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.