Mulling Over Mainstream
1 day ago
Showing posts with label shafinaaz. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shafinaaz. Show all posts
Monday, September 24, 2012
Book trailer: SoPhia, the novel (2012)
Click here to watch the book trailer for the new publication: 'SoPhia: a novel'
View more details for upcoming launches at our Facebook Page: http://facebook.com/sophiathenovel
Brought to you by WordFlute Publications, SA
Friday, November 04, 2011
Rumi, Journey and Discovery
Pilgrims
why are you turning round in circles,
what are you looking for?
The Beloved is here, why search in the desert?
If you look deep in your heart
you will find Him within yourself.
You have made the pilgrimage and
trod the path to Mecca many times.
You rave about the holy place
and say you've visited God's garden
but where is your bunch of flowers?
You tell stories about diving deep into the ocean
but where is your pearl?
There is some merit
in the suffering you have endured,
but what a pity you have not discovered
the Mecca that's inside.
J. Rumi
(Gardens of the Beloved)
why are you turning round in circles,
what are you looking for?
The Beloved is here, why search in the desert?
If you look deep in your heart
you will find Him within yourself.
You have made the pilgrimage and
trod the path to Mecca many times.
You rave about the holy place
and say you've visited God's garden
but where is your bunch of flowers?
You tell stories about diving deep into the ocean
but where is your pearl?
There is some merit
in the suffering you have endured,
but what a pity you have not discovered
the Mecca that's inside.
J. Rumi
(Gardens of the Beloved)
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Belly Of Fire: An Anthology
Belly of Fire is a metaphor for the anxiety and fear that we hold within ourselves; the voices of those who are disempowered by racism, poverty, war and gendered abuse, voices that remain silenced, are housed as fire in our bellies.
The stories in this collection grapple with real, everyday issues that face ordinary people. The poetry interspersed between them reveals emotions that arise from dealing with these issues, reflecting on them, using them to rebel or act out against the pressures that try to silence us.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Rain On Me
Three doors,
crowd me,
hover, patiently.
Three choices,
life presents to me.
Number one:
'Earn your wings,'
- the choice to fly.
Number two:
'Stay grounded,'
- my own roots!
Number three:
'Have rain,
make rain,
be rain!'
As ever before,
I choose the one that
intrigues me,
holds me,
spellbinding-ly.
Rain seeps into my skin
I drink it in
New being blossoms;
This is rebirth.
A new me pretends to
implode
from within.
A rush of blood
and energy,
A surge of gratitude.
Newness. A new me.
Joy is rain.
Rain, life.
Life rains down on me.
I rain.
'Drink it,' Life says.
I say, 'Drink it in!'
crowd me,
hover, patiently.
Three choices,
life presents to me.
Number one:
'Earn your wings,'
- the choice to fly.
Number two:
'Stay grounded,'
- my own roots!
Number three:
'Have rain,
make rain,
be rain!'
As ever before,
I choose the one that
intrigues me,
holds me,
spellbinding-ly.
Rain seeps into my skin
I drink it in
New being blossoms;
This is rebirth.
A new me pretends to
implode
from within.
A rush of blood
and energy,
A surge of gratitude.
Newness. A new me.
Joy is rain.
Rain, life.
Life rains down on me.
I rain.
'Drink it,' Life says.
I say, 'Drink it in!'
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
This Place I Call Home
Book Review: This Place I Call Home by Meg Vandermerwe (Modjaji Books, 2010)
Home is a place of rest. For an observant South African writer, spanning the expanse of time, history, culture and landscape, the concept of home is also a thematic vehicle.
Meg Vandermerwe’s debut book, ‘This Place I Call Home’ is a collection of ten stories that easily captures the feel of what it is to be South African from just as many points of view. Peering through the eyes of a hijack victim, a hunter, a domestic maid, an exile about to return home and a range of others, the reader is made to see how identity is constructed, altered and challenged in a country that has seen many versions of reality in its time and across the reach of its political horizons. In addition, it also captures what it is to be a foreigner in South Africa especially with the spate of xenophobia that we witnessed not too long ago. Needless to say, each of the protagonists grapples with haunting emotional challenges in their personal spaces that are inevitably reflected by the socio-political landscape. These stories tell us much about where we have come from as individuals, separated by the colour of our skins, the hierarchy of our place on the social ladder, and the baggage that we carry as we move forward as South Africans.
Vandermerwe also manages to capture the authentic voice of each of the protagonists in her stories, which is an impressive feat on the one hand, but can be a bit jarring for a reader moving through the stories one after the other. One has a sense of listening to a line-up of ten people narrating each of their encounters, or reliving a particular moment that was formative or impactful, and then it’s on to the next one. More so because of the shift in timelines. But it is also precisely because of this that the many colours of their narratives standing side by side, tend to blend into a remarkable anthology of South African-ness that makes for a must-read for historians and anthropological enthusiasts.
But there’s more. We all have significant markers of identity and home. That is, how we make sense of both where we are, and who we are in the world is determined by the associations we make with particular things, specific encounters. Vandermerwe highlights these and the reader will find it easy to draw on the nostalgia that these markers evoke: a mango tree, a dictionary, the anticipation of a holiday or having heard of the story of someone returning home from exile. There are stories of loss and grief and hope and redemption to be found in this little gem of a book. Protagonists are challenged by disease, broken promises, xenophobia and a range of subjects that the reader is able to identify with; these stories will carry forth from the local to the global context an authentic flavour of the multi-coloured African dynamic. And the resounding theme of what it has meant to be South African, over the span of time and politics, comes through in the sentiments expressed by each of the protagonists; a domestic servant, a madam, a hunter’s aid and his master.
Vandermerwe deals in astounding detail with the issue of HIV/Aids, the inevitable cloud of superstition that surrounds the disease and the reliance or the faith that people place in traditional vs. modern medicine. The Red Earth is probably my favourite read in this anthology. Its characters don’t jump out at you; rather they sit beside you and allow you a peek into their deepest thoughts. They reveal their fears and prejudices. To me, that is the most remarkable accomplishment of the fiction writer; the ability to give the reader the opportunity to more than identify or sympathise with the character, but to really walk in their skin, taste and feel and dream as they might.
I particularly noted how Vandermerwe is able to denote class struggles in the local context, and the resultant mindset that arises from having to know your place. Inferiority is a powerful voice. Often more so than superiority. It reminds you mostly of the things that you do not deserve. And that you should know your place. This is the marvel of the post-colonial era. And it continues to be echoed in the economic reality that separates the haves and the have-nots. The writer achieves this balance in portraying both the yearnings of those on lower rungs of the social ladder as well as the expectations of those who teeter on the edge of the higher rungs of this shaky ladder. And so the reader is made to see at once the numerous layers of South African history as well as contemporary South African society beyond the shining tourist manuals. We also learn that if there are spaces that are sometimes unforgiving to South Africans, that these spaces can be even more threatening to ‘aliens’. In our insistence to claim our place, our home, we label the outsiders mercilessly. Strong notions of other-ing resound through the narratives. And we are made to ask questions of whether our existence is validated by this defining of ‘other’ and the subsequent removal of the alien other from what we claim to be our space. Narrative is a safe yet interesting way for these themes and debates to emerge. This Place I call Home is a book that manages to do this.
That the reader is made to read in the authentic voice and viewpoint of the character with such ease is the most enduring and positive attribute of this writer’s art. And this is what brings these stories home for us.
Home is a place of rest. For an observant South African writer, spanning the expanse of time, history, culture and landscape, the concept of home is also a thematic vehicle.
Meg Vandermerwe’s debut book, ‘This Place I Call Home’ is a collection of ten stories that easily captures the feel of what it is to be South African from just as many points of view. Peering through the eyes of a hijack victim, a hunter, a domestic maid, an exile about to return home and a range of others, the reader is made to see how identity is constructed, altered and challenged in a country that has seen many versions of reality in its time and across the reach of its political horizons. In addition, it also captures what it is to be a foreigner in South Africa especially with the spate of xenophobia that we witnessed not too long ago. Needless to say, each of the protagonists grapples with haunting emotional challenges in their personal spaces that are inevitably reflected by the socio-political landscape. These stories tell us much about where we have come from as individuals, separated by the colour of our skins, the hierarchy of our place on the social ladder, and the baggage that we carry as we move forward as South Africans.
Vandermerwe also manages to capture the authentic voice of each of the protagonists in her stories, which is an impressive feat on the one hand, but can be a bit jarring for a reader moving through the stories one after the other. One has a sense of listening to a line-up of ten people narrating each of their encounters, or reliving a particular moment that was formative or impactful, and then it’s on to the next one. More so because of the shift in timelines. But it is also precisely because of this that the many colours of their narratives standing side by side, tend to blend into a remarkable anthology of South African-ness that makes for a must-read for historians and anthropological enthusiasts.
But there’s more. We all have significant markers of identity and home. That is, how we make sense of both where we are, and who we are in the world is determined by the associations we make with particular things, specific encounters. Vandermerwe highlights these and the reader will find it easy to draw on the nostalgia that these markers evoke: a mango tree, a dictionary, the anticipation of a holiday or having heard of the story of someone returning home from exile. There are stories of loss and grief and hope and redemption to be found in this little gem of a book. Protagonists are challenged by disease, broken promises, xenophobia and a range of subjects that the reader is able to identify with; these stories will carry forth from the local to the global context an authentic flavour of the multi-coloured African dynamic. And the resounding theme of what it has meant to be South African, over the span of time and politics, comes through in the sentiments expressed by each of the protagonists; a domestic servant, a madam, a hunter’s aid and his master.
Vandermerwe deals in astounding detail with the issue of HIV/Aids, the inevitable cloud of superstition that surrounds the disease and the reliance or the faith that people place in traditional vs. modern medicine. The Red Earth is probably my favourite read in this anthology. Its characters don’t jump out at you; rather they sit beside you and allow you a peek into their deepest thoughts. They reveal their fears and prejudices. To me, that is the most remarkable accomplishment of the fiction writer; the ability to give the reader the opportunity to more than identify or sympathise with the character, but to really walk in their skin, taste and feel and dream as they might.
I particularly noted how Vandermerwe is able to denote class struggles in the local context, and the resultant mindset that arises from having to know your place. Inferiority is a powerful voice. Often more so than superiority. It reminds you mostly of the things that you do not deserve. And that you should know your place. This is the marvel of the post-colonial era. And it continues to be echoed in the economic reality that separates the haves and the have-nots. The writer achieves this balance in portraying both the yearnings of those on lower rungs of the social ladder as well as the expectations of those who teeter on the edge of the higher rungs of this shaky ladder. And so the reader is made to see at once the numerous layers of South African history as well as contemporary South African society beyond the shining tourist manuals. We also learn that if there are spaces that are sometimes unforgiving to South Africans, that these spaces can be even more threatening to ‘aliens’. In our insistence to claim our place, our home, we label the outsiders mercilessly. Strong notions of other-ing resound through the narratives. And we are made to ask questions of whether our existence is validated by this defining of ‘other’ and the subsequent removal of the alien other from what we claim to be our space. Narrative is a safe yet interesting way for these themes and debates to emerge. This Place I call Home is a book that manages to do this.
That the reader is made to read in the authentic voice and viewpoint of the character with such ease is the most enduring and positive attribute of this writer’s art. And this is what brings these stories home for us.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
#SpeakZA: Bloggers for a Free Press
Last week, shocking revelations concerning the activities of the ANC Youth League spokesperson Nyiko Floyd Shivambu came to the fore. According to a letter published in various news outlets, a complaint was laid by 19 political journalists with the Secretary General of the ANC, against Shivambu. This complaint letter detailed attempts by Shivambu to leak a dossier to certain journalists, purporting to expose the money laundering practices of Dumisani Lubisi, a journalist at the City Press. The letter also detailed the intimidation that followed when these journalists refused to publish these revelations.
We condemn in the strongest possible terms the reprisals against journalists by Shivambu. His actions constitute a blatant attack on media freedom and a grave infringement on Constitutional rights. It is a disturbing step towards dictatorial rule in South Africa. We call on the ANC and the ANC Youth League to distance themselves from the actions of Shivambu. The media have, time and again, been a vital democratic safeguard by exposing the actions of individuals who have abused their positions of power for personal and political gain.
The press have played a vital role in the liberation struggle, operating under difficult and often dangerous conditions to document some of the most crucial moments in the struggle against apartheid. It is therefore distressing to note that certain people within the ruling party are willing to maliciously target journalists by invading their privacy and threatening their colleagues in a bid to silence them in their legitimate work.
We also note the breathtaking hubris displayed by Shivambu and the ANC Youth League President Julius Malema in their response to the letter of complaint. Shivambu and Malema clearly have no respect for the media and the rights afforded to the media by the Constitution of South Africa. Such a response serves only to reinforce the position that the motive for leaking the so-called dossier was not a legitimate concern, but a insolent effort to intimidate and bully a journalist who had exposed embarrassing information about the Youth League President.
We urge the ANC as a whole to reaffirm its commitment to media freedom and other Constitutional rights we enjoy as a country.
What can you do? To show your solidarity with 'Bloggers for a Free Press' please email this article or link as is, including blog roll. RT ref #SpeakZA
Blog Roll...
http://thoughtleader.co.za/siphohlongwane
http://rwrant.co.za
http://vocfm.co.za/blogs/munadia/
http://vocfm.co.za/blogs/shafiqmorton/
http://blogs.news24.com/needpoint
http://capetowngirl.co.za
http://thoughtleader.co.za/sentletsediakanyo
http://thoughtleader.co.za/davidjsmith
http://letterdash.com/one-eye-only
http://boyuninterrupted.blogspot.com
http://amandasevasti.com
http://blog.empyrean.co.za/
http://letterdash.com/brencro
http://6000.co.za
http://chrisroper.co.za
http://pieftw.com
http://hamishpillay.wordpress.com
http://memoirs4kimya.blogspot.com
http://thoughtleader.co.za/azadessa
http://watkykjy.co.za
http://fredhatman.co.za
http://thelifeanddeathchronicles.blogspot.com/
http://blogs.timeslive.co.za/common-dialogue/
http://www.clivesimpkins.blogs.com/
http://mashadutoit.wordpress.com
http://nicharalambous.com
http://sarocks.co.za
http://blogs.timeslive.co.za/stompies/
http://helenmoffett.book.co.za/blog/
http://01universe.blogspot.com
http://groundwork.worpress.com
http://iwrotethisforyou.me
http://fionasnyckers.book.co.za
http://attentiontodetail.wordpress.com
http://blogs.women24.com/editor
http://www.missmillib.blogspot.com
http://snowgoose.co.za
http://dreamfoundry.co.za
http://www.vanoodle.blogspot.com
http://www.exmi.co.za
http://cat-dubai.blogspot.com
http://alistairfairweather.com
http://www.zanedickens.com
http://www.nickhuntdavis.com
http://guysa.blogspot.com
http://book.co.za
http://baldy.co.za
http://skinnylaminx.com
http://blogs.african-writing.com/zukiswa
http://www.mielie.wordpress.com
http://blogs.timeslive.co.za/gatherer/
http://thoughtleader.co.za/sarahbritten
http://stii.co.za
http://blogs.news24.com/FSB_AP
http://twistedkoeksuster.blogspot.com
http://whensmokegetsinyoureyes.blogspot.com/
http://trinklebean.wordpress.com
http://commentry.wordpress.com/
http://matthewbuckland.com
http://blogs.news24.com/colour-me-fran
http://gormendizer.co.za
Thursday, February 04, 2010
gifts of humanity, celebrations of self.
There are few things as refreshing as a few hours in the company of dear friends. Julekha and Nazmeera are sisters, and two of my childhood friends, and I had the pleasure of spending some time in their company yesterday, in celebration of Julie's birthday. This is standard practice for a good many years, as February is birthday month for the both of us. And so, in typical feelgood fashion, momentous celebrations of self usually begin on the 3rd Feb and go on, until the 12th, the day that I was born. In between, we will reflect, go out for a movie, a lunch, a dinner, and just do ritual celebratory things that add to the markers along the path of this fortnight between our respective birthdays. We missed out in 2008 when I lived in Durban, but I think that this is the year to make up for it.
It's also a fascinating double celebration this time around, especially because Nazmeera has set a wedding date roughly a month from now, 6 March. This only means a full month of extended celebration. I'm thrilled for her, because the certainty and joy is a rose grown to fullness in her being. Even more so, because I attended her wedding a few years ago when she married at the age of 21, and then her carefully constructed house of cards fell apart some few months later and she got divorced. I saw her fall ill to the disappointment, the confusion, the hurt and pain. I watched from afar as her sister tried to shield her from the insensitive comments of onlookers, ogling the spectacle. I listened, and tried in vain to humble the experience, without trying to trivialise the depth of the wound. Her parents were phenomenal in their support, as was Julie. I flitted in and out of their cocoon every once in a while. And then we stepped back as she worked her way out of the ditch of misery, and began to bloom, once again.
Four years later, I have total respect and appreciation for the growth that she has undergone: it shows in the way that her mindset has taken leaps, in her new sense of spirit, in the honours degree that she has achieved, in the person that she has become. Four earth years might look small, but with the right encouragement, support and intentions made by a person, they can be more valuable than a lifetime of careful living, far less destructive than a full decade of self-pity. And clearly, they have been formative years for her realisation of self. She didn't hold back and shared these Eureka moments, gladly. We made mental notes and smiled as we learned from her, shared some of our own messy details, and hoped that we were rising above them.
Lessons learned are burdens on the back of a miser, and veritable bags of gold in the pockets of those willing to share their humanity with others. These are the truest celebrations of self.
It's also a fascinating double celebration this time around, especially because Nazmeera has set a wedding date roughly a month from now, 6 March. This only means a full month of extended celebration. I'm thrilled for her, because the certainty and joy is a rose grown to fullness in her being. Even more so, because I attended her wedding a few years ago when she married at the age of 21, and then her carefully constructed house of cards fell apart some few months later and she got divorced. I saw her fall ill to the disappointment, the confusion, the hurt and pain. I watched from afar as her sister tried to shield her from the insensitive comments of onlookers, ogling the spectacle. I listened, and tried in vain to humble the experience, without trying to trivialise the depth of the wound. Her parents were phenomenal in their support, as was Julie. I flitted in and out of their cocoon every once in a while. And then we stepped back as she worked her way out of the ditch of misery, and began to bloom, once again.
Four years later, I have total respect and appreciation for the growth that she has undergone: it shows in the way that her mindset has taken leaps, in her new sense of spirit, in the honours degree that she has achieved, in the person that she has become. Four earth years might look small, but with the right encouragement, support and intentions made by a person, they can be more valuable than a lifetime of careful living, far less destructive than a full decade of self-pity. And clearly, they have been formative years for her realisation of self. She didn't hold back and shared these Eureka moments, gladly. We made mental notes and smiled as we learned from her, shared some of our own messy details, and hoped that we were rising above them.
Lessons learned are burdens on the back of a miser, and veritable bags of gold in the pockets of those willing to share their humanity with others. These are the truest celebrations of self.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Quenched sentimentalist: Rabb bhi Deewana Laage re
Bias is a passionate vehicle. When I first visited India in 1994, I hated it. My arrogant teenage sense was easily offended by the superficial grime and slime of cities that are burdened by the sprawl of their citizens demands on match-stick infrastructure. But then, India made certain that I fell in love with her before I left, and I have travelled back and forth more than a dozen times since.
Needless to say, I have never encountered a more resilient, more colourful, or a more diverse, emotive country as India is. And she makes this claim rather unpretentiously. But it holds fast in the minds and hearts of all who must make their way through her at some point; those who must, inevitably, be drawn to her, and who will fall madly in love with her as I have.
We touched-down in Mumbai on 20th January before we flew on to Jaipur. Tomorrow, after some eighteen months, I will be reunited with the energy that is Mumbai, the same vibe that echoes in my veins.
The romance of Rajasthan is unmistakeable; age old charm embraces the city within, while every conceivable public space is fragrant with the whisper of the poets of old. At the airport, instrumental background music brought the words of the old maestros to my lips. We dined and stayed at places called Peshawari, Jal Mahal, and Rajputana; then went on to fraternize in heritage sites like the Diggi Palace and the Birla Auditorium. We walked the streets of the Pink City and were embraced by the same winds that would have veiled a different era of nobility, grandeur and impression. The verse of the ghazal singers lingers in our ears. It's the begin of the Basant season. And not coincidentally, its also the begin of the wedding season. Everywhere we go, we are met with wedding processions led by boisterous walking drummers, tamboreen artistes, trumpeteers. The bridegrooms follow on horses bedecked with flowers, jewels, finery not very unlike the armour that they themselves have worn.
The images fade to a blur on my last night here. But the scent of celebration remains. And Mumbai beckons to me. Farewell, Jaipur... The memory of a beautiful week overwhelms me, makes my head reel. There is something magical about the soul of a city filled with contemplating, reflective people from around the world, brought together at one point to share sips of something to quench the restless seeker.
Quenched, indeed.
Shafinaaz
Needless to say, I have never encountered a more resilient, more colourful, or a more diverse, emotive country as India is. And she makes this claim rather unpretentiously. But it holds fast in the minds and hearts of all who must make their way through her at some point; those who must, inevitably, be drawn to her, and who will fall madly in love with her as I have.
We touched-down in Mumbai on 20th January before we flew on to Jaipur. Tomorrow, after some eighteen months, I will be reunited with the energy that is Mumbai, the same vibe that echoes in my veins.
The romance of Rajasthan is unmistakeable; age old charm embraces the city within, while every conceivable public space is fragrant with the whisper of the poets of old. At the airport, instrumental background music brought the words of the old maestros to my lips. We dined and stayed at places called Peshawari, Jal Mahal, and Rajputana; then went on to fraternize in heritage sites like the Diggi Palace and the Birla Auditorium. We walked the streets of the Pink City and were embraced by the same winds that would have veiled a different era of nobility, grandeur and impression. The verse of the ghazal singers lingers in our ears. It's the begin of the Basant season. And not coincidentally, its also the begin of the wedding season. Everywhere we go, we are met with wedding processions led by boisterous walking drummers, tamboreen artistes, trumpeteers. The bridegrooms follow on horses bedecked with flowers, jewels, finery not very unlike the armour that they themselves have worn.
The images fade to a blur on my last night here. But the scent of celebration remains. And Mumbai beckons to me. Farewell, Jaipur... The memory of a beautiful week overwhelms me, makes my head reel. There is something magical about the soul of a city filled with contemplating, reflective people from around the world, brought together at one point to share sips of something to quench the restless seeker.
Quenched, indeed.
Shafinaaz
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Rajasthani Romanticism
Jaipur is insatiably beautiful. From beneath the squalor and decay, can still be felt the pink sands of time and matter that form the legacy of this ancient city that juggles with some grace, the modern and the antiquated.
The cities beauty stands out for me because it is an unadorned one: its certainly not an obvious beauty, in fact its a rather oblivious one.
But at some level, it is also a taken-for-granted regal, yet unnoticed one.
Beauty is in the bones of Rajasthan.
I have the pleasure of being here at a time when the city is host to both a Literary Festival as well as a Heritage Festival. These are run in parallel, creating a rather combustable creative energy. And sparks fly! Like when Prof Nandini Sundar of Delhi University says, "Fuck the State! We will be heard!" or when Hanif Qureshi says, "when all those rather confused pieces come together to make sense of identit(ies), then we call that literature" and even more so when Asma Jehangir says that she's disappointed with India's arrogance while admitting that Pakistan is 'the menace'. Or Girish Karnad's comment earlier today when he said that VS Naipual must have been stone deaf. Why? Because he wrote about India, but he failed to write anything at all about music, and it's indelible influence and meaning in the Indian context.
Sparks fly, indeed, when you find yourself at the core of a melting pot of grand ideas, challenging minds and fanciful collaborations.
I've also managed to see two plays at the Birla Auditorium, thanks to the Heritage Festival and the Jaipur Virasat Foundation. One, 'Salesman Ramlal' is the Hindi adaptation of Arthur Miller's 'Death of a Salesman', and features a cast including Satish Kaushik as Ramlal and his wife played by Seema Biswas... and the other was directed by Naseeruddin Shah. Comprehensive reviews to follow. I'm not quite quenched with this cup of Jaipur dynamism, drink on, drink on!
With much love from my moonlit hotel room,
at almost 2a.m. Indian time,
S
The cities beauty stands out for me because it is an unadorned one: its certainly not an obvious beauty, in fact its a rather oblivious one.
But at some level, it is also a taken-for-granted regal, yet unnoticed one.
Beauty is in the bones of Rajasthan.
I have the pleasure of being here at a time when the city is host to both a Literary Festival as well as a Heritage Festival. These are run in parallel, creating a rather combustable creative energy. And sparks fly! Like when Prof Nandini Sundar of Delhi University says, "Fuck the State! We will be heard!" or when Hanif Qureshi says, "when all those rather confused pieces come together to make sense of identit(ies), then we call that literature" and even more so when Asma Jehangir says that she's disappointed with India's arrogance while admitting that Pakistan is 'the menace'. Or Girish Karnad's comment earlier today when he said that VS Naipual must have been stone deaf. Why? Because he wrote about India, but he failed to write anything at all about music, and it's indelible influence and meaning in the Indian context.
Sparks fly, indeed, when you find yourself at the core of a melting pot of grand ideas, challenging minds and fanciful collaborations.
I've also managed to see two plays at the Birla Auditorium, thanks to the Heritage Festival and the Jaipur Virasat Foundation. One, 'Salesman Ramlal' is the Hindi adaptation of Arthur Miller's 'Death of a Salesman', and features a cast including Satish Kaushik as Ramlal and his wife played by Seema Biswas... and the other was directed by Naseeruddin Shah. Comprehensive reviews to follow. I'm not quite quenched with this cup of Jaipur dynamism, drink on, drink on!
With much love from my moonlit hotel room,
at almost 2a.m. Indian time,
S
Monday, November 30, 2009
the circularity of blood and dust
Writing is farcical, if it is not able to create a shift in some way. It must, in some small way, undo the latch to the dusty box that is our potential, and reveal the raw material inside that seeks to become something majestic, at least.
Writing, just like anything else that we might do, is undue banter and rather superficial, if it is not accompanied by a whole range of purposeful conditions. Or at least, just one. A purpose. A need to adjust the everyday meander, dissolve the self-doubts and dissipate the fears of failing and of succeeding all at once. Writing is and must. Writing with a sense that something more must come of it. It must be loaded with that intention to do and be for the greater good; even if the path getting there is strewn with thorns. Writing is a vehicle and a weapon, a building and a bridge. Each might be used or abused; the action is fueled by the intent.
Writing, if you really think about it, is an act of worship.
It is a show of love. And a way to bribe the creative soul into production.
Writing is also a show of hate. A means to burn and destroy the wasteland of minds that prefer the route of the blissfully ignorant. It purges these, tearing unused sinews apart, washes away the rust and then forces the flow of new contemplation into the midst of these healing recesses.
Tedious tasks done, writing is the balm. The disease and the cure.
The bitterness and the sweet are found to be one.
Love is, life is, being is.
Bitter. Sweet. Bittersweet...
Living is.
Dieing is.
Bittersweet.
Living-Dieing.
Circularity breathes reason into being.
Writing gives it form.
The vehicle moves onward, transporting thought from one to another. Me to you.
A building of ideology soars skyward.
Glass shatters at a crazy altitude.
Someone slips.
Someone falls.
A grey suit hits concrete pavements of unreason; it bears the mark of the martyr. Red becomes brown.
Brown is earth.
Like ashes to ashes; like dust to dust.
Living is dieing
Dieing is living
Writing is Living-Dieing
Reviving the dust, the ashes, the blood and the being.
Re-creating, moving, becoming, seeing.
"Keep breathing. Everything else is a bonus."
Copyright 2009 Shafinaaz Hassim
Writing, just like anything else that we might do, is undue banter and rather superficial, if it is not accompanied by a whole range of purposeful conditions. Or at least, just one. A purpose. A need to adjust the everyday meander, dissolve the self-doubts and dissipate the fears of failing and of succeeding all at once. Writing is and must. Writing with a sense that something more must come of it. It must be loaded with that intention to do and be for the greater good; even if the path getting there is strewn with thorns. Writing is a vehicle and a weapon, a building and a bridge. Each might be used or abused; the action is fueled by the intent.
Writing, if you really think about it, is an act of worship.
It is a show of love. And a way to bribe the creative soul into production.
Writing is also a show of hate. A means to burn and destroy the wasteland of minds that prefer the route of the blissfully ignorant. It purges these, tearing unused sinews apart, washes away the rust and then forces the flow of new contemplation into the midst of these healing recesses.
Tedious tasks done, writing is the balm. The disease and the cure.
The bitterness and the sweet are found to be one.
Love is, life is, being is.
Bitter. Sweet. Bittersweet...
Living is.
Dieing is.
Bittersweet.
Living-Dieing.
Circularity breathes reason into being.
Writing gives it form.
The vehicle moves onward, transporting thought from one to another. Me to you.
A building of ideology soars skyward.
Glass shatters at a crazy altitude.
Someone slips.
Someone falls.
A grey suit hits concrete pavements of unreason; it bears the mark of the martyr. Red becomes brown.
Brown is earth.
Like ashes to ashes; like dust to dust.
Living is dieing
Dieing is living
Writing is Living-Dieing
Reviving the dust, the ashes, the blood and the being.
Re-creating, moving, becoming, seeing.
"Keep breathing. Everything else is a bonus."
Copyright 2009 Shafinaaz Hassim
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Different, and the same...
Silence is barely empty when you punctuate it with so many things that can mean more than all those thousand worded delusions that I have been chasing all my life.
It is, full. And it is empty.
I think I have all the answers to that one question.
I think I know.
I know that days will still run as an open tap; that years will flow as running water from therein. Years flow from days. That's what I have come to know.
I know that words will get stuck like that log in that dream, causing dams to form of muck and grime and sand and silt.
I also know that I will change. And I will remain the same.
And the running thread will always be that place of Silence on the
piece of green mat; my earth. My knees stuck there; different, and yet, the same.
I know that certainty will falter, and be sturdy in its affirmations;
that it will give birth to new confidence,
and bludgeon some assurance to an unnatural death.
And after all is said and done,
I know,
that I will be
as I have been;
And you will be
as you have been.
Different. And then, too, the very same.
It is, full. And it is empty.
I think I have all the answers to that one question.
I think I know.
I know that days will still run as an open tap; that years will flow as running water from therein. Years flow from days. That's what I have come to know.
I know that words will get stuck like that log in that dream, causing dams to form of muck and grime and sand and silt.
I also know that I will change. And I will remain the same.
And the running thread will always be that place of Silence on the
piece of green mat; my earth. My knees stuck there; different, and yet, the same.
I know that certainty will falter, and be sturdy in its affirmations;
that it will give birth to new confidence,
and bludgeon some assurance to an unnatural death.
And after all is said and done,
I know,
that I will be
as I have been;
And you will be
as you have been.
Different. And then, too, the very same.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Revelatory moments
Ive not been up to writing much these few days or weeks, and yet there is so much happening at the moment that I would actually like to share as a way of appreciating, and even celebrating these. So, what's been happening? Not all gratingly physical things as such; more a variety of all things revelatory. Of course, the advent of my new book, its sales and the reception it has received in five weeks since it came off the press is celebratory... Memoirs For Kimya is now available in hardcover; a beautiful imprint that fills me with joy; but there's more.
Life's telling me things these days. Revealing all the answers to all the questions that I have collected like an avid sea-shell collector. Years of putting them to the ear to hear nothing; and now the whispers are more than telling. Revelations are in more than words and sounds: they are accompanied by tastes and colours, vivid images that make for quite a gallery of viewing.
There is no time span when gratitude fills your being. I feel this now. Past and present merge into one. The future feels like an unopened gift, gleaming just within reach of eager fingers. Everything is precisely as it should be. There's really no rush. I am no longer the kitten that chases it's tail. I'm the Cheshire cat with cream on her ever-smiling lips.
Absolutely every human being should feel this, just once.
It's the best of both worlds. It really is.
And of course, everything makes total sense. Revelation is momentary and transcendent at the same time. Kind of like spraying rose water into a space and stepping into it to be embraced by it, to breathe it in and then be soaked in it all at once.
Indeed, His favours are undeniable.
:)
Life's telling me things these days. Revealing all the answers to all the questions that I have collected like an avid sea-shell collector. Years of putting them to the ear to hear nothing; and now the whispers are more than telling. Revelations are in more than words and sounds: they are accompanied by tastes and colours, vivid images that make for quite a gallery of viewing.
There is no time span when gratitude fills your being. I feel this now. Past and present merge into one. The future feels like an unopened gift, gleaming just within reach of eager fingers. Everything is precisely as it should be. There's really no rush. I am no longer the kitten that chases it's tail. I'm the Cheshire cat with cream on her ever-smiling lips.
Absolutely every human being should feel this, just once.
It's the best of both worlds. It really is.
And of course, everything makes total sense. Revelation is momentary and transcendent at the same time. Kind of like spraying rose water into a space and stepping into it to be embraced by it, to breathe it in and then be soaked in it all at once.
Indeed, His favours are undeniable.
:)
Friday, September 18, 2009
Charm
"Your charm lured me
to the edge of madness.
I lost my composure.
Humbled, I was sent away.
Then, You touched my heart,
transformed and shaped me
into any form You fancied."
RUMI
to the edge of madness.
I lost my composure.
Humbled, I was sent away.
Then, You touched my heart,
transformed and shaped me
into any form You fancied."
RUMI
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Journey of Love
I feel myself revisiting Hajj 2005 in more than one way. And the process has led me down memory lane to scavenge for scraps of writing from that trip. I leave on Thursday for Saudi Arabia, to perform the Umrah pilgrimage with my loved ones. It will be the first time since that landmark Hajj four years ago. I also wonder how very much I have changed since that time... Some change is mandatory, some not so obvious.
In preparation for the Journey, I wrote this piece in November 2005:
The Pilgrim
I do hope that my style of writing has improved, although the space for reflection still exists, thankfully :) I wrote Struggling with GOodbyes just before I left, in December. (I still use words like 'whirr')
I kept a Hajj Journal for my varied encounters; for those days when I happily merged with the crowd to be a single mass of collective worship. A mass of Love. And this, the Journey of Love. I scribbled notes in the darkest hour of night when the camps in Mina finally laid to rest. And again when they awoke to the call of the early morning prayer, and the energy of people ascended to the heavens in one voice. I learnt surrender. I could not find the words to write it. I just knew. I wrote about The Hajj, soon after my return, in attempting to capture it all; but more because I wanted to reclaim that feeling once again. The evasive surreal. I could only try. My favourite piece: The Hajj.
I surrendered once more to the evasive surreal. I wrote a poem a week later: Perfect Circles suggested that even if I could not capture what was, I could own it. I made peace with me.
In preparation for the Journey, I wrote this piece in November 2005:
The Pilgrim
I do hope that my style of writing has improved, although the space for reflection still exists, thankfully :) I wrote Struggling with GOodbyes just before I left, in December. (I still use words like 'whirr')
I kept a Hajj Journal for my varied encounters; for those days when I happily merged with the crowd to be a single mass of collective worship. A mass of Love. And this, the Journey of Love. I scribbled notes in the darkest hour of night when the camps in Mina finally laid to rest. And again when they awoke to the call of the early morning prayer, and the energy of people ascended to the heavens in one voice. I learnt surrender. I could not find the words to write it. I just knew. I wrote about The Hajj, soon after my return, in attempting to capture it all; but more because I wanted to reclaim that feeling once again. The evasive surreal. I could only try. My favourite piece: The Hajj.
I surrendered once more to the evasive surreal. I wrote a poem a week later: Perfect Circles suggested that even if I could not capture what was, I could own it. I made peace with me.
Friday, August 21, 2009
the lightness of being (apologies to kundera)
A year tends to bring numerous landmark events; personal ones, vocational ones, social, political, economic and faith-based ones. Some are steeped in elements of what is real and likely, while others are built on a foundation of fantasy, and collapse even before the hype and adrenalin has run it's course.
We live through the year over-dosing on temporary fixations, no doubt. The compulsive tendencies are fed to fullness on these tempting obsessions with the superficial, the random, and often the mundane. Twenty four hours can transform something that you cannot live without, into second rate trash.
I know these things about the infinite randomness of being, because admittedly, my life tends that way all too often. I hear the whirrrrr of the wheel as I run it like a good hamster. Whirr-whirrrr. I hear it.
And then that silver sliver of a new moon appears in the sky. Friendly faces peek out from behind the wood of trees made into solid doors. The gleam of delight is absurdly awesome; I am at once ensconced by it all, and lifted by the immense lightness of being a part of this communal life. Grace descends as silk. We are swathed in creamy layers of it, fragranced with a joy willed by the entry of this blessed month. It's the Holy month of Ramadaan. The almost Utopian goodness inherent in being human, reveals itself. Redundant excuses no longer make for a fitting diatribe. Devil may care only for a tether that renders evil useless somewhere on the ocean floor. Triumph is left to those who will embrace the rewards on offer; to those who will drink sweetness from ego's ultimate surrender.
There is, in surrender only one outcome: and that is the lightness of being.
Much love and blessings of an engaged surrender to one and all.
Ramadaan Kareem
We live through the year over-dosing on temporary fixations, no doubt. The compulsive tendencies are fed to fullness on these tempting obsessions with the superficial, the random, and often the mundane. Twenty four hours can transform something that you cannot live without, into second rate trash.
I know these things about the infinite randomness of being, because admittedly, my life tends that way all too often. I hear the whirrrrr of the wheel as I run it like a good hamster. Whirr-whirrrr. I hear it.
And then that silver sliver of a new moon appears in the sky. Friendly faces peek out from behind the wood of trees made into solid doors. The gleam of delight is absurdly awesome; I am at once ensconced by it all, and lifted by the immense lightness of being a part of this communal life. Grace descends as silk. We are swathed in creamy layers of it, fragranced with a joy willed by the entry of this blessed month. It's the Holy month of Ramadaan. The almost Utopian goodness inherent in being human, reveals itself. Redundant excuses no longer make for a fitting diatribe. Devil may care only for a tether that renders evil useless somewhere on the ocean floor. Triumph is left to those who will embrace the rewards on offer; to those who will drink sweetness from ego's ultimate surrender.
There is, in surrender only one outcome: and that is the lightness of being.
Much love and blessings of an engaged surrender to one and all.
Ramadaan Kareem
Thursday, June 04, 2009
Shafinaaz
I met a woman named Shafinaaz today. It really was the strangest day...
I was on my way back from the interview with a sweet old lady, namely Mrs. Sisulu... when I made a little detour to pick up a parcel at a store in Greenside. The owners were expecting me. I was to meet a lady who refers to herself as 'Selma'. And when I spoke to her to enquire about directions, I introduced myself as well, who I am: Shafinaaz. She seemed to go silent on the phone, everytime I said my name. Maybe she forgot who I am? I didn't venture an explanation. When I arrived, finally, I met with a woman in purdah. Her name is Salma... and we proceeded to chat about the reason for my visit. And then her husband says: 'you didn't tell her your real name'... and I am baffled. So she says: 'my name in all my documentation, is Shafinaaz.'
I'm so not used to that! I mean, really... what are the chances? But, she says, she changed it to Salma because people said that it had no meaning. Hmm, so she was waiting to meet me so that she could ask me what my/our name means. Phew. Okay. Philosophical discussion time... :)
I think I'm going to refer to another post I wrote some time back about the meaning of my name. It's called 'A Rose by Any Other...' and was writ way back in 2006 when I was known to the blogosphere as Kimya and to the real real world as Shafinaaz. All in order, I may have managed to re-instate in her, the name she was given at birth; and the name that she has abandoned for some eight years now.
I did good, right?
I mean, after all, I am Shafinaaz :P
Thursday, April 23, 2009
For you...
For you,
twisted vines of
grape,
clouds of pure
candyfloss
and hills of rolling chocolate
peppered with bits of mint.
For you,
petals of that single rose,
pinker than my cheeks,
rivers of laughter
flowing between us
in a moment of intimacy,
and the scent of
lavender to follow you at your heels
reminding you
that I am
and always will be.
*s*
twisted vines of
grape,
clouds of pure
candyfloss
and hills of rolling chocolate
peppered with bits of mint.
For you,
petals of that single rose,
pinker than my cheeks,
rivers of laughter
flowing between us
in a moment of intimacy,
and the scent of
lavender to follow you at your heels
reminding you
that I am
and always will be.
*s*
Friday, April 10, 2009
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
It's almost 1am... Exec lounge closes in a bit...
Lets do this ramble later, okay/?
Ciao for now
S
Monday, March 02, 2009
real life drunken flower-picking
An old world exists hidden in the recesses of some of Johannesburg's quaint suburban patchwork. Some remnants lie behind palisades crawling with flowering plants; other signs exist just in the archives at Baileys and various scattered media. My fingertips pry these places with a mixture of glee and apprehension and what I might discover. I am a good month into the new project and I have written scant little about it, save for a few transcripts. Just one dive in and I am being swept away by the current that prevails. I am on a spate of interviews as part of the data collection phase; and I have yet to speak to a person under the age of 60. Life is revealing itself to me at a whole other level. Writing does no justice.
The stories pile up on my virtual desk. Some merge in tapestries of biography that will themselves reveal to be whole new stories to look into. Other's add colour to the mainframe of a story that works its way into my new work. And it's all just the raw material for now... a range of logs that wait for the craftsmen to get to work creating canoes that will carry contemporary readers across the river to the other side... to a view of a world that our generation can only ever read about and never really know.
I am to write a biography in the next few months; and the realness of a non-fiction work is filling me with an amazing sense of being once again a part of something wholesome. I love narrative biography; the basis for 'Daughters are Diamonds' was just that. This is different though; I am walking into a world that even my imagination at a stretch would be unable to tease out. It will present itself as the life story of a man who, arguably, may not have commissioned the work if he was alive. That in itself lends to a responsibility in the way that I present this. The comments resonate, both in the archives, and from the transcripts of his contemporaries, his children, his recorded notes and memories. There once walked a man distinguished more by his sense of presence than by the guarded allegiances he made with the freedom struggle of his time. My thoughts are scattered more by the brilliance in simplicity than by the ostentatious delving into this almost forgotten world.
At some point, I must emerge from this trance and get back to the drawing board for some real work. For now, the flower-picking continues...
The stories pile up on my virtual desk. Some merge in tapestries of biography that will themselves reveal to be whole new stories to look into. Other's add colour to the mainframe of a story that works its way into my new work. And it's all just the raw material for now... a range of logs that wait for the craftsmen to get to work creating canoes that will carry contemporary readers across the river to the other side... to a view of a world that our generation can only ever read about and never really know.
I am to write a biography in the next few months; and the realness of a non-fiction work is filling me with an amazing sense of being once again a part of something wholesome. I love narrative biography; the basis for 'Daughters are Diamonds' was just that. This is different though; I am walking into a world that even my imagination at a stretch would be unable to tease out. It will present itself as the life story of a man who, arguably, may not have commissioned the work if he was alive. That in itself lends to a responsibility in the way that I present this. The comments resonate, both in the archives, and from the transcripts of his contemporaries, his children, his recorded notes and memories. There once walked a man distinguished more by his sense of presence than by the guarded allegiances he made with the freedom struggle of his time. My thoughts are scattered more by the brilliance in simplicity than by the ostentatious delving into this almost forgotten world.
At some point, I must emerge from this trance and get back to the drawing board for some real work. For now, the flower-picking continues...
Monday, February 23, 2009
i aint no poker face
An inspired thread runs between the blogs, sometimes... it's enough to be celebrated.
I said at Azra's place just now, that we each have our prided space in enough dysfunction to keep us functioning... at an almost ordered, but often chaotic optimum.
In my case, it shows out in my writing's. Optimum is a day when the words flow unhaltingly, rivers into oceans and reaching their zenith just as I am about to crash for the evening to indulge in a read or a movie or a late night phone call to catch up with a friend... or something different. Seeking inspiration. Craving it. Replenishing it. Call me predator. My mind thirsts that way, insatiable for the most part.
It shows. When those days of being far below anything remotely optimum threaten my imaginary hold on sanity. It screams on those days. Raging, burning, and surging through every cell in my body. It shows in my writing; and more in my lack of being able to create at all. My facial expressiveness does little to save me the billboard status. I aint no poker face. That's for sure. Writing this book has proven that in oh so many ways. Zarreen's joys and fears have somewhat mirrored my own. In some cases she overcomes imagined hurdles that I have yet to surpass. In other's our lives are so far apart that it takes a little more than the stretch of my worn out muse. We need a vacation :) But not until the job is done.
I love some parts of this writing. Love, love, love it. I cringe at some of it. I cannot bear to read it! But nothing that the slicing and dicing phase can't fix. Or the delete function on my pc. But there's also some bits that surprise me. Lurking in the psyche somewhere, are these molecules and seeds of information that grow to tree's of like(ly) and unlike(ly). And they are made manifest in these creative efforts.
I want to paint again.
Now is a very good time to get started, methinks...
S
I said at Azra's place just now, that we each have our prided space in enough dysfunction to keep us functioning... at an almost ordered, but often chaotic optimum.
In my case, it shows out in my writing's. Optimum is a day when the words flow unhaltingly, rivers into oceans and reaching their zenith just as I am about to crash for the evening to indulge in a read or a movie or a late night phone call to catch up with a friend... or something different. Seeking inspiration. Craving it. Replenishing it. Call me predator. My mind thirsts that way, insatiable for the most part.
It shows. When those days of being far below anything remotely optimum threaten my imaginary hold on sanity. It screams on those days. Raging, burning, and surging through every cell in my body. It shows in my writing; and more in my lack of being able to create at all. My facial expressiveness does little to save me the billboard status. I aint no poker face. That's for sure. Writing this book has proven that in oh so many ways. Zarreen's joys and fears have somewhat mirrored my own. In some cases she overcomes imagined hurdles that I have yet to surpass. In other's our lives are so far apart that it takes a little more than the stretch of my worn out muse. We need a vacation :) But not until the job is done.
I love some parts of this writing. Love, love, love it. I cringe at some of it. I cannot bear to read it! But nothing that the slicing and dicing phase can't fix. Or the delete function on my pc. But there's also some bits that surprise me. Lurking in the psyche somewhere, are these molecules and seeds of information that grow to tree's of like(ly) and unlike(ly). And they are made manifest in these creative efforts.
I want to paint again.
Now is a very good time to get started, methinks...
S
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