Thursday 29 October 2015

A Poem For My Daughter When She Asks, 'Don't we belong?'

It’s not long
before my daughter asks
‘Mama,
don’t we belong?’
How do I make her understand
the only world she knows
can’t stand those who look like her,
her mother, or any child she ever has.
I breathe deep, hold tears
and tell what mothers like me
tell daughters liker her:

‘Baby,
sit down. Listen up and
remember everything mama says.
Life isn’t going to be easy.
Know what people see
when they look at us
is just the colour of our skin.
So they take the lilt in our laughter
to label us monsters
Then proclaim our ‘difference’
is what makes them our masters.
Their rage blinds
from seeing our souls and grasping 
we’re also flesh and bones.
Woven with our blood is
Privilege,
their chosen cloak, and
they still shout ‘Don’t choke’
while they stand on our throats.

It’s a toxic paradox
that mocks feeble people
and pushes into a box
deeper.
Put heavy locks,
and  they levy tax
for air
we can’t breath
for food
we can’t eat.
and still we meet
irony that cheats
at each gate,
handing out mutilated fates.

But baby, don’t forget,
in our broken ribs
rest battered hearts
that still protest and
beat a constant beat
So sing of our shattered dreams
spilled at the foot of their whims. And
when they yell, don’t stop
tell stories of  our scars
gathered in their wars.
Don’t let them white-wash
our past, stand tall,
don’t whine,
hold a mirror to their crimes.
Let them resist, you persist
till they swallow their hate
I know it’s a long wait, but
it won’t be too late
before love illuminates
what lies out there,
beyond black and white.

Tuesday 27 October 2015

My Big Fat Indian Shaadi

Some of you wanted me to write about my shaadi. So here it is, my Big Fat Indian Shaadi. ‪#‎ShaadiDiaries‬
I got married for two main reasons-
1)A new passport with a normal human face photo. (Which did not happen. Refer to my previous post to know why https://www.facebook.com/nazreen.fazal/posts/843174642456130)
2)To experience a day where I can dress like a frikkin’ princess and no one would bat an eyelid. (Which almost happened. Except you can’t fake grace. And since I was wearing a skirt made out of rocks, I had to walk in slow-motion so I don’t trip and roll off the stage. Elegance was a long shot)
And yes, something along the lines of companionship, love, and all that fluff too. (I heart emoticon you, Ameen. Sacchi :D)
So that was the plan. What I didn’t expect though was my wedding to morph into a Big Fat Indian Shaadi over the ten months Ameen and I were engaged. What happens in a Big Fat Indian Shaadi? ‘The Family™’ takes over. Yes, it’s like the mafia, only more colorful with an affinity for drama. The Family™ isn’t limited to the immediate family, oh no dearies it’s not. The Family™ is an ever-expanding organism that sucks in everyone in its way. So it includes your chaacha, chaachi, and their cousin’s neighbour’s in-law’s hairdresser’s milkman. I am not complaining though, I never really had a detailed “My Dream Wedding” sequence in mind. All I wanted was to marry a good guy and get my new passport, all while looking like a damn princess. Oh and the food had to be good. So The Family™ chose our wedding date (August since my prince charming is a ‘gulf boy’), picked a venue, and tasted the buffet menu. 
Following this, everyone promptly forgot about the bride and the groom only to remember us on the wedding day. 
My artsy cousin Fathima designed my wedding invite, which I absolutely loved. But since it’s an Indian wedding there has to be some drama, so my family fought over the font of the invite. Seriously. It seemed like each member of The Family™ had a different favourite font. We were literally fighting over Helvetica and Arial till I finally put my foot down and chose the font in consultation with Miss artsy pants. 
Shopping for the trousseau was nightmarish and fun at the same time. While The Family™ did have some good suggestions, some of its members also had fashion senses that were shipped from the stone age. Thanks to whatsapp, my friends and cousins helped me pick out the dress which would be most effective in making me look more ladylike. The most fun I had in this dress shopping business was when we went to Coimbatore to shop. What made it all worth it was watching Bilal’s face progressively wither as he waited for us in the store for a couple of hours while we shopped for the entire khaandaan and their mother. 
As we head closer to the D-day families usually go berserk because of the stress. Our family coped with it in a different way. My dad converted our terrace into a rec room and filled it with bean bags( Fazal Mohamed's second favourite thing after hats), a TT table, and a carom board. So when the guests started pouring in, instead of finding the bride with a facepack on her face, they found me sweating like a pig while playing table tennis with my brothers. One aunty even told me I should be a little more bashful. Okay auntyji, maybe after this game…
By the last week before the wedding I had an assortment of aunts, uncles, grandmas, and random strangers swarming the house. And of course kids. Oh god the kids! It’s like they multiplied each second. I would run into them at every corner till we tied a hammock in the garden to keep them out of our way. A relative from my mother’s side came in loaded with savories and sweets that were constantly being passed in and around the house, sustaining the million wedding planners and the little humans wreaking havoc. In this time, my grandma also morphed into my personal beautician who didn't rest till I'd smeared my face with turmeric and coconut milk everyday to bring out the elusive 'bridal glow' (I am beginning to think it doesn't really exist). Just two days before the wedding, my uber creative aunt Zakeena, a painter, seamstress, and designer of puns all rolled into one, revamped my entire bridal wardrobe and added that extra 'oomph' to it with pretty laces and sparkly sequins. Along with miss artsy pants she also transformed our rec room by plastering it with graffiti. They ramped up its cool quotient by like a million.
So while I make fun of the Big Fat Indian Shaadis all the time, I have to admit that it wasn’t all that bad. In fact, my wedding was fun precisely because of all this craziness. I had everyone in my family pitching in to help make this day special for me which meant I was actually able to enjoy the whole process AND the wedding day without pulling out my hair. I had aunts to turn to for any kind of advice, I had cousins who listened to me vent and counselled me, I had my two amazing brothers who ran around event managing like pros (Yes, Bilal and Shereef, I am praising you. Soak it up)… And most important of all, I had my incredible mum (Nazeera Faz) and dad who made sure I was always happy. In short, I was surrounded by people who I love and who love me back (and some distant relatives who I met as a baby but am still expected to remember). It was so incredibly comforting to walk into one of the most important days of my life with people who cared for me. 
So, I didn’t have a fancy wedding with a spectacular centerpiece, imported flowers, and matching bridesmaids outfits. No. My wedding was crazy, chaotic, and I don’t even remember what I ate. When I look back though, what comes to my mind is all the fun, laughter, and joy. What I do remember is the all embracing warmth and endless love. And at the end of the day, I had my own human who kind of liked me. What more can I ask for?

Monday 26 October 2015

The Big Fat Indian Shaadi

I got married for two main reasons-

    1)   A new passport with a normal human face photo. (Which did not happen. Refer to my previous post to know why https://www.facebook.com/nazreen.fazal/posts/843174642456130)
   2)   To experience a day where I can dress like a frikkin’ princess and no one would bat an eyelid. (Which almost happened. Except you can’t fake grace. And since I was wearing a skirt made out of rocks, I had to walk in slow-motion so I don’t trip and roll off the stage.)

And yes, something along the lines of companionship, love, and all that fluff too.  (I <3 you, Ameen :D)So that was the plan, what I didn’t expect was my wedding to morph into a Big Fat Indian Shaadi over the ten months Ameen and I were engaged.

What happens in a Big Fat Indian Shaadi? ‘The FamilyTM’ takes over. Yes, it’s like the mafia, only more colorful with an affinity for drama.  The FamilyTM isn’t limited to the immediate family, oh no dearies it’s not. The FamilyTM is an ever-expanding organism that sucks in everyone in the way. So it includes your chaacha, chaachi, and their cousin’s neighbour’s in-law’s hairdresser’s milkman. I am not complaining though, I never really had a “My Dream Wedding” scrapbook in mind. All I wanted was to marry a good guy and get my new passport, all while looking like a princess. Oh and the food had to be good.

So The FamilyTM chose our wedding date (August since my prince charming is a ‘gulf boy’), picked a venue, and tasted the buffet menu.  Following this, everyone promptly forgot about the bride and the groom only to remember us on the wedding day.

My artsy cousin Fathima designed my wedding invite, which I absolutely loved. But since it’s an Indian wedding there has to be some drama, so my family fought over the font of the invite. Seriously. It seemed like each member of The FamilyTM   had a different favourite font.  We were literally fighting over Helvetica and Arial till I finally put my foot down and chose the font in consultation with Miss artsy pants.  

Shopping for the trousseau was nightmarish and fun at the same time. While The FamilyTM did have some good suggestions, some of its members also had fashion senses that were shipped from the stone age. Thanks to whatsapp, my friends and cousins helped me pick out the dress which would be most effective in making me look more ladylike. The most fun part in this dress shopping business was going to Coimbatore. What made it all worth it was watching Bilal’s face as he waited for us in the store for a couple of hours as we shopped for the entire khaandaan and their mother.

As we head closer to the D-day families usually go berserk because of the stress. Our family coped with it in a different way. My dad converted our terrace into a rec room and filled it with bean bags (His second favourite thing after hats), a TT table, and a carom board. So when the guests started pouring in the week before the wedding, instead of finding the bride with a facepack on her face, they found me sweating like a pig while playing table tennis with my brothers.  One aunty even told me I should be a little more bashful. Okay auntyji, maybe after this game…

By the last week before the wedding I had an assortment of aunts, uncles, grandmas, and random strangers swarming the house. And of course kids. Oh god the kids! It’s like they multiplied each second. I would run into them at every corner till we tied a hammock in the garden to keep them out of our way. A relative from my mother’s side came in loaded with savories and sweets that were constantly being passed in and around the house, sustaining the million wedding planners and the little humans wreaking havoc.

While I make fun of the Big Fat Indian Shaadis all the time, I have to admit that it wasn’t all that bad. In fact, my wedding was fun precisely because of all this craziness. I had everyone in my family pitching in to help make this day special for me which meant I was able to actually enjoy the whole process AND the wedding day. I had aunts to turn to for any kind of advice, I had cousins who listened to me vent and gave me fashion advice, I had my two amazing brothers who ran around event managing like pros (Yes, I am praising you. Soak it up)… And most important of all, I had my incredible mum and dad who made sure I was always happy. In short, I was surrounded by people who I love and who love me back (and some distant relatives who I met as a baby but am still expected to remember). It was so incredibly comforting to walk into one of the most important days of my life with people who cared for me.   

So, I didn’t have a fancy wedding with a spectacular centerpiece, imported flowers, and matching bridesmaids outfit. No. My wedding was crazy, chaotic, and I don’t even remember what I ate. When I look back now what comes to my mind is all the fun, laughter, and joy. What I do remember is the warmth and love. And at the end of the day, I had my own human who kind of liked me. What more can I ask for?

Thursday 22 October 2015

Dear World

Dear World,
If you could stop
Spinning
For a second-
Just a moment-
We need to talk,
Right now.
I see cracks where
Men carved your skin,
Etching borders that
Starved your kids
Midst wars that bleed
Those who don’t even know
What they mean.
The world is in a whirl
And where do you start
Solving what’s tearing us apart
When your sight is met
With imagined borders that elect
Who’s safe, who’s a threat. 
Your children are dying,
Your rivers are drying,
And I know you still turn
So sorrow never
Reaches your shore
You spin because
Standing still is
Letting grief stifle
From within. 
Dear World,
If you could stop
Spinning
For a second-
Just a moment-
Let’s talk,
Right now, about
The End

Tuesday 6 October 2015

Dismantling False Hierarchies

I grew up in different parts of India, hearing different languages, breathing different cultures, befriending different people. The defence campuses we lived in were mini Indias- a potpourri of North and South, East and West. My brothers and I made Hindi- a language so alien from our mother-tongue (Malayalam)- our own. My mother expanded her culinary skills by adopting different cuisines from all over the country to satisfy her children's non-malayali taste buds. Life in the airforce campuses had hardly any dull moments. We would eagerly wait for diwali to burst crackers with our friends and on eid the entire campus would come home for mom's famous biriyani and semiya payasam. 
When in school I would put my heart into it and sing 'Saare Jahaan se accha Hindustan hamara'. Because I truly believed that our India is unique, and is the best place for people of different faiths, tongues, and cultures to not just survive but thrive together. The India of my childhood was a beautiful, wonderful place because we were one people, not despite our differences, but because of it.
I am nostalgic for that India and for that little girl who believed all was well with the world. The India of my childhood seems like a faraway place. Or maybe it never existed in the first place. 
I know now that if you are not an upper class, upper caste Hindu male, India is NOT the best place for you. Muslims, Christians, Sikhs,Dalits, Atheists and everyone else have to fight to be seen as equal citizens. We have to justify at each step where our loyalties lie because, for some reason, not being born into the 'norm' some how makes us traitorous. We have to hold our tongues and push back into our throat legitimate criticisms of the government or we are labelled 'anti-nationals'. We are told at each point that we don't belong and that we should be grateful for just being allowed to stay here. We are told that you can be 'Indian' only in one way. We are forced to accept this harassment quietly or asked to pack our bags and leave to Pakistan (the land where all India-rejects automatically end up, apparently). It doesn't matter that we have been in this land as long as everyone else, that our fathers and mothers also gave their blood for its freedom, that we also dream of growth and prosperity and harmony. No it doesn't. In this 'Us and them' , we are 'them' until we toe the line and shed every marker of our difference, leave every opinion that is contrary and become dumb spectators in this self-destructing circus. We are told to accept the rabid fascism, virulent racism, and blatant sexism or threatened with more labels than we can bear. 
I am sorry, we can't and we won't accept this. This country belongs to the rest of us too and we will reclaim what is rightfully ours. Anyone who thinks otherwise can go eat a kulfi. Take that from a hijab wearing, beef eating, five times praying, banned movies watching, malayalam/tamil/hindi/english speaking Muslim woman.

Saturday 3 October 2015

Dead Meat

Dead Meat

At his death bed
He said
‘I have no beef with you
Dear neighbors
Just an advice
To think twice, nay, thrice
Before you peer into someone’s plate
Or ask his name to judge his faith
And relegate to an imaginary box
Where all made-up-enemies stay
Away from your discriminating eyes 
And twitching hands that seek blood
Of those who pray to different gods
Of those who lead different lives
Of those who hold different minds. 

In these times
Death is better 
Than living in a land 
Where ideas are safer 
Than human lives.
Where hungry gangs return more satisfied 
Than famished farmers who would rather die
Where leaders strive to mollify
‘hurt sentiments’ of murderous mobs
While dead shoulders carry the blame
Of their bloody demise

I know now
That death is any day better 
Than watching festering wounds slowly
Eat away at the very fabric of 
What makes this nation great. 

Today you killed the idea of India
Over a morsel of meat.
With each blow you blew into dust
The dreams of a people who lived as one.
Do you realize that
In the land of a billion gods,
You took offense to a man choosing just One.