Synopsis of my 2010s

I start the decade finding myself in love with a Bangladeshi Muslim girl. I come from a Jain Gujarati family. So my 2010s start with a huge challenge. It dawns on me that I want to marry this girl. Before I can do that, I need to get my parents on board. That is the challenge. My parents' initial reaction is, as expected, moderately explosive. But when the dust settles, my Dad's magnanimity reveals itself and he says he is willing to meet the girl and assess her on own merits, independent of her religion. He says he wants to assess her as an individual. He convinces my Mom to join him. They travel to London and meet M over lunch at Sagar Restaurant, Hammersmith. After lunch, M leaves to go her way. I walk with my parents to the Tube station. On the way, my Mum says - "If she is the one you want to marry, go for it. I am on board.". That is a testament to the beauty of M's personality.

That is all I need. I know right then that, now that my parents are on board, I don't need to worry about anyone else. Because everyone else falls into line.  And so, the rest of the first 4 years of this decade is spent in progressing my fledgling career at a magic circle law firm (arguably the most blue-blooded of them all!), proposing to M, indulging in cross-border wedding arrangements and (with my parents' help) buying my first apartment. Through the process, bigots in my extended family are weeded out and new friends become family. M and I travel - a lot. Europe, USA, India, Bangladesh, Kenya, South Africa, Jordan, Oman, Maldives, Turkey, Sri Lanka and Thailand. 

I put on weight. I stress eat at work. I don't exercise. I grow obese. And I remain in denial about my weight while secretly envying anyone with a healthy physique. M tells me I look like my 40 years' old uncle. M tells me I need to be wary of diabetes. M tells me this is not what she signed up to. 

And then, one day - on New Year's Eve, December 2016, the penny drops. And it drops hard. M and I are at dinner that night with friends. I cry. I loathe what I have become. I loathe every bit of wobbly fat on me. I hate my moobs. I am disgusted that I have to wear waist size 42" jeans which don't sit well on my elephant-like hips. I weigh 104.4 kgs that day. I hit rock bottom. I am terrified of contracting diabetes in my early 30s. It is a dark, dreary night. A million questions rush through my mind. How did I become this? Why did I let it happen? Who can I blame? The following morning, New Year's Day 2017, the answer reveals itself to me - "Blame no one but yourself". I decide there is only one way to go - and that is upwards. So, I start tracking calories religiously and go for spin classes. Three months in and I am enjoying both. Spin classes are gruelling but exhilarating.  Being in a self-imposed calorie deficit does the trick. I start seeing differences very quickly. Clothes that were too slim for me begin fitting well. By May 2017 everyone around me starts noticing the differences. I take to swimming. That, coupled with calorie tracking, further accelerates the fat loss. I start taking selfies of myself that I actually like to share with M. I look much younger. M feels proud of me. For the first time in my life, my parents land at Heathrow and the first thing my Dad does is fist bumps me on how well I look. That has never happened. By the end of that year, I weigh 84 kgs. I look young. I feel energetic. I am ready to welcome our son, who has spent the major part of 2017 in M. 

January 2018 - my world changes, forever. My son is born. Healthy and happy. He spends the first one hour of his life in my arms (M is on the operating theatre table). Ben E. King's classic "Stand By Me" plays on the theatre radio. I sing it to Evren who is just one hour old but is listening to me while wrapped in my arms. A tear rolls down my cheek. This is my son. A life dependent on what I do. I am overwhelmed by the magnanimous capacity of M's body - what not she has been through to give birth to this individual, who won't ever have any idea of it himself. And so parenthood begins. Sleepless nights, frustrations, happy firsts (happy first bath, happy first solid food...). 

Parenthood is and will continue to remain a major defining feature of my life. It has crushed my ego in ways I never imagined. It brings me to my knees in prayer as I seek the very best for my son. It drives me to re-assess the trajectory of my career. Money is important but now not as important as before. Time begins to take priority over money. I want to be a present father. I want my son to grow up knowing who I am. I don't want to miss bath time or bed time because I am chained to the office desk late into the night making money for those who already have plenty of it. Opportunities arise and I make a career move, that has, so far, proved rewarding. 

But I end this decade tired and exhausted. Parenthood takes its toll. It demands a lot on you. You continue to give, selflessly, until a point in time when you realise that a balance needs to be recalibrated. I end this decade, yearning for a shift in my mental focus to things that matter to me. I have spent the past year battling some cruel demons inside my mind. This year I fought body dysmorphia disorder (BDD). I sought professional counselling and came out on the other side a stronger, better equipped fighter. Yet the fight continues, but it is easier to battle now. 

I am tired of striving for more. I am done with proving myself. I want to be self-validated. This new decade will see a drive to move towards just that - doing things for me without worrying about whether it will be approved of. The approval won't matter. I want to be master of my decisions. I want my son to grow up knowing that he does not need to placate anyone with his life choices - and he is answerable to himself only. Yes, he must realise that life choices have consequences and my job is to help him make informed choices.

I end this decade with some regrets. I regret not experimenting in my youth, I regret not foraying into uncharted territory in my 20s. Did I experiment with drugs in my youth? Did I live on the edge in my youth? Did I stray? No. And that time has gone, never to return. So there are those regrets. I could have lived more carelessly in my youth and could have still managed to get back on track at the right time, That did not happen. I instead followed a straightforward journey through university into work. I won't ever know what it's like to wake up in bed in my early 20s with an unknown woman next to me, unable to recall the events of the past night. It is a regret, but now that I am married and voluntarily committed to the woman I love, it has no relevance and is not a feature of any desire of my present or the future.

I am tired, politically. The far right dominates in a world where liberal attitudes are at risk. I can no longer fight the mass populism, for I am exhausted. I just want to be at peace with my own set of principles. One day liberalism will resurge and that is when I will wake up. Until then it is time to cruise, for I am done with ascent, and descent is hopefully a couple of decades away.

Tonight I write about love...

Tonight I write about love, but the old kind of love. That kind of love that used to exist in an era sans mobile phones or any other form of instantaneous communication. All that existed was the written (in the form of letters) or the spoken word. A time when one might wait for weeks in agony for a written reply to a letter to one's beloved, and it is in that period of waiting that one's resolve to love would grow stronger. Alas those days are behind us!

I stumbled on a nazm (poem) written in Urdu by one of India's foremost proponents of the country's progressive literary movements that found its origins in the bounds of imperial India - Sardar Jafri. Jafri's "Tum Nahin Aaye The Jab" has captivated my imagination ever since I heard it recited. 

Tum nahin aaye the jab, tab bhi to maujud the tum
Aankh mein noor ki aur dil mein lahu ki surat
Dard ki lau ki tarha, pyaar ki khushbu ki tarha...

Tum nahin aaye the jab, tab bhi to tum aaye the
Raat ki seene mein mehtab ke khanjar ki tarha
Subah ke haath mein khurshid ke sagar ki tarha

Shaakh-e-khoon, rang-e-tamanna mein gul-e-taar ki tarah
Tum nahi aaoge jab, tab bhi to tum aaoge
Yaad ki tarah, dhadakte hue dil ki soorat
Gham ke paimana-e-sarshaar ko chhalkate hue...

My own translation:

When you did not arrive, you were still here,
As the light of my eyes and the gushing blood in my heart
As the pangs of my sorrow, as the fragrance of my love...

When you did not arrive, you had in fact arrived
Like the lunar crescent in the bosom of my night
Like the sun-filled cup held by this morning's hands.

Like the first moist buds on a bloodied branch
When you won't arrive, you will have nevertheless arrived
As an everlasting memory, as my beating heart
Spilling over my sorrow-filled glass.

Jafri's poem elicits a sense of yearning, that I shudder to think, my generation has lost in this world. We are immersed in a complex labyrinth of constant communication, bombarded with instant messages and saddled with expectations of equally instant replies to those messages. Love happens over the internet nowadays; people fall in and out of love in seconds. It all happens in real time.

You see, we no longer have the luxury of judaai (separation) from our loved ones, because we know that those we love are always available at the touch of a button. Yet, my contention is that without separation, we fail to appreciate the bliss of re-union (visaal in Urdu) that only appears after an attack from the tentacles of departure (ravaangi). And it is that period of separation, when you shut off from your beloved, that serves, I think, as a robust platform for nurturing love. For it is in that measure of temporal stillness that one realises when your loved one is not there, she is nevertheless there in forms so eloquently expressed by Jafri. The simple truth is that when we switch off our screens and gaze into the night sky, the twinkling stars or the peeping moon from behind the clouds reminds us of all those notions of imagery that we are so programmed to associate with love.  Lo - you need not look as far as into the night sky, for listening to your heart beat will remind you of the one for whom it so beats.

"Shab-e-tanhai mein lutf-o-mulaqaat ka rang..." 

  - On a night of solitude, too is there the beauty of a rendezvous.

We owe ourselves a chance to self-assess and introspect within ourselves, to connect with and feel the emotions of longing and yearning for our loved ones - so that when we are engulfed by all that time we so value with our lovers we are the best possible versions of ourselves. For it is at that moment that we taste how sweet this nectar of union (dildaari) is, of which we were momentarily deprived during our solitude.

True love, after all, should not be as fickle as an emoji.

Today I say goodbye

Today, I say goodbye to my maternal grandfather (my Nana), Vaghji Velji Gudka, who passed away aged 93 in Mombasa following a peaceful death.





The name Vaghji Velji Gudka resonated with several East African Oshwals. I recall my Mom saying to me that if ever I got lost at the Mahajanwadi (the Oshwal community centre in Mombasa) or anywhere else in Kenya for that matter, all I would need to say is that Vaghji Velji Gudka is my grandfather. That name in itself would instantly provide anyone with an indicator of the family I come from.

When I think of my Nana, I think of a pioneer for the East African Oshwal community, a man who lived through the British colonial Raj in India and East Africa, the second World War, Kenya's independence from the British and the attempted 1982 coup against the then Moi government in Kenya. All of these events brought gigantic personal socio-economic challenges for Nana. At a time when scores decided to migrate from Kenya, Nana remained steadfast and sought to make the best of any socio-economic skirmishes that so naturally emanated from such radical changes in the East African political landscape. Somewhere, he had a deep-seated conviction in his newly adopted homeland of Kenya. Or perhaps he was all too aware of the challenges that emerge with migration, himself an economic migrant from Gujarat (Navagam) in India during the time of the British Empire.

My enduring memory of my Nana is of 1997, when I was in secondary school at Oshwal Academy, Mombasa. The Oshwal community was celebrating 100 years of Oshwal settlement in Kenya and throughout the country families and social institutions grouped together to document their ancestors' heritage. I was one of a few students selected to interview Oshwal pioneers to develop a narrative for a special centenary publication that was to be released at the time. I remember interviewing my Nana in Gujarati, asking him to recount the challenges he faced when he first set foot ashore in Kenya. I remember him describing with much fervour the optimism with which he arrived at Mombasa with very little to count as wealth. He recounted several hardships that he and his wife, Late Jayaben, encountered in their pursuit to establish a new life in Mombasa and their resolve to put community service at the helm of their lives. He described ideals of nation-building, social service and "brathrubhaav" (brotherhood), all of which he had sought to imbibe in his new life in Kenya. I remember him breaking into tears when describing the loss of his wife, my Nani, and what that meant for him. What struck me at the time was how he was so proud of my Nani's achievements in women's welfare work and social service, all of which extended much beyond the kitchen, and how he had continued to encourage her to work towards the betterment of women's lives in the local community. This was the first time I saw my Nana cry. This was the first time I realised my Nana, in stark contrast to many of his peers, was for his time a rare feminist.

Today, I say goodbye to Vaghjibhai, simply for me an inspiration.

From an only child: cherish your siblings

I am an only child. I grew up in a relatively sheltered setting. As a child, I pretty much got what I wanted. My parents' love was concentrated, I got the best of an education that they could afford and I had my own room. Life was simple - all my toys were mine, all my clothes were mine and all the love and attention I wanted was mine.

That got suffocating in my teens, and by the time I hit 16, I was more than ready to head off to boarding school. It was an expensive school, one which at the time my parents would not have been able to afford for two or three children. But because I was just one, I received a privileged private school education in the Kent countryside, one which no doubt opened a multitude of doors for me.

As an only child, I never yearned for a sibling. Friends and cousins were in abundance, so there never really was a lack of playmates. As a teen, I relished the after-school solitude that many teens long for. My room was my unencumbered space, in which I could listen to my own kind of music and sleep in the way I wanted to sleep - all essentials for a happy teenage life.

Throughout university, I was too busy to think about being an only child. Those years were not family centric. They were about building myself, exploring new ideas and enjoying living an independent life in expensive central London. Again, at this juncture, it was clear that being an only child meant that I could live in London's expensive SW7 postcode and have the Bank of Mum and Dad fund my life there. After all, there wasn't anyone else to share in their finite resources.

Don't get me wrong. I worked hard in school, I worked hard at university. I made sure I got the right grades. I pursued (and sometimes created) opportunities for myself to forge a career path into the law. I knew that, at some stage, the taps would be turned off and my parents would expect me to stand on my own. But there never really was any financial hardship as a London student. Things were made easier for me. All really because I am an only child.

Now in my thirties, life's focus is beginning to change. Relationships are becoming the focus of life. And what I really miss at this stage is a sibling - someone of my blood whom I probably would have, as a child, considered an inevitable hindrance. But as my parents' mortality becomes real, the existential thought of there being no one in their absence to share memories of my childhood with is chilling.

There is something understood in a sibling relationship that is quite unique to it. Siblings might be separated by thousands of miles, but there is an unspoken rule that they stand by each other in times of need, they share family responsibilities when life demands, and they offer unsolicited counsel to each another. Blood is, after all, thicker than water. Siblings might have been known to bicker for years, but there is that unifying something upon the death of a parent that triggers adherence to this unspoken rule.

An old acquaintance, now in Canada, recently wrote to me with her Diwali greetings. For years she's had an up-and-down relationship with her brother in Kenya. Safe to say that their characters are poles apart. They lost their parents to illness a few years' ago. Her brother recently got married in Kenya. In her email to me, she attached some photos of the wedding. What struck me was the fact that notwithstanding her ups and downs with her brother, she made sure she was at that wedding. No doubt, her parents' absence meant that her presence at the wedding was now increasingly important. Her photos with her brother on what was clearly a long overdue happy day for her (especially after the tumultuous years she'd had with her parents' deteriorating health and the harsh realities of life that follow the demise of loved ones) demonstrated a fundamental principle that underscores so many sibling relationships - come what may, I will be there. There is something fulfilling about that - something that perhaps replenishes the void created by the solitude of being an only "adult" child. Solitude that no lover, friend or cousin can ever fully eliminate.

Nirbhaya: Let's teach our sons not to cross their own Lakshman Rekhas

Much has been written and said about Leslee Udwin's documentary, aptly titled "India's Daughter". I applaud the BBC for broadcasting it notwithstanding the Indian government's farcical and frankly embarrassing attempts to thwart its dissemination. 

In my opinion, India is now a classic example of the proverbial ostrich burying its head in the sand. When a foreigner decided to hold up a mirror to Indian society to re-examine itself, India simply spat in her face, spewing out derisory arguments of undue foreign intervention and Bharat Mahaan's defamation.  Mr Rajnath Singh, it really is very simple - the film is not an embarrassment  to your country, your country's male mentality is. Please also fire your sarkaari lawyers. Since when has an Indian court order been binding on Britain's BBC - or have you mistaken the BBC for Doordarshan?

I watched the documentary and it is harrowing. One of the defence lawyers, ML Sharma, states:

"Indian culture is the best culture . In our culture there is no place for a woman." 

 He blames Nirbhaya's parents squarely when he says:

"Why did they send her with anyone that late at night? He wasn't her boyfriend. Is it not parents' responsibility to keep an eye on where she goes and with whom?" 

There are countless judges, politicians and public figures in India who have made ludicrous statements such as:

"Rapes happen. Boys will be boys" - Mulayam Singh Yadav, Lok Sabha member and chairman of the Samajwadi Party 

 "Girls must not cross the Lakshman Rekha" - Kailash Vijaywargiya,
Madhya Pradesh minister 

"Girls should wear decent clothes to avoid rape" - Dinesh Reddy, Director General of Andhra Pradesh police

Shocking, disturbing and disgusting.

The point is this. This malaise is not contained within the geographical borders of India, it is a cultural pandemic. If you are an East African Asian male, then you'd be mistaken to think that this is nothing to do with you just because you don't live in India. It is. Wake up and smell the coffee. The deep seated issue is our lack of respect for our women. In one way or the other we think they are our subordinates. We think we control them - often in this day and age, through emotional passive aggression.

The diaspora is littered with men whose thoughts are in some way aligned with those quoted above. I personally know an alarmingly large number of men who honestly believe that the woman's place is exclusively in the kitchen. I have heard arguments such as "I want my sister to pursue a career which will not demand too much of her time and that will help her manage her husband and children." Have you heard this one? - "She had a great career before marriage. Now she doesn't need it. I've asked her to stay at home and manage the kids. She can do some small business from home for time pass, but there's no reason for her to do a 9-5 job outside. I earn enough." I once knew someone living in London, originally from Nairobi. He accused me of being too "soft" with my wife because I hadn't insisted she adopt my surname after marriage. I no longer know him.

Remember the chauvinistic guy who plays Sridevi's husband in English Vinglish and says: "My wife was only born to make ladoos". Ask yourself whether that's the kind of husband you want to be.

Guys, the key word here is choice. Let our women enjoy the freedom to choose what they want to do. They might well elect to stay at home with the kids. They might well want an easy career that allows for a domesticated lifestyle. They might well want to take on your name after marriage. Or they might not. Let them choose without any emotional or (even worse, physical) blackmail. Because in allowing them to choose, you show them respect. Be a real man and set an example for our sons so that they grow up with an innate respect for their mothers, sisters and partners. Let's teach our sons that women are not there simply to be objectified, that they mean more than just a "score" and that they are just as human as we are. Real manhood does not necessitate misogyny. Let's teach our sons not to cross their own Lakshman Rekhas.

My "Bangla"-fication

Several of my family members were surprised when they heard me conversing in Bangla with my in-laws in Chittagong. I got asked: "How did you learn how to speak it?" "When did you learn?" "Did Mehwaesh teach you?" Some thought I had been "bangla-fied" by my wife.

 

Nothing could be further from the truth. What many fail to understand is that I never consciously learnt how to speak the language, nor have I attended any formal language course. Mehwaesh has not embarked on a conscious drive to "bangla-fy" me. Yes, I picked up the language from listening to her Bangla conversations (mostly with her family in Bangladesh and her Bangla friends in London). What struck me about the language, was how much of the language I was able to pick up and understand, with no prior exposure to it.

 

Bangla like Gujarati is a Sanskrit-based language. That means that a lot of words in the Bangla lexicon sound almost similar to the Gujarati equivalent. Take for example, shomachar ("news") in Bangla which is our samachar. Or take "Shubho Jonmodin" ("Happy birthday") in Bangla which in shuddh (literary) Gujarati would be "Shubh Janmadin".  Where there are parallels, there are differences, too. Grammatically, the two languages differ greatly. While we attribute gender to words in Gujarati, in Bangla that concept is non-existent.

 

I must admit that my Bangla is by all standards broken. I cannot read or write the language. I can construct basic oral sentences (albeit bereft of proper grammar) and probably survive using my conversational and unperfected Bangla skills if I was left stranded in Bangladesh. I get my tenses muddled up at times. But - and crucially for me - I can get the message across.

 

My Bangla speaking skills came to me almost by a process of osmosis. There never was any conscious decision made to learn it. I didn't really need to. Like her, Mehwaesh's parents and her immediate family are fluent in English. But there is a certain sweetness in the Bangla language, much like Gujarati, that draws me to it. The Sanskrit-based words make it easy for me to pick up words and assimilate them into conversation. 

 

What many fail to realise is that it is my fluency in Gujarati that has helped me learn, understand and appreciate the richness of the Bangla language. In turn, the ability to converse in Bangla has benefitted me greatly. For starters, it has helped me build bridges with my in-laws and their family.  Notwithstanding that I could have gotten away with conversing in English with them, there is, I feel, a certain degree of endearment when I speak with them in Bangla.  In fact, with Maa (my mother-in-law) our phone conversations are mostly in Bangla, with us resorting to English only when it's something so important that cannot get lost in translation. Yes, there are the few occasions when I have to ask Mehwaesh to translate some phrases, but most of the time, I get it. Beyond forging new ties with my wife's family, the language has helped me better understand my wife's cultural heritage. I now enjoy listening to musical renditions of Tagore poetry. Admittedly, I don't fully understand what is being said in some of the poetry. But, it is like a jigsaw puzzle - I can put together words to capture the flavour of Tagore's works. It's important for me to be able to do that. 

 

I wouldn't have had access to the Bangla language without Mehwaesh - that, I admit. But, there is something within me that helped me assimilate the language with ease. I now know that "x" factor was my fluency in Gujarati. Without Gujarati I would not have had the guts to work out the meanings of words in Bangla. I would have had no link to a Sanskrit-based language, and so there would have been nothing to rely on when attempting to develop my Bangla vocabulary. Crucially, I think I would not have been able to build the bridges that I am building with my in-laws had I not understood Gujarati. Most important of all, I would not have had the courage to embark on a lifelong journey with someone from a different cultural background without my Gujarati. After all, how can you begin to understand someone else's heritage, when you don't have a full grasp of your own? Heritage is inseparable from your mother tongue.

 

As life unfolds, it is becoming increasingly clear to me how Gujarati has in many ways, direct and indirect, helped me move forward into uncharted territory with confidence and competence. It has helped me forge new relations, retain a robust link with older generations and develop a solid foundation for my marriage with Mehwaesh. For this and much more, I have my Mom to thank. Without her drive to get me fluent in Gujarati, there would not have been much of what I am today. I also have the late Jyotiben Master to thank. More than a mere Gujarati teacher, she was a life teacher. In addition to teaching me the intricacies of the Gujarati language and it's Sanskrit origins, she taught me how to use the language to understand my heritage, and in doing so, gave me the courage to traverse the boundaries of my comfort zone and indulge in someone else's heritage.

 

 

 

 

Just married

Just married and I'm back in London with some very fond memories of our Bangladesh wedding. I had not been to Bangladesh before. So, naturally, I had some reservations before I landed at Chittagong airport. But, the unparalleled hospitality and overwhelming love demonstrated by my wife's family there quickly broke down all apprehensions, and within a matter of hours, it was as though we had all known each other for years. Thinking back, I look back upon our short stay in Bangladesh with fond memories, and look forward to visiting again soon.

 

You see, there is a difference between the words "wedding" and "marriage". The former is a star-studded event that lasts for a couple of days, the latter is a long lifelong journey that comes with the sweet pain of true love.

Back in London, friends and family keep asking "How is married life treating you?". It's a question I struggle to answer. What is one expected to say to such a question? It's not like your life becomes star-studded over night. It's not like your life becomes radically different to what it was before. Yes, my wife and I now live together, and that is a big change, but a welcome one. Yet, I wouldn't say it's radically different. It would have been had our marriage been an arranged one. The simple fact is that I am thrilled to have my wife living with me and just generally sharing life together. But that doesn't quite answer the question, does it?

 

And then I read an article this morning by Seth Adam Smith entitled "True love should be painful" (http://sethadamsmith.com/2014/01/20/true-love-is-painful/). I would recommend it to anyone newly married and you should read this post in the context of that article. It's a perfect tutorial for anyone setting out in life with someone on the path of marriage. What this article reminds us of is the reality of married life, far from the star-studded wedding festivities, far from the romanticised ideology of a magical wedding that we all too often confuse to be a characteristic of marriage. You see, there is a difference between the words "wedding" and "marriage". The former lasts for a couple of days, the latter is lifelong.

 

Seth's article reminds us that "if you’re doing it right, love, marriage, and family will be the most painful things you’ll ever experience. Not because they’re bad things, but because to love at all means to open yourselves up to vulnerability and pain. And to love someone completely—as you do in marriage—is to put your whole heart on the line."

 

My parents recently celebrated their 31st wedding anniversary. On the whole, they've had a solid and strong marriage. But like any relationship, it's not perfect. They have had their ups and downs and I cannot imagine that their journey together has not been painful. Seth says "Love will always be quite painful. Instead, worry about how you will react to the pain."  I think that's what my parents have done. What inspires me is the way in which they have dealt with their troubles together. That is the standard I aspire to achieve.

 

I know that Mehwaesh and I value our relationship tremendously. Being an inter-cultural relationship, it has not been without its idiosyncractic pains. But, we fought hard to get to where we are today. And we're proud of what we have achieved so far. We realise that marriage is not a walk in the park, not rosy and is certainly not the star-studded experience that was our wedding. Accepting and acknowledging that, is, I think, the first step to realising that "love will always be quite painful." The key is understanding that, as Seth says in his article, "instead of a pain that breaks us down, it can be a pain that builds us up."

I love my wife. I love being married to her and I am tremendously grateful for her presence in my life. She enriches everything I do and is my most honest critic. I love that she loves my parents as much as I love her's. We have a lot to go through in the future, some joyful, some painful. I welcome that pain in my life, because "true love should be painful". Thank you, Seth Adam Smith, for teaching me that.

Dreaming in Gujarati

A few weeks ago I came across a poem by the Kenyan Gujarati poet, Shailja Patel, and it got me thinking about why we Gujaratis have a natural and unforgivable tendency to deviate from our mother language.  A product of the East African diaspora living in London, it is made abundantly clear to me at countless occasions that among my generation of young professional Gujaratis, speaking in the mother tongue is "not cool", simply too "desi" and dare I say it - akin to being "fresh off the boat".  Conversely, my love for Gujarati and the consequent arrogance that stems from that love has so far led me to think of myself being above those who think like that.  You see, I've always thought that, in fact, those of my generation who think that speaking in Gujarati is "not cool" are themselves "uncool", "wayward" and simply "not worth it".  But reading Shailja Patel's poem (credit goes to my better half, Mehwaesh, for introducing me to it!) made me review those thoughts and re-assess my position.  Was there an intrinsic reason why others shunned Gujarati? Were they trying to rebel against something from their childhood? Did others associate harsh domestic memories with Gujarati? Did the language invoke sentiments best left forgotten?

Shailja Patel's "Dreaming in Gujarati":

The children in my dreams
speak in Gujarati
turn their trusting faces to the sun
say to me
care for us nurture us
in my dreams I shudder and I run.

I am six
in a playground of white children
Darkie, sing us an Indian song!
Eight
in a roomful of elders
all mock my broken Gujarati
English girl!

Twelve, I tunnel into books
forge an armor of English words.
Eighteen, shaved head
combat boots -
shamed by masis
in white saris
neon judgments
singe my western head.
Mother tongue.
Matrubhasha
tongue of the mother
I murder in myself.

Through the years I watch Gujarati
swell the swaggering egos of men
mirror them over and over
at twice their natural size.
Through the years
I watch Gujarati dissolve
bones and teeth of women, break them
on anvils of duty and service, burn them
to skeletal ash.
Words that don't exist in Gujarati :
Self-expression.
Individual.
Lesbian.

English rises in my throat
rapier flashed at yuppie boys
who claim their people “civilized” mine.
Thunderbolt hurled
at cab drivers yelling
Dirty black bastard!
Force-field against teenage hoods
hissing
F****ing Paki bitch!
Their tongue - or mine?
Have I become the enemy?

Listen:
my father speaks Urdu
language of dancing peacocks
rosewater fountains
even its curses are beautiful.
He speaks Hindi
suave and melodic
earthy Punjabi
salty rich as saag paneer
coastal Kiswahili
laced with Arabic,
he speaks Gujarati
solid ancestral pride.
Five languages
five different worlds
yet English
shrinks
him
down
before white men
who think their flat cold spiky words
make the only reality.

Words that don't exist in English:
Najjar
Garba
Arati.

If we cannot name it
does it exist?
When we lose language
does culture die? What happens
to a tongue of milk-heavy
cows, earthen pots
jingling anklets, temple bells,
when its children
grow up in Silicon Valley
to become
programmers?

Then there's American:
Kin'uh get some service?
Dontcha have ice?
Not:
May I have please?
Ben, mane madhath karso?
Tafadhali nipe rafiki
Donnez-moi, s'il vous plait
Puedo tener…..
Hello, I said can I get some service?!
Like, where's the line for Ay-mericans
in this goddamn airport?
Words that atomized two hundred thousand Iraqis:
Didja see how we kicked some major ass in the Gulf?
Lit up Bagdad like the fourth a' July!
Whupped those sand-niggers into a parking lot!

The children in my dreams speak in Gujarati
bright as butter
succulent cherries
sounds I can paint on the air with my breath
dance through like a Sufi mystic
words I can weep and howl and devour
words I can kiss and taste and dream
this tongue
I take back.

The following analysis of the poem is taken from Dan Ojwang's book, "Reading Migration and Culture: The World of East African Indian Literature" (2012). In this piece, which forms part of Shailja's collection of performance poems, Migritude, she tells of her troubled relation with English and Gujarati, her "Mother Tongue". The incessant and turbulent tussle with the two languages coincides with her autobiographical quest for an alternative gender and sexual identity against the beliefs of her mother. While English represents the violence of the British Empire and post-Cold War American world order, it is simultaneously a means through which she has accessed "words that don't exist in Gujarati: self-expression/individual/lesbian".  Since Gujarati marks the primal scene of her childhood in Kenya, in which attempts have been made to discipline her into an ideal ethnic and gendered "chhokri", I thnk she associates the language with fictions of purity that lie at the heart of dominant nationalist and diasporic ideologies.  Her initial interpretation of the language as a bearer of the patriarchal, nationalist logic of reproduction is reflected in the Gujarati-speaking children who appear in her dreams, begging her to take on a mothering role, an image that echoes her own childhood dependence on Gujarati-speaking figures of domestic authority.

Ojwang's book explains that Shailja also believes that English allows her to claim an ambiguous gender identity, symbolised by the image of a shaved head and combat boots, as opposed to the Gujarati-speaking "grannies in their white saris".  However, if English provides a set of ready-made concepts that name same sex desire, her exclusive adoption of it as a tool for queer self-fashioning ultimately appears to her as an abdication of some sort. Her earlier deviation from Gujarati, she comes to realise, is partly the product of colonially induced language shame.

Is my generation the progeny of a generation that was subject to colonially induced language shame? Is that why we think speaking in Gujarati is "uncool"? Are there grannies in white saris we want to rebel against at various subconscious levels? Is there some kind of historic subtext to why young professional East African Asians want to stay clear of all ties with Gujarati? 

Although English may have provided us with a vocabulary for responding to racism in the UK and the US, have we, in our quests to "fit in", forgotten that Gujarati and other languages spoken in East Africa gesture at senses of community, alternative to those forged by international capitalism (whose most privileged language is English)? Have we forgotten how sweet our language sounded at Mombasa's light house and Bamburi's beaches?

It saddens me to see that Gujarati might be associated with an inflexible tradition and that returning to it may warrant a high price, which, frankly, many of my generation are just not prepared to pay.  The reality, however, is that a rich language with a Sanskrit-based heritage cannot be devalued by those who simply can't be bothered to explore it. Did you really think that a language hailing from such a diverse region of South Asia doesn't have words for "lesbian", "self-expression" and "individual"?  Gujarati literature is not so dry and bland, my friends! You just need to look hard enough. 

I often feel like a solitary soldier in the quest for trying to keep the Gujarati language alive among young East African professionals like myself. It's part of who I am, what I am and why I am the way I am. Gujarati is me - I think in it, I dream in it, I sing in it, I breathe in it.  And I am not ashamed of an inexplicably beautiful language that has opened so many doors for me in life. You see, I learnt very early in life that only if you fully understand your own language, will you develop an appreciation of your heritage culture. And only if you fully comprehend your heritage, will you move on to develop an attitude of multiplicity, and understand and embrace other cultures that you encounter in this cosmopolitan world of ours. In my case, Gujarati has proven to be invaluable. Its Sanskrit origins have helped me develop a growing and impressive vocabulary in Bengali, also of Sanskrit origins; and I dare say, that has helped me forge new links with my better half's family and friends.

My encounters with young Bengalis in London has confirmed one fact. They don't have complexities with speaking their language. They are proud to speak it, indulge in it, sing in it, laugh in it and cry in it. Their's is a culture where English is only spoken for the benefit of those who don't understand Bengali. They have abundant pride in speaking Bengali when they get together and spend evenings singing rich melodies of songs penned by the Bengali Nobel laureate and poet, Tagore. Robindro shongeet, the name given to the genre of music based on Tagore's writings, has so far shown me how comfortable young Bengalis are with their language. Sadly, I cannot imagine anything of the sort with young Gujaratis. 

Perhaps, it might be unfair to compare their passions for their language with Gujaratis.  After all, Bengalis had to fight for their language. In the 1950s, when the Government of the Dominion of Pakistan ordained Urdu as the sole national language in East Bengal (modern day Bangladesh), extensive protests raged among the Bengali-speaking majority of the region. Facing rising sectarian tensions and mass discontent with the new law, the government outlawed public meetings and rallies. The students of the University of Dhaka and other political activists defied the law and organised a protest on 21 February 1952. The movement reached its climax when police killed student demonstrators on that day. After years of conflict, the central government relented and granted official status to the Bengali language in 1956. In 1999, UNESCO declared 21 February as International Mother Language Day, in tribute to the Bengali Language Movement and the ethno-linguistic rights of people around the world. The Bengali Language Movement catalysed the assertion of Bengali national identity in East Bengal and later, Bangladesh.

Shaheed Minaar, (the Martry's Monument) in Dhaka, Bangladesh, commemorates those who lost their lives during the Bengali Language Movements protests on 21 February1952

Perhaps, young Gujaratis don't value their language enough because their predecessors never had to fight for it? It might have never been under any physical threat, but I am certain that it is under diasporic threat. And that remains a sad but nevertheless veritable fact of life.

An adventure in Bengali gastronomy!

Last night, I ventured into, what was for me, uncharted territory, along with my Bengali fiancée, Mehwaesh.  We attended a lovely dinner party entitled "A Night On Chowringhee Lane", with the intention of enjoying a bit of Calcutta's cuisine in London.  Not having visited Calcutta before, Mehwaesh educated me with a bit of background, explaining that a diverse variety of street food can be savoured along the little lanes that go off Chowringhee in Calcutta, citing examples (which I only list here for the benefit of those with prior knowledge) such as "the chaat-wallah next to Lighthouse Cinema, kabab and paratha shops, phuchka wallah stands, authentic Mughlai food and biryani at Aminia and chilled dahi vadas on one of the side exits of New Market".  

This was no ordinary dinner party, though.  To start with, we didn't know the host, nor did we know who our fellow diners would be! What we attended last night can only best be described as a supper club - a growing London trend, neither restaurant nor dinner party, but both at once; ordinary people opening up their homes to paying strangers, and chefs who relish independence and informality of cooking for people at home.  Through a contact on Twitter, Mehwaesh found out about "A Night On Chowringhee Lane" online, and immediately fired me an email with details and excitement.   Hesitantly, I accepted and booked our places on the website, and then sat back, thinking to myself: "Never done this before - dinner party at a complete stranger's house! This could go one of two ways...."

All that trepidation, with which I walked up the steps to the Old Brompton Road building for our supper club, vanished instantly when we were greeted by our supper club host, Asma Khan's warm, smiling face as she welcomed us into her home.  The evening grew only better as we got to know this wonderfully talented, inspiring and immensely friendly lady. 

Asma Khan (in blue)

Asma runs a satisfyingly authentic Indian catering company, Darjeeling Express, building on her Nawabi/Mughal traditions to offer real meals with taste and history. But when I first saw her last night, her striking face suggested that there was more to her than just that.  As the evening progressed, I learnt that we we both have legal backgrounds too!  What I admired most about Asma last night was that she demonstrated with such pride some great Bengali food.  Asma grew up in India and worked for many years in her mother's catering business in Calcutta. Indeed, many of the dishes she cooks are family recipes. It was apparent that Calcutta, with its confluence of many cultures, has had an immense impact on Asma's cooking. You see, the food she cooked with such fervour last night reflected the flavours and tastes of not just the Bengal, but also embodied a heady mix of Mughlai and North Indian tones with Bihari, Rajasthani, Burmese, Chinese, Nepali and British influences. Her vibrant character is evidence of the fact that she loves new people tasting and enjoying her food, and it is very clear that that gives her immense satisfaction. 

Asma in action

With a dedicated vegetarian menu, I was spoilt for choice. After our Nimboo pani welcome drink, we were served with starters, which included Nepali vegetarian Momos (steamed vegetable dumplings that are, I am told, very popular in Calcutta), kala chanaa masala, parathas (flaky and flat bread).  Then came the phuchkas (Gujarati equivalent: pani puris) and that's when everyone got excited simple because Bengalis love their phuchkas, tiny hollow wafer cups filled with spiced potatoes, black chickpeas and a pungent tamarind sauce.  These were followed by baigani pakoras (aubergine pakoras) and samosas filled with mashed potatoes and peas.  After all of this, we struggled to do justice to the main course - a soft and creamy paneer korma, a saffron-infused vegetable pulao (rice dish), mirchi ka salaan (green chillies with onion, ground coconut and peanuts) and dahi vada (lentil fritters in spiced yoghurt).  By the time we hit desserts, we were stuffed; although the bhappa doi (steamed Bengali yoghurt) with fruit went down like a treat! To round it all off, Asma served us with cups of a light Darjeeling tea, which somehow did away with all fears of any impending morning after-effects! 

Last night, we dined with, among others, a couple of scientists, a BBC food magazine writer, an author of a popular Indian cooking book (who, herself, had a masala-filled persona), and a few Calcutta-ites.  Enthralling conversation in an intricately decorated South Kensington living room infused with memories of the Mughal Empire, all against an apt auditory background of mellow Bollywood tunes composed by some of the Bengal's best musicians.  It was surreal, different, novel, and yes, definitely fun! And best of all - I didn't feel patronised for being a vegetarian!

Navratri 2012: A festival of backless cholis

In a few days' time the speed dating festival of Navratri will commence.  I say "speed dating" because that is, sadly, what it has been reduced to these days.  Scores of sports grounds in Mumbai and Gujarat are already being fitted out with government-funded equipment (including, condom vending machines - OMG: I can't believe I said the "c" word! Bad boy, Paras!) to accommodate and entertain the throngs of revellers expected to dance and partake in the adrenalin-fueled sweaty nights of garba.  On the other hand, in a classic representation of exclusivity and discrimination, hundreds of private clubs across Western and North India will have sold their exorbitantly priced tickets to India's growing "nouveau-riche" bourgeoisie (middle class) who wish to have their own form of justified speed dating with appropriately adjusted pecuniary filters so that the "riffraff" don't get in and ruin the fun! All this, my friends, in the name of religion. 

In England, scores of Church of England school and town halls have been booked up for a series of 9 to 10 nights. Ticketed events by several Gujarati organisations have been organised.  Some even have special season tickets on sale which, if you intend to attend on all the days, might just work out to be cheaper.  We Gujaratis love a bargain! 9 days of garba fun for the price of 8!!! Navratri here has been reduced to a spectacle that one might choose to buy entry for, much like buying your Arsenal season tickets! And if you think the speed dating doesn't happen here in England, I think you need to book an appointment at Boots opticians soon, my friends.  In London, the Navratri equivalent of Tiger Tiger is perhaps Northolt, while Mahiki probably equates to Chiswick (minus the booze, of course!).  

"Navratri today is an exhibition of vulgarity with young girls having barely entered puberty, scantily dressed, sweating and hot with belly buttons pierced in inappropriate backless cholis and tights.  I mean, shouldn't we be leaving that to the experts in Bollywood?"

You see, it's only natural that the most important aspect of Navratri is its most celebrated - music, dance and general merriment. And don't get me wrong - one of the biggest social drivers for this festival is precisely the social cohesion and sense of community that the festival is intended to help foster.  But what many forget is the real spiritual dimension of Navratri.  Far from the tentacles of Narendra Modi's "Vibrant Gujarat" propaganda, the festival does actually have a deep-seated purpose of cultivating inner spiritual awareness through rituals that encourage self-control and renunciation.  Many forget that during Navratri, several devotees fast for the festival's duration, renouncing all forms of meat and grain.  On a meager diet of fruit and milk, devotees are encouraged to engage in meditation and self-contemplation.  Many continue to get on with their daily lives notwithstanding the harsh pangs of growing hunger in their bellies and those irresistible cravings for carbs. Others decide to give to charity, either in cash or kind.  But all of this is shrouded by the Navratri night clubs that temples and sports halls are converted into to satisfy the carnal urges of raging teenagers.  And of course, it's all "legit", yaar - because it's all in the name of religion. It's the one time when if you're a girl and dare to wear something revealing (well really, downright vulgar, when put in context) without having to succumb to your mum's glaring looks, you're fine. Why? All in the name of religion, yaar! It's more pleasant to say to mum - "I'm going to the garba tonight and won't be back until the morning!".  Replace the word "garba" with the name of any alcohol-fueled nightclub and you'll get a deluge of questions to answer and probably a curfew.

My point is this - the whole purpose of Navratri has become distorted.  What, I think, was a festival conjured up in ancient India to drive social cohesion, inclusiveness, culture and spiritual awareness, is now actually quite the opposite. Sadly, Navratri today is characterised by youths lip syncing to vulgar Bollywood atrocities (Munni badnaam hui, anyone?), dancing in their own groups trying very hard to be as wayward as possible. Navratri today is an exhibition of vulgarity with young girls having barely entered puberty, scantily dressed, sweating and hot with belly buttons pierced in inappropriate backless cholis and tights.  And you thought guys went to the garba to dance? We really should be leaving the "choli ke peeche kya hai" attitude to the experts in Bollywood.

Allow me to make myself clear.  I am not saying that one shouldn't participate in this year's Navratri festivities simply because of all the vulgarities that exist! To the contrary, I'm going to have fun and make the most of it (to the extent, that I am able to get out of work on time!). All I am saying is that just by playing a few rounds of garba and dandia raas, don't fool yourself by thinking you've achieved any spiritual brownie points.  Durga is not dumb.

Has Mombasa lost its "raha"?

"Mombasa Raha" is a popular phrase at the Kenyan coast. "Raha", in Swahili, means joy or happiness, and the phrase is used to express the excitement and fun of the Mombasa lifestyle.  In the wake of the recent riots that have plagued this the most important Indian Ocean port on the east coast of Africa, one can't help but wonder whether peace has fled Mombasa's shores for an indefinite period of time.

The assassination of an influential and very radical Al-Shabaab-influenced cleric (I will not use the term "Muslim" to describe him because, frankly, he does not deserve it and I would be doing injustice to all my Muslim friends and acquaintances) prompted two days of vicious rioting in Mombasa.  Yesterday seemed to be quiet, but there have been pockets of turbulence reported in parts of central Mombasa today.  Surely, any spell of tranquility will not last, especially given the impending elections and Kenyan politicians' fondness for stirring up unrest.

Law and order broke down earlier this week in Mombasa as rioters attacked churches (no one knows why these have been targeted!), burned tyres, looted shops and homes and threw grenades at vehicles and police. Some observers claimed to have witnessed rioters looting chicken! This all sounds rather familiar, given that London went through similar looting episodes last August, although, here, chicken was replaced by flat screen TVs.  So far four policemen have been killed in Mombasa, dying of their injuries after bearing the brunt of grenade explosions. Three civilians have died too, although by the time I publish this on line, more will have inevitably lost their lives. Some have been stoned, others have been hit with metal rods and some have simply been trapped in the wrong place at the wrong time.

This sudden and vicious orgy of  violence is itself sparked by another death.  It was broad daylight on Monday 27 August when Aboud Rogo was driving his minivan (matatu) along the Mombasa-Malindi route. Many of you will have been on that road when heading for Yul's Aquadrom at the Bamburi Beach. In the vehicle with him were his young daughter and wife. Apparently, his wife had miscarried two weeks earlier, and was feeling sick, so that family was on their way to the hospital. Reports claim that, suddenly, another vehicle overtook Rogo's minivan. From it, an unidentified gunman emptied half a clip of ammunition from his AK-47 in the direction of Rogo. Some of the bullets hit Rogo, enough to kill him and cause the vehicle to swerve off the road. A few rounds injured his wife in the leg, it has been reported.

If the reports are to be believed, Rogo died the way he lived: violently, and with little regard for the rule of law. Although nothing was ever proven in court, Rogo was linked with a number of terrorist attacks on Kenyan soil, most notably the US embassy bombings in Nairobi in 1998. He was high on the USA's terror watch list - so high that the US slapped travel sanctions on him and coaxed the United Nations to do likewise (the European Union was due to follow suit).

Rogo's notoriety was compounded by his alleged links to Al-Shabaab, the Somali fundamentalist militant group against which a substantial number (by now, in the thousands) of Kenyan troops are waging war in Somalia. Al-Shabaab repeatedly threatened to retaliate in Kenya, and has done so with a number of grenade attacks against civilian and police targets. Kenyan authorities suspected Rogo was helping to facilitate these attacks, and suspicions hardened when they raided his house and discovered a weapons cache with an AK-47, two hand grenades, pistols and plenty of ammunition. He was in the process of being tried for possession of illegal weapons, and reports claim that he was out on bail when he was killed.

Who killed him? Rogo's supporters and sympathisers in Mombasa claim it must have been a police hit - an explanation that probably accounted for much of the anger demonstrated by youths in the riots that followed. Tired of waiting for justice to take its course, and mindful of Rogo's Houdini-like ability to escape, the thinking goes that security officers arranged the killing. There has even been talk of US involvement in the killing.  Whatever it is, people are inclined to believe that security officers were involved. How else could they have done it in the middle of the day on a busy highway without anyone seeing a thing? No witnesses have come forward, it should be added. At the scene, Rogo's wife refused medical attention from police officers saying that it was the police who'd killed her husband and so she didn't want help from them.

Al-Shabaab is, of course, very clever. It quickly jumped on to this bandwagon, releasing a statement decrying the Kenyan "infidels" for their policy of extra-judicial killings against "Muslim" activists.

Police, naturally, denied this account. They claim that Rogo fell foul of political infighting in Al-Shabaab and that his murder was a deliberate ploy to incite tensions in Mombasa. If so, it worked.

Whoever killed Rogo - and let's face it, we won't know for quite some time, if ever - it's hard to ignore the central role played by Al-Shabaab and the feeling that the Kenyan government has brought this on itself. Kenyan officials knew what they were getting into when they invaded Somalia. If they didn't, it's because they hadn't read their history. Somalia has a way of hitting back at countries that get themselves too involved; just think of the Americans and the humiliation of Black Hawk Down (the Battle of Mogadishu in 1993 between US forces and Somali militia fighters), or the ridiculous Ethiopian invasion which unseated the relatively moderate Islamist Courts Union, only to pave the way for Al-Shabaab to take charge.

For Kenya, the grand Somali adventure has brought domestic unrest and a fraught relationship with the large minority of ethnic Somalis that consider themselves Kenyan. It threatens to boil over into something even more perilous if the militant talk being exchanged by Muslims and Christians in Mombasa doesn't dissipate quickly.

Foremost on Kenyan policitians' mind, however, will be the election scheduled for 2013, which is currently the driving force behind most government policy. If any of the main candidates can find a way to exploit these tensions to improve their chances at the polls, expect the violence and unrest to continue - just as tensions were encouraged and allowed to explode into brutal violence in the aftermath of the last elections in 2008. You see, Kenya's favourite politics is the politics of fear.

Of course, there's another way to win elections. Most Kenyans are peaceful souls that want calm and order. This is a golden opportunity for a Kenyan leader to forge a reputation as a peacemaker and unifier, an image that will play well with voters across the country, transcend the ethnic and tribal boundaries in Kenya, and do the country a world of good in the process. The optimist in me can only hope that one of the main candidates can see the sense of this through their own lust for power. The cynic in me thinks otherwise.  Please prove the cynic in me wrong.

Pakistan's fundamentalism and a Gujarati man's quashed dream

Many of my generation may not know that Pakistan's founding father, Muhammad Ali Jinnah, was born of a Gujarati father and was fluent in his pitrubhasha ("father-tongue"), Gujarati. The page below from the iconic Gujarati monthly "Vismi Sadi" (meaning the "20th Century") in May 1916 depicts the answers given by Jinnah to some simple questions in his own handwriting.  How poignant that Jinnah signed off here as માહમદ અલી ઝીણા (Maahmad Ali Zina) in Gujarati.

The column is entitled "Dil No Ekraar" (Confessions of the Heart).  The page roughly translates as:

Admirable virtue of a man : Independence

Admirable virtue of a woman : Loyalty

Success in life, according to you : Securing love from people

Favourite recreation : Horse-riding

Favourite flower : Lily

Favourite writer: Shakespeare

Favourite book: The Count of Monte Cristo

Motto: Never get disappointed

At Jinnah's tomb in Karachi, every evening a crowd of a few hundred gather to witness the changing of the guard and pay their respects to the father of the nation.  The pristine green and white Pakistani flag, centred with a moon and star flies high above.  For a moment all those gathered must undoubtedly feel a sense of pride. 

When Pakistan's flag was first raised at the birth of the nation 65 years ago, the white stripe was meant to symbolise liberty for the nation's diverse religions, with the green segment (along with the moon) representing the Islamic section of society. But as Pakistanis prepare for their next election in the 21st century, Jinnah's white stripe on the flag is stained not only with the blood of religious minorities but also with the blood of politicians who dare to champion their cause - all contrary to Jinnah's vision of secular, democratic state.  Jinnah must be turning in his grave.

In January 2011 the treatment of religious minorities became the single most polarising issue in this already intensely divided nation.  The then Governor of the state of Punjab, Salman Taseer was shot at point-blank range 27 times by his own body guard, Mumtaz Qadri.  Why? Controversially, Taseer had taken up the case of Asia Bibi, a Christian mother, who had been convicted of blasphemy after being accused of abusing Islam's holy prophet, a charge that Bibi still denies. 

No one, but Taseer, was willing to listen to Bibi's defence in which she claimed she was marginalised by local villagers who prevented her from sharing communal water supplies simply because she was not a Muslim. Bibi's troubles began in June 2009 in her village, Ittan Wali, a patchwork of lush fields and dusty streets. Hers was the only Christian household. She was picking berries alongside local Muslim women, when the row developed over sharing water. Days later, the women claimed she had insulted Islam's holy prophet. Soon, Asia Bibi was being pursued by a mob. In reality, as is often the case in Pakistan, the blasphemy law was being used to settle an old score with Bibi.

Salman Taseer's daughter, Sanam, lives in Lahore and now faces a life full of insecurity and uncertainty. Sanam has spoken at great length of the superb work that her father did, particularly in relation to countering the oppression of women and religious minorities in Pakistan.  When Sanam's father chose to get involved in fighting for justice for these oppressed communities, the family, rather naively, thought that everyone in their elite circles of power would support him.  How wrong they were.  In fighting for Asia Bibi's cause, Salman Taseer inadvertently distanced himself from the general mood of the nation and rapidly became a subject of intense controversy and condemnation, simply for choosing to exercise his democratic right to fight for Bibi, who had been vilified by local Islamic clerics and the general Pakistani establishment for allegedly violating Pakistan's Islamophilic blasphemy laws. 

Salman Taseer's killer, Mumtaz Qadri, was not a rogue militant on the fringes of society.  He was a state employee entrusted with the role of protecting the State Governor.  After barbarically shooting Taseer, he calmly handed himself over to the police.  What was particularly horrifying in the events that ensued, was that Qadri, a murderer, was perceived to be a national hero.  

All hopes of repealing Pakistan's blasphemy laws receded in the weeks following Taseer's murder.  As expected, many Pakistanis condemned Qadri as a religious fundamentalist.  More surprisingly, though, is his status as a national hero.  His home in Rawalpindi has become a magnet for Qadri supporters. Awash with politically-sponsored slogans such as "Qadri, teri jurrat ko salaam" (We salute your bravery, Qadri).  The area has become a national site of pilgrimage for the majority, who believe that all "good Muslims" should support Qadri for his efforts in inhumanely killing someone who, according to them, was successful in protecting the religion's honour at any cost.  

Qadri has been found guilty of murder in the Pakistani courts, but an appeal is pending and his lawyer is confident that Qadri will soon be a free man on the back of growing pro-Qadri national sentiment in a country where the judicial system is plagued by deep-rooted corruption. The crux of the matter is that Salman Taseer became a "legitimate target" by "crossing his limits" in challenging the country's blasphemy laws that, on paper, purport to protect the "religious feelings of any class of the citizens of Pakistan" (Section 295A of the Pakistan Penal Code (Act XLV of 1860)), but in reality, are applied by national authorities exclusively in favour of Islam and therefore in direct contradiction with the concept of rule of law. The facts speak for themselves. The minority population of Pakistan has dwindled from constituting 57% of the country's population in the 1950s to now just 3%. Rather unsurprisingly, Pakistan's government refuses to look at the facts and continues to claim that the persecution of religious minorities in Pakistan is something that does not exist.

Sanam Taseer is not optimistic about her future in Pakistan.  She fears for her family and the safety of her children in a country where the dark force of Islamic fundamentalism grows increasingly dominant.  This threatens to shadow Jinnah's vision of a secular society founded on the principles of democracy, much in line with the values of Islam's holy prophet, who, in his time, was a beacon of democracy and justice.  The problem is that today's Pakistan is seized by a wave of religious fundamentalism and dogmatism which creates an environment in which the true spirit of the ways of Islam's holy prophet have been much distorted to suit the political and economic greed for power.  Many in the pro-Qadri camp, rather conveniently, forget that the Prophet stood for democracy and the rule of law, and that their own support for Qadri's despicable actions are, as a matter of fact, a direct contravention of Islamic traditions of the Prophet (hadiths) upholding democracy and freedom of choice. 


Take, for example, the first thing that the Prophet did when his army of Muslims conquered the city of Mecca in January A.D. 630 - he declared a general amnesty. The people of Mecca were free to choose or reject Islam. Among the pardoned were the powerful leaders of the Quraysh tribe who were guilty of unspeakable atrocities against Muslims. For years they had harassed and hounded the Prophet and organised more than one attempt on his life. This first act as ruler attests to the spirit of the man entitled the Messenger of Compassion and Emancipation. The life of the Prophet of Islam glows with examples of forgiveness and mercy and with a love for the lofty ideals of the human race.

There were instances, even during the Prophet's lifetime, when some of his followers - and occasionally even his close companions - were at a loss to understand the noble spirit of his actions and decisions, and protested to him. Such encounters have been recorded, for example, when the Prophet signed the Al-Hudaybiyah peace pact with the Meccan leaders one year before the conquest of Mecca, and when he pardoned a Muslim who had fled Medina to join the Prophet's enemies, but was captured en route to Mecca. That some early Muslims argued against such decisions by the Prophet emanated from their inability to grasp the profoundly humanitarian essence of the message of Islam and its rejection of the notion that human character is immutable.



But trying to educate the pro-Qadri fanatics about such Islamic spirit of democracy, rule of law and humanitarianism is akin to casting pearls before swines.  What is required is a radical change in Pakistan's leadership so that religious freedom and the status of religious minorities are upheld in accordance with the rule of law.  What is required is, quite simply, another Muhammad Ali Jinnah.

"Learn from thy neighbour"

But perhaps short of finding Pakistan's next Jinnah, the country might do well to look to present day Bangladesh, another Muslim majority country in the South Asian region.

The country was born from the ruins of East Pakistan in 1971 after a war of independence in which India-backed nationalists - unhappy at being ruled from what was then West Pakistan - fought Islamists loyal to Islamabad. Three million people were slaughtered in eight months before the Pakistanis conceded. Those were the days before international criminal tribunals, and the world left Bangladesh largely alone to heal and rebuild.

It is now undergoing a kind of post-independence therapy, as Sheikh Hasina Wajed, Bangladesh’s Prime Minister (and daughter of the country’s first PM, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman - a secularist himself), launches the first set of war crimes trials in the Muslim world, to address the atrocities committed by Islamists during Bangladesh's struggle for independence. The decision has been hailed by international jurists, for good reason.

Unlike Pakistan, language and not religion is the organising principle of Bangladesh, but Islamists have, sadly, hijacked much of its history. Led by Ziaur Rahman, in 1979, the same year as the Iranian revolution, they took control of the state, amended the constitution, and created an Islamic republic.

Now, Hasina's government (rooted in the centre-left Awami League Party) has spared almost no expense to wipe out the traces of hard line Islam since its election in 2008. It has spent millions to rename public buildings that once honoured hard line Islamists, and rewritten laws to protect women from any form of compulsion to wear Islamic head coverings. The government has granted itself the means to dismantle Islamist militant networks. Through the Supreme Court, Hasina nullified Ziaur Rahman's 1979 amendment to Bangladesh's constitution, thereby restoring the concept of dhormo niropekhota (secularism, in Bangla) in the world's third-largest Muslim nation.

Unlike Pakistan's flag,  the green in Bangladesh's Bānlādēśēra jātīẏa patākā (national flag) represents the country's landscape and not the traditional colour of Islam.

I contend that a more secular, humanist Bangladesh emboldened by its culture has potential to empower the Pakistani intelligentsia against religious fundamentalists as well as being an inspiration for other countries with Muslim majorities around the world.  Of course, it will be interesting to see how India flexes its muscles in respect of all of this.....watch this space!

Why the Gujarati diaspora cannot let Modi get to Delhi

Panchavati, situated at 7, Race Course Road in New Delhi, is the official residence of the Prime Minister of India. It is nowhere near as well-known as London's 10 Downing Street, but is nevertheless apt for India's head of government. Set amidst a beautiful 12 acre site, Panchavati offers a tranquil setting in a plush area of New Delhi for the PM to contemplate and repose.  And it is here where Gujarat's Chief Minister, Narendra Modi's focus now appears to lie.



Where Narendra Modi wants to be: Panchavati, 7 Race Course Road, New Delhi



Yes, recent chat in the international media seems to suggest, rather alarmingly, that Modi has his eyes firmly set on New Delhi in respect of the 2014 Indian elections. Put simply, this cannot happen.

I should state at the outset that I am not entitled to vote in Indian politics, do not live in India, have no vested interests (economic or social) in India and do not advocate any of the multiple organised religious groups that seem to dominate modern day India's political stage.  However, I belong to the wider Gujarati diaspora, and am a descendant of immigrants that left Gujarat over a century ago to find greener pastures abroad.  It is under that capacity that I write here to urge fellow diaspora members to start thinking carefully of what they are endorsing.

Not long before he died in 1964, Jawaharlal Nehru said:

"The danger to India, mark you, is not communism. It is Hindu right-wing communalism".

He was terribly prescient. If Modi makes it to New Delhi, then it is certain that the current right-wing Hindutva hegemony that has so far enjoyed unmitigated success in Gujarat will spread across India.  That is deeply disturbing.  A religiously communalised Gujarat represents, as Radhika Desai, professor at the Department of Political Studies, University of Manitoba in Canada and author of "Slouching Towards Ayodhya: From Congress to Hindutva in Indian Politics", puts it, "the deeply problematic face of India's future".

Modi's political party, the Bharatiya Janata Party (the "BJP"), has held Gujarat for over a decade. He is the longest serving Chief Minister of Gujarat and has undoubtedly brought about immense economic and industrial progress to transform this once destitute region of India into a regional hub for trade and commerce.  In 2011, the Economist noted that Gujarat's infrastructure was capable of competing with Guangdong, China's  economic engine. Gujarat enjoys one of India's highest levels of private sector and foreign direct investment, largely originating from the diaspora and thanks to Modi's pro-liberalisation economic policies.

But amidst all the celebratory discourses surrounding  the economy of "Vibrant Gujarat", the diaspora has inadvertently let Gujarat, under Modi's watch, turn into what can simply be called a laboratory of hate. With the BJP's strong ties with its umbrella organisation, Sangh Parivar, which itself is inspired by the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (the "RSS"), a "social and cultural organisation"  which, according to the independent Human Rights Watch (HRW), is a known fascist pedigree with a Hindu majoritarian political agenda, it is unsurprising that the majority Hindu state of Gujarat is a gold mine for the increasingly dominant political party.

The point here is that Modi's affiliations with the RSS and the rest of the Sangh Parivar make him a dangerous candidate for the premiership of what  has always been, was conceived to be, and is, a secular nation. The re-election of Modi will place under direct threat Nehru's and Gandhi's generous vision of India as a nation embracing all layers of religious and racial groupings, and their notion of a non-sectarian, secular, democratic India.

We cannot simply overlook all the evidence from the international community and the NGOs which conclusively points to the participation of the Modi-administered state and police in the 2002 Gujarat violence. HRW's April 2002 report, "WE HAVE NO ORDERS TO SAVE YOU - State Participation and Complicity in Communal Violence in Gujarat" is an eye-opener for the diaspora.  The report is available to read here.  

That HRW report accepts that the 2002 Gujarat violence was fuelled, ostensibly, by revenge. The carnage was triggered after a Muslim mob’s torching of two train coaches on the Sabarmati Express at the Ghodra train station in February 2002. Fifty-eight passengers, including Sangh Parivar activists returning from Ayodhya, were killed in the horrific attack. The immediate and impulsive reaction of Narendra Modi was to claim that the massacre had been engineered by Pakistan's ISI (Inter Services Intelligence). No evidence has been given for this highly inflammatory revelation. The situation was further provoked by his decision to publicly parade the charred bodies in an emotive and provocative public procession from Godhra to Ahmedabad.  According to the HRW report, many victims testified that the police led the violent mobs directly to their homes and places of business. Emergency calls to the police went unheeded or were met with responses such as: “We don’t have any orders to save you”; “We cannot help you, we have orders from above”. The HRW report concludes that the attacks were clearly part of a “meticulously planned pogrom”against the Muslim community. Witnesses testify that the mob specifically targeted Muslims and their businesses. Computer printouts of Muslim voter lists and business addresses, reportedly obtained by Sangh Parivar "volunteers" from the Ahmedabad Municipal Corporation, were, as the HRW report found, an integral part of the carnage.

The Tehelka sting operation, revealed just prior to the Gujarat state elections of December 2007, compounded the allegations of NGOs after the Gujarat riots of 2002. This time, however, the testimony came from the perpetrators themselves. Several members of the Sangh Parivar were caught on tape admitting their role and that of Modi's state government in the Gujarat genocide. Based on the evidence obtained from covert spycam footage, the case alleging Sangh Parivar collusion with the government of Gujarat in the riots of 2002 is overwhelming.  This link provides a chilling reminder of the ground-breaking Tehelka sting operation and of what was said about Modi at the time, most of which, as is evident from Modi's re-election, we all seem to have forgotten now!

A campaign of hate against the Gujarat state’s minority communities began years before the 2002 attacks. A 1999 Human Rights Watch report documented the August 1998 distribution of fliers by RSS and Hindu Jagran Manch (HJM), an offshoot of the Sangh Parivar, in Dangs district in southeastern Gujarat, site of a ten-day spate of violent and premeditated attacks on Christian communities and institutions during the 1998 Christmas holidays. 

The fact about Modi, whether we choose to accept it or not, is that his campaign is and will forever be haunted by the ghosts of the 2002 violence. One cannot forget that his ideologies come from the pre-independence fascist views of the Sangh Parivar organisations.  It is well known that for Modi, the first and most important of these organisations - the one that did the most to shape him and his worldview, and to advance his political ambitions - was the RSS.  To determine the RSS's founding principles, you need not look beyond the published 1938 writings of Madhav Golwalkar, the force behind today's Sangh Parivar.  It is clear from Golwalkar's writings that he was vehemently opposed to the concept of a secular Indian state which would not discriminate against its non-Hindu citizens. In "We, or Our Nation defined" (1938), he stated:

"The non-Hindu people of Hindustan must either adopt Hindu culture and language, must learn and respect and hold in reverence the Hindu religion, must entertain no idea but of those of glorification of the Hindu race and culture ... in a word they must cease to be foreigners, or may stay in the country, wholly subordinated to the Hindu nation, claiming nothing, deserving no privileges, far less any preferential treatment—not even citizens' rights."

If this abhorrent Hindutva ideology was to be propagated by Modi to the federal level, it would mean that India's Shah Rukh Khans, Sania Mirzas and Shabana Azmis and the millions of less-known others with “foreign” names would belong to another culture, even another race. They would never be “assimilated” by “Hindustan” although they know no world but India as it is today! In other words, these “foreigners” would be enemies until proven innocent by a jury made up of Golwalkar’s descendants i.e. Modi and his government minions.

We, the educated members of the Gujarati diaspora, need to think very carefully of how we invest in Gujarat and what affiliations we might, directly or indirectly, have with the Sangh Parivar.  Clearly, one would not want to be implicated in the generation of India's Frankenstein's monster.