time of my life

Some were returning from their morning walks, some were finishing breakfast, and some were simply reading the print posts. And suddenly there was a lot of noise.

Gun shots don’t make news in Southasia. Absence of it does. Bangladesh has been happy without armed forces rolling their tanks on the streets for quite some time now. In spite of the two years of apparent army backed rule, we have returned to democracy. There’s a new cabinet and there’s certainly a new consciousness. Let me also not rule out pride. When we say: Bangladesh is not Pakistan; most Bangladeshis take pride in that statement. Neither do we use religion in our defence nor have we allowed anyone to trample our own people in the name of war against terror. But yes, we too have had disappointments. We have had corrupt politicians raping our possibilities; we have had greedy elites hogging on to all that they could lay their hands on; we have had rhetoric of ridicule. Yes, we have suffered misrule, dishonesty and abuse. But people still want to make choices. Tonight, when most of the BDR jawans surrender, when more dead bodies surface, when one bulletin after another reports disasters, we all need to make a choice tonight. Who do we choose tonight: sons or sinners?

On the 25^th of Feb, 2009 the Border Forces of Bangladesh revolted against the Armed Forces, killed more than fifty, wrecked the homes of the many army personnel and did what they wanted to do. They complain of discrimination. Their voices were apparently never heard; apparently they were unsung heroes; apparently they were tortured; apparently they were treated like the children of a lesser God. Therefore they decided to overthrow the God of their own conscience and they issued themselves licences to kill, loot and rape.

Elachi, a maid who has been with the family for long 18 years, made the most profound statement of all. While I was ready to leave for the office this morning, she said: “They are acting like the Pakistani army, khalamma. They are repeating ’71.”I agreed…

Thanks to the political wisdom of the Prime Minister the situation has been so far politically handled. But while I blog now, the army still stands positioned on the streets of Dhanmandi, ready to move into the BDR headquarters. Will they make a move? If they do, will the cycle of violence re begin?

The prime minister’s passionate speech provided a few rebels with a quick exit. Few have laid their arms down. Few have escaped. And only about a hundred and fifty are inside, still swearing vengeance. The home minister pacified them; addressed them as our sons.

A few sons of ours have played dirty with blood. A few have given in to greed, lust and power. Many are sinners. Let us not forget that there are mothers in this land who sent their sons to fight the enemy in 1971; there are mothers in this soil who handed their own sons over to law when they strayed; there are mothers who still shun fear and sing freedom.

There are indeed choices to be made tonight. Therefore, let the trial begin…

10:04 pm,
Feb 26^th, 2009

A history of Southasia.

Late it was

Late it is

Late it shall be.

We learn what we never should have written

Maps with line revisions

20 hours to Manhattan and four extra for Wagah

To step or not to step

To cross or not to cross

To step or to cross

To cross and to live

Or not live…

We need routes that were never to be.

We tread grounds which were rivers…once

Rivers are lands today

Tears…fire

Warmth…wires

Homes hate

And,

Lands lie

God’s unstoppable and his wok never stops. But there are many who’d like him to disappear. A few live in London.

Just read that many of the buses plying in London have the following painted on them: “God possibly doesn’t exist; so enjoy and have fun”. Apparently The Humanist Organization has spent 35million pounds advertising this concept. Why then add “possibly”? 35 million could have very well done without it. For all that money, any statement should be decisive.

I wonder how the atheists would react to a shift in their scans, a blow on their head, bankruptcy at their doorstep, an ailing friend, child or parent; I wonder how they go on. For me, my days start with fear. I live restlessly and in fear. My thyroids have gone haywire; my hyperactivity knows no bounds; I seek action and I find it…always. As much as I want laughter, I also know that I need to remember my losses. I find it strange when my last moment of having a Chinese lunch with my son at the Side Wok at Khan Market turns sour over a simple telephone call about my best friend being whisked off to the Intensive Care Unit in Apollo in Kolkata. My last planned minutes in Delhi, shopping at Oma and Good Earth were zillion miles away; I am heading towards Kolkata praying for my friend to be only conscious.

Even with a 35 million, you can neither wipe God away, or his miracles. Let’s hope He spins a few tonight.

17 Feb 2009

When my son and I were headed towards Delhi with the sole purpose of shopping for his apartment, I knew that recession had hit Southasia bad enough to make consumers shy away from the malls at Gurgaon. But that was the bare minimum I could do for my prince and therefore we were heading off to our Milano of the East: Gurgaon and Saket in New Delhi. My son is extremely conscious of the fact that his mother had always shopped at the boutiques with extreme caution, balancing between brands and no-namers. He knows that our house hosts a balance too; we are happy with our paintings, music and books and we are unhappy when there’s an assumption about our lifestyle. We live well but we are well within our means. Our vacations are rarely spent in Europe or in some breathtaking spots; our ideal vacations (if any) mostly consist of being with each other in the far east, but yes…possibly in a great hotel. East has always been friendly for our pockets.

Back to the airport scene now…While checking in, I notice a few people who are checking in as well. All VIPS! And yet not checking in through the VIP lounge??? Hmmm….fair enough…three out of four shied away and hesitated to greet me. I understood and remembered Alain Botton’s Status Anxiety. But then the fourth was mean. She looked away with a degree of contempt. All four dressed to kill were the perfect picture of the Dhaka scene. My son and I, perhaps did not look chic enough. We did not head for the lounge, rather went to the departure gate. And while we were about to board, I heard my prince breaking into uncontrollable bouts of laughter. What was it, I asked? He shared with me a peak into his facebook account, where the 4^th one, the meanie had just posted from the lounge a new status statement: “In the 1^st class Dubai lounge, wishing if only I had a visa to go to town and shop!”.

She was in Dhaka airport, transiting Delhi and heading for London. Close enough, but Dhaka and Dubai only have the first letter in common. And 1^st class lounge? The girl in boots was obviously hallucinating about Dubai being transported to our very comfortable Balaka restaurant. Is this what the virtual does to us? Or is this what our tiny pots of gold tempt us to believe? I don’t blame the girl; she probably has grown up watching her mom clad in the smartest suits, bragging about the terrace of her London house while in reality, in an incestuous dinner setting, she will have people whispering to each other about the leaks in her bathroom in her very own “London” villa. These people belong to a special breed. They are anxious about what they have, frantic when they lose a bit, unashamed when their sons get arrested for drug trafficking. These are the same people who host lavish dinners where most of the diplomats make an appearance and who address them by their first names. Are the people of this impoverished land unable to carry poverty with pride?