aspire To

1. The sort of intellect and charisma I've seen in a certain teacher of mine.
2. The ability to sound scary sometimes. This is something I've got to get.
3. The ability to recognize people for who they are, preferably by the first two meetings. I've misjudged people plenty of times- and paid for it.
4. More self reflexivity and a better ability to introspect.
5. Less of dependence upon the opinion of others.

Shipwreck

Like broken pieces of glass
Gathered in bleeding palms
Life sobbed in silent corners
Unwanted, unseen, lost.
Pieces of sunny dreams
Pieces of bright colors
Pieces of lonely ramblings
Of unrequited hopes
Pieces of haunting laughter
Pieces of preserved tokens
Pieces of broken promises
Of painful old memories
It bleeds in anguish, it cries in vain
Arms outstretched, never to be reached
Sinking in the vast abyss
My shipwreck of a life.

Under the Scanner

This can be read as a sequel to my article on narcissism. But this is not just about the rampant self-obsession that seems to have taken over everyone. With all that social networking and publishing and putting yourself up for the whole world to see, comes a dangerous fact- you're more vulnerable than you think. I was hit by this fact by a recent experience, come to think of this- anyone who sees me and just knows which college or university i belong to, can within a couple of hours get all my personal details. Just by a few clicks of a mouse or just a couple of phone calls. Isn't it scary to know the whole world has access to your privacy, so quickly, with no security hassles to face and without you knowing any of their details, unless they want you to know?
Believe me, I'm one of those people who are really, really particular about their privacy. I may not have much to hide from the world, but I happen to be really fussy about how many people know even my real name! Let alone my e-mail ID and my cell/land line number. I take all possible measures to secure my personal information, be it at social networking sites (this is one of the reasons I've permanently logged out of all these) or be it the info I give at my college or workplace. And yet, people are able find out any information about me that they require! This fact leaves me so vulnerable and insecure.
Websites and databases may promise you any amount of security and privacy, but there are always methods to counter these ‘security’ measures, you know! I do not know if I’m part of a minuscule minority who feel this way, or maybe I’m the only one in this world who sounds so paranoid about their privacy, but this is something that really concerns me now. There are people who freely broadcast their lives on the internet or public spaces, and it’s their right to do what they want. But there are people like me who are simply not fine with it, and therefore we find survival on the internet a rather challenging prospect! Of course I cannot live without my e-mail ID and my blog; this is the only way in which I can stay in touch with certain people I know. No one can refuse to give their personal information at institutions or workplaces either, its so much of a necessity now. But it forces one to think what impact this will have on our society in future. I know that so much of free and easy access to information is good in one sense, but what if its endangering individual security? Are we then going to build up even more complex systems of security, and then are the hackers going build up even more sophisticated software to counter these measures? So where are we exactly heading, especially at a time when we spend around as much of our time in the virtual world as in the real one? Are both these identities inevitably going to clash and affect even those who want to keep away from them? These are questions that must be pondered upon by all virtual world, and also real world, individuals who presume they are safe and secure, while they are under an unknown gaze 24X7, where a scanner can track down their life history and details of their every day lives with a single press of a button.

Unexplained

There lives a man who
On freezing winter mornings
Or searing hot afternoons
Seems so engrossed
With no care in this world
But with a piece of chalk
Or a rusted stone
He writes.
Writes with a yearning
On the streets, the black charcoal road
On the outer walls of houses,
On railings, on dustbins,
He writes.
A story? Some tale long lost?
No, just crumbs of knowledge
The alphabet, or just numbers.
Undecipherable, unexplained
No beginning, no end.
They call him ‘mad’.
But he writes still-
“one, two, three, four…”
A count that goes on
Inexplicable, unstoppable...

"Excuse me bhaisaab, you forgot your manners behind"

Agreed, early childhood and adulthood are far apart. Too many years in between, but that certainly is no excuse to forget two or three simple words- excuse me, please and sorry. Yeah, our daily lives are busy, majority of our population struggle to keep up their hand to mouth existence, but honestly, how much does it take to be polite? How much does it take not to push women on a street, to step on people’s toes on the bus (and not even say sorry, while the poor thing yelps with pain) and what exactly does it take not to swear at the top of your voice in public?

The lack of civic sense is common knowledge, but on Delhi roads, its absence hits you hard in the face! You have to constantly look out to dodge people’s spit flying through the air like some extraterrestrial insect, and have to face the embarrassment of the background music of multi lingual swear words while taking an important call on your cell phone. Bus rides are the worst hit situations- Fights over the ‘Ladies’ seats’ are outrageous. Women lugging their children and bags get onto the bus and begin asking men to vacate seats for them, and more often than not, young and middle aged men simply ignore them. Then begins a round of bickering and abuse. In fact many a times it is elderly men who vacate seats for women. You wonder what’s wrong with these young guys who refuse to vacate seats even when they’re being given an earful for that. Not just anyone, even college students around my age, who look like they’ve been trained in manners, do that. Then comes the politeness bit. It seems most people assume that the bus conductors and drivers don’t deserve politeness. Even while asking for change, I saw this gentleman apparently on the way to a decent office, swear at the conductor loudly. And yeah, we Delhiites have a penchant for swearing even to joke with buddies. Sample this- “Arre kahan tha ab tak *$#%@ $# ?” and a hearty reunion of two guys follows. People fail to realize that their rather unruly reunion has an audience of around 70 people on a bus, including children. God knows what those poor kids make of it!

If I’m sounding like an uppity city girl who wrinkles her nose at others for some reason or the other, I apologize. But the point I’m trying to make is, our public places need to be a bit cleaner- not only the physical surroundings but also in terms of our manners and courtesy. You can clean and scrub Delhi’s face all you want for the Commonwealth Games, but if the common citizens refuse to make an effort to match up to this image makeover, I think it’s all pointless in the end. In fact this makes me think of rather bleak possibilities in terms of the after-effects of the Games. I hope we don't end up ravaging the city's resources for something that won't last lon enough to make it worthwhile. Here’s hoping for a better Delhi, AND better Delhiites!

The Negligent Blogger

Yeah, this is not ignorance, nor reluctance or anything in that league. A bit of negligence, and maybe, i confess, laziness on my part, that this blog hasn't been used in a loooong time. So I'm here to make amends. I've been missing not because there eren't things to write about- I just didn't squeeze out time and maybe I was procrastinating too much. So things accumulated for a long while, piling one on top of the other like sediments on a river bed, that sort of strated weighing heavily on my mind recetly. But since my other preoccupations took a back seat, (read: no SNSes anymore in my life) I think i'll manage to be fairly regular here. So hang on, my readers! I'm coming up with some interesting stuff soon! Catch you!

Narcissism all around!

Why, even i caught myself today, clicking myself, from my own cell phone. In case you haven't noticed the number of 'me's in this sentence, I'll share with you the scenario in college on a regular day: most people who happen to be free lounge about the corridors and lawns, either looking at themselves in pocket mirrors, or taking pictures of themselves and their friends. Scene on the bus: people buried in smses and cell phones, and yeah, some clicking away here too! Scene on the road: well, i don't need to repeat it again. so what happens to all these pics? they're on display for the benefit of the entire world. You'll find them on social networking sites, as cellphone wallpapers. And not just photos, even blogs talk about publishing yourself to the world. Even my blog here tells people so much about me. So what with so much of obsession with the self and what belongs to the self, aren't we heading to a society where people would simply refuse to look beyond their cell phone, their profile pages and their blogs? Everyone seems to be keen on expressing themselves and not on what others have to say. So eventually, there is going to be no audience for all this display! And the snake would turn in on itself...

Gourmet Legacy- Part 2: Mutton on my plate

Apart from the biryani, there is a whole world of sinful delicacies that vary in flavour, texture and taste. From baked and roasted to steamed and fried, mutton is as versatile as you can make it! To begin with, these can be categorised according to the cut of the meat. Whole pieces are used in gravy based dishes like the korma or the nahari (the latter's etymology rooted in the word 'nahar' or morning. It's eaten for breakfast, despite the rich taste of ghee and strong spices.) Ribs or 'chaap' are also marinated and fried. The next degree is what is called 'pasande', and i can't find an english word for this. It's boneless meat, thinly sliced and cooked in grave of curd and spices. It's flavor is as delicate as its texture, you can't stir it with a spoon, even wooden. Same case with koftas- my mom's trick is to lift up the whole deghchi or kadhav and lightly shake the meat balls to turn them. Koftas could be plain or stuffed with a chilli coriander mixture. And then there's the 'shabdegh', from shab or night and degh or a cooking pot. It's basically koftas with a different combination od spices along with turnips and carrots. And believe it or not, shabdegh has to be prepared on low flame, throughout the night to be served the following day, hence the name. Another variety is the nargisi kofta- delicate koftas, shaped big enough to hold a whole boiled egg at the center.
There are other varieties that I've missed on, a variety of soups, organ meats and much more that I might not have discovered yet. And of course, these are enjoyed with a range of breds- naans, kulchas, rumali rotis, taaftaan, tandoori rotis... Each different flavour is an experience in itself, waiting to be discovered.

Gourmet Legacy- Part 1 : The Biryani Odyssey

The Walled City... Mughals... street food...Did I say roadside biryani? Even if I didn't chances are, that it was already buzzing in your head. If you happen to be a non-vegetarian, you must read on, because here's a ride in to the world of the sinfule delicacies that are clubbed into one broad group- Mughlai food.
Skipping the very debatable debate over what exactly is Mughlai food, who discovered butter chicken etc., I shall right away chuck out all political correctness. It's the job of the food critics and bigwigs of the food industry, let them handle it.
What I'm about to write deals with the layman's preferences. Pardon me, I cater to lay women too. But that in itself is debate because for most people, including a rather intimidating aunt, eating non vegetarian food and eating well, is rowdy and messy business. So 'eating well', is essentially men's prerogative, while women demurely look on as they pick at their salad. However, I for one, enjoy sucking the marrow out of the bones (pun intended). And so I shall enjoy writing about it to.
I belong to a people who hold a fierce pride in being the 'original dilliwallahs'. They can bring out a family tree to trace back the last five or six generations who lived on the same land on which we today live. And so we are born with a certain superior taste when it comes to aunthentic Delhi cuisine. And that is not, my people would tell you with conviction, what is being presented to the world under fancy, much-hyped brands. Restaurants and hotels can slam each other all they want, but the ideal biryani is an art that comes to you naturally, or it doesn't come at all.
So why is the world all worked up about The Biryani? It seems to be every restaurant's claim to fame- the quintessential Indian dish that everyone believes they can get right. And there would be as many versions of it as the commentators- the potli pulao, the zafrani version, the Kashmiri version, the Hyderabadi version... their tastes may be worlds apart but they're all biryanis in the end.
So I'll take you to my people's version of it. Of course we have our 'generations old recipe', which, by the way, everyone seems to have. But the flavour we can achieve, my mother says, can slamdunk any of the "burger chhaaps" and give them a run for their money when it comes to good food.
As any non-veg enthusiast would know, white meat like chicken has no flavour of its own. The flavour of spices and vegetables has to be infused, when cooked with it. On the other hand, red meat has a flavour of its own, and an amazing one at that. So that means if you cook red meat even with the humble old lauki or potatoes, as its done at my place, it can beat any fancy recipe.
But then the beauty of good meat lies in the way it is cut and how fresh it is, which surprisingly, not many food critics seem to write about. In my mother's opinion (and she's a credible authority) meat shops in Old Delhi are perhaps the only ones who know every piece of meat, every bone and joint of the whole sheep or goat so well that they'd never cut the meat "as if they were chopping tomatoes." And then your meat is as good as its fresh. My people can tell with the first bite how fresh the meat is. Ideally, it has to be bought fresh, cooked and consumed within the same day.
Of course the rice and spices are important too. Soaked in salted water, the long and fine grains are inetgral. The spices are every chef's secret- they can make or break your recipe. Each piece of meat cooked in steam, NOT in a pressure cooker but a kadhav or a deghchi, has to be a tender and fragrant one, with its flavour still intact. And that, quick fix biryanis whipped up in pressure cookers can not achieve. Then there are the interesting variants like the 'potli pulao', where all spices are tied in a mulmul cloth, called the "potli" and kept with the meat in steam, called "dum", so as to get the essence of the spices. The potli is removed before serving the pulao. Zafrani and Kashmiri versions are much richer in flavour, enjoyed mostly in winters. This variety is cooked in milk with saffron, making the rice rich in flavour and soft in texture. Fried cashews are also used.
The Hyderabadi version, introduced to my folk by an aunt from Hyderabad, is an altogether different experience for North Indian taste buds. The hyderabadi Biryani is all about its spices- the cinnamons and cloves used in abundance for a sweet and spicy flavour. Also, it uses both mint and coriander together (either as whole leaves or as a paste) which happens to be a taboo in our North Indian cooking mantras. Nevertheless the biryani, in all its diverse glory, finds its way into all meat-lovers' lists of favourites.
(To be continued...)

A Faded Blue Ribbon

A Faded Blue Ribbon

A faded blue ribbon
Has a story of its own
Of days lived, years spent,
And of times bygone.

When a little girl wore it
On her dark locks
The sweetness of innocence
That youth now mocks

When the pretty young lass
Awaiting her life's sunshine
The ribbon adorning her dress
Of youth and beauty fine.

And then the lady of age
Weary of time and still going on
Her hat crowned by the ribbon
Now faded and worn.

From Beneath The Headscarf

From Beneath The Headscarf
It is a frequently discussed issue. Newspapers, tabloids and talk shows can go on and on defending or dismissing it. Diverse opinions have been articulated and commented upon. So this piece of writing is not going to do it all over again. Rather, here's the other side of the story. Here's the other side of the much discussed 'symbol of oppression', the headscarf.
Ever since I started wearing a headscarf, it has been an enigma of sorts- be it in college or in public places. So why do I wear a headscarf? Am I bald or is it some medical problem? Don't I get suffocated in it? Am I forced to wear it? Do I want to get rid of it? Questions were being fired left, right and center. Faster than I could cope with them. And then, there were the bus rides. Following any terror attacks, (allegedly, by what seems to have become the pet phrase with all political commentators, 'Islamic Fundamentalists',) a headscarf is suddenly noticed everywhere. People, from the looks of it, probably suspect me of hiding guns beneath it. Frisking for security at the metro stations of course took much longer for a covered-up-in-layers girl like me, than it would take the others. I looked like a terrorist, a friend once joked. Well, atleast it wasn't an accusation, the sort my American cousins had to face, way back in 2001 following the 9/11 attacks. Nevertheless, I've made my point clear. I'm writing this piece because in this ideological warfare, my pen is my mighty sword. Over the last year in college and my literature studies, I've grasped the magnitude of this power, and I've been taught to use it well. To speak out and to be heard. And so my headscarf speaks up through my pen.
To begin with, for the benefit of all the curious minds, let me announce this- the simple reason for my wearing a headscarf is that my religion tells me to do so. And since I'm a deeply, unapologetically religious person, who fully understands her right to practice her faith, this reason should suffice. A secular outlook doesn't mean its a crime to openly practice your religion. It only means tolerance towards other faiths. So long as I'm not imposing my views upon others and not condemning them for not doing what I do, I certainly am committing no crime. This is a democracy and I'm no Taliban. And no. I'm NOT your idea of the 'oppressed' muslim woman, seeking to be liberated by those who cast such pitying glances at me. I'm not bald or ugly, I'm not forced to wear a headscarf and I definitely do not wish to get rid of it, thank you very much. I do not owe explanations to anyone nor do I have to defend any of my actions. It's just that after a certain limit, it becomes quite difficult to tolerate being misunderstood and misjudged. It then becomes necessary to speak up, and that I shall.
The question of what women should and should not wear has been a part of public discourse accross the globe. Not only men, but women too have debated over what is acceptable and what is not. Now and then a certain Sarkozy or a Ram Sena or a Maulvi make an appearance on the public scene to give their verdicts on this subject. Opinions are critiqued, applauded, dissected, debated. And later buried. Somewhere in the process, people forget that muslim women too have a voice of their own. And they have their own brains too, which qualifies them for making reasonable and sound decisions for themselves. There is a general misconception that muslim women don't have a voice of their own. I am not talking about the stereotype of the 'oppressed-exploited-burqa-clad' figure that is part of the imagination of the masses. I'm talking of the real urban, middle class muslim woman who lives in the society just like other women.
And then there is the question of the muslim identity, riddled with undercurrents of terms such as 'fundamentalism', 'fatwas' and 'terrorism'. A headscarf instantly becomes a mark of a muslim identity. It screams out loud the fact that I'm a muslim. But so does any other religious markings we see in our everday lives. A cross around the neck, a mouli on the wrist, a steel kada proudly flaunted. So how does a headscarf become a mark of extremism? It forcibly puts you in a limelight you cannot escape. In a crowd of designer jeans, stylish skirts and spaghetti tops, a headscarf is the odd one out, the outcaste struggling for acceptance. I wonder if women even have had to struggle to flaunt western attire, the way I've had to struggle to assert my right to wearing my religious attire in a supposedly 'tolerant' society.
Coming to some technical aspects, I do not boast of feeling safer in my headscarf- that you cannot feel as long as you're living in Delhi and travelling alone in buses everyday. I'm as prone to an attack as the next person and so I have my set of self defence techniques to tackle my problems. As for feeling suffocated, the summer heat and soaring temperatures barely allow any clothing at all. So I guess its best to leave it to people to decide their own degrees of clothings for themselves. I know people who would dismiss my views as highly conditioned by my social background. But lets face it- one cannot escape conditioning of one or the other kind as long as one is living in contact with human civilisation. But one can of course discriminate between right and wrong for themselves and decide what is best for them. And so I weigh and deliberate and choose for myself. If my judgement finds a headscarf a good option, so be it.
Life in a headscarf is not all about a struggle- infact, except for the fact that my hair is covered, you'd be surprised to find me a normal girl! I too, have a thick and shiny mane that I spend time styling and dressing. Stylish accessories, branded clothes, a passion for music and arts, and of course my love for literature, are some of my normal preoccupations, which make me identify with the crowd of my age. There's a bright side to headscarves too- no damaged or dry hair, no split-ends, or dandruff, and you're safe from the sun and pollution. And no sun burns too!
So thats the headscarf girl for you. Just look beyond the head covering, there's a woman just like you. Broaden your perspective to embrace differences and celebrate them. My due respect to those who do not wear headscarves and choose for themselves what they wear. It's everyone's right and one that must be exercised. And that's the attitude I expect back- a broader, more tolerant understanding of other people who might choose to be slightly different from the mainstream. For me, a liberal society is rooted in respect for the personal choices of individuals and in giving them a chance to step out of the prejudices that have been created for them throughout history.
"...Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise..."
- Maya Angelou, 'Still I Rise'.

The Land Of Candy Butterflies

The Land Of Candy Butterflies

On a lazy summer afternoon
Or night of wintry pale moon
I often choose to wander by
The land of candy butterflies

Where vibrant flights of fluttery wings
Dance on petals in happy winds
A golden sprinkling of love around
Where blooms of every hue abound.

And where no burden, no darkness trails
And every spell of sorrow fails
Where my heart swells with joy and cries
My land of candy butterflies!