Homebody and the Face of Pakistan

I was ecstatic when Sharmeen Obaid Chinoy won the Oscar. Then I became slightly depressed that she won an Oscar at 33 when at 29, my biggest achievement has been to eat 10 Kit-Kats in a row, really, really fast. But I’m the only one comparing, so whatever.

So in the wake of the congratulations and twitter dedications and facebook updates (in which I too came up with a little ditty: Don’t just congratulate – donate! To http://acidsurvivorspakistan.org/you-can-help )I came across a lot of articles about the ‘face’ of Pakistan – not just a terrorist face but a smiling woman in a sleeveless Bunto Kazmi graciously dedicating her success to the unsung heroes and women for Pakistan. And suddenly, I remembered another face that I had encountered back at the University of Karachi. I don’t know why I think about this person often – but I decided to write a blog post talking about why HE represents the curious, contradictory and surprising face of Pakistan to me.

I don’t know his name; about which I’m very ashamed because he sat with me in philosophy for six months. He had kohl-rimmed eyes, unshaven cheeks and a permanent frown on his face. His skin was pock-marked – he’d had a bad case of small pox when he was young, it seemed. He wore a loose shirt and extremely tight trousers. And he glared at me whenever I giggled too loud. Through the course of the six months, his views were clear – he was an MQM following Muslim who believed that the sound of a girl’s voice asserting a contradictory opinion was an anomaly of nature and a blight upon society. I used to avoid talking to him, labeled him as a Mutahida Fundo and had nothing to do with him. I never tried to engage him in debate or discussion and am ashamed to say that I snickered whenever he spoke to make him feel uncomfortable and unvalidated.

So it happened that my philosophy course ended and I went my way. A year later, as I walked down the Arts Lobby, I was stopped by a man calling me: ‘Madam! Madam!’ I turned around to see his scowling person marching my way. I took a few steps back, wondering if my anti-Altaf rantings in class had inflamed him to take action. My defensive side perked up and with a raise of an eyebrow and a haughty ‘Jee?’ I asked him what he wanted.

He reached into his back pocket and took out a photograph of me.

I was stunned.

‘You dropped this when you were taking documents out of your file to pay your fees. I picked it up and took it before it could go into the wrong hands, koi ziadti nahi ho jai. And then philosophy ended and then I didn’t see you around – I don’t usually come to the Art’s lobby. So, here you go and in future be careful with your photographs!’

I think he would have been satisfied to see my jaw drop and remain dropped as he walked away. This long-haired hooligan who I had dismissed for a pseudo-gangster and dismissed had actually done something remarkable chivalrous, even though he didn’t like me. From me he had received cattiness, dismissive comments and even sarcasm and yet he had kept my photograph (a singularly unattractive one) for a whole year because he didn’t want it to be misused.

And this long haired gangster/gentleman represents to me the face of Pakistan. A face I don’t quite understand, a face that was easy to label but a face that leaves room for contradictions. And Pakistan, like other societies, is a mix of the most radical contradictions – of chivalry and chauvinism, of hate and love, of ignorance and wisdom. It’s a rugged face with kind eyes and a bright soul. It’s a face to be studied, painted, sketched, mulled over, redrawn and re-understood. It’s a face that cannot be put into a category.

So whenever I read an article about the ‘real’ face of Pakistan, I smile, because how can a society ever have just one face? But if it were to have one, it would be that of my philosophy student, never to be categorized, always elusive, always surprising but ultimately, worth the interaction in the end.

Homebody’s Ode to Z

Z is my niece. She’s precocious, stubborn and has a toddler’s tummy, just like I do. Doesn’t matter that she might lose hers once she’s grown up, while I’ve held on to and lovingly cultivated mine.  An affinity to eating, an overdeveloped vocabulary and a mean streak are just a few of the things that homebody and her niece have in common.

Since Z is my niece and exactly like me, I love her to pieces but am secretly deadly afraid of her. She’s the only three-year old who effectively stopped me from kissing her by sticking out a rather pink tongue in the general direction of my lips as they traveled towards her cheek. Every day she does something or the other to best me. This has never happened before and therefore I honor her with an ode to her wiliness.

Disclaimer: There is NO exaggeration in the following vignettes. Homebody has told the whole truth, the vicious truth and nothing but the truth.

***

Z’s a keen judge of character. She’s the only one who saw my ex for what he was. And she was only three years old at the time.

Me: Z, this is M. Is he nice or bad?

Z: (looks critically at M’s humorless person) He’s a bat. Did you know that in Urdu a bad is called a chimgadar? I think you’re a chimgadar, a black chimgadar.

M never wanted Z’s name to be mentioned in his house again.

****

Today, two years later, Z has reminded me of her naturally evil side. She torments A, her younger brother in a manner that is close to ingenious. It reminds me why I don’t mess with her. She’d chew me alive.

Z: (holding up a glass of juice) Look A! I’ve got juice.

A: (mimicking older sister) So do I!

Z: Let’s have a competition, A. Let’s see who can drink the juice first.

A: (gulping it down and gasping for air) I WIN I WIN!

Z: No, I win because I still have juice left to drink while you don’t. Nananananananaaaaaa!!!

A: (looks crestfallen)

***

Me: Z, Happy Valentine’s Day! I got a rose for you!

Z: Thank you. I’m going to make a Valentine’s card.

Me: Really? That’s so amazing.

Z: How do you spell it?

Me: V-A-L-E-N-T-I-N-E

Z: Now I’m going to color it.

Me: How delightful!

Z: It’s done!

Me: (reaching forward)

Z: Not for you. For A. Happy Valentine’s Day, A.

Me: (looks crestfallen)

***

Z: Shazoo, I’ve made a picture for you

Me: Wow! It’s a beautiful golden lion!

Z: So that it can eat you. HAHAHAHAHA.

***

Me: A! Come to my godi!

A: Why?

Me: Because you’re my gol-matol bacha! Now come na!

A: OKAY!

Z: A, she’s making fun of you.

Me: NO I’M NOT A!

A: STOP MAKING FUN OF ME!

Me: But… I’m not.

A: I’m going to sit with Z!

Z: (grins diabolically)

***

Another similarity – Z and I are both writers. I write on my laptop, while Z practices spelling and spins the magic of words on a toy soft board with a blue dollar marker. This is the first poem she wrote:

Some tmies its not easy being pink all the time.
but when i do be all the colours
i am glad to be my self!

When asked to comment upon life, she wrote:

When you read Quran
God will be happy for you all the time.

When I asked Zaina to write a poem about me, she didn’t even have to think. Here is photographic evidence of her abuse:

***

Z: I’ve made a worksheet for you. Match the animals to their clothes.

Me: But there are only numbers here!

Z: (who by now has started playing teacher- teacher without informing me) Why are you asking stupid questions?

Me: Sorry.

Z: What are you waiting for? Draw lines!

Me: (Drawing – looking up hopefully at scowling toddler)

Z: Let me see. No. You got it all wrong. (Takes red marker and crosses everything out)

Me: Can I go now?

Z: It’s not chutti time yet. Now, write a sentence and draw a picture.

Me: (writing) I love Z

Z: Not that nonsense.

Me: Okay. I live in a house.

Z: THAT’S NOT A SENTENCE!

Me: Okay… The cat ate a mouse who ate the cheese.

Z: Good. Now draw a picture.

Me: (drawing a picture of a broken heart, a house and a mouse and a cat and cheese)

Z: THE HEART IS WRONG! (crosses out with a red marker)

Me: (hopefully) But you like the other drawings?

Z: Yes. (Takes paper away from me, writes her mum’s name on sheet of paper with a little heart and goes to mum) Ammi, look, I made Shazoo do your work.

Me: What do you mean?

Z: This was Ammi’s  worksheet.

Me: What? Why’d you make me do all that work.

Z: (evil Cheshire cat grin) Because I was playing a trick on you!

Me: (stares jaw dropped at retreating form of matkoing toddler)

***

Z and A are playing a game. A is shooting people and killing them and Z is helping them come back to life.

A: (going to my mum) Bang! I killed you!

Z: (following) Tring! You’re alive again.

A: (to me) Bang! I’ve killed you!

Z: (to A) let her remain dead.

***

Why Homebody is Morbid

Positive people are surrounded by positivity. I am morbid because I am surrounded by morbidity. I can't shake the feeling that I am living to the backdrop of impending tragedy that will chew my to pieces and swallow me whole. This is because I hear conversations like the one recorded below. ALL.THE.TIME.

Following is a typical interchange between my mother and our neighbor as we drive to a majlis. You may imagine me sitting in front, trying not to listen but soon the dark cloud inside our corolla has oppressed me as well. In the end, I slump and begin to think that there will be no more rainbows, ever.

R: Thank you for picking me up.

A: Arey, what thank you? It’s my duty as your neighbor.

R: You’re very kind. I still drive, but at night, after my husband’s death, my children tell me it’s not safe.

A: (who’s an expert on IT’S.NOT.SAFE conversations) Of course it’s not safe. Imagine what can happen to a woman driving alone at night: tire puncture, abduction, theft at gunpoint.

R: Haan, bilkul. Bhai those things can happen during the day time as well.

A: That’s why one should keep a driver.

R: But drivers these days – did you know – my late husband’s cousin was murdered by her driver. He stabbed her and then drove over her. She had tire marks over her face.

A: Toba, Toba. REEEALLY?

R: Haan.

Silence; each widow savoring another gory story that has potential to be used for social conversation. Or to tell her daughters why it’s best they stay home all the time.

A: How’s your mother?

R: Fell in the bathroom.

A: Oh NO!

R: Yes. Poor thing, she’s ninety and she fell on her face. She looks like she’s wearing goggles.

A: Oh No!

R: Yes. Do you remember last month I fell after returning from T’s majlis.

A: I do remember! How are you now?

R: Bas, a few aches and pains. I remember saying to God, as I was in the process of falling, I remember, I said, ‘Allah spare my bones.’

A: Haan bhai. One’s health and mobility is so important. I just visited my late husband’s superior officer’s funeral. His wife, third wife, by the way, is in such bad shape. Uff, I tau shudder when I think of it.

R: Really? Third wife?

A: Haan, first one was uneducated. Don’t know much about the second one. But the third wife is not old at all. But she has Parkinson. Toba, I had heard of fingers shaking but this poor woman was shaking and twitching everywhere. Tongue also. And she wasn’t being able to say anything. She was on a wheel chair. And she’s childless. Who is going to take care of her now?

At this point, Homebody interrupts and asks them if they can talk about something less depressing.

R: Haan, bhai, we should talk about good things. At least we have our health and can walk, Allah is kind.

A: Allah is very kind indeed.

Silence. Scanning for good-things-to-talk-about. 0 search results revealed.

A: Aur batao, how is your daughter?

R: Oh she’s very good. She has been looking after me well after my husband passed away.

A: Such a good man he was. I remember he and Wasi used to be such good friends.

R: I remember. But that’s how the world runs, I suppose. The men die early and we women are left to mourn them.

A: Haan. Sometimes I miss him terribly. It’s not a good experience being alone.

R: Bhai there are so many women living alone these days. My cousin died and his wife was a dentist in the USA. Then she got severe osteoporosis. Couldn’t bend down. Had to come back here. Lives with her sister. And now she’s gone blind.

A: I think I remember you telling me. Does she have an abnormal child?

R: Not abnormal. Badtameez.

A: Acha.

Destination reached. Conversation interrupted – the rest of the gory details to be discussed on the way back home. And that is why homebody has bouts of morbidity. Not that you asked. But I decided to tell. Just because. 

Homebody’s Awards for the Karachi Literature Festival

Yesterday, homebody rubbed shoulders with Shoba de and envied her patli qamar, laughed affectionately at Willy Dalrymple and gave a hug to Mohammad Hanif. Of course, the fact that most of these people were on stage while I sat in the audience and didn't really talk to me personally proved no obstacle in the way of my fanciful imaginings. It left me so excited that I sit early in the morning, sipping my morning-tea-without-sugar, struggling to write this blog post even though my eyes are still not entirely open.

A great many adventures took place, mostly in the Carlton’s ladies’ bathrooms. One was out of operation and homebody found a man in the other, asked him what he was doing there and then ran out before he could reply. Another hapless bathroomite reported to have walked in on a lady reprimanding a scarf-wearing woman who had wet the entire bathroom after wuzu. But the purpose of this post isn’t Carlton hotel (though my humble request is that OUP choose another venue with better food and catering) it’s to give a series of awards to the people who made an appearance on the first day of the festival.

The highlight of yesterday’s event for me was Willy, as Kamila Shamsie so affectionately called him while moderating his event. Dalrymple was a natural story teller, a big white teddy bear in a creased blue-coloured cotton shirt reading out from The Holy Mountain, The Road to Xanadu, The City of Jinns, imitating the Pakistani accent and telling the mike-walas to be ‘khamosh’ and talking about how the Ahmed Ali’s of this city hate Karachi and wish to go back to Delhi; while the audience, including homebody, laughed and hooted and found him utterly charming. He was a master story teller and a natural performer, the Bee’s Knees, the butter-content in the literary choc-fest. He gets the award for the King-Pin, the lovable Panda Po.

The Diva Award goes to the resident sex symbol at KLF, which was undoubtedly Shoba De. This literary star, dressed in a hot-pink sari told women that they didn’t need to look like frumps at sixty. Instead, they could take the pressure off and look glamorous in an off-shoulder midnight blue Armani gown: ‘You don’t have to be the stereotype’ she said in an attempt to give women all over the world hope. She proudly proclaimed that her tattoo represented the feminine principle and motherhood. Her composure was momentarily ruffled when after rendering a proud proclamation that she had paved the way for women writers in the sub-continent, Mohsin Sayeed (God bless him) stood up and asked her what she thought writers like Ismat Chughtai, Qurat-ul-Aine Haider and others before her had been doing? Ms. De leaned against the podium for emotional support, smiled graciously and began to talk very fast, amending that she was just citing a personal example. For homebody, Shoba represents the ultimate rebellion, because it was her book that homebody read at twelve years of age when she was absolutely forbidden to do so. The raunchy descriptions of sex during a funeral as one sister cheated on her own flesh-and-blood with her brother in law are still fresh in my mind. Evidently, they are fresh in the mind of the male reading public because five mustachioed men sidled up next to her, attempted to touch her bare back but were glared away, said something complimentary and sidled off as fat, balding men are wont to do.

No literature festival is complete without the Grinch and the KLF 2012 Grinch Award goes to Hanif Qureshi, a man who might have guts, but also a case of irritable bowel syndrome because he looked massively displeased throughout his reading of Buddha of Suburbia. What he read was fantastic, full of homo-sexual innuendos and shaved chests; very witty. But the inner-Grinch is not to be thwarted and when a woman got up and asked him, a little tactlessly, that he didn’t seem to like women (based on the women he presented in his fiction) he paused, twitched, proclaimed, ‘That’s a stupid question,’; glaring into the awkward silence as the moderator tried to cover it up. Now quite frankly, I think he deserved a tomato in the face for that answer. He has come to a literature festival in a city where people are just getting used to such events. The public can be depended upon to ask silly questions. As a writer, even as a good writer, even as the ‘biggest name’ (whatever that means) at KLF, a question like that merits an answer because it’s a badly worded perception of his literature which he could have corrected, explained, or used as an opportunity to explain how a piece of fiction doesn’t necessarily represent a writer’s own biases. But he just snubbed her, felt superior and moved on. And the general public loved him for it. Mr. Grinch continued to be bombarded with more stupid questions about the brilliance of Karachi and the ‘hush-hush’ themes he wrote about (again, badly phrased question which Qureshi also made multiple sardonic references to) and ended on popular applause. All the world loves a Grinch.

The Rockstar Award goes to the audience-puller; the man who evokes such adoration by virtue of his wit and writings that his fans giggle, hoot and call out his name feverishly every time he walks on stage. If he ever broke into song, there would be a stampede and men and women, old and young, would hold up lighters and wave their arms from side to side. Mohammad Hanif rocked again with the book launch of Alice Bhatti, but the focus of the questions remained on his first book, A Case of Exploding Mangoes which showed that his second book didn’t quite touch the pulse of the nation as the first one. The reason Homebody is a Hanif groupie is not because of his writings or his sense of humour – it’s because of his patience with questions from students and aspiring writers who insist on asking him how many drafts he writes and what advice, in thirty seconds, he can give them that can trigger off their Inner Writer. He is not just a ‘writer’, he’s someone who makes other people believe that, if they tried, they could write too. That makes him rock-star in homebody’s book.

But the real highlight of KLF is not the writers. It’s the people who go to listen to them. There are aggressive aunties who follow writers around and fight with the moderators to get an autograph on their newly purchased copy of a latest novel; there are emos who grab the mike when the moderator has selected someone else and tell the writers how their writings helped them to get and stay married (which I must admit is a mammoth achievement) and then press-conferencers who sit next to homebody and don’t let her listen to what the writer’s saying because they insist on telling her what their opinion of the proceedings are. There are head-nodders who express their assent vigorously and their heads roll off their necks (but they pick them up, re-attach them and continue to nod), there are sleazy-smilers who will adore every ridiculous thing people on stage because they feel that if you are on-stage, you are undoubtedly right. There are angst-driven intellectuals who scoff at each question the moderator asks and there are whiners who can’t get over the fact that everything began forty minutes late. And finally, there are aspiring writers who gaze starry-eyed at these gods of the written word who have done what they most want to do. And these last are the soul of the literary festival and I give them an enormous KUDOS for being a part of the event and hope that their dreams come true.

Homebody Becomes Sadistic

Don’t get me wrong. I love my mum. But there’s nothing as satisfying, delicious and tickling than teasing her so mercilessly that she stops talking to me. 

My mother is a conservative sixty-something. Her name is Razia. She is the model of piety, getting up early to say her Tahajjaud, then Fajr. She proceeds to read the Quran and then has breakfast. After which she goes out gardening, tells me I need to lose weight and clean my closet and the soles of my feet, talks to her children on the phone and then says her afternoon prayers, followed by evening and night prayers.

But where there is such virtue, there is also naughtiness. I am convinced of it. This is my theory about her.

She has a crush, though she will never admit it, on Najam Sethi. She will giggle like a little girl every time he flashes a crooked smile at the camera and lets loose a sarcastic comment in Punjabi. Her heart goes pit-a-pat when she listens to Hamid Mir, Geo at night provides her with her daily dose of excitement.

So when my mother, with a tasbeeh in her hand snuggles in her favorite red blanket in anticipation of the mustachioed eye candy at night; she is shocked to see a geo parody of a song that goes: ‘Razia ghundon main phans gai – oy hoy oy hoy’ (translated roughly as Razia stuck amidst gangsters, haw hai haw hai!)

Ammi springs up as if someone has slandered her.

‘What is this? What nonsense? Why Razia? Why not another name?’

‘Haw Amma!’ I say, ‘Hamid Mir knows you like him. He and Najam Sethi like to think of themselves as gangsters. You should be flattered.’

‘Bite your tongue!’

‘Ooh, sexual metaphor!’

‘You need to get married! What fahaash baatain!’

But this jibe at my marital status will not stop me. I’m inspired. The amusement in me bubbles into ecstasy. I start a bhangra like the cartoons on the geo parody.

‘Ghundon main phas phas, Razia phas phas!’

‘Dhat! Look at you! How dare you make fun of your mother? You’ve become sadistic!’

“Razia badnaam hui, darling teray liye!”

“You are vulgar!”

“Well, better that than a lesbian, no Amma?”

Ammi recoils into resentful silence while I do a bhangra around the living room, crash into a table and fall down.

“Serves you right,” she says in a disapproving voice.

Well, yes it does. But oh, homebody is still grinning like an idiot as she signs off with this most immature of blogposts!
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… Razia Badnaam hui… oi hoi oi hoi ;)

Homebody Fights with Mum

So my mum and I had a fight today over a dream she had.

I woke up early in the morning and checked facebook only to discover that 28 out of the 33 notifications I had were ‘likes’ by people and students and the other 4 were Castleville requests. I felt the void of communication; like I was alone in the center of a social vortex where everyone else was busy while I sat in the boring calm of an exciting hurricane. I felt left behind.

Amidst the haze of despair, I saw my mother walk into the living room – she had just woken up. And I noticed the aura of anger and resentment almost immediately. It’s like I have some intuitive radar for it – she doesn’t have to say or do anything, she doesn’t even have to look angry but I know, through my rage-dar, that I’m in deep, deep trouble.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’

 ‘Something must be. You’re upset.’

‘I didn’t say I’m upset.’

‘You didn’t have to.’

‘Don’t put words in my mouth.’

‘Okay FINE! Sheesh.’

Silence. I reflect on how my mum and I are very like most married couples. This dynamic we have isn’t just restricted to matrimony. And you ask why I’m phobic about marriage.

‘I had a dream…’ she begins.

‘Mmhmm…’

‘I had a dream in which you came to me and told me that you were gay. And I threw you out of the house.’

I shall not tell her that I have been of late, having impure thoughts about Dorothy Parker who said things like ‘brevity is the soul of lingerie’ and other fabulously bitchy things. Besides, it’s perfectly normal to be attracted to intelligence. But I’m squarely heterosexual, despite falling in love with dead female poets by reading about them on brainy quote.

‘Well, that wasn’t very nice of you,’ I retort.

‘Kia matlab hai?’

‘I’m your daughter. You can’t kick me out.’

‘It’s my house. I can do whatever I want.’

‘A parent who kicks her offspring out on the street in a temper is a failed parent.’

‘A child who betrays her mother by sinning against God is a failed offspring.’

‘If I’ve sinned against God, why don’t you let Him kick me out of heaven. Aap kahaan say Allah kee advocate ban gayee hain.’

‘I’m your mother and I forbid you from being gay.’

‘Ma, you can’t forbid me from being gay. It isn’t something I can control.’

‘Allah killed the entire nation of Lot for being gay!’

‘Allah condemned them for being hedonistic and inhospitable. Everything would have been fine if they were discreet about things.’

‘Where have I gone wrong that my own daughter talks in this way about such shameful things?’

‘I didn’t start it, you did! And I can be gay if I want to. Which I don’t. In any case, kicking me out of the house wouldn’t stop me from being gay. I’d just move in with my lover!’

‘You need to get married.’

‘I agree.’

Silence.

‘Ma, you know you’re being ridiculous.’

‘I’m trying to save your soul, that’s what I’m doing!’

‘But I'm NOT gay. Do you remember how you were angry at Abu because you dreamt he was having an affair?’

‘I did no such thing.’

‘Well, you did do such a thing. And then you refused to speak to him for a week and the poor man didn’t know what to do. I refuse to be emotionally blackmailed by your nightmares!’

‘Nightmares are an omen for the future!’

‘No. They’re the result of having too much sweet and sour chicken last night.’

‘I’ll not talk to you until you can talk to me respectfully!’

‘Maaa!’

‘I can’t hear you.’

So I’m getting my share of silent treatment, first for being gay and then for being disrespectful. Or perhaps because being gay is being disrespectful to my mum, in her eyes. Oh well. I’ll get her some Di-gas and she’ll be fine.