time travel

a long time ago, my dad told us that once the travel bug bites, you're just as good as done for. we used to giggle profusely as children, when we heard him say that with a hint of sinister in his voice. i mean, what parent wants to have their children bit by something remotely unpredictable; or anything for that matter. of course, this is meant in most figurative sense (or so it seems). travel bug, like literary bug or movie bug that keeps you firmly glued to the latest string of blockbuster reads or motion pictures.

so the travel bug it was. first time out of SA for us kids was in 1984; our first umrah; a pilgrimage to saudi arabia along with a bunch of cousins and aunts and uncles and extended members of family that left only profound memories of the fancy ice creams and cherry cooldrinks that we gleefully got our fingers and tongues into. my sister celebrated her fifth birthday in Madina on News Years Eve. And so it turned that our most memorable holidays coincided from then on with her birthday. And other's were planned around the April date of my parents' wedding anniversary. Celebratory efforts also linked in nicely with an appreciation and setting aside of real family time. And tied in perfectly with well-timed travel arrangements. the first time we visited India was April 1994. Mauritius was April sometime some year. Singapore too. Malaysia another time. Egypt and Turkey midyear-ish, although my parents have experienced a winter in Istanbul. Europe, the US and Canada in June. Etcetera...

needless to say, we're a family of compulsive travellers. and of all the places both east, west and somewhere in between that we have ventured out to, India has by far held our fascination and love in myriad ways, explainable in simple wordedness. even for me, who prides myself on wordy recognitions (or deludes myself that way?).

cheeky worded illusions are my vocation of choice, so be it. moving on...

this latest trip was reminiscent of those other trips -last was India July 2008- with the family on a whirl wind tour of sights and delights; feel good moments and tonnes of stuff packed into a short time frame. just the way we like it. just the way that we thrive on, taking a full deck of adventure loving personalities in the same space. it makes the world tiny as a marble. and its the kind of travel that transcends the necessitated dimensions: time, space, being. it just is. and its awesome :)

here's to travel. in time. and in a rush against time. for all time!

here's to being a happy carrier of the travel bug, and to recognising in ourselves the fact that we are just travellers in this life, really. may the Almighty in His infinite wisdom always make our journeys and destinations havens of safety and learning for us; and may we never forget to extend our appreciation of the wonders of Creation as we engage in it and are a part of it.

thriving on chaos

Thats what my dad just said about an hour ago when we were trundling past exhaust fumes that looked more solid than the rickshaws we were in. This is a city that thrives on chaos. He said it with a mixture of elation and concern. More of the former, knowing him. And so it is, Mumbai, a city on speed unlike any other; but really a mixed metaphor for so many lives trying just to survive in whatever which way. A throng of humanity that craves like a hungry child and then swallows you whole in a way that belies that felt innocence. A city of so many hues, its almost blinding to the naive eye.


It's almost 1am... Exec lounge closes in a bit...
Lets do this ramble later, okay/?

Ciao for now

S

land of the taj

India beckons to me, once more. The land of the Taj; the sprawl of slums and the litter of children bleeding from these decrepit sites merging with a heap of bollywood spin-offs and likelies... India has already started that different throb in my veined connectivities. India beckons. And I must heed that call.

Shhhhhh... Don't speak!

There are different kinds of silences. Sometimes, silence is like that clear pond that makes you want to look into its forever and ever kind of depths. It is still and deep and whole. It reminds you that you're linked in that still moment, to the beginning of time. It has that eternal feel about it. Sometimes, silence is a slap on the face. A gross act of retaliation. Nothing short of violence.

Mumbai's aftermath is a grating silence. The calm after the storm, so to speak. A symbol of shocking numb. The city is at a standstill. The problem with each of these varying kinds and degrees of silence is not in their base intentions or the reactive nature with which it may have begun. It is when silence is taken as a reason to point fingers and when it is seen as a weakness by those who will manipulate the space thus cultivated by it. It happens in the most petty instances. Politicians move in where there is panic, hoping to garner support for the next election. Other's with selfish intent use the space for silence as a tool to nurture their grab-all mentality.

In most cases thats what it comes down to; this warring for space and the right to impose ideals and ideologies on the world at large comes from a twisted kind of scarcity-consciousness. The mines-mines-mines mentality of the voyeuristic me-me-me.

Like I said, it happens in grave situations, and it happens in the most petty instances. Sometimes hundreds of lives are affected; other times only one or two. But it happens. And it hurts. It really does.

I don't know much about crisis management. And I have yet to fully embrace constructive grieving processes and networks of support. But I know this much: People who have that scarcity consciousness, who imagine that they should feel threatened by a particular status quo and who feel righted to upturn it in grossly violating ways, need to be weeded out from the thriving gardens of spirit and humanity that the rest of the conscious world wishes to cultivate.

And a momentary silence doesn't mean defeat; or admonishment. It is a moment to reflect. A time to grieve, and a reason to stand together and create those shifts in consciousness and infrastructure that will secure the future.

Silence isn't 'doing nothing'. It is healing. The calm before a revolutionary storm. At some point, all hypocrisy must die. Enough is enough. Eventually, only whats real will preside. The winds of change will make certain of it.

Colaba under Curfew

In all my travels, one of the cities that has most wound its way into the sinews of my heart is Mumbai in India. I first travelled to India in 1994. Dad wanted to reminisce his journey with Mum back in '79, when he could afford to take her out of the country on vacation for the first time. They spent some three months roaming the length and breadth of the beautiful Bharat. In all my years, I have heard myriad stories of them traveling through the night, sleeping on trains and traversing the grand expanse of the land of their forefathers. We have been subjected to long hours of looking at literally hundreds of slides played on whichever of the walls of the house we happened to be living in was free of furniture or framing. These are accompanied by hours of commentary from dad, additions and or corrections by mum and the sound of Rafi Sahb or Kishore Da in the background just to make sure we captured the correct mood. My great-grandmother's were sisters. And so, back then, they went out to meet the only living third sister; they marveled at her tiny but incredibly clean living space and her wonderful charm and warmth. And so, fifteen years later, we were to make our first trip as a family, to recapture some of that ambience. What I knew about India was peppered with stories from Bollywood. I could sing-along to all of my parent's favourite tunes and quote from their epic oldies such as Mother India and Pakeezah. My first impression was implorable. The stench of the place, knocked us over in an all too eager greeting. The heat all but defeated us just as we got out of the aircraft. A taxi-walla carted us from the airport towards Colaba where we were meant to be staying. (Dad wanted to stay at the Natraj; this was before the Intercontinental revamp- Gladly shortlived by the rat parade). We had to stop for fuel at a petrol station. It was April. The sweltering heat played tricks with our vision; a steam seemed to rise out of the ground. And here and there, potholes were filled with murky water. All of this seemed relatively innocent. Stopped at the fueling place, I rolled down my window in a bid to give this place of many stories a chance to make its impression on my imaginative minds eye. I didn't have time to regret the decision or to make amends by closing the creaky glass. A swarm of mosquitoes quickly invaded the interior of the car. Air osmosis is such a thing! I was only learning about such things as a high school hopeful, not quite graduated from such institutions.
What did I want to do? Daddy, I want to go home! I squealed. Dear sweet dad was delighted at the entertainment. Welcome to India, everyone. Mum giggled. They exchanged smiles and glances. We rolled eyes.

But then we drove into the depths of this dark city. We saw the crumbling infrastructure and tasted the unflinching conviction of the people. We heard the cries of feisty streetchildren, some better entrepreneurs than New Yorks best. And we were humbled. We were hooked. I bet at that stage already, we were sworn devotees. Pilgrimage has become an affair of heart, mind and soul. Speaking of which, Haji Ali Dhargah and Mahim Dhargah are frequent visit sites. Each have a story to tell. But thats for another post.

Needless to say, I have been back to India almost a dozen times since. I have attended weddings filled with some seven thousand people. I have returned with armfuls of books and shoppers delights, memories and photographs of wonders shared and felt in this city of cities. I have walked its streets and rubbed shoulders with its vast populace. I have felt the seasoned Mumbaikar if only for a hopeful time. In this little love affair, I have ravaged the pages of Shantaram and Maximum City to quench my thirst for more about this pulsating place. I have danced in the scorching heat and brought back souvenir tans, and have been drenched in the monsoon rains numerous times. And I have loved every minute of it. A planned trip back there makes my heart skip a beat or two. I was due back there, save for a wave of attacks last night that has left a city of many heartbeats under a shocking curfew. Colaba never sleeps. Mumbai rocks on like the diva of energy that she is. Until now, that is. Colaba is under curfew. Schools didn't open today. Construction came to a standstill. People stayed indoors. A city grieved the communal death of the freedom to breathe in safety. Mortality stares us in the face, just one more time. Mumbai's heart has just skipped a very long beat. I never thought I'd see the day.

Just imagine if you were walking in Nelson Mandela Square in Sandton, or on the Durban beachfront, or at the V&A Waterfront in Cape Town or any of South Africa's city centres, and a range of grenades were spewed around you. Just imagine. What would happen? Violation is rife everyday, in every sphere of our lives. This sort of thing is that n-th dimension we don't want to think about. Rather relegate it to something that 'only happens in the movies'. BUT JUST WHAT IF??!!

Mumbai Burning...

Just after 8pm this evening, my mom was watching the news on ND-TV, and emergency reports displayed breaking news of terror attacks in Mumbai. All they said was that grenades had been strewn across the foyers of the famous Oberoi, Taj and Trident hotels in and around Colaba, in the south of the city. I was on my way out to supper, and my friends indignant hooter had me out the door before I could get more news. And I thought, it's just the major hotels, hopefully no fatalities; will check it out when I get home.

Later news said, even the JW Marriott in Juhu was under attack by gunmen. Shootouts were reported around the major hospitals, St Georges in particular. I just got home. VT Station looks like it's been the grounds of a genocide. Bodies and Blood pepper the paved court around the victorian building. My phone rang five minutes ago. Mumbai, is Burning. I put the news on once again. It's like watching a badly filmed movie. The Taj, a heritage hotel flanked by the Gateway, is in flames! As of right now, a hundred people have been rescued from the Taj.

The bizarre is being normalised. This has become a regular occurrence. Gosh. There's a death count of number of innocents and number of cops killed. What is this, from the Wild West to the Inferno Ridden East?!

Yeh hai Mumbai, Meri Jaan...

I have been traversing through India for a week now, and it feels like a bit longer; considering the cities and flavours that I have delighted in, in this short space of time... We landed in Mumbai a week ago, in transit to Jaipur, the famed and imaginative 'pink city' of royal fantasy. After gleeful visits to Amber Fort and the treasures of the old city around the City Palace and the glorious Hawa Mahal, the visions of the puppet shows continue to remain as trinkets in my mind (I have a pair souvenir dolls -male&female- to remind me! hmm, just like in that movie.. what was it again..)

The celebration of pinks moved on to deeper shades of colour as we made our way through Rajasthan... onward to Agra, with the incredulous stop at Fatehpur Sikhri, famed for its sprawling palaces and mausoleums. The palace of Queen Jodha, the towering five-storeyed Paanch Mahal, the Diwan-e-Khaas that undoubtedly houses many secrets in his innately carved walls... the Hall of Mirrors... myriad fantasies come to mind in making my way along the paths and through the hallowed arches, and beside the now deteriorating pillars that form the structure of some 46 palaces here...

Agra, filled me. The joy spilled pearls uncounted through my eyes. Its been seven years since I visited the Taj Mahal. Seven is a lucky number? It just occured to me that it might be. Who knows. The Taj is mesmerizing as ever. I am spellbound still. Maybe it means a different thing to me now than it might have back then. But its a good difference. I conversed with those walls of milk and honey. They smiled at me. Mostly for being silly. Mosly for my strange state of self-denial. Mostly for my unwarranted contradictory state of being. I wanted to place what I thought was a burden, at its feet. Too much drama ensued. Have you ever seen the Taj Mahal, in all its majesty, break down into a fit of giggles? It did. And what a beautiful sight that was. Sigh. And then onward to Delhi. Bustling, rumbling Delhi. The grandest rajhdhani. Where I usually delight in the wares of booksellers. But I ventured to nurse a bit of fever and some well-known delhi belly. Souvenirs, no doubt.

Having arrived in Mumbai just last night, I must look somewhat in a trance state; dazed as I am from the happenings of the last week or so. And then, of course, is this something special about actually being back in Mumbai... because there is something that draws me back here, time and again. Something, that links the energy untapped within me, to the immense energy that resonates through this place of many contraditory things. Perhaps it is that it is intensely beautiful in its tragic state, a contradiction in itself. Or that it is so often misunderstood, misused by its custodians and so out-of-reach of its essential benefactors...
So many whats and ifs... and yet the city thrives because of and in spite of it all... immensely alive with creative energy, life, and all things magical. I am here to reconnect. My soul is thirsting and quenching almost at the speed it would take to fumble through the beads of my tasbeeh.. Greatful, and joyfilled and somewhat in acknowledgement of the inner chaos.

Ru-ba-ru Roshni se... Finally face2face with Sunshine. The tears flow freely now.

With Love and Magic
Shafs