Desicritics Author: Jawahara Saidullah

Amchi Mumbai

Jawahara Saidullah — Fri, 28 Nov 2008 08:24:12 EST

Mumbai -- or Bombay as we had known it for years -- was the city I made fun of. It was the city that rickshaw drivers and domestic servants ran away to, to become film stars. It was full of brash, opinionated, self-important people, of models and actresses and suited financial types. The home of people who would say things like "Bombay is the best city in India," or "Bombay is India's NYC and LA rolled into one,' or " Bombay pays most the country's taxes and we get no benefits while states like Bihar and UP and Delhi reap the benefits."

Yes, Bombay was to me self-important, self-obsessed, and yet it always was India's city of dreams. For indeed, small town girls and boys could come here and become stars, where the lingo of the tea-boys was hip, and though gritty and urban, it became transformed at night when the glittering queen's necklace lit up.

Perhaps it was a reaction to Bombayites'--now known as Mumbaikars--dislike for my state's and Bihar's refugees who streamed into the city straining its resources to their breaking point. And yet the city stretched to accommodate them. Perhaps there was some admiration, maybe even envy woven into my psyche. Perhaps that pounding pulse of Bombay, that brash uncaring attitude, that touch of rudeness and the self-obsession was something I wished for myself and for my hometown and my state.

The Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, across the street from the Arabian Sea was the hotel of aspirations. It was where we dreamed of going. No matter the new and amazing other hotels in Delhi or even Mumbai, I still remember my first time, at 12 when I had dinner at the Shamiana restaurant. Sure, I pretended to be blase, but still so many years later I remember that first time. The Taj was history and glamor and wheeling dealing and exotic, all at once. It was a gracious, grand hotel and despite my teenage refusal to find anything redeeming about Bombay and its sprawl, I found my evening at the Taj enchanting.

Today as I watch the splatters of blood, the look of shock on faces, the fires at the grand old Taj, and at the Oberoi and Trident hotels I remember my past dislike for Mumbai.

And I see Mumbai for what it is. India's economic engine, its repository of dreams, the place that makes us believe all is possible. Despite its problems I see beneath its brashness is impatience, beneath its jostling, bustling heart, a desire to see things happen, to *make* them happen.

It is to this chaotic, teeming city of dreams that Islamic terrorists with rucksacks laid siege. They ran through the streets, shooting people, exploded bombs at Victoria (now Chhatrapati Shivaji) Terminus. They holed up in its finest hotels, targeted foreign visitors and the predominantly Jewish Nariman House. A city that sacrificed three of its top cops, and nine other policemen to the attacks, where over a 100 have died, while hundreds more have been injured. The terrorists may or may not be Pakistani but they certainly had some support from across the border. According to NDTV's coverage intercepted calls seem to suggest this. In fact, the terrorists were supposed to say they were from Hyderabad in Andhra Pradesh, not Hyderabad in Pakistan. The full truth will come out some day I hope. Regardless, it is impossible to carry out these widespread attacks without local complicity and that saddens me and makes me very. very angry.

AND I AM SICK OF IT.

No matter how bad this is, and not much can be worse, Mumbai is the one city that can withstand this. Even after the simultaneous train station bombings in 2006, people went back to work the next day. Yes, Mumbai is a tough city. Its people are tough and they are resilient.

Today, I can say, with no reservations and no pity, but with admiration and support: I love Mumbai. Today, I too am a Mumbaikar. And today with all Indians, even those of us who live elsewhere, I too can declare: Amchi Mumbai, My Mumbai. Terror will not overwhelm us.

Amchi Mumbai, Our Mumbai, we are with you.

A Jewel of a Controversy

Jawahara Saidullah — Thu, 23 Oct 2008 12:11:53 EDT

*sigh* *double sigh*

What is it? What is it that makes it okay to criticize people but god forbid if you happen to criticize a book or a faith? Good lord, much as I love writing, please criticize away, heave at it, but leave me the fuck alone. My writing is inanimate. It feels no pain but I do. I can re-write, savagely edit, but there's only one of me. No more drafts. Just one of me. I can be hurt.

Perhaps there is nothing, no one book, no god, that I feel strongly enough about to defend with my life. Nothing that I feel so strongly about that I would kill or threaten to kill someone because of it. Maybe that's why I find the whole fracas about The Jewel of Medina, to be tiresome and as thrilling as a bad case of hives. I mean, seriously, get over it.

For those who have better things to do with their time, here's the condensed version. Sherry Jones wrote a book, called The Jewel of Medina, based on prophet Mohammad's wife, Aisha. Aisha was betrothed to the prophet at six and married to him at nine (or eleven or thirteen, but young, really, really young regardless), and was known as his favorite wife. Random House signed Jones to a $100,000 two-book deal and all was well with the world. Then...surprise!....as sure as winter follows fall, came the death threats. Duhhh!

Random House, that bastion of free speech and errr...commercialism...dropped the jewel like a nuclear potato. Andrew Franklin, who was editor at Penguin when The Satanic Verses was published decried Random House as cowards. Rushdie, of course, supported Jones and wrote about the perils of censorship. *Yawn*

In September 2008, British publisher Gibson Square took on the challenge of publishing the book. So far they are standing firm on this despite the publisher, Martin Rynja's house being firebombed. Yes, the threats escalated and the guy's house went up in flames.

Not so condensed after all, but there you have it.

Let me say this: I am tired of firebombs and death threats and murders in the name of religion. Debate religion, indulge in some good old-fashioned name calling but leave people's bodies and homes alone. Simply put, if you don't want to read a book, don't read it. Tell others not to read it. Why is it not okay to criticize your religion or fictionalize aspects of it? We live in a multi-textured world and some of us don't want sacrosanctness around us. We choose not read your stuff. You don't have to read ours.

Though I am a die-hard Rushdie fan and liked The Satanic Verses, I find myself waffling at Jones' shall-we-say soft-porn and rather *ahem* loose interpretation of facts. I mean there's fictionalizing and then there's "I floated in his arms to my apartment. He kicked open the door and carried me inside, then placed me on my feet again." This just makes me want to curl up with a cup of tea and the latest offering from Harlequin.The Sheikh's Virgin Bride anyone?

What I don't get is the shock that people...writers, publishers, editors...express every time they write or produce something about Islam and some pious Muslim decides he'd like to kill them for it. Really, in this day and age, if you write anything about the prophet without a million PBUHs littering the page and if you bring up even a slightly risque subject matter (even if it is done well), prepare yourself for the onslaught. And don't be coyly shocked when it arrives. Still, you have the right to offend people, yes, even people who find phrases like "I spread a smile thick as hummus across my lips, deeply offensive. Offend me. Offend iconoclastic Muslims. Just don't be shocked when you do.

And that's the point isn't it?

Jones has the right to write any lurid details she wants and a publisher should be able to publish it without having to make that now so tedious decision: your book or your life? They have the right to write and publish. You have the right not to read it and convince others not to. Simple!

So now, let's address you, Mr. or Ms. your-writing-offends-me-so-I-will-kill-you-in-the-name-of-Allah-firebomber:

By all means, castigate the author, read the book and tear it to shreds in reviews, boycott it, use it as a means to educate people. Don't try to prove you're not a narrow-minded, predictable dick-head by being a narrow-minded, predictable, dick-head. Stop with the threats, the fire-bombs, the fiery rhetoric. We get it. The rest of us--sane Muslims and non-Muslims--should not write about anything that vaguely touches anything remotely controversial in Islam. Guess what? People think and they read and they write. And part of that process is touching upon taboo subjects and writing about them. So, that's not gonna change. No matter how many Molotov cocktails you shake up.

Perhaps, since you evidently read (if not the books themselves, but at least the synopses put together by some literate brethren) you should channel your fiery thoughts and impulses towards writing reviews of these evil, evil, shaitan books. Go on! Really! You can. It might even get published.

Shock us by NOT firebombing anyone. Shock us by using normal, non-violent channels of dissent. Shock us by not threatening to kill or actually killing someone to show your displeasure. Shock us with your intellect, the power of your pen, the thunder of your prose.

At least then the rest of us can break away from this predictable cycles of writing and threats every few years. And perhaps, the Ms. Jones of the world won't be laughing all the way to the bank. Get 'em where it really hurts. In the bank. Ignore these books so people like me won't buy it regardless of the author's less than stellar writing. Use your brain not your bomb.

Believe, truly believe, that Allah is all-powerful and is well able to look after His/Her image and doesn't need a pipsqueak human to defend Him/Her. I mean really, who do you think you are? Isn't that rather blasphemous...that you, a puny human can defend God?

I feel a fatwah coming on. Gotta run!

That Freedom of Speech Sh*t

Jawahara Saidullah — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 13:13:44 EST

Internal dialog in Jawahara's mind:

Oh no, you're not writing about that freedom of speech crap are you? Say you're not please. It's so done. It's so...I don't know so very 2007. Give it up. I am soo tired of your shit. See what I did there?

But it's the perfect storm, don't you see? Here is thedelhiwallah reporting on the Delhi intelligentsia demanding citizenship for Taslima Nasrin. There are those damned Danish cartoons again, complete with a foiled assasination plot against the cartoonist. I can't resist. I just can't. I tried. I tried for a whole day but I can't hold it back.

And the shit, what about that? What's that about, huh? Gotcha?

Well, it's early in the year, prime nostalgia time, and I started started thinking about the pre-Web Internet (you gasp? It's true. I was there) and the shit and religion list that was so popular then, making the rounds of discussion boards every once in a while. So, compiled from the eternal space known as the Internet, here you have it, an oldie but a goodie, the Shit List of Religions. I only wish I had been smart enough to write at least one of them. But I couldn't not bring this up. Sorry!

I give up. *sighs*

Good. I hoped you would. *smiles*

Religion and Shit Ideology AKA The Shit List

Note: Okay, some of them are not about religion but they are still funny.

Taoism: Shit happens.

Confucianism: Confucius say shit happen.

Zen Buddhism: Shit is, and is not.

Zen Buddhism Redux: What is the sound of shit happening?

Hinduism: This shit has happened before.

Calvinism: Shit happens because you don't work.

Secular Humanism: Shit evolves.

Creationism: God made all shit.

Darwinism: This shit was once food.

Catholisicm: If shit happens you deserve it.

Judaism: Why does shit always happen to us?

Unitarianism: Come, let us reason together about this shit.

Existentialism: Shit doesn't happen, Shit IS.

Mormonism: God sent this shit.

Quakers: Let us not fight over this shit.

Seventh Day Adventist: No shit shall happen on Sunday.

Agnostic: What is this shit?

Satanism: SNEPPAH TIHS.

Atheism: What shit?

Atheism redux: I can't believe this shit.

Impressionsim: From a distance shit looks like a garden.

Idolism: Let's bronze this shit.

Since this is me writing, you know you were waiting for this nyah nyah to my ummah. Hey, I can say it since I am Muslim :-) Peace! Here is the grand finale. Ta daaa!

Islam: If shit happens it's the will of Allah.

Islam redux: If shit happens, kill the person responsible.

Islam.3: I'll kick the shit out of you.

VIVA FREEDOM OF SPEECH!!!!

India's Kidney Racket - More Than Mere Blood & Sweat

Jawahara Saidullah — Wed, 30 Jan 2008 12:34:26 EST

Remember that old urban legend from the mid-1990’s? You’re a lone business traveler, out of town, tricked, deceived, and drugged, you wake up in a tub of ice, a searing pain in your side. ‘Call 911 if you want to live,' says the note clutched in your hand. Someone has stolen your kidney and transplanted your contraband organ into someone willing to pay big bucks. All you’re left with is pain and the fear of infection. And lingering weakness for life and other complications.

We've all sniggered at this outlandish tale. Kidney thieves indeed. How gullible can people be? And would you please stop cluttering my inbox every time I am going on a trip? Thanks!

But as the cliché goes, truth is stranger than fiction and nothing is stranger than this new truth. In Gurgaon — that epicenter of malls where everything is for sale — kidneys are being stolen from unsuspecting people. There is an actual kidney-stealing ring preying on mostly poor people. They steal from the poor and get paid from the rich.

Over 500 poor people have had their kidneys harvested without their consent. Well, some were duped, but some were lured to the hospital (if you can call it that) on the pretext of getting a job. Then, at gun point they were subjected to blood tests and made unconscious. They awoke up hours later, in severe pain, and their kidney missing. Some poor laborers were paid a mere Rs. 50,000. The organs were sold for more than 20 times that amount. These were the lucky ones who got something, no matter how paltry out of it.

Neighbors of the so-called hospital (which was actually in the Demon Doctor of Gurgaon’s house) had noticed blood flowing in the gutters, had seen blood-soaked bandages and even pieces of flesh strewn in an open plot opposite the house. Did they not worry about being caught? I wonder why.

This is horrifying and shameful. These poor men make their living by pushing their bodies to the limit as laborers. And now they are left weakened, in pain, and have permanent complications. I empathize with anyone who needs a kidney or whose loved one does. But this criminal solution is heartless and immoral apart from the legal aspects.

What kind of people are these doctors? This ring of doctors that treats people like raw material factories. How frightening and morally reprehensible are they? And how tragically sad is this sordid tale? What a gross miscarriage of the Hippocratic oath? What happened to First Do No Harm? I guess that can't be transplanted into someone with no ethics.

Dissent and Apostasy

Jawahara Saidullah — Fri, 21 Dec 2007 08:05:07 EST

I've removed myself from these Desicritics Muslim/freedom of expression/Islam debates because they all seem to devolve into the same melee of contradictions. I am an Indian of Muslim descent. To me Muslim and Indian are both socio-cultural identities, not religious ones, because I really do not follow Islam.

The "Indian" tag is very important because it identifes that identity as something distinct from what is perceived as Muslimness in the world. Muslimness always seems to come back to Arabic roots. To me culture-- dynamic, changing, evolving culture - is more vibrant, exciting and most importantly, open to change than religion, which seems to be stuck in place.

Coming out this way - which is a negation of Quranic teachings, and therefore Islam, always has consequence. From personal experience, I know this generates reactions from two camps. One is the anti-Muslim, right-wing group that lauds my emergence as some kind of victory for their own fundamentalism. The other is the Muslim crowd that gets divided into further sub-groups: (a) Those convinced that this is some kind of publicity ploy, because apostate Muslim writers are tools of Western media to get recognition and/or riches. (b) Those who send threatening messages that refer to the only suitable punishment for an apostate. (c) Those who say other religions also have x,y, problems (fair enough) without really bothering to answer concerns/questions/issues raised about this particular issue.

My theory is this. Other religions for all their faults (and I follow none of them btw) have had, or now have a tradition of criticism from within their own ranks. Whether the dissent is pop-cultural (The Da Vinci Code, for Christianity for instance) or scholarly, it exists. Religious debate in Islam, however, is only valid when using the Quran, Hadith, or Shariah. So essentially the debates are centered around different interpretations of the same text. Part of the debate needs to include voices that consider the whole thing crap. Questioning God, the revelation of the Quran itself, and questioning the legitimacy of the prophets is needed for this debate. Which is why there is constant debate about whether there is compulsion in religion because there are a dozen contradictory verses, as there are about the dress code for women, and other hot-button current issues, which do not go near any of the real issues at stake. When the same source material is used for a debate, coming to any common conclusion is impossible because each individual adheres to the reason(s) that make sense to that person.

For true religious reform to happen, the debate needs to take into account other things. The outside world, cultures, philosophies, religions, etc. all need to be party to this debate. Otherwise, it's like trying to air out a room with all its windows and shades closed, and the door slammed shut. At the very least it becomes a false debate with no room for dissent, because you start with the premise that there are certain immutable and unquestionable facts. To me, a constrained debate is no debate. It's just a group of people tap dancing around a group of elephants that none of them want to acknowledge.

This is the reason I believe, that most non-Muslims feel frustrated and most Muslims cannot understand that frustration. Their paradigms are different. What does debate really mean to all of us? And what is dissension? Is it merely disagreeing about the interpretation of something or is it actually just a starting point?

I am a purist. Religion to me is not a smorgasbord, where you pick and choose. If religion is divine, something that is supposed to lead to your salvation it either is something or it is not. I, personally, cannot cherrypick some version of Islam or any religion and then claim that *that* is the true way to practice it. Fundamentalists of all religions do that, but so do moderates and liberals. The only difference is what verses and parts are picked to justify the points of view.

When the Quran and all five major schools of Islamic jurisprudence agree that the punishment for apostasy is execution (well, definitely for men. Female apostates may be executed or imprisoned for life), the reason for this lack of open debate becomes clear. Debate will only be tolerated within the constraints already described.

Apostasy in Islam includes denying Allah and rejecting the prophet's claim of prophet-hood, which brings us back to the point that true, open, questioning debate cannot happen. Here are the other acts that constitue apostasy:

1. A public declaration that denies Islam, and its beliefs

2. Denying the existence of God, or of accepting the Chritian belief of the Trinity

3. Saying the world has always existed. In other words, denying the role of the Creator

4. Belief in reincarnation

5. Denying the resurrection

6. Declaring that someone can become a prophet through spiritual exercise (i.e., there can be no other prophet)

7. Cursing Muhammad, the prophet.

8. Questioning the perfection of Muhammad's knowledge, beliefs, actions, and or character.

9. Any clearly blasphemous act (burning the Quran, and or books of the hadith)

10. Contradicting positions held by Muslim scholars (e.g., saying prayers or fasting are not obligatory, or that adultery is not punishable by death)

With such strictures in place it is no surprise that true debate in Muslim society would fall dangerously close to apostasy. There are concepts of apostasy in other religions to be sure but no other religious leaders (note: George Bush is not a religious leader, no matter how Christian he is. He is a political figure) exhorts the death of apostates and critics. And the difference I believe is that no other religion has such a clear consequence for apostasy.

The fear of death can do a great many things.

The Right(Riot) to Write

Jawahara Saidullah — Tue, 27 Nov 2007 17:05:25 EST

I spent the last five days in a Delhi hospital, reading and sometimes watching the news on a television set with rather dodgy reception. In between helping my father as he slept or chatted or needed anything, as he lay in his bed at Escorts Hospital.

One day a young Pakistani father from the outskirts of Karachi--while bemoaning the lack of health facilities in his country--told me that he sold all his land and half his house to bring his 18 month son to Delhi for a life-saving heart operation. He talked to me in the elevator with that desperate obsession that is instantly recognizable among those caring for a loved one who is gravely ill.

Obsessions about doctor visits, x-rays, scans, tests, prognoses, and diagnoses, along with organizing around-the-clock care, a complex logistical task in itself. Others just don't get it. Obsession is all consuming. It blinds you to everything else. And it doesn't just belong to worried fathers and daughters who feel helpless.

Obsession--of a different kind-- is what I saw flickering on the television screen. Hatred for views that run contrary to theirs, faces distorted as some denizens of Kolkata demanded the ouster of one mediocre writer in their midst. Mediocre but brave. And hunted.

I was not too impressed by Taslima Nasrin's writing. I found it prosaic, unpolished (but not in a good, rough way), simplistic, and rather grating. But that wasn't the reason for her being chased around the country is it? The protesters in Kolkata were not being literary critics. They are being religious fundamentalists. They were using strong arm tactics to bully someone into writing something that challenged them, angered them, and hurt their religious sentiments, whatever that means.

I saw Farooq Abdullah being interviewed. At first I was pleasantly surprised that he said Ms. Nasrin should be free to live where she wants to. Then, of course, he went on to say that "as a Musalman I am deeply offended," and that she should be allowed to live in India but should not be allowed to write.

Are you kidding me? Advocating the loss of the right to write is anathema to me. Who decides what is offensive? A bunch of uneducated, religious zealots who would not know a book if it came up and bit them? And Abdullah, a politician and a representative of an Indian populace is advocating this? He, at least does not have the excuse of being uneducated. He could have said he was offended but she had a right to write what she did, and that she should be protected and allowed to continue to do so.

These are the people whose sentiments we have to protect? What about my sentiments? I am a woman of Muslim origin, an Indian, a writer, and it is only by pushing the multiple envelopes of my many identities can I grow. My sentiments are hurt by Farooq Abdullah. And they are definitely hurt by hate-obsessed, religious zealots who presume to speak for me. They are hurt by those who sit on the fence and refuse to stand by our constitutional right to freedom of expression.

Will they repeal book bans for me, and for others like me? They offend me deeply for the attack the basis of freedom of thought and expression, which I value over most other things. What do we have to do? I can only write about it? Perhaps I need to break out my petrol can and matches and set fire to a few buses. Or buy an imam and put out a fatwah. Or take to the streets in violent protest. Devolve to the lowest common denominator. That's what gets results.

But I will not. Because I don't believe in violence and religious fundamentalism...heck I don't even believe in religion. So naturally my opinion and my sentiments count for nothing. I can understand protesting things with which you don't agree. But violence? Threats? Passing along a person like a human hot potatoe, from state to state, because no one has the guts to take a stand against a vote bank? And the ones that do are the opposite side of the coin, with their own fundamentalism agendas.

If we ban all books that offend everyone soon we'll only be left with Chacha Choudhry, much as I like those comics. But wait, I am sure giants and dhoti-wearers might be offended by that.

Heck...who needs to read anyway. It's highly over-rated. I know because I see just that knowledge radiating from the faces from Kolkata that flicker on the screen and reach out to make me stare in sad fascination.

Thanks for the Miseries

Jawahara Saidullah — Thu, 15 Nov 2007 12:23:18 EST

What makes you feel fulfilled and satisfied and thankful about what you have? Seeing someone who clearly does not have what you have, of course. Remember that old adage about being sad that you have no shoes until you saw someone who had no feet? Bullshit! What the hell is that? There's no empathy or sympathy for someone with no feet;just satisfaction that you have them. Why not run circles around the poor guy, crying Nyah nyah?

Someone else's misery is uplifting because it reminds you of what you have? I remember, the modern day angel and all round smokin' and kickass Ms. Jolie talking about how her travels to the sorriest places on earth made her grateful for what she has. You know what Angie? you visit any normal middle class home with a mom fighting cellulite and a dad trying to be the best he can, and kids without nannies, barely hanging on to one home and you should be grateful for what you have. But visiting war-torn countries and seeing orphaned kids (not even you can adopt all of 'em in your Farrow-like zeal), and witnessing starvation and death shouldn't make you grateful about anything. It should make you pissed off and sad and depressed and homicidal. Not grateful. About anything.

And then I read this article linked on Sujatha's blog and, while it raised many excellent points about a family deciding to return to India after many years in the U.S, it also pissed me off. The author talks about how earlier she would tell her kid about not wasting food because there were starving children somewhere (how does eating when someone is starving help anyway?), but now (lucky her) she can actually show her child the starving children in person. Wow! Glad their starvation's helping her child-rearing skills. She also talks about teaching her child charity by waving back to the 5-year old poor girl at the school bus stop. Well, to be fair, she has taught her child to give old toys and clothes to the girl. What a great way to get rid of excess stuff when there's no Salvation Army to be found. But all she's taught her child is to be glad she is not hanging around a bus stop waving to a privileged girl and her mommy, while she is still too young to fully appreciate her own dead-end life.

Okay, maybe I'm being hard on this woman but I've heard this sentiment a lot and I find it selfish, condescending, self-absorbed, and insensitive. And clueless! Not all of us actually do something positive and active to help someone else. But please, can we not degrade someone's suffering further by using it to bolster our own self-esteem and by patting ourselves on our own back?

There is no romance in poverty, no satisfaction in suffering. Yes, we've seen poor people (and I'm talking grinding poverty, soul-sucking true poverty here) smile because they're human and perhaps sometimes they forget the fragility of their existence, and they grab at their momentary joys as and when they can. They don't announce their emotions to the world so we can say inane things like, "the poor may have nothing but they still smile. They are happier than us." Fuck you!

When someone doesn't have enough money to eat properly, or money to tend to a sick child, or their roof leaks, or they have no roof...and there is nothing they can't do about it they are not enjoying their poverty. If they smile or laugh it's more a testament to their strength, their ability to live in the moment perhaps, and to the human hope that keeps us all going. It's not so that you can feel better about yourself.

And when they are mired in their misery, trapped in poverty, unable to break out of it, the last thing they'd want is to have some rich, phoren-returned memsahib (or sahib) use that as a way to teach their brat life lessons or teach them to appreciate what they have.

They're human beings, not teaching aides or life lessons. They're people with hopes and desires even if they are stillborn, and joys even if they come few and far between. Perhaps that's all they have. And you want to even take that away from them? To bolster your already privileged life?

Fiction: An Experiment

Jawahara Saidullah — Thu, 8 Nov 2007 16:28:54 EST

What dwells at the heart of loneliness? At its very core, is there darkness or is there a light so bright it makes sight impossible?

What is the chemical composition of the despair that drips like blood from my fangs? Is it filled with poison? Or is it pure, so pure that my body rejects it?

Some images, some stories told by others are seared in my brain. A branding iron of images unseen, emotions felt, and the long snaking road that leads from the past to the present and beyond, before it loops around dizzyingly. Here is one:

A man stands, gripping the two horizontal bars. The maroon paint flakes off through his fingers, so tight does he hold the chipped, and discolored metal.

"Push me," he begs.

People laugh. They drink their tea. Open up their tiffin boxes and eat puri and aloo ki sabzi, khakra, and papad. The cold drink wala comes up, clinking the bottles that swim in the dirty water. A few flecks of straw float around as well.

"Hello...thanda. Hello...Thaaamsup, Phanta. Thando bolo, thanda."

"Aye, do Phanta here."

"Push me, please. I'll close my eyes. Please." His voice trails off, awash in tears.

"Arrey bhai, why are you jumping?" Some make an effort to wean him off the death grip he has on the bars, the edges of his feet sticking out from the train.

"By god, I want to push the bastard. At least I'll be able to sleep," says the hero with the bouffant hairstyle and the bright, batik shirt as he combs his hair.

Other hush him, urge him to have pity. Urge him to do something. He shrugs.

The young man at the door...nineteen, twenty, something like that...stays where he is, the rails slipping past his gaze like quicksilver snakes in the dark. Dull yellow lights twinkle in the distance.

The train stops once. The man remains where he is, letting newcomers jostle past him roughly.

It starts again, then gathers speed. If all is well, it'll fly through the night for at least three hour stretch now. No stops. Its rhythm picks up speed.

He stares at the rails, hyponotized. His fingers grip the bar convulsively.

"Please brother, push me."

They play cards in the compartment. Flush, bluff, rummy, paploo. Drink more tea. Children cry and are put to bed. Occasionally someone goes to try and persuade the man not to jump. He repeats his phrase, his wish, his despair-laden desire, resolute and unconvinced.

They sleep.

At three in the morning, the hero goes to the bathroom, giving himself a loving glance in the stained mirror above the sink. He fluffs up his hair, then looks to the side.

Beyond the empty, unobstructed doorway, the night slithers like poison. The rythm of the train continues uninterrupted, unbroken.

In My Wildest Dreams

Jawahara Saidullah — Tue, 30 Oct 2007 13:35:55 EDT

I remember this old Eddie Murphy sketch from Saturday Night Live. He puts on white make-up (talk about the whitening of America, huh?), calls himself Mister White and sets out to compare these experiences with when he was just Mr. Black.

As soon as the last Black passenger gets off the bus he is on, a spontaneous party erupts on the bus. Champagne and streamers and all. When he applies for a loan at the bank he sees a Black couple being denied. The loan officer winks at him, however, asks him how much money he wants and hands it to him. In fact he even tears up the application and tells him not to worry about returning the cash.

As funny as it was I remember it because I also found it poignant and strangely quite relatable. This is the outsider's view - the other's view. It is an exaggeration of how a minority might fantasize, if just for one day, they stepped into the shoes of power. How would it be, for instance, if I became Ms. White or Ms. Hindu? It's a powerfully seductive thought.

Here is my reality: I've never been part of the majority. I am an Indian Muslim and a brown person living in the West. I don't how it is and what it is like not to be a minority. I don't know how the majority would feel, does feel.

As I read article after article on Desicritics about minority this and minority that, I find myself thinking about Mr. White and Mr. Black.

I know that my worldview, my reactions, even the way I see myself perhaps -- consciously and unconsciously -- is born out of my place in the world. This was not always so. I remember the first time I became aware of it. It was at school.

I was eight and some friends and I were talking the way eight year olds do. Until then I just knew that I was a Muslim and for some reason we did not eat pork and we had some festival named Eid that I hated because I can't stand siwai. That day I found out that I came from an evil, bloodthirsty lineage. That even though I had clearly missed seeing this at home, apparently we slaughtered cows on a regular basis and then boiled them whole (where we got a pot that large and how a kicking cow did not drag us in with it I don't know). I also know that we did not bathe everyday (except Friday because they're a holy day ya know), that we always smell bad and my little friend's grandmother had told her not to eat anything from our tainted lunchboxes. She told me this as we shared some cookies from my lunchbox.

I remember two feelings that day:
1. I was thankful that no one had figured out that I was Muslim.
2. I was very glad not to have an instantly identifiable Muslim name. I had found the magical conduit between our words. I had learned to pass.

From that awakening to many overheard conversations later, years later I finally piped in, "Uhmm...you know I am Muslim right?" And I heard the stammered responses, "Well, we weren't talking about people like you," or "Muslims? No, we were talking about Pakistanis."

And I realized that I had opened up something for these girls. They were traversing the reverse route of the the journey I had started at eight. The sudden and irrevocable awareness of one part of our identity. Did they feel betrayed that I had sat among them, listening to their innermost fantasies about the destruction of my kind? Did they feel threatened by my very presence? These were not my best friends - just some girls I hung out with sometimes, but still, perhaps they held their thoughts to themselves around me from that day?

I had learned to pass years ago. But in my fantasies, when I am not a minority I weave spells of what it will be like. And in my wildest fantasy there is just one word that comes to mind. Unaware. What bliss! The gift of not having to be aware.

If I really want to I can just be unaware. I can skate through life without really having to think about these elemental parts of my identity. I can slip like a fish through the nets of my identities, the traps of my labels, and melt into the great waters of sameness from which I will be indistinguishable. It is such a delicious thought I almost melt with anticipation.

In India I would never cringe when asked for my last name. I could read the news and have an opinion or a feeling, express a thought without the weight of my identity pressing down on me. It hangs like an albatross sometimes. Despite my many lapses as a Muslim, including apostasy, I cannot escape the fact that when it comes to riots and analyses about the Hindu-Muslim equation, I always land on the right-hand side. I may be an agnostic or an atheist but during a riot the only thing that will matter to my interrogators will be my name. I will never need to justify my identity, never be asked to prove anything to anyone. I am who I am.

That day, years ago, when the kar sevaks came to town -- on their way to Ayodhya -- and swarmed all over Civil Lines, in saffron, brandishing their trishuls I might not have felt that knee-buckling terror. I might have dismissed them as a nuisance, even had a strong political and secular stance against them but I would not have wondered if they could smell me where I hid in a shop? I felt like Jack hiding from the giant, even as his scent betrayed him.

In the U.S., and in Europe, as I step outside my house, I would never be aware of the color of my skin. I would just not have to think about skin at all, except to slather on some sun screen or put on my makeup. I wouldn't have to try harder, be friendlier, to take on this persona that I wear when I go out.

In this terrorism-obsessed world I would not have the tiny frisson of fear handing over the my passport at international checkpoints. I would not wonder what someone else wonders when they see my brown skin and see my name.

I could walk outside, interact with strangers and never wonder these things. It's not that I don't think there are other identity issues that Hindus in India or white folks the world over don't deal with. It's just these two: the one that that is immediately apparent, the color I am; and the one that jumps out when I say out aloud who I am: my name, cannot be hidden away.

Skin color and identity that can be established by your name are the front-runners. They are the heralds that reach people before I do and announce who I am. After that, establishing myself is up to me...or perhaps it is de-establishing myself. But these two things have already established my differentness.

What is it like to be unaware? In my wildest fantasies it feels like a magic cloak that wraps me lightly and lets me slip invisibly through the world. It tastes like strawberries in summer. It smells of nothing at all. Pure, unperfumed and untainted. It feels like freedom, weightless. Soaring like a bird and see the world from a truly 1000 foot perspective, untouched and beautiful. All sounds muffled and indistinct, just the sun shining, the wind whistling around me. I am unaware of the wind currents that lift me up and let me dance in the air. They are invisible but powerful. But most importantly I don't even know. I don't know that I am flying. I don't even have to think about my freedom. It just is. It is a permanent state of being.

Then like all fantasies, it ends, and I land back on earth in the middle of it all, acutely aware of it all, of myself. Perhaps that's the way it should be. Still...

Burma's Monks - Buddha's Warriors

Jawahara Saidullah — Wed, 26 Sep 2007 11:35:23 EDT

There are thousands of them but they are unarmed. Their saffron and maroon robes, their heads shaved, they march down the streets of Yangon. With dignity and non-violence, exhorting people to stay away for they don't want others to face the wrath of the army. They are Buddha's warriors.

They converge at the two pagodas: Shwedagon and Sule though they have been closed. With no weapons except their will and the belief in a cause that is just, these are the monks of Burma.

They have a shield, yes. The fragile bodies of men and women who link arms to protect them. But what good are these against batons and bullets? Will violence part this sea of 100,000 people? 30,000 monks who started it all and their supporters. Yes, that is the scale of this protest.

On the other side is the military junta that has terrorized Burma for years. There is the ban on public gatherings of more than five people. And the warnings that these protesters will be dealt with. The same way they dealt with the rebellion of 1988, when 3000 student members lost their lives to the military.

And yet Burma is marching again because it cannot do so. Will they prevail? And if they don't will it still be worth the effort? That is a question that only those 100,000 can answer.

The history of Burma and India is intertwined. As is the history of my family with Burma. And today as I hear about the monks who march despite the warnings of reprisals, these memories float past my vision.

My great-grandfather immigrated there and built a successful business. My mother was born and grew up there, though she moved to India (with her family) as a child refugee, when they caught the last boat to leave Rangoon harbor without being blown up. Burmese is the language my mom and her sisters spoke when they didn't want their kids to understand.

Then, after the war, my grandfather returned as the first Indian ambassador to Rangoon -- bridging the gap between his two countries. His brother, who had remained in Burma (with his Burmese wife) became a minister in the new government.

And then the coup happened. The junta killed the entire cabinet except my great-uncle who was away. He was imprisoned for years, until he developed bone cancer and was released to die six months later.

This is a beautiful country that has borne too much already. It has imprisoned heroes like Aung San Suu Kyi, notwithstanding, it is a country that the world seems to have forgotten.

It is India's neighbor but what do we know of it? In our obsession with Pakistan and our fluctuating mild interest in other neighbors, Burma might as well be on Mars.

For the past few days I've been following this protest that makes me choke up with its quiet dignity and resolve. Even as they are being arrested, the monks show up in their thousands. As do the people. The reason for the march was a fuel rate increase, but this was being planned for a long time. So they are ignoring the threats being broadcast on loudspeakers and they are taking to the streets.

Eventually, the human spirit must break free of its shackles. Or it will die trying before being resurrected again.