My review on The Garden of Solitude (here's the post) has been published in Kashmir Observer (the main source of news and information for vast Kashmiri diaspora, intending tourists, business leaders, diplomats, journalists and all those interested in India-Pakistan affairs.)

Here's the link to the Book Review on Kashmir Observer.

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“Years from now, children of your children will return and plant saplings in the backyard of their old houses. Go home now and sleep through the dark nights”

I finished reading the book and the first thought that came to my mind was - with the release of Sridhar’s “The Book of Ancestors”, is it time for the Sufi’s foretelling to come true or is this just a milestone in the journey back home – a journey that might never be fully accomplished – a home that might never be reclaimed? The cherries have started to blossom again but is the long winter really over? And then, the uneasiest question of them all – has the finality of the futility of waiting been so absolute that, in Lasa’s words, “This is our end. We have only the past to seek refuge in.”

The Garden of Solitude by Siddhartha Gigoo traces the personal history of a whole generation of Kashmiris (Pandits and Muslims) caught in the whirlpool of the political tumult and military insurgency that the year 1990 brought to a place that school children are still taught as Heaven on Earth. The central protagonist is Sridhar - who belongs to a Kashmiri pandit family and is forced to leave his “home” in the dead of the night at the age of 15. Through his exile, his quest for self discovery, his yearning for the beauty of a childhood buried in Yarbal, and finally his pilgrimage to his abode after 15 years – comes alive the saga of devastation, betrayal, deaths and alienation.

The language of loss, pain, pathos, nostalgia and solitude – translated beautifully in words that come from a heart that has braved through it all – gives away Sridhar as none other than Siddhartha himself, and in parts, maybe his alter ego.

At one level, the book has been an educating experience for me. I did not know the extent of the horror that the exodus of Kashmiri pandits, from their own valley of magnificence and splendor, was accompanied with.

‘Each truck carried a home and hopelessness.’

The description of the inhuman conditions of the camp sites in Jammu, where the ‘sunsets were hollow’ and every day was a funeral (snakebites and sun strokes excuses to cremate bodies that had left their souls behind), bring out the disturbing details of life as a refugee.

It is surprising that so little is written on this. We have libraries of literature on the Hindustan – Pakistan divide, and most of the upheavals we have been unfortunate to experience, but Kashmir remains shrouded in hushed whispers.

Is it because the unrest is still not history; the time for mourning has not yet come?

The book offers no logical reasoning, no logical resolutions – it talks nothing of the politics of the state – Because no logic seemed to exist? Because it did not matter to the common Kashmiri? Because still no one has been able to untangle the chaos that suddenly changed the face of the valley?

As we learn the tragedy of Kashmir through Sridhar, what is striking is Sridhar’s state of mind – he is at times angry, frustrated, bewildered, disoriented, helpless, and even heartbroken, but he never once comes across as bitter or prejudiced. He has seen pandits and muslims suffer equally – both lost Kashmir – one having left it behind – the other having seen it burn to ashes – and he mourns that loss – his longing for a future that reminisces the past is, alas, in vain, he knows.

“The past was too beautiful to be left behind. The past evoked a longing to be re-lived...The present was just a crippled memory...”

…I can’t yet see the future through the tinted glass that’s still foggy from my memory and my dreams – the garden of solitude I have survived, is there a garden of solace in the offing?

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My Feudal Lord is an autobiography of a woman that transcends the geographical, religious, political and societal context it is based in. Though it is the story of Tehmina Durrani, a member of the Pakistani elite society, set in the highly volatile political milieu of the 1970s, 80s, against the backdrop of a highly radical Islamic community – it is first and foremost the tale of a woman caught in a predominantly patriarchal world that is unfair to her because of her gender and makes her pay dearly for actions that she chooses of her free will.

Though being a Muslim does not help Tehmina’s inherent rebellious streak, her situation is exponentially compounded by her specific background – her rather complicated childhood and problematical relationship with her mother, her latent inferiority complexes, her need to prove her self as a lady befitting the highest echelons of the social pyramid, the tug of war between her hopeful heart and her strong mind, and the final straw – her abusive and traumatic marriage to Ghulam Mustafa Khar, the then Chief Minster and later Governor of Punjab, Pakistan.

Tehmina goes back and forth in time as she constructs the very painful narrative of the 13 years of her marriage in a feudal, woman-baiting society to none other than the Feudal Lord himself. Her silence breaking indictment of the curse that a woman’s life was in the post-colonial era in Pakistan is gruesome, bloody and highly graphical. A victim of domestic abuse – physical, financial, and emotional abuse, a victim of a repressive and racial social structure, a victim of the family need to “keep up” appearances for the sake of social stature, a victim of her own super ego that forces her to mould into the vile of the predominant social ethos, it is rather admiring that Tehmina finally gathers the courage to expose to the world the frailties of the veiled homes.

The book makes you shudder in disbelief at the schizophrenic Mustafa Khar – who is irrationally possessive, insanely aggressive and sick in his highly convenient interpretation of Islam to suit his whims and fancies. Your heart goes out to Tehmina as she tries time and again to break the shackles of marriage only to be each time placated for another chance, by Khar who would resort to every trick the male-dominated and oppressive community bestows him with – subtle manipulation, playing on her insecurities, blackmailing to kidnap her children and open threats of violence.

What is most endearing about Tehmina is that here is a woman against whom the worst profanities have been committed mostly in the name of Islam, yet she is not bitter against the religion. She embraces Islam understanding its true spirit and teachings. The subverted interpretation of the religion by fanatics for their own selfish interests has not disillusioned her. She has picked up the pieces of her life, learnt her lessons, and strives to work for the betterment of Muslim women. Now married to Shahbaz Sharif, brother of Nawaz Sharif, she has been reunited with her children whose custody she lost because of the divorce with Mustafa Khar.

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Inside The Kingdom: My Life in Saudi Arabia is the true story of a woman born in the western world to mixed parenthood and married to a Saudi Arabian hailing from none other than the much known Bin Laden family – this is a tale of the innocence of childhood, the defining moments of youth and love, the saga that is marriage, the pain that motherhood brings, the bitterness of dreams that go sour when faced with the recklessness of reality.

However, this is not simply one of the many hapless stories of broken marriages and international divorces that are tough on women – this is a narrative convoluted by the clash of religions, beliefs, and faiths – this is the life of Carmen Bin Ladin, sister-in-law of the world’s most dreaded terrorist.

Carmen is a Swiss national now residing in Geneva post her divorce with Yeslam Bin Ladin. Inside The Kingdom chronicles snapshots from Carmen’s life, in her words. She talks about her growing up years in Europe – her strained relationship with her Swiss father and her exotic vacations to her mom’s Persian home in Iran. She lovingly recalls how she fell in love with Yeslam - his commanding presence, his alluring roots, his belief in equality of partners in a relationship, his intelligence. Her fond memories of their time together in California, US and the big fat wedding in Saudi Arabia convince the readers of her assurance of a life of fulfilling love and empowering freedom.

Life is a bubble balanced on swords – and unfortunately, Carmen’s bubble broke. The oil boom in the Middle East in the mid 1970s compelled Yeslam to move back to Saudi Arabia in order to take advantage of all the money that was waiting to be made. And thus, started the long and arduous journey of Carmen – the black cloak or burqa, the thick veil, the walls within homes, the eyes that never meet, the suffocating shadows, the deafening silences, the blatant disregard for individualism, and finally the fervent and fanatic reverence of Islam that threatened to annihilate Carmen and her beautiful daughters.

The final straw to her 11-year marriage was the disintegration of her only pillar of strength – her husband, Yeslam. As his personal traits and attitude collided with the radical Islamism and complicated family politics, his weakness to stand by his wife and daughters against the established system came to the fore.

The book published in 2004 is Carmen’s attempt to distance herself form the “Bin Laden” name that had become a curse for her and her daughters in light of the 9/11 attacks in the US. She was compelled to come out in the open to state her severed ties with the family of 22 wives, 29 daughters and 25 sons – of which Osama Bin Laden was one.

Sadly, her struggle is not over. Though legally divorced in 2006 after a bitter long battle, Carmen still worries about her daughters’ well-being given Yeslam’s constant threats of abduction. Unfortunately, Yeslam holds a Swiss passport in order to keep in touch with his children.

This book is a must read for all of us who are so smug in the cobwebs of our everyday living, so entangled in our small worlds that we forget to thank god for our blessed lives, forget to cherish what we have, and forget to pray for others...

(The lives of women in Saudi Arabia remain deplorable even in today’s times – While modern amenities are making their way to the region, the people continue to steep deeper into the harshest form of Islam – that derived from the Bedouin practices. The power nexus that oil, money, dependence of the western world on Saudia Arabia, and the failure of milder forms of Islam as, for example, preached by the Shah of Iran is blood curdling. Jean Sasson has written a trilogy on the life of a Saudi princess – This is also a true account. You can read about it in my post here.)

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Inspite of the fact that I am no big Chetan Bhagat fan, I could not resist the temptation of picking up a copy of 2 States on a recent visit to a book store.

2 States could pretty much be the story of my marriage too, except that it was lacking in all the dramatic paraphernalia, the dysfunctional family syndrome and the extreme emotions that make up Chetan Bhagat’s novella.

I do not think there exists another nation so diverse in its cultures, peoples, beliefs, and languages as India. Travel from one end to the other and you would be asking yourself if it was the same country?

My boss in LA once asked me, so was it a cultural shock when you first landed here? I was like not at all. We Indians have enough cultural shocks traveling from one state to another that it is actually a relief to be in a place where all people atleast speak the same language.

What happens when a UP Brahmin girl brought up and based in Delhi decides to marry the “purest of pure” Tamil Iyer boy from Madras (Chennai, it is now)?

Ofcourse, there are the initial fireworks – My dad asked me in disbelief, “Are you serious?” I was. The “how’s”, when’s”, “who’s”, and “why’s” followed.

The most difficult is obviously the WHY!

“Why do you want to marry him?”

I like him.

“Why do you like him?”

He is nice

“But why him?”

No answer to that one!

The next set of questions, even more flabbergasting.

“Why did you not tell me?”

What am I doing now? I am telling you.

“No, why didn’t you tell me when it happened?”

When what happened? I love him and want to marry him, and I am telling you that.

“Why didn’t you tell me when you fell in love?”

No answer to that one too!

Fortunately, the course of our love was not very turbulent. My mom readily agreed. Vish’s parents were also very welcoming.

My dad took some time but happily came around after asking a trillion and more questions such as how will his hyperactive, slightly spoiled, “feminist” and completely stubborn daughter adjust in Chennai, in a South Indian family set up; the distance between Chennai and Delhi (I forget in what unit); what about the language barrier, how will Vish handle fights and my mood swings (not that my dad doesn’t think much of me, I think he wanted to give Vish the worst picture possible in the vain attempt to dissuade him :)!); family background (so important in an Indian wedding); can the wedding be in Delhi – North Indian style?;

And patiently Vish did answer in great depth and as genuinely as he could – I am sure he did not know the actual distance between DEL and MAA – I think, love makes you patient and persistent ;)!

Then, came the onslaught of curious relatives: Is he dark? (And I thought “fair” was considered important for a woman); Does he speak in a madrasi accent? (Is our Delhi/UP accent something we should be very proud of); They consider fish vegetarian, no? (No!); Does he always wear a lungi? (WTF!); Do they get fresh milk in Chennai, there are hardly any cows seen on the streets of Chennai! (Ok, do the stray cows in Delhi supply the milk?); Do you get atta – wheat flour, they only eat rice, no? (That’s a genuine question :)); Do they wear silk all year round? (Kinda, but silk is a natural fiber!); Do they have pubs and malls in Chennai…do people go to discs? (Yes, please ignore the ignorant North Indians); Do they cook all their food only in coconut oil? (Cudn’t give a damn!); South Indian men like only “healthy” women no – u see all those movies. (No response to that one!)

Our families coming together brought in a lot of cross cultural awareness. Many myths were shattered, and some firmly reestablished.

Everybody learned a few facts, first ofcourse, that there is more to an Iyer Madrasi than oiled hair, geeky looks, engineering degree, and overseas relatives; Tamilians have tasted inter-state and international cuisines, though curd rice still remains their favorite dish; Not eating “paneer” does not make them any less normal; Delhites are more flamboyant but we also observe traditions like they do in the south – only maybe not at early morning unearthly hours; We do not and cannot understand how a DJ can be substituted by Carnatic Music at a wedding; Just like everybody in the south is not from Madras, everybody in the north is not from Punjab;

More importantly - Moms on both the sides are fiercely protective of their sons; Relatives in both the states can get pesky; Everybody loves gifts;

And most importantly finally it’s not what community you belong to but who you are that makes all the difference – Generalizations are superficial!

All’s well that ends well, they say, and I agree. The wedding went off smoothly – North Indian style with my dad making some improvisations like making me sit on his lap for the “taali” (any need!) – and yes, I did wear the complete nine yards during the “pheras”.

Post the wedding, life’s changed – only slightly.

Sambhar-sadam goes along pretty well with paneer makhani, as does masala dosa with chhola bhhatura ;)!

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I have been snooping around the house a bit and happened to chance upon my sister-in-law's stash. Thanks Aps! I was able to lay my hands on quite a few good books and have displaced these from their intended location to my room, I promise I'll put them back :).

Have been fond of poetry for a long long time now and so I picked the Collected Poems by Dom Moraes first. I must admit that I have not read the poet before and don't even recall his name as being even remotely familiar. And since Vish had atleast heard of the poet (he couldn't recall the poems, thank god!), I had to swallow his snide remark that expressed his concern on the kind of literature I have been into. Hmmm. Okay. Everyone has their moments of enlightenment. I owe him one now :)

Back to Dom Moraes. Born in Bombay, educated in Oxford, Moraes is one of the select few celebrated English poets that India has ever produced. This particular collection comprises select verses from his large body of work over a period of almost five decades. I read through almost all in no particular order (obviously can't read poetry like a novel - beginning to end).

Maybe I didn't give him too much time and thought but my first reaction was wow, the poems are technically sound, beautifully crafted, characterized with apt and unique imagery and interconnection of themes, but very few poems left the deep impression a good composition leaves on you. Some poems, especially, used loud images rather than subtle cues, the focus seemed on the physical power and enthrallment rather than on discerning emotional involvement. Maybe, I am being a little hasty in writing him off and I need to read him atleast once more and with greater care. After all, everybody deserves a second chance.

However, like I said, Moraes does come across as an elegant craftsman, an experienced artist who commands the readers' interest. Here are some verses that I particularly liked:

Aspects of a City
On a defensible hill, by a river,
The foot rested, the bronze hammer
Tested for the fault in the rock.
Tapped up by one concise stroke,
Shape detached itself, visible,
Chisels scraped, details clarified.
Brushes made colours separate.
The blind man, an unnecessary lamp
Raised, commanded the camp to see.
Women's whispers, imprints of war,
Deathmasks, the prescience of blood.
In the living rock, the first shape.
From the first shape the final form.
In the storm's eye the city stood.

All languages is its own history,
Scarred with eponymous heroes,
Heartsick dictators, martyred tribes,
Gods desecrated on their altars.
The sound of an ancient trumpet,
Summons to war, in the vowels.
The clashed consonants echo
Hammer on rock, blade on blade.
All language is its own landscape.
Where single cities can be made.
If it is reductible to a word,
Each one must find his own.
It is the destiny of a dynasty
To form a language from a language.

Once
It happens to you once and only once.
You stare into yourself for many years,
a childhood habit, followed ever since,
and then by accident the face appears
you recognize but have not ever known.

Delicate features of an ancient race,
a classic beauty chiselled from dark stone,
call back the memory of another place
you were acquainted with in other times.

From your exhausted mind the memory climbs
as after a thrown stone the water clears:
the world made flesh, her body of deep bronze
held in your arms after too many years.
It happens to you once and only once.

Typed with One Finger
Travel with me on the long road
into loneliness, where the hours
offer pardons to those still afraid.
Bursts of white and blue flowers
will surprise you in summer, with
denials of what is called death.
When I am not there in the maze
where the long road ends, think
of the clumsy stutter of my limp
behind you always, hindering you,
trying to help you all my days.

Every word that I wrote was true
this way or that, meant to praise
whatever was worth it on earth.
When my thumb, slowly flexed,
erased vexed lines from your brow,
it did more than my typing finger
achieved in those seasons, for that,
over the endless miles of paper,
scratched in marks like crowfeet.
As so there were always reasons
how are lives became complete.
For me the main one was I loved you.

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The worst gang wars of all time – Nazis against the Jews in the 1930s and 1940s under the rule of Führer, as Adolf Hitler was known - is a testimony to the most abysmal depths to which the human race can ebb. Genocide of approximately six million European Jews and systematic annihilation of millions of people in other groups including ethnic Poles, the Romani, Soviets, and political and religious opponents as part of a program of deliberate state-sponsored extermination planned and executed by the SS (Schutzstaffel) army in Germany is what every human being, irrespective of religious, political and national boundaries, should be ashamed of.

And this is the context of the book I just finished reading - Holocaust by Gerald Green, based on the critically acclaimed NBC-TV series by the same name.

Through the fictional accounts of two men caught on the extreme spectrum of this catastrophe – Erik Dorf, officer in the Nazi Army, swept up in a frenzy of murderous rage and Rudi Weiss, a Berlinian Jew, the anguished victim, the author traces the bloody trail from Berlin to Warsaw to Russia to Czechoslovakia to Prague to Israel, unfolding the searing and contrasting saga of the two interlocked German families.

Green spares no gory detail – the destruction of European Jewry, the confabulations of the architects of Hitler's Final Solution, the slaughter at Babi Yar, the impoverished ghettos, the death trains used to export Jews, the concentration camps, the gas chambers, the Warsaw Ghetto uprising and finally, the liberation of Auschwitz. He chronicles how euphemistic phrases such as Endlösung der Judenfrage (German for ‘the final solution to the Jewish question’), resettlement of Jews, autonomous Jewish territories, among others, were used as means to one end – mass obliteration of a whole race. Add to this, the complete apathy by religious and humanitarian institutions, governments and media organizations across the world.

If Holocaust is a story of extreme hatred, it is also a mesmerizing tale of passionate love. It captures the heroism and courage of the some few who fought to live and died with dignity. In its dismal setting of unparalleled monstrous deeds, it strives to keeps alive the hope in the spirit of human relationships.

The narrative brings alive the sadness beyond tears of the lives of the millions perished for no apparent logical reason, and though there is a sense of survival and triumph towards the end, one realizes that it comes at too exorbitant a price and with too many scars that even the waves o f time may not be able to alleviate.

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Having grown up on an extravagant indulgence of fairytale romances with princesses in distress and knights in shining armor, I have always envied the lives of the royalty across geographies and cultures – the Victorian splendor, the Mughal opulence, the Arabic excesses.

I have read legendary tales of birds in gilded cages but I always felt that in any given period in history, I would rather be a wealthy queen with no freedom than a woman who has to struggle. My argument goes like this - a Victorian princess must have been much more blithe and contented than a woman from, say, the bourgeoisie. Going by that logic, till yesterday, I’d not mind being an Arabic heiress with plenitude and luxury at my beck and call. Ignorance is bliss, they say and I agree. On my mother-in-law’s recommendation, I decided to spend my weekend reading “Princess: A True Story of Life Behind the Veil in Saudi Arabia” by the American writer, Jean Sasson. The book has been classified as the top 500 books written on women.

The story is a non-fictional heart wrenching autobiography of a princess that takes its readers to the forbidden realms of the royal house in Saudi. The princess, unfortunately, has an indomitable spirit and great courage, both causes of grave threat to a patriarchal society that sees women as only objects of possession. The men in her life – her brother, her father, her husband rule her life and do everything possible to annihilate her chutzpah. Much as the tale is about the harassed weaker sex whose only sin is the missing male organ, it is also a tale of the decadence of the male community who continue to live in the barbarism of the dark ages.

The powerful indictment of Sultana, the pseudonym of the central character of the narrative, made me shudder in first, disbelief, then anger and frustration. The thought of a contemporary undergoing such an arduous and torturous life in this age – yes, Sultana is still living, if her existence can be passed off as that, is abominable. This is not a prehistoric saga but a 21st Century extraordinary account of the ordinary lives of women in a part of the same world that we inhabit. I am inevitably forced to compare our lives. Is my equal status to my husband something I should feel privileged about? Should I be grateful to my dad for having educated me? Am I honored that the society I live in considers polygyny a crime?

A profound sadness shrouds the book, leaving little room for hope even though the Princess tries every trick from open defiance to subtle manipulation. The story ends as it begins, the closest men in her life visiting the mosque, leaving her alone behind. There is this helplessness that is so intricately woven with the unfolding of events that no reader can escape the despair the reading of the book brings. I have little courage to read the other two books as part of the trilogy – Princess Sultana’s Daughters and Princess Sultana’s Circle.
Equality of men and women is debatable in any society, but this blatant denial of basic human rights to women, and relegating them to a status worse than that of animals and slaves, is very disturbing, to say the least.

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The immortality and the relevance of Ghalib (18th Century) even after so many years, generation after generation, are almost supernatural. His verses, also often referred to as sonnets, though written in Urdu (in the Persian script) speak a language that cut across all barriers. The meaning they convey appeals to the emotions and touches the lives of many, across all barriers of culture and linguistics.

“Hazaaron khwahishen aisi ki har khwahish pe dum nikle,
Bahot nikle mere armaan, lekin phir bhi kam nikle.”

Bollywood introduced me to Ghalib at a very young age;

“Woh aaye ghar mein humaare khuda ki qudrat hai
Kabhi hum unko kabhi apne ghar ko dekhte hain”

But, that time, such shaayari only meant a fanciful set of urdu words put together to romanticize a seemingly mundane circumstance. I also associated Ghalib’s shaayari with lovers. A true lover should recite beautifully sounding couplets. (Though years later, when I did marry, the guy did not recite any such ghazals, and I did not remember that he had to!)

“Zindagi yun bhi guzar hi jati
Kyon tera rahguzar yad aya”

My first formal rendezvous with Ghalib happened in college, quite accidentally I must say. Searching for reference material on Chaucer in the college library, I chanced upon this old book with English translations of Ghalib’s selected ghazals. I soon found myself devouring each page. Each word so evocative, suddenly I could almost associate with the passion with which Ghalib had written.

“Khaamoshi mein nihaan khun gashta(h) laakhon arzuen hain
Chiragh-e murda(h) hun main be zaban, gor-e ghariban ka”
(Hidden in the silence are millions of desires that have been bled out;
I am just a silent, snuffed out lamp at the grave of a stranger)

In the fast paced tracks of studies, career and marital bliss, though Ghalib was pushed to the margins, he continued to dwell in a very special corner of my life.

“Meherbaan ho ke bulaa lo mujhe, chaaho jis waqt
Main gaya waqt nahin hun kih phir aa bhi na(h) sakun”

And Ghalib did return, where I would have expected the least. A fantastic library in Schaumburg, IL, chiseled wood shelves, second floor section on literary criticism and the book, “Love Sonnets of Ghalib: the first complete English translation, explication, lexicon, and transliteration of Ghalibs’s sonnets” by Dr. Sarfaraz K. Niazi. I was thrilled. Three weeks I spent immersed in his work. Each couplet so exquisitely crafted and drenched with varied sentiments that come alive in you as you read. Not a pro at Urdu, the English translation provided me with the tools to appreciate the poetry of Ghalib in much greater detail.

“Gardish-e rang-e tarab se dar hai
Gham-e mahrum’i javed nahin”
(I am afraid of the changing state of joy,
No fear there is for the despair of life)

The mystery and magic of his two line couplets remains unequaled as they range from spontaneous expression to extremely complex and convoluted poetic renderings. The nuances, the similes, the traps, archaic constructions, extrapolation of the humdrum of life to momentous events, the subtlety of expression and the profundity of thought make Ghalib one of the most fascinating and interesting poets of all ages.

“Us falak ke teer ka kya nishana tha
Jahan thee meri manzil wahin mera aashiyana tha
Bas pahunch hi rahi thi kashti saahil pe
Is toofan ko bhi abhi hi aana tha”

I could go on about Ghalib, but the fact is that the uniqueness and the sheer ingenuity of his creations leave a firm imprint in the heart and mind of his readers. Much has been written and said about his personal life as well which provides a sort of context for his writings but with or without context, Ghalib appeals to me in a way no other poet does. He remains an unsurpassed virtuoso who has enriched the world of literature immensely...his own couplet as a tribute to him…

“Jan di, di hui usi ki thi
Haq to yun hai kih haq adaa na(h) hua”

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