time of my life

Every year ending is a challenge. The children, over the years have legitimized an out of the house celebration on the 31st while I have myself resigned to a quieter pace. While the rest of Dhaka party to great new tunes, every year I remember a 31st we had in Bangkok in 1999. Sharaf, my youngest son loved being in Hyatt on the 31st December 1999 . With his face painted, he settled down with his balloons and his Elachi khala, his au pair, while we had less to do on our tables. That was one of the last 31st celebrations I had with him.
For me, 2009 ended with silence and soliloquy. With a definite resolve not to be dragged into a noisy notch, I enjoyed my own candlelit corner with bharta-dim-bhaja on the 31st followed by two countdown sms-s and calls. The 31st this year had a regal blue moon which usually graces the sky every two and a half years. The sky was brighter with a few isolated expat fireworks.The roads were calmer than any other year and I felt strangely relieved when the next day newspapers did not carry any social scoop on the elite. I had every reason to thank Him.
As a rule, I have the shortest munazat in my prayers. Long ago, I figured that asking too much has a boomerang effect; He, in return, ends up asking for more. Since I am not an ideal giver, I have figured out that asking Him to do what is the best for me or anyone is the smartest solution just because, one: one doesn’t have to invest in a wish list and two: one automatically gets a free membership in His Favorites’ Club. No demands, multiple gains! Therefore my 01st began with asking for the least: forgiveness and as the next day progressed, I was given the most.
After a much gratifying swing correction at the driving range at the Golf Club at 8:00, along with updates from the my kids on the post-31st party analysis , tightly followed by a “lakri-koila” biryani at home in the garden, at 3:00 pm, I ended up in one of our factories which had decided on a New Year celebration…
As I approached the factory, my auditory reaction to the increasing noise level was one of fear. Would I go deaf this afternoon? Would music kill me on the 1st day of 2010? I climbed the floors up with my daughters and before I knew it, I was standing in front of a fairly large stage. The cutting tables on the floor had all come together and had formed the platform for them to dance on.
The appreciative audience had workers and their partners along with a few cute little faces ready to rock with the blast. The women were all wearing what they thought they looked best in with their golden accessories hinting that they wanted the real. On stage, there were colorful dancers who were uninhibited by the male presence, and who, in turn cheered when a smart young man with his ears pierced had attempted a break dance with an almost-synthetic song by Habib. They were all beautiful. The factory ceiling looked brilliant with the streamers; the air around the place felt crisper in spite of having hundreds of workers surrounding us, the same old ‘us’ who hardly visit the factory floors and who barely recognize the faces that drive our year end growth statements.
We came back feeling more alert and alive than we did in the morning. Just the other day, my son was referring to the facebook status of an ‘elite’ kid. Apparently she shares her minute-to-minute existence with the world; on her page, a transit lounge in Delhi is transformed into a first class lounge in Dubai; a restaurant that she usually visits is often reported as the coolest spots for the Dhaka-ites; the Christmas dinner at a local hotel floor ends up being an ‘elite’ lounge. Somehow her Imagination only has room for money and never people. Her swift updates almost prompted me to tweet yesterday afternoon:
“Beginning 2010 with party animals on cutting tables on the factory floor in Joar Shahara, the best party zone ever”
Wondered how she would react to that…
Dec 02, 2010

A dear friend who lost his father a month back came last week along with his wife and kids. They were one family who never budged an inch when Sharaf was fighting for his breath. My friend was actually one person who even planned to fly in a donor heart from Mexico with the help of a private plane when Sharaf’s heart was completely failing. My friend’s wife was one who had catered to Sharaf’s every whim of having a fish finger whenever he wanted and whenever we visited LakeVille with a local commuter rail straight from Boston downtown, risking a ride of almost an hour with a cancer kid.
They were all there when we were dying our own private deaths.
Death was a word that family was well acquainted with. My friend’s wife had lost her dad to cancer and my friend had also lost his mum to the same killer. We all had a common enemy and all of us had one focus: Let’s beat it.
Of course, we couldn’t and of course, today we only live with memories. These memories could be called our leaves that rest on our thinnest branches that sway with the lightest breeze. These leaves hardly rest and these leaves never change their color in winter or fall. Visitors like us often seek space under them.
My friend, his wife and I were such visitors, seeking solace in what we knew and what we had learnt from our years of battling cancer.
When they came in, their kids had come in looking at Sharaf’s picture and they had tons of questions about him. They wanted to see his photograph, his room, his work, his hospital souvenirs et al.
I had to answer each one of them in detail and I had to open up a whole wooden box of my son’s photographs and memories. Out came 2002 and my ultimate loss.
After they had left, the whole world came crushing me under the burden of guilt of having stashed the box away in the study room downstairs. How could I have not looked at him for so long? How could I have expected to have run away from someone who was only mine today, and for whom I would walk million miles into nothingness or infinity, into the real, unreal or the parallel.
These days, luckily, I feel no shame in breaking down in front of strangers or friends or family when I feel pain. I cry freely. I emote, vent without fear of being read or discovered. So, I broke down right after they had left in the evening.
My children wanted to distract me with a few photographs their kids had drawn.
The kids along with their parents had gone to the graveyard right before they came to visit us. They had said their prayers for their Dada, Dadu and Sharaf.
I stared at the papers. The kids had drawn two graves, one a little larger than the other belonging to their Dada and Dadu. Below these two graves, they had drawn the sign of peace. The second picture beat the first. It was a bird’s eye view of the graveyard. There were many graves dug in different directions. After all, they had seen many of them before they came to our home.
That made me smile. That our kids were becoming aware of the finality in our lives, that they are able to ask questions about those who have crossed over with absolute ease as if they were all alive, that they were being brought up to face the concept of loss with courage was something that finally assured me that they would look for the same leaves after we are done.

I have given us a new name, a new label to specify who exactly we are, what we were born to do and what we do the best with the worst ease. It is transition time for me. I am supposed to look good in traditional attire without looking too hip; I am supposed to expect to take care of my yet-to-be born grandchildren; I am supposed to have all of them married off by the time I hit 50; I am supposed to take care of the home, attend to all their basic shrink needs, their minds and their matters; I am supposed to be growing at least three of each of my organs (in case all of them need me at the same time)…

I can never be sad or sour. I need to be pre-empting all possible scenarios that they may experience; take precautions against all negative possibilities; cover all grounds where they may be quicksands to drown their dreams.

Yet not even a fashionably left strand of hair across my forehead ever goes unnoticed. Yet not even the slightest hint of lip gloss or even the most modest attempt of looking “good” escapes their sibling discussion. And most of all, the endless references to the requirement of medical checkup never seem to cease simply because they don’t want their mummer to die.

They look, they watch and they comment on all my moves, whispers, conversations, attempts, and failures…even with their eyes closed, even when they are sleeping.

Long ago, it was me who constantly threatened them with having three eyes and having left one back at home to watch over them while I worked with two at work. They believed me. When I gave them tooth fairy gifts when they had not even turned 10, they believed me till they discovered the advance gift stocks in my gift chest in anticipation of their next bare gums. But while they believed most of what I had taught them to believe, they must have grown their tough shells to dodge me in the process. At 27,24 and 17, they are tougher adults and certainly tougher kids. Not even I have the required nut cracker to go peep into their worlds. They let me see only what they want to share; the parts that would traumatize ma goes under the covers and are shared only amongst them with the hardest “sssh-code” that is never to be decoded by their ma: well, ‘maa’ to one,  a forceful two syllable ‘amu’ to the youngest and ‘ammujan’ to the other princess.

Therefore, I literally eat, breathe and sleep in the family living area. The L shaped seat gives me the ultimate comfort. Neither of the three musketeers nor I ever get any work done in that space; none of us can move away before at least an hour or two. It’s as if we have special “tie-glues” stuck to our derrieres that pleasantly impose temporary immobility on each one of us.

My recent Bangkok experience has opened yet newer windows to their hidden worlds.

Every new day promised encounters with the new malls along with multiple VAT refund forms that indicated least redemption to the damage. Tanisha’s staple food chart only had pasta, bread, cheese, green curry and a midnight mango with sticky rice. Wamiq was predictable with her sushi, or an exotic Italian dish, coffee and the most tempting dessert in the menu.  The sibling game was worth the watch. They talked the same language, joked with the same passion, apparently danced to the same music and of course, stayed in the same room. And of course, they shared the same mum. Starting with a ridiculous: mummy, I dare you to clean your face with my used wet towel down to a demand of stopping in the middle of nowhere asking to be kissed on the cheek: they asked for it all. One would grab the hand, the other the shoulder.

Such was the theme of sharing their mummer.

I don’t call us mummies anymore. Being a mummy is like being a full time worker at a construction site. We lay the bricks down, set the foundation and right when the structure is close to completion, we hand the project over. Therefore, only mummers can do the job and no one else can.

Currently, my latest project is going through a phase. I have given the bricks a solid cladding, chosen the best cement to steady their faith and it’s time for me to shed my worker grab and turn into being a  simple mummy. The journey from mummer to mummy-hood requires a lot of adjustments. No longer do I require to be involved in their daily furnishing decisions; the corners in their inner homes requires no further supervision, meddling or fuss.

Soon I will renovate my own space while they will be too busy choosing their window shades, colors and landscapes. Soon, I will not be watched anymore as their eyes will run out of time to follow mine.

Soon I will be sadly freer than ever before.

December 20, 2009

On board TG 322, returning from Bangkok

Waiting.
Waiting is a period, not to be classified by comma.
A wait is a halt never to be resumed, a station or a terminal run short of tracks, a ‘next’-less frame popping out of nowhere, a killer of plans, a loyalty gone sour, a sight gone blind, an arrested phrase destined to be doomed to incompletion with no finality, conscience or justice.
That’s how we’ve all been waiting forever for a flash leading to the next forever.
One ‘wait’ shakes the hand of the other and tosses us around, without guilt.
Some of us go out the window and some of us stay locked indoors, happy with the cheater light streaming through our dirty curtains. The first group, or the “venturers” as I would like to call them play with the shovels, dig their own graves and wait for the pompous possibilities leading to the next of the next never.

Missed Moon

Save us, Ye Lord, Save us now….We wish us a safe evening, we wish us a safe evening, we wish us a safe evening, right here and now…. (chorus)

So, quite rightly, my daughters wanted to share with their phupi: the high points of Dhaka. The high points included a grand tour of the risky area, where they were expecting to see a mugging to take place just to have a tag of ‘Witness’ to their sweet names.  But that was not all. Tanisha, my youngest decided to take it a step further and expressed her desire to show our guest the hot spot of Dhaka, the roads right by the club area in Gulshan, which host a substantial number of sex workers peeping out from the back of the trees. Eikhaney, phupi …eikhaney…they stay right here all the time…

So phupi was enjoying the tour of the risky town and was ready to call it a night when we decided to take her to a new coffee shop: Bitter Sweet. How ironic. The city had indeed become bitter sweet at the same time.  As much as we hate living here, this is one place we never want to run away from. Yet, we rob our own lands and we rob ourselves of our opportunities.

With every re conditioned stolen Corolla and with every shady microbus that stops a man/woman on the streets to snatch the purse or the cell away, with every suspicious vehicle that passes you by, take a good look at the faces. They are the reason why you can’t see the full moon. They are the ones who stop you from taking a picture of the night sky.

I was mugged once, though. And they were kind enough to call me up and mail my office ID back to me the very next day. But that didn’t stop me. While my kids and their phupi were enjoying the risky Dhaka scene, I was busy taking a picture…

I have never missed the moon….

Not that we don’t do it ourselves, not that we haven’t seen it all these years, not that we’ve protested beyond our four closing walls ever on this issue, but every year it’s different and delicate than ever before.

To tell you the truth, one man made all the difference in our family. Today he is 88 and just suffered a few bouts of strokes and has had to give into my demands of him not going to the Korbani/Qurbani site. Yet, every year, for the last two decades, he has done it. He has been there sitting for hours, made me go as well and every year together we made a big deal out of the day. Every year.

One year when I was pregnant, I had to sit with my eight month old tummy, straight on the kitchen floor, trying to make him feel that it was important, that it was a precious occasion for us to watch the cow being slaughtered, distributed amongst the terribly rich relatives who were apparently dying for the meat to come around to their homes so that they could feast on the same.

Yet this year was a difference to my non violent psyche. This year, I did not let him go to the site and this is what I did this Eid…

A pleasant wintry morning with a lot of mourning cows, goats and even camels. The morning was all about setting up the table which had flowers from the evening before. This, too, I would not have done, had it not been to impress my husband and my father in law. The table had no meaning. Traditional shemai (which, for a change was delightfully good), hunter beef from Sausly’s, a nice loaf of bread to go with it, aloo paratha et al. With silver sparkling all over the spread, it looked as if I were a satisfied grade A wife.

My husband, after having gulped the goodies down announced his intentions of visiting the President House for being part of the million handshakes that would be offered to the am janata by the Head of the State. I was happy to have been left on my own with my kids, my two daughters, critics of the century, loves of my life. And suddenly, I wanted to go to the royal site and take a look at the poor animal being slaughtered…all in the name of Holy Sacrifice.

Wondered though, how could God have come for such a cheap label? Only 40k ? That was it?  After looking at the cow, of course, after having braved through the blood and stink of the neighboring sacrifies, my youngest daughter announced that she was truly shattered as we would soon be asked to leave Banani, one of the semi-elite areas, as our cow did not help us qualify for the League. Ours truly was a symbol of impoverishment, mal nutrition and shame. Worst of all, a neighbor had tied the thinnest goat possible to one of our electric poles just by our house. That did it. Most of our neighbors must be thinking that it’s ours: joined in my wise Wamiq, the eldest.

Oh sure! I added specially after having passed and photographed the houses which had ten imported Australian cows, six Indian ones and five of the best Bangladeshi breed.

I cannot help but share the sight with you.

In most cases, thanks to my daughters, I had photographed the most telling essential parts of the animals, often avoiding the front view as most of them had tears streaming down their faces. But we were not the only ones capturing the moment. There were many “shada loks” , as Tanisha, my youngest put it, running with their cameras just to document the ultimate cruelty of a God fearing race.

To top it all, were posters pasted all over all our neighborhoods, of “Hitu”-s of this world wishing Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina: Eid Mubarak. The emphasis and the inclusion of the short names Hitu, Bitu, Ketku, Billu somehow have lent a personal appeal to the innumerable suckers of our Southasian century. Somehow their two syllable short names have convinced the national leaders of their aspiring cozy images.

Cannot help but share the poster with you as well.

Then there came the camel. Beating the seven feet cows, were the camels of the merchants. Chunks of meat came in, often with rich business cards flaunting associations with the shadiest businesses of the land. I kept the bags of my staff open, stuffing meat into their bags as and when they arrived.

Next Eid will be different by all standards. I plan on gathering endorsement to an anti-Qurbani campaign. And you know why? Just because, God’s plan could not have been to start up a cattle club on a specific date, His plan must have been to test us on our intent of sacrifice and spirit.

On the second day of Eid, Wamiq and I had gone running in the park. There were children playing cricket; there were tiny, shiny leather coats in pairs making their way through the peaceful park; there were purple jackets and skinny ties, all possibly from Banga bazar shining through the mid morning and there were of course, the pink sequined fairies dancing in the track.

That was Eid for us.

And that how it shall always be.

And shoshur abbas will just have to accept it after all. And husbands as well.

At four, Crayola helped; at ten, Guitar water color; at sixteen, oil pastels of different choices
The figure in the frame never moved: at four he was bald, at ten he had a bamboo hat, and at sixteen he flaunted a sports brand cap, today a shadow, that’s who he is
The water right before our house never changed path: at four it was a perforated sheet of blue crayon dotted paper; at ten: a clear line of shaded blue, at sixteen it had ripples and today it’s a shrunken pool with paper boats and unsure swim suits with no final homes of their own
At four a hut, at ten a flat roofed concrete, at sixteen a Roman column attempt and now a distressed exterior beaten by uncertainties of existence housing deaths and damages
An easy, curly green at four changed to a prickly shrub at ten, a planter at sixteen and finally today  an indoor shrub careful about not over extending its week away from the sun
The sky though, has always been the same. Neither four, nor ten, or sixteen or even Now has ever been able to grab the blue. Somehow it always managed to slip through my eyes and outsmart the canvas.
While running away from the real, while exhausting paths, while beating the fatigue and folly, while stumbling upon walls with repetitive redundant respite, I had always found my sky…
My home, till date, has no roof
My life, till date, catches the winter cold, the monsoon tantrums, the April sneeze
Every time, I tire of known roads, while I drift away from my oneiric home, I nip the sky.
At 4, 10, and 16 I had her. Now I have you…
“When the peaks of our sky come together
My house will have a roof.”
(Quand les cimes de notre ciel se rejoindront
Ma maison aura un toit”: Paul Eluard,Dignes de Vivre)
-
Nov 11th 2009
(two days ahead of time)

 
Crumpled like an over-used dinner menu over a weekend dinner
Trampled upon like a fig under a pair of obscene, obstinate pair of legs
Crushed within a palm of strong straight lines
She breathes, defiant of daunting rubble of rules
Stumbling over burning puddles and pebbles
Risking blisters and burnt toes
She returns to her home
Without a name, noise or nag
 
Nov 11,2009

She seemed to have lagged mountains in her past.

Her hunch told a story of pots of chicken, soy sauce, disgruntled children, greedy siblings

There was a rush in her saga

That would not tolerate the embarrassment of her name being called out on a public speaker system at the airport

While six of her grandchildren, her son and a daughter in law

Moved forward the queue without her

She moved proudly behind them,

She seemed to have cooked, and had not been cooked for

She seemed to have listened and had not been listened to

She seemed to have made space where her own had shrunk every day

Will drawn up, lands given, silverware gifted,

She only had a gold chain to hold on to…

She died when the bird took off

Generously breathing her last offer

To the skies and God…

What is it that makes a woman an issue? What is it that makes the men talk about a woman? What is it that makes the world discuss gender parity at a time when a woman is at her most sensitive state; sensitive about bias, discussion and even special attention? Her history is not one which may be corrected; the path she crosses can never be revisited; her struggle is barely noticed and yet she has chosen to be the one to be talked about in a business summit.

This was a summit organized by Standard Chartered in collaboration with Group Women Council in Singapore.  Three of us had made it to the place to simply listen and to brainstorm about womanhood and potential. That she is a good debtor is no news; that she braves her personal storms is not unusual; that she lives in a world crossed by chauvinistic challenges is no surprise.

Yet she needs to be discussed and addressed.

The first evening at a dinner date at the Marina Mandarin, in a restaurant that hosted almost 125 beautiful women and hardly three men, we all looked at each other, networked and enjoyed our moment. The reality came sooner than expected next morning when Lehmann Moment became the key issue of the opening phase. The part to discuss was the recovery phase. The Q3 GDP Growth in China, the land of the Impossibly Capably Aggressive had stood at a 9% while the Q4 growth had dipped to a 7. UK, alas, had reported a -1.4% and USA at this point was riding on a 3.5.  Apparently, the conservative stimulus pattern had led to the frustration in the UK and therefore the country was working on an extended stimulus now. Discussion centred on the reality of the recession not yet having reached the V stage and the world probably not seeing a V curve in a long time to come. Voices concluded that we would all be looking like an incomplete V, rather a square root and would simply have to pat each other at the back and smile through the semi-yet-tried the hardest phase.

At a time like this, what were the women doing, especially in Korea and Japan, where profession becomes a zero right after marriage? Well, the story does not end there as most of these women trade in the funding currencies like Yen, US Dollar and British Pounds from home and are busy. Japan, the country that had 2.2% negative growth and Korea, the country which had ironically 2.2% positive growth definitely had women who were not to be labelled as passive. As far as the world of women could stretch from Far East to the Extreme West,starting from one having a house husband down to another having an extra supportive husband to single mothers, starting from ones having begun their careers after fifty down to some who had always had to work, starting from ones who have grown their own business initiatives down to the ones who had grown their family businesses…all that morning had one voice and one conviction: they all had a choice and they had all pursued their passion. Whether it was to have raised half a dozen kids and then having stumbled upon a neighbourhood bank next door pitching a business, or whether it was all about slogging twenty hours a day at a store, all had one vision and one mission to cater to: Growth.

Well, how will the Bangladeshi women respond to this creed of Growth which meant sustained progress?

By 2014, the world is going to be poised to salute the better half as the earning power of the women will reach US Dollar 18 trillion, which is more than twice the GDP of India and China put together. In a country like Bangladesh, since gender banking has indeed become a focus with the Central Bank announcing a single digit commercial lending rate for women entrepreneurs, all commercial banks should share the spirit. After all, lending to women has always been beneficial; after all, women have always been responsible clients; after all, businesses need to move from micro finance and unofficial enterprise credit to institutionalized platform, don’t they?

Though the world in 2008 witnessed the Falling-off-the Cliff feeling, Bangladeshi women have perpetually lived there, prepared to take the fall in the form of a divorce mantra recited thrice in the village or an elite insult or bias. While most of the Western world has been recovering with currency adjustments, more aggressive policy responses and increased confidence, and through exiting the stimulus bubble, the East has been watching the role reversal. To put it simply, the west saves while the east spends more today. On one hand, the world has been oscillating between multiple shifting gears, on the other the steering wheel has rested safely with the women. Why though? It’s simply because women define Smart Economics the best while negotiating a fine Work-Life balance.

Strangely a Woman Anywhere has, at any point, a unique tale to offer. She is a silent partner to the growing family business, a quiet mentor for her children, a partner for her ambitious better half, a symbol of aesthetics for her home and workplace, a friend to many like her, an aspiring academic having to put away her laptop or her worksheet the minute her husband comes home…yet she has never been waited upon, and yet, she does not complain.

Time to track back to Here and Now:

 In Singapore, Standard Chartered shared a success story with the participants in the summit. It was the story of Kaniz Almas.

A woman from Bangladesh, Kaniz is known to be one of the most resourceful women in the country. Her investments were all in the beauty sector. She ran salons and spas. We watched her story during dinner. Kaniz had no capital to start with. Her funds came from Standard Chartered, Bangladesh. At a time, when most of us were complaining about our interest rates still not coming down to a single digit (for women, finally it has) Kaniz had borrowed at 17% and has grown her business all over the city with 1200 employees. When she began, she had less than 7 to assist her and today when she looks around she sees her colleagues, her family, her customers and her love.

By her side, her husband, an ex banker, beams with pride and photographing our moment. Kaniz, ever polite and ever humble stands for a simple statement of confidence. She took a leap of Faith when she couldn’t see the bottom and landed on a higher plain. Kaniz is a simple story that teaches the women in Bangladesh never to despair and never to settle for plateaus. Surely mountains were made for women and plains for men?

The Skies, on board SQ 436

Nov 01, 2009