Sunday, November 20, 2005
An Irishman from Peshawar
KK, Preeta and I were standing at the bar at Irish Village. We didn’t quite notice the old man, about mid-60ish get up and ask KK his name. He complied, I next and finally Preeta. With a great flourish of his hands, the gentleman offered Preeta his bar stool.
“Where I come from that’s what we do. When there is a lady standing we Irish offer her our seat. That’s just what we do. That’s how we are.” He stuttered revealing that he was indeed quite drunk.
Preetha declined clarifying that we were headed to the open air section. KK politely asked him for his introduction.
“I am Francsish”. Like Saint Francsish”.
I tried hard to suppress my smirk at his drunken lisp.
“Saint Francsish of……” he paused searching.
“Of Assisi…” I volunteered help.
“Francsish, that’s my name, like St. Francsish of Assisi”.
“He’s buried in India, at Goa”, I added, to continue the conversation.
Francis, it seemed could only latch on to India from what I said.
“You know, who’s the greatest Saint of them all?” Francis asked looking at me but the question was posed to all of us. “Mahatma Gandhi….he was the greatest of them all. I have spent all my life reading and learning about him. I know everything that there is to know about Mahatma Gandhi”.
He stuck me as a missionary teacher. Or perhaps that was just the template of Irishmen in my mind having done some early schooling at St. Michael’s in Delhi and having gotten by backside whipped by the likes of Father McGinty and Father Tyson.
However, Francis claiming to be an authority and a follower of Mahatma Gandhi, sitting, obviously inebriated in a bar, stuck me as a bit un-gandhian.
“Don’t you think that Mahatma Gandhi was the greatest person ever, the biggest saint ever?” Francis asked. The question was posed to me.
Now Gandhi, that’s a dicey subject for me. I paused, thinking so as to how to soften my tone on a topic of conversation that always angers me. Like many Indians I hold the belief that had it not been for Gandhi, India would have been a very different country for the better. His vision of India as one big happy commune as time has proved was so unrealistic.
“No. Had it not been for Gandhi, India would never have been partitioned.”
Francis was quite enraged. He cut me short before I could continue my argument, which I have had many a time before. It ends with me saying, “Quad, Erad, Demonstatum”.
“Gandhi had nothing to do with that. India was partitioned because that Jinnah just would not have it any other way”.
He was right and I knew it…Gandhi, Jinnah and Nehru the three architects of partition.
My tone agitated, I said, “All Gandhi had to do was to tell Nehru to let Jinnah be Prime Minister and there would have been no Pakistan”.
Tone apart I knew that my statement was merely a weak jab in an argument that requires a series of heavy punches.
“Did you know that Gandhi was bisexual”. KK said.
Wow! That was an uppercut that came out of nowhere. It took me by surprise though as I have never heard it before. It almost knocked out St. Francis.
KK had obviously touched a very raw nerve in St. Francis.
“No he was not”. St. Francis said very agitated.
“Yes he was. There was an article in Outlook which said so. It’s a leading magazine in India” KK stated the credentials of his statement.
St. Francis was enraged. “I do not care where it appeared, I know everything that there is to know about Mahatma Gandhi. I have spent all my life studying about him and that is something that enrages me. Gandhi was completely heterosexual”.
“Even if he was how does it matter? And he practiced abstinence” I said trying to steer the conversation in a different direction.
St. Francis was still livid and he said to KK, “I am a lot older than you are but if I hear you say that Gandhi was bisexual, I will flatten you. You would be lying there”, he said pointing to the floor.
As soon as he said this, I labeled him from a drunk to a drunk fraud in my mind. No intellectual disciple of Gandhi would ever threaten a person with violence.
“We British (he had transitioned from being Irish to British and rightly so), we have done a lot of wrong things. India, South East Asia, Palestine…but don’t blame Mahatma Gandhi for the partition of India”.
I immediately warmed up to that statement and gave him some points for honesty.
“We are responsible for quite a few bad things and some good things too. We did…..”, again Francis searched.
“ built Institutions..” I helped him out.
“We built educational institutions, government….” He paused. “We screwed up quite a bit. But it saddens me that people do not know about their own countries. I go around telling all people about all the good things about their countries…that’s what I do. Take him he’s from Palestine”. He said turning to the person sitting next to him.
We did not know that he was with St. Francis, as a matter of fact I had not noticed him at all. A soft featured man in his mid 20’s, hair gelled back, trimmed mustache, plucked eye brows, effeminate smile.
“Have you been to India?” I asked.
“I was born in India. My father was a Major in the Indian army”.
“Where were you born?” I continued.
St. Francis again searched. It seemed as though he was trying to think of a name. Was he just a conjurer of conversation, I thought to myself. A person who just makes things up as he goes along!
“Peshawar”, he finally said. And I had a mental image of St. Francis driving a taxi, like most men from Peshawar whom I have come across.
More small talk followed, which revealed that the young man with St. Francis was not from Palestine but instead from Pakistan. We finally collected our drinks. KK and I experimented with Guinness. It seemed like the right thing to do being in Irish village.
After a while, I went back inside to go to the bathroom. I couldn’t find it and I heard a cacophonous rabble of British youngsters singing ‘Blowing in the wind’ with St. Francis in his midst. Now Bob Dylan draws me like a magnet and I went over to shout out a few lines. St. Francis greeted me warmly and asked me to join them.
“I was just leaving actually”, I lied.
“Would you like to have one last drink before you do?” Francis pointed me to the bar stool that was last occupied by the effeminate Pakistani. He did not sound drunk and the hint of proposition was clear in his eyes. I declined. He insisted. So I made up the excuse of going round the corner and coming back. Of course I had no intention of going back.
On way from the bathroom I saw the effeminate Pakistani again and it seemed to fall into place. I conjectured that it explained why St. Francis was so enraged at the thought of Gandhi being bisexual. Perhaps he had not yet come terms with his own bisexuality.
Was that also the reason why Mahatma Gandhi practiced abstinence? I was on a roll as far as conjectures go.
After a couple of hours, I saw the rabble of the English youth leaving with St. Francis walking behind everyone.
I felt sorry for him and conjectured yet again that perhaps he was just an old man trying to be interesting. Perhaps an old man just seeking the company of youth.
“Where I come from that’s what we do. When there is a lady standing we Irish offer her our seat. That’s just what we do. That’s how we are.” He stuttered revealing that he was indeed quite drunk.
Preetha declined clarifying that we were headed to the open air section. KK politely asked him for his introduction.
“I am Francsish”. Like Saint Francsish”.
I tried hard to suppress my smirk at his drunken lisp.
“Saint Francsish of……” he paused searching.
“Of Assisi…” I volunteered help.
“Francsish, that’s my name, like St. Francsish of Assisi”.
“He’s buried in India, at Goa”, I added, to continue the conversation.
Francis, it seemed could only latch on to India from what I said.
“You know, who’s the greatest Saint of them all?” Francis asked looking at me but the question was posed to all of us. “Mahatma Gandhi….he was the greatest of them all. I have spent all my life reading and learning about him. I know everything that there is to know about Mahatma Gandhi”.
He stuck me as a missionary teacher. Or perhaps that was just the template of Irishmen in my mind having done some early schooling at St. Michael’s in Delhi and having gotten by backside whipped by the likes of Father McGinty and Father Tyson.
However, Francis claiming to be an authority and a follower of Mahatma Gandhi, sitting, obviously inebriated in a bar, stuck me as a bit un-gandhian.
“Don’t you think that Mahatma Gandhi was the greatest person ever, the biggest saint ever?” Francis asked. The question was posed to me.
Now Gandhi, that’s a dicey subject for me. I paused, thinking so as to how to soften my tone on a topic of conversation that always angers me. Like many Indians I hold the belief that had it not been for Gandhi, India would have been a very different country for the better. His vision of India as one big happy commune as time has proved was so unrealistic.
“No. Had it not been for Gandhi, India would never have been partitioned.”
Francis was quite enraged. He cut me short before I could continue my argument, which I have had many a time before. It ends with me saying, “Quad, Erad, Demonstatum”.
“Gandhi had nothing to do with that. India was partitioned because that Jinnah just would not have it any other way”.
He was right and I knew it…Gandhi, Jinnah and Nehru the three architects of partition.
My tone agitated, I said, “All Gandhi had to do was to tell Nehru to let Jinnah be Prime Minister and there would have been no Pakistan”.
Tone apart I knew that my statement was merely a weak jab in an argument that requires a series of heavy punches.
“Did you know that Gandhi was bisexual”. KK said.
Wow! That was an uppercut that came out of nowhere. It took me by surprise though as I have never heard it before. It almost knocked out St. Francis.
KK had obviously touched a very raw nerve in St. Francis.
“No he was not”. St. Francis said very agitated.
“Yes he was. There was an article in Outlook which said so. It’s a leading magazine in India” KK stated the credentials of his statement.
St. Francis was enraged. “I do not care where it appeared, I know everything that there is to know about Mahatma Gandhi. I have spent all my life studying about him and that is something that enrages me. Gandhi was completely heterosexual”.
“Even if he was how does it matter? And he practiced abstinence” I said trying to steer the conversation in a different direction.
St. Francis was still livid and he said to KK, “I am a lot older than you are but if I hear you say that Gandhi was bisexual, I will flatten you. You would be lying there”, he said pointing to the floor.
As soon as he said this, I labeled him from a drunk to a drunk fraud in my mind. No intellectual disciple of Gandhi would ever threaten a person with violence.
“We British (he had transitioned from being Irish to British and rightly so), we have done a lot of wrong things. India, South East Asia, Palestine…but don’t blame Mahatma Gandhi for the partition of India”.
I immediately warmed up to that statement and gave him some points for honesty.
“We are responsible for quite a few bad things and some good things too. We did…..”, again Francis searched.
“ built Institutions..” I helped him out.
“We built educational institutions, government….” He paused. “We screwed up quite a bit. But it saddens me that people do not know about their own countries. I go around telling all people about all the good things about their countries…that’s what I do. Take him he’s from Palestine”. He said turning to the person sitting next to him.
We did not know that he was with St. Francis, as a matter of fact I had not noticed him at all. A soft featured man in his mid 20’s, hair gelled back, trimmed mustache, plucked eye brows, effeminate smile.
“Have you been to India?” I asked.
“I was born in India. My father was a Major in the Indian army”.
“Where were you born?” I continued.
St. Francis again searched. It seemed as though he was trying to think of a name. Was he just a conjurer of conversation, I thought to myself. A person who just makes things up as he goes along!
“Peshawar”, he finally said. And I had a mental image of St. Francis driving a taxi, like most men from Peshawar whom I have come across.
More small talk followed, which revealed that the young man with St. Francis was not from Palestine but instead from Pakistan. We finally collected our drinks. KK and I experimented with Guinness. It seemed like the right thing to do being in Irish village.
After a while, I went back inside to go to the bathroom. I couldn’t find it and I heard a cacophonous rabble of British youngsters singing ‘Blowing in the wind’ with St. Francis in his midst. Now Bob Dylan draws me like a magnet and I went over to shout out a few lines. St. Francis greeted me warmly and asked me to join them.
“I was just leaving actually”, I lied.
“Would you like to have one last drink before you do?” Francis pointed me to the bar stool that was last occupied by the effeminate Pakistani. He did not sound drunk and the hint of proposition was clear in his eyes. I declined. He insisted. So I made up the excuse of going round the corner and coming back. Of course I had no intention of going back.
On way from the bathroom I saw the effeminate Pakistani again and it seemed to fall into place. I conjectured that it explained why St. Francis was so enraged at the thought of Gandhi being bisexual. Perhaps he had not yet come terms with his own bisexuality.
Was that also the reason why Mahatma Gandhi practiced abstinence? I was on a roll as far as conjectures go.
After a couple of hours, I saw the rabble of the English youth leaving with St. Francis walking behind everyone.
I felt sorry for him and conjectured yet again that perhaps he was just an old man trying to be interesting. Perhaps an old man just seeking the company of youth.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Mind Movies
The one thing that is certain about time is the fact that it goes by. And it seems to go by too fast.
Realistically speaking I have not been doing much since I have come here. Everyday I make promises to myself that I will jam pack my day with stuff but just does not seem to happen.
Come the end of the day the best that I would have achieved (office hours apart) is an hour of reading (half hearted) and an hour of work that I carry home. The rest of the time goes in simple chores like personal hygiene, eating, washing clothes etc. Stuff that should not take more than 30 minutes of my day.
I do not have television and am not missing it at all. Who needs it when I have a non stop television in my mind! And in that too I just seem to be surfing channels all the time. Mindlessly, flitting from one random thought to another. The mind is restless and flippantly so. This channel surfing takes place even when I am walking the streets, browsing in supermarkets, riding taxi’s.
What an idiot my mind is, it always wants to be elsewhere. The present is just the background. Should it not be the other way around?
The only factor that lend consistency to my random thoughts is the fact that they are mine. Otherwise they do not fit into make anything that is cohesive. If I and my mind are microcosms of the world, then none makes any sense. Not me, nor my mind and neither the world.
Realistically speaking I have not been doing much since I have come here. Everyday I make promises to myself that I will jam pack my day with stuff but just does not seem to happen.
Come the end of the day the best that I would have achieved (office hours apart) is an hour of reading (half hearted) and an hour of work that I carry home. The rest of the time goes in simple chores like personal hygiene, eating, washing clothes etc. Stuff that should not take more than 30 minutes of my day.
I do not have television and am not missing it at all. Who needs it when I have a non stop television in my mind! And in that too I just seem to be surfing channels all the time. Mindlessly, flitting from one random thought to another. The mind is restless and flippantly so. This channel surfing takes place even when I am walking the streets, browsing in supermarkets, riding taxi’s.
What an idiot my mind is, it always wants to be elsewhere. The present is just the background. Should it not be the other way around?
The only factor that lend consistency to my random thoughts is the fact that they are mine. Otherwise they do not fit into make anything that is cohesive. If I and my mind are microcosms of the world, then none makes any sense. Not me, nor my mind and neither the world.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Men from Peshawar
Peshawar is in the North West Frontier Province of Pakistan. It borders Afghanistan.
I had known the place on from history books as it was on the pathway of the Central Asian invaders, from Hindi films that extolled the virtue of the Pathans as strong, brave, honest men and also from a certain passage from ‘Freedom at Midnight’ that detailed out Lord Mountbatten’s visit to the region.
The passage stressed that the last viceroy had put himself in danger by obstinately insisting on holding the rally. Pathans from all around had gathered to see the new gora sahib. It was hot and Pathans who are supposed to be short tempered, violent men were getting agitated. The British governor of the region feared for Mountbatten’s life especially since an attempt on his life had been foiled just days ago in Karachi (the would be assassin had supposedly lost his nerve).
Mountbatten got on top of a mound with Edwina by his side and the crowd erupted into a volley of adulation. Lapeirrre and Collins (the writers) attribute this to the fact that Mountbatten had chosen to wear his military green – the colour of Islam. The Pathans took this as a sign of friendship and were bowled over by the white man in green who they immediately took as a friend.
Now that you are suitably impressed by my grasp of history I must confess that the only person whom I could name from the region is Frontier Gandhi, Khan Abdul Ghafar Khan. That was only till recently.
Out of the force of habit, I have been chatting up with Taxi drivers and a lot of them happen to be from Peshawar. Like the bhaiya taxi drivers in Bombay, they have chosen to leave their homes and families to come here to make a better living. They define 2,500 dhirams as a good monthly wage. Like the bhaiya taxi drivers they miss their homes and complain about how tough life has become here and still how worse it is in their hometowns.
I feel a sense of kinship with them.
I had known the place on from history books as it was on the pathway of the Central Asian invaders, from Hindi films that extolled the virtue of the Pathans as strong, brave, honest men and also from a certain passage from ‘Freedom at Midnight’ that detailed out Lord Mountbatten’s visit to the region.
The passage stressed that the last viceroy had put himself in danger by obstinately insisting on holding the rally. Pathans from all around had gathered to see the new gora sahib. It was hot and Pathans who are supposed to be short tempered, violent men were getting agitated. The British governor of the region feared for Mountbatten’s life especially since an attempt on his life had been foiled just days ago in Karachi (the would be assassin had supposedly lost his nerve).
Mountbatten got on top of a mound with Edwina by his side and the crowd erupted into a volley of adulation. Lapeirrre and Collins (the writers) attribute this to the fact that Mountbatten had chosen to wear his military green – the colour of Islam. The Pathans took this as a sign of friendship and were bowled over by the white man in green who they immediately took as a friend.
Now that you are suitably impressed by my grasp of history I must confess that the only person whom I could name from the region is Frontier Gandhi, Khan Abdul Ghafar Khan. That was only till recently.
Out of the force of habit, I have been chatting up with Taxi drivers and a lot of them happen to be from Peshawar. Like the bhaiya taxi drivers in Bombay, they have chosen to leave their homes and families to come here to make a better living. They define 2,500 dhirams as a good monthly wage. Like the bhaiya taxi drivers they miss their homes and complain about how tough life has become here and still how worse it is in their hometowns.
I feel a sense of kinship with them.
The Tower
There is this friend of mine who lives in a 12 story tower. It’s the tallest building in an area that is currently under development.
Now that does not seem to be too tall considering that the sole task of the developers of this region at this point of time is to make buildings and structures that are truly magnificent and designed to leave a mark – modern day Taj Mahals.
What makes the tower remarkable is the fact that apart from my friend it also provides abode to many working ladies from all parts of the globe. If he is to be believed, the 78 of the 120 flats are occupied by ladies of pleasure who come to this part of the world from all parts of the world with the intention of making a quick buck on a tourist visa.
He had a tough time explaining to his mother the nightly buzz caused by cars driving up to the building and driving away, the ring of the lift and of course the sounds from the neighboring flat.
His building is simply a microcosm of the rest of the region. A true melting pot.
Now that does not seem to be too tall considering that the sole task of the developers of this region at this point of time is to make buildings and structures that are truly magnificent and designed to leave a mark – modern day Taj Mahals.
What makes the tower remarkable is the fact that apart from my friend it also provides abode to many working ladies from all parts of the globe. If he is to be believed, the 78 of the 120 flats are occupied by ladies of pleasure who come to this part of the world from all parts of the world with the intention of making a quick buck on a tourist visa.
He had a tough time explaining to his mother the nightly buzz caused by cars driving up to the building and driving away, the ring of the lift and of course the sounds from the neighboring flat.
His building is simply a microcosm of the rest of the region. A true melting pot.
Bob Dylan Chronicles Vol.1
“Folk songs are evasive – the truth about life, and life is more or less a lie, but then again that’s exactly the way we want it to be. We wouldn’t be comfortable with it any other way”.
That statement has an immediate ring of truth even though the relevant references to context evade me. The truth about ourselves that we conveniently overlook and the truth about ourselves that we justify to ourselves under the pretext of ‘that’s the way I am’ escape clause.
Can one be honest at all points of time? Should one be honest at all points of time? The questions seem naïve and reek of ignorance.
I guess that’s the task for a Machiavelli or Mahatma Gandhi. The task for you and me, like my father would put it is to seek the truth. Once one sees and acknowledges it then perhaps the naïve and ignorant questions would have crystal clear answers.
Annica. Annica.
That statement has an immediate ring of truth even though the relevant references to context evade me. The truth about ourselves that we conveniently overlook and the truth about ourselves that we justify to ourselves under the pretext of ‘that’s the way I am’ escape clause.
Can one be honest at all points of time? Should one be honest at all points of time? The questions seem naïve and reek of ignorance.
I guess that’s the task for a Machiavelli or Mahatma Gandhi. The task for you and me, like my father would put it is to seek the truth. Once one sees and acknowledges it then perhaps the naïve and ignorant questions would have crystal clear answers.
Annica. Annica.
Broadcast
Words just do not seem to form
Just like the sleep that eludes despite exhaustion.
Or the dreams that I hope I dream
But are erased the morning after
Pain in my shoulders
The hum of the AC
Billy Joel wailing “It’s my life”
Some signs that I am alive
Can one breathe and still be dead?
Can numbness be permanent?
Seen times of joy, sorrow, anger, desperation, exasperation and more
But now is the time for being numb.
Just like the sleep that eludes despite exhaustion.
Or the dreams that I hope I dream
But are erased the morning after
Pain in my shoulders
The hum of the AC
Billy Joel wailing “It’s my life”
Some signs that I am alive
Can one breathe and still be dead?
Can numbness be permanent?
Seen times of joy, sorrow, anger, desperation, exasperation and more
But now is the time for being numb.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Go Figure
SEC BC (Socio Economic Classification) are considered to be the masses. They drive BMW's, the higher end Toyotas. SEC A means the Sheikhs, needless to say they drive Rolls, Jaguars, Mercs and their own private jets.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
