i've got thoughts.

idylls of a summer

2010-09-14T19:05:00.006-04:00

The other day I caught myself complaining about how chilly it was getting – for the fifth time in one day, quite possibly. It’s an everyday occurrence really; I will invariably lament the waning of summer while simultaneously anticipate the sound of autumn leaves crunching beneath my boots. This happens and then I promptly forget about it, caught up in the meanderings of everyday life and its seemingly endless tasks.

Today I sit at the table looking out the window, as I usually do. But at quarter to seven in the evening, the sky is still blue enough, with enough golden rays hitting the side of the Hilton hotel across the way to show that there’s still a good amount of daylight left. I think about how just a few weeks ago, sunset seemed an awfully long time coming, particularly to those who were waiting to break their day-long fast. Back then, 6:45pm meant a good hour left until a drop of water could touch the parched lips. And yet here we are – the sun is almost disappearing at the same time on the clock. There’s warmth left in the breeze, the rays are no longer scorching but a relief to feel. The expected chill is not so chilly, and summer is gently hanging on by a few beautiful amber threads. I am reminded yet again of just how ephemeral life really is, and how relative time is.

About two and a half months ago, I was in a house full of anticipatory relatives, gearing up for the long-awaited wedding of “the next cousin-in-line,” the one who had already been skipped over once, the one who has already gone past the “prime” time for marriage. Mine. I am sure they all breathed an audible sigh of relief that it was finally happening, and when it finally happened. Back then, I could not imagine the month of September without several knots twisting and turning in my stomach, or without my brain ricocheting off in various directions, wondering if it all really was going to happen. Summertime seemed like a true diamond in the water (it’s besides the point that I don’t even like diamonds) – something to hold onto dearly because I couldn’t tell if a married life of September was really going to appear or some catastrophic situation would ruin everything and render all of this a tottering dream. The season that has always been the sweetest to me seemed even more precious than ever before. It held meaning like it never had before. Every day that passed was another day that would be entirely changed a year from thence. To be sure, June 7^th comes around every year – but never again will it come around in this anticipatory state, in a pre-marriage, solitary kind of way. And it was beautiful.

Just like these summer days that are disappearing one by one, that time did too, full to the brim with expectation and beauty. There was a lament of previous days gone by mixed with the anticipation and excitement of what will follow. The colors of fall, the smell and the sounds—they unfold little by little, baring open the full brightness of the reds, yellows, oranges and browns that are sure to paint the landscape. With the change in the wind, will come a quiet and peaceful inner warmth – a feeling of being encased in someone else’s arms when all around feels chilly. And that someone else being my husband – well, that is a wonderful thing indeed.

Of Spirituality and Totem Poles

2010-09-02T18:10:00.006-04:00

In recent weeks – or even months – I’ve started to revisit this concept of spirituality, and what it means for me. More so than ever before. I’ve been jaded for who knows how long. A jaded believer, if you will. I’ve been feeling like all this talk of religion and life-after-death and fear-of-God and the neverending list of to-do’s and not-to-do’s have been overwhelming, and consequently, has pushed me away. Who but God should be judging our actions? Why do I need friends on Facebook posting status messages about Ramadan and its holiness to feed my guilt – not my desire – into fasting/praying? To be sure, religion is designed to keep society in check, to keep moralities and immoralities separate, to provide people with “guidelines” on how to live life… But that just hasn’t worked for me. The more I have been told to read and try to understand why I am and am not supposed to do certain things, the more disenchanted I became. To fake faith is the worst disservice one can do to oneself, and even others.

When I sat down to write this, I scrolled down to see my meager previous posts. Funnily enough, the last noteworthy one was about the same topic of religion. And a loss of peace. And I remember exactly how that felt – and still does, most of the time. But here’s where I’ve changed—peace is beginning to come back into my soul. This did not happen through any religious awakening. It did not happen through friends or families’ incessant blateration about religion and religious duties and the wrath of God. It wasn’t a heavens-opened-up moment of revelation.

It came from myself. It came from a realization deep within that self-improvement is not something I should spew in words, but something I need to strive ardently for. It came from the realization that I have the potential to be a good person, and I have not even scratched the mere surface of being one. It came from my own search into myself – brought on my none other than my own self, and the knowledge of how little I have done for those around me, and just how much I have wronged so many who have been dear to me...

It’s a start, and I am at the very lowest rung of the totem pole of spirituality, if there was to be such a thing. I am at the Regretful Self level (re: Sufism); I have been realizing my shortcomings and I have the desire to change. The faults are innumerable, and the realization very dim. There is a strong desire to change, but that change is a long way off. I will get there, hopefully not as slowly as I fear. Everyday is a challenge, but everyday is also a chance, to do the right thing.

To quote my recent inspiration, Sultan AbdulHameed, “the controls for changing our circumstances are not in what we see around us, but within us, in the invisible parts of us, where our thoughts, perceptions, and beliefs reside.”

That’s where my search is taking me… to where my beliefs reside.

2009-06-23T22:38:00.004-04:00

i was about to go on a rant about something or other because i was in a foul, foul mood.

but it took me awhile to remember how to log in, since it's been ohhh say, almost a year, since i last updated... and now i've forgotten what i was so angry about. (i just realized the last time i wrote anything was july 23rd of last year; it's june 23rd today)... and what an awful, awful year it's been.

ha.. i've figured out the path to anger management. memory loss.

that makes no sense.

something tells me that the only way to continue writing poetry/stories/the like is to force myself to. i've hit a road block for awhile now. but i'm afraid of losing it. so even if i write crap, i ought to keep writing...

thought of the day: marriage. it's a scary thing. and people are probably better off without it.

A Loss of Peace

2008-07-23T22:17:00.003-04:00

It’s funny that I remember as a child my first memories of God and what He represented were the minarets of Masjid Al-Haraam in Mecca, and then of the Ka’aba. I remember hearing the azan and thinking that was God’s voice; that he was somewhere up in the minarets and was calling everyone to prayer. Soon after, I went from thinking He’s in the minaret to thinking he was in the Ka’aba, and that every time we went to the Great Mosque, that He was watching me from inside… or that somehow, that big black box was Him….. I’m sure such thoughts would be considered idolatry and blasphemous, but that is how I as a child perceived the concept of an omnipotent God. And with this feeling came a certain unsteadiness, a wariness- not exactly fear, but almost a discomfort of knowing He was watching, and perhaps a little malevolently. I’m not sure how much of that had to do with the “fear of Allah” that all Muslim children (and adults) are robotically instilled with. Probably quite a bit, which would explain why I had such strange feelings of unsettledness… But what’s even stranger (or more interesting) is that the older I got, the more those feelings dissipated to be replaced by a sense of calm and peace when I went to the masjid. I would notice more wrongdoings of people around me -- the littering of cups, or the pushing and shoving of the masses, and especially the obnoxious behavior of the police and guards towards women. The older I got, the more these behaviors bothered and angered me, and yet the sense of calmness that I felt within me, save for my surroundings, only increased every time I walked along the cool marble floors, or gazed upon the shimmering black cube. The last time I went there before we moved from the country, I sat in a row very near to the Ka’aba, and held my head up towards it and asked never to forget that image, that feeling. It was nighttime, undoubtedly the best time to be there, and sparse birds circulated the air above the lighted mosque. The ground felt cooler than usual, the grains of the white marble floors glittered more kindly from the reflection of the many surrounding lights than they did in the daytime. I prayed to Allah that I may remember that particular image and hold it dear to my heart forever,… and even now, 15 years later, I still remember it exactly the way I saw it through my 12 year-old eyes. I see the black sheets covering the Ka’aba rippling in the wind, I hear the birds crying above head, and I see my hands brought together in supplication; the lines of my fingers determined to hold every bit of peace and calmness to memory.

It would be an outright lie to say that I am still as religious (or even close to) as I was 15 years ago. And yet, my faith in God never falters. I cannot fathom a world without His existence, and every birth, death or the smallest experience of love or pain, only confirms to me that He must and does exist. I cannot explain my faith or the reasons for believing such, but all I know is that I derive a sense of peace and unity from such faith, and that is justification enough for me….. What I wonder is how to hold onto that peace, that sense of calmness, when everything else in life is so obviously trying to uproot every fiber of calmness that one can possess? I don’t find that solace in the motions of prayer anymore… at least not the motions that I ought to follow in accordance with the religion. I find a semblance of it when I close myself off to everything else and try to think, perhaps ‘meditate’ would be the word…or pray in my own way… but it is not good enough. Peace, as I have known it, does not exist within me anymore. I can look out onto a lake, or over mountains, or upon a bridge and feel that semblance of peace again, but it is always fleeting… and worst of all, any meditation upon life leads me to become more distressed, more often than not. Perhaps that ideal of peace and calm is only a childhood ideal; perhaps as adults all we can hope for is bits and pieces of peace here and there, to be uprooted by the disaster and distress of everyday life. Or perhaps, if I were inclined to be a little more optimistic, it has been a year so very devoid of inner peace and calm that any other year that is to follow will only be better…. In any case, what I wonder is where does one turn to for that peace of mind when religion simply cannot offer it anymore, when prayer is not enough? Blasphemous these thoughts may be, but in the midst of mental turmoil, the search for oneself or for peace of mind doesn’t have room for such distinctions. They are all questions that need answering… if only I knew how to answer them.

Wish You Were Here

2008-07-03T03:15:00.005-04:00

As the candles dance in the forced breeze coming from the frantically spinning fan, I sit on my narrow bed and wonder about the concept of nostalgia. At any given point in time, we may experience a number of different triggers that take our minds through a silent film of moments in our lives. The flames flickering might remind me of my Stony Brook dorm room, Arnob’s music in my ears might remind me of hazy winter mornings in Dhaka, the touch of the wind on my bare shoulders might remind me of someone hundreds of miles away… and yet, all these distant or disjointed memories come together at the same time, making a whole new memory. Not just a whole new memory, but a cacophony of sensations: different languages colliding and conglomerating, colors, smells, touches, emotions, all of them crashing one after the other upon the mind, vying for dominance. What does one do with all these decapitated memories? Do we let them build upon each other and create a veritable monster of nostalgia? Or do we brush them off, throwing them in a pile of Unwanteds and just keep looking for newer memories? Is it possible to simply have a memory and not feel nostalgia? Is nostalgia the thing that makes a good memory good?

I would have no problems with nostalgia if it didn’t have the feelings associated with it; if it didn’t have that which defines it. Why can one not listen to a song without feeling one’s insides melting vein by vein, tearing away all shreds of sensibility? Why can one not smell something without thinking of nothing but that certain someone’s fingers, entwining and caressing, tugging at the heart? Why do we fall prey to such emotions when memories are really nothing but neurons and nerve impulses? It would be pointless to wonder what our worlds would be like without memories; but what if we lived without nostalgia? Would that make us more efficient at planning our present and our future, since we would spend less time upon the past? Would it not make us happier in a way, since we wouldn’t be spending any time or emotions on feeling sad or lonely or depressed? Technically, perhaps that could be the case. But something tells me that life would lose all its hope, all its charm, all its indescribable bits of honeyed happiness that we hold so dearly to our hearts. That must be where nostalgia lies; that must be the purpose of nostalgia. To remind us, with not just a small stab at our hearts, that those fragments of memories that float to us on lonely, hot nights like tonight are actually proofs of life’s cruel beauty. They come to us to make us pause in our mindless days and nights and remember things that once made us love life, or gave us hope, or gave us the reasons that we needed to get through our days. The after-effects of nostalgia are a bit harder to deal with, but I suppose if we can sort through the collage of memories one by one, we might come to look at them pleasantly, and stow them away for another day when we might need that memory… Perhaps I can yet learn to pick and choose my nostalgia. Until then, it seems appropriate that I’ll keep echoing Pink Floyd: How I wish, how I wish you were here….

the distance between 'love' to 'lost love'...

2008-03-26T01:58:00.002-04:00

There are times when we may feel that we can never distance ourselves from our lost loves, the once-love-of-our-lives. Hopelessly, we may feel that we will never stop lying awake for hours on end, wishing wistful wishes,... staring blankly at our phones, twirling them in our hands, waging wars in our minds, fighting the desire to call our lost loves. We might think that the day will never come when we stop hearing the lost love’s voice when we hear a song, or that we could possibly not look at a hill of daffodils and not think of his smile, his touch, his unending love…. We stand convinced that the day will never come when we stop thinking of the way sunlight highlights the irises of his eyes, making them glint green, orange and brown simultaneously… or the way those eyes, swimming with love, look adoringly and intimately, willing to forgive mistakes, to forgo misunderstandings…

We think such things… and then distance sets in, etching its footprints deeper and with certainty….. Soon enough, we realize that somehow we have indeed managed to distance ourselves. We realize that the hours between those moments when his eyes intrude our thoughts are longer and less painful than before… Eventually, distance has done what it excels at—it has dulled the pain, blurred the edges of the love that was, making it a relic, a memory… It has taken from us the sharpness of heartbreak and replaced it with the numbness of acceptance,… or perhaps of regret. Distance has wedged itself between the crevices of memory and willed the mind to replace, if not forget….. Consequently, our lives take up new plans, new emotions, and lost love dwindles to the bottom of our hearts, to the back of our minds, stored away gently, to be kept only as a fond relic.

What we are never prepared for, however, is the sudden upturning of those memories… of a sudden feeling -fleeting or otherwise- which assaults us, catches us unawares. When lost love suddenly resurfaces, and our minds are left in turmoil. Perhaps all that was needed to jog the senses in the end was just a song, or a word, or a concept,… or a hill of daffodils. Whatever triggers it, we find ourselves immersed in a spiral of memories, where even the way he always cocked his head to the side and smiled in pictures becomes a haunting recollection, at once too painful either to dwell on, or to try to forget…. We find ourselves unable to think of much else, as our minds become fully immersed in digging up old and forgotten feelings, emotions, desires….. It is at that point we realize that we can never fully escape lost loves….especially if we are the ones who let our loves become lost. Until distance again takes up its task of burying memories, all there is to be done is to simply watch the yellow daffodils swaying in the breeze and remember those eyes for what they were…and always will be.

Stagnation...

2008-03-05T23:47:00.001-05:00

February 7, 2008

Stationary objects…. Sometimes, when the light shines just right upon them, they seem to have a distinct life of their own. It’s a sedentary life, which isn’t entirely unenviable. I sat on the couch in the sunroom and stared at the opposite side of the room, at a white bag bearing a massive red star with “MACY’S” written across its side, sitting slanted on some books, and overflowing with leftover mail, flyers and random papers that might or might not be important. The ironing table next to the pile of papers and bags stood cross-legged and lonely, with a defiant looking iron sitting on top. As I watched these objects, they seemed to stare back at me with a steady, uncompromising stare. The muted yellow light peeping from the broken lampshade across the room shone just enough light onto the blue plastic hanger that stuck out of the box to make it look a little sinister. Looking at these objects, I found myself feeling envious of their aloofness, of their ability to remain detached and yet surrounded by the chaos of life. I find myself consistently unable to detach myself from people and events around me- whether they personally involve me or not. The world of stationary objects makes me wish I possessed those very enviable qualities some people have of detaching themselves from things around them to the point where they remain unfazed regardless of what happens. They live happier lives, I think.

As I sat there, all the objects began to glow in their stillness. They mocked me; reminding me of the tangled mess that is my life, of the continuous struggles and conflicts I’m forced to face everyday. They rejoiced in their sedentary ways; showing me how much better it is to simply be in the background, as the sun reached out its fading light across the bold letters on the side of the bag. I sat there listening to the voices around me, watching the invisible words coming at me, becoming absorbed into my skin, watching it turn varying shades as the words churned into emotions inside me. I sat there, watching myself becoming angry, becoming sad, becoming happy, and ricocheting through numerous emotions. Slowly, a sentence wafted into my head from somewhere (or someone) -- “it’s your choice.” I thought about what that meant, and realized that unfortunately, it’s really not my choice. If I did have a choice about it, I would choose the sedentary life; I wouldn’t choose to have these emotions, these feelings, these obligations and expectations that seem to drive our lives. I think I might have to disagree with Shakespeare at this point in my life; I would definitely much rather have never loved (or felt) at all.

What it comes down to is that I would much rather be a paper bag advertising for Macy’s than who I am… at least then I would be recycled, reused… replaced. I wouldn’t mind being replaced under those circumstances. I wouldn’t mind one way or the other, which is the exact point of it all.

Winter of You

2008-01-27T00:05:00.002-05:00

Just a random piece...

Winter in the northeast US reminds me of you. The slanted, heatless sunshine, streaming in through the blinds, throwing a yellowish light over the room, reminds me of you. Through my half-opened eyes I see the dust particles floating aimlessly along the sunbeams shining upon the wood floors, and I think of you… The tree branches, devoid of leaves, shivering in the bitter cold, standing upright against a clear blue sky, remind me of you… The smell of the cold wind nibbling at my ears makes me think of you. Something about the scent of winter days brings you to mind- the sounds of crackling leaves and the feel of frozen ground seem imbued in the air of winter, creating a tangible smell that lingers in my hair... I can feel you in that coldness; that sharpness that bites through my lungs, that stings my eyes into tears, that makes me pause my breathing, and think of you. I wonder if it’s the few ‘comforts’ of winter that remind me of you- the warmth of snuggling up under the covers, of pulling my coat closer, of sitting beside a fire, or near the heater. Maybe it’s the bits of welcome heat in the middle of biting frost, enveloping me into a familiar glow, which reminds me of you… I wonder if it’s the way the sun shines on everything- not the harsh summer glare that makes everything radiate, but a cold and calculating light that covers only in measures; the way the sunshine seems to choose where it will fall, what it will highlight… Perhaps it’s the color of the sky; the way the dirty gray clouds hide the fading sunlight, looking ever so ephemeral, always seeming to hang about somewhere near the horizon, and yet taking forever to set….. Perhaps it’s the desolation in the colors of winter that reminds me of you… the beauty of winter’s solitude.

Most of all, it’s the silence of winter that reminds me of you. That silence that pervades throughout the cold, the silence that responds to all my meandering thoughts… It’s the silence that echoes when the wind drops, when the sun travels across the thinning sky, when the cold and barren branches rattle in the biting wind, when the solitary snowflakes drift downward through the night sky. The silence is what responds to me when I remember you… you were never there when I called out into the cold. There was only that resounding silence- that cold, resounding silence of winter days that consistently reminds me of you.

I never did like winter much at all… But I did love you.

January 24, 2008

All is quiet, on New Year’s Day…

2008-01-01T04:20:00.001-05:00

December 31, 2007. 11:41 pm. 19 minutes till January 2008. A new year, a new lifetime. It is usually on the last day of the year (or on the first of the new year) that we pause to reflect on the past year, on all the moments of joy, of sadness, of could-be’s, of have-beens, of what-ifs. We use this time to plan out better tomorrows, of more hopeful times, of happy futures. But another year also means more heartache, more sorrows, more deaths. There are some who will lose loved ones, there are some who will fall out of love, some who will have their hearts broken. It is normal to feel melancholy on this day, but it is undoubtedly much wiser to be hopeful and positive… After all, unless we look to the future with hope and a positive attitude, we would all be sitting at home near midnight, crying ourselves to sleep…

Each day we live is a new lifetime. There are people around the world being born, turning 12 years old, turning 50 years old, turning 70 years old, dying. Each day is filled with the flurry of what ‘life’ consists of- turning points, births, deaths. 365 lifetimes in a year. If we lived each day with that in mind- that it is a lifetime we are spending, how would we do things differently? Would we say different things? Could we love like it truly didn’t matter? Could we let go of all prejudices and anger and make the most of the day?... Probably not. We would probably continue to bicker over petty things, argue about our beliefs, create pandemonium for the sake of our own ideals. We would probably continue to create wars, brandishing our swords of religion, of race, of wealth, of so-called justice and freedom. We would probably find a minute to fit in love and peace, but it would be a fleeting moment, and we would immediately be consumed again by the insistence of ‘need’- the need for things, the need for possessions, the need for wars. It has become human nature to guard our material and non-material properties and our beliefs – there is an almost selfish brutishness in how it happens. We will probably continue to live each day submerged in ourselves, with the blinders on our eyes strapped on tightly.

What we ought to do is look around us… Notice the pure delight in the face of a little girl as she chases pigeons around the courtyard. Watch the spreading of simple and unadulterated joy in the face of two friends as they share a bar of chocolate. We should see the bit of irresistible hope swinging in the corner of a woman’s eyes as she sits in the coffee shop, waiting to meet the man she’s fallen in love with. We should watch the grandparents swell with pride as their grandchildren show them school certificates and medals. We should listen for the notes in-between song lyrics that make our hearts surge with something like love, like happiness. What we should remember is the way a person’s eyes look when they are in love; the smiles that light them up. What we should look for is the hope that dangles on a thread in a war-torn country, where the shambles of buildings and dried bloodstains cannot dim a child’s need to play football. What we should look for is the love that passes from body to body as a tight hug is given between two people. What we should remember is the gurgling laughter of toddlers that come without reason, without hatred, without preconceived notions, without prejudices or beliefs… Those are what lifetimes are made of.

…If New Year’s Day was worth your lifetime, what would you do differently today?

A Fistful of Sunshine

2007-12-02T13:03:00.005-05:00

Today I saw a young boy with the saddest expression. Whatever sorrow his eyes did not hold, his face did. There were lines etched across his face- lines that looked like tears. They weren’t very obvious lines, but I could see their shadows. He looked at me, but wasn’t looking at me- the sadness on his face looked past me, at everything else. His expression was familiar; I’ve seen many people on the streets of Dhaka with a similarly forlorn expression. It’s a vacant, hopeless loneliness that stares but doesn’t see, that cries but isn’t heard. This boy’s gaze held something deeper- a Grand Canyon of hopelessness. Looking at him, an image floated into my mind from about two years ago.

Manhattan, summer of 2005. After work, I was walking downtown to meet up with a friend. Passing by a McDonald’s, I gave into momentary hunger (as gross as McDonald’s is, I really do love the fries…) and walked in. As I sat there eating my fries, I watched the people around me (as usual). One woman sitting a table away from me caught my eye. She must have been in her 70’s, the wrinkled black skin on her face was worn out and sagging. She sat there eating the sorriest looking meal I had seen in awhile. Her clothes were shabby, and she had a battered broad-brimmed hat sitting next to her. She looked up and around a few times, and there it was- an inexplicably sad expression that seemed to look through or past people. It was a look of utter loneliness. I wanted to get up and hug her, hold her tightly, make her feel better. But of course, one doesn’t hug random strangers. And definitely not in New York City, of all places. Something in her face, in the way she looked at people, cried out loneliness and despair. It wasn’t that she was eating alone- I myself was eating alone, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t have such an expression on my face. Perhaps it was the way she looked around, perhaps it was in how she ate very slowly, as if the food is the only company she could ever have and so had to prolong its stay. Whatever it was, it emanated from her like something tangible; and I had to fight my desire to get up and hug her. I didn’t even talk to her. It’s been ingrained in me that strangers in New York City do not want to be bothered by other strangers. You don’t look them in the eyes (though I break that rule all the time), and you don’t talk to them. So I left the place feeling utterly dejected. There were millions and millions of people all over the world with such expressions. Millions who have nothing but emptiness filling their lives; so much so that they can’t help but stare out into the world with such vacancy in their souls, dripping from each and every glance, each and every blink of their eyes. Where are their little bits of happiness?

I believe that happiness comes as pit-stops along the scrawny little mess of a road we call Life. Sometimes we happen to stop because we were distracted and needed to find our way back and end up finding a little bit of happiness instead. Other times, we run for miles upon empty miles, searching for that pit-stop, but never realizing that we pass our chances just around the corner. Every time we stop at these pit-stops, we enjoy blocks of perfect moments that make up what we call ‘happiness.’ And every time, we will move on with the hope that we can return someday but we never can. In the chance that we do return to the same location, or with the same person, we will always find that things are a little different than before; things have been shuffled around a bit. Or sometimes, so many things have changed that we can’t even recognize our own perfect moments anymore… kind of like how there are places in Dhaka that are unrecognizable from a few years ago because of construction! The perfect moments will always remain, but we have to know where to find them… we can’t let emptiness eat away at us because then we’ll end up forgetting how to find those moments… or worse, we might forget that perfect moments really exist. Happiness comes in those little bottles marked ‘perfect moments,’ but we have to know they exist, that we can always find them, no matter in what shape or form, or for however long or short period of time.

I think about that old woman and the little boy I saw today and wonder… did they ever get the chance to find perfect moments in their lives? Are they searching so hard for their pit-stops that they’re overlooking the very things they are searching for? Maybe they’ll notice the next one coming up…maybe this time they’ll look at it, instead of through it..... After all, for all the complications and evil in this world, life really is full of such moments if we realize-- we just have to take our fistful of sunshine and hold it close whenever we can.

City of No Lights...

2007-11-24T06:48:00.000-05:00

Last week, Cyclone Sidr hit Bangladesh. On looking at the bright sunshine and calm blue skies of this afternoon, one would never have imagined what hell had wrought through just 7 days ago, leaving the shambles that remain all over the country today. And in all of this, I am ashamed to say I have done an insignificant amount to help so far…

On Thursday night (November 15^th), I had gone with my friend to see 2 of Dhaka’s great musicians (yes, maybe that’s just my opinion) -Arnob and Andrew Morris- in concert at the Dhaka Club. Apparently, these clubs have restricted access; Dhaka Club being particularly infamous for its exclusivity. Lucky for me, the American passport would have come handy if my friend’s father had failed in getting me in. That morning when I had woken up, the air had felt much cooler and wetter than other days. There was a continuous drizzle all morning and afternoon- reminding me of the rainy days in New York. I had heard warnings of the approaching “bad weather,” but it all went unheeded in my head. I was looking forward to seeing two amazing people in concert, one of whom has become an inspiration for me and my writings. The incoming cyclone was far from our minds as we headed to the Dhaka Club. In typical hypocritical fashion all that we worried about was hearing the song “Tomar Jonno” being played that night, and not what the increasing wind and rain might be bringing. The concert began late, and while we waited I received text messages from a colleague of mine informing of the increasing bad weather and to “be careful” when going home. I then thought of what I heard in the news earlier that morning- that the southern part of the country was in grave danger, and more was coming. During the concert, I looked over the heads of the musicians at the window and could see the trees blowing violently. At about midnight, the audience was informed that the concert had to be cut short due to the inclement weather, and out of consideration for the hundreds of people losing their homes as we sat there,… the loss of electricity… What I found appalling was the cries of “just one more song!” even after such a statement was made about the impropriety of such a concert going on despite what was going on. There were a few drunken cries of a similar nature, but the band had more sense than to carry on… I admit to hypocrisy, but I felt that was just plain idiocy…

When we left the club, the air was quite cold, and a mixture of rain and wind made it very difficult to see. It was dark in the house, as the electricity had gone out awhile before. My aunt told me that the driver’s wife had called from his village- their tin roof had been blown off, their crops were gone, and they were in a temporary shelter. One of the women who work in the house (I refuse to call them ‘servants’) and whose village is in the south, hadn’t heard from her brother or her parents, and had no way of knowing if her little boy was safe…. I lay in the silence of the room and listened to the winds outside. At times, I heard branches breaking and falling. I was tired beyond words, and the last thought I remember having was that I was so lucky to be inside a warm and safe room, only listening to the raging storm outside,… only listening. The next morning we found that the electricity had still not returned. In fact, the entire country was without electricity, and there was no telling when it would return. My phone ran out of charge within a couple of hours. The whole of Bangladesh was in darkness; generators were running out- the city of so many people and so much life had been silenced. A blanket had been thrown over it.

There was no more rain, but the air was steeped with something- you could smell the storm all around. We could only imagine what had happened in the rest of the country in just a few hours as news trickled in of uprooted trees, cattle, crops. As fate would have it, the 16^th of November was my niece’s very first birthday, and a party had been planned for weeks. We carried on with setting up for the party as planned, tying streamers to balloons, hanging them up, and setting out plenty of candles. Our guests arrived on time, and we had a candle-lit birthday party where people entered and said general hellos, peering at each other’s faces, trying to recognize familiar ones. I felt it wasn’t quite right; to enjoy ourselves like this, to eat good food, knowing what was happening throughout the country, knowing how many thousands and thousands had become homeless, orphaned, landless. But as was put to me quite blatantly, what else was there to do? I did not have the capability to go out and physically do anything right then. Perhaps I could have found some way, though….

The full extent of the damage Sidr had done came to us within the upcoming days. People have nothing left anymore. Their crops, their cattle, their homes, their very lands have been turned upside down, uprooted and left shattered. Relief and aid are coming, but there are so many… too many. Unfortunately, I have only helped one person so far who has been affected by the storm. The storm has uprooted the massive trees in his home in such a way that they look as if someone had used their fingers to twist and upturn them. The man broke into tears when talking about what was left- or wasn’t. There is more to do, as there always will be. I will join in on relief work, but that makes me wonder… how much (or how little) can we really do? At least with the floods, many had their homes still standing, or were able to save their livestock before the waters hit. But now,… now there was nothing but twisted and tattered remains. What crops will grow next year? The guava trees, the amra trees, they have all been destroyed. What will people live on? What is the solution??

An amusing musing on music (and Muse?)

2007-11-12T06:48:00.000-05:00

I’m happy just because, I found out I am really no one.

Yes, I got quite a kick out of that title up there. Would have been better if I had said “on Music and Muse and music in general,” as in referring to the bands named Music and Muse… but I’m not talking about them so I’ll just stop myself from making silly statements simply for the sake of alliteration and wordplay. In fact, I’m sure my musing will be anything but amusing.

I love wordplay. And I’m happy to say I know quite a few others who do, too. At least two of my really close friends are ones who I can call up with a statement like, “is it too redundant to say ‘you are such a cantankerous curmudgeon!, or do you think I could pass that by people without them realizing?” without worrying about what the person will think of me. In fact, I’m guaranteed a good response to that. (Yes, I can say that – if for no other reason than that most people won’t even know what it means… Also, because in such a case, cantankerous works more as an enhancer than a redundancy). It’s amazing what words can do, really. What I love particularly are those that have double meanings and when used with that aim. Or when words are used as literal meanings in sentences that are quite obviously figurative. It gives such a humorous twist to what people say and what people mean. I think this is why I love children’s literature- or rather, the study of children’s literature. It is children who make literal things that are figurative, and that helps us see how absurd our world really is. And of course, absurdity makes the world a better place. No wonder Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland is one of my most favorite works….

Ahh yes, music. That was the original intention of this posting, not wordplay. For most people, it is the inspiration of life… maybe I should say “for many people,” actually. When I come across those who have a very detached outlook towards music, I always wonder what it is that really makes them tick; what really drives their emotions, if not music. Music is what feeds my soul when touch cannot. Music is something that is always there to set a soul to fire, or subdue its tears, or simply lull one into serenity.

At The Bottom of Everything. As a rule, Bright Eyes takes me back to the first year of graduate school, where I would sit and try to write my final papers surrounded by Conor Oberst’s broken voice, and memories of a pleasant weekend gone by. Sometimes it was hard to concentrate because his voice is so distracting, but at the same time, it was the best to write to. It’s not just his voice, or just the way he incorporates his music. It’s that soul- that aura, that tugging feeling at the bottom of your heart when you hear his voice and it wrenches you- and you know that soul is all there is at the bottom of everything. The rawness of his voice, the stark reality of the words and images he creates- those are what give his music ‘soul.’ Anyone who knows me knows that U2 is the love of my life. But there is one song that is the love of my life- the song that I want to marry (whatever that may mean to you.) It’s Bright Eyes’ Easy Lucky Free. This song epitomizes all that is beautiful in the world. All that is beautiful and all that is broken and sad at the same time- one seems to go hand in hand with the other; and for me this song is it. It is sadness, it is heartbreak, it is beauty, it is sorrow, it is happiness, it is the in-between, it is love, it is life. It gives my life soul.

Into the caverns of tomorrow with just our flashlights and our love, we must plunge, we must plunge, we must plunge.

2007-11-04T03:56:00.000-05:00

i have to update this thing more properly....

2007-11-04T03:38:00.000-05:00

Since those last emails, I haven't written many more worth noting. The next one I wrote was all about asking for funds for flood victims.... my friends and I bought bags of rice - massive, 80kg bags- and distributed into smaller bags for about 100 families at a 'bosti' in Banani, Dhaka, called ‘Purbo Matha.’ A 'bosti' is the makeshift housings for people who really have no land of their own. They move around from place to place, making their homes from tin and bamboo, or whatever else they can find or afford. They are usually asked to move off areas at will, and usually can be found living on the outskirts of nice areas. Because of the floods, the people from this bosti were living on the side of the road, using plastic tarp sheets and bamboo to make shelter... my friends and I visited them a number of times before the floods hit badly. My friends found this bosti via this little boy named Hosen, who was part of the crew of little boys who collect and sort garbage. All the garbage disposed of by households are collected and/or sorted- and as awful a job it is for anyone, it’s obviously more distressing to see an 8 or 9 year old boy do it, for whom school is not an option…

Every time we went to Purbo Matha, the bosti kids would come running up to our rickshaws, or running alongside, with beaming smiles radiating on their faces, saying “Apa! Bhalo asen?” (‘Apa’ is the term for ‘elder sister’; ‘bhalo asen’ is ‘are you well’) …And every time we asked them in return how they were, they did the half-nod and smilingly replied, “bhalo.” It always fascinated me that these poor children, who barely had enough to make one meal a day of rice and daal (lentils), were so ready with their smiles, so ready with the answer that they were doing well, even if in reality that was questionable. They would run up to us and take our hands and melt us with their smiles. And then would begin the onslaught of “Apa, amar akta chobi tulen na...” (Apa, please take a picture of me…) The requests for pictures were never-ending. Some of the little girls were particularly aggressive, and would show up every fifteen seconds with another sibling or infant relative, asking for a picture with the little one. The little boys never were keen on pictures; it was always the little girls. We did take tons of pictures, but it never was enough… after our visits, we would sit in the tiny little stalls and have tea and puris. The children would show us how they travel from their flooded shacks on the river to their temporary housing on the sidewalk. They would use these floatation devices created from large cement bags, filled with Styrofoam or the like to keep them afloat. One of our friends was even brave enough to go on a “boat ride” on one of those things…!

The packaging of rice into small bags was work, but fun work. Our fingers were kind of sore from tying the raw string around the bags, but every bit of discomfort was worth the while when we saw the people in the bosti later on and how happy they were just for this little bit of help. We had previously asked them to arrange matters such that fights and arguments won’t break out over how many bags of rice and how many families and etc, and after overcoming the first few obstacles, we were pleasantly surprised to find they really did take care of it- and it was mainly three or four women who did so. But on the whole, the distribution went well, and we left feeling like we have finally done something worthwhile in this world….

June 17th entry...

2007-10-28T05:12:00.000-04:00

From the next mass email...

I went to Appi's (my grandmother's) grave a week and a half ago... the last time I had been to that cemetery, to that very spot, I was standing next to her; we had gone to see Nana's (my grandfather's) grave. She and I had worn matching saris; hers was pink and mine was black, both with gorgeous stitching on the ends... Who would have thought that 4 years later I'd be visiting both of their graves? It was weird to stand there and think that her body was there, underneath that mound of earth and grass........ About four days ago, while in Rongpur (the northern part where my dad's family is from), I woke up feeling very weird and continued to feel very weird all day… Nothing interested me or appealed to me; I didn't want to be around anyone, and just seemed very listless… What is strange is that I felt exactly that way 4 years ago when Appi died. I was halfway around the world, yet the entire day I felt weird and sad, and it was only much later that day when I heard about her. Anyway, I was visiting one of my dad's sisters when another aunt called to let me know that Appi's twin sister had passed away. I wasn't ever really close to this grandmother; she was simply Mejonanu, the one who looked exactly like Appi, sounded very much like her, but seemed worlds different simply because she wasn't Appi. She had been sick for a few weeks, and since I arrived in Dhaka, I kept telling my aunts to take me to see her… she was in the hospital, my aunts were sick, and nobody seemed to be able to take me.. but I should have made more of an effort because now all I'm left with is regrets. I wanted to see her because it would seem like Appi was still here; I have never seen twins look as alike as they did. I should have stayed in Dhaka, instead of going to Rongpur. I know there's no point in wallowing in regrets, but I can't help it…… and today was the "milad," which is basically a gathering of everyone to say prayers for the deceased one. It was painful to see the only sibling left of my grandmother's family. Their youngest sister is the only one still alive, and it shook me to the bone when she held my hand and looking into her face I saw my mother… Of course my mom looks very much like Appi, but I hadn't counted on seeing the resemblance in my mom's aunt's face….

So my trip to Rongpur… We left Saturday morning; the roads were slightly less crowded being that it was a holiday. The trees looked like magnified parsley leaves. The "Krishachura" trees are my favorite; they have long flat leaves and bright red flowers that reach all the way up to the tallest branches. On windy days, the entire road will be splattered with red petals. It's a breathtaking sight. On the way to the bus station, I looked at people around and tried to imagine what they are doing or where they're going. I saw a local bus pass by on the other side, and one face struck out at me. It was a woman, holding a little child, sitting in a cramped space and bearing the most agonized expression on her face. It was a Saturday morning, which is usually a holiday (the holidays are Friday and Saturday); she looked like she was taking her child to a doctor,… of course I'm just speculating. She might have been going anywhere, but the pain on her face… the intense worry that was writ all over made me wonder. Here I was heading to my grandparents' house, where no grandparents are present anymore, but to a house that held the other half of my memories of a childhood in Bangladesh. And here was another woman, burdened with the weight of who knows what, heading for who knows where…..

It's always an interesting journey. Takes about 6 hours; there is only one major road (you can call it a highway but it's nowhere near our highways) and it's a fairly narrow one used by people, rickshaws, buses, cows, goats, chickens, trucks, cars, and anything that moves. The entire road is about almost as big as any of our two lane roads, and the only way to get around is to blast your horn to announce your arrival, slide by the oncoming vehicles without throwing your own vehicle off the side of the steep road, and make sure you don't hit anything while you speed at 60 mph. It's real fun. Much more of a thrill than any one of our theme parks. Especially when you see a truck or a bus coming at you at the same speed you're going and you have to swerve off just in time to pass it by. Dodging bullets just might be easier… ;) At one point we overtook an ambulance, and we swerved by literally within inches of it; maybe we should have swapped passengers with patients instead..!! The dividing white line in the middle is really only there for show.. it's not like anyone pays attention to those, let alone traffic lights. It's always amusing to watch the cars ahead of us try to squirm out of a traffic jam to cross the vehicles in front of them. They look like impatient little insects, caught behind predators, trying to but afraid of getting around them. We traveled through "towns", marked by a sudden onslaught of shops and rickshaws, and little pot-bellied children standing on the side of the road, staring at the passing buses. The scenery in between the towns varies between endless rice paddies and tiny "grams" or villages… houses made of bamboo and jute. Roughly the size of a small sized room in any house in the US, these houses in the grams hold entire extended families in some cases....

The house in Rongpur is where my dad and all of his siblings had grew up in. They were all born in the town, and my memory doesn't hold a "first time" impression of the house. Just as I don't remember ever learning to speak, I don't remember ever first seeing the house… but with every visit, we always held an anticipation of special times to be had. The house is now very very old; probably about 60 or 70 years old. The outside has been stained with mossy growth; year after year of rainfall has left their marks. The garden behind the house used to be one of my many favorites; my grandmother would take me to pick eggplants and tomatoes from her garden. The first room we always enter is our grandparents'… they're not there anymore, but the cemetery where they are buried is just visible from the window, through all the banana trees, the mango trees, the jackfruit trees, the coconut trees, the papaya trees,… There is a balcony type area in the front of the house; a few stairs lead up to the front door. To all of us cousins, that was the best play area. It was our airplane, our ship, our car, our bedroom, our kitchen, our treasure chest. We would jump off the sides of the stairs thinking it was such a great feat; little did we realize that we only jumped a foot and a half. My cousin and I sat there for awhile; seeing our childhoods being played back in our memories, and wistfully recalled every single moment. While we were there, the main water supply experienced problems, and we had to have all the water in the house be pumped through a tube-well (I'll have pictures soon-ish). And there's this lime tree…. My other favorite thing about the house. I love how it smells, the leaves and the limes. It stands just by the side door of the house, a perfect greeting every time we go home.

We visited a number of people and relatives while there, and I'll write another day about a bad experience. It leaves me ashamed of my people, but I'll have to share it with you just because it's so bizarre. But that's for another day… I also visited my cousin's grandfather; my dad's younger brother's father-in-law. Apparently my dad was the one who made the match happen between my uncle and my aunt. This Nana (grandfather) used to be my dad's teacher; he still calls him "Sir," which is the appropriate mode of address for one's teacher. This Nana has a white beard down to nearly the middle of his chest, and greatly reminds me of the pictures of my own Nana. So he asked my other cousin about her parents and how everyone was. Then he turned to me and said, "And to me, Mahbub (my dad) is…" his voice cracked and he paused for a few seconds. When he next spoke, he had gained command of his voice again, but I could see the tears in his eyes and sense a tremor in his speech. "Won't he come?" he asked me in the most painfully endearing way, as if nobody had wanted to see someone else so badly in their entire lives. It made me tear up inside… he said, "there are about 100 something students that leave Rongpur Jela School (the school where he taught and where my dad and his brothers went) every year… but your father… everytime he was in the country, he would come see me, and bring your mother with him. Everytime." He went on to talk about how much my dad and his brothers respected him, and continue to call him "Sir" to this day…. It was really beautiful to see how much this man respects my dad, and always had…. I always enjoy going to these peoples' houses; the people of the 'grandparent generation,' as I like to call them. Maybe it's just because I was so close to mine that I feel this way, but I love talking to them and seeing what they have seen; all the things that their lives have passed through… in the last few days, I have learned more about how respected and loved my parents are than ever before,…and that's really something else.

June 7th entry- Arrival in Dhaka

2007-10-28T04:54:00.000-04:00

The first email...

The familiar stickiness seemed to engulf me as soon as we stepped off the plane and onto the passage connecting the plane to the terminal. We hadn't been out of the plane for even three whole minutes when my hair started to become frizzier and more unruly, and my clothes started to feel like a second (and uncomfortably thick) skin. I'd met a Canadian fellow while waiting for our 2-hour delayed flight in Heathrow Airport, and 3 American guys coming to Bangladesh on UN work. As I quickly became used to my surroundings, I wondered what the first impressions for these guys on our country would be. Of course I didn't have the presence of mind to get their contact information! That would have been an interesting experience, to show them around Dhaka and watch their experiences firsthand... Anyway, for the first time I stood on the "Foreign Passport" line- comparatively smaller, but moved just as slowly as the other lines. I don't know why they don't hire people who have better and faster typing skills... Good thing is that you can do anything or get anywhere in B'desh as long as you know people; I got out in a quarter of the expected time because of a gentleman I had befriended during the flight. He's a businessman, and gave me and the girl who sat next to me all his phone numbers, so we can tell our parents and visit him and his family. He went on about family and parents, and how Bengali parents live for their children, no matter what age, and how in general he has noticed that the girls tend to care more for the parents than the boys.... it was amusing. I thought about how nearly all Bengali parents say the same thing; and how they tend to hold on to their offspring for as long as they can, refusing to let go even when they get married.....

Stepping outside the airport, I felt like I was being undressed by hundreds of eyes... very uncomfortable, to say the least.... then again, you get used to it after a day. ;) But it was nothing compared to the extreme discomfort of jeans sticking to my skin.. I looked around, seeming to see my cousins, aunts, uncles, my grandmother, all waiting for me... In each and every stranger's face, I saw them waiting for me with expectant eyes, already breaking into dazzling smiles in anticipation. Of course I knew that they weren't there, and wouldn't be. I knew that the aunts and cousins I was looking for weren't there, I knew my grandmother has been gone these past 4 years, but I looked and saw the same familiar expectancy in all of these people's eyes. I saw them straining to look past others' shoulders, at loved ones they haven't seen in 3, 5 or even 10 years. It's a feeling that cannot be described. It simply is.... And so is my arrival at Banani, the house that holds all the treasure chests of childhood's imaginations, the love of my late grandmother, the innocence of being children. I was born in Dhaka, and basically was raised in this house. Sure we lived in Saudi Arabia, but spent an equal amount of time here, shuttling back and forth in my childhood; making me feel like this is indeed the only house I grew up in. My favorite place in the whole world is the veranda of this house; I seem to remember being a 6 year old, following in my brother's footsteps and sticking our heads through the railing bars, trying to pick the guavas from the tree that was just out of reach. I remember the millions of games we played on that balcony, eight or nine of us cousins and siblings, limbs running all over the place, creating the most strangest and most fun games out of nothingness. Walking into the house, I first stepped into the room on the left; the one that belonged to my Appi, my grandmother. Four years ago, I had stayed with her here, for almost 2 months she was my roommate. I looked at the bed; seeing something of her sitting on the bed, curled up on the chair, smiling at me as I walked in. I then walked to the balcony, and I saw her again in my mind; I saw her walking to the railing, standing there looking down, hoping her children are coming home..... they asked me later that night if I wanted to sleep in her room, but I couldn't. I walk around in the room several times a day; I stare at the shelves and wardrobes, at her "almirah" that forever contained the most precious and most amazing things our children's world had ever seen...... My little cousins go for walks in the evenings and collect little flowers; and I remember it was just yesterday that I did the same with Appi; as a little girl holding her hand and going for a "morning walk," collecting the most enchanting smelling flowers.....

One of my aunts live on the fringes of Dhaka city; even reaching her home is a unique experience. The busy "Airport Road" leads into the most congested and busy little road I have ever seen. It's hardly bigger than an alleyway, but there are countless shops on each side, and countless people of all ages and sizes thronged on all sides. Rickshaws, bicycles, people, cars, all jostling for road space. Piles of garbage lined up here and there, people trekking through them trying to make a living somehow... I saw this little boy, in a tattered moldy looking yellow shirt, a pair of torn shorts that are much too big for him, walking along the garbage piles, trailing a stick. I wondered then about circumstance; that he is where he is simply because he was born into it. I wondered what his future would be; probably working as an errand boy in some middle class or upper class household, good for being a more fortunate child's playmate, but held off at a very significant distance. Or perhaps he would become a driver, or perhaps a gatekeeper. Only good for responding to someone else's beckoning; not even allowed to sit on the couches in the houses he would work in. Such a future is not one that would be something any of us would dream of.....

and so it begins...

2007-10-28T04:43:00.000-04:00

I have finally given into the world of blogging.... I figure this is the best way to share my thoughts with the world, and not deal with silly wanna-be ones like Xanga (sorry, Xanga!) that I used to have many moons ago...

I left NY to live and work in Dhaka for a few months back on May 31st, 2007. I have been sending email updates (long, boring ones!) to all my unwilling friends and family members... but figured this is a good way to post all my thoughts and such without having to write lengthy emails that people might not have time to read or might not care to. I was originally supposed to go back to NY on September 29th, but extended my stay until January 21st because of the really fantastic time I've been having here... there is more work to be done....

I'm about to post my emails here so all the "writing" will be in one place together... and in between, I'll post poems and thoughts as they come..... and there will be plenty. ;)

Enjoy.