Ibaadat India

Urgent appeal on Humanitarian Crisis in Jammu and Kashmir

2008-08-16T20:08:00.001+05:30

Subject: [Urgent appeal on Humanitarian Crisis in Jammu and Kashmir
Justice Navanethem Pillay, High Commissioner
Dr. Kyung-wha Kang, Deputy High Commissioner
Ms. Gay McDougall, Independent Expert on minority issues
Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights
United Nations
Palais des Nations
CH-1211 Geneva 10
Switzerland

Subject: Humanitarian Crisis in Jammu and Kashmir

August 12, 2008

Dear Justice Pillay, Dr. Kang, Ms. McDougall:

We write to bring to your attention the profound humanitarian crisis continuing in the Kashmir Valley due to the ongoing blockade of the Srinagar-Jammu highway by religious nationalist groups from India. This has resulted in severe shortages in the Kashmir Valley of food and other vital provisions. We are reliably informed that petrol and essential medical rations, including blood, are in critically short supply, as well as newsprint, and that communication services and infrastructure are severely disrupted.

The situation in Jammu, where the Muslim minority is facing violence on a scale that can be described as ethnic cleansing, is alarming. The Government of India and the military and paramilitary forces have shown themselves unable and/or unwilling to take any effective action, either to end the blockade or to stop the violence against Muslims in Jammu. Meanwhile, military and paramilitary forces have opened fire on counter-demonstrators in Kashmir, using live bullets and mortar. A communiqué from the Kashmir Valley states that:

"The situation here on ground is that essential commodities have started getting dried up, diesel is already out of stock and petrol at its verge of end. The people here are very much concerned as if the same continues for next few days there will be nothing left to eat with the people of Kashmir. And on the other side the Army is supporting the mobs who have allegedly beaten up the drivers stranded on the national highway. The drivers who were beaten up reported that they asked Army to help them but all went in despair and the Army people in return handed them over to the mobs. The target is only the Kashmiri Muslims and some sources from Jammu say that it is the outsiders who have come to Jammu and are doing such attacks on the Muslims and it is quite evident that the Hindu fundamentalist groups viz. BJP, RSS VHP, etc., are all sponsoring the planned attacks onto the Kashmiris like it was done in Gujarat. Here in Kashmir we feel the history seems to be
being repeated by the Hindu fundamentalists who had earlier in 1947 killed about 250,000 Muslims in Jammu."

On August 11, 2008, approximately 100,000 Kashmiris, including fruit growers and others gravely affected by the blockade, marched toward the Line of Control toward Pakistan markets in protest. They were met with gunfire and tear gas from the military and paramilitary forces, and Sheik Abdul Aziz, an All Parties Hurriyat Conference leader, was shot dead, intensifying the situation. Police reports stated that three others were killed and over 200 injured, enervating health systems already low on supplies. Other sources we contacted stated that as many as 18 others may have been killed in Kashmir on August 11. By early evening of August 12, as we write you, reports stated that as many as twelve persons were killed in Kashmir on that day as armed forces fired on demonstrators. Other reports stated that civil society groups, students, and labor unions participating in non-violent civil disobedience and peaceful protests are being targeted by the forces, as
curfew conditions prevail.

The Srinagar-Jammu highway is the only land route linking the Kashmir Valley to India and the sole conduit for essential supplies as well as for exporting horticultural goods, which are among the Valley's chief products. News updates on the state of the blockade and situation can be found from leading Kashmiri newspapers, which are online at www.greaterkashmir.com; www.kashmirtimes.com; www.risingkashmir.com; www.etalaat.com/english/.

About 95-97 percent of the population of the Valley is Muslim, while Muslims are a minority in India. This has made Kashmir the target of increasingly aggressive campaigns by Hindu nationalist groups since 1947, despite guarantees of autonomy written into the Indian Constitution. The Government of India has failed to take measures to prevent these campaigns, consisting of marches and demonstrations, and culminating in the current blockade. Since 1989 there has been an armed pro-independence struggle in Kashmir, together with other and non-violent movements for self-determination. Indian counterinsurgency operations have resulted in grave abuses of human rights with social, economic, psychological, political, and environmental consequences, which meet the definition under international law of crimes against humanity. To a population suffering the effects of nineteen years of armed conflict, the economic crisis caused by the blockade comes as the last
straw.

We urge that you respond expeditiously to this situation in accordance with the mandate to uphold human rights as enshrined in the charter of the United Nations.

Recommendations:
1. The Government of India should immediately end the economic blockade and ensure that goods and services, including emergency medical and food supplies, can move in both directions along the Srinagar-Jammu border.
2. The Government of India should open the Srinagar-Muzaffarabad road, a promise repeatedly reiterated by successive governments of India and Pakistan, though never implemented. This would ensure that the current crisis situation is not repeated as well as mark a concrete step forward in addressing injustices and the peace process.
3. Take immediate action to stop the violence against the Muslim minority in Jammu and bring those responsible to justice.
4. Put an end to ongoing human rights abuses by Indian forces and pro-India militias as repeatedly promised by the Indian Prime Minister and expected of democratic governments.
5. Take steps for a long-term resolution of the conflict by beginning talks with all sections of the Kashmiri leadership and civil society.
6. Take steps to hold the Indian state accountable under the provisions established by the Constitution of Jammu and Kashmir, Constitution of India, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, and International Laws and Conventions.

We, the undersigned, are academics, social activists, writers, filmmakers, artists, lawyers, and concerned citizens. Our work and conscience connects us to Kashmir and its people. We hold no political affiliations. Please do not hesitate to contact us if we may be of further use.

Contact persons:
Dr. Angana Chatterji, Associate Professor, Department of Social and Cultural Anthropology, California Institute of Integral Studies, Office: 001-415.575.6119, Mobile: 001-415.640.4013, E-mail: achatterji@ciis.edu.
Dr. Haley Duschinski, Assistant Professor, Department of Sociology and Anthropology, Ohio University, Office: 001-740.593.0823, E-mail: duschins@ohio.edu.
Dr. Shubh Mathur, Visiting Assistant Professor, Department of History, Richard Stockton College of New Jersey, Office: 001-347.404.2238, E-mail: Shubh.Mathur@stockton.edu.

Yours Sincerely,
Signed [Institutional information noted for affiliation purposes only]:

Dr. Angana Chatterji, Associate Professor, Department of Social and Cultural Anthropology, California Institute of Integral Studies, San Francisco

Dr. Haley Duschinski, Assistant Professor, Department of Sociology and Anthropology, Ohio University

Dr. Shubh Mathur, Visiting Assistant Professor, Department of History, Richard Stockton College of New Jersey

Dr. Paola Bacchetta, Associate Professor, Department of Gender and Women's Studies, and Director, Beatrice Bain Research Group, University of California, Berkeley

Dr. Srimati Basu, Associate Professor, Department of Gender and Women's Studies (and Anthropology), University of Kentucky

Medea Benjamin, Cofounder, Global Exchange, San Francisco, and CODEPINK

Dr. Purnima Bose, Associate Professor, Department of English, Indiana University

Dr. Jeff Brody, Professor, College of Communications, California State University Fullerton

Adem Carroll, Chair, Muslim Consultative Network, New York Disaster Interfaith Services

Dr. Lubna Nazir Chaudhry, Assistant Professor, School of Education and Human Development, State University of New York, Binghamton

Huma Dar, Doctoral student, Department of South and South East Asian Studies, University of California, Berkeley

Dr. Geraldine Forbes, Distinguished Teaching Professor, Department of History, State University of New York Oswego

Dr. Sidney L. Greenblatt, President, Central New York Fulbright Association

Dr. Sondra Hale, Professor, Department of Anthropology and Women's Studies, University of California, Los Angeles

Dr. Lamia Karim, Assistant Professor, Department of Anthropology, University of Oregon-Eugene

Professor Ali Kazimi, Department of Film, Faculty of Fine Arts, York University

Dr. Omar Khalidi, Aga Khan Program, Massachusetts Institute of Technology

Rafique A. Khan, Community Development Planner, CRA, City of Los Angeles

Tasneem F. Khan, Kashmir Relief, Los Angeles

Dr. Amitava Kumar, Writer and Professor, Department of English, Vassar College

Rabbi Michael Lerner, Chair, The Network of Spiritual Progressives, Berkeley

Barbara Lubin, Executive Director, Middle East Children's Alliance, Berkeley

Dr. Sunaina Maira, Associate Professor, Department of Asian American Studies, University of California, Davis

Dr. Lise McKean, Senior Research Specialist, Learning Sciences Research Institute, University of Illinois at Chicago

Dr. Abdul R. JanMohamed, Professor, Department of English, University California, Berkeley

Dr. Swapna Mukhopadhyay, Associate Professor, Graduate School of Education, Portland State University

Dr. Richa Nagar, Professor, Department of Gender, Women, and Sexuality Studies, University of Minnesota

Dr. Vijaya Nagarajan, Associate Professor, Department of Theology and Religious Studies, University of San Francisco

Annie Paradise, Doctoral student, Department of Social and Cultural Anthropology, California Institute of Integral Studies, San Francisco

Dr. David Naguib Pellow, Professor, Department of Sociology, University of Minnesota

Faisal Qadri, Human Rights Law Network

Dr. Mridu Rai, Associate Professor, Department of History and Whitney and Betty MacMillan Center for International and Area Studies, Yale University

Dr. Cabeiri Robinson, Assistant Professor, International Studies & South Asian Studies, Jackson School of International Studies, University of Washington, Seattle

Dr. Sabina Sawhney, Associate Professor, Department of English, Hofstra University

Dr. Simona Sawhney, Associate Professor, Department of Asian Languages and Literatures, University of Minnesota

Dr. Kalpana Rahita Seshadri, Associate Professor, Department of English, Boston College

Professor Richard Shapiro, Chair, Department of Social and Cultural Anthropology, California Institute of Integral Studies, San Francisco

Murtaza Shibli, Editor, Kashmir Affairs, London

Dr. Magid Shihade, Visiting Scholar, Middle East/South Asia Studies, University of California, Davis

Snehal Shingavi, Doctoral student, Department of English, University of California, Berkeley

Dr. Ajay Skaria, Associate Professor, Department of History and Institute of Global Studies, University of Minnesota

Dr. Nancy Snow, Associate Professor, S. I. Newhouse School of Public Communications, Syracuse University

Dr. Rachel Sturman, Assistant Professor, Department of History & Asian Studies, Bowdoin College

Dr. Fouzieyha Towghi, Visiting Professor, Department of Ethnic Studies, University of California, Berkeley

Sandeep Vaidya, India Solidarity Group (Ireland)

Saiba Varma, Doctoral student, Department of Anthropology, Cornell University

Feroz Ahmed Wani, Social activist

David Wolfe, Human security and conflict resolution specialist

Pei Wu, Doctoral student, Department of Social and Cultural Anthropology, California Institute of Integral Studies, San Francisco

Cc:

Ms. Helene Flautre,
Member, European Parliament
Chair of the European Parliament's Sub-committee on Human Rights

Mr. Geoffrey Harris
Head of Human Rights Unit, European Parliament

Ambassador Richard A. Boucher, Assistant Secretary
Timothy Fitzgibbons, India Desk
Bureau of South and Central Asian Affairs United States Department of State

Mr. David J. Kramer
Assistant Secretary, Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights and Labor
United States Department of State

Ms. Felice D. Gaer
Chair, United States Commission on International Religious Freedom

Mere desh ki dharti....

2008-08-15T18:37:00.004+05:30

Some images that convey the different faces of freedom. I hope the lyrics I have chosen to go with them do justice:

(This is a computerised version of Singh is Kingg.)

Maang ke saath tumhara maine maang liya jhanjhaal

(Dev Anand unfurling the flag at his residence.)

Mujhe tum se kuchch bhi na chahiye, mujhe mere haath pe chhod do...

(President Pratibha Patil should be asking Abhinav Bindra to join the army and post him at the border; maybe his aim is better than many.)

Nanha munna raahi hoon desh ka sipahi hoon, bolo mere sang Jai Olympics, Jai Olympics

(NRIs celebrate our Independence from the Brits in Manhattan!)

Hum ko tan ki shakti dena, dhan vijay kare, doosro ki jai se pehle khud ko Jindal kare

(This is life for most children, lips sealed in the name of democracy.)

Nanhe munne bachche teri muthi mein kya hai? Muthi mein berehmi hamari...

Buddhist Vihar, New Delhi - 2

2008-04-18T19:45:00.001+05:30

These are pictures inside the monastery.

Buddhist Vihar, New Delhi - 1

2008-04-18T19:41:00.003+05:30

The Buddhist Vihar in Delhi houses Ladakhi pilgrims and monks; they too were on strike to support the Tibetan cause.

Tibetan Refugee Camp, New Delhi

2008-04-18T19:31:00.004+05:30

At the time, everything was closed in protest.

Yeh mera India - 6

2007-10-04T18:46:00.000+05:30

Trunk call: Yes, we do have elephants. This scene of mother-child bonding was taken off the beaten path near the Nagarhole Wildlife Sanctuary, Karnataka.

Oasis: They say paani pilaana sawaab ka kaam hai. In the desert sands of Jaisalmer, Rajasthan, a thirst is quenched.

Stumped: This is in the middle of the Periyar Bird Sanctuary, but could be anywhere. To see the bare remains of a tree in the middle of the sea when there is foliage in the background is a rather humbling experience. Shorn of its identity, its faith in where it belongs remains intact. It also symbolises the common citizen who stands out despite having nothing.

Yeh mera India - 5

2007-10-01T19:14:00.000+05:30

Drums: One of those impromptu celebrations in Gujarat for no particular reason at all. Is this not devotion to the everydayness of life?

Bare necessities: In a village off Bhuj in Kutchh (where ‘Lagaan’ was shot). These mud houses have rounded roofs to deflect the harsh sunlight and act as incubators on wintry nights. The drawings on the outer walls are usually of animals and birds and made with rice powder. Every home has some sort of embellishment.

The shadow of god: I liked both the colour and the faith contrast. A drab man had painted his little hut with the bright hues of a god he believed in. Did that god believe in him?

Yeh mera India - 4

2007-09-28T18:56:00.001+05:30

Formula racing: To experience the boat racing that happens once a year in Allepey, Kerala, is a most amazing experience. These snake boats ‘race’ at their own pace and the only excitement for the spectators is to watch the antics of the locals who in their drunken stupor call out to their favourite team, which keeps changing as the humidity and arrack take their toll.

Being…: This Kathakali dancer prepares for the evening performance at the Cochin Cultural Centre. The day we visited, there were only three people in the audience, and one was the manager. Yet, without thinking of who will be watching, these artistes take at least two hours over their make-up and recreate mythology daily.

…And becoming: The transformed artist on the left. The movements are deliberately stagey and the way they are dressed and made up adds to this larger-than-life image. Incidentally, men till date enact women’s parts.

Yeh mera India - 3

2007-09-26T12:31:00.001+05:30

Pride and the broom: Again, a deceptively simple picture. You see hundreds of such women. The important thing is that this photograph was taken at the Ranthambore Tiger Reserve in Gujarat. I found it brave that without the safety of a jeep, she was still cleaning up a mud track.

Million dollar babies: Dalit students at a school in Delhi. Children are the true vision of devotion – innocence, curiosity, and gay abandon.

Wisdom tree: There was an almost artificial quality to this tree in a small temple near Madurai, Tamil Nadu. It was deserted and there was just this one priest around. He did not need devotees.

Yeh mera India - 2

2007-09-24T19:54:00.000+05:30

The log tiara: This one will never wear a Miss India crown nor spout sound-bytes about her role models. Despite carrying the heavy burden, she remains a child, a survivor who despite the weight on her head did not get shaky in the leg.

Spider woman: The woman with child is weaving looms she may never afford but for her work and her womanhood are things to be worshipped. This was in a Khasi village in Meghalaya, North East India.

Green, green grass of home: An ordinary picture, but for me being in Ooty in a garden where a rose is named after the CM, Jayalalitha, and to see a woman worker go about her job oblivious to her environs showed tremendous amount of belief in her routine, rather than seeing it as drudgery.

Yeh mera India - 1

2007-09-22T19:05:00.000+05:30

The old man and the sea: At Rishikesh. This sadhu seems to have emerged from the water and is yet drip-dry, while the young couple on the left is wondering whether to wet their feet.

Stepping stone: This is the quickie nirvana stereotype of the foreigner at the banks of the Ganga with what appears to be a tourist guide by his side. I believe that for those few minutes or hours, he would have found some connection with something.

Splash: In Benares city, these children were braving the rains to reach their schools. I deliberately took this out-of-focus blurred look to convey the atmosphere. (Okay…the camera shook! I was in a rickety cycle rickshaw.)

What is devotion?

2007-09-22T18:54:00.000+05:30

Ibaadat is devotion. Devotion is not mere piety. It is belief in something outside oneself and also a deep bonding with the Self.

Seeing it in places of worship is only one aspect. The most ordinary things in life are often imbued with a subsuming of oneself into another – be it Nature, be it work, be it fellow human beings, be it an idea.

And you feel this most strongly as you traverse through various parts of other people’s lives and peel the layers. I do not call myself a tourist, but a traveller. And I know that my true medium is words. This time I thought of sharing some pictures taken during my sojourn through some parts of India. I cannot desist from the ‘posing near a haveli’ or ‘letting the wind tousle my hair on a mountain range’ shots. But there have been times I have tried to capture the candid. Some are clichés, but they are so irresistible.

I decided to take a specific subject and seek pictorial answers for this gallery. Each photograph has a larger story that shall remain unsaid. For, a journey does not have a beginning or an end.

It is also devotion – an ongoing process where those travelling will still look back to where they belong and say, “Hum bulbuley hai iski, yeh gulsitaan hamara….”

Kaisa desh hai mera?

This and the pictures have already appeared on Chowk. I felt like reproducing these...will upload three pictures at a time and what they mean to me in a new post, perhaps everyday...

Pakistan in pictures - 2

2007-06-18T11:41:00.001+05:30

The view of Clifton from Khalid's terrace.

The Texan-themed 'Gun Smoke' restaurant in Zamzama

The sea view at the Beach Luxury Hotel

Pakistan in pictures - 1

2007-06-18T11:28:00.000+05:30

Cafe Mondrian, Islamabad. It uses the primary colours made famous by the artist.

The three pictures of Karachi streets were taken from a moving car....so...

Matheran memories

2007-04-17T23:36:00.000+05:30

The little toy train going from Neral to Matheran has completed a century. I love this little hill station. Even today there are no vehicles allowed. When I was young of course the joy of riding the toy train was wonderful.

My first trip was when I was 11 or so. The family would divide itself into two groups. Being the pampered one it was understood that I would stay with both! On this particular occasion the arriving train got delayed, so the second group had not reached the hotel. Everyone was wondering what to do. Till the gentle and genial owner Jimmy Lord said not to worry, they’d take care of me.

Now, that was unnecessary. For, come lunch time and I ordered the food (a set menu they changed daily) in the room…the verandah, really…it was a five course meal and I sat there looking out for the monkey that swooped down and carried away my precious custard.

I had made friends and one of the boys had come to give me Phantom comics to read. Ah, such joy it was…From the glass door I could see my mother who had just arrived. She was shocked, not on seeing a boy but that I did not have the courtesy to wait, and while she was worried sick and quarreled with her brother for leaving her poor baby alone, here I was enjoying a meal.

Matheran meant long walks on the red mud, horse riding (or at least falling off the horses), buying the famous slippers, especially the tiny doll-sized ones, faux fur bags with dog faces, sitting by the lake, feeding peanuts to the monkeys, and visiting all those points. I loved the Echo Point most. Just the thought that one could hear one’s voice twice over was fascinating. Unlike others, I called out my own name…

Later I visited in my teens. The toy train stopped somewhere in the middle and we spent a few hours cramped in. A bunch of goys who we assumed were loafers turned out to be the most helpful. Finally, when they decided they were going to hike up, I thought it would be a good idea. I did not realise that my mother was wearing a saree. We had made the huge error of not making reservations. So all that was available was a dorm. Finally, someone directed us to a very basic guest house. They made it clear that there was only vegetarian food. The loo was outside the room, so all three of us, my cousin was there too, would march purposely with a huge stick to shoo of the monkeys and keep vigil.

Mealtimes were quite funny. In those days I was very ‘meaty’. A thali would be placed before us and all kinds of vegetables, dals, chutneys and pickles would be dumped. I would protest and they would be really hospitable. The icing on the cake was a dollop of warm ghee poured on the chapattis and a piece of jaggery. When I asked why, they would say, “Good for bones.” Oh, that was a memorable trip despite all the small problems.

On the return we were back in the toy train and it was such a beautiful sight to see it curve along the mountain tracks.

Subsequently, I have even driven there. One stops at a particular spot and then walks for half an hour to reach the place. Sometimes you get horses or rickshaw pullers. I used the latter once but was filled with guilt. Then I realised that this was his livelihood.

I have stayed at a couple of other places but Lords has been the perennial favourite. If you get the valley view room then it is amazing. They have kept it old-world, although a pool is there now. As a child I remember they had this huge tub in the open and some of us favoured ones were allowed to jump in. Since I did not have a swim suit, I would wear my slip. Of course, I would be roundly ticked off for it. Couldn’t understand why. What on earth does an 11-year have to show?

Jimmy Lord would talk to his guests. In fact I recall the last trip. He was watching TV and it was ‘Baywatch’. That was the only thing he liked, he said. We would have coffee in the living room or riffle through books and magazines. I remember when he saw me mount this sturdy brown stallion, he shouted out in his Parsi accent, “Don’t ride too long or you will get a sore backside.”

Ah! The horse owner usually takes you on a trot. I had got adventurous and asked him how to steer the reins; he told me. Well, that was it. It was drizzling a bit…yes, red earth and pouring rain…We happened to be on one of those touching the edge of the cliff tracks and instead of pulling right, I tugged left and the horse slid a bid. The ghodeywalla was happily walking ahead till I shouted out to him, “Hum gir rahe hai.” He rushed back and said, “Madam, ghoda girta to mera kya hota?”

Back in the room after a wash, it was beautiful to watch the sun set and write poetry. The hills are indeed alive with the sound of music.

Shadowlines

2007-04-17T23:29:00.000+05:30

I love this piece of sculpture at a mall in Mumbai. It hangs from the ceiling and has a shadow effect.

The cafe across the street

2006-10-09T18:47:00.000+05:30

This is the cigar lounge mentioned in my Cross connections blog of October 8.

We, the little people

2006-09-04T17:37:00.000+05:30

Last year I was involved in some slum project in Delhi. It was late evening by the time I finished the rounds. The group of hutment dwellers took me to what was supposedly the best little house in their midst.

They pulled out the only chair there was for me and this is what I saw on the wall. The man of the house had no legs. He slid in on a make-shift 'cart'; his wife stood proudly next to him. I asked about the pictures, "What do all these have in common?"
He laughed and spoke in halting Hindi, "Kuchch nahin, lekin sab ko respect karna hai. (Nothing, but one respects everyone)"

A whole lot of people had gathered in that little room, some spilling on the doorstep. Someone bought a cola for me. I was asked not to leave without having dinner with them. It was a touching gesture. I said, “Next time” and just so that they did not feel bad I started discussing the nuances of various uthhppams.

It was a South Indian family. I tried my little Tamil with them to much guffaws all round.

And then of course as I was leaving I said, with complete idiocy, "Vanakkam". It means welcome.

I may never meet them again, or I may. But even in that faux pas I think I had welcomed them into my little world as they had welcomed me.

They were fighting to preserve their homes that were going to be bulldozed. I have found out that they have won the case. I smile at the memory of that wall. I can only hope that walls too have memories.

Kathmandu's karmasutra

2006-04-24T22:58:00.000+05:30

Now that Nepal is in the news for all the wrong reasons, I thought one could look at it from a traveller's point of view...
- - -
I could have done a Madhuri Dikshit and claimed Nepal as my own. It is the kind of place over which you can claim proprietary rights, since no one seems to show any enthusiasm about owning it.

Besides, it does remind you of home. Dust, cows in the streets, and the familiar disenchantment. If the hippies had once found their haven here, it was because no one cared. Ironically, they escaped to this place becausenobody cared back home. But in the anonymity and induced haze, they foundthe permanent siesta invigorating. Flower-power came from poppy seeds. The ephemeral became the eternal.

"Time is a stick of incense that burns without being consumed. One day can seem like a week, a week like months... There is time enough to do everything," so wrote Jeff Greenwald in the eponymous book Shopping for Buddhas.

Why Buddhas in a Hindu country? Because they have international appeal. Itis a great selling point in a country which strives to be ostensibly liberal. Beneath it all, however, the kingdom of Nepal is a Hindu rashtra.But unlike say Europe, where religion plays a subliminal and subtle role, in this part of the subcontinent it imbues people's everyday actions. They believe they are fated to be what they are.

Like the security guard at the Pashupati temple. You walk through a dirty pathway, trample upon people's discarded offerings, and then there is a loud declaration: "Only Hindus allowed inside." We are yards away from the sanctum, and since I don't feel any religion really wants me, I can convert to any faith. And becoming a Hindu wouldn't be difficult, since I come from a land where it would raise my status considerably. But the security man lunges menacingly towards me and giving me a shove with his hand just below my shoulder blade, screams, "Not allowed."

Why?

"Foreigner," he pronounces.

Much as I would have delighted for the sake of variety to pass of as an Italian mafia don or a Brazilian salsa dancer or even a Maori tribal, I felt strangely humiliated. I then spoke in Hindi and there seemed to be a bit of a thaw, till I was again asked to get out.

I wondered how 'different' and how holy the devotees were. Did they feel transported to heaven when the pujari broke a coconut and looked at their wallets? What kind of double standards forbid you to enter wearing any leather items, but may allow you to witness or participate in the sacrificial slaughter of animals? And what culture is it that says a man can manhandle a woman to save his bhagwan from the unholy sight of a non-Hindu woman?

The 'Way of life' theory of course hits you via Royal Nepal Airlines itself. Fatalism rules as four to eight hour delays are not announced but you are expected to report early, lest you are off-loaded even with a confirmed seat! Bhagwan ki marzi! Here, hospitality means announcing that they do not have vegetarian meals on board. Uparwala has ordained that all those who took the trouble for the darshan have to munch salad. As a small concession a surly air sundari plonked a different salad on the trays. I was told later, it was dessert. But if your soul is burning with the flame of dharma, all this is inconsequential.

Like the chap at immigration must have felt when he saw the embarkation card of a friend, who happened to be on the same flight. "Muslim, hanh?" he spat out as he read the name. This sets the tone and all the wonderful mountain air cannot blow away the stink. Why go through this charade?

Because tourism is the only business they know. And this they do better than us. Though again, the attitude is one of indifference. So when we decided to splurge on a Sunrise Balloon Ride, we were taken when the sun was happily smirking away. We had to wait for the balloon to be inflated, for as soon as we had got into our baskets it went 'phus'. After another long effort we were finally high up, but without butterflies in the stomach, or wind lashing the face. It was pure stasis and a reasonable photo-op. Those who paid in dollars tried their 'Gee, Whiz!' act, though it hurt their jaws to keep smiling at the 'phinaaminal veeyou'.

Being good suckers we also did the mountain plane ride in a 16-seater. Dense fog resulted in the inevitable delay. And then we were up again, over the Kanchanjunga and the Everest. Like good souls we ought to have felt humbled, but heck, we were on top and the great peaks looked like waffle-cones with vanilla ice-cream scoops. I know that such things are meant for very religious people who are overawed by everything, or theWesterner, who desperately needs to be.

So instead, I looked with new respect at a smart kid in Patan, who swooped down on us trying to sell us Tangkha paintings because we looked creatively-inclined. I did not wince when two guys working at a fast-food restaurant, around closing time, unmindful of their two remaining customers - us - locked themselves together in the loo.

From the junk paradise of Thamel to the electronic glitz of Durbar Square, I got what I thought I should have - a Mandala calendar and a calculator that blinks red, everytime a number is punched.

Since I always distort everything holy, I'd say the ultimate nirvana is, in fact, to be found in maya. And if you can count your days and pennies with it, so much the better.

(This was published in Feb 1999 in Mid-day.)

Delhi's Karim and Karim's Kamaal

2006-04-15T19:14:00.000+05:30

I was shocked when the guy from a news channel reporting from the site of the blasts at Jama Masjid decided to talk about bad business for Karim's. Believe me, they were talking about kebabs.

All of us who are food connoisseurs know about Karim's. And I have my own story, which given the general insensitivity around will merely add to it...

Umberto watched as I worked with my fingers, his eyes glazing. I had given up the fork, knife, spoon to do what I was meant to. I touched the grains of rice, the aroma of biryani and the fat from the meat greasing my palms. Oh, I was ready for any bribe. And Umberto, in a voice laden with choked breath, said, “I am feeling sooo gilthy. My son is as old as you, buth I doun know whai I feel like kissing you.”

Believe me, this sort of thing does jolt me, but I was too busy tearing into the naan, that had the look of ready-to-be-shred hide, and pinching the galauti kebab, brown and tender…I imagined it shudder. This was my moment and I was not going to let any Italian come in the way of eternal self-love.

He had been on the same flight a few years ago and Delhi, our destination, was until now a tourist spot. Nothing more. I thought Umberto and I had said our goodbyes at Palam airport. The weekend went by with me calling up friends to check about the new food joints in the capital. Someone said “Karim’s”. I had done that place to death, having spared no bakra from taking me there. No, no, I wanted something like that, but not quite.

My friend was irritable: “I am talking about Karim’s at Nizamuddin, not Chandni Chowk. The food is as good and it may suit your la-di-dah tastes.”

I decided to make that pilgrimage, planning for it all day, dreaming as I tried to get work done. And there stood Umberto, having tracked me down. He was all red and sweaty and gestured a lot. Finally, he said the words I was dying to hear, “I am hungry!” Catch him by the collar and drag him? Too unladylike. So I took my time. He waited for two hours. I had been wondering who to take along on my culinary journey, and here was my answer. A hungry man.

I picked up my bag and said, okay, I know of this place where we could eat. He violently shook his head, “Naw, naw, I eat too mutch in Aaghraa.” What? Did he not say the one word that sent a shiver down my spine: Hungry? “Aangry, I was aangry…you justh left…Now you musth doo saamthin.”

Before he spelled out anything, I said, sure, I’ll show you what. So in the sunset light I walked him through the lanes of Nizamuddin. I hated the calls of, “Ai, gore ko bulbul mil gayee.” It was worse when Umberto smiled at those guys and then turned to tell me, “You seem to be very popular, they all know you!” Phew, this place better be good. We went past ittarwallas, a small masjid, hawkers selling trinkets and beggars sending you on a guilt trip. They know a 'Karimwalla', because they come in vehicles and a restaurant staffer helps with the parking, and suddenly waves you in the direction you are supposed to go. It would seem it is two steps away, but it is a bit of a walk. There is too much noise, too much happening, and suddenly you turn a corner and a durban is standing there, stiff turban and stiffer manner.

I found myself giggling. The place was carpeted, air-conditioned and smelled wonderful. We were given a corner table, but it is not that kind of place, if you know what I mean. The corners here are tables pushed against the wall for two diners. The waiters are helpful, explaining every detail about the kebabs and rotis, though the menu itself is self-explanatory, but I like these things from a male mouth. Finally when it was getting too graphic I just told the chap, now don’t tell me the name of the butcher.

Karim’s is not your regular Mughlai joint; it is UP, Hyderabad, Old Delhi and partly mother’s kitchen rolled into one. I wish I could tell you about how I forced Umberto to try out the shahi tukra, saying that it came from the royal family. He was willing to believe anything. He even thought that the lemon I squeezed in the finger bowl was some regal custom.

All I know is that the food is good enough not to make you feel so satiated and full that you will not return. And whatever happened to Umberto? Oh, he wanted to thank me with a kiss. I told him, “Look, this has been very special for me…I just have to retain the flavour of crispy browned onions.”

He shrugged, and in the dark he could not even find my cheek.

The Holy Trail

2006-03-25T13:15:00.000+05:30

THE last thing any holy man’s habitat should remind you of is bananas. But that is exactly what happened with me.

It was an unplanned visit. There was time to kill, and what better way to kill it than with curiosity? The drive from Trivandrum airport in Kerala was uneventful. The same swaying palms, fruits perched on bicycles; I had done these roads so often that I could tell one coconut from the other.

At last, I arrived at a gateless gate. Upon entering the ashram I was surprised to find no foreigners in transparent pajamas ambling around with a glazed look in their eyes, which has somehow become mandatory in just about all the abodes of holy men and women. Instead, there were many locals squatting in almost scatological submission on the sandy floor. They definitely seemed as though they were close to their next goal.

They were. Half an hour later free lunch was served. I too was invited. Being from the big city, some of us were taken to a separate room and allowed to sit at a long plank of wood that passed for a table. Plantain leaves were put before us and thick globules of sticky rice from a straw basket were served topped with spicy rasam, a sort of peppery-watery grave for the intestines. Vegetables, curd, pickles and sweets completed the meal.

Then we were told to drop our pants.

As a concession to my gender I could retain mine, but I would have to wear a dhoti over it as it was the required uniform if you wanted to be ushered into the Guru’s presence. I gamely wrapped mine, even managing a neat little pleat.

Guruji sat in an ornate backless, armless seat with a two-foot wide low desk in front of him, the idea being that no one must touch His Holiness. One intrepid couple did a smart thing – they squeezed themselves beneath the stand to touch his feet!

We were about five of us special creatures who had been permitted to sit on the mat and watch as a line-up of devotees filed past, prostrated on the floor and made their offerings, the last one a compulsory condition for getting his blessings. I have no quarrel with this, but seeing such blind belief I did begin to wonder what these people got in return. A smile? Advice? Peace of mind? What?

A couple had brought their infant daughter to be named. He, barely touching the child or looking at her, pronounced, “Archana”, and turned to the next person in line. It was obvious that he wanted to get over with this; I secretly hoped he genuinely believed that the darshan business was a facade.

The truth is that he was waiting for the big moment with the microphone, with the rapt audience outside and, more specifically, the five in front of him from far-off places. To be fair to him, he was not a publicity hound. We would not have heard of him but for a report about a Mexican who, having experienced his aura, found him a most enlightened human being. He probably is, but to be a guru he offers nothing new except for the usual “oneness of god, truth, peace and sham of science” line.

Is it worth waiting for hours in the sun? Don’t we already know that good is good? Should we merely indulge someone only because he likes listening to his own voice? The moment we announced that we had to leave early he got an emissary to tell us that it was not possible to understand his message in such a short span of time.

I agreed. He handed me a red banana from the lot he had received. I was told it was a divine offering. No prayer, no sacred touch, only a fruit. I ate it hungrily and found bliss at the exit door.

Apparently, heaven was not quite done with me. My next stop was a temple in Thrissur several kilometers away. The purpose of the visit, however, was not pious. An acquaintance had been dumped with me because my friends did not think I was ‘proper’ enough for the small-town. The person assigned with the task of looking after my welfare for a couple of hours had no better idea. So, after discussing time management and girlfriend problems, he veered the car towards the ‘tembal’, as he pronounced it.

It was beautiful and serene, and the first time I had visited a place of worship in this light of darkness. There were spaces where I had to walk carefully and find a toehold. I had the opportunity of understanding things from the perspective of a devotee rather than getting a description about the architectural marvels from a tourist guide.

He lit an oil lamp and folded his hands. I felt like an actor onstage waiting for the cue. He then walked me around various idols; standing before each one, he would clap. I stood silently. He urged me to do the same. “That is for god to listen,” he said in all seriousness. Rather self-consciously, I clapped. It was strangely beautiful; there was clapping all around like at a musical concert. Thup, thup, thup. I could have danced all night.

Finally, we arrived at the sanctum. He took off his shirt. I asked him whether I was supposed to follow suit. He shushed me up with a, “People are listening, this is not Bombay”. Then he lay down flat on his belly, his folded hands extended towards a mute witness in stone.

That vision will haunt me forever. No sermons, no congregation, and no bananas. I, as a mere observer, was given a glimpse of divine communion even as I stood apart as a non-believer. Heaven, more than hell, is about other people.

(This was published in The Friday Times.)

Yeh sangam hoga ke nahin?

2006-03-14T18:52:00.000+05:30

This picture was taken at the sangam -- the meeting of three rivers -- in Allahabad.

The pujaris often jumped from one boat to the other because of the demand to perform rituals. There was also a good deal of exchange; if one sadhu ran short of coconuts or flowers, then hands were extended to borrow from another.

The pujari (uninvited) on my boat at one point wanted to leave because I was more interested in the sights than in him.

"Gotra kya hai?" he asked.

He wanted to know my specific designated caste.

I don't have any, or none I would want to know about or be associated with.

So, in right royal fashion, I announced, "Raj vansh".

Surprisingly, he did not object to my claims of blue blood.

He took his vengeance when he did not give me my share of prasad.

PS: Please note my aesthetic sense as I match the font colour of this write-up with the photograph!!

The Dying Light

2006-03-14T00:01:00.000+05:30

I do not see the dead bodies in Varanasi. Even as the images flash before me, they get superimposed by the sight of a smiling paan-stained mouth, the pichkari from it landing on a cream-coloured wall. It is as red as the blood they are showing us now.

I do not see dead bodies. Instead, I see what looked like a huge boulder in the middle of the Ganges as the two young boatmen rowed near it. I had wondered what it was doing there. How did it end up in the river, was it a natural formation?

“Nahin, nahin,” they had laughed. “Murdaa hai…” It was the bloated carcass of an animal. They had become seasoned and we passed many such cadavers and they began pointing out those assuming I had just discovered the meaning of mortality. In some ways, I had.

The smoke from a distant pyre swayed ominously in the breeze like the dance of death it was in fact performing. Corpses lay waiting to be cremated – the higher the pile of wood and the more fragrant it was, you understood that it belonged to someone whose value in death, as in life, was a little more. One of the boatmen told me that sometimes relatives of those who could not afford it or just could not wait threw the bodies in the river. They saw the corpses turn blue and unrecognisable. Were they not afraid? I asked. “Yeh to roz ki baat hai,” he said.

* * *
The bomb blasts are not an everyday thing. I am sure he would react differently. He would see those bodies differently. I do not see those dead bodies. It is like wanting to remember something that one has cherished as it was. I am not denying what happened, I know it is something that needs to be probed into, but I cannot get myself to even think. In a strange way – and I still do not know why -- this was my first reaction to the demolition of the Babri Masjid too. I had gone numb. I did not know the latter; I know Varanasi.

It isn’t only about that saree in my closet – the one with the most subtle play of colours, the light sea green and dawn pink meshing on a white background that takes on their reflection and does not seem so white anymore. That is how one feels the moment one enters the city. I wasn’t just a tourist. It was a place I always wanted to go to. I felt like a seeker who would find something. I was not looking for god. I was looking for nothing. And it is tough finding Nothing.

The sudden showers had clogged the narrow streets. The cycle rickshaw swerved dangerously through the water, splashing school kids who were making their way home. How many such kids knew that the person clicking them with a camera was imagining she would find her Nothingness there? They laughed and waved and I laughed and waved back cursing myself for interrupting my goal towards mystical enlightenment.

My mind does not allow me to think of kids dying.

The rickshawalla could not go right near the ghats. Walking the stretch from the road to the steps through muddy water carrying withered flowers became a matter of survival of the feet. Did mystics think of antiseptic soaps?

After being accosted by touts, as one is in any religious place, I just stood at the edge of the steps leading to the river. I knew Project Ganga had been started to clean up the water. From where I was, I could see ochre and white robes, people carrying wood and incense, and lots of marigold garlands. Was this about death or life?

A foreigner sat cross-legged on the stairs, shutting his vision to everything. I tried doing that and realised that my eyes were hungry.

I got into the boat and from there even the man meditating seemed like a small speck. I had always wanted to touch the Ganga water, but chickened out. The boatmen did, leaving a trail with their fingertips. The skies realised my dilemma and a light drizzle came down on us. The water touched me and met the river. Contact had been made. We had gone quite far out and on the return we got a closer look. Each ghat had a story, a reason, a purpose.

* * *
There was a small eating place right up the steps. It was a little hole in the wall, but was stocked with an amazing range of biscuits and chocolates and…toilet paper rolls. They looked rather anachronistic here. I conveyed my confusion to the boy who was serving customers. “Foreigner log,” he said. This was the clientele. They ate pastas and sandwiches. They came in with their straw hats and paisley print dresses and returned for something straight from the packet.

From a small window you could see the river; it looked like a rough-hewn painting. This was one way to see it. Or you could stick your neck out and feel the air as it camouflaged death. I made quick visits to the umpteen temples and passed the many pandas who have found a home here.

Going through lanes selling rudraksh beads and kiosks hawking real estate, one reached row-lined houses where the sadhus stay. Peeping into one of the homes, the sparsely done up place was visible: a small cot, about four utensils and a pair of wooden sandals. A tap was located just outside from which a sadhu was filling a bucket. A single tiny grilled window let in the light and the air.

As one left to make way for some more, there was a modern intruder. A guy with a box on a stand tried to market the idea of a quickie horoscope. All you did was plug in the earphones and listened to a tape-recorded message in shudh Hindi about your character, your present problems and rosy future. You heard the catch-phrases about peit ka dard, sar dard, kathin rishte, and smiled at last over the prediction that you would get what you were seeking very soon. There, in a corner, was Chotiwalla Baba’s restaurant smelling of heaven fried a golden brown.

* * *
In these days of Them and Us when sick jokes and weak repartee have become the order of the day it wasn’t at all surprising that a friend should comment in ostensibly good humour about my then imminent trip. “Oh, a Muslim going there. You are sure to defile the place!”

The reply, as expected, was defensive. “Quite the contrary, I shall make the place holier.”

But all the machinations of men playing god fail when one realises that belief essentially means never having to be sorry.

You must not be sorry about the sticky stains left behind by extra sweet chai as memories on tea cups. You must not be sorry about suspicious-looking chhole-bhature and pakoras. You must not be sorry about the slippery floor that is wet with water and urine that mingle with dust and muck to produce a greyish glaze. You must not be sorry that what you have come to find you may never get.

At one of the temples a group of women were singing songs, carrying crimson strings that they would tie for their wishes to be granted. Was it the Sankat Mochan Temple that exploded with bombs, the temple that means all troubles would be wiped away? I do not know.

“Why don’t you tie a thread?” one of them asked.

I want Nothing, I had said.

It is all a matter of faith, I am told. It is only when darkness descends and one can smell the night and wipe out the stink, that one’s eyes become moist. Could it be merely a romantic moment of search? It matters not. Suffice to say that the sound of the aarti and the sight of small leaf boats with a flame on them were enough to engulf one with a warm feeling of being at home in an alien place.

I could hear the water hum and imagine Ustad Bismillah Khan’s shehnai playing a tune that was more celebratory than a dirge, or just lie down and watch the sky and marvel at the fact that nature is god in so many incarnations.

Footnote: 'Believe nothing just because a so-called wise person said it. Believe nothing just because a belief is generally held. Believe nothing just because it is said in ancient books. Believe nothing just because it is said to be of divine origin. Believe nothing just because someone else believes it. Believe only what you yourself test and judge to be true.' Buddha