Just because...

I stand corrected - courtesy Gerardo

Hola mi amigas!
Yo estoy aprendiendo Espanol. Es facil y sympatico y yo estoy muy contenta con mi progreso!
Uno dia mi deber fluente en el idioma!
Inshallah...

Habla Espanol

Hola mi amigas!
Yo estoy aprendizaje Espanol. El es facil y yo estoy muy contenta con mi progreso!
Uno dia mi deber fluente en el idioma!
Inshallah...

The Sufi Tarot Card Reader

He sat near the railings in the center of Camden Lock market, obscured by two white lace curtains that provided shade not only to him, but also a pair of velvet covered stools and a short round table. I wasn’t sure but he seemed to be playing with a pack of tarot cards.
Curious, I peeked in and was met with a bright grin.

‘Hello! Would you like a reading?’ he asked, shuffling the cards with a flourish, his round, bald head settling into his broad shoulders with a friendly shrug. Like a turtle I thought, warming to him.
‘Erm,…ok’ I found myself replying. I was unemployed, after all. Time stood still, aching to be dispensed with.

‘Ooh,’ he gasped as I sat down opposite him, ‘I must tell you. There are spirits with you’
‘Spirits?’ I looked about me in fear.
‘Yes’ he replied bending his head towards me, ‘can you sometimes intuit things?’ His eyebrows wagged mischievously.
Yes, I thought, I can intuit that I am wasting my money here.

A short pat on his deck and a lavish spread later, my love life was stripped of all its essential clothing. Blushing, I tried hastily, to change the subject and took a wild guess. This was Camden, after all.
‘I don’t suppose you could direct me towards some literature on Kundalini Yoga?’
‘O yes! I was a practicing Buddhist for many, many years!’ he exclaimed, launching enthusiastically into a long discourse on Buddhism. I breathed a sigh of relief. Buddhism I can talk about, but employment? My lackluster love life? Perhaps another day…
‘I do find, however’ the oracle pondered, ‘that Sufi Zikr is a far more effective means of tapping into one’s psychic self. I am a sufi tarot reader’, he presented a business card, ‘indoctrinated in the arts by a Pakistani Sufi Master. The man changed my life.’

I was intrigued. Every week I had been taking a bus to my friend Laura’s home. She was training to be a yoga instructor and gave free lessons. I found meditation to be a great relief from unemployment angst but somewhere, in those intense sessions, I had started feeling the absence of God. Here was the ideal combination: my Islamic God and the silent, introspective Buddha, both kneading my energies into a calm balm to soothe nerves worn raw with fear and worry. I begged him to direct me towards a center of learning and a week later found myself hesitantly entering the doors of a converted church enquiring after the next Zikr session.

It was ramadhan. I had found a job, but was also afflicted with a feverish cold that had struck when the weather turned. I was sniffling, my body ached, I had been on my feet all day, but some undeterred curiosity dragged me onto bus after bus towards Seven Sisters. The anticipation was immense, but the evening’s worship was to start with Iftar and Taraweeh. Zikr, itself, would not commence until several hours after and was to bring the evening to a climax.

Warily, I found my way to a cafeteria. Here sat cloth covered women on cloth covered tables. I could sense they could sense an intruder. There I was in my jeans and flashy red jumper, my bare head standing out in a crowd of modestly attired faces, muslimahs well versed in the art of cover up. I sneezed and was graciously offered a piece of bread.
It was an uncomfortable meal. I escaped to the women’s toilets with tears in my eyes. What was I thinking? I didn’t belong here. So many perplexed pairs of eyes couldn’t possibly be wrong. We had no common ground, regardless of how generous they were with their food. Should I stay or...(Flee! Flee! Flee! my mind hollered)

No! I had come all the way here, I must see it through. I shoved my hands under a running tap to perform ablutions. Dear God, show me a sign.

‘Don’t judge this mosque by those people’ a Hijabi lady spoke up. She had been watching me from afar. ‘Everyone has their own understanding of God. Are you muslim?’

Yes I am, born and bred. In need of a God I have abandoned for far too many years and wrestling with fears and anxieties, chasing after empty pleasures knowing full well their aftertaste. And O, did I mention I was unemployed?
She is a convert, breeding a young family of muslim women. She has fought her family for her beliefs and now they too have found her way to be good. She is my sign.

Upstairs, in the prayer room, Taraweeh starts and I join a jamaat of women. I am struck by the beauty of the room. I can easily visualize a yesteryear when this very room featured an ornate altar and multiple rows of wooden benches facing it. The walls are high and huge glass windows in the gothic tradition welcome in a wispy layer of pale silver moonlight that wrestles with the orange glow of the lanterns. A large patchwork quilt hangs on a facing wall bearing the names of Allah in brightly colored thread, lovingly created by some of the women I am seated beside. There are wall hangings featuring Quranic verse and a framed picture of the Kibla. This room has witnessed centuries of prayer and performance within its stone walls and I cannot imagine a more tranquil space for tonight’s anxiously anticipated Zikr.

Prayer starts and I painfully realize that this is my first Taraweeh at a mosque and I am clueless as to the format. The prayers seem different and once again, I feel doubt, a nagging fear that I am not meant to be here. Then, gradually, a rhythm settles into my joints and unfamiliar words settle onto a familiar tongue. I feel my aches and pains melting away as I pray and bow and chant with a community I now, somehow, feel a part of.

20 rakahs later, the room falls silent. Some one has extinguished the lanterns and the moonlight no longer needs to compete for attention. It settles, instead, just below the high ceiling, lending an eerie glow to the many figures that have now assembled in front, the cloaked Shaykhs conducting the Zikr and the men who have come to attend. The room is still, I can almost feel it breathing, or perhaps those long deep breaths are mine. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray for magic. My toes tingle as I hold my breath.

A voice starts chanting itself into a loud, heavy chorus, they are chanting clipped, short words; the names of Allah. My eyes remain shut as I join in, swaying to the tune of this heavenly chorus. It feels pure and rich and resonates in harmony with some chord within my person. I can feel my eyes tear up, tears i have no control over as they cascade down my cheeks with shameless abandon. I am overwhelmed with remorse. What is this feeling? It is immense and palpable and it is as if my entire being is melting.

I leave the church in a daze.

Due to a series of unfortunate events, I could not revisit the mosque and a month later found myself boarding a plane back to Pakistan.

Struggling with culture shock and the confusion of repatriation, I sought Sufi friends, if only I could contain within my heart, the series of cathartic emotions I had witnessed that fateful day. Within the midst of chaos, they alone took on the mantle of guide and oracle. Such intense sentiment must have SOME meaning.

What?

It must be relived!

So onwards I march, past a seaside mazaar, its colorful building replete with flags and swarming with people pulling to itself with some cosmic magnet the crippled, the psychic, the mad, the eccentric. I witness soothsaying parrots, fortune tellers, palm readers, I read tales of women being picked up and raped from outside its gates and it perplexes me. In that entire stretch of land swarming with the occult is a culture I do not understand.
Weeks later I find myself in a majlis. There are hymns and prayer and songs of praise but I cannot feel God. It is as if he appears and disappears at will, I chase after him and catch a fleeting glimpse. Then the fight begins, the struggle to be cleaner of heart and purer of spirit.

I wonder if my Sufi tarot friend had any idea of the yearning he would unleash, or if he could sense my hungry spirit. Were he in Pakistan, would he too be found practicing outside the mazaar of a deceased saint? Despite my confusion I remain convinced. In the land of mystics, teeming with saints and guides, I too shall find my path. And it promises to be an overwhelming journey.

Persepolis: Dying to watch it!

The day BB died

I first heard the news when i sat down at the dinner table to break my fast having just returned from a swim. My father sat twitching at the head of the table, his fingers clutching his mobile phone willing it to ring. The television had been left on and his ears strained to tune in to it over the clatter of tableware and cutlery.
I asked if i could switch it off and his eyes almost popped out of his head. 'Benazir has been shot'
'What?!' i couldn't believe it. Benazir? Shot? I had never heard of such a thing.
'Is she alive?' I rushed towards the television. One of the local news channels was broadcasting live. The ticker running below proclaimed in BIG BLOCK LETTERS Benazir Bhutto shot at rally in Rawalpindi. 10 minutes later she had been proclaimed dead.
I sat glued to the television, my family around me, stunned. My father's mobile rang continuously as he tried to get through to a friend in the PPP to press for further information.
There would be riots.
At times of crisis, us Karachiites follow one simple code. Get home as fast as you can and stay there until the smoke clears. We were safe, but it was just after 6 and there were several people on the streets trying to find their way home. My sister was one of them. Several frantic attempts to call her later, we realised that the phone lines were jammed, possibly due to an unexpected influx of traffic.
I felt tears prick my eyes as i watched footage of Bhutto walking from the rally into her bullet proof car, followed by an aggressive Naheed Khan. The footage of the actual moment when she was shot could not be broadcast due to PEMRA regulations. So we watched as she walked towards her godforsaken car time after time: an instant replay of the moment JUST before Ms Bhutto was attacked followed by footage of static ambulances and bleeding bodies amidst smoke and flames. The imagery shifted to feature throngs of grief stricken people within the hospital walls.
No one deserved to die like this, regardless of how corrupt or power hungry they may be, without any family or loved ones about, amidst strangers and opportunists. I wept for the loss of her life and of those that were lost, swept away by the forces of hatred and anger.

A few minutes after, i felt a sense of calm descend, unlike any i had felt since i heard of her arrival on Pakistani soil and certainly in opposition to the fear that clung to my heart as i watched her step out of her aeroplane at the airport. I am ashamed to say that i actually heard the lyrics 'Ding Dong! The witch is dead' resound in my ears. Finally, the situation had reached a moment of climax, some great evil had been averted signalling a change to an old decrepit system. The extremist elements in the country will now come head to head with the true spirit of democracy, not the sham the nation had been dreading.

My father picked up his walking stick. It was time for commiseration, conjecture and heated politcal debate. It was time to go visit Chacha Dada (his uncle). Being quite fond of Chacha Dada myself, and eager to hear his opinion on the matter, i slipped on my walking shoes and we stepped out. The street outside our house was still, our chowkidar advised us to return early and to be careful, his brows furrowed under his white prayer cap as he slowly shut the door behind us. We walked towards the market, past a dark petrol station that had hastily been closed down, and a main road jammed by slow moving loudly beeping traffic.
'You see beta! we couldn't have gotten anywhere with our car. This is why i Knew walking is the best solution!' my father's eyes were bright with excitement.
The cars lined up as far as the eyes could see. Perhaps if i looked hard enough i'd spot Rabia. But my father was pulling at my arm as we wound our way across the street.
We arrived at Chacha Dada's. The televison blared in the living room, in several of the bedrooms and upstairs, in his annexe, remote in hand, sat Chacha dada. His face lit up as we entered and my father and him plunged headlong into their discussion.
I watched the television, watched their faces, numb with the rapidly unfolding sequence of events.
Rabia rang to inform us of her arrival and my father breathed a sigh of relief. Having decided that the Bhutto dynasty had finally come to an end, that the elections would now have to be postponed and some names of possible party leaders to take her place thrown up in the air, my father decides it is time to return home.
The streets are now quiet. The traffic had magically disappeared. My father holds me back and we stop to watch a throng of men cross our path, laughing at our fear. A lone stranger asks if we can direct him to Khayaban e Badban, public transport having come to a standstill and him now having to walk his way home.
At home we learn that cars have been burnt, my aunt in fear for her safety has switched off all the lights in her home. Some friends and acquaintances have chosen to spend the night at the office for fear of facing an angry mob on their way home. A cousin's car gets attacked. A petrol station, a car dealership, a hospital has been set aflame.

Who are these people? It is as if whenever the country faces some crisis, a self motivated, self directed, made to order, angry, violent mob hones in on banks, petrol stations, cars and unleashes its fury. Are these the very people that get stepped on year after year by a self serving government that makes empty promises, in or out of uniform? Benazir offered no democratic solutions, she was as power hungry as the rest of the feuding feudals, politicians and military personnel clambering to the very top of a crumbling, shattered, broken nation. Perhaps disappointment and resentment runs so deep, that this is the only time these people can express their dissatisfaction.
In their self expression lies the true voice of the people and the tragedy that is Pakistan today.

Is it time for a new Pakistani politician?