www.outlookindia.com | The Music And The Muse

www.outlookindia.com | The Music And The Muse

Dear Readers, please go to the above link and read a blog that I wrote for Outlook on the Nizamuddin Urs, I hope you like it.

Watched

I feel like I am in a museum and you are some age-old artefact. I can look at you, marvel at the way you are built, breathe in your beauty, desire you with all my being but I cannot touch you or make you mine or take you home. So I simply stare at you mesmerized soaking in every detail that my eyes can gather and you remain unaware, like some object distanced from me by history.

I imagine the day she conceived you. How happy she must have been -- her first child! She must have waited and waited to tell her husband. The first time she put her hand on the bump that was you. The first time she felt you move, felt you kick. And the day you decided, you couldn't stay inside her anymore. You had to come out. The first time she took you in her arms and stared at your round, shiny face. You smiled at her the same smile that I smile at every day. She had smiled at it too. I know. I think I was there.

She couldn't help kissing your soft, blushing cheeks every now and then. You were that cute. The day you held the balcony and rails and hauled yourself up and took your first shaky, unstable steps, I remember the way you laughed, your baby teeth peeping out of that happy baby face! You still have that face; you know, the round, chubby, baby face.

The first day you went to school -- no kid has ever been happier about going to school than you were. You wanted to learn how to read. I know. That same year you got that red bicycle. How much you loved it! I am sure you did. Till you started growing up and realised you weren't so much of an outdoor person. You took to reading and I watched you read every page of the many books that you read. I saw you frown at some. I saw you think. And I also saw the occasional tear that rolled into the pillow. When you fell ill, I watched you then too. I watched you breathe. I watched your dreams and fought with you, the dark.

Remember the time the teacher told you how brilliant your English essay was? I was there and I wanted to tell you that I always knew you were good. I saw you grow up from a little baby to a fine young man. I watched you go to college. I was there when you took the first puff of smoke and inhaled your first weed. I stood by and saw you fall in love. I saw you touch a woman for the first time in your life and make love to her. I didn't say a word. I just watched. Museum, remember? She left. I still watched as you packed every ounce of love and thrust it in some inaccessible corner.
I see you every day, working, reading, writing and I cannot help but remember that little baby that still lives in you. And I am tired of being in the museum.

A Hairy Affair

Head was born hairless, except for a few strands here and there. Head's parents didn't really care right then. So what if Head was hairless? Lots of heads are hairless at birth. And the isolated strands were hope enough -- there would be hair. With great pride, Head's mom noted in the baby book, hair colour -- black, hair type -- straight. It was only when Head did not grown any hair when most normal heads grow hair, that Head's parents got this uneasy feeling! What if Head was to be hairless -- bald. Oh dear. Head was a female head. And according to the law of the land, heads, especially female ones were supposed to have long, lovely, lustrous hair! Head's old grandmother, who was always full of old, secret recipes took up charge. Egg yolk with burnt jute and juices of strange leaves were ritualistically rubbed on Head every morning. And then by afternoon, Head was washed and cleansed and more concoctions were applied. Head hated it and complained but young Heads are generally like that. Then it happened! Head sprouted hair. Intertwined. Complicated. Curls. Oh but so what? It was hair! Grandmother head said 'Mission Accomplished'. Mommy-Daddy Head said 'Yay!'. Compliments flowed in. Many thought Heads' hair was intentionally curled with jazzy electronic devices. It was only after Head's hair started growing long, that Head's parents realised that there was something sinister! Head's hair had a mind of its own! For one, the hair never sat down. No matter how much you combed it or how much oil you applied, Head's hair would keep standing up. The hair refused to look organised or neat and was always in rebellion -- looked exactly opposite to what you wanted it to look like! And then it would not grow downwards. It just would not. Head's hair wanted to grow side-ways and so it would! There was no changing the hair's mind! Exasperated, Head's parents shaved the rebellious, crazy hair off. Head was bald again. But hair grew back and much to Head's parents' disappointment; it was equally crazy and rebellious. So it was. Head grew up with mad hair that one could do nothing about, except mow every now and then, like one would mow wild grass!

Head's school only had girl heads who laughed themselves crazy at how short Head's hair was. They told Head that only boy heads had hair that short. So Head declared that she was a boy. End of matter. Head couldn't possibly risk growing her hair and looking even crazier! Could she? So pretending to be a boy head was the easiest way out. And then Head fell in love with a boy head, so she had to cancel out being a boy head herself, which was all very unfortunate! Then something even more horrible happened. Head contracted this strange illness, in which she started losing all her hair. There were tufts of hair everywhere -- on her towel, on the pillows. It was bad. Head had never loved her hair more than when she started losing it. Then the stupid boy head that she was in love with asked her to grow her hair like a woman. And so it was. Head lost her head in love and decided to not mow her wild wild hair. Thankfully hair did not grow side-ways. There was not much left of that hair anyway. In just tapered down, in this weak, submissive fashion, its dying ends making a last attempt for life. To make matters worse, Head had a bald patch, which as we know was an abomination according to the law of the land. Head despised the sympathetic glances -- "oh dear, you are so young and you are bald!" some would say. "Why don't you apply some hankypoo oil, that would help!" others said. Some would just ask, "Do you know you are bald?" Of course poor Head knew she was getting bald!   

Head left home, left town and moved to another place where no one knew her. There, someone gave her a book called the 'Rulebook for the Damned'. Thinking she was damned and needed to know what to do, she started reading it. Turned out to be pretty interesting and solved a lot of Head's worries. In it someone happened to suggest that heads must always cover their hair. And so it was. Head started covering her hair. That way no one could see her bald patch and if anyone asked why her hair was covered, she could always say she was one of the 'damned'! What fun! Head religiously covered her hair for months, till one day she realised that being a 'damned' was not that cool any more. So she uncovered her hair, and voila! the bald patch was almost gone and her crazy hair was back again! And so were Head's friends with their expert hair suggestions -- "Why don't you like straighten it man? you would look so pretty! All the boys would like you!" "Why don't you like straighten the front part and let the back go crazy? That'd be like so cool!" But this time Head knew what she wanted to do with her crazy hair. She wanted it mowed, just like a boy head! This led to more eruptions from her friends. "You look like a kid with hair that short!" "This is why no man ever likes you!" "Why don't you let it grow ya, long curls look nicer!" But this time Head knew what she wanted to do with hair. She just knew.

Ghalib--in Memory

I walked through the narrow, criss-crossing lanes of Gali Qasim Jaan with Gulzar’s voice in my head, narrating the same lines from the beginning of his much acclaimed television series on Ghalib. I had watched the episodes again and again. A friend once told me that if Ghalib was alive, his talking voice would be exactly like Naseeruddin Shah’s and his singing voice would be that of Jagjit Singh’s and I could not agree more. For me, Ghalib would come alive from the pages of poetry, invariably looking like Nasseruddin Shah. When I read history or literature, I usually have images of characters in my head. They are real people in my head who talk and think and express opinions. I do it simply to make reading more enjoyable. It is probably why I usually have no particular liking for films that have been adapted from books because if the imagination of the director does not match mine, the film falls flat on me. However, Naseeruddin Shah was exactly how I had imagined Ghalib would be when I had first read him.

The mesh of lanes seemed never ending and I have never been more scared of being run over by a rickshaw in my life. Little shops flanked the two sides of these lanes overflowing with people. Navigation was almost impossible, especially with mean rickshaw wallahs saying things like ‘mote log, hato’. You don’t know what to save, yourself or your bruised ego. I like visiting places of historical importance because it pampers my imagination. I can stand for long hours in such places and play situations in my head that I think might have occurred there long long back. Therefore for me, the idea of visiting Ghalib’s haveli had this magical feel. I knew I would be transported in time and watch the poet in his very own house weaving couplets out of the complexities of life.

‘Bhai, Ghalib kii haveli kahan hai?’ was the constant question I asked every other shopkeeper. The answer to which was almost similar, ‘yehi aagey, chaar-paanch dukaan baad.’ In my excitement and my constant efforts to not get run over, I missed the haveli and ventured further into Ballimaran, only to retrace my footsteps to what people told me was Ghalib’s haveli. A board hung by the side clearly stating that it was the ‘Ghalib Smarak’. As I stepped into what was apparently the courtyard of the haveli through massive doors of dark wood, the crowds outside seemed to fade away somewhere.

True to all the reports that I had read, the courtyard had been partitioned to form little rooms, each displaying some of Ghalib’s memorabilia – clothes, other objects used by him, family trees, poetry in his hand. Most of the objects were just a replica of what he used. In one corner of the courtyard, there were a couple of shops. I asked if I could go upstairs, only to be told that there was nothing much upstairs, except for normal residential quarters. I stood around the courtyard for a while, clicked a few photographs and generally stared into nothingness. Realising there was nothing else left to do, I stepped out into the busy gali of Ballimaran again.

It was only after I had returned from Ghalib’s part of the world, it dawned on me that there was nothing left of Ghalib in that haveli of his. It took me some time to admit to myself that I was simply disappointed. I had all this time fantasized about Ghalib’s haveli. In my head, like always I had planned feelings that I would feel standing in his haveli, that I would get to see places where Ghalib might have sat and composed my favourite lines. I believed that once I stood in his haveli, history would become real. Now I even question why they have that sham of an exhibition in that courtyard. I don’t know how many people would even be interested to travel those lanes to just see something that has lost its very essence – the Ghalib-ness of it all.

The disappointment over the haveli makes me think – had Ghalib been alive, had he not been just a fantasy in the heads of people like me, would he have been the way we imagine him to be? Or would he then just be some drunk, poor poet living off loans? Or do we simply like his fantasized version while the real him is safely locked in history? 

The Rushdie Effect

I studied Islamic Studies in a place like Jamia Millia Islamia. I had professors who studied at Darul Uloom Deoband. Especially since I came from a secular background and not from any madarsa and since I often expressed views which were considered blasphemous and absolutely un-Islamic, I was categorically asked to stay away from people and writings which would further deviate me from the ‘right path’. Salman Rushdie obviously topped that list. In fact, I was categorically asked not to turn into a Taslima Nasreen. I reassured them that I was too sympathetic towards the community to let any such thing happen, in spite of my certain ‘unacceptable’ views on most issues.

I work for Outlook websites and no one finds my views unacceptable anymore, the way they did back in Jamia. It should have been very comforting. Many would have said that I have found my place at last but that is not how happy this story is. Being in Jamia and being very close to a lot of people there, I completely understand the views of that part of the world, even if I may not always agree with them. I know how important a certain issue becomes for them and why. And I counter their arguments with my own, sometimes inspired by the discussions I might have had with my boss back in office and then I take their reasons and sensibilities to office and try to fit them in a world that apparently does not understand them.
The recent controversy over Salman Rushdie visiting the Jaipur Literary festival was kind of a reminder of how my two worlds are pulling in two different directions and how torn I am between the two of them.

The day Darul Uloom Deoband demanded that Rushdie be stopped from coming to the country, I received a call from a professor. He seemed very agitated over the whole matter. He is usually a fairly reasonable man and I told him that there was no point getting so mad about what Rushdie wrote ages back. Everyone has the right to expression and so does Rushdie. His answer – then people have the right to kill him over it if they want to. I spent the next few days in debate with the same professor, trying to make him see sense. Every morning was the same. I heard what he had to say about the hurt sentiments of the community, the politics behind it all, their definition of the freedom of expression.  I gave him counter arguments, things that my boss said, things I read around. I did not wish to convince him. I just wanted to know what his part of the world had to say. And in the evening, I gave his arguments to people on the other side of the world to see what they had to say about them. His arguments obviously did not stand a chance in front of the deft articulation of the meaning of freedom that the English media embarked upon.

To make matters worse, I was asked to take a look at what the Urdu media was saying about the whole issue. I found two columns, one of them written by my own head of the department at Jamia. My boss called their opinions ‘rabid’.

What I realised in the midst of all this ‘looking at both sides’ is that I had forgotten to take a stance. I still don’t know which side I am on. I don’t even have an opinion and I don’t like not having an opinion. I don’t know who is right and who is not. I think everyone has been stupid in their ways. I understand both sides and I feel like a mother watching two children fight and I cannot afford to take sides. I don’t know how the situation could have been averted without upsetting one of the two parties. The side not liking Satanic verses should realise that it is just a book and their faith cannot be so fragile that it should feel threatened by what someone decides to write or say. The other side could probably show a little more sensitivity since they claim to be intellectuals. Instead of protesting and talking about freedom of expression and deeming the other camp as dumb, fatwa issuing public, can they not just sit down and talk, at least try making sense of what the other side is trying to say?

As for me, I will form an opinion after I have finished reading the whole book.