Jump to content
  • Blog Statistics

    • Total Blogs
      73
    • Total Entries
      350
  • Latest Blog Entries

  • Latest Blog Comments

    • Wasalaam, Yeah this is the area I’m not very knowledgeable about haha  my mother told me this and I thought wow it makes more sense than humans making pyramids! She didn’t give me much detail. She did the Asian thing and said a part of the story and then continued it years later lol leaving it to me to put it together and remember. It’s a head scratcher  And I have little liking for the occult (just a little bit >.<) only in video games, you learn a lot actually. Like One game Shadow hearts(my fav rpg). It’s how I found out that prophet soloman is famous for controlling 72 ‘demons’ although we know they’re jinns i just thought it was pretty neat yeah I’m the type who believes somebody 100% they trust. So I trust everything my mother says lol i agree they help us out but we do have some level of ‘ manipulation’ I guess? They’re weaker than us, not physically maybe more mentally  I think not like modern day Jews, they’re still some Jews who will convert when the imam will come, those guys follow original Judaism and practice like we do. They’re prayers are like us and they have almost the same set of beliefs. They’re are some very good people of the book who follow the original word. I think anyway, it’s interesting and I want to learn more 
    • Salam Quran reffers that after prophet Solomon (as) they tried to learn magic from them also they started praying them & in most occasions they pray Satan & jinns & in return they receive  a little help from them but they don't use them  , it's only Ahlulbay (as) & people that have authority from them can use them as slaves not Jews.
    • Jinns man jinns they used to be our slaves  we worked them raw  One example of Jinns being used to create fantastic sites, Prophet Soloman(as)  they have extradoniary strength but ultimately humans are masters over them... those who practice occult behavior such as some Jews can still use Jinns for their works 
    • Oh the good old days of statistics. I still have nightmares. Definitely one of my most hated classes ive already forgotten all the p,f,z,t the whole friggin alphabet tests god was it annoying lol
    • Anecdote here- ive had a lot stomach problems and have quite the sensitive stomach smaller plates and eating the plate longer or taking my time and eating as I’m hungry have helped me a lot. Can’t say much for long term weight loss, I lost the initial like 10lbs over a period which may be water weight or whatever. Eating less helps with cravings and feeling full longer becuase you force your body to work on that little bit. Which may be all you need but that depends on your body weight or and lifestyle. May not work for others  like I don’t lose weight no matter how much I fast or don’t eat at all. I don’t lose anything t-t lol well I really only eat junk food XD so eating healthy is the key on the other hand if I’m reeeaaallly hungry and can’t eat or have nothing to eat I just watch some mukbangs, or daydream about food all day...until they close...and it’s too late to eat lol
    • http://en.abna24.com/news//iranian-turkish-officials-discuss-cooperation-in-hajj-affairs_919035.html
    • @Gaius I. Caesar - salaam brother. As promised.
Sign in to follow this  
  • entries
    3
  • comments
    2
  • views
    546

About this blog

I started writing stories for my niece Sakina since she was about 6 or 7 years old. They've always been short enough to fit inside a birthday card.

Entries in this blog

Haji 2003

It's taken me nearly 15 years to get to 10,000 posts, so I thought I'd post something special.

I remember the cold. I think it was the first time in my life that keeping warm was a struggle. Shafts of cold air channelled in through a train not designed to keep it out. Arriving at Amritsar station, there was some relief. I remember the shouts of ‘garam chai’ (hot tea) rising above the cacophony of engines, whistles, and general yells. This trip was the first time that I was allowed to drink tea. At home in London, tea was an adult’s drink, and there simply had been no occasion or need to drink it. Here at Amritsar station, in Indian Punjab, during the middle of the night, I was allowed to drink the strong, sugary hot tea and eat the hard-boiled eggs that the hawkers were selling. It was only many years later that I appreciated the business nous of selling hard-boiled eggs. Pre-packaged and ready to eat, what could be easier for a hawker to sell? 

Some years later standing in the cold in the school playground would help me appreciate all the more as I read of Ivan Denisovich’s battles against hunger and cold in Solzhenitsyn’s account of life in a Soviet gulag. And many years later still this way of experiencing the novel would prompt me to encourage my daughter to read Denisovich’s account while she was fasting for Ramadan.

Standing on the platform with my snacks, amongst the flow of passengers and porters, I took in the destination signs on the different trains, heading off to distant parts of a sub-continent. Perhaps my diminutive 10-year-old perspective added to the perceived size of the place; I would not be surprised. The porters wore a uniform, after a fashion. For each one of them, the acquisition of a customer provided a sense of purpose and superiority of status which would be underlined by rearranging their head-covering to better protect themselves from the luggage that would soon be loaded on top. On this trip, I was just a spectator to the rituals of engaging porters. When old enough to be a participant, I’d find it a difficult balance between exploiting and being exploited. 

At last, it was time to get back in the train and cover myself as best I could with an assortment of clothes, waiting for the morning to bring some respite. Some mornings were awesome, the rising rays of sunshine spread across green fields, punctuated by trees and seemingly in rhythm with the regular beat of the wheels on the track. At some point, I’d have to go to the toilet, which was a balancing act of the toothbrush, toothpaste and some attempt at washing and keeping my distance from the ubiquitous hole in the floor.

At first, I had distanced myself from the perceived filth of the train and had tried to keep myself to as small an area as possible. But as the hours passed my comfort zone expanded until I was even comfortable lying full stretch on the wooden slats of the third-class benches. As the miles passed the squalor, even that of the toilet, was no longer alien but something to which I had become habituated. Though I still haven’t managed to achieve the level of equanimity displayed by a fellow airline passenger who went into the toilet barefoot. As someone else commented on this practice, the liquid on the floor isn’t water.

Safety was and still is a distant concept when it comes to Indian railways, best observed by the person at risk. In both my childhood travel and in recent times safety seems to lie, for example, in keeping your distance from the open door of the railway carriage. As a 30-year-old on a train from Chennai to Hyderabad and no parent to hold me back, I was able to lean out to take videos and photos to rekindle childhood memories of fleeting Indian railway stations. The observation stimulated the same sense of passing through and catching the moment in local lives. What I was not able to recapture in a photo was the rising dawn that I had observed in my childhood journey. 

On that childhood trip, I had brought a couple of books with me, which I still remember. There was ‘Tarka the Otter’ and Joy Adamson’s ‘Home Free’. I can’t remember which one was more boring, but Tarka does stand out as being particularly good for being interrupted by the least remarkable scenery outside. The same can’t be said for the novel I discovered at our destination in Lucknow. Our host had a copy of ‘War of the Worlds’ the title itself was captivating and the story engrossing. I remember sitting in various locations of the house working my way through the invasion.

A few years before this train trip, aged six, I had seen a book titled ‘War and Peace’ sitting on another relative’s bookshelf in London and that also seemed to suggest excitement within. I wasn’t there long enough to pick it up, but a few years after the Indian trip, when I was about 14 I made a point about buying the novel but the enthusiasm stimulated by the title was very, very quickly dimmed by the story within. I decided to grind down the story by reading a page a day. It took a couple of years, but I managed to finish it. 

‘War of the Worlds’ was the starting point, since then I’ve come to associate books with the places where I read them: Sterling Seagrave’s, ‘Dragon Lady’ accompanied me on a trip to Singapore and provided the incentive to visit China. 

Aged 17, I was transiting between two Paris metro stations, on a trip to Aix-en-Provence when a kindly gentleman took pity on me and helped me with my overweight suitcase containing Lipsey’s tome ‘Positive Economics’. Amongst other books, this would be entirely superfluous to my needs at the French language summer course I was about to attend. Even in adulthood, I have never quite managed to balance taking on travels work-related things that I would use as opposed to those I might regret not having brought with me. Laptops and cloud storage have meant that that personal deficiency no longer has to be addressed.

This had been a unique trip in some different ways. My mother was a widow, and we did not have a great deal of money. I hadn’t been abroad between the ages of 5 and 10. But travelling third class on Indian railways and staying with relatives wherever we went meant that this trip was fairly affordable. So, it was not unreasonable that my mother was not too impressed with what took place when we arrived at the border crossing between India and Pakistan sometime earlier. 

When we got off the train for the immigration check, there was a French lady in front of us, and she and my mother started speaking. Quite proudly my mother presented me as someone who could speak French. The unexpectedness and ambition of the challenge meant that I was completely dumbstruck. For a good few hours to follow, I’d hear my mother’s lament about how much she had paid for a French Linguaphone course for me, which was well beyond our means. I had assured her that this would be a great aid to my linguistic efforts, the advertisement promised as much, and I had waited with great anticipation for its arrival. Finally, one day there was a brown rectangular package waiting for me outside our house. But for a 10-year-old to master the use of the different texts and develop some semblance of a study plan was quite an ambition and one for which my abilities and self-discipline fell seriously short. 

There must have been a subconscious notion that the pursuit of academic endeavours would give access to budgets otherwise unavailable. A few years later I’d decide that photography O’level would offer a greater chance of scholastic success. Once more I was lured in by a mixture of an economy with the truth by the people promoting the offering and my imaginative willingness to fill in the blanks. First, there was a need to buy an SLR camera, and as time passed it became obvious that the necessary skills to process photos could not be acquired in the few minutes, I’d have to be in front of the enlarger at school every week. An investment in a darkroom became a necessity. This time self-discipline wasn’t needed to drive study. I had discovered a subject for which I had a passion. I’d end up spending many happy hours in the darkroom, well past midnight channelling Diane Arbus and Cartier Bresson. By the time a school trip to the Soviet Union took place, I was reasonably competent and still have some of the photos of that visit. 

Looking back, both the camera and the Soviet trip itself seemed like a judicious investment in an unrepeatable experience, a few years later the USSR would cease to exist. This lesson in political upheaval was to prove particularly useful before a trip with my wife and kids to Syria. My brother had borrowed my video camera and forgotten to return it, and the realisation only came in the departure lounge at Heathrow. Buying a video camera specifically for one trip seemed like an extravagance, but soon afterward the civil war broke out. I have clips of my daughter walking amongst a temple to the Phoenician god Melquart, I wonder whether ISIS have left it standing?

For the India trip, in contrast, there was no camera at all. As I had left London, I had been given a compact camera, which refused to show any sign of working for the duration of the trip and which it had not been possible to repair either. So, I have no tangible images of the entire trip. Whether that has forced me to try harder to remember over the years or whether I have become better at embellishing the details, I don’t know. I do know that on one review I have left on Tripadvisor, I have commented that the prohibition on taking cameras into a particular museum means that visitors are more likely to pay attention to the exhibits in their own right rather than as fodder for an Instagram feed. 

From Lucknow, we went to my mother’s ancestral home in Fatehpur. We drove through the potholed roads of Uttar Pradesh, slowed even further by overladen agricultural traffic. We arrived in the evening, and all I could sense was that we entered a courtyard and then another. This was quite different to any home I had visited previously. Morning brought a much better sense of the place. The hallmark of the building was its twin towers, installed a couple of hundred years previously, with permission from the rulers of Awadh, since they were considered a mark of royalty and my maternal ancestor’s position as a tutor to the princely household earned him the favour to use them. These rose above the building and the surrounding town. Beneath them was the building’s mosque entered through several large wooden doors, several steps then led to a large courtyard at the other end of which was a narrow staircase leading to some apartments on the first floor. The men of the family had offices cum bedrooms on the ground floor of the courtyard, and their families slept in apartments on the first floor. Any tangible evidence of conjugal relations, such as a couples’ double bed was considered impolite. There were also apartments on the ground floor. To the right of the towers was the entrance to the building and beyond that the disused stables, a further courtyard and then the exit to the main street of the town.

In Fatehpur, there were no books, or indeed television, but there was exploring the building, listening to stories, fishing and staring at a night sky whose lights I had never previously seen in such profusion. Frustratingly, the shot guns could only be seen and not touched, in fact, I wasn’t allowed to use the air gun. Even the fishing wasn’t with actual rods, but the sensation of the lightness of a short stick with a bait at the end being replaced with the sensation of something tugging at the end of a line remains vivid.

Exploring the old building would be an experience for someone who had lived in a terraced house all his life. Playing cricket in its central square meant that we had room for both wickets and the ability to run between them, while back in London the garden lawn barely stretched a couple of metres and in our London suburb kids just didn’t play on the street. And then there was the dungeon. Like quite a bit of what we were to experience the name or prior description didn’t quite live up to schoolboy expectations. The Urdu word they all used was ‘mahal’ as in Taj Mahal, but you could hardly describe it as a palace. The dungeon itself was no more threatening than a basement room.  

The family mahal stood in contrast to the Taj that we had visited on a side-trip while staying in Delhi with an uncle. The sense of serenity reflected off the colour and curves remains in my mind. The sound track no longer remains, perhaps the size of the place drowned out the chattering throngs. The image is now distilled from the range of different perspectives: the head-on view as captured by those photographers who pictured Princess Diana in the foreground, to my standing under the columns staring up and being up close to the marble.

While the Taj was glorious enough to represent the nation and thus rose above its religious and ethnic antecedents, this was not the case with the family mahal. The condition of this modest building perfectly reflected the state of the community it housed: elegant decrepitude with only a memory of former glories. While the building’s statelier past was visible from the remnants of the structure, so the stories passed by each generation reminded subsequent ones of the lifestyle they had been denied because of opportunities missed and talents wasted. 

Such was the problem they were facing that even acts of renovation seemed like destruction, where older styles of building work and decoration were replaced with more functional and cheaper modern ones. My youthful displeasure at the erasure of history would later be tempered by a more mature realisation of the practicalities of habitat when I had the chimney breasts and fireplaces of my Victorian house removed to create more space. 

Occasionally the person who had hosted us in Lucknow would visit. He was a local politician and would arrive in a stately Ambassador car or even more excitingly a ‘jeep’. Not an eponymous one of course, but I still remember the fact that it had gun racks. Both that vehicle and the Ambassador were made in India. This was India before trade liberalisation. Not as familiar a place as the Pakistan we had travelled through to get here. Pakistan had the welcome familiarity of brands that I had grown up with; the ketchup was Heinz and the coke a recognisably friendly white swoosh on a red background. Billboard and television advertising was reassuring. Here unfamiliar names came across as peculiar. Why would a cola be called ‘Thums Up?’. 

Such has been the irony of globalisation that a few weeks ago eating at Dishoom restaurant in London’s East End I saw the Thums Up logo once more. A symbol of rejecting western capitalism had itself become a brand, with a consumerist meaning, evoking a carbonated essence of India. 

Like all children of Asian immigrants on visits to their parents’ country of origin, I was also overwhelmed with the extensivity and density of familial connections. There were first cousins, second cousins, and quite a lot more complicated combinations, for which there are no words in English. Added to this, a matriarchal aunt could also be a cousin. My wife came up with a novel way of explaining one such relationship to me. “If that aunt were Mary Queen of Scots, your mum would be Elizabeth I”. Indeed, an artefact of such complex and inter-related ties was the obvious existence of rivalries, jealousies, and squabbles spanning generations. In England, my younger brother and I had been protected from this aspect of extended family life. The protection came at a price: we didn’t know how to deal with it at all. At the age of 10 this did not matter, but on future visits, it would become more significant and certainly by the time my brother and I reached marriageable age. For the time being, it was just nice that as I wandered from apartment to apartment in the mahal, everyone I met was a relative and I was too young to understand any political dimension of that relationship. It would also be in subsequent visits to the mahal, when I was older, that I’d appreciate the tensions with the communities who lived outside the mahal.

On my daily walks, I’d see hand powered sewing machines and food being prepared more laboriously than anything I had seen at home. The dirt floor did not afford the comfort of sitting cross legged and sitting on my haunches was not something my leg muscles were prepared for. Unlike the urban homes, I had come across in the sub-continent, the toilet here was a platform raised above the multi-coloured offerings beneath. So large was the place that any smells remained distant from any other rooms.

The cold had not left us in Fatehpur. At night, they would light braziers which were wonderful for bringing around family members, sitting together on the Indian style wooden beds, sharing each other’s warmth, stories and gossip. 

 

 

 

 

Haji 2003

[Octonauts is a television programme for children on the BBC]

“Abbas are you still watching Hottentots?” asked Abbas’s Dad coming into the kitchen

“But Baba, my breakfast isn’t finished yet!” said Abbas, pointing to the few scraps of omelette left on his plate.

“It’ll soon be lunchtime, so I am taking away laptoppy and you can finish breakfast all by yourself,” said Baba, “and remember to bring the battery-start with you.”

“Baba, why do you call Octonauts Hottentots?” asked Abbas, as his dad took away the laptop.

“Because Octonauts sounds like Hottentots.” came the reply.

Just then the doorbell rang and Baba opened to the door to let in Sakina and Zehra.

“Dot, haven’t you changed your clothes yet?” asked Zehra, pointing to Abbas’s nightclothes.

“I was having my breakfast.”

“And very slowly too, by the looks of it,” observed Sakina. “Where’s Mimi?” She must be on the desktoppy.”

“Because Octonauts sounds like Hottentots.” came the reply.

Just then the doorbell rang and Baba opened to the door to let in Sakina and Zehra.

“Dot, haven’t you changed your clothes yet?” asked Zehra, pointing to Abbas’s nightclothes.

“I was having my breakfast.”

“And very slowly too, by the looks of it,” observed Sakina. “Where’s Mimi?” She must be on the desktoppy.”

“It’s probably an Abujan word, like doogi-doogi.” answered Sakina with an air of authority.

“But Baba said that it was because Octonauts sound like Hottentots, so are Hottentots another cartoon or are they real?” asked a puzzled Abbas.

“I think it’s because the name Octonaut sounds like Hottentot,” replied Zehra resignedly.

“But what is a Hottentot?” asked Abbas.

“It’s definitely a sound,” said Mimi.

“But is that all it is?” Sakina wondered out aloud.

“It’s a special kind of sound,” interrupted Abujan. “Hottentot sounds like the language the southern African tribe the KhoiKhoi speak and that’s why the Dutch, when they entered Africa, called them the Hottentots. It also sounds like Octonaut, so that’s why I called the Octonauts Hottentots.”

It took the four kids a little time to take it all in. In the end Abbas observed, “So, it wasn’t a made-up Baba word?”

“Yes the word wasn’t made up, but I think the explanation was,” smiled Sakina.

Abbas was getting confused, “So the KhoiKhoi aren’t real?”

“Yes they are real and the Dutch did call them Hottentots, but Abujan deliberately calling Octonauts Hottentots because of it, that I am not so sure about.”

“But the explanation sounds good,” added Mimi.

Zehra peered at the screen of the desktop. “What are you doing Abujan?”

“I am writing an email to a friend, princess.”

“What are you writing?”

“After children leave the big, secondary school they go to university and at university they have to do research projects. Sometimes when they write about the projects, they’re told to write how they started with an idea and then explain how they did the project and what results they got. What actually may have happened is that they started with an idea, which got changed half-way through the project. I’m telling my friend that sometimes the story sounds better if you changed what really happened to make it seem as if it was all deliberately planned from the start, even though it wasn’t.”

“You mean a bit like the Hottentot story,” Sakina’s voice came from nowhere, but she’d obviously been listening.

Haji 2003

Once upon a time there were three little islands, separated by thousands of miles. One was called Swampy, because for most of its history it had been a swamp. The other was called Rocky because there was a big hill across most of it and Dusty was surrounded by sand.


As you can probably tell, there was not really much on Swampy, Rocky or Dusty to excite people and not many animals went there either. But all three lay just on the edge of large continents and all the other lands and islands around the continents laughed at Swampy, Rocky and Dusty because while civilisations grew everywhere else, nothing much ever happened there.


So for thousands of years as people fought over other lands and rivers and mountains, these three little islands lay undisturbed, except for some fishermen. Because it seemed to anyone who did ever land there, that there really was nothing much worth staying for, let alone fighting over.


Then after thousands of years of solitude, things changed. Swampy, Rocky and Dusty were the same as they had always been. But the people who lived on other lands and islands changed or rather they made changes. They changed their small ships into big ocean going ones and with that came the chance to travel to faraway places. Now Swampy and Rocky were no longer islands on the edge. They were on the route to somewhere and people needed to visit them.


As the visitors for buying and selling grew, so even more people came, because customers love having a choice. But still Swampy was hot, sticky and mosquitoey, because mosquitoes like hot and sticky places. And again someone, somewhere else discovered electricity and as often happens with big discoveries other people invented lots of other things that use  electricity and one of them was the air-conditioner. Suddenly Swampy wasn’t hot and sticky anymore. Actually, by now the people who now lived on Swampy (who were rich from the trading and cool from the air-conditioning) looked down on all those other people who were hot and sweaty, just as Swampy had been looked down on for all those centuries.


What about Dusty? Well Dusty saw all its neighbours grow rich since they were sitting on top of lots of oil, which they could sell to people driving cars. But Dusty couldn’t share in all this wealth because Dusty only had gas and it was impossible to put gas on a ship to send to another country far far away. Then, one day, someone discovered how you can covert gas into a liquid and that can be put on a ship and suddenly Dusty was very rich indeed.


So is that a happy ending?


Well other lands and islands made fun of Singapore (Swampy) and Dusty (Qatar) and Rocky (Hong Kong) for all those centuries and they didn’t see how things can change. Who knows what will happen in the future? Who knows whether the places we think are poor today will one day become rich (because someone somewhere discovers something that totally changes what we think they are).

Sign in to follow this  
  • Recently Browsing   0 members

    No registered users viewing this page.

×