The Homeland Dear

I crawled in bed with Nani many a night

To listen to her many tales of a homeland dear

I held to her to escape my night’s fright

Of Her folktales and her childhood I would hear

Her delight she could never hide

With all those memories she would cheer

“What was it like Nani?” I asked wide-eyed.

She smiled and said, “Not like here.”

“Oh my child I wish you could feed

Upon the mangoes and melons we did

As large as my thumb was the melon-seed

The fruits of my Des were splendid

The fields were green and grass grew tall

Oh that scent of my Des in the rain.”

She came here and left it all

Her tales spoke both of longing and pain

My grandparents were both Gujarati

They boarded a ship and came here

From Junagadh all the way to Karachi

The ship sailed but their hearts did never steer

To them India was always Des

To them Pakistan was watan

And to us it was a confusing case

How they loved the two as one.

That love from them we did inherit

Were taught the Gujarati language too

I am a Pakistani , I did declare it

I loved English, and I romanced Urdu.

They passed on one more thing

They told me to never forget my roots

And to my roots I did cling

Yet, I did keep growing shoots

My parents of Pakistani birth held

 The notion that Urdu makes you strong

It enriches your soul child they said

And so to Urdu I did as well belong

I truly cherished Meer, Faiz and Ghalib

I learnt and sang their poems merrily

My love carried me to Urdu’s crib

And I did once walk the streets of Delhi  

My soul of a child grew, met someone once and fell in love

They called themselves Mahajir, of Urdu birth he said he was

To me that was of no concern, to me love stood all above

But our union was not to be, “nobody from non-Urdu birth” was the cause

And I pondered over life then all dejected,

That my grandparents were mahajirs as well you see

Yet only for a language-difference I stood rejected?

When in spoken Urdu he was not any better than  me.

Life moves on and it did at its good pace

Years went by and I did learn to love again

What I narrate now is a whole new case

Of two lovers across borders tied only by love’s chain

He was from none other than Urdu’s heart – the city of Delhi

He was a bit of English, a bit of India and a whole lot of Urdu

He was a bit of everything I did hold dear you see

And one fine day he said, “I am falling in love with you”

I said I loved him as well in return and truly I did like never before

We shared a companionship of letters, of calls, of music, poem and prose

He spoke of Delhi’s food, his life there and the capital’s grandeur

I narrated my life’s mundane details and a longing to visit Delhi again arose

I would smile and laugh heartily when he would rejoice correcting my Urdu

He spoke of my flaws in Urdu, “Lady, you don’t have a clue”

“It’s bahar not baahir. Don’t tell me you say mubarik not Mubarak?”

“Haan tau Urdu hamari hai , Gujrati bhi hamari hee hai, koi shak?”

We laughed and celebrated each other and it is strange how

The borders that were once made to divide

Were a reason we loved each other so much now

Cricket matches seemed the only problem on each side

And yet, the only problem these were not sadly

Love between India and Pakistan is not merely a matter of the heart

Love howsoever we may , love howsoever madly

And yet, it was mad to assume we would not be apart

I once sat, looking over at the Arabian Sea

Wondering why did my grandparents travel on it  here

When acceptance for us on this side either, wasn’t to be

Was it worth leaving the acceptance that could be there

Love knows no boundary, Love’s propellers are insides us

Why then did we let birth, blood and barriers guide us?

Like many dreams and tales ours too at the border died

The barriers caught up and pain did greet

We left each other with a promise to hearts inside

That someday, you, me and Delhi shall surely meet.                            

The Homeland Dear II

That love from them we did inherit

Were taught the Gujarati language too

I am a Pakistani , I did declare it

I loved English, and I romanced Urdu.

They passed on one more thing

They told me to never forget my roots

And to my roots I did cling

Yet, I did keep growing shoots

My parents of Pakistani birth held

 The notion that Urdu makes you strong

It enriches your soul child they said

And so to Urdu I did as well belong

I truly cherished Meer, Faiz and Ghalib

I learnt and sang their poems merrily

My love carried me to Urdu’s crib

And I did once walk the streets of Delhi  

My soul of a child grew, met someone once and fell in love

They called themselves Mahajir, of Urdu birth he said he was

To me that was of no concern, to me love stood all above

But our union was not to be, “nobody from non-Urdu birth” was the cause

And I pondered over life then all dejected,

That my grandparents were mahajirs as well you see

Yet only for a language-difference I stood rejected?

When in spoken Urdu he was not any better than  me.

Life moves on and it did at its good pace

Years went by and I did learn to love again

What I narrate now is a whole new case

Of two lovers across borders tied only by love’s chain

He was from none other than Urdu’s heart – the city of Delhi

He was a bit of English, a bit of India and a whole lot of Urdu

He was a bit of everything I did hold dear you see

And one fine day he said, “I am falling in love with you”

I said I loved him as well in return and truly I did like never before

We shared a companionship of letters, of calls, of music, poem and prose

He spoke of Delhi’s food, his life there and the capital’s grandeur

I narrated my life’s mundane details and a longing to visit Delhi again arose

I would smile and laugh heartily when he would rejoice correcting my Urdu

He spoke of my flaws in Urdu, “Lady, you don’t have a clue”

“It’s bahar not baahir. Don’t tell me you say mubarik not Mubarak?”

“Haan tau Urdu hamari hai , Gujrati bhi hamari hee hai, koi shak?”

We laughed and celebrated each other and it is strange how

The borders that were once made to divide

Were a reason we loved each other so much now

Cricket matches seemed the only problem on each side

And yet, the only problem these were not sadly

Love between India and Pakistan is not merely a matter of the heart

Love howsoever we may , love howsoever madly

And yet, it was mad to assume we would not be apart

I once sat, looking over at the Arabian Sea

Wondering why did my grandparents travel on it  here

When acceptance for us on this side either, wasn’t to be

Was it worth leaving the acceptance that could be there

Love knows no boundary, Love’s propellers are insides us

Why then did we let birth, blood and barriers guide us?

Like many dreams and tales ours too at the border died

The barriers caught up and pain did greet

We left each other with a promise to hearts inside

That someday, you, me and Delhi shall surely meet.                             – Hafsa Mahida.

Memoirs of the Classroom II

"When we are travelling in our car or walking on the road, we think that the trees, sun or the moon  outside are moving, " Miss Z.I., my teacher from Class One read aloud, "but they are not moving."

  I looked up from the Nature Study book (science was called Nature Study in classes one and two). Those words struck a chord with me since observing the view from the car was something I held deep fascination for. Clearly, for me, the book lacked some explanation.

"Ma'am, but-" I began my argument and was interrupted.

"Raise your hand and then you can stand and speak." she corrected me.
I did as was instructed
"Ma'am, when I look outside the car-window the trees are moving. The moon follows my car for sometime before it's gone. The trees move and then they are gone behind!" my six-year old self tried to explain my point of view with whatever limited vocabulary and grammar she had.

The class laughed unanimously!
"Trees don't move, " A.T jeered and continued to laugh with the others.
 "Be quiet, A.T. Hafsa we only think that trees are moving," she politely tried to explain. "But they don't. Actually, we are moving."
 "Ma'am, I know trees can't move! They are different living things that can't move," I explained myself adamantly. "I know that my car has wheels. It can move when the wheels move. But in my car, I am sitting. I am not moving. And my window is just there. And I look at things from that window. In that window they move and then they are behind when the car keeps going. But if I stand on the tree-side I will see that the car is moving and the tree is not moving."

More laughter followed.
"I'm right! You have to see..," I spoke again and Miss.Z.I  raised her voice higher than mine
"Class! Quiet! Just sit down. They don't move. Let's move to the next line."

 The argument wasn't over for me. Did I ever believe the trees could move? No. I just did not have enough words to express my opinion. In the year that followed I learnt the word 'fixed' and realised it might have helped me explain that my window was fixed in my car but the view outside was not. Class Two Nature Study lessons explained that the earth was moving on it's axis to bring day and night , and it moved around the sun for a whole year and that gave us the four seasons- rotation and revolution. As I read through these, I couldn't help but hate the fact that they shouldn't have said "they don't move"  a year ago when in truth everything in the world was always in motion. There was a different movement in my car's window, though.

 Fast forward eleven more years that followed. An eighteen-year old me sat at her desk at night for her daily study hours in pre-medical, struggling with physics. More specifically, the mathematics in physics. It had been a tiring day like many others trying to make peace with my choice to go with the Intermediate track instead of A'levels after completing my O'levels.

"Do Chapter 17 and try doing the theory of relativity. Memorize its postulates." was the text I received from a friend when I told them I was no in the mood to "eat" derivations.

 I opened my book to Chapter 17 "The Advent of Modern Physics" and began casually reading. As I read through, I discovered then, that my car window was called a Frame of Reference and the movement of trees on the roadside was Relative Motion.  A six-year old inside me was doing a victory dance to "Raqs mein hai sara jahan". I could see that there were actual names assigned to what I had observed as a child and the notions I held were not non-existent as my Class I teacher had endorsed.

I stayed Einstein-obsessed for quite some time, happy to discover relativity and the fact that it worth never "moving" from my stance.  Yet, I extremely disappointed in myself to have come across this this late in life.I had never truly looked into his contributions before as I restricted myself to "course" education. My lateral-reading was dominated by fiction.
Then again, I did believe that our current systems cannot accomodate, understand and encourage a child's awe and curiosity. The world is beautiful and wondrous and children, in everything seemingly boring and pointless that they do, know that far more than us.

"The only thing that interferes with my learning is my education."  said Albert Einstein himself and rightly so.

 Needless to say, I read the rest of the chapter with delight and discovered the types of frames of reference. I filled my diary with all the mnemonics my head churned (it does so at a greater pace during exams) and some analogous philosophies as the over-thinking mode took over. I romanticized the theory and wrote the following lines.

"We are a consequence of the Special Theory of Relativity
Distance contracts when we are far..
Time dilates when we are together..
Yours Truly,
Lorentz Factor"

- H.M.

Memoirs of the Classroom - part 1

  A composition 'About Me'. I feel a lot of our earliest writings can be traced back to essays bearing this title. I was a five-year-old asked to write the same. I wrote five lines and drew a picture of me next to them. To me, no piece of writing was complete without a picture. After I drew with the classic brown Goldfish pencil, i used it to colour me. My teachers came and stared at my composition. I looked above at them, seeking their approval.
"You have drawn a picture, " one of them said, "This is you?"
I nodded in reply.
"Why have you coloured her with the pencil?" she asked further.
"Because I'm dark." I stated and looked at them again.
  They looked at each other. I did not know what to  make of their expressions. A "no-comments" face I presume.
  The conversation did attract some of my neighbours too; kids, who gave me the very same look after eyeing my drawing. No words. One would expect different responses from grown-ups and children, but here the response was unanimous. As children everything we did to display, we did for approval. I believe this was my transition: learning to make peace  with the  idea that I wouldn't always receive it. Or did I? For, i do wonder what to make of those faces. Was being dark a problem? Did the drawing being coloured go against our school's efforts to encourage conformity? Or if one is to be optimistic, was a child's self-awareness something new?
   Later in life, I believe, I would look back at this   event and feel that those faces were better than the ones calling me names through  the remainder of my school life. It took a great college life, accolades and worthy friends to restore that five-year-old's self-esteem. It was tested time and again by a society holding double-standards, by notions that only fair is fair and fair is lovely,  by certain men who were still the same kids looking for parental approval and by the chai-trolley culture that would reduce a girl's sense of self-worth to her performance for mere two hours or less.
   I will never remember what were those five lines I wrote "About Me" but I'll look back and remind myself that not everyone has to approve  and that one can live with that and live well.
- H.M. Memoirs of The Classroom.

Faraar

 I made a bunk from work today. My mind is so cluttered and it needs a good long break. I am sitting at Chatterbox. It's usually quiet around here (ironically) here but there are two ladies on the table next to mine and they are uncomfortably loud. One of them created such a racket out of the fact that there was yolk in her omelette. A part of me wonders if this is such an issue next to all the wrong in the world. I chuckled at the thought because it  inevitably made me think about Barrister Huma's take on Sharmeen Obaid's apology and how there are just two kinds of divisions, the rich and poor. I choose to divorce myself from those  thoughts. Enough of that. I begin to ponder over my restlessness. I'm so badly looking for an escape, I think.

  There are urgent matters to attend to and I abhor the nature of their urgency pressing upon me. The HR file which I conveniently avoided submitting because I bunked, the article review for OHIP research, Zahabiya's sister's tray's doves, the exam i have tomorrow. My phone vibrates. There's a notification from facebook. My friend from the public library project has tagged me in a comment to bring me back to reviving the projects. I had let go of them in the past few weeks after someone in my life began to talk me out of the many commitments I had taken up. They had all the best intentions at heart. The prospect of one huge commitment seemed to have made the remaining ones seem heavier, and so I had allowed myself  to cut them loose. My library project was one such commitment. "And well, I would be needing your time as well", I remember him saying on the eve of the hashtag-sunday.  I remind myself that I'm no longer bound to that prospect and can go back to living my causes again and go back to my sanctuaries, until it dawns upon me. In the few weeks that we interacted I had allowed him to be part of nearly everything and everyplace I had taken up as a sanctuary, through conversation or actual participation. Chatterbox for one. I looked at the table to my left. We were sitting there and chatting away about religion. Real conversations, good real conversations stick with the soul, primarily because they are a product of the soul itself. Sigh. Chatterbox, NYC, and my mere spirit of discovering new places; I had chosen to share. My eyes met with the tears they were holding back. I feel vulnerable and in need of a new sanctuary. The urgency to seek one presses upon me.

   I picked up reading Origin and immersed myself in it.. I finish reading the prologue and it's great. I pick up my phone to text him about it and then I pause. This is my Me-Time but I want to tell him about it, I shouldn't. I put the phone down. Relax, I tell myself, have this time to yourself, you need it. I had ordered coffee for myself. The cappucino had a pretty coffee lather pattern and they had given an "Aztec" chocolate with it. My mind/heart was still conversing with him; telling him about it. Why? Cause we had touched upon everything mundane in those few weeks. And what do you think life is filled with? Definitely not the extraordinary .. there's a reason it's "extra". Life is largely mundane and we had touched upon everything mundane. There's something extraordinary in the mundane. What a paradox! I shut the book.

  This cafe is filled with a sense of the past. I submit myself to it and backtrack my trail of emotions. I call the cab and pay my bill in the process with a clear sense of where I want to be right now. I board the cab. My heart is going back and forth on all it felt... My conversation with another friend on my resentment and how it wasn't fair to me and that i deserved him trying harder than how much he did was not enough, even if it wasn't going to work out. I then realised what he said "at least you have something to hate". Did I? No. I couldn't hate. Who could with the knowledge that To Him We Belong and to Him We Return and the knowledge of what that could mean. He seeked mercy from the same Lord I did, the same Who had led our paths to cross and the same Who held our hearts. My eyes met with the tears they usually fight off. I wanted to break down with somebody. I wanted to cry and wanted to be held as I do so. I was crossing my days budget to spend and I knew that I ought to save but that would be another commitment pressing me. Why I was chosing to go ahead with this ? Because at the end, I am the only one picking up pieces of me. I let go of my moment of self-pity and shook off the thought. I am buying my happiness or peace, I know because I'm the only one who's been there for me. And it suddenly dawns upon me. Allah has been there for me. He has taken care of me. I prayed Surah Fatiha and took a deep breath.

   We are all seeking His Love. We get attached to humans because we can see and feel humans responding. Allah's responses are very much there but we feel they aren't direct. Our love for one another is also part of His way. For all the love and mercy He has put in our hearts.. Overthinking. I stop and direct my mind to where the cab was heading. We were near my dropoff location and then finally there. Lo and behold, of the three names of this place was "Faraar" (translation: Escape). The others are T2F and Peace Niche. This shall be my new sanctuary.

   T2F or The Second Floor is a cafe. It's a part of Faraar and the Peace Niche, all initiatives of Sabeen, a liberal activist who was shot dead for the views she held. As I entered the place I couldnt help but feel grateful to her. The ground/first floor is a wood-panelled studio-ish large room with a cornered library area. The cafe is upstairs on the second floor. I had heard and read a lot about this place but never been here before. As I walked upstairs admiring the interior and it's creativity I kept thinking about "What you seek is seeking you". Every inch of this place truly was and every nook shouting "Freedom" out loud. I enter the main cafe. It is so blissfully quiet. Let's write. And as I sit down to do so, a part of me wants to tell him about it. But the louder, inner voice saying "My time, my sanctuary" takes over. Later, perhaps :)