India bloggin'

I've been in India for less than a week and am now in my third city. From Delhi to Allahabad, back to Delhi and now in Mumbai. As always I find these homecomings increasingly disconcerting and comforting, two disparate reactions that confuse me. What was once familiar appears unfamiliar and what was unfamiliar (the fast pace of growth and all its attendants) seems strangely familiar. Allahabad was the same. But for God's sake we have a McDonalds. A McDonalds in Allahabad. Mumbai is still depressingly expensive and the traffic makes me want to scream. Delhi was well...Delhi. Chaotic and Panju.
More later.

New Year in India

I leave for India tomorrow, to meet family and friends and attend the launch of my book. This is the first time in perhaps 15 years that I'll be in India for Christmas and New Year. Oh yes, and also Bakr-Eid which is essentially an orgy of blood, the bleating of terrified animals and people trying to outshine each other. Far removed from the spirit of sacrifice that the festival is supposed to be about.

Bringing in the new year, 2007, in India is strange. This coming year bisects my life in two. I will be exactly double the age I was when I arrived in the US. I was young, scared and excited and so desperately missing India. It's not like it is for newcomers now, with the Internet and cheap phone calls. To those of us who arrived in the late 80's and early 90's it was a complete shift. We wrote letters and awaited them eagerly. Phone calls were still too expensive to make regularly, especially on TA salaries.

So much has changed. Not just with communication but with me. I'm married, have a home and a family very different from the one I grew up in. My nieces are young women and my nephew is no longer a baby but a guitar toting member of a band.

I have mixed feelings. In some ways I feel my life is waning but in others the next 20 years are replete with promise and newness. It's not been bad so far. In the balance of all things....I've had a good life. I am loved and I love...and that's not too shabby.

But yes, as a new year and another birthday...a seminal birthday...approach I am also filled with regret for things I could have done, things I could have been. Regret is like autumn leaves drifting inexorably to the ground. There is not much I can do about the past. But perhaps I can work towards what is yet to come.

I will try and blog while I am in India but if I am not able to....Happy Holidays, Seasons Greetings and a Very Happy New Year.

Hope it's a good one.

Check it out: I'm on the publisher's page now

If the link doesn't work, you can just go to www.rolibooks.com and check in the New Arrivals section. Sometimes it actually shows up on the home page.

O-L-D

Does everyone take stock of their lives in December? I certainly do. Also because after December comes January and with it, sadly my birthday. And we all certainly take stock on our birthdays, right? I hate it that just about when I am trying to adjust to a new calender year I have to also try and adjust to being a year older. And feeling ancient. 2007 will be a hard one. I cannot even say the words yet.

I am growing old. O-l-d. I am even tempted to lie about my age. I swore I would never do that. That I would wear my years with dignity, with pride. But that fwas lush in the middle of youth. Impetuous. Arrogant. When things seemed possible, within reach, not faded images in the rearview mirror, out of my grasp. And age seemed a number and I thought folks made too much of a big deal of it all. And I thought I was above it all.

And then one day I looked at myself in the mirror and asked, "who is she? that woman?" The woman in the mirror has lines on her face. Is that a wrinkle? *gasp* "I will wear them proudly to show the world that women's lives do not end as they age. That they do not become invisible." But that was before. Now I wonder if I should spring for Botox. Better a frozen face than one with wrinkles. An approximation of youth for the certainty of age. Of old age.

And my feminist self cries. With shame and anger. Wondering what happened to her. To me. Lost somewhere within the layers of the years, the wrappings of my experiences. Am I falling prey to images and cultural shackles. Or is it all just human frailty?

Will I return soon to myself, I wonder? Slip into my skin, in whatever shape it's in and reclaim my space in life. Stake my claim and proclaim who I am...who she is...and shout it from from everywhere. With no fear? Perhaps!

New haircut

Okay...in the pic it looks almost exactly the same....but trust me it's different. Shorter and with side bangs. I like it.

Hindustan Times, December 14

Yay! They list it as a must read book.

It's Here

The brown DHL box sat on the kitchen counter as I walked the dog. It sat there for as I rummaged in the fridge, trying to assemble dinner. I knew what it was. But something, I don't know what, kept me from ripping it open. Perhaps to prolong the anticipation. Perhaps a strange dread from seeing my own name on the cover, my words populating its 178 pages. What if it sucks? What if seeing it in black and white will finally make me realize that I can't write? And then I opened the box and saw my five advance copies. The cover that until now I had only seen as an image on my computer jumped out at me. I still haven't read it, just looked at the cover, read the back, examined the copyright page. I lack the courage to read my own words. It's strange to hold the culmination of years of living with this story, months of writing it, another few months of editing and re-writing, sending it out, getting rejected...and finally one acceptance. Now I weigh it in my hands, touch the cover, absorbing the different textures of it. I close my eyes and read it...an inexpert reader of Braille. The cover is matte, except for the title and my name and the splash of red that meanders across the wrist of the palm. The palm that's almost the same size as mine. I open the book and let my fingertips caress the pages. They are slightly rough as I like it. The texture is weighty somehow and I can feel the slight ridges where my own words, printed in black ink break up the expanse. I am experiencing my words for the first time as a physical entity. I avert my eyes from my words and let my other senses take over. Carrying it to my nose, I smell the paper that carries within it the scent of my thoughts and imagination. I can taste it almost as I bury my face within its pages. And, of course, there is the most tactile way of experiencing it, the touch of my fingers. I am excited, yes, to hold it in my hands. But it's also as if I am bidding goodbye to my novel as a creative extension of myself. And welcoming its phyical presence. And dare I say it...the novel as a marketable, commercial product. It's almost as if despite bearing my name on the cover and my writing within it, this book is something foreign, a package for my most intimate wonderings. Having a published book is the start of another journey for me. The book launch in early January in Delhi, working with the marketing manager at Roli, doing things I normally do for my authors as an editor. There's a part of me that wants to bury itself in my second book now for that is still truly mine, just mine.

Hazar mautein: Thousand Deaths

I've sneezed five times today. New tenants are moving in to the office next door and men in white overalls have been painting and scraping and banging away for days now. Usually I sneeze a good dozen times. Seven more to go.

Seven deaths.

Did you know that all your bodily functions stop for that instant you sneeze? Your heart stops, your lungs don't expand, heck even your eyes close. That's why, people say "bless you," so that you won't actually die. That your soul will return to your body after being ousted for that instant in which you sneeze.

How many thousand of deaths have I had? 12 deaths a day for the past week, so many more besides that. I've died each day. Like a coward? Ek maut is better than hazaar mautein.

That's what they say. But I don't know. Sneezing reminds me I am alive, jolts me out of the interminable text I am editing. Like a little lightning bolt it shocks me out of my stupor. And if my eyes feel gritty and my nose a little stuffed, it's my own assertion of life.

I'm here. I'm alive. I survived another death.

Quest for Poseiden

Her face remains in my consciousness. Hers and the baby's, both panting from the exertion of running after the bus, shouting for it to stop, the mother jostling the baby up and down, until both grew short of breath. The mother was dressed in some nondescript dark clothes, the baby's pink sweater drew some color into the woman's sallow face. They were both almost toothless, the baby too young to have many teeth, the woman too young to lose hers. The baby had fine brown hair and the mother's hair was thin, a bald spot on her head, the scalp showing through at other places. The baby looked around and smiled straight at me, as the bus started up again and the mother struggled to find the money for their tickets. I could hear them panting in unison as they brushed past me to sit by one of the windows.

The little girl craned her neck to look at me, grinning silently as I made a funny face at her and waved. The mother kept smiling too, strained and as if forced to, as the conductor spoke harshly to her in rapid Greek. Others in the bus looked at them disdainfully, shrinking into their seats. They were obviously peasants, perhaps even Romany, boarding the bus in the empty countryside. The mother had become acccustomed to being treated the way she was, smiling her strained smile, half-conciliatory, half-sad. The baby still smiled openly, widely at strangers.

The sun dissolved into darkness in an instant as we continued on from Athena's busy domain to the lonely kingdom of Poseiden. We had seen a photograph of his temple and had not been able to find anyway to get there, except as part of an orchestrated bus tour. We wanted to go there on our own and after many false starts and bad advice were finally were on our way to Cape Sounier.

In the dark Greek countryside the Aegean sea came into view, its waters illuminated briefly by the headlights of the bus. We were close. As the bus struggled up a hill I saw it.

White pillars, no roof, perched on a hill where the god could see the sea from different angles, revel in all its different moods and command its depths. How many hundreds of years had it stood there, overlooking his domain, the house of Poseiden?

The temple complex was closed by the time we reached but we could see it from the open courtyard of the closed restaurant at its base. The temple glowed in the moonlight, its strategic lighting seemed to make it hover over the darkened hillside. As if it really wasn't there. I stretched out my hand towards it and touched air. That is at is should be. Who should really be able to touch the house of Poseiden? It should remain as it is. Untouchable, unattainable...out of reach to mere mortals.

I knew the sea lay beneath us, as I stood by the side of the cliff, though I could not hear it. It was eerily silent. I could see the occasional boat glide by, its lights illuminating the still waters for a while. The Aegean has no waves, no tides. It is majestically, mysteriously silent.

As silent as Poseiden is in his destroyed temple. Why does he not scream? Lament the loss of his dominion and his influence, first losing to Athena and then to the inroads of semitic faiths? This is his temple, his house...not a tourist attraction. Mortals should not walk through and touch what is his. Ancient sailors looked to the glowing temple as they neared land, knowing they were safe, that Poseiden was happy and they were alive. Now it stands mute and abandoned, forgotten.

As the cool winds flowed in from the sea, goosebumps rose on my arm, making me shiver. And then, I heard Poseiden sigh. He might be quiet, the sigh told me, but he is not dead. He lives in the sea...and he is patient, awaiting the return of his faithful. He is Poseiden and in his silence itself there is power and strength. I looked up at his temple and smiled.

The headlights of the last bus to Athens cut a swathe across the darkness and we ran to meet it, not wanting to be stranded. I watched the temple recede and disappear into the night. As I fell asleep inside the dark interior, I wondered if Poseiden ever sleeps.

The book is printed

Yes! My publisher informs me that the book is actually a physcal reality now. I expect to get some copies in the mail soon. I am so excited about my Dec/Jan trip to India. Still trying to digest this. Just had to share.

Eid

Today is Eid and I didn't know, didn't want to know. I had a vague sense it was coming up and I knew others would call me, being nice, wishing me. They did and I said, thanks, and laughed. But Eid means nothing to me. Or perhaps it does, but nothing positive. Last week it was Diwali. And I missed the soft glow of diyas, the shiny new brass pots and jewelry and the food. And I remember the excitement and the build up to Diwali. And I remember that I've always hated Eid. I hate siwai, always have done so. I don't get it. And Bakr-Eid is even worse.

Eid Mubarak!

Exhaustion and stream of consciousness.......

I want to lie in bed and stay there. Still. Quiet. Convince myself I am not there at all. But somewhere else. Far away. With no deadlines. No separations. No deal making. I balance on the edge of a precipice. Then I stumble and go over...

And, then I think of our world that seems to be crumbling apart. Crumbs of earth...dust to dust, as the planet shakes us off. When you think about it, we are the parasites....drawing the life-force from the earth as we feed upon it, sucking everything out. The interests of the earth and the interest of humans is too divergent for peaceful co-existence. It will only get healthy when it applies a healthy dose of anti-bug meds...and exterminates us. Which reminds me, my dog is due for some Frontline...that one-monthly dose that keeps away the ticks and other parasites away.
Tonight I plan to sleep and tomorrow I'll stay in bed and sleep some more. That's what life is about sometimes.

No RIP

I am not much for popular culture figures but I discovered Steve Irwin a while ago, before he was spoofed on SNL and began to appear on Larry King. When Animal Planet was still relatively new I stumbled on his show while surfing and there was something about him that make me not want to change the channel. He was corny (Oh Crikey!) and often too enthusiastic ("She's a beauty", while looking at some ferociously ugly creature) but he seemed totally sincere and in love with life and all the strang and unsual creatures around him. I had to put away my natural cynicism and watch him in a sort of uncomplicated stupor.

So, I too, was shocked and saddened to hear of his sudden death. To die from a fish that normally is not lethal just because he was positioned at just the spot where the barb entered his heart was unexpected, because we usually saw him around deadlier creatures, than a stingray.

Goodbye Steve Irwin. No RIP for you. You seemed to have way too much energy and life force to rest. Wrestle crocs and dance with snakes forever. Farewell.

The Magic of French Villages

I don't know what I expected in Switzerland...since my images of it were tied to Hindi movies (with a fully jacketed hero and a heroiine in filmy chiffon, prancing in the snow; picture postcards; meadows and Interlaken)and old, black and white family pictures from when my grandfather was posted there as the Indian ambassador. So, it was a strangely familiar and yet totally alien place.

I saw Mont Blanc on a miraculously clear day when rain was forecast. I was on the outside looking in....the beautiful scenery, the swaddled black Arab women and girls, the Arab men, slick and arrogant in the Maseratis and Lotus's. The different colors and races-- I expected Geneva to be uniformly white.

And then, it became merely a conduit to a magical evening. Heading down the highway, crossing over into France (the easiest border crossing ever), taking an anonymous exit, driving across the serene French countryside just before dusk, stopping at an un-named French village. Just at dusk, that magical moment hanging for a while. That strange stillness I had till now only found in certain, small Indian towns. Small American towns seem restless or sullen, never just...still. The mountains had a certain grey-rosy hue behind them.

The restaurant whose name I don't remember was populated by locals and one black dog, who consented to being petted but refused to linger inside. He was outside chasing some ducks and then coming inside to stare at a large group of diners. I expected them to be standoffish...so ooh-la-la French. But we were not in Paris, so we cobbled our little French with the waitress/owner's even more little English and ordered a delicious meal. Hearty, country French cooking at its best.

Who knew France had rednecks with mullets? Who could even guess they would be polite and wish us a pleasant bon soir as they sauntered out? Who knew they would not stare as if we were freaks?

The sun had set by the time we started back. Darkness cloaked the roads and the mysterious ruins we had seen on our way to the village. Just as well. For this was perfect. I didn't want markers that would lead us back. No landmarks that might take us back there. This was not be repeated....it should remain a moment in time, not a future destination. This way, it was ours, a treasured moment to celebrate 12 years together (though a couple of days belated).

We will have more together. And this one was as it should be.

Realer and realer

Step by step....first I got the proofs. Seeing my own words laid out I can finally visualize the book my manuscript has become. It's strange...I see proofs for the books I edit so often and race through them, making edits, chopping, adding, changing. But it takes me 3 days before I can read past the first page without waves of self-doubt assaulting me. It's crap. I can't beleive I wrote this. Can I re-do it? Then I stoically make myself go through. There are no changes.

Then, yesterday I got the cover image, not the cover itself...just the image. I ask myself....does it fit? I select one and even though the prospect of publication is become more concrete I wonder if I am still asleep and dreaming.

Production Lines

I wake up in a rush, the world coming at me with sudden force. I was not there and then suddenly I am. Sort of like being born I think. Everything is hazy...I drag out a memory of someone taking away my glasses. I wish I had them now. I am in recovery and I look this way and that to see the outlines of so many beds, so many people on them, nurses running this way and that. "How are you doing Norman?" she asks the man next to me. I want to speak, "Hey...I'm awake, talk to me." She hurries away to get something for Norman. The curtains are half way drawn between our beds so I can only see his bottom half draped in a blanket. My voice doesn't emerge...or does it just seem like too much effort? My throat hurts as if it was scratched...which it was from the tube thrust down during surgery, to help me breathe.

Bed after bed, patient after groaning, moaning patient. And then there's me. I feel invisible. Look at me, I want to shout but my throat closes around the words trapping them. After hours it seems, one of the nurses comes over to me. "How are you? Need anything for the pain?" I exist. And for the few moments that I whisper back a response I feel human. I can be seen. "I've got your glasses here she says." I smile as she slips them on me. I look around now and see distinct shapes, actual people. But it also brings to focus that we are still all part of a production line. There are other being brought in as the pain meds kick in and I fall asleep again.

Voices of Resistance

The Seal (Avalon) Press anthology is finally out. My essay "War Stories" is included in it. I can barely believe it and am awaiting the arrival of my copy very, very anxiously. I was so focused on Burden that I had pushed this one out of my mind until Sarah (the editor) sent out the announcement that it was finally out and when my check finally arrived. Woo HOoo! Coffee for everyone. Still, the money is not the thing. I am very excited. Read it please, and let me know how you liked it. A lot of people worked really hard on it.

This is what initial reviewers said of the book:
In "Voices of Resistance," writers, poets, and visual artists work to redefine the stereotypical depictions of Muslim women that inundate current western discourse on the Islamic “other.” By confronting war, empire, homophobia, and patriarchy, the contributors explore topics both personal and global and challenge the narrow perceptions about the contemporary realities of Muslim women.

“An eloquent, beautifully crafted testament to the courage, reflexivity, and spirit of Muslim women's resistance to the injustices and violence of wars from Palestine to the USA.... A book that moves, teaches, and challenges us to deeper understanding and to solidarity across the borders of nations, religions, races, and sexualities.”

—Chandra Talpade Mohanty, Professor of Women’s Studies, Syracuse University and author of Feminism Without Borders: Decolonizing Theory, Practicing Solidarity


“Voices of Resistance is a noisy and proud collection of Muslim women writing with boundless energy and enormous creativity from the United States and around the world. Sometimes it’s angry. At other times it’s introspective. But it’s mostly about faith, faith that a world free from racism and sexism and defined by justice is not just possible but absolutely necessary.”

—Moustafa Bayoumi, Professor of English, City University of New York


"I loved it. It was fun, it was funny, it was profound, it was deep, it was frightening, it was awesome, it was an opening.
I could NOT put it down."
-dr. amina wadud
professor of islamic studies
author of Inside the Gender Jihad.

Losing Control

I feel as if I have lost control. I had it until a few minutes because I still had the last edited version of Burden. Now, I've sent the edited version, with my changes to the publisher. Unless I hear back from them, the next time I see Burden it might already be a book. I have no more control over this runaway train. How weird it that?

All my writerly neuroses are flooding in? What if it really sucks? What if my edits and changes were just pedestrian? Is the book too pretentious? Too boring?

If I bit my nails, they'd be down to ragged stumps by now. If I smoked I would be on my second pack.
Instead, I am feeling my stomach churn, the acids attacking the lining, not helped by the large cup of coffee I just had, on an empty stomach.

And yet, at the same time, I can't wait to hold Burden in my hands. Can't wait to trace my fingers over my name and read my own words, all typeset and official looking.

Okay, I need another cup of coffee now. Maybe a coke or two.

Old teachers

When I was in school (St. Mary's Convent, Allahabad) there was no more fearsome teacher than Mrs. Roga. Every day she roared into school and parked her blue and white Vijay scooter under the portico. With her authoritative, husky voice she dominated my fears. I was glad never to have truly crossed paths with her.

So, when I found myself assigned to her classroom in the 9th, I was terrified. That year, my ninth year of school, had started out badly anyway. I was at an emotional low point and this seemed to be the last straw. I was actually quaking, my heart thumping as I walked into class. It was bad...perhaps even worse than I imagined. The only good thing was that I was so quiet I remained under the radar.

Then, we turned in our first essays. Apart from being our class teacher she also taught us Math and English. One lazy afternoon, when some other teacher was absent because of some illness, Mrs. Roga was letting us review some class work while she graded our English essays.

Her voice boomed like thunder, "Jawahara Saidullah. Who is Jawahara Saidullah? Stand up." I saw a few pitying glances and a couple of encouraging smiles thrown my way. My knees knocked together as I complied.

"Yes, miss?"

"Did you write this essay? Did anyone help you?"

"No miss. I wrote it." I squeaked.

"You write very well. This is the best essay in the class."

I looked at her in shock and barely registered the other shocked glances of my friends and classmates.

We formed a strange friendship, she and I. I sucked at math and she took math tuitions at her home. She ordered me to come to her house after school and tutored me for free for some reason, though my parents would have been happy to pay her. We discussed writing and books after the math tuition sessions. She continued to be the teacher that terrified most of my other classmates and I heard a few snide comments about our relationship. Some of my friends still cannot comprehend why I connected with her and they still hate her. All I know is, that she made me feel good about myself at a low point in my then-young life. She was not averse to giving me low marks when I slacked off but she continued to make me realize that writing was something crucial in my life and that I wasn't half-bad at it.

I kept in touch with her even after leaving her class, even after leaving school and until I was in Allahabad. But then, like many old relationships, we fell out of touch.

Now, as I contemplated my novel coming out I found my thoughts returning to her. I searched on the Internet and found a reference to her husband's passing and an email address for her family. A few months ago I sent a condolence email.

Someone from her family contacted me and I finally talked to her yesterday. Her son told me that his mom had become quite old and forgetful and I should be patient. I felt a sadness settle within me. Like some other elements from my past, would this be a more bitter than sweet experience?

Her voice sounded the same. She remembered me though she informed me that often old students came up to her and asked if she remembered them but she had forgotten names, though faces seemed familiar. "You know Jawahara," she said in her precise, crisp voice, "I've always remembered you." She had. She even remembered the last time we talked and reminded me of things I had forgotten. I told her she was instrumental in seeing writing as something more than just schoolwork, as a viable life-choice. She seemed pleased and asked me to keep in touch.

Here's to old teachers. May they be fierce, may they be demanding, may they call us stupid cabbages (she did)...and may they, above all, inspire us all.

FGM

I've written an article on the heinous practice of female genital mutilation on chowk. There's quite a lot of discussion on the interact board for this one. Check it out.