The Museum of Innocence

I had never considered the possibility of an eloquent expression of anguish, until I picked up a copy of Orhan Pamuk's 'The Museum of Innocence'. This is my first foray into the world of writing that encompasses Pamuk's genre of work. Having won a Nobel Prize in Literature in 2006 for his novel 'My Name is Red', Orhan Pamuk is widely read and loved, and I can see why.

Huda - Rightly Guided

I'm not sure that we truly take into account the wonders of birthing until a child is cradled in our arms. Tiny perfection exists in quite that way: in the form of a newborn. Huda, my newest niece, was born after much contemplation at 16h51 pm on Thursday, 24 Feb. A daughter for Sarfaraaz and Amina, and a baby cousin sister for Madeeha and Mustafa, the reason I say 'after much contemplation' is because Amina carried to full term (40 weeks) and experienced a long 16 hour labour with immense effort from brave mum and extremely courageous baby girl. Also, it did seem as though baby was contemplating her entry into the world.
And so she finally made her arrival amid two sets of thrilled grandparents, and of course parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and extended family members all in all.

She's beautiful What else can I say? Or need I even?
God is Great.

And another fabulous February person has arrived! :D

xoxo

Happy 60th Birthday, Dad!

It's my dad's 60th birthday.

There was a time when I thought that 60 was the furthest thing.
Life has a way of affording us a change in perspective. I now fraternize with people in the age category 70 - 90. People of sound mental capacity. People who once trained as military cadres, spent time in the damp wasteland of prisons and roamed the globe in exile from the place they called home, for daring to stand up to the apartheid regime.

All this, and the general notion of relativity, make my dad turning 60 seem not really as age-relevant as a celebration of milestones, once again. Sixty is no doubt a defining and momentous occasion. It is also a reason to look back and reflect, something that I am certain he does a lot of on his own; often sharing those musings with our often impressionable ears.
But it is also a time for me to reflect on the journey that both our relationship as father and daughter, and our friendship as two not dissimilar beings has taken.

I've written and reflected on this before; a post called Driving Dad Crazy is among my favourite.
I've also had some opportunities for example, to publicly, albeit spontaneously, honour him when he walked in on a session at the Limpopo Legislature, where I directed the programme for the YCAwards and I happened to be speaking about the role of educators and parents in a child's development. My parents have played a significant and indelible role in my development, in the dynamic of who I am. And so there he was, sitting at the top of the indoor arena, smiling, suited in his classic well-groomed way. Smiling, that warm, encouraging smile. I have basked in this paternal glow of pride and love that is cast over me on every other day.

We're different and yet the same; knowing each other especially because of that sameness in the balance. It's true that fathers are the ordinary seeming heroes in our lives; at first purely because they're our fathers, and later precisely because of being only human, and real to us in every way.

I owe many stages of development to him who is my one and only Dad.
Happy 60th to this 'little girls' forever hero.

With a heart filled with love and appreciation,
Shafinaaz Sikander Hassim

tests of compulsion,love and creativity

I have noticed something rather strangely appealing about the blog- and social media world in general. And that is, the worms that find their way out of the woodwork are outnumbered by the people who will leave notes of wonder and encouragement at your blog-doorstep, at precisely the moment when you need to read it most.

I have also paid attention to the trend of writing that follows the blog world, and the facebook/twitter updates that arise from various people across the globe. This is not some kind of discourse analysis of it all, just an awe-inspired sharing of my observations. I had a chat with one of my dearest friends recently, and I have to make the following comment; I believe that every person who lives on this planet, should in some way be able to sit down and write about their lives, even if it's just about one day that serves as a landmark day, their first love, animate or inanimate reference, their marriage, the birth of a child, the death or loss of a loved one. Anything. The hue of stories waiting to be told and heard are as countless as the experiences had by people in general. And once told, the shared stories will reveal a kind of continuum of life energy, humanity and spirituality that transcends the often imagined boundaries that we seem to find ourselves comforted by, and accustomed to.

I have been allowing alot of stress to filter into my life this past week or so. Which is undeniably unusual for me, because not only do I like having all my ducks in a row, but I'm a pretty easy-going girl for the most part.
Perhaps the two aren't exactly mutually exclusive; having ducks in a row makes for easy living, and less stress in the long term.

This is adrenalin on erm speed. Does that sound right? I didn't think so. Okay let me try that again. It's the good adrenalin of something that I am working towards, compounded by the not so good feeling that I may not make the self-imposed deadlines that I have now confirmed to a portion of the world at large. Makes sense? I'm being cryptic. I know. But it's temporary. Hopefully it will all be resolved, at most by the end of this week. It's yet another exciting project, about to be made manifest and one which has had some behind the scenes work for some years now. So here's hoping that it works out in the best way that it can. Taking into consideration my hectic budgetary constraints and all that.

Then onto the writing thing.
The biography project has become a slow and deliberating attempt to unveil the identity and being of a person about whom very little has been written, and we are relying on a large amount of primary data from people who held him in high esteem, but not all of them engaged with him directly. Needless to say, some worthy gems have been uncovered. One of my most trying recent interviewees looked me in the eye and asked: 'Are you serious about this work?' and 'Can you write?'
Most of these people are skeptics of a long-forgotten era. Some are high ranking people, used to business above pleasure. And many are almost 3 times my age. It's a more than forgivable skepticism. I was tested. And apparently I more than won approval at the end of it all. I was thrilled with the balance of the conversation, of course.

I'm editing more than writing, at the moment. It has been two years since my book 'Daughters are Diamonds' was launched at the Cape Town Book Fair. In that time, I have done many little things that seem to be adding up to delightful newness, and I have met myriad people of the same. Also, I have compiled two manuscripts in the last year. I am figuring out what to do with them :)

Much Love,
S

overwhelming evidence

There is ample evidence of beauty in this world.

I see it in the face of my two year old niece, Madeeha. Madeeha's name means 'praiseworthy', and I am most certain that the starting point of beauty is to be found in innocence. We look to find evidence of an obvious aesthetic presence, but Beauty also exists as a glaze over our vision; a tool of choice that allows us to scan the world with an eye for appreciating all that it has to offer.

People are beautiful in their attempts to glorify themselves; physically, spiritually, and often grandiosely. And some are beautiful in the inescapable sadness that they are shrouded in. Some choose silence as a companion and in that is a surreal beauty if not an obvious one. Beauty can be haunting and erudite or it can be impassioned and glaring; often all at the same time, for there is nothing that encapsulates the human experience more finitely than the multitude of emotions and experiences that occur as a pot of melting, blending colours all at the same time.

Its been a while since I wrote in a way that almost reads like cryptology.
This is not cryptic, only reflective. Nor is it an overdose of sugar, only part of many new thoughts being realised. There is beauty in good, and a strange beauty in the not so good. Acts of humanity are acts of admirable beauty. Crafts. Murder, too is a craft. And craft is beautiful in many ways. But then is evil beautiful as well? Or is it that any act of the human being is purely beautiful?

It may begin at innocence... but where does it stop? Or does it?

sparkiness, samoosa crackle and family love

I am sitting in complete darkness. The lights went out at 6:20pm; I heard my mom gasp, as the samoosa's shrieked in horror from their pot of sparkling oil. Something had disrupted their little dance routine, for sure! In the mean time, speaking of routines, Madeeha sat on my lap in front of this laptop and wanted to just 'pwess buttons, masi'. Simple request. She is mesmerized by the wonders of the internet, and she's only almost two. Anyway, so the downing of lights was enough to take our attention away from magic kissing hearts, dancing bears and talking birds online.

Scattered around the house, I could hear the shuffle of feet looking for candles. My sister, Madeeha's mom, Dilshaad, sought out baby. Baby is most comfortable. Of course. Back in my room, we had discovered scented rose candles and set those alight. And baby wanted to help me. Lovely. Guided by the light of my mobile phone, we walked across to the living area. Oil still crackled on defiantly, anouncing its heated state long after the electricity cut. Samoosa's bore the brunt of this affair: browning on one side and remaining an uncooked white on the other side. What a waste. Unless you're okay with artistic re-renderings of the fried hors d'oevre.

Still, we totter about in wonder of what might be going on. Bills paid. Mains in order. Now what? Darkness is also a moment to reflect on things unreflecting.
My sister in law remembers that she misplaced her own mobile phone. Using the last of my battery power I dial hers in a rescue mission effort. Found it! The games on it will help with the mundane sitting around and waiting to see what transpires. This here laptop will last a few hours until the battery gives up from sheer exhaustion, and the 3-G modem is helpful as ever now that the adsl is down. It's amazing that we survive beyond the glory of electricity. It is a wonder, indeed.

Mums made some calls. Dad and brother have not yet arrived from work, and when they do, they will descend on a home set aside from the city by its stark darkness. But inside it, candles dance to a different tune, and hearts wait warmed by the thought that all will sit around together in this contemplation of life without sparky electric current, yet filled with the charge of love :)

so fickle, these five senses...

There are people who scatter around me;
Some in mock haste; others ambling, perhaps

But I see them not..
feel them not...
so closed off is this abstract nearness,
so fickle, these five senses...

Then there is You so distant in time and space;
but all the while, right here beside me...
with me, around me,

a fragrance, an energy, some words...
a voice.. a name... a being...

a necessary delight.

I am filled. Emptied.

But filled. Again.

Stop!

I want these words to stop.

They waste so much!

Spilling about careless,
These drops float in the water
Of life around me.

All I want is to submerge myself;
To drown
In a sea of voices
That make flirtation
An art...

And art, a devastation
Of something
Sacred.

The free-est thing: Eleven Minutes: p96

I forgot to mention in the previous post, that the story of Maria in Eleven Minutes, is also biographical. Paulo Coelho met her in Geneva, through his agent. here is another profound extract from Maria's diary:

"If I were to tell someone about my life today, I could do it in a way that would make them think me a brave, happy, independent woman. Rubbish: I am not even allowed to mention the only word that is more important than the eleven minutes - love.
All my life, I thought of love as some kind of voluntary enslavement. Well, that's a lie: freedom only exists when love is present. The person who gives himself or herself wholly, the person who feels freest, is the person who loves most wholeheartedly.
And the person who loves wholeheartedly feels free.
That is why, regardless of what I might experience, do or learn, nothing makes sense.
I hope this time passes quickly, so that I can resume my search for myself - in the form of a man who understands me and does not make me suffer.
But what am I saying? In love, no one can harm anyone else; we are each of us responsible for our own feelings and cannot blame someone else for what we feel.
It hurt when I lost each of the various men I fell in love with. Now, though, I am convinced that no one loses anyone, because no one owns anyone.
That is the true experience of freedom: having the most important thing in the world without owning it."

Hmm.

Eleven Minutes

I have always enjoyed reading Paulo Coelho... And with enthusiasm, I have been quenched by The Alchemist; provoked by Veronika decides to Die, and intrigued by The Devil and Ms Prym. The most enjoyable of late, was The Witch of Portobello; a delightful biography of a woman by the name of Athena. I have read some others, too, and recently picked up the copy I have of Eleven Minutes. I buy books pretty much everywhere I go, and the script beneath the scrawl that represents my name said: London 2005. I cannot remember why, but I couldnt read the book with appreciation at the time. I think there was a 3 for 2 sale or something at the time...

And so, I am reading through Eleven Minutes at the moment... and I find myself at some profound revelatory points here and there. Here is an extract that appealed to me today, some of it for the content, but also the sharing of it is in appreciation for my own process of keeping a journal (beyond the blogosphere:P)

"From Maria's diary, two days after everything had returned to normal:

Passion makes a person stop eating, sleeping, working, feeling at peace. A lot of people are frightened because, when it appears, it demolishes all the old things it finds in its path.
No one wants their life thrown into chaos. That is why a lot of people keep that threat under control, and are somehow capable of sustaining a house or a structure that is already rotten. They are the engineers of the superceded.
Other people think exactly the opposite: they surrender themselves without a second thought, hoping to find in passion the solution to all their problems. They make the other person responsible for their happiness and blame them for their possible unhappiness. They are either euphoric because something marvelous has happened or depressed because something unexpected has just ruined everything.
Keeping passion at bay or surrendering blindly to it - which of these two attitudes is the least destructive?
I don't know. "

Confessions of a Callgirl

I have just stumbled upon this weblog: Confessions of a College CallGirl; the writings are as real as it gets, extremely well-written and emotionally charged. The story of a callgirl in New York City...she uses her blog to get rid of the burdens that sit on her heart and the dust that settles on her soul from her experiences, but then she also has this no-nonsense take on life and survival... one tends to pick up on some amount of self-doubt in her ability to really hold on to a worthwhile relationship (this is beyond the scope of her 'job')..ie. once she's retired. Even so, she speaks of the number of times she has in fact, tried to retire... and the ways in which the tide pulls her back in again...

Factual accounts written here are fascinating in the humanity and necessary compassion evoked by this blogger. The link love leads to what I thought was the most distinguished of her new articles in terms of who she is as a woman. I also enjoyed the style of writing...

i am you, alright...

you are

that fresh breeze
playing with the curls in my hair,

that tinge of sunlight that
leaves gold dust on my skin,

that rustle in the wind
of the grasses before
the summer rains...

that dainty twitter
of love birds
meeting each other after
a time.

you are
that moonlight
dancing on the surface
of a crystal pond,

that gleam in the
gems that glisten on
my earlobes...

that sound of
life just awakening
to its wholeness.

you are.

i am.

and i am you.

but you are.

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.

evolutionary, my dear

Minds are important things. I just had an evening visit with friends. And we got into this long winded discussion about minds. And survival. Of the fittest, that is. Fittest mind? Fittest soul? Not fittest ego, mind you.

Well it started out because we decided that we should measure some amount of emotional growth or change in ourselves. How, we asked, should we attempt to measure such a thing? Memories gave us a starting point. Then, as we moved along the years bringing us to a kind of resting point in the present day, all we needed to do was look back down the mountain we had climbed and to reflect. Sounds pretty easy hey. There were tons of moments for a laugh or a nice smiley memory. And since life never really lets us forget the stuff we'd rather not remember, yea there was room made for even that.

So many good memories. So many coincidences. So many mistakes. Thank heaven for mistakes! (They say some people marry others mistakes:P) Okay bygones. I can only think of one a relatively long time ago, and even then its only me making fun of things. Life is too short for regrets and what ifs. It is. Or it isn't. Thats as plain as day.

But one thing stands out for me in all of this. People need emotional compatibility. And intellect does not equate to emotional evolution. I have always been intrigued by a sharpened mind and a caustic wit. It takes some doing to be quick on your feet regards life, etc. And adding to that, a deep consciousness of self and humanity. Not ranting raving shows of purgatory. Just real humane respect for self and others. And a conscious disregard for naivete that makes one open to all forms of gross manipulation when you least expect it. Is that too much to ask for? I guess in some cases it is.

And in some cases... My mind, muse and fingers at keyboard are enticed to play a festive music to the stimuli of words and to tap-dance in tandum to the wit and mastery of The Mind. Green Geisha, I need your platform for further posts :P

Provoked

What does it take for a woman of modest bearing, to wait till the quiet hours of the night until her husband of ten years is sound asleep, and to douse him in a carefully prepared mixture of cooking oil and other household flammable liquids, and then to drop a flaming candle at his feet, and watch in horror, and relief as the flames sieze and engulf his screaming frame!?

What does it take?

Insanity is a gleaming and rather self-righteous label designed by the self-acclaimed 'sane' and an appeasing banner to the designated who must wear it as a yoke. Why must some plead insanity to obtain justice? Or rather, as a human right's activist in the movie suggests, 'Why must women plead insanity to obtain justice, while men need only lose their tempers for the same?'

'Provoked' is the name of the movie that profiles a young Punjabi woman's plight to restore her dignity from within the confines of an abusive marriage, and in an act of being driven to temporary irrational insanity, she sets her husband on fire. He dies after some days in hospital. She is charged. This, she maintains, is her first taste of freedom.

Battered wife syndrome is, as a result of her case, a legally recognised condition.

Abuse is a messy subject, and many people will shy away from the indications to take the topic by the horns and do real battle with it. How do we break the cycle? We engage in abuse and are abused every other day when we choose to ascribe labels on each other, and when we carry those with which we might be branded. Where does it all stop? And how?

travelling with my characters

Samina walked into the room. Something was different. Everything looked exactly as she remembered. But the place felt emptied of his presence. The smell of his cologne. The knowledge that his eyes would meet hers at some point. The sound of the grandfather clock down the hallway alerted her to the receding daylight hour. She scanned the room once more for some consolation. The persian rugs still welcomed her, as they had always done when she was a little girl. Her father's study had a mystery about it that held her in awe. But it was his energy that embraced her more than the essence of the place. And now, it was just as desolate and abandoned as she felt. Now that he was gone.

Power games, headaches and my theories of reciprocation

Its been months since I had a decent headache; I used to harvest those with the fervour of a rare tulip gardener. Today, my harvest seems to have come in with a vengeance. I have much on my mind it seems. I remember when I was younger, and I felt pain in a limb, arm, leg or hand. I would imagine the affected area in a particular colour (eg red) and then proceed to imagine it flowing like a syrup out of the affected area all the while turning through the spectrum of colours in diminishing impact: orange, yellow, green, blue, shades of lighter blue and lavender.. softer, quieter and then gone!

And it worked. It became a game. A semi-conscious one at best. One that works wonders in traffic! And so began my delving into games of the psyche. I was forever mesmerized by notions of conscious and sub-conscious activity. 'The Power of the Subconscious Mind' was probably one of the most profound texts to allow my eyes and fingers a dance across its scenic pages. The mastery of June Singers 'Seeing through the visible world' in more recent years made similar impact. June Singer, a psychoanalyst, worked closely with Carl Jung and proceeded to write in light of Jungian philosophies and her own research observations. Singer describes what she refers to as her first experience with spirituality as a little girl, watching an ant climbing up the frame of a door and over the brass door knob; and she thought to herself that the ant climbs along various terrains without appointing meaning beyond survival and the like. But she could move beyond her chair, turn the door knob to open the door and move into a new room/realm. Similarly, she figures that human beings are like the ant in the bigger realm of consciousness and life; and beyond our limited reasoning and ability is the consciousness of a greater Power, God, who is able to Will far greater things than we are mostly capable of imagining!

Anyway, since this was meant to be an arb post, I will continue in light of games of mind and manner..
Power games. The games people play. Issues of security and insecurity; lack of communication when its most needed and fear of rejection. Key themes in a melting pot of relationship mud just waiting to be hurled at mostly unsuspecting patrons. Naive patrons? Perhaps so. Everyones been there some time or the other, well-bathed in both the mushy and the gory elements! And to learn what lesson? I heard a female friend say that she knows this really nice guy who likes her, but doesn't know how to GET RID OF HIM! Nice going lady. Just talk to the dude! They have been friends for some time. So he's not your average stalker type. Then theres this legal eagle guy I know who feels you shouldn't sent out text/SMS messages in a string.. rather one at a time until the other person responds. Ok and this means what? He says its a pride thing. To power freaks: I say its putting power in the hands of someone else;) And lets not lose sight of the fact that spontaneity is being sordidly murdered here! To hopefully most others: Games are fun if they're on state of the art gaming gear made by state of the art companies with good colour, graphics etc. This eight year old I know just got a new Wii. Moves up the ranks on coolstuff gadgets in my books, a close second place to the new GHD :P

Oh but regards endless discussions about the games people play and the pathos of rhetoric like: 'you hurt the one's you love the most'.. I could go on and on dipping into hours of research undertaken by scores of friends over copious amounts of chai, cuppacino, espresso even.. sometimes lots of lemon flavoured liqui coolers and often the gregarious tub of chocolate chip ice cream. Then theres the stuff of entertainment thats heard from the mouths of leathery horses! This reminds me of scribbled notes in the annex of my cobwebbed mind regards theories of reciprocation. All leads back through the maze to this thing about text/SMS messages and scoreboards keeping count of how many each side sent the other and (whose keeping count anyway?!) oh and home advantage! And hostile environments. And relationship choices as investments. Short-term and Long-term ones; Apparently. And so the spiral of relationship vocabulary dwindles further and further toward the abyss. Reason long lost in the impending darkness! Yet, methinks there might be a tiny flicker of love's light fighting for breathes.. And so here's hoping that the kiss of life will rekindle it! And that strategies for games of war turn to cultivation plans for gardens of divinely inspired love. Just what the world needs! Of course, We can hope. And pray :)