October, Anjali Sharma, and Limo Paani

You know how messy it gets coming to the end of the year? When the semester is at its toughest and you seem to have ran out of almost everything –coins, paper pins, ink… Stamina –And seem to have dropped almost everything; pens, books, papers.. Hopes. When you give up drafting those flop study-time tables which by coming to the end you learn are of no use. When the schedule is so tightly packed, you absolutely fail to make out time for ‘people’ around and across; and they complain. When your thoughts are all jumbled up, pace irregular, and time too limited. When you have just SO many things to do, that you end up doing absolutely nothing. Yeah, THAT. 

Two more months, and yet another year... Gone.

It is once again that time of the year, when I find myself standing amidst the unknown fields of nowhere. I have a thick pile of reading to do, a whole stack of papers to fill and a heap of writing assignments to work at. And along with that, I need to take care of my hair (which is falling out like crazy) –please, it’s a serious matter. And of my skin (which has quite badly darkened due to sun exposure) –I am not a beauty conscious or a fitness freak, but hey, it hurts! And of my diet and health (which is declining rapidly). And of my social life (which has recently passed away) –a moment of silence please, at its sad demise. Thank you.

October has begun; the sun has however not yet ceased to torture us. The thin cotton-ish clouds scarcely ever show up, and, even when they do, they are of no help in blocking the brutal sun rays. The deepest, most desired wish that I am yearning for (after a series of other most desired wishes), is of rain. I earnestly wish to wake up to a heavy downpour, and , like always in times like these, get drenched to the bones and twirl and whirl in the swishing cool water like Anjali Sharma… Running free of all the shackles and ties and boundaries, leaving behind all that burdens a soul so fragile; but, sigh, it wouldn’t happen, because of a great number of reasons.

Reason#1:  I am (sadly) not Anjali Sharma.
Reason#2: It doesn’t rain in Octobers in Karachi. Or in Octobers. Or in Karachi.

Yes, there are only two, but they are big enough.

The purpose of this post is however not to record my rants and ramblings.

You know how sometimes a little moment of joy, a tiny adventure, a new experience, a spark and a genuine smile can practically make your day? Yes.  Hence, the motivation to write this post.

Walking from our department all the way to the university gate, that too in this heat and that too at this rate of talking, our throats had practically dried out. The water cooler at the bank had karwa paani, of which, by the way, I had taken a huge sip in sheer haste; later I spat it out. Nauseating. LITERALLY. Blekh (I hope it wasn’t cancerous. I am obsessed with cancer these days. Not that I’d die. Because, oh well, a couple of days ago a friend saw me in her dream where I died, which according to the interpretation implies that my age has increased. Pfffft).

Anyways. Back to the topic.

To help quench our thirst, a friend very confidently, with that follow-me-l-know-where-heaven-is attitude walked us out of the university gate and introduced us to a kind, and indeed a very noble gentleman.

The Limo Paani Waala.

A wooden pushcart (quite like that of street vendors, in a poorer condition though) draped with green plastic sheet, having small greenish-yellow lemons arranged at the top of medium sized kachay drinking glasses that were lined at one side, a slab of thick ice at the other and the noble gentleman at the far end dressed in a faded brown cotton shalwar kameez, holding a citrus squeezer in his hand, awaited us; accompanied by a few flies, under the neem tree that had little birdies resting at its tiny branches. Unhygienic? I don’t think so.

Unfortunately, couldn't click the picture of the real limo-paani walay bhai.

As mentioned quite many times, I am not particular about things. If there is something that I like, I like it and I’ll have it. No questions asked and no unnecessary concerns. It is always fun to try up new things; the weirder, the better.

--Yaar tum yeh piyo, bohot mazay ka hota hai.

-Bhaiya, kitnay ka glass hai?

-10 rupay. 

Affordable. Might as well take another glass.

-Bhai mujhay thaili mei dijiyega.

--Mujhay glass mei.

---Mujhay bhe glass mei!

--Yaar, tum yeh piyogi nah, tum roz aogi peenay. Itnaa achha hota hai!

-Behen,who dega tou piyungi nah?

--Haan piyo, bohot achha hota hai.

---Teeesri dafa bol rahi ho yeh baat tum! In bhai ne publicity karnay ka commission diya hai kyaa?

--Tum piyo tou saheeh!

-SHUT UP!

(She intentionally does this, just so to annoy us).

We sat at the footpath under the shade of the same neem tree with limo paani ke kachay glass and (in my case) limo paani ki thaili. Qingqi rickshaws, public buses, cars, bikes, carts, pedestrians, all went by eyeing us for a second or two, and then moving on carelessly. In this heat and in this rush, nobody cares what people are up to, as long as they’re minding their own businesses.

The chilled, energizing limo paani went tickling down our dry throats, giving start to a very random conversation.
(The conversation has been cut short and details omitted, because; #1: they are embarrassing. #2: they require a long contextual background. And #3: they wouldn't make sense). 

-I wonder where we’d be five years from now.

--Khairiat hai?

-Shushh!

---Yeah, I wonder the same…

--You have lost all the right to express uncertainty, miss engaged! We all know you would be married, and most probably a mother to a couple of troublesome kids!

---I am so going to miss this! University is fun, don’t you think?

-It definitely is. Gets quite tiring though, but I like it here.

---Would you remember me after like, 10 years from now?

-That would depend.

---Why, whut?

-Yeah… I think I have brain cancer. My brain cells are dying, I think I have Alzheimer’s…  I hardly remember stuff!

(All three of them): Oh shut up you!

---The other day you had stomach cancer!

--Yeah, and day before you had skin cancer!

-LOLLLL! Of course I would remember you. I have had the best time of my life with you guys.. Umm.. well… Skipping the early few months..Yeah, close enough to best.

-We’ve done some crazy, hilarious stuff together! Remember walking barefoot to the gate in heavy downpour?

--LOL! One of the things I had alwayyyys wanted to do!

-And that song? Mai Tharki Hun?
--Sharminda nah karo!

*fits of laughter*

--And Teri Yaadein?

*Another fit of laughter*

--Remember Sir Irfan’s comment? “Tum fauth tou nahe honay waaleen?”

-OHMYGOD! It was so embarrassing!

--You have LOST written all over your face!

-WHATEVER!

---Remember how bizarre things were exactly a year ago?

-Yeah.. I was ready to give up everything to run away from here.

--And from us.

-And from you guys, yes…

---I am glad everything’s settled.

-So am I.

--So am I!

---So, where were we?

-Here.

--Here.

-Mera limo paani khatam –

---Shush! I meant, let’s get back to the topic we were at.

--You want us to get back to your shaadi ka topic, right? Huh. Self-obsessed.

---NO! I want us to discuss (pointing) ‘her’ shaadi ka topic –

-OHMYGOD! Guess what?! ‘Somebody’ returned from the coma…

--Who…?

-GUESS!

--POKE?

-YESSSS!

*a monstrous fit of laughter*

--LOL!! What timing! Why don't normal things happen to you?

-I know, right?

--Pehlay nahe hosh aasakta thaa?!

---LOL! Tch tch tch, wait till I tell ‘people’ about this.

-Who people?

--AH! I KNOW WHO SHE’S TALKING ABOUT!

-WHO?! Oh, wait…–

---Luc –

-Shushhh!

--No no, complete your sentence–

- –SHUSHHH! I’ll throw this limo paani at you!

And with that, we went about sharing another whole lot of crazy stuff and some super-personal jokes, and laughing like retarded seals at some insanely unfunny things. We tend to laugh at the most silly things, because that is what you do, no? Being the passengers of the same boat, saving each other from drowning; and making the most out of little moments; because it is these little moments that matter the most.

Covering the long distance in a cheerful ride back home, a sudden realization that had always been there but too shy to ever show up, finally revealed itself; we, as people, are not free. This way or the other, we are bound by certain sets of values and bind by certain kinds of roots. Roots, that prevent us from crossing the lines, keep us on track and move us all in a circle that we're all connected with.
Hence, in situations like these, when imagining yourself to be Rahul Raichand's free spirited Anjali Sharma is not an option; a little gossip, a lot of laughs and a glass of limo paani is ALL what you need to get back working again.

A Little Magic Would Do

One of those nights when the urge to write has dragged me out of bed, and here I’ve come, bringing along with me tangled loops of very limited words. And a cup of tea.

I have a blank space before my eyes and a keyboard beneath my fingers, and I am struggling, believe me I really am, to assemble my over flowing, vague, ambiguous thoughts properly in a manner for you to understand. I really wish to fill this empty space with well organized words like baskets filled with berries... Or glasses filled with wine… Or the air filled with sweet fragrances of young flowers... There’s so much I wish to say, so much I can't.

And as I sit here, intently following with my gaze the frenzied wisp of smoke rising from the hot tea and noticing its gradual disappearance in the stillness of the night, contemplating on where to begin from, my eyes have encountered the silver light streaming straight through the window, falling at the maroon floor.

The moon. It is the moon, and it is painfully beautiful tonight. Compelling me to quit on this struggle and carelessly sit at the cold marble floor, under the silver light. I sit near the window pane, gazing through the vast sapphire sky, witnessing the shimmery drama of the zillion stars and staring at the moon. A broken verse bearing a strong association suddenly echoes at the back of my head, a warm smile of special someone comes alive, and I continue staring the moon in my search of finding more images…

It is amazing to just sit back and observe how the tiny twinkling stars communicate. They seem small and weightless, but their soft violet radiance bears a sensation that is priceless! Perhaps this is how I had always classified certain joys of life. Small, but priceless. I don’t know what it is about absorbing the soft silver light to the bones, it just endows the magic that I need to enter the stupor of ecstasy where despite the unsettling gloom; I suddenly fall in love with everything around me.

In the air stirred the mist of permanganate purple, deep cobalt and pale silver –colors of my aura, as Aziz would put it – just about the right combination of magic dust that was needed to renew the day’s lost smile and almost diminished hope.

So. I decide to bend down, and carefully gather the small fallen pieces and set about binding them back together to that one whole. Because that ‘one whole’ is definitely worth it.

Euphoria: II

Read Euphoria here.

The first ray of sun painted the navy sky amber and everything changed. The orange dissolved into its lighter shade gradually turning into bright day. The darkness was gone. Her delight was as bright as the glowing ball hanging from the blue sky.

The beautiful maidens, clad in colorful embroidered dresses came dancing; celebrating her love. The street was cleared for her arrival. Huge Multi-story Tibetan brass butter lamps and a number of miniature clay elephants painted with traditional patterns were arranged on either side of the walkway as a welcoming gesture. She was being welcomed with adherence to the traditional culture. The citizens of the city of Euphoria were all gathered up at the spacious balcony of the grand fortress, showering down flecks of colorful shredded fiber, glitter and rung at her and her fays that faithfully followed her.

  

Ever since she had arrived, she hadn’t spoken to anybody, yet they communicated with her in a way. They whispered and introduced themselves to her. The sensational sea waves came touching her feet and the soft breeze went by blowing the locks of her hair, assuring security. A bank of clouds appeared to not let the sun burn her skin, promising protection. The salty fragrance of the ocean and the aroma of wet mud roused up to her, pledging comfort. The winking star up at the clear cobalt sky, the peeking moonlight from behind the soft clouds, the tall canopies of bottle green colored trees, the free flying feather, the herd of twirling pollens… Each of them, one by one, came down to her making a promising vow.

The sketch of her childhood had faded… but traces of certain habits were still intact, of which she was entirely unaware until this moment; when while walking down the walkway, she felt that familiar urge to stop, and glance back; like all those previous times in all those previous years… The door from this distance didn’t appear as charismatic as it had that evening, it was sealed. Yet still, the air from behind that door somehow managed to sneak in and linger around her, like dark shadow. She stumbl.       r own gown but a hand caught her before she could fall…

* * *

Her eyes dawned upon the stranger, and she felt a thrilling sensation gush through her veins. The voices that were ringing in her ear whispered something… Something chaotic. Something meaningful. Something unknown. All those emotions she had felt at the sights that enabled her to appreciate the lush greenery, the mighty mountains, the springs and fields, the rivers and the oceans, the vast skies and the gray shades, the pouring rain and the blowing wind; all the mesmerizing impressions she had ever known, were overwhelmed by the powerful aura of his mere presence. She could feel the weight gradually lifting, permitting her to fly as high as she wants. She clearly knew what this was. It was evident from her eyes, even visible in a little bit of her smile. It was the smile that touched her eyes; her face radiated that ethereal beauty, the kind that had put the queen moon in envy. The smile was a gesture of thankfulness. She was, what they say, in love. Her love was strange. Not so easy to be defined in words they commonly use. Passionate? Romantic? Conventional? Traditional? If you really ask, her love was exceptional. It was an unspoken love, based on the grounds of unshared feelings. A love that was void of expressions, but stronger than them all. It was the kind that most would fail to understand. It was a love as innocent and pure as a newly blossomed bud; a love apparently so delicate like a silver thread of a spider’s web, but stronger than gold wires. It was love, and not an obsession. It was a warm impact, and not a cold influence. Moreover, it was not just an impact, but an inspiration that compelled her to reach for his extended hand having the entire realm of Euphoria witness it…

With maidens dancing around like beautiful Apsaras in raining glitter, the air was filled with cheerful noises. The moment was carved with every minute detail on russet sheesham by the noble craftsmen, marking the beginning of another journey in the city of Euphoria.

Her journey had begun henceforth. From the grand door to her final destination, she knows a number of doors bearing different spells await her. She feels like a river, a river that has a long way to cover; a river, with a direction nonetheless.

Read Euphoria III here

Reminiscence

As I sit here, listening intently to the sound of the sheeting rain outside, I recall those interesting tales we used to hear during those pleasant rainy days, sitting around Naano...

When Abba was posted in Jehlum city, we were allotted a house opposite to the river. It was one beautiful place. The exterior of the house was made of sheesham (timber) with sloping roof. The house had a spacious garden stretched at its front. The garden had almost every sort of fruit and every kind of flower. Walking idly through the vast concrete road, every evening, with our tea cups in hand, we would go and sit by the river. The soft reflection of the sun shining at the river like a pearl, cool breeze teasing the branches of tall neem trees… Peace and tranquility. Life back then was so much simpler than it is now.

When it used to rain in Jehlum, a great number of tiny lady birds used to creep out of nowhere occupying the washed shrubs and grass, like little red beads scattered over dark green silk. Fluttering their colorful wings, would come the butterflies. Playing their mischievous games, flying from flower to flower, welcoming monsoon exactly in a manner like it deserves.
When it used to rain, I used to hear Ammi miss those early days when she was young and beautiful, and the priceless time she had spent in India. She used to tell us how gorgeous their gardens they had back in Naitor (one of the districts of India) used to look whenever it would rain; and I would always ask, “Even more gorgeous than our garden?” And she’d proudly reply, “Yes, even more gorgeous than this garden.” Naana Abba used to order the maids to install swings at the back garden for his daughters – “I have a question, Naano! Your Naana Abba? Or your mother’s Naana Abba?”
–“Ari larki! Hamaray Naana Abba. (Oh you silly girl! My grandfather). As Naana Abba would order the maids to install the swings for Ammi and my other Khala’s, he would also strictly instruct all the male servants to not enter the back garden. Where Ammi and Khaala’s would play around with the butterflies and fly high on the swings, Naani Amma would set about cooking the typical monsoon delights. Pakoray, Gulgulay, and Jalebi. Back then, there was no trend of getting food from the market. Almost everything was prepared at home, and the taste? It used to be unmatchable. Deliciously delicious. The kind seldom found today. –‘’Naah, you do have it in your hands, Naano! I love everything that you cook, even those vegetables!”  – (laughing) “Achhaa, larki! Naani ko itnaa makkhan nah lagaya karo. (Fine, young girl. Don’t you flatter your grandmother).
As Naani Amma would go about frying Pakoray and Gulgulay, the aroma would stir in the air spreading through the entire neighborhood. Maamu Saahab’s friends, as Ammi used to explain, were like family. No later would the whiff of the aromatic food reach them, they’d gather up at the mansion. The servants would then arrange for chairs and table at the front garden for them to sit, and together they’d sit and devour the appetizing cuisine, followed by a round of hookah.
Apiyaa Khaala, Ammi’s eldest sister, had a friend who lived blocks away from their mansion. Their father had a business of dying yarn and cotton. Here the clouds would gather up all ready to pour down, and there they would set about for the procedure of tie and dye at their backyard. Apiyaa Khaala would plead, as Ammi used to humorously recount, Maamu Saahab to escort them to her friend’s place. The request would eventually be fulfilled only after Apiyaa Khaala would make Maamu Saahab a cup of pink tea. Making pink tea for Maamu Saahab meant making pink tea for the entire family, including Maamu Saahab’s friends.

Naani Amma used to pack pakoray and gulgulay and jalebi for Apiyaa Khala’s friend’s family, considering that it is against etiquettes to go at somebody’s place empty handed.—“One question, Naano? Why would your mother and aunts be so desperate to be there? What was so special about it? I didn’t get it.” –“Tahammul rakho, baysabri. Hum woh hee batanay arahay thaay.” (Have patience, you impatient girl. I was just coming to that). Ammi would always reveal the reason of that desperation to be there at the tie and dye enthusiastically; because there they used to get to play with ‘rung’, lots and lots of rung. There used to be a whole lot of big copper dishes with powder rung mounted at them; all shades of blue and green and pink and red and orange and yellow. ”We would go at the front garden of their house, Baano would bring the rung in smaller dishes, and then the running would begin.” Ammi used to have that forlorn look at her face when telling the story and I could always pick that she missed her time. And so when it would rain, I would insist Abba to get us rung too, to which he’d say, “Rung se khelna hindu’aana rasam hai.” (Playing with colors is a practice of hindu culture/tradition). At this remark, Ammi would always take offense and there they’d both go in an argument that was but a gesture of their love for each other…

The forlorn look that Naano used to notice at her mother’s face, I would notice the same at her’s when she’d be too engrossed in telling the tales. Seeing her narrate,  I used to wonder; now that she has grown old, she tells us stories of her past. Perhaps, I’d be doing the same someday…