Notes of a sick boy

Wintertime is up. It has started to get hot in Delhi. Soon this city will be a big blazing bakery. Heat and grime shall appear. The Sun will become a torrid oven that gets hotter each passing day. I’m frigging scared of the wicked Indian -- summer -- sun. It simply kills you.
The sky becomes a shade of alabaster from the crisp blue of winter. The clouds kind of jar and jam in summers and you can’t see any clouds shaped like forest animals. It gets that uninspiring.
And it lasts more than 222 days. That is abominable.

I was knocked out by a brief viral attack. The cretins have an old enmity with me and are almost always on an ambush. I don’t know I must have wandered close to their turf [Did I drink from something infected or was the air laden with some bug barf, I can’t remember] and these hideously pathetic creatures suddenly lunged at me.
My unsuspecting immune system must have fought gallantly, my FRCP accredited doc comforted me but you see the invading bugs are far stronger. End result: I was done in. Fever gripped me and I was in bloody pain.

Well, about twenty five years ago there was this guy. He noticed some mold growing on his bread and he started feeding it to people. Everybody said he was stupid. You know what it turned out to be? Aspirin! I popped in aspirins and several potions of that wonder drug called antibiotics before I could get back to my crazy work schedule. Life has again streamed into a rhythm.

I’ll back anon.

Sameer

Dancing with the Devil

Pakistan political bosses take their Machiavellian lessons seriously. Earlier this week they simply handed over the beautiful valley of Swat [in the North West Frontier Province] to the Taliban on a platter. They say – if you can’t fight them, worm upto them in the hope that they will rot away someday. Under the fresh deal –- cracked over cookies and tea -- by Zardari’s men and the clerics led by Mullah Sufi Mohammad, Swat, a princely state till 1969, will now have the Sharia [Islamic law], implemented by the close-minded Taliban.

Though Swat’s borders are not contiguous with Afghanistan, the Pakistan Taliban is known to have very close ties with their bearded brothers across the non-existent Durrand line. For many the resurgence of Taliban will mean nothing more than ritualised lynchings and whipping. For the NATO troops, patrolling the badlands of Afghanistan it is alarm bells. No wonder the international community [read the US mostly] is aquiver -- like an angry cock. Neighbors like India see red.

Swat itself is a region inhabited by extremely good looking Pashtoons and Kohistanis with blond hair and blue eyes [the place was a stop-over for many invading armies – like those of Alexander the Great. Some scholars attribute the beautiful genes to the king of Macedonia’s armies]. 2,300 years later the area has become a fiefdom of rabid Mullah’s. Sufi, the white-beard – for instance – is the father-in-law of Mullah Fazlullah, another creature who is more famous for his mountain side mobile radio station – preaching hell-fire and damnation -- earning him the nickname Mullah Radio.

So Sufi – boss of the rather longish-named party Tehreek-e-Nifaz-e-Shariat Muhammadi [TNSM] was recently released from jail where he cooled his heels for six long years. [The old man had apparently herded thousands of his followers to fight the US – over the craggy hills -- to the neighboring Afghanistan in 2001 when US attacked the country -- and got them all killed]. He is the peacenik in black turban now.

The plan is that in return of the imposition of Shariat in Swat, Sufi will persuade his son-in-law [the radio dude] to make peace, who in turn will encourage Baitullah Masood, the head of Taliban in Pakistan [accused of masterminding Benazir Bhutto’s assassination, a charge he denies] to drop arms. There is one common thread binding all the beards – they owe their unflinching allegiance to Mullah Omar [one eyed boss of the original Taliban, who was last seen escaping on a Honda moped post 9/11].

The brouhaha of the Mullah's cannot be really passed off as some major peace deal. This is no truce. These are Daedalean power games. The surging of Taliban is a very bad omen. Let loose, these guys can prove to be very thorny. What is happening now is that each side is trying to buy time. We'll soon be back to square one.

‘But pray we had elections in this area, I asked G Parthasarthy [ex-diplomat, author and former consular to Pakistan], and these people returned the liberal Asfandyar Khan’s party [ANP] to power. How come this shift?’ ‘Pat, Partasarthy [badly beaten up during his diplomat days in Pakistan] said, the Pakistan Taliban’s fear is total in Swat. They've driven elected legislators away from their homes’.
I checked the reference. For once, the hawkish security strategist, was right.

The Taliban are phantoms of the hills. The Pakistan government is dancing with the devil! It should watch out for the steps.

Sameer

2/14

Like every year 2/14 has been special. Natives call it Valentine’s day. Love day. Every teenager -- and most adults cued-in to the big media – wait anxiously for the D-day to dawn. Bakeries bake hot cakes, mostly shaped like a human heart and balloon sellers sell heart-shaped balloons by the dozen. Malls throw open their heart plastered doors and the ubiquitous metro is crammed full with mushy-eyed, love birds. Love is literally littered everywhere.

2/14 is practiced with much markedness. Everyone is out.
The brouhaha is maddening. Cupid hangs from roof eaves and cafés. It was almost carnival like in the new-age malls where everything possible is made out like a heart – streamers, coffee froth, shoe laces, belts. Completely lost- in-love, made-in-heaven couples stroll about, surveying the merchandise. Queues for movie halls [where popcorn boxes are heart-like] get more serpentine than ever.

I am at loss to fathom this spectacle. Why should we go out and walk with hips joined like Siamese twins on this particular day? Why must we sit in the gardens – which are so filled with humanity on 2/14 – and flirt with each other's locks? What is so special about this day that we must mandatorily wolf down heart-shaped pancakes [ridiculously priced]? Why should we practise our emotions like a mass ritual?

Love is such an uncommon sentiment. We love people for what they are. Erich Segal, author of Love Story [New York Times top selling work of fiction for all of 1970, the book was translated into more than 20 languages worldwide] writes about love thus: Love comes quietly, without banners or flashing lights. If you hear bells, get your ears checked.

Love is -- in reality -- inexplicable. It is romance, it is fun and it is madness – yeah. But do we need one day in an entire calendar year to express it? Isn’t love eternal? Do cakes and cut flowers and candies and coffee constitute love? Part of the problem is that we are taken in by advertisers. As a society we have flunked to balance it. In doing so, we are completely overwhelmed by market forces who give us only two options -- either splurge or feel wanting.

No wonder the idiot box is relentless and the newspaper columns persistent. FM jockeys are hollering love before and after every song they play for you. If you don’t go out and participate in the make-believe pageant, you are doomed! In times of consumerism, the wholesale import of culture does not come as a shock to me. Commodifying emotions do.

I reckon love is more than just ribbons, bouquets and the heart panoply on sale. We have come to such a pass where we need to shell out quick bucks [and that is the real reason for this show-boat] to express our love. Love has -- alas -- been reduced to packages!

The great French dramatist Jean Anouilh waxes eloquent,” Love is, above all else, the gift of oneself’.

Happy V-day.
Sameer

How to kill a lake

[Wular lake, near Sopore, Kashmir]

Text and images Sameer

There is a lake in Scotland called Loch Ness. Legend has it that it is home to the Loch Ness monster. For ages the monster has captured popular imagination in the western world and kept it at such frenzied levels that hordes can still be seen descending upon Loch just to catch a glimpse of the beauty, dubbed Nessie. Of course the monster story is pure imagination. With or without its famed beast the Loch is reported to have more fresh water than all the lakes of England and Wales.

Back home in Kashmir, a few minutes’ drive from home is another beautiful lake. This one has no beast in it. My sister likes to garnish history with some local lore. She believes there is an entire city submerged in the lake [Kalhana, the 12th century Kashmiri chronicler of historic fables supports her claim]. Wular, the Indian sub-continent’s largest fresh water lake, is no less mysterious.

Wular is azure everywhere you look. It has schools of carp and rosy barb swimming in its blue waters. Across the lake shore it is not uncommon to see little egrets, pecking away, their snowy feathers reflecting in the water. Dabbling ducks, with green heads like the Pakistani national flag, quack to each other on Wular’s placid waters. Pallas's fish eagle with a light chocolate hood over a white face can be spotted flying over the lake, watching over the marbled teal, the diving duck that is both rare and friendly.

Kashmir's celebrated King Zain-ul-Abedin is known to have been bewitched by the lily-embroidered lake. On many clear moonlit nights in 1444, the noble king – watched the still waves of Wular -- slowly weave their lakelet magic in ancient aqua loops. To contemplate in nature’s lap the King got an artificial island made in the middle of the lake. It still remains and is locally called Zaina lank. People say that at noon, almost daily, tides occur in Wular which are usually accompanied by mild storms. Fishermen at the lake take refuge in Zaina lank if the storm gets bad.

I have been bothered by recent reports from Wetland International [WI], South Asia, a reputed global organization dedicated to conservation of wetlands. The report for Wular is particularly distressing. The lake has shrunk to half its size due to massive encroachment, inflow of sewage and siltation. The reason – no brownies for guessing this one – bad policies by subsequent state governments. The WI note further says that deterioration of Wular has led to increased floods and droughts in the region besides affecting the fish and bird species. The 217 sq km lake has now been reduced to a mere 87 sq km. Encroachment continues.

In a place where opportunities are limited and ignorance is unlimited – and the specter of poverty always haunts -- it does not come as a surprise that such things transpire. As many as 18 villages tucked away around the shores of Wular have their sustenance attached to the lake in one form or the other. Close to 10,000 fishermen make their living by catching fish in the lake. The conversion of vast catchment into agriculture land and the hunting pressure on waterfowl remains widespread. This nonsense has to end. And now.

Wular is our heritage. All the fat guys in the ecology and wildlife department are busy in Srinagar, ostensibly cleaning the Dal up. That is another scandal where endless money has gone down the drain [or Dal must we say]. No one cares, not the least the environment and remote sensing department of the J&K government. They watch as the largest fresh water body in the sub-continent gets dirtier, than their deeds. The Environment and forest minister has to ensure that his guys don’t come to plant trees around the lake, which they did in the past in clear violation of wildlife norms [they forget to plant the saplings where they need to].

At the community level too there is absolutely no alternative to people’s active involvement. Awareness is key. People just cannot afford to dump garbage into the lake. Any illegal encroachment around Wular has to be quickly reported. We need the Pied Woodpeckers and European Hoopoes in our midst.

Already the number of migratory birds [which used to number upwards of 30,000 each year] is dwindling. If we don’t act now Wular will be a stinking pool filled with carcasses, plastic and human shit.

Sameer

Change has come

On Obama's inauguration

They say a son of slaves has come
some people will no more be called scum
And this boy from seaside Hawaii
brings a tear to the eye
by all the magical words he has to say

They say he has a funny sounding name
And he clinched the DC game
And his color isn't all that white
And his gaze remains without spite

They say he likes the good ol' Lincoln
And like Abe, has earned his run
And he breathes plumes of hope
And in a storm he is the guy rope

They say he must shut the dark bay
And he won't let the goodness fray
And he will fix the dis-respect
because no one really is a suspect
A rainbow change has taken place

Sameer

The Peers of Kashmir

I’ve nothing against the Peers of Kashmir. The truth be told I grew up among Peers. It is one of the more common surnames in the valley and most people born under a Peer star – [ie to a Peer] – consider themselves very respected. The class has a collective mindset that they owe their descent to the Prophet [which is pure poppycock because everyone in the subcontinent from the mainstream Sunnis to Shiites as well as the countless heretical sects often trace their ancestry to Islam’s last prophet]. It is funny that people would use Islam – a religion founded on the basis of egalitarianism – to elevate themselves to some higher imagined status. Hallucination of castes!

Ergo -- most peers intermarry. Marriage outside the caste might somewhat dilute the hallowed status. In earlier days there used to be a block Peer surname but it got sub-divided over the years into a dozen categories according to their rank. So we now have Syeds and Qadiris and Muftis and Nagashbandis and Andrabis and Mantaqis and Hamdanis and Masudis and Bukharis and Nazkis and Geelanis and Rufayees and on and on. [Notice the emphasis on the last letter ‘I’, which translates to ‘Lakut Yae’ in Kashmiri]. In local idiom that is very poetic.

Traditionally the Peers were either clerics in local mosques or they practiced the craft of 'Peer Muridi’ [spiritual intuition to disciples]. They would also be in charge of various shrines. Ironically the practice of using poetic surnames along with personal names was not followed in ancient Kashmir. Academics observe that in olden days no caste system was prevalent among Kashmiri Muslims. People were mostly divided on the basis of their professional status.

In any case the Kashmiri Brahmins – considered to be some of the smartest Hindus – occupied most of the important court and -- later -- government jobs. Peers would gradually assume that responsibility. The control of the pulpit would naturally make them special to believers.

With changing times, the vocation of Peers has also transmogrified. Take a random name in Kashmir’s swelling media frat. You will inadvertently come up with a peer name [of any stripe]. The Peer monopoly over media is total. The mosque continues to remain their stronghold. Locals will tell you that Peers know the rituals better. In a saint ridden place their control over shrines and tombs is also complete. The main standard bearers across the political spectrum -- in both Azadi/non-Azadi camps – Mirwaiz, Syed Ali Geelani, Mufti sayed – are, yes you guessed it right, Peers. They are the new Pandits of Kashmir.

I’ve always been baffled by this rather weird fixation for surnames in Kashmir. One would understand such a phenomenon as a bygone corollary of bigotry but when you have educated – but under-exposed – people still hung up with their ancestry, you seriously need to pause and ponder.

We didn't all come over on the same ship, but we're all in the same boat.

Sameer

Our national tree

Let's say that I was born in Kashmir, a little over twenty-eight autumns back. It was the season of fall, my folks tell me, and the countryside was strewn with light hues of crimson. It is that time of the year when the Oriental plane -- Chinar -- looks its best. Stark and naked, it sheds its rusty foliage. The crisp orange leaves cover the beauteous landscape like one continuous Oriental rug. Legend has it that plane is the tree of Hippocrates, under which Hippocrates taught medicine in ancient Greece during the Age of Pericles.

I remember my dad's apple firm had a telex code. It was called Chinar. I used to ask dad in a kid's innocuous bager: 'Why do you have a Chinar symbol for your apple business? Why not an apple tree?' Dad, I recall, said in a reassuring tone, "Chinar is our identity, sonny." Booune, as plane is locally called, has always been the emblem of Kashmir.

Reminds me of the poet-philosopher Sir Mohammad Iqbal – of Kashmiri ancestry -- who in his wistful style waxed eloquent about the valley:

Jis khaak ke zameer me ho aatish-e-chinar
Mumkin nahi ki sarad ho voh khaak-e-arjamand

The land that has in its conscience the spark of Chinar
Thy celestial dust won’t douse yet
[My Translation]

The romance with Chinar that started with the widely respected Iqbal has carried on. The lanky and erudite – liked and hated in equal parts – Kashmiri leader Sheikh Abdullah [Omar Abdullah’s grandpa] called his autobiography ‘Aatish-e-Chinar’. The book bagged the 1988 Sahitya Academy award – India’s most outstanding literary achievement [Some say that Yusuf Teng ghost wrote it]. Even a hugely repulsed bloke in Kashmir like Rushdie couldn’t resist it. He calls a central character in his latest book, Shalimar the Clown, Booune. Sir Salman, of Kashmiri ancestry knows that the significance -- of the odd plane -- cannot be lost even in an era of hatred and intense heartache.

Poets and kings alike have admired the plane tree. The Mughal Emperor Akbar who annexed and visited the valley for the first time in 1579 fondly mentions Chinar in his memoir Akbar Nama. The Char Chinar [four planes] bang in the middle of Srinagar's famed Dal lake is a testament to Mughal fascination for the tree. The Booune leaf is a recurring motif in Kashmir's handicrafts and woodwork.

Booune is found mentioned in the 14th century mystic-poetess-princess Lal Ded’s saintly wakhs (poems). Chinar has been a lonesome witness to the vicissitudes of Kashmir’s fluctuating fortune and its prized possession by rulers of various stripe – cruel and benign: from the Buddhist ruler Asoka the Great, who founded Srinagar in 250 BC to the various Hindu Kings, who followed him. From the mid-12th century Muslim blitzkrieg in Kashmir right upto harsh reign of the 19th century Dogra feudatories, Chinar perhaps remains the sole spectator to happenstance of everything Kashmiri.

In old days the locals used to collect the plane leaves in heaps and transform them into charcoal for use in the Kangris [fire pots that Kashmiris fight the intense winter with]. Not so much now! Not in the time of blowers and braziers. I think the romance is fading. Like everything Kashmiri, the Booune is fast dying. There was a time when every village and hamlet had scores of the graceful huge tree. Less than 19,000 remain now. The systematic ruin of Kashmir seems to have pervaded onto its Chinars.

Az Jehangir Dame Naza Chi Justand
Ba Khahishi Dil Guft
Kashmir Diger Hech

On his deathbed, the 17th century Mughal Emperor of India, Jehangir was asked by his royal courtiers as to what he wished in the hereafter. With a heavy heart and in a feeble, dying voice, the poet-king replied: Nothing but a soul as refreshing as Kashmir.

There are still a very few things in the world as scintillatingly exotic as the crisp rustle of fallen dry Chinar leaves in Kashmir during autumn. You just need to take a stroll around the woody shades of Booune.

Sameer

Azadi from Litter

The biggest cock and bull story doing rounds in New Delhi is that the recently held elections in Kashmir are a tacit endorsement of Indian dominion in the valley. There is no truth to it because it is an utterly mistaken belief and diametrically opposed to reality. Looks like the spin doctors are back to work, doing what they always do: Confuse. Given that public memory is short-term, it doesn’t help to fuddle things. I jotted about this phenomenon in one of my preceding posts. A transcription follows.

The election verdict is majorly about three things. One: Kashmiri people want a basic decent life -- good roads, good education, better jobs and they know an elected, political government is best equipped to do that. No governor speaks Kashmiri and Kashmiri's have trouble explaining themselves in Hindi. Two: People in the countryside were always less likely to take the separatist call for a complete boycott seriously. [2008 is not 1990’s. Dissent, we know, has its shelf life].
The boycott call was summarily ignored, at least in rural Kashmir. And lastly: The Azadi sentiment lives on, and is not expected to die anytime soon.

In reality Kashmir is too bruised to be soothed by a winter election, held under the heels of half a million troopers – the highest civilian-military ratio anywhere in the world. You lock up the entire separatist bandwagon, brook no dissent and stamp out any protesting voices. And then have the gall to call it a democratic exercise. That is unabridged nonsense.

While the mainstream camp has been mostly inept, the separatists continue to live in relative comfort. The top chaps belong to a class – the like of us included – whom Marx would have easily called bourgeoisie. The chief protagonists -- Mirwaiz Farooq is loaded and happily married to an American [He occasionally slips away to the US for holidays minus the Kara Kul]. Syed Ali Geelani’s son safely practices medicine far from the madding crowds and the Lone brothers drive around in luxury SUV’s. Sajjad went to a prestigious college in UK and is married to Asma, daughter of JKLF founder Amanuallah Khan]. The list is long and rich.

In hindsight the boycott call was perhaps pushing the envelope a little too far. I’m pro-choice. The separatists may not be. Buoyed by the million-strong marches in the August of 2008, they issued blacklists. At a much fundamental level the people who formed part of those long marches perhaps understood well enough that Freedom being freedom, no one is going to come to their rescue. There are bills to be paid, children to be sent to school, roads to be repaired, garbage to be cleaned. You also need Azadi from the stench emanating from litter outside your home.

There are real issues that an average Kashmiri has to deal with. With the first snow, the electricity lines snap. The roads continue to be antiquated, pre-1947. Traffic is plain crazy. Clean water is a priority. Healthcare is a sham. Employment stays stalled. Kashmiri politicians, owing their allegiance to India, positioned themselves on exactly these issues and managed to garner votes. Ergo this is a vote for development. Period.

The vote must not be mistaken for an embrace. Kashmir has multiple wounds dark and deep. They can rip open at the shortest notice. And let’s not fool ourselves. The UN position is clear on Kashmir. Elections in the state of J&K – previous as well as present – and all subsequent decisions of the elected government are going to have NO bearing on the final status of Kashmir.

Where is the ambiguity?

Let’s hope Omar and his team luck. He has got some shady guys on board but that is the nature of coalition politics in this part of the world. Barring his stint with the rightwing BJP – which he has since atoned for -- he has a clean slate to write a new chapter for Kashmir.

Sameer

Another sonrise

Omar Abdullah has risen from the ashes like the proverbial phoenix. For those who came in late, Omar is the scion of Kashmir’s first family of mainstream politics: the Abdullah’s. His party the national conference [NC] is currently in favour at New Delhi [Flavour of the month, as the corporate-ad media would have it. As if parties were ice-cream cones]. India’s very own GoP -- Congress party -- has decided to truck with NC. This would be the third marriage between the two parties [Indira-Sheikh accord, Rajiv-Farooq accord]. The last two matches didn’t last. Everyone hopes this one does.

Omar has promise. He has everything it takes – He is young [At 38 he will be JK’s youngest ever CM]. He has potential, is known to speak his mind and is eloquent. Both his father and grandfather have been key to the somewhat absurd political theatre of Kashmir. Sadly, outside the hustings, the Sheikhs proved utterly disappointing. While grandpa Sheikh had his moments, Farooq was a flop, whose only vocation in life is his fondness for dance and golf. You don't do 'disco' and attempt 'fat shots' while your backyard burns.

I don’t want to dig history up. It has been murky in the hills. Kashmir’s past has been witness to court intrigues and family duels. New Delhi has forever played Brutus in the vale, while general after ambitious general in Pakistan has attempted to be an Edmund, straight out of King Lear. Amidst such high drama -- where promises were made to be broken, where the tallest leader was promptly cut to size for even daring to stand up, where allegiances change overnight -- the Abdullah’s have kept the flag [of secularism, of family rule, of India] fluttering in Kashmir. And it has never been a cake walk.

A very intelligent newspaper editor once cheekily told me that for the Kashmir imbroglio to be resolved in our lifetimes, we need to wait till the current crop of politicians die. I reckon we don’t need to wait for that. Although I don’t think much of this sub-continent practice of passing the baton within the family [like an heirloom because it makes such mockery of democracy] one's willing to make concessions for Kashmir. We have had enough of the vintage variety who sadly represent our very corrupt polity. They mostly wear huge Kara Kul caps on petty skulls. Kashmir needs a huge dose of educated and promising minds. In that case, Omar is a welcome relief.

They say uneasy lies the head that wears the crown. Omar is going to lord over a state where his bete noire [PDP of the Mufti’s] and ex-bed fellows [a rejuvenated BJP] are going to lunge at him at every possible opportunity. Add to that the separatist camp, which is still smarting over its apparent loss of face after a complete disregard to their poll boycott call. They can be upto mischief anytime. I don’t know if Omar has read Hegel. There was never a greater need for dialectics.

Abdullah III has got to deliver on myriad fronts. His turbulent state deserves better than pock marked roads and light less nights. He must see to it that his ministers don’t get fat -- as they are often wont to -- and make hay while the sun shines. He has to seriously sit down to try and make genuine attempts to reach out to the youth and not let them go waste. He has to ensure that the troopers don’t attempt their bravery on a poor peasant in their dreaded camps or his task force doesn’t torture a school kid to death in custody. He has to make sure that civil liberties are not trampled with in the countryside where no TV cameras go.

Even if he attempts to achieve one of the above mentioned, Kashmiris will be forever grateful to 40 Gupkar, Kashmir’s 10 Janpath.

It is never going to be easy. I just hope he proves to be the exorcist we badly need to stave off our past ghosts, who still haunt us, from time to time.

I hope Omar makes none of the mistakes of his ancestors.

As for Azadi [freedom], that is for another day.

Happy New Year

Sameer

Merry Christmas

Christmas Eve is absolutely delightful. Period. As a kid I loved the idea of a fat old man, white as snow, sledging his way from the North Pole, where he is believed to have a secret gift factory [There are people who’d want IAEA experts to go check if Santa really makes toffees and cakes and not yellowcake in there…You can never trust anyone with a flowing beard these days]. I’ve forever imagined Santa’s red coattails fluttering to a million claps by all the world’s little children. And chimney's through which the old boy slides in. Who does not love such beautiful innocent myths?

Christmas has always been about snow and Santa. And Santa’s reindeer with those weird antlers. It is that time of the year when you don stocking caps and eat cakes and sing carols. To humankind! Though it has been commercialized by the sinister market wolfs, Christmas is still loved by most people. The religious, the irreligious and the complete godless. I've hardly known a bloke who did not like the merry-making that Christmas epitomizes. And its distilled spirit of goodness.

For some strange reason Christmas makes people smile a lot. It engulfs the whole world in a congenial conspiracy of love. It is when the irrational becomes rational. An unwed mother 'Virgin Mary' gives birth to 'Christ'. The unpalatable becomes palatable and the north star appears. The unreal becomes real. Three wise men come looking for a new born. And hymns float. Snow falls. Lore becomes fact. A lone bell begins to tintinnabulate. The sheer joy of it all.

Frankly I am not very religious. I am culturally Muslim and spiritually liberal. I like Christmas for all its feel-good character.
I want a million Christmas trees to grow. The lights to glow. The bells to toll. The cakes to bake. The hymns to pop. The love to grow.

We -- irrespective of our color and belief system – are wired to celebrate the good and the beautiful. Encore.

Sameer

Soprich Gaadh

[The fish of Sopore]

Sopore is a small township in Kashmir peculiar for two completely unrelated things. Fish and burial grounds. The place is populated along mossy grave yards. So you have the main marketplace – called Iqbal market [named after the poet-thinker Iqbal] – perched on a graveyard. The Sopore hospital and fire station sit atop old graves. The degree college too borders a cemetery. So amidst the dead, Sopore lives and breathes. Along with its famous fish.

In Sopore they will make you believe that Kadal tal-chi [fish netted just around/beneath the old bridge] are the tastiest. Kashmiris generally have a strong fascination for bridges. You could be called a Kadal-jinn [demon of the bridge] if you have a particularly threatening disposition. And perchance if the bridge is blown up [which occasionally happens] boatmen would then carry you to cross the river in small boats. Ofcourse they charge you for it. That is Kadal-tar [fare of the bridge] for you. Such old world charms!

[Fish market, Sopore]

Coming back to fish, you get the world’s best fish [that is what the locals believe and I mostly agree] in Sopore’s boisterous Gaadh Baazar [fish market]. Fisher folk, sell their Kashur Gaadh [Kashmiri fish] at exorbitant prices here. The fisherwomen are fierce. One has got to be very good at haggling or you could end up burning a huge hole in the pocket. You have to be alert and keep an eye on the scales too. [Not the fish scales but the weighing scales] And if you are lucky and get a good price and your scales are not tampered with, you can lay your hands on incredibly clean, fresh fish at Sopore’s very disorderly fish arcade.

At home the fish is painstakingly cleaned. Inside out. For hours. Till the fish is clean as a whistle. In Kashmir people can be very finicky about these things. Then they sit down to cook the fish. It is the most flat-out, ardent exercise you’ll ever experience. Spices are carefully sifted to be tossed into the pan, while the fish is being sautéed. Vur [a concoction of specially dried herbs] and other secret ingredients are religiously mixed at various stages of cooking. Haak [Collards] is added to compliment the fish. It resembles a mini-war effort. Under no circumstances can you afford to disturb the hash slinger.

For centuries Kashmiris have invited their sons-in-law for Gaadh bata [Fish food]. The cooked fish is believed to taste better the next day. Usually relished in winters, the super-spicy, aromic, flaccid, yummy fish is always served with hot white rice. Lot of it, actually. Just fish and rice. Nothing else. It is a dish fit for the kings. Not even a nuclear war between India and Pakistan can tear you from your plate of food.

And when it comes to fish, Sopore rowdily leads from the front.

Sameer

An Iraqi sneakers spectacle

Moab is my washpot; over Edom will I cast out my shoe
Psalms 60:8, King James Version

Bush Jr had two number 10 boots thrown at him in Iraq. Parting gift for the dog, the journalist Muntader Al Zeidi hollered, as red-faced sleuths quickly bundled him out of the conference room. The most powerful man on earth stood rather powerless, trying to figure out what is going on. In his characteristic strut Bush attempted to play down the footgear drama but the damage was already done. Unsurprisingly his yes man Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki looked utterly bewildered. The lowly boots despoiled the carefully scripted party.

The leather projectiles were a tribal Arab way of telling the big bully what they really think of him. Bush may like to believe that he has liberated Iraq but he clearly hasn’t been able to win any friends there. Reports suggest that the first shoe flew closely by his right cheek and he had to duck to avoid the second one as it whooshed over his head, narrowly missing it. Wonder what would have happened had the shoe actually hit him, a journalist friend asked rather curiously? The option of invading Iraq again is ruled out, since you can't invade a country twice, I reassured him.

They are now saying that the Al Baghdadiya TV journalist who pulled off this innovative assault was against the Iraq war. At media schools they teach you that the journalism means courage. Muntader perhaps took his classes seriously. All it took the 29 year to avenge years of misery and dolor perpetuated by Bush Jr was an audacious and a hugely symbolic act -- on live TV -- that left the whole world stunned. Muntader carefully removed his shoes, while the secret service looked away. He got 3 seconds to toss both boots at Bush Jr. In 4 seconds he was a hero. That is all it takes!

A group has been created in Face book dedicated to the journalist. It is called "The Iraqi Journalist who threw his shoes at Bush is my new HERO!” A few hours after it was created more than 630 people have joined in. Others are lining up. Several similar groups have sprung up. A middle-eastern businessman has offered US$10 million to buy the pair of shoes. Though I don’t personally like flinging shoes at presidents, I’d admit that people will throw anything at you as long as you bomb their homes and pummel their backyard.

Sameer

Delhi's Bizarre Bazzars

Text and Images: Sameer

Sandwiched between the imposing Delhi civil secretariat and Mahatma Gandhi’s mausoleum is a dusty chunk of land where all bootleggers of the world meet on Sunday. So for a change if you don’t want to blow your bucks in an upscale mall, the place to go is Delhi’s original Chor Bizzare [The market of the thieves]. I have always been fascinated by the name of the place. Why don’t the cops catch them, I asked my pals when I first heard about it many years back. Welcome to the adult’s weird piazza, came a prompt answer.

Chor Bizzare is a flea market where scraggy people get together – every weekend -- to haggle their wares. There is everything you can think of. Car-tyres. Fake chocolates. Redone stuff. Pirated CDs. Imitation watches. Nuts and bolts. Duplicate labels. Second hand rugs. Phony daggers. Counterfeit counters selling computers. In between, if you have a keen eye and know where to look, you may as well get your hands on an original. The catch is: Bargain hard. Everything is available at throw-away prices. If the shady salesman quotes a prize, immediately slash it to half and then begin by offering to pay a further Rs 50 less. It works. Actually.

I don’t know how the place got its rather quirky name. I don’t quite think people sell only pilfered wares at Chor Bizzare although some of the stuff may be purloined. A few pairs of shoes, sold at dirt cheap prices, looked original without a dot of imagination. Old timers recall that the market used to be set up around Red fort but was eventually moved to its present location by the police.

Frequented by the have-nots, students, curious and the sundry, Chor Bizzare is worth a visit. Pity I returned with only a layer of dust on my coiffure.

Sameer

Chick fashion: Treadstones and zippers await customers

Shades and daggers: Buy one, get one free

Cigars, any one?

Kiss me, Hug me Teddies

PC pedestals: Open air computer peripheries

It is December!

Festivals are perfect excuses to turn into a glutton. I don’t think people do much more than gormandize on vast amounts of food. So Eid came and in keeping with the tradition I very much wolfed lamb. And I didn’t for a moment think of calories. I ate as if I was competing in a food Olympiad. And now I’m feeling guilty as hell. It always happens.

I’ve been wanting to travel for a while now but can’t seem to tear myself from work. A great part of one’s time on earth is spent in trying to eke a living. It is a slow, gradual process and you don’t even realize when time flies by. And we continue to work. Oscar Wilde, that brilliant Irish boy, perhaps got it right. He says work is the refuge of people who have nothing better to do.

It is the onset of winters and I am not experiencing the writer’s block. Perhaps I don’t seem to even-steven it. Stuff happens. I’ll be back!

Sameer

Bullets at the Ball

It has been a week of profound agony. All of us feel violated. It appears as if something deep within has suddenly snapped. That ten men armed with rage and AK-56 guns came stealthily in the dark of the night in dirty rubber boats and highjacked the collective conscience of a billion people looks astonishing. Many things changed on that fateful starry night. Not only did the bullets fly thick and fast in the ball room at Taj, cutting the guests to an instant death, massive holes were made in many hearts.

A full one week after the Bombay [I prefer Bombay to Mumbai] mayhem, a startled citizenry is still numb. There is fear and anger at what has happened. Last evening at a prayer meeting for the much-loved Sabina I looked on helplessly as the renowned columnist Baachi Karkaria broke down. She said she felt so guilty to have invited Sabina to her son’s wedding to Bombay. Perhaps we are all guilty at some level, I wanted to assure the elegant Baachi. I couldn’t. She was inconsolable. Just in front of me Ustad Amjad Ali Khan wept slowly. At the illustrious Lady Sri Ram College, today, each eye was tenderly moist. Is it a catharsis for losing our innocence, I can't say?

The media is full of horror tales. I’ve stopped reading the blood-cuddling accounts. It makes me go queasy in the stomach. I don’t understand the vanity of it all. What justifies the bloodshed? The answers, I know, aren’t easy to come by. The static is uneasy.

The lone idiot our notoriously ill-equipped cops managed to lay hands on has apparently blurted out that all nautical routes lead to our neighbor’s shores. I give the civil society in that poor country the benefit of doubt. They must be equally appalled as we are. However, as we know well, and others around the world may confirm, the sinister cabal, which plots and schemes this ugly terror, is mostly based out of Pakistan’s badlands. It is time the network is smashed. Who does it, can be debated.

Back home we need to fix our old hatchways.

Terrorists are cold, cruel and calculated. They kill at will. They foist their hate colored flags on our bodies. We can’t afford to stay indifferent. We can't afford to allow them to cut us to death while we are eating in a restaurant or drinking in a café or shopping at a mall. We can’t afford to let them snatch away our lifelong friends from us. We cannot afford to allow our cherished freedom to be held ransom to some twisted, idiotic ideology. We can’t afford to fear a psychotic who kills a sick woman, sleeping in her bed, to prove that he is a man. Or a martyr.

In grief
And memoriam

To humanity
And goodness
And to all those innocents whose lives were mercilessly snuffed out during those dreary days of Nov 26, 27 and 28.

Sameer

Our soup will never be the same again

[Sabina in happier days; California]

Fight till the last gasp
~ William Shakespeare
English Dramatist, Playwright and Poet

I’ve never seen someone carrying pearls as gracefully as Sabina Saikia Sehgal. I first met her a couple of years back at a party the Saikia’s hosted at their beautiful Defence colony villa. You couldn’t afford to ignore her in any setting. Sabina wore huge glasses and a huge pearl. I soon realized that beneath that overweening visage, there was a beautiful human being. She was exceedingly warm, cordial and she laughed out loud. I ate prawns that she had made and it was the best shrimp I’ve ever had.

I met her on many occasions that I went to see my editor at the Saikia‘s. Each time she would floor me with her generosity. Sabina was pretenseless and I really admired her for that. I think the geniality, grace and glow came only naturally. I was surprised to learn that she read my blogs: ‘I liked the blog post you wrote for your mom,’ she told me. I never hoped I’d some day have to write an obit for such a brilliant journalist.

I’ve seen a very few people so full of life. A globe-trotting writer, food critic and consulting editor of the Times of India were just one shade to her. She also was a wonderful mother to her two kids and a loving wife to Santanu, her journalist-turned-dot com entrepreneur hubby. Sabina’s friends would vouch for her amity. As a pro she had such a fierce reputation of being India’s best -- and ruthless -- food writer that restaurateurs would fear her weekly column. Yet, in private, she was so kind.

I shudder to think how cowardly it must have been to shoot her?

Did she laugh one last time? Her loud guffaws would often draw people to her. No wonder her funeral saw an ensemble of the crème de la crème of the capital. I had the Delhi chief minister standing to my left and fashion designer Rohit Bal to my right. Complete strangers sobbed as her pyre was lit. I’d tears in my eye.

It feels so sad to lose her. Newspapers are replete with tributes. I’m being told that she was one of the finest food connoisseurs in the country. I’m sure she will raid heaven's kitchen and savor its famed manna and nectar. And then rate it. Without fear.

Sabina will be dearly missed.

Sabina Saikia Sehgal

[1961-2008]
Godspeed
[Sabina was killed in the terrorist attack at Bombay’s Taj Mahal hotel]

Sameer

Kashmir Votes

Kashmir is in a wintry squeeze. There are two major camps in this conflict-ridden state. The mainstream and the separatists. While those owing their allegiance to the former make their living by faking their loyalty to New Delhi, the latter simply thrive on dissent. There are lots of players in both camps but no good leaders. And Kashmir oscillates between the two extremes. No one advocates or cares for the middle path.

The separatists are riddled with factions. They dislike each other guts but publicly speak in the same secessionist overtones. The top guys wear expensive Kara-Kul caps. The lowly sidekicks settle with well-tailored achkans [flowing gowns]. These guys have interceders to issue boycotts and blacklists. The middle-men are called coordination committee. These are the same bunch of gentlemen who called the immensely popular chalo’s [Lets go] marches some months back.

The mainstream is thoroughly corrupt. They drive around in beacon fitted cars at the expense of state. They cavort in state guest houses. They have hollow slogans, which no one takes seriously. Worse still the politicians know that they are reviled. Yet they carry on with their business. Given a truly independent election [may be monitored by the UN] not one of them will win a seat in the assembly. Since that may never happen, the mainstream continues to run the show.

The election commission of India is conducting elections in Kashmir. Half a million troopers are on vigil. There is an election boycott call from the coordination committee. The weather is inclement. The million strong marches are a recent memory. Yet people came out to vote. I don’t believe in anything that the state media says but I trust independent news sources. BBC reported a decent voter turn out in Phase-I. Now that is very interesting.

Part of it could be plain cajoling and harassment by the army. 'We gonna come back to check who has got an inked-finger'. Elections in Kashmir have never been transparent in the real sense and the election commission of India knows that fully well. They have been perhaps asked by the intelligence agencies to make an exception for Kashmir. Matter of sovereignty, some may argue. Yet, it appears that this time people have actually exercised their franchise, in large parts, out of their will. What about those marches? Martyrs?

I guess it is about three things. One: People want a basic decent life -- good roads, good education, better jobs and they know an elected, political government is better equipped to do that. No governor speaks Kashmiri and Kashmiri's have trouble explaining themselves in Hindi. Two: People in the countryside appear less likely to take the separatists seriously. The boycott call apparently has been ignored, at least in rural Kashmir. Three: While the Azadi sentiment lives on, and is not expected to die anytime soon, a disenchantment syndrome is taking root. The shelf life of any dissent is short.

For the while it looks like advantage mainstream. We are headed for a civilian rule and out of the three: Farooq – a notoriously colorful doctor, Mufti – of red wine fame and Azad – a disconnected congressman, the doctor may walk away with the crown. But let’s not jump the gun here. Remember Kashmir has always been bit of a riddle.

We shall have to wait till it snows again!

Sameer

Weekend Snapshots

[US Humvees at sundown in Basra, Iraq:
Let's hope we see a sundown of US occupation too]


[Mother and daughter walk in snow, Srinagar:
Gaad, Isn't that beautiful]

Snow

Perhaps the only two things I truly miss about Kashmir are its snow-capped mountains and the fluffy-icy-powdery snow. Someone just called to tell me that it is snowing back home. The sight is awe-inspiring. Kashmir, in fact, is one of the few places in India where it actually snows! Imagine, for a heartbeat's span: You are cut off from rest of the world. As it continues to snow, you stay confined indoors. It is a very cozy, out-of-this-world, snuggled down, unwinding feeling. Nothing -- at all -- beats it!

There is no electricity. Consequently no TV. No games. No soaps. No inverters. No lamps and tube lights. You lit thy candles. Fusty style. You re-live the way of your ancestors. It puts to shame all the candle-lite dinners in swanky New Delhi lounges. There is a certain magical ring to it. Like an old harried painter appearing out of the woods and quietly sketching frenetic white silhouettes upon window sills and in the backyard and on the turnpikes. No potholes are visible in the snow. There are no drains. No runnels. Just running miles of endless, clean snow. Snow that came over night. God has stockpiles of it, I often doodle.

Snow packs up in lawns. It falls on old fences and the light less lamp posts. Upon little eggs in the eagle’s high eyrie, while the birdlings cheep happily. Snow makes an almost medieval swirling descent. The flakes fall headlong on still waters of the distant pond, kissing her stillness. It snows on locked temples and countless sand bunkers. In every orchard and onto each slope. Snow falls on fresh graves. On abandoned army helmets upon the lonely hillside. In wetlands. Old chimneys. It falls on the rooftops and topless rivers. God's confetti.

There is stuff that dollars can't buy: Like snow clinging to your nose. To your back. The snow-man with bits of charcoal for eyes. The snow-ball fight. Throwing small orbs of snow at each other. The fun of it. The rush. The pink of cheeks. Rouge of palms. And the quite wintry nights. The eerie silences. The snow-globs coming dancing down from the sky, in hushed whispers. On deer-backs. Upon trees. On defunct electric lines. In terraces. Upon doggy-snouts. Caressing the ladyfinger like icicles. On parched humans. Never failing them.

Warm hamams, warmed still by thick logs of wood. Harisa simmering. Envy the old world charm.

God, I love snow. I miss Kashmir.

Sameer

From the archives

Brave

A contemporary American writer calls storytelling an ancient and honorable act. There are times when I have this itch to tell a tale.
I don't know where it comes from but I love the kick.
The creative bones in me rattle as I cruise imaginary territories.
I enjoy the trek.

I've just managed to put my second short story up. It is called 'Brave'. You can check it at
http://www.kashmiryat.wordpress.com/

Sameer