Desicritics Author: Mayank Austen Soofi

Raza Rumi, A Pakistani Blogger Comes to Delhi

Mayank Austen Soofi — Mon, 25 Feb 2008 12:04:36 EST

The ignorant Delhi wallas often view visiting Pakistanis as ISI agents or trouble-makers. Mr. Raza Rumi, a native of Lahore, is neither. He has no beard, no mustache. He never frowns, he smiles (actually, he smiles a lot). He has a sleek laptop, no Kalashnikov. Yet he set the city on fire.

As Pakistan's celebrated blogger, he was invited by Jamia Millia Islamia University to speak on a seminar on the Urdu novelist Qurratulain Hyder. Mr. Rumi came, read, and well- conquered.

Everyone loved his take on the late writer's enduring popularity in Pakistan. 'Passionate', 'heartfelt', and 'excellent' were some of the words used to describe his lecture. At least one overawed academic considered withdrawing his paper after listening to "such great stuff."

After the Jamia conference, Mr. Rumi, also a budding writer, went to the Jamia Nagar kabristan and stood silently by Ms. Hyder's grave.

In his presentation, Mr. Rumi had to say this about her:

…… Hyder, till her last, remained a unique bond between India and Pakistan. She was a regular visitor in Pakistan that was her second home in actual terms. Her family, friends and admirers were in a large number that never distanced her from Pakistan. Like her characters, she traveled, migrated and re-migrated and became a chronicler of our times, not as a historian but as a fiction writer.

In the following days, I was amused by interesting conversations with Mr. Rumi. This Pakistani can speak for hours, sometimes a little self-conscious, but mostly laced with stories that are quite entertaining.

During his last trip to the city, Mr. Rumi had gone to Urdu Bazaar, near Jama Masjid, to buy Kaf-e-Gul Farosh - Ms. Hyder's hefty two-volume pictorial autobiography. Its steep price did not matter. He has always been Ms. Hyder's devoted reader and considers himself lucky to have met her in person. During his first trip to the city, 3 years ago, a close friend took him to Ms. Hyder's residence in Noida where he presented rajnigandha flowers to her, along with a few cassettes of some obscure thumri singers.

This does not mean that Mr. Rumi is always lucky.

He regrets that he had the ill-luck to born a little too late to meet another outstanding Delhi resident he admires - Mirza Ghalib. The greatest of Urdu poets, to use Mr. Rumi's hyperbole, died 99 years before he was born. But Mr. Rumi cannot be blamed for not doing what is proper. He always read the fatiha as he passes by Ghalib's tomb that falls on the way to Nizamuddin dargah. By the way, this sufi shrine is Mr. Rumi's favorite Delhi haunt.

Within the shrine lies the tomb of Jahanara, Shahjahan's daughter. This Mughal princess had requested that no roof should be erected above her burial place. Only grass grows there. Mr. Rumi considers her as a woman sufi and likes sitting next to her tomb.

This may be a flattering portrait of Mr. Rumi as a devotee of the Sufis. Alas, he can be a clichéd tourist too. As he related, he also loves to haggle with the Kashmiri carpet sellers, find bargains in the Dilli Haat, and fill a sack full clay crafts from rural India. And above all, he, quite smoothly, enters the Humayun’s tomb as a local (remember, foreigners are charged in dollars). Of course, who would doubt his chaste Lucknow inspired Urdu.

Sometimes Mr. Rumi behaves like a typical Delhi intellectual: arranging rendezvous in IIC, meeting friends in Café Turtle, and buying books in Khan Market. Not to mention attending high profile events with his dear friend Ms. Sadia Dehlvi.

But the devotion to Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya and the music of Amir Khusrau brings him back, again and again, to the Bastee that he calls the spiritual ghetto--a little haven of peace amidst the maddening commercialism of Delhi.

Not unlike his views on Ms. Hyder whom he calls a “a dual citizen in an age where acrimonies of Partition and officialdom have made it impossible to hold concurrent citizenships”, Mr. Rumi has not entered the Delhi scene. We hope that like his inspiration, Ms. Hyder, he can defy these official restrictions not by breaking any law but espousing a sense of “belonging” that needs no passports.

Obituary - Searching for Qurratulain Hyder in a Delhi Graveyard

Mayank Austen Soofi — Wed, 22 Aug 2007 23:57:33 EDT

The hill was alive with the sound of the grave digger's shovel. I was looking for a grave. In the next hill perhaps? It was dug yesterday. For Qurratulain Hyder. She was an Urdu writer who died on August 21, following a prolonged lung ailment, in a hospital in NOIDA, a Delhi suburb. I have never read Ms. Hyder. Yet I came here in Jamia Nagar’s Muslim graveyard to express my sadness at her passing away.

With me was a cutting from today's Times of India. Folded between the pages of an Alice Munro hardbound that I was carrying, it was a 15*9 mm column on Page 2.

Urdu Novelist Hyder Dead.

An old bearded man in a green kaftan was digging a grave. Could he direct me to where a woman was buried yesterday? An author whose body must have come from NOIDA - I explained to him. Her hair was short, I added hopefully. The man's empty eyes stared back. I shifted my gaze to the surrounding hillocks.

Would Ms. Hyder be somewhere there?

Wanting to feel a fellow writer's camaraderie for her, I walked down the hill, stumbled through discarded tombs, overgrown grass, hidden hollows, small boulders, and walked up another hill. Two boys were flying kites. Goats scampered around the tombs – no tombstones; merely partially-raised mud platforms.

Reaching the top, I sat under a Neem tree, and took out the newspaper cutting from the Alice Munro.

When this great figure of Urdu literature took her last breath, she had no friend or relative with her in the hospital. Her neighbors in Sector 21, where she had been living alone since many years, had no inkling of having close proximity to such a celebrated writer. Hyder had never married.

I re-folded the cutting and kept it back inside. A laborer was climbing down a hill facing me. She was clueless about any author's burial but talked of flowers on a new grave. That was it. I ran up, past a rich man's grave (cemented, shaded by roof, with few lines inscribed in English), and found her – under a fresh mound. Marigold flowers lay at one end. On the other was a bouquet with the note - "From the students and faculty of Indraprastha University."

I kneeled down and took out the newspaper cutting again:

Called "Aainie Aapa" by friends and admirers (where are they?), Hyder's most famous work is Aag Ka Darya, a magnum opus which explores India's history from the fourth century BC to the subcontinent's partition.

Like many contemporaries, Hyder too crossed the border during partition. But the feminist and democrat in her felt uncomfortable in Pakistan. She returned to India in the 1950s, and went on to work in the Illustrated Weekly of India.

For a moment, I looked up, up at the sky. A crow was flying high.

Despite being reserved and even moody, Hyder was not an intellectual snob. "She didn't appear at all as the high-priestess of Urdu fiction," Urdu journalist Mehmood Ayubi recalls.

Taking a handful of mud from Hyder's grave, I clutched it in my hands as it escaped. The newspaper cutting, lying on the ground, blew away with the breeze. I could not feel sentimental, as I had hoped.

My thoughts went to my reading life. How fortunate to feel at home with England's Jane Austen, America's Maya Angelou, and Canada's Margaret Atwood. These are places I have never visited; cultures I have never encountered. Yet, they are so familiar. But how did I fail to read this author who belonged to a land I was born in? Ms. Hyder was, like me, from Uttar Pradesh. We probably ate the same food, smelled the same spices and breathed the same pungent air. Both of us were of the same mitti. Now she is dead and I haven't read her yet. I should be in mourning. It's my loss.

Thank God It's Tuesday, Report From a New Delhi Gay Bar

Mayank Austen Soofi — Thu, 12 Apr 2007 01:28:34 EDT

It's close to midnight at Pegs N Pints pub in Chanakyapuri – New Delhi's diplomatic enclave. Illegal acts are being performed close to the maximum security zone of the Indian Prime Minister's residence.

On normal days, Pegs N Pints is "normal" - strictly straight. But on Tuesday evenings as the clock strikes ten, queers start trickling out of their closets. Lying husbands relegate pretty wives to their solitary dinners. Guilty sons fake extra tuition classes. Bored European diplomats exchange Grey colored blazers for black leather jackets. They all gather together in Pegs N Pints – New Delhi's only discotheque offering "gay nights on all Tuesdays."

Camouflaged as private parties hosted by a certain "Mr. David", these unofficial "gay nights" remain dependent on word of mouth publicity. (Despite requests no one from the bar management was willing to be quoted.) The secrecy is understandable since gay sex is forbidden under the Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code and is punishable with imprisonment.

A recent The Times of India report on serial killings in Mumbai casually mentioned cops questioning a man sitting at Chowpatty Beach if he was a homosexual, the latter confessed and was brought to the police station.

Inside the Den

Inside, it's an unkempt place. The wooden counter is scratched, the beer glasses chipped, and the restroom out of order. But nobody cares. No one minds the expensive entry charge of 400 rupees. This is one of the few watering holes for wealthy gays not willing to risk being interrogated by police-men in shady parks.

As the evening progresses, the crowd filters in. The dance floor is downstairs and a boy with a teasing smile gyrates to Shakira's Hips don't lie. Roving eyes rest on him. His smooth chest and gelled hair shine in the blinking strobe. He shakes shoulders, moves his flat belly, waves his arms, flings and lands masterfully on his feet. He leaps, inviting others, hugging one, moving on to the next, never staying at one place for more than a moment.

He seems unattainable.

The men have come in groups but some are with lovers. Many are alone.

A venerable gentleman makes his beer bottle bob up and down in sync with the pulsating music. A young man in a brown corduroy jacket shakes his head in pleasant disbelief. A middle-aged person dances with no dance partner. An awed waiter, picking the used glasses, looks clueless.

After a while, desire fills the smoky atmosphere upstairs. Boozing men are huddled on a long sofa lined against the wall. Some sit on the laps of others. On the balustrade stand men-uncles staring down on the fancy fairies of the dance floor. It's midnight, two hours for closing time. Beyond that lies a barren week before the thrill of kissing in public can be relived!

It's 1 am and the music becomes louder. Kajra Re is replayed. More vodka bottles opened. Kisses become desperate. Dance vigorous, squeezes frantic, embraces hungrier. Foot taps are forceful and eye contact lasts longer.

Call boys pace the stairs offering last-minute deals.

2 am: The doors close, the gates shut. Re-exile into the cold straight world. Car engines shudder, headlights are switched on, making the night fog glow orange. The fantasy has ended. Till next Tuesday.

Epilogue

A kid on his cell-phone announces, "Papa, I'm studying at Vaibhav's place. Will be home in half an hour."

Farmers Turn Suicidal in Supposedly Flourishing India

Mayank Austen Soofi — Tue, 10 Apr 2007 02:27:17 EDT

The onslaught of summer has started with the farmers holding Gandhian demonstrations in the historic Jantar Mantar - Delhi's Tiananmen Square. They arrived in trains, traveling in unreserved compartments from remote villages in the heartland provinces of Madhya Pradesh, Chhattisgarh, Andhra Pradesh, and Madhya Pradesh.

Gathered in the capital of their country, they are full of complaints, accusations, and hope. One common word being uttered by all the sad lips: Karza, meaning debt. The farmers have to pay back loans taken several monsoons ago, but they have no money.

During some years their insubstantial fields received too much rain and the standing crops were ruined. In other years there was too little rain and the crops could not grow. The interest on the loans never stopped piling up and now the wretched have to pay back more than what was borrowed.

Mr. Valji Raghu, an 81-year-old farmer from the Jhabua district of Madhya Pradesh (see the pictures below), had borrowed Rs 15,000 in 1992. He presently owes double that amount.

Mr. Vaishya, at 17, is younger and inherited the debt as a legacy. Five years ago his late father had taken a loan of Rs 22,000. Now the son needs to return Rs. 60,000.

Sometimes, the combination of poverty, shame, and distress adds up to provide enough incentive to ponder the easy possibilities of suicide, a phenomenon emerging as the biggest epidemic in the distraught countryside. Across the country, 17,107 farmers committed suicide in 2003, the most recent year for which government figures are available.

Additionally, there is unrest regarding genetically modified seeds being peddled by American multinationals in the poor hinterlands. Such seeds are expensive and add nothing to the resources of an already debt-ridden farmer. Besides, in various places, the local government is forcibly, sometimes violently, evicting farmers from their ancestral lands to create China-style Special Economic Zones.

In March 2007, 12 armed farmers were killed by the police in West Bengal's Nandigram village when they protested against the takeover of their small farms.

Ms. Jhadki, an old woman from Madhya Pradesh participating in the Jantar Mantar demonstration, said, "We have no hope. We don't know what to do, so we have come to Delhi. May be they will listen to us."

"Karza is not the only problem," said Mr. Veer Singh as he talked of his village in Jhabua. "We have no road and no health clinic. Electricity is supplied only for four hours per day. Schools are there, but poor people like us can't afford them for our children." Don't their elected representatives assist them? "They remain in Delhi and show their faces only during the time of elections," Mr. Singh snorted.

"Look at Delhi." Mr. Vaishya suddenly emerged from his silence. "What cars, what buildings, what gardens! Our sarkar (government) spends all the money here. We get nothing."

Despite their simmering rage, the farmers are optimistic. By holding demonstrations in the heart of the capital, they feel their government will listen to them at the least. That is being unrealistic.

The truth is that the Jantar Mantar agitation has been ignored by all, including the so-called activist-driven media. More newsprint and primetime TV news was spent on a recent Fashion Week in Delhi and on pop star Shakira's first-ever concert in Mumbai.

Even Sharad Pawar, the Union Agriculture Minister, is a very distracted man. As President of the lucrative Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI), he has shown more concern on India's debacle in the 2007 Cricket World Cup tournament than on suicides in the despairing countryside. The farmers may be raising their voice, but they should know, sound waves do not travel in a vacuum.

Jantar Mantar Power - In Delhi With Hope

Jantar Mantar Power - We Are Distressed

Jantar Mantar Power - Mr. Valji Raghu Owes Rs. 30, 000 as Debt

Jantar Mantar Power - Ms. Jhadki Has No Hope

Jantar Mantar Power - Mr. Vaishya Inherited His Father's Debt

Jantar Mantar Power - Decorating Protest Slogans

Jantar Mantar Power - What Will Happen Now

Interview: What Is It Like To Be a Christian Citizen of Pakistan?

Mayank Austen Soofi — Wed, 1 Nov 2006 07:00:46 EST

[The interviewer was introduced to Mr. Tehman Lall, a young Lahore-based MBA student, during his trip to Pakistan in September, 2006.]

I'm glad to have Mr. Tehman Lall with me. Mr. Lall, you are a Christian citizen of a Muslim Pakistan. Are you a pious believer?

Hello Mayank. To be honest, I'm not very religious but I do consider myself a practicing Christian. There are, however, some weak and strong points in the way I practice my faith, but that I believe is every individual's personal choice.

A Catholic Church in the Heart of Lahore*

Who are in your family? Please tell us about them.

I have my parents - Philip and Priscilla. Their young lives were different from mine. They grew up and got married during an era when Pakistan was relatively a better place.

I'm not boasting but my parents happen to be some of the very few respected and well-educated Christians left here in Pakistan. Most of the good families have migrated to the US or Canada. My father is a known figure in corporate Pakistan while my mother heads a women graduate college in Lahore.

I have two sisters. Sandhya lives in California while the younger Ratna works in an Islamic multinational bank.

Mr. Tehman Lall (right) with Family

Tehman, I found the comment about your parents having a different life rather interesting. What about your life? How was the environment you grew up in?

We children were raised with good Christian values. In fact my parents are living examples of those ideals. But at the same time we are secular in outlook, very different from traditional Pakistani households, Christian or Muslim.

Now let's come to the meat of this interview. How does Pakistan treat its minorities? What is the attitude towards Christians, Hindus and Sikhs?

Well...objectively speaking, minorities do have the legal right of practicing their religion. There are churches, mandirs and gurudwaras for most of the Christian, Hindus and Sikhs respectively. We are free to go there and do our prayers.

But in recent years fanatic Islamic factions have tried to create religious unrest and terror for the minorities, especially towards Christians. Rape, blasphemy charges, church attacks have increased over the years. But these are more prevalent in the rural and semi-urban areas of Pakistan.

Do you feel Christians are discriminated against? Do you have any personal experience of this?

Christians are not discriminated against overtly on a large scale but there have been and will remain instances of minority discrimination in this country. I have no personal experience of such discrimination but my father and my aunt's husband had.

My father was due to become the National Director of a prestigious management training institute but was succeeded by a junior. There was obviously a lot of politics involved but it all revolved around religion. How could a Christian be at a senior governmental post! My father subsequently resigned. Something similar happened to my uncle too. He was employed in the Foreign Service.

A Panoramic View of the Sacred Heart Cathedral, Lahore

I wonder if it is an apt observation that Christians here are second rate citizens.

Sorry Mayank, I won't back your observation. It's my belief that if one behaves and lives like a second rate citizen then he will be treated like one. Christians are given voting rights in national elections and share almost the same constitutional rights as Muslims.

There are Christians occupying senior posts in the corporate, government and education sectors of this country. True, there have been people who had to face discrimination but there are many who fought back and rose to a higher status in the society.

Is it true that the worth of a Christian witness in a Pakistani court of law is half of that of a Muslim man?

It is indeed true. According to the Islamic law of Shariat, which is implemented in the Pakistani courts, a non-Muslim's testimony is considered incomplete in many cases. It is only considered valid under the Pakistan Penal Code which entails Criminal Law as well.

Cross Looms High in the Citadel of the Crescent - Sacred Heart Cathedral, Lahore

In international media, we frequently read reports of violent attacks against Pakistani minorities, especially on Christians. Do you have a relative, or somebody you were acquainted with, who was a Christian and had to suffer violent attacks due to his religion?

I do not know anyone personally but there have been cases where uneducated young Christian boys have been tortured and killed by Muslims for reasons of blasphemy.

There have been also reports of forcible conversion to Islam. Tehman, do you have any relative who converted to Pakistan's state religion?

No, Mayank. I do not have any such relative nor do I know anyone personally who converted to Islam.

I know it's a private question but would you have preferred to be born as a Muslim in Pakistan? Life is less complicated if one belongs to the majority religion of his native country, whether the nation is religious or secular.

Well, considering the religious turmoil the world is facing I would have preferred to be born a Christian and if it is all right to confess - somewhere in Europe!

But if the basis of religion is the betterment of mankind then why should anyone opt to convert to other faiths? Why not instead read and understand all faiths with an open mind? Animals, as we know it, probably don't abide by any religion, and yet they live peacefully, much more than us humans.

That is well said. You are an educated, eloquent man and, considering your background, quite well-off. Obviously, the state of Christians in Pakistan can't be that bad?

Mayank, I'm educated and well-off because my parents worked their way up and made it possible. Unfortunately, a large part of the Christian minority in Pakistan belongs to the lower-middle class who have had to go through our degenerative and regressive education system.

But now many young Christian graduates, both male and female, are aspiring to be professionals. Many of them hold degrees and teach in Christian institutes as well as work for NGOs. And there are also a small proportion of Christians working in big multinational companies.

Since it is unwise to generalise the state of Pakistani Christians by conversing with you alone, I'll try to desist from making a definite judgment. But what views do you hold of your fellow co-religionists? Are they mostly poor, jobless and uneducated as it is made out to be?

As I said earlier, a large part of them belongs to the lower-middle class. Most of them are illiterate and live in ghetto-like Christian colonies.

Let me give you a clearer idea of Pakistani Christians. Out of ten Christians, for instance, you'll find three who clean the sewers, sweep the streets and work as alcohol buying agents; three who work as teachers in schools and colleges; two employed as clerks; one as a well-educated working professional; and the last as a high-ranking government official or as a senior doctor.

Of course, this is not an absolute representation of Christians but you'll get an idea.

Yes, it helps in understanding the Christian society here. But is there a Christian leadership in Pakistan? Do Christians have a political organisation or a common platform from where they make themselves heard?

The leadership is in the form of our Church leaders: Bishops, Priests etc. But quite frankly, they have rarely stood up for Christian rights, especially for those who were victims of the state's legislative atrocities. But there have been some brave priests who did fight for our rights.

As for the political organisations, there are not many and the ones which do exist are unfortunately a bit too political and often known to over-politicise issues for there own benefits.

Were you upset when Pope Ratzinger recently quoted that Islam was spread by the sword? Or were you more upset by the violent reaction of the Muslims?

I had pretty much expected the reaction of the Muslims but was upset about the Pope later shifting his stance. If he thought whatever he'd said was true, he should not have apologised to the Muslim community. Instead, he should have given a reasoned clarification justifying his statement and the purpose behind it.

Either that or he should not have said anything which he couldn't justify or defend publicly.

That makes sense. Let's shift to more pleasant things, like who is your greatest living Pakistani hero?

I think (cricketer) Imran Khan is perhaps the best thing Pakistan could have asked for in this decade. And I say that in a sporting, social and political context.

Another internationally prominent person coming to my mind is Salman Ahmed, the lead-member of the rock band Junoon. He has done far more than others to give Pakistan a more secular and realistic image. Otherwise everyone thinks that we are a country swarming with terrorists and fanatics.

Tell us five things you love most about your country?

Mayank, five is a very large number for me in this context. I probably like just two things that also happen to be the most valued cultural traits here: one is hospitality, especially in rural areas, and the second is respect for elders.

Okay, how about five things you will like to change about Pakistan?

Hmm. Let me think. Eradicate all fanatic and extremist factions, remove the prevalent Maulvi culture, cut the armed forces by half, provide progressive education to the youth, and probably introduce public-execution as means of stricter law enforcement in this lawless land.

Tehman, I have reservations about your idea of public executions but I do hope that the rest of your wishes do come true. This has been an enlightening interview. You are young. What are your future plans?

Lord knows what I aspire to do later in life. But I could tell you where I plan to be in about another five year's time: getting another specialised degree from a foreign university after having worked for about 3-4 years and then settling in the west.

You want to emigrate to West! Why? Why not stay in Pakistan?

Mayank, I'll love to stay in Pakistan if there was even a slightest inclination towards some sort of positive change in our society and politics. However, considering the past and the current situation, God only knows how long it will take for the world to stop seeing this country as a 'failed state' and as the 'most corrupt nation'.

So being a practical person, I wish to settle in the west for my family's betterment and for my own sake too. There are not many opportunities here. And frankly speaking it has always been my sincere wish to reside in some part of Europe at some point in my life.

A Nation's Loss - A Family Intending to Leave

Good for you, Tehman. Do not forget to invite me for Café au lait once you are living in your Paris apartment. Meanwhile thanks for this interview.

You're welcome Mayank. Thanks for talking to me.

*Pictures of the Lahore Cathedral were taken by the interviewer.

Photo Essay: Working Women of Delhi in Morning Rush Hour

Mayank Austen Soofi — Fri, 27 Oct 2006 02:41:37 EDT

They do not look glamorous. They do not have the best paying jobs. Their companies are not listed in stock exchanges. There is nothing enviable about them. They are the working women of Delhi.

A silent revolution is in progress in this conservative capital of a conservative country. The women have started coming out from their homes. They commute in tightly packed buses, with shoulders touching the arms of men who are not their relatives. In their work places they spend a major part of their day with men who have never met their husbands or fathers. With these men, strangers to their families, they distribute their workload, crack jokes and share their lunches.

The women of Delhi have finally started coming into their own. They earn their own money and operate their own bank accounts. They do not have to beg for shopping money from their husbands. If something tragic happens - the death of a husband or a father, for instance - they do not have to look to others for support. They now stand on their own feet.

This is progress indeed, but concerns remain. Although in urban India, a growing number of households have started discovering the advantages of working women and appreciate the consequent increase in monthly income, life for them is tough. The husbands do not yet share the traditional work in household management, an area still considered a woman's job. These women essentially are obliged to do straight double shifts!

For a woman employed in a 9-6 job, she has to wake up early in the morning, help the children to get ready for school, iron clothes for the husband, prepare breakfast and lunch for the family, and all of it done efficiently and in time so as not to miss the bus for work. And if it's a joint family, the women are also expected to care for their aging parents-in-law. For their superiors at work though, these women are treated simply as employees, not as mothers, wives and daughters-in-law. Once back home after an exhausting day, there is no time for rest. Dinner needs to be cooked, children to be assisted with homework and husbands to be given time.

It is hard but the women are not complaining. After all, sweet is the taste of independence.

Employed as a House-Maid, She is Trying to Cross the Busy Highway

Running to Catch a Bus that has Already Started Moving

Dressed and On the Way to Office - In a Rickshaw

Already at Work - In a Petrol Station

Do They All Work and Gossip in the Same Office?

A Flash of Her Flowery Costume while Driving to Work in a Thuk-Thuk

Two Different Ladies at Different Bus Stops

An Employed Lady With Her Handbag and her Work Tool - a Broom

9:30 AM - Behind the Bank Counter

Playing Halaal Cricket in Pakistan, the Land of the Pure

Mayank Austen Soofi — Wed, 25 Oct 2006 10:55:45 EDT

Pakistanis love watching song-and-dance films but are tormented by the guilt of having to rely on the great rival India and its bustling Bollywood to sustain their DVD pleasures. Pakistanis love to discourse on politics but the alternate regimes of corrupt politicians and big-mouthed army generals tend to leave them depressed and exhausted.

But there still is left one driving passion that all Pakistanis are proud of without being weighed down by any baggage.

It is cricket.

From London to Lahore, from Lamb Chops to Lamb Kebabs, from Gentlemen to Pathans, it has been a long and consequential journey for this quintessentially English county game. Inherited from the British masters, nurtured in and adapted to the hot dusty grounds of their colonies, cricket in Pakistan has come to acquire a unique Pakistani distinctiveness.

Always on the Edge

In contrast to the kingdom of its origin, cricket has undergone a perfect osmosis with its adopted country: it has seeped out as much to Pakistan as it has soaked in from the nation. The relationship had interfused to such an extent that now cricket mirrors the turbulence of this republic - almost perfectly.

Just like the Pakistani establishment, its cricketers too have a dangerous tendency to step into the line of fire. They are always daring, always adventurous and sometimes outright foolish.

In October 2006, when the Pakistani players descended in India for the ICC Champions Trophy and were still in a tourist mode enjoying the Rajasthani cuisine and palaces, a scandal broke out and shamed the team. Two players were called back to Lahore following the medical results of testing positive for a banned steroid.

One of the disgraced players was Mr. Shoaib Akhtar.

If the charges are indeed true and Mr. Akthar has to be given a mandatory banishment of two years it will be highly unlikely for him to crawl back into the field. At 31 he is too old and the exile will be a sad end to his blazing career.

Mr. Akhtar, an excellent cricketer by all accounts, can blame no one except himself for landing in this soup. In fact he has been constantly trailed by a clouded reputation: rumored to be a great womanizer there have been unaccounted reports of sex romps in foreign tours, of smoking cannabis in 5-star hotel lawns, and dancing in disocs - harmless diversions but apparently not in accordance with Pakistani codes of conduct. Besides, Mr. Akhtar is said to have a huge bundle of ego bustling within him that makes it difficult for co-players.

Now this talented cricketer has put his entire career on jeopardy. Why did he take drugs? Why was he so careless with his public image? Why did he decide to risk it all?

There are no answers at this stage but Mr. Akhtar's fate resembles the daredevilry of his country's ruling establishment.

In the spring of 1999, Pakistan had everything going for it: a working democracy, an atom bomb and Indians on the talking table. By the summer it had infiltrated its army into the Indian-held Kashmir in Kargil, imposed itself into a low-key battle with its giant neighbor, lost the war, had its nose rubbed off by US diplomats and diluted the goodwill of the world for its Kashmir cause.

Why was the country, particularly its army, so careless? Why did not its strategists study harder on the possible implications of such reckless behavior? Why they decided to risk it all?

A Doomed Affair with the West

Handsome, toned, hairy-chested Mr. Imran Khan was the international playboy. Once voted as the sexist man of the year by an Australian magazine, he continues to be Pakistan's most respected cricketer.

Mr. Khan's life is the very epitome of what the new ideals of Pakistan as a modern Muslim nation should be. Being born in the Pashtun tribe, his origins are thus inexorably linked to the soil of Pakistan's heritage; raised in a conservative Islamic household, he was nevertheless instilled with the secular values by being educated in a school run by Christian missionaries.

In his cricketing life, it was under his captainship that Pakistan went on to won its first and only world cup victory; later he displayed his kinder instincts by opening a cancer hospital that provides free treatment to poor patients. gradually he even shed the trappings of his colorful life and started inclining towards Islam - in a powerful but subtle manner. Mr. Khan is deeply religious but never flaunts his born-again religiosity in public.

And finally, Mr. Khan jumped into politics. Though unsuccessful, he is one of the very few uncorrupt politicians in the country whom Pakistanis genuinely admire.

Undoubtedly Mr. Khan possesses the essence of the best the east and west has to offer. Even the woman he married could not have been a better choice - Jemima Goldsmith, a London-based woman of Jewish origin!

Unfortunately, the marriage ended in a divorce in 2004.

Does Mr. Imran Khan's short-lived affair with the west reflect in Pakistan's on-off relationship with USA?

Links to Terror

Mr. Javed Miandad was the greatest Test run-scorer Pakistan has ever produced. Known for being extremely abrasive, he was infamous for uttering foul abuses to his co-players, and especially to players from the rival team; particularly so when the rivals happened to be Indians.

In 2005, Mr. Miandad married his son Junaid to Mahrukh, thereby making his boy the son-in-law of one of the most dreaded terrorists in South Asia.

Mahrukh happens to be the daughter of Dawood Ibrahim, an Indian gangster-turned-terrorist believed to be sheltered by Pakistan. Mr. Ibrahim allegedly masterminded a series of single-day bomb blasts in the financial hubs of Bombay in 1993 that left more than three hundred dead and one thousand injured. This worst terrorist attack in India's history was the first draft of 9/11!

Disturbingly, many respectable people of Pakistan's high society attended the various wedding ceremonies, apparently not minding the possibility of being hosted by a terrorist.

This close affinity of an acclaimed cricketer with a criminal of Mr. Ibrahim's repute, and society's sanction on top of it, confirms the fear of many that Pakistan has a high tolerance level with international terrorists.

Growing Fanaticism

Gone are the good godless days of ODIs and three-day cricket test series. Allah's army has invaded the pavilions. Beards, and not grass, now sprout on the pitches. The empty corners of cricket stadiums in Multan and Quetta reverberate with the sound of azaan, not cricket commentaries. The might of Islam's fury has spread from steel swords to wooden cricket bats.

Lately there have been observations concerning not-so-observant cricketers being pressured into performing prayers if they wish to retain their place in the team. At least one Pakistani newspaper expressed concern about the growing 'Islamisation of our cricket team.'

For instance Mr. Mohammad Yousuf is a pious cricketer with a long, flowing beard. After hitting a century, he prostrates himself towards Mecca in gratitude. However it was not always like this. The cricketer was originally not Mohammad but simply Yousuf and was one of the few Christians in the Pakistan cricket team. In 2005, he converted to Islam. Incidentally, he is not the lone bearded mullah among his colleagues.

Talk about turning the playing field into a proselytizing field!

This gradual Islamisation of the Pakistani cricket team is reflected in the changing values of the country, too. Noted Pakistani columnist Irfan Hussain recently commented that the society in the sixties did not require women to be draped. He observed that as the country has slid backwards, "unkempt beards have sprouted, green turbans have mushroomed, and millions of square yards of black fabric shroud millions of women."

Do Not Despair

Despite the religious conservatism leaking out of mosques and private spaces, Pakistan has reasons to remain optimistic.

Remember, Mr. Yousuf had converted to Islam willingly and the popularity he enjoys among Pakistanis dates back to his life as an infidel man.

Remember, Mr. Miandad had to go all the way to Dubai to marry his son to a terrorist's daughter. Even Pakistan was aware about something odd in this relationship and that it was not all right to have the nikaah to be performed inside the country.

Remember, it was Pakistan's National Cricket Board, and not some world body, that took the initiative and conducted the medical tests on the basis of which it recalled Mr. Shoaib Akhtar. This proves that Pakistan has the willingness to correct itself.

And remember, Mr. Imran Khan's ex-wife may be presently dating Hugh Grant in London, but the proud Pathan still considers her a friend and has announced no plans of an honor killing.

Most interestingly, Ms. Goldsmith's two sons - Qasim and Sulaiman - are residents of Pakistan. That the half-Jewish and half-Muslim blood is flowing through the veins of two boys whose father can be Pakistan's future Prime Minister spells good omen for the world peace. Doesn't it?

Meanwhile, hope continues to float.

Pakistan Paindabad.

Book Review: Lipstick Jihad by Azadeh Moaveni

Mayank Austen Soofi — Mon, 23 Oct 2006 02:20:07 EDT

Snuggled between snow capped mountains lies a city whose name rhymes with that of the Italian fashion citadel of Milan. The women there sometimes dress in every color imaginable - bright emerald, violet, butter-cup. The residents, both men and women, are extremely conscious regarding their looks. Obsession with achieving the ideal face makes plastic surgery a thriving industry. Getting a nose job done is the hip thing. Showing off post-surgical bandages on noses in society parties is considered cool. Botox remains the latest rage.

The city-life occasionally resembles the Parisian Left Bank scene, with couples lingering on in art-house cafes beyond eleven in the night; the girls there exposing long stretches of calf and flashing pedicured toes in delicate sandals.

The night life rocks with private parties in elegant white-colored mansions situated in the elite northern districts. In the makeshift dance floors, the heels are always high, the skirts short and the corners dark where shots are taken and hash is smoked; while with every replaying of the favorite hits, the embraces get tighter.

In this city, young people plan raves in chat rooms and slip into parks to grope and fumble each other's bodies. Old rich people drink cocktails from gleaming crystals and old not-so-rich people learn to remain content with home-made vodka.

It is a place where man's basest instincts dominate the mindscape. Sexual innuendoes, double entendres and dirty jokes are common-place and Viagra is always available.

But this is a crazy city and a crazier country.

Welcome to Tehran, the capital of the Islamic Republic of Iran.

A Mad Country and Madder People

Sandwiched between two violent ridden countries - Iraq and Afghanistan - the people of Iran live a schizophrenic existence. The women might be cloaked with black chadors but the hottest new shop was a fake Victoria's Secret outlet selling silk negligees and lace underwear. The country might be officially an Islamic state but everybody cheat during the fasting season of Ramadan by secretly chomping off energy chocolates or discreetly smoking cigarettes.

The patriotic people might breathlessly chant Death to America slogans in public rallies but throng to McDonald's-type fast food joints rumored to procure their buns from American burger franchises in the Persian Gulf. The Muslims of this land might be expected to bow to west towards Mecca but its Yoga-minded citizens like to turn east for seeking refuge in Indian spiritual gurus. The country is no IT superpower but was ranked the world's number three in the number of blogs in 2003.

Iran is akin to a transvestite - a bearded man during the day and a powdered lady in the night.

The country doesn't know what to make of itself.

A Daughter Comes Home

Khomeni's Daughter was journalist Azadeh Moaveni's first choice for the title of this book. She later toyed with Fast Times in Tehran before bouncing on to Fashion Jihad. Lipstick Jihad was the final pick.

Ms. Moaveni was born to Iranian parents who had escaped to California like other pampered subjects of the disgraced Shah after the revolutionary takeover by Ayatollah Khomeni.

She grew up with a love-and-hate heartbeat towards her native land. To be an American teenager while being weighed down by an Iranian hyphen tagging to her identity had its own demands and pressures. Her maternal grand-father was in USA while her paternal grand-father remained back in Tehran. Suffering from that classic neither-here-nor-there sickness, she spent her formative years within a closed world of Iranian exiles, concentrated in the west coast, who dreamt of returning to their land once another revolution topple the Mullahs and Iran reverts back to being grand old Persia.

Like many of the second generation Iranian-Americans, Ms. Moaveni was at home with an Iran that existed only in the kitchens and living room reminiscences of the exiles. The non-existent country of these dreamy people was exotic but understood to be groaning under the slavery of crude Islamic clerics; its women imprisoned in billowing tents; its past glory stained by its present wretchedness; its art and creativity choked off by pleasure-less Shariat laws. It was a great country, the émigrés agreed, but had all its potential robbed by its ruling clerics, a ruthless regime better known for declaring death fatwas and laying sieges to foreign embassies when not occupied in pampering suicide guerillas of Hezbollah and Hamas.

But there is a simmering underground culture secretly coded within this clichéd painting of Iran. It fell upon Ms. Moaveni to chronicle this unknown Iran in a manner that would bring maximum pleasure to her readers.

Born in 1976 in San Jose, Ms. Moaveni had won a Fulbright Fellowship to Egypt in 1999 where she studied Arabic at the American University in Cairo. Soon she landed with the job of covering Middle East for the Time magazine. Not surprisingly, Ms. Moaveni made her base in Tehran where she lived in her grand father's mansion before shifting to her own pad.

However, other than an eye-witness tour of the present-day Iran, Lipstick Jihad is also a personal book: It is an amusing story of the clash between the idea of Persia that American-Iranians grow up with and the reality of the crass, dusty, everyday-type Iran. It is the presentation of a series of hilarious situations that a young girl imbibed with American values has to grapple with while confronting the regressive and non-individualistic traditions of Asia.

Reporting on an Underground Jihad

The Mullahs had originally dreamed of creating a grand Islamic paradise where people would bow to Allah five times a day; would be grateful to Imams for taking over the burden of running the nation; would faithfully flog themselves with iron chains during Muharram; where sex would not be an indulgence but a means for procreating more Allah-fearing clones; where the only rock stars would be war martyrs whose portraits 'beautify' the city skyscrapers; where picnickers would spend somber holidays in the rose gardens of the cemeteries; where people would die with Khomeini's name in their shivering lips.

This was the fantasized Disneyland of the Imams.

But nothing turns out as it should. The reality is different. There are lusty men proposing sigheh- secret temporary marriages lasting as short as a quick sex session - to unmarried, independent women. There are veiled prostitutes recognized by coded signals - holding a plastic bag in the left hand or smoking in the street!

Even as the perpetually frowning Ayatollahs continue in their never-ending struggle for Jihad against America, western decadence and Zionist conspiracy, a sexier Jihad is underway in all levels of the Tehran society which strive to defy the strict morality imposed by the ruling establishment.

There is the young generation wearing 'satellite dresses' - clothes worn in western sitcoms beamed out in secretly installed satellite antennas - and daydreaming of migrating to America. Plots of Sex and the City are followed more rigorously then scholarly interpretations of Koranic verses. The people bother more about what Rachel said to Chandler in Friends than what ranting did the chief cleric made in the Friday sermon.

In fact Iran actually appears to be the only Islamic nation on earth which actually adores the great American culture!

Happy Muharram

Iran happens to be the world's most powerful Shiite country. The festival of Muharram, commemorating the battle of Karbala in which Prophet Muhammad's grandson Imam Hussein was killed, is the most important date in the Shiite calendar. The commemoration reaches its climax on the tenth day of Muharram, known as Ashurah.

This is a day for mourning. People come out into the streets, weep voluminous tears, wear black clothes and lament the death of Imam Hussein.

But Tehran's yuppies observe it a little differently: Ashurah night, traditionally observed with candle light vigil, has lately been adapted as Hussein Party. 'Happy Muharram' is the general greeting tossed around in the air. In one of the gatherings attended by Ms. Moaveni in Mohseni square, a busy neighborhood in northern Tehran, scarps of papers bearing phone numbers and e-mails were tucked under the candles and later passed around among the teenagers.

This outrageous observation of what is essentially a tragic anniversary could be interpreted as desperation on part of hormone-infused teenagers to turn everything and anything into a dating opportunity but it could also be a rebellion, a jihad, against the oppressiveness of a ruling cabal which has been so perverted by its religious madness that it wants nothing less than complete cessation of all contacts between members of the opposite sex.

This government of mad Mullahs has been tireless in building a society where women are reduced to sex objects whose very sight is feared to infuse impure thoughts in pious men. There are barriers built for everyone, but especially for women. The regime aims for a complete control on its females: from trying to peek into their thoughts to making sure if their hair were not slipping out of their veils.

It prefers men in beards and collarless coats while likes to see women without rouge and perennially dressed in black sheet of clothes, preferably smelling of cooking oil.

But people have their own way of dealing with this repression: a purple eyeliner here, a bare foot there. Rules are tolerated by flouting them wherever opportunity knocks. In Gandhi-speak, Lipstick Satyagrah is the term to describe this subtle mutiny, but in Islamic dictionary, it has to be Lipstick Jihad.

The Dangers of Double Life

It is true that perhaps there is more sex in Tehran than say, in Delhi, but Iranian teens are always in danger of being flogged by the dreaded Basij - Islamic vigilant guards employed by the regime to make sure that its people follow a vice-free life.

Ideally, Basij guards are empowered to arrest or beat young couples doing nothing more harmful than holding hands. But sometimes the regime suddenly switches into a liberal mode and stop raiding illegal satellite dishes for a while. It even broadcast Harry Potter films in the state television. But soon the pendulum dings to the other extreme and then there are rumors of girls, foolish enough to move around with bare feet, being forced to dip their legs in a bucket filled with cockroaches. It is not uncommon for unmarried women to be stopped at Basiji checkpoints and have their virginity checked!

It is indeed a sad world where state has the power to intrude into the most private aspects of a person's life. What is more tragic is the double life that the young people are forced to live. Ironically, their parents, who had their youth spent in the decadent days of the last Shah, had enjoyed a truly liberal and modern life, something which now their children experience only in disguise and could be made possible only by breaking the laws of the state.

How Twin Towers Changed Tehran

During the reformist years of President Mohamamd Khatami there were serious attempts at directing the country to moderation in spite of the reservations of the all powerful clerics who still retain the veto power. The Iranian society had started becoming sane. The brief interludes of freedom from the fear of moral policing were expanding to larger duration of days.

But then 9/11 happened and US President George Bush famously clubbed Iran as one of the axis of evil along with Iraq and North Korea. The spring ended and the painfully slow process of change came to a halt. Liberals were asked to put an end to their demands and debates. The country was in danger, the mullahs warned, declaring everyone needed to dissolve their differences and band together to resist the imminent invasion of Satan Sam.

Shops selling pets were closed. People were discouraged from wearing tee-shirts bearing pictures of Hollywood stars. Coffee shops serving 'immodestly dressed' women with heavy makeup were shut down. Malls playing illegal western music were ordered to switch it off.

In 2005, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad replaced Mr. Khatami as the country's president. Things would never be the same again.

The Coming Invasion

When George Bush will strike Iran with remote-controlled laser bombs it will not be tormenting to have all those corrupt clerics buried under the rubble of their buildings. But the collateral damage will include all these young people bravely trying to live a normal life in abnormal circumstances. Watching them die will be a pity!

What Does it Take to Hang a Person Till His Death in India?

Mayank Austen Soofi — Sat, 21 Oct 2006 09:54:24 EDT

The answer is eerie but true: an exclusive opinion poll by a leading current affairs journal or perhaps a couple of sensational television talk shows. But this is going ahead in the story. Let's start from the beginning.

The Origin of the Tale

On December 13, 2001, five terrorists launched a suicide attack inside Lok Sabha - India's national parliament. Their aim was either to take hostage the entire Indian leadership or to annihilate it. But the attack was foiled by the security forces. The terrorists were killed. It was later revealed that they all were from Pakistan.

Within three days the Delhi police claimed to have solved the conspiracy and followed it up by arresting four Kashmiris, including a woman, all of them from Delhi. One of the alleged plotters, SAR Geelani, was an Arabic language professor in Delhi University. He was sentenced to death but was later acquitted by the higher court. But the death sentence of another man - Mohammad Afzal - was upheld by the Supreme Court in September, 2006. He will soon be hanged to death.

After the Attack

The terrorist attack inside the parliament had serious repercussions. The Pakistan connection only made it worse. It enraged the then Indian government, led by BJP - a Hindu fundamentalist party, to an extent that it decided to transfer its army to the international border forcing Pakistan to do the same. The bulk deployment of troops triggered a serious possibility of a nuclear war in South Asia forcing worldwide panic and resulting in fleeing of westerners from both the countries.

Who is Mohammad Afzal?

His story is a mirror into the wasted lives of several Kashmiri youths. Like many of his fellow young men, Mr. Afzal was angered by the alleged atrocities of the Indian army and went across the border into the terrorist camps of Pakistan-held Kashmir. But after returning to India, he was disillusioned enough to surrender to the Indian armed forces in 1993. His later life allegedly turned him into some sort of a police informer, an arrangement in which he willingly or was coerced to supply information on underground dissidence in the strife-ridden Kashmir valley. At least till 2001, he remained in close contact with the Indian armed forces.

Mr. Afzal has a family comprising of a wife and a 5-year old son.

Let's Hang This Man

The entire country is abuzz with Afzal's imminent hanging. Different groups with various agendas have started humming around Mr. Afzal and his date with death.

On one end of the spectrum is the Indian public opinion which, no doubt because of a spurt in Islamic terrorism, seems to be in favor of Mr. Afzal's death. On the other end is a gathering of bleeding-heart liberals and anti-capital punishment groups which have their own politics to play as they demand clemency for Mr. Afzal.

It must be mentioned that everyone appears to be in agreement though that Mr. Afzal is indeed a terrorist and that he was the actual mastermind behind the Parliament attack conspiracy. Meanwhile Kashmiri Muslims, ever suspicious of anything Indian, have already started seeing Mr. Afzal as a shaeed - a martyr; a hero all set to sacrifice for a greater cause.

Muhammad Afzal has become something for everyone.

The Lynch Mentality

The Indian court which advocates death penalty in the rarest of rare cases appeared to be in that rare state where its common sense is apparently reeling under intense emotional excitement. It declared in its death verdict that "...the collective conscience of the society will only be satisfied if capital punishment is awarded to the offender."

In a 271-page judgment, the court commented that "the attack was a challenge to the unity and integrity of the country and the conspirators deserve maximum punishment." The court was still not done. It finally concluded that "the accused is a menace to society and his life should be extinguished."

Is This the Rarest of Rare Cases?

However this same court also admitted in its verdict that there was no evidence linking Mr. Afzal to any terrorist group. Most strangely, the court also confessed that there is only circumstantial evidence, but no direct one, to link Mr. Afzal to the conspiracy.

So it happens that Mr. Afzal has been sentenced to death on the basis of "circumstantial evidence" under sections 3(3) of Pota, 120B (criminal conspiracy) and 302 (murder) IPC, 121, 121A (waging war against state) and 4A of the Explosives Act.

There were other disturbing observations too: Rajbir Singh, the Assistant Commissioner of Police, was appointed as the chief investigative officer in the parliament attack case. This officer has a complicated reputation of killing 'terrorists' in staged encounters. He was also later caught having liaisons with drug peddlers. Besides, there have been also suggestions of torture. Mr Afzal's controversial confession, which was arranged by this disgraced cop in front of television cameras, conveniently and perfectly, matched the evidence gathered by his investigative team. This indeed happens to be one of those rare circumstances when everything combines together in a most harmonious fashion.

Loopholes do not end here: During the most delicate part of his trial, no lawyer agreed to put in defense for Mr. Afzal. This no-show forced the court to grant the accused the right to cross-examine the witnesses - a questionable privilege to a person with no knowledge of the various permutations and combinations of different laws and constitutional acts!

There are other black drains: Indians still have not been able to know the true identity of the terrorists killed in the parliament. Who were these people? Mr. L K Advani, the then home minister and now the Leader of Opposition in Lok Sabha, had said that 'they (the dead terrorists) looked like Pakistanis'. This was certainly a weird statement considering that one can't make out a Pakistani from a group of Indians simply by their looks - both belonging to the same race.

However even if those terrorists had Pakistani origins, nobody knows about their families: whose sons they were, from where they came and did their families tried to claim their bodies.

Everything is muddled and secretive and Mr. Afzal has been sentenced to die by drawing inferences from such discrepancies. Strangely, India's free media has not bothered to raise these issues.

The Misuse of Conscience

There are so many unsolved riddles in Mr. Afzal's case that even his circumstantial complicity in the crime is not certain. But since these are disturbing times of terrorism and a warning has to be delivered to future plotters, India has managed to grab its hands on a Muslim to send that signal. It helps that the accused hails from a state infamous for its disloyalty.

So Mr. Afzal, who may or may not be a terrorist, will be hanged to death. This may be against the essence of justice but still it will make most of the Indians happy. For now. It will comfort them with the false belief that at least something is being done to prevent the repeat of tragedies, like the recent killing of innocent commuters in Bombay trains. So what if one innocent life has to be lynched in the process!

Meanwhile BJP, India's opposition party, is aggressively demanding that Mr. Afzal be hanged as soon as possible. This is the same party which refused to show any conscience when it oversaw the killing of thousands of innocent Muslims at Gujarat in 2002. Just as it exploited the Muslim massacre to recapture power in that riot-scarred state, the party hopes that gunning for the death of a Kashmiri Muslim could be the shortcut to power in Delhi.

The Indian society, it is being said, is in haste to satisfy its collective conscience. This, of course, is the same society which happily votes for Prime Ministers and Chief Ministers who had clear, proven, and merely not conditional evidences against them in killing fellow countrymen of different faiths - Muslims and Sikhs - at various tragic times during the country's contemporary history.

All is Fair in National Interest

India Today magazine, the country's top selling news-weekly carried out a believe-it-or-not survey in the issue dated October 30, 2006. The survey asked urban Indians if Mr. Afzal should be hanged or not. More than 78 percent Indians favored the hanging. The magazine went on to conclude its article on this exclusive opinion poll by commenting that 'when India is terrorized, Indians want to save the life of the nation rather than the life of the terrorist'.

You see its all for India's sake.

Photo Essay: Inside and Outside the Jama Masjid - The World's Greatest and Grandest Mosque

Mayank Austen Soofi — Tue, 17 Oct 2006 07:45:00 EDT

Mecca has Masjid-al-Haram and Istanbul boasts of Blue mosque. The former has its ancient authenticity compromised by Petrodollar-funded air-conditioned renovations and the latter's magnificent splendor pales under the brilliant glow of the much older basilica of Hagia Sophia. But Delhi's Masjid-i-Jahan Numa - the mosque commanding a view of the world - neither tolerates nor suffers such ignominies. Standing erect on high ground, the grand mosque is the sole custodian of all that is beautiful, commanding, powerful and historical about Old Delhi.

Welcome to Jama Masjid, so called because of a large prayer congregation that gathers in its great courtyard in the Fridays or Jummas of every week.

Old Delhi - Filth, Stench and the Muslims

Two Veiled Ladies Make their Way to the Mosque

Caged Chickens Waiting to be Slaughtered for the Ramadan Feast

"Are you crazy? Why are you going there? That place stinks of dead chickens and dirty Muslims!" This was the regrettable response of a dear friend when I invited him for an afternoon excursion to Jama Masjid.

For many Delhiites, it becomes necessary to travel to Old Delhi only when there is no option but to board trains from its bustling railway station. True, the historical bazaar of Chandani Chowk - the moon-lit square - situated in the same district is legendary and retains a charm for the tourists but it is congested and makes for an exhausting experience for the natives. Modern-day Delhites of a new and shining India instead prefer to shop and enjoy in the glitzier and conveniently accessible markets and malls - glamorous American bubbles, situated far away from the depressing third-world reminders like Old Delhi.

Jama Masjid - There It Is

The Immense Crowd Below the Mosque

Skullcaps for Sale

The streets should have been secreted under a haze of languidness and the stone stairs leading to the mosque should have been bare and lonely. After all, it was a Ramadan afternoon. Pious Muslims, keeping fast during the day, remain hungry till dusk when it is time to break fast by feasting on a special meal called Iftar. Ramadan is always a trying time for the faithful since even water is not permitted to pass through the lips. To conserve energy, long days are whiled away by lying still in bed. It is not a surprise that Muslims chose to stay at home rather than depleting their energy going about the business of the day.

But this was not to be so this afternoon. The streets were crowded. Beggars were crying 'Ya Allah' with all their passion. Chirping families were busy buying clothes, bed sheets, and kitchen utensils. At one corner even kebabs were being roasted. Were people keeping fast? Could it be that Muslims have finally started being less conservative?

At The Entrance

In spite of this being the second week of October, the air was uncomfortably warm. After climbing over the final step and reaching the landing, a notice board greeted the visitors asking them to take off the shoes. But there was a problem: There were no guards to look after the shoes. What if somebody stole them? To make one feel more uncomfortable, there was a thuggish-looking man holding a wooden club with which he was shooing away any ignorant bumpkin stupid enough to sneak by with his shoes on.

However an old man helpfully suggested taking off the shoes and carrying them in the hands. As long as the shoes do not touch the sacredness of the holy ground it would be fine, he said.

Read Before You Walk

Careful, Do Not Let the Shoes Fall on the Ground

Inside the Mosque

A Grand View; An Awe-Inspiring Scene

The fa�ade of the mosque had a spectacular dazzle that had the power to stir the senses of an unsuspecting visitor. The great dome appeared to be a drop that must had trickled out of Islam's greatest moment - when it ruled all of South Asia; when its Mughal dynasty was at the peak of its glory and gleam; when Islam was breathing its best days in the region.

The Erection of Political Islam

The Breast of Spritual Nourishment

Jama Masjid was commissioned by Shah Jahan, the Mughal emperor who had earlier created Taj Mahal in the memory of his departed wife. The poor empress had died during the labor pains of her 14th child-birth.

Toppled by his son and doomed to spend the last days in a prison-cell whose window looked out to a faraway view of Taj Mahal, Shahjahan was a man of colorful personality - it was rumored that he had a romantic relationship with his own daughter, Jahanara. The unfazed emperor had defended his feelings by asking what crime it was to pick grapes from a plant he himself had planted!

A Jama Masjid View of the Red Fort

Jama Masjid faces another great Delhi landmark built by the same king - the Red Fort. It is a monument of immense historical character; its relevance still powerful in the narrative of modern India. Indian Prime Minister annually hoists the nation flag on its ramparts during the country's Independence Day while Pakistani ultra-nationalists publicly dream of implanting the green flag of Islam instead.

The People of the Mosque

There were Sunday families, carefree boys, western tourists, and fasting pilgrims in the mosque. There were people sitting on the stairs, lounging in the balcony and half-reclined under the shade. Some were gossiping while many looked tired and were quiet. There were beggars too, some without legs and some without arms. Some sat listlessly and one slept peacefully on the cool tiles inside the main complex.

The Balcony Scene

Sweet is the Sleep - Inside the Main Complex

Western Tourists Watched the Monument; We Watched the Western Tourists

How Many Hours Still Left to Break the Fast?

Boys will be Boys

Ohff, It's So Sunny!

Delhi from the Mosque

While one side of the Masjid was graced by the smart-straight line of the Red Fort, the remaining three appeared to be draped with large wall-papers of Delhi, showing the city in all its chaos: shaky structures, dangling electrical wires, misplaced hoardings, rickshaw jams, and an unmanageable surge of humanity.

Delhi in all its Glory, and Disgrace

A Side Show of this Old, Unplanned and Congested City

Prayer - The Chief Business of the Mosque

Of course, sightseeing is not what most of the visitors come for. Jama Masjid is a destination for those desiring for a momentary escape from the claustrophobic world of Old Delhi; it is a monument of refuge to the world-weary people; it is a grand chamber of solitude that offers private moments of reflection within the silence of its stones; it is a holy house intended to rub the balm of solace to the souls of troubled men. Most importantly, it is a mosque where Muslims are expected to reflect on Allah, angels and other compulsory vocations.

However, this stone mosque is welcoming even to non-Muslims. One can sit inside the main complex or lounge against the balcony railings or stretch out on the floor without any Mullah bothering to ask one's religion. In fact, the place is ideally suited for reading. The book does not necessarily have to be the Koran.

The Path to Paradise is Straight and Narrow

Ablution - Clean Yourself before Bowing to Allah

Communion with the Book

Why the Mullah is So Sad?

The Library of Muslims - Copies of the Koran

Remnant of a Lost Glory

Once Old Delhi was the center of the world and Jama Masjid, its crowning glory, shone with glittering lamps, gold-plated doors, and silken curtains. Now only a sad-looking chandelier hangs limply down from the dome. The corridors are haunted by bats; the stairs are lined by hungry pilgrims; unemployed Muslim youths play cricket under its shadow.

Those Were the Days

Jama Masjid has fallen from its original royal stature to a mere sad reminder of its former glory. It closely resembles a starving fakeer tightly clutching onto the rags of a used kaftan donated to him by some rich noble.

Indeed, the edges of the stony dome blurs with three-dimensional perspectives: it stands as a relic to the great past of the Muslim empire in India; it serves as a mirror into the pathos of present-day Indian Muslims; and it holds out an unpromising peek into the grim future of the Muslims of the Indian sub-continent.

Khuda Hafiz.