A Narration of Melancholic Elation

2/18/05
I left Goa on Feb 14th and was in Bombay early Tuesday morning, outside Victoria Station, strolling the surrounding the streets, and awaiting the sun’s appearance.
I spent a good part of the day trying to get my camera fixed… hoping I didn’t have to purchase a new one and not wanting to get jacked on any sort of prices. I picked up my camera the following day, slapped J.P. my 1200 rupees, went to Haseena Aunty’s for lunch, and headed to Mumbai Central because my train for Delhi was at 4:55… I sat seated in my AS3 Sleeper compartment 15 minutes prior.
There was a family sitting directly to my right and there was nothing but laughter and excitement from their jurisdiction for over half of the 17 hour journey. They were headed to Delhi for the first time, there was a wedding to attend on Saturday, and it was the uncle’s birthday today- they had good reason for cheer and so did I.
Two beautiful Punjabi children sat behind me with their parents and I spent half of my time trying to get the 6 year old boy to crack a smile… no luck.

I felt like it was so cliche for me to be sitting on the train, starring out into the countryside, watching the sunset, with my phones on…no not for any of these reasons… but because I had Jack Kerouac’s ON THE ROAD open in my hands. I hadn’t grabbed it out of my bag before this ride, because I felt it was completely cliche to be reading this book on the journey that I’m on. Lara would nod her head in agreement, because she says that people who just read the acclaimed work of an author are lame( Lara, I plan on reading Dharma Bums as well). But as I finished the first few chapters, grinning to myself and nodding in agreement; I discarded my previous thoughts.
I arrived in Delhi at 10:30 a.m. and walked from the train station to the taxi stand with more skepticism than a guy playing paintball wondering if his teammates have just turned against him. The horror stories that I had recently heard from fellow backpackers and the summary & advice from the Lonely Planet had created a medieval shield that I would hold with a firm grip unless someone chopped my hands off. The L.P. said to beware of auto-rickshaw drivers and the various scams that they love to pull- overcharging, taking joy rides, telling you that places don’t exist so that they can throw you to a hotel or agent that they are in cahoots with.
So when I got off the train, I walked to the taxi stand and asked a few drivers how much to certain places in Cannaught Circle, and got ridiculous answers like, “150 rupees (3 dollars), “You can’t go there because of the Metro project, It’s impossible,” I thought I now understood a portion of the horror. One guy told me he would charge me 30 rupees to take me to the Indian Tourism Bureau. So it was there that I was told the truth, I think.
There IS massive development going on in Delhi. The main bazaar is closed, the guest houses there are closed, and there is a doctor’s conference currently being held.
So I told the gentleman what my itinerary was. Delhi, Agra, Jaipur, Jahlasamer, Mt. Abu, Udaipur. He told me that they could give me a driver, car, gas, and full accomodations for a fixed price. I bargained him down a little and decided to cancel my train ticket from Delhi-Jaipur in 4 days.
I met the driver, Suresh, we went to to his home where he said good-bye to his family for 14 days, and we cruised around Delhi a bit.
We got caught at an intersection for 25 minutes: buses, rickshaw wallas, auto-rickshaws, motorcyclists, pedestrians, and bicyclists……all hollering at each other to move their asses.
A difference between Bombay and Delhi was evident: Better infrastructure and no rickshaw wallas in Bombay. I mean how can a guy peddling passengers on a bike move with the flow of traffic? I mean its a traditional mode of public transport and its a job that many depend on to live…But the huge negatives are apparent.
Indira Gandhi’s memorial was quite moving, interesting, and emotional. To read newspaper clippings, see photos, memoirs she wrote, and know the details of her life - are things I’m glad I saw and know now.
We left that evening for Agra…

One of my favorite tracks of last year was by Death Cab for Cutie. Ben Gibard’s cleverness in lyrical content & the catchy guitar riff make the song, “Title and Registration”, not only original and thought provoking, but melodic & melancholic as well.

It goes a little comething like:

The glove compartment isn’t accurately named
And everybody knows it.
So i’m proposing a swift orderly change.

Cause behind its door there’s nothing to keep my fingers warm
And all i find are souvenirs from better times
Before the gleam of your taillights fading east
To find yourself a better life.

I was searching for some legal document
As the rain beat down on the hood
When i stumbled upon pictures i tried to forget
And that’s how this idea was drilled into my head

Cause it’s too important
To stay the way it’s been

There’s no blame for how our love did slowly fade
And now that it’s gone it’s like it wasn’t there at all
And here i rest where disappointment and regret collide
Lying awake at night

There’s no blame for how our love did slowly fade
And now that it’s gone it’s like it wasn’t there at all
And here i rest where disappointment and regret collide
Lying awake at night (up all night)
When i’m lying awake at night.

I got a crack up though the other day, cause’ you still have to appreciate it when someone rips apart a song you dig. David Raposa, a writer for Pitchforkmedia, jotted his thoughts down on the track:

Death Cab for Cutie: “Title & Registration”
genre: O.C. rock

Would someone please cc: me on future memos regarding important matters like this renaming of “glove compartment” business? Not that I expect this change to go through (”swift and orderly” ha!), but I’m still pretty miffed about the situation. Despite what Mr. Gibbard would like listeners to believe, the glove compartment is indeed accurately named. See, the tricky concept to grasp here is this: a glove compartment is a repository in which the user can conveniently store implements such as title and registration documents (ding!), photos from some relationship you muffed, and, yes, gloves. This is a batteries-not-included type of device. The key– Mr. Narrator, pay attention– is to actually put the gloves into the compartment. That is, you get out what you put in– how’s that for a deep metaphor?
If you’re going to be all “boo hoo, I’m cold and there are wolves after me because I left my mittens next to my Brak cookie jar,” then remember to put the damn things in their proper place so that doesn’t happen again. (Yep, that’s right– metaphor!) Really, if you’re going to be that obtuse and hyper-literal about the damn thing, then I dare say the blame for why your love did slowly fade is square on your slumped shoulders. The shame of this tragedy is that the music behind this blah-blah is gorgeous, a sad old clock tick-tocking like a pair of windshield wipers fending off nighttime rain. It’s so good, it almost manages to lend this weepy whining some damned perspective. Were this backing track just unabashed Rodan worship, then Ben could sing about being lactose intolerant and having dry patches on his heels and his Adidas I wouldn’t give a shit because– that’s right– I wouldn’t be listening. But nooooo– Death Cab’s gotta write a sumptuous lyrical piece of music and then top it off with a Dirty Sanchez. You bet your ass disappointment and regret are colliding. [David Raposa]

I finally got a few pictures up…The next batch will be better…I swear…
This is just the first two weeks-Bombay & Karachi…Goa, Delhi, Agra shall be up in the next few days. Just click the link and view it in slideshow format. Cool.

When asking Europeans in the past, what they first think of when they think of Americans… they usually reply with “fat.” “Stupid” finds its way in second. But after chillin in Goa for a few days I’m wondering what the hell how they got it backwards. The stereotypical tourist here is an older, near-retirement age, over-weight Brit. So it leaves me wondering what people are calling Americans fat for… Or should we say that Brits definitley do not speak for Europeans as a whole? Or is this just the demographic of Brit that comes to Goa, India on vacation?
What does a guy wearing a speedo do when he is walking in public and gets a little over excited? Is scared stiff a good way to put it?

I was talking to the homie Oso a few months a go about this trip and about the fact that I was doing it solo. This hombre has travelled more extensively than any hombre I know: SE Asia, Latin America, Africa, Europe. Just when I thought that was enough I asked him, “Have you been to New Zealand.”
And he shoots back, “Yeah, three times.”
We both agree on the positive of aspects of travelling by one’s self.
I do feel truly lucky to have an incredible, diverse array of friends. But there are really only a handful that I would want to make this trip with in its entirety.
When travelling alone you come and go at your leisure and there are no contraints, as far as people go. This allows someone to really dive into some knowledge of self. The times of lonliness can be overcome by forcing oneself to be more social than normal.
I’m a pretty socialable person, but I usually need some kind of opening or reason to strike up a conversation with a random stranger. I normally won’t unless I’m introduced. I don’t pick up women at bars and most of my dear friends have been through school or work.
So I saw this his Australian chap, Ragith, a friend of Kermeez’s, who I had met once when Kermeez was visiting me in Walnut Creek. Kermeez told me that he was gonna be in town and doing some travelling around as well.
“You guys should travel together,” she said.
So we all went out one night in Bombay to a club called Pollyesthers- A retro-happenin’ spot, where we danced the night away til 4:30 a.m.
I thought he was pretty cool, but it seemed like we had different itineraries, so unfortunately it didn’t seem like anything was going to work out. He was staying in Bombay for a while and then going on to Goa, Kerala (where his family is from), Calcutta, etc. I already had tickets booked for Goa, Delhi, and Rajisthan…and am not going to Kerala and Calcutta until May.

So it’s funny… as we are talking to some of Kermeez’s friends outside the club..one of them asks us, “So what are your plans while in India?”
Ragith answers, “Similar. We are going to Goa this week.”
And I’m thinking, “Really, that’s the first I heard that. That’s cool I guess, but you could have asked before pulling that.” I’m sure everyone has experienced something similar- someone making plans that involve you, without consulting you.

So I took the sleeper train to Goa- 12 hours on Monday night, pulling into Goa at 11:00 a.m. Tuesday… I met an Irish guy who was also heading to Calangute Beach, so I asked him if he wanted to split a cab.
He had just gotten back from trecking around Kashmir…He planned on going to Nepal, but couldn’t because of the recent coup. Can we call it a coup yet?
Anyway, we exchanged a few stories, and I ended up grabbing a room at the place that he had a booking at. It was interesting, because we met, got some lunch, chatted a bit…we both realized (well, I did) “Okay, this guy is aight. He’s cool. But that’s that. We are both doing are own thing and I don’t feel any obligation to have to chill with this dude tonight, tomorrow, whenever.”
I had an early night after enjoying some carnival festivities…met some Russian guys, who spoke next to zero English. Yeah, we had fun trying to communicate after a few beers. It was similar to sharades with broken tongues.
Ragith pulls up next morning with Sole (Can’t remember her full name).
With Sole?? Sole is an Aussie girlfriend of Kermeez’s, who is staying with her in Bombay and helping her take care of Kermeez’s sick mother. I had felt bad because I met Sole my second day in Bombay. She had been in Bombay for a month already, so I asked her, “What have you done in Bombay since you got here? And have you been anywhere out of the city?”
She said, “Not much. Went to Elefanta caves.”
So I kind of gave her a hard time for not venturing anywhere…It was only later that I realized that taking care of Kermeez’s mother is a full-time job. Her left leg is not functionable because of the cancer spreading.
So I told myself that it’s okay that Sole and Ragith are here and it ended up being pretty cool.
North Goa reminds me of Maui…beautiful, but super touristy. South Goa- Palolem Beach (more like Kaui), two hours from Calangute Beach, is what really took my breath away. After staying in the North for four days, Sole headed back to Bombay, and Sumi came down from Poona.
Sumi is a friend of Nate’s, old roommate in San Diego. Nate was probably the greatest thing that happened to me in 2004 and I love him for being such a jackass. Sumi is working for a construction & development NGO and has now been in Poona for a month, after working in Hamburg, Germany for a few. We both studied international relations, so I’ve asked her advice on future prospects quite often. It was great to see her Saturday morning. I found a place in the Lonely Planet and it said “best breakfast in Goa”. So I emailed her and told her to meet me at 8a.m. Saturday, after her bus arrived. It was a gorgeous spot, right off the Baga River, a few kilometers from my place of stay.
At around 10, we got Ragith, and took a cab down south to Palolem Beach. There is one word to describe it: Surreal.
It feels like a deserted island with a few hundred people, incredible scenery, complete relaxation, and delicious food. Most of this is made possible by the restaurants with their cushioned floor sitting, brilliant array of music, and the absolute subtraction of rushing anywhere else- by the consumer or establishment (oh so common back home & almost anywhere else).
I met some fascinating people in Palolem. A Columbian named Francisco, who has lived in France for 15 years selling art…his girlfriend is a dancer and so Paris is where she must live for work…but he hates the congestion of Paris so he lives elsewhere. We talked politics, youth, society, music and drank masala chai after taking a boat to see some dolphins.
Ragith met some incredible Hungarian girls named Orsi & Kata. I was enchanted and delighted by Orsi. She studied in Germany for 7 years, finished her masters, and wrote her thesis on Bollywood and the myth constructed for women. She had just filmed a documentary in Punjab, but was not too thrilled with the results.
We all sat on the beach for an hour at night with candles and I thought the conversations were deep, thoughtful, reflective, and even a little emotional.
I felt so taken back by Orsi… since she had done much with gender studies I asked her for her thoughts on arranged marriages, and she gave me quite an interesting, intropective answer.
Sumi left earlier that day-Sunday…before she left I found her on the balcony of the beach shack with a sentimental twinkle in her eye. She just wrote me an email titled “My Ah-ha moment”, explaining that state she was in. I’d like to share it with hopes of getting some responses from you folks out there.

Back at work and deciding the future of the real
estate and construction market in India… the first
topic of conversation was “Goa as a burgeoning hot
spot to market to foreign investment.” I am trying to
be open-minded and hopeful that there is some sort of
convergence between globalism and sustainable
development that won’t end in an exacerbation of
societies evils – or maybe “wrongs” to make it less
fatalistic…but…

But sitting on that porch, surrounded by hotel huts
that weren’t there 5 years ago, looking at the blue
Arabian Sea, I couldn’t help but think of Sartre and
his condemnation of tourism as modern imperialism.
Already hearing stories of how Palolem used to be a
beautiful and pristine Eden, but how it is slowly
eroding into the rest of third world
tourism-economics.

It’s a catch 22… in terms of discovery and maintenance
of that initial purity. Or would it be more like a
“you can never go home” kind-of situation. Whatever
the adage may be for this particular case, is it
always the case that you destroy something the moment
that you become a part of it… as in, the thing is now
fundamentally changed now that you have “added” to it.
Can anything be experienced and not altered?

I suppose the gist I’m trying to make and what I’ve
realized now that I’m back in Pune… back in Palolem I
think I just became fully aware of how I affect things
in a truly existential,
you’ve-got-to-take-responsibilities-for-you’re-actions
kind of thing. And I know this is a very basic
principle of thought and pedestrian in terms of “we
are all part of the golden chain of life” blah blah
blah… But the point is, being there made me really
think about it and truly feel it. Being in a country
where critical international development issues are at
the forefront and where it is truly ‘happening’ makes
you really face those issues apart from an academia’s
protective discourse bubble – ah that ever present gap
between theory and practice.

I was just sitting on the porch listening to your
music and boom… it was just an amazing moment you
know.

I mean there are so many things that are buzzing
around in my head to try and explain it or see the
implications I should take from it and I have no idea
if any of this makes sense or if it is all blather,
but you and Reggie are connected to it just by being
there with me. I don’t know, it just felt right to
share that with you, like you could understand better
than someone who wasn’t there.

Well, I’ll leave you to your own thoughts…

Being in Karachi at my Nani-ma’s house was like living in my favorite cafe/used book store for a week. So that would be Cafe Macondo in the Mission District or Karova in San Diego or Cafe Trieste in North Beach & Moe’s Books in Berkeley or City Lights in North Beach. Although City Lights isn’t used… Kerouac and his fellow Beats shoulda done something about that.
There are like 3 rooms filled with bookshelves with some some of the greatest authors - Galeano, Kundera, Ellison, Hemingway…It’s been a constant “Damn, he liked them, too. Hell yeah.”
It’s been nice investigating his past, although my Nani-ma has been a little restrained on what she feels I should know. That’s been frustrating as hell. She also claims that she burned his letters and journals because that is what he wanted. Why would anyone want their memoirs burned? And then she asks me “Well, if I did have them…what would you use them for? Why would you want to see them?”
This made me kind of uncomfortable when she would ask questions like this.
“Ummmmm….because I want to know what he was thinking, feeling, and doing during different periods of his life.” Why the hell else would I want to see them?
All in all though, it was excellent spending quality time with her and hearing her reminisce about Anant. When talking about him she would stare into space, with a twinkle and a grin bringing her back to that specific moment or story.

He was born Victor Anant…a Brahmin turned Muslim, leaving his family in Kerala. He worked for UNESCO for a period in Uganda and taught a journalism course. He spent much of his early years in London as a jazz critic for SPECTATOR. As I searched through his hundreds of records I found a ton of gems: Coltrane, Miles, Sonny Rollins, Coleman Hawkins. Many cats who I only knew by name like Ahmad Jamal & Art Blakey.
He also wrote for THE GUARDIAN, AMBIT, and published a few novels. One of the novels, SACRED CROW, is basically autobiographical. I’m currently searching for a superb piece he wrote after Nehru’s death for THE GUARDIAN.
He liked his tabacco and his wacky-tabacco. He said “he could see colors” when blessed by the herb’s essence. He was a dynamite cook and his love for travel caused him to seek abodes all over the world: London, Galicia, Karachi, Kuala Lampur. It was in Galicia, a town called Betanzos, near the city of La Coruna, in the north-western tip of Spain, that I last saw him. It’s an old stone house on a sizable piece of plush landscape, next door to a farm with horses, sheep, chickens and dogs running around. I was 13 or so. Right when we got there, without request from my sister nor I, he told us that he was going to quit smoking. It was out of nowhere. But being so young and innocent, we were happy that he was finally going to give up that unhealthy habit. Towards the end of our week long stay, we caught him puffin’ a stoagie… naturally we were upset he had broken his promise after just a week. During our stay he also got a little too drunk and yelled at me, which caused me to cry. Wah.
I don’t know if it was because of the broken promise and belligerence…but I kept very little contact with him after we left Spain. It was 93′ or so and he passed away in 99′. I revisited the old stone house when I was in Spain in 02′…I stayed with Raimondo and Antonia- the neighbors who own the farm next door. They were the one’s who bought the house from him, at far below it’s actual worth. I didn’t know the details of the sale of the home until just recently though.

Antonia & Raimondo bought the house from him so their daughter and her new husband could live there. Anant had agreed on a price with them along with other parts to the deal: he would be able to live in the home until the end of the year and he could stay there for awhile during future summers to come. Sounds like a good deal…He later realized that the price was quite below its actual value. But that didn’t matter to him because he had given them his word regarding the sale. But Raimondo and Tony later told him that the deal had changed and he couldn’t stay the rest of the year or return during summers. They probably realized that he would be a difficult man to accomodate and since they are farmers, this land was of vital importance to them. So he sold the home and died a week later in London.
The funny thing about Anant and his neighbors hit me after reading a few of his short stories. He constantly is writing about Galicia, Betanzos, & Raimondo & Tony- with a critical analysis. It’s interesting… it sounds feasible that they didn’t like being written about right? Maybe I’ll ask them the next time I visit…
People I met in Karachi had nothing but good memories of Anant. I commonly heard, “He was a good friend. I miss him dearly.”
I hope to read and learn more soon and later.
Here you can find a portrait, a story, and an elegy written by John Berger, for the late Victor Anant. R.I.P.

I was able to catch President Masharraf speak at the opening of a new school with 200 hundred other folks. My previous notions of the General have now been all but squashed to the ground. I had thought the basics: He came to power in a bloodless coup & he is a military dictator, which makes the US support of him the utmost hypocritcal.
But he is smart, he knows his numbers, and economic development is occurring for the people who need it in Pakistan: Everyone. Everyone I spoke with, talked highly of him. His charisma, intelligence, and verbal literacy caused my perception to alter greatly. I will now look at him with more respect, intrigue, and regard than I do for our own President.

I could probably say that I have come to Karachi with three curiousities. I want to learn who Anant was, how Islam is, and what Pakistan will be.
For the first few days here I had my questions at the top of my dome for my Nani-Ma. It’s like they have been locked in a vault for a decade awaiting the key master (”Are you the key master?” “Yes, I’m a friend of his.”- Ghostbusters just for pops). We would be sitting in the morning, drinking chai, and I would blurt, “Was Anant a socialist?” And she would answer, “Yes. Until the end. Partition greatly hurt him. He, more than anyone wanted to see a unified India. But I think socialism is dead.”

A former student of my Nani-ma’s, Sadia, took me for lunch my second day in Karachi. We grubbed some Chicken Mahkani, Chicken Tikka Masala, and a lot of nan. As we are devouring the savory goodness and talking about South Asian history, she tells me with ultimate conviction,”There would have been unification, but Gandhi said that Muslims could not practice Islam in India.”
To which I said, “Whaaaat!?”
Then I had dinner with some folks who knew Anant a night later and I told them what this girl had said to me. This guy almost dropped his fork in shock. “That’s not true. No. It was Nehru’s power trip. Nehru had to be Prime Minister and he didn’t want to give any power to Jinnah. It was because of Nehru that there was partition.”
To which I sat and listened…
You’d think that there would be one straightforward answer to some of history’s great questions. Why was India divided into sections with Independence? Why did the U.S. intervene in Vietnam? Why did we invade Iraq? But I guess these are tough questions and various answers gain greater credibility in different areas and time periods.
One of my pet peeves is when someone gives me false information…especially when they tell me with a fist-stomping-the-table-attitude. I was in San Diego with a friend a couple years ago and a foreigner asked him, “How do I get to highway 8?” My friend bluntly answers, “There is no highway 8.” I had just moved to town and was unware of anything but “the 5″, so I went along with it. But I found out later, that there is indeed an important highway numbered 8. My buddy had already lived and driven in the town for a couple years and I was dumbfounded at how he didn’t know of the highway and how he told the guy with such undoubtful truth in his language.
I asked another friend about a year a go: (I feel like she’d kill me if I gave her name away, so I won’t. She is a Shia-Muslim from Iran) “What percentage of Iraq is Shi’a?” She replied “10%.”
So I figured “Huh, I guess the Shi’as have no way of obtaining a majority with a democratic election. I could have sworn they were two-thirds of the country though.”
Later that evening I was doing my nightly SD-WC politic chopping with my pops on the phone and I said, “Well, Iraq is only 10% Shi’a, so they won’t grab power with elections.”
“No, my son. You are mistaken. Iraq’s Shi’a constitute 60% of the population.”
To which I said, “Whaaaat!?”
The next day I stormed in on my friend and blew up at her. I probably overreacted, but I was so furious to have been misinformed. This has caused me to be weary at times over spreading sketchy information that I’m not 100% sure of. I usually hesitate when explaining things because I’m often not 100% sure… so I say things with a bit of apprehension. I hate this…but I think I prefer it to the arrogant “I know I’m right, as I look down upon you” manner that some people use.
I still like to trust what people say…but I guess I gotta do my homework in addition.

A couple days ago it was Groundhog Day… regardless of whether the shadow was there or not, it’s a great movie. I think I caught that flick on cable half a dozen times in 04′, and enjoyed trying to figure out where Phil was in his process of mastering the day .
“Phil? Phil Connors? Is that you?”… “Ned? Ned Rierson?” and then….”Watch that first step, it’s a duhooooozy.” Bill Murray is truly classic. But I think the movie has a deeper meaning- That the day is really what you put into it. He goes from being a jerk and dragging through each hour, to making the most- mastering piano and being a devoted super samaritan.

So that day comes every February 2nd I believe. But only once ever, on February 16th of this one and only 2005, the Kyoto Protocol becomes international law. The highlighted link will take you to an excellent article I just peeped that breaks down its significance and how it affects you and I. Bouncing from Bombay to Karachi, I’m finding it difficult to believe that the U.S. “is the world’s greatest emitter of greenhouse gases.” But it is true, and although some developing nations have not signed the treaty, most European nations have, and it’s pretty shameful that the U.S. has not.
Thomas Friedman wrote an article last week, and its summary was something like:
We will not attack Iran because we don’t have the troops to carry out the operation. The best way to democratize the Middle East is to invest in renewable energy sources. This will force those nations, who depend on oil exportation, to liberalize their economies, thus leading to a domino of democratic, free states.
It sounds so logical and so easy….Is it? Well, since the Bush Administration is so vested in the fossil fuel industry, it’s going to take a lot more than just convincing. Read that article and lemme know what you think…

In the spring of 03′ I took a course for Third World Studies called “Islam and the Modern World”. During its duration, I realized how interested I was in the religion, its teachings, and for it being an anti-western idealogy, like Marxism. Sure, socialism and islamism have many flaws in their current states, but they both provide an alternate route from consumerism, capitalism, westerization, and materialism.

Each morning at 6:00a.m. in Karachi, I awaken half-way to the AZAN from the nearby mosque. AZAN is the call made by the Muezzin to summon Muslims to pray five time daily. It’s been incredible to see the piety expressed by people over the past few days. A deep piety that is rooted in a spiritual grounding. In the late afternoons I have sat and watched the cook do her prayers. The concentration and meaning that she puts forth as her forehead touches the ground each time, going back to child’s pose. As she whispers the prayers, I feel how deeply involved and dedicated she is with this daily ritual. I admire this.

I want to read the Qu’ran and understand why over a billion and a half people in our planet revere this text. Why is it so beautiful and why is it said to be so prefect? Like my grandfather, Anant, I find some beauty in all religions and I’m not sure if I will ever profess to strictly one. I like to say that I am agnostic, but we’ll see where I end up… I am currently reading “The Meaning of the Qu’ran”- By S. Abdul A’la Maududi. Muslims must read the Qu’ran in Arabic (as it was originally spoken by Muhammad) in order to interpret it’s fullest, most powerful meaning. But many Muslims speak and read another language: Urdu, Farsi, Russian, etc etc… Therefore, in order to grasp its full meaning, most Muslims read the Qu’ran in Arabic, which they do not understand. Hmmmm…
My Nani-ma said that she too was one of those people reading the Qu’ran without understanding the meaning, until she met Anant, who knew it inside out. “It was Anant who helped me truly understand the Qu’ran.”

My Grandfather grew up in Kerala, India where he was born into a Brahmin family- Brahmins are members of the Hindu priestly caste. He was force-fed their teachings and so he dismissed its qualities early on. When he was seven, he visited the Haji Ali mosque in Bombay and asked to be converted to Islam. He was fascinated by the people and its religion, more-so than the hierarchical system of the Hindus. Despite his intrigue with Islam, his first wife was Catholic. His love for his family had been forsaken by Islam? And his fascination with Islam had been taken over by his love for an English woman named Daphne? Perhaps… I’ll discuss his life more in another post, right now we’re just talking about Islam in Karachi.

I saw a French opera the other night with some friends of Anant’s: Moen and his wife, Marish. The following evening we went to a play funded by the British council. The issue that the play discussed was “Honor Killings” and the goal was to raise awareness and provoke discussion regarding it.
Wikipedia describes Honor killing “as the practice of males killing their female relatives or spouses when the female relative or spouse is considered to have damaged the family honor through unwarranted sexual activity. The males involved in the sexual activity, which might have been a rape, are not adversely affected, in general. The execution is considered to be a private matter within the affected family; rarely do non-family members or the courts become involved.”
“Islamic law prescribes severe punishments for zina’ (extramarital sex) by both men and women; premarital sex may be punished by up to 100 lashes, while adultery is punishable by stoning. The act must however be attested by at least four witnesses of good character, punishments are reserved to the legal authorities, and false accusations are themselves punished severely. The term “honor killing” refers specifically to extra-legal punishment by the family against the woman, and as such is forbidden by the sharia.”
“Interpretations of these rules vary. Some Arabs regard it as their right under both tradition and sharia (by the process of al-urf), though this contradicts the views of the vast majority of Islamic scholars (fuqaha). Ayatollah Ali Khamenei of Iran has condemned the practice as “un-Islamic”, though the punishment under Iranian law remains lenient. In Indonesia, the world’s largest Muslim country, honor killings are unknown, as also in Muslim parts of West Africa. According to Sheikh Atiyyah Saqr, former head of the al-Azhar University Fatwa Committee (one of the oldest and most prestigious in the Muslim world):
“Like all other religions, Islam strictly prohibits murder and killing without legal justification. Allah, Most High, says, “Whoso slayeth a believer of set purpose, his reward is Hell for ever. Allah is wroth against him and He hath cursed him and prepared for him an awful doom.” (An-Nisa’: 93) The so-called “honor killing” is based on ignorance and disregard of morals and laws, which cannot be abolished except by disciplinary punishments.”[4]
After the play finished, audience members got in line to comment and question the actors on the material and of the details regarding honor killings. This was intense. Most people gave their point of view, which was more-or-less on the side that “Honor killings are bad. Do away with them.”
But one guy stood up and said, “Well, its very political. You must account for the politics of this and why this is happening to women.”
This got an already emotional old lady to stand in tears, shouting “Don’t mix women and politics!” From there she rambled in an emotional rage and people had to eventually grab the mic from her hand like a bad freestyler who thinks he/she can flow well. People were definitley passionate about the topic and had strong opinions about its current state and legitamacy.
All in all I was impressed with the Urdu play. I couldn’t believe how progressive the Muslims were in Pakistan. Ouch…Yes, I was making a mistake. I was thinking that these elite, progressive Muslims of Karachi, were the Muslims in all of Pakistan. It was analagous to living in the San Francisco Bay Area and thinking that these like-minded individuals spoke for the United States. I would have to make a better observation and analysis later.

Servitude:

As you might know, a semi-decent salary in India (& Pakistan) can give one the cushy luxury that one could only dream of in the States. Most people in the middle to upper-class range here will thus have a servant/cook, maid, and driver. These workers get paid a monthly salary and depending on whether they have their own family to care for, they might also sleep at their bosses’ home. One can only hope that they are treated with the decency any human being deserves.
For someone like myself (and you as well), who has lived on his own for a few years and likes to independently take care of most things- this type of servitude is difficult to receive. To have another person open the door, turn on the light switch, and pick up your dishes just seems a bit ridiculous. And does this servant despise these tedious tasks or does he/she feel they are not doing their job diligently if I, for example, want to pick up my dish and rinse it? I am struggling a bit with this question because I think it is the latter. When telling people around here that I am having some trouble in allowing someone else to do my daily chores, they answer with “You’ll get used to it.” Forget that. I don’t want to get used to it. It almost seems like the faulty argument that gets used to justify sweatshops like Nike’s in Indonesia- “Well, isn’t it true that Nike provides them with a better job than they could get otherwise.” “Yeeeeah, but it’s still not right ya jackass!” There is a better counter, but that one is more fun.
Fortunately, this servitude dilemma is different. It is usually way more positive than any sort of sweatshop condition . If someone works for you in your home and you pay them with money, food, and shelter- how can this be terrible? My Nani-ma here in Karachi likes to give them something more. Each Muslim is supposed to go on HAJ (the pilgrimage to Mecca) sometime in their lifetime, if they can afford it. I’m sure that with the unemployment and poverty that plagues the middle east, many people cannot fulfill this obligation. My Nani-ma has paid for 5 people to go on HAJ…the young man who is currently trekking to Mecca has been paid to go for two months. I think that’s pretty cool.
So I am trying to realize that having servants in this part of the world is okay, but I will stilltry to open the door and turn off the light myself.

Arranged marriages:

My grandparents who live in Calcutta have been married for over 60 years now. But the fact that my grandfather had a mistress for over half of those years, has probably caused me to look at arranged marriages with great skepticism. Most people in the western world also look upon that process as being incredibly flawed and outrageous. I mean “Where’s the love!?” It does seem like such a paradox when you see the storyline of almost every Bollywood film.
Coming to India in the twenty-first century, I thought that this old tradition had been chucked out the window (along with the garbage that everyone throws out their window). This was until an Aunt spoke of her daughter.
“I am trying to arrange something for her. She is twenty-five now and it’s high time. We have three gentlemen who will coming to meet her in February. One from Toronto, one from San Francisco, and another from the UK. I hope that your parents will be able to come out next year for the wedding.”
The last line was what gave me the big shock. Whaaaaaaat?!? How can you expect that out of three fellas, one is the match for the rest of your daughter’s lifetime? How can you be so sure that the sparks are going to fly and wedding bells are gonna be chimed in 2006? I still feel this is way, but I have since understood a tad bit of how an arranged marriage might work. Mr Phillip, the Serbian, who is obsessed with Parsis, (the community of Zoroastrians) gave me some insight. “The parents are giving the daughter a chance to find someone. If she doesn’t, which she hasn’t, then they will arrange something. They feel 25 is way past the age for a girl to be married. The arrangement won’t feel arranged. It’s like a friend setting you and another friend up for a date and hitting it off. People can find ways to make it spark if they try.” Alright, I’ll try to understand. Any thoughts?