Interview with Fordsburg Independent; Local community paper in Johannesburg.

Cents and sensabilities

Life is seamless in the way that things work out. Everything makes sense when you turn around and look back at the path that you've trodden, count the scuffs on your boots and measure the creases on your forehead. The final product is seamless perfection, even if it may not seem that way at close first glance. Deep down, the exactness is in order, the perfectness under way.

It all makes sense right now. Complete and perfect sense.

Sometimes the evidence is a direct reference to ones own life. And sometimes it's a story about someone elses life. Life has the most creative ways of bringing the proof of it's pudding to your palate. One thing's for sure: in striving for results-based living that we seem driven to do, the Eureka moments stand out most profoundly as a way of sitting back, or even taking a step away from the flurry of activity and saying: this is it! I get it! This is how it all makes sense. I slept with that knowledge last night. That it all falls together like this. And I smiled that silly smile as I slept. I'm sure I did. Those stubborn lips refused to uncurl. They smiled on into dreamland.

And I probably had them just that way when I walked into the lecture hall at Wits early this morning; I promised my brother that I would make it to his lecture as he was out of town these two days. So I got bribed with the use of his car. But that is an entirely different story. Back to the lecture room. And a lecturer that reminded me of the story of John Nash in 'A Beautiful Mind' - you know the type: quirky academic with an almost religious knowledge of his craft. And I say 'craft' deliberately because of the precision with which this guy talked about theories of taxation and his love for Thomas Paine's 'Rights of Man'. I was transported to my Sociology lectures of old; this was certainly no economist. Except when he started talking (sense) about the evolutionary processes working in favour of economic progression than the revolutions did. Hmm. There's something to think about.

Today was laundry day. In between all of that I also made it to China Mart to pick up bundles of tiny organza bags. And it's more than 24 hours since I've seen my laptop. Another long story. The errand run has me doing things by remote. And my trusty antique mobile phone is earning it's keep, that's for sure! Gmail application is running like a smooth mini office between my designer all the way to the post-production guys. The clock is ticking. Am I the only one who hears it? Sigh.

Johannesburg is a river of traffic on a Friday afternoon. But I wade through the thick of it all. Ormonde. Somewhere just beyond that. And I find the dingy print shop that has done a marvelous job of flyers for this weekends promo. Low budget goodness. I'm just the delivery. Pick up and go. Until I get talking to the rather unassuming looking print dude, whose written an interesting book about SAn history and has just entered his manuscript into the Citizen Book Prize. Aah, is the world tiny or what?

So many things. But my energy is waning. I just wanted to blog it. It all makes sense. Perfect sense. It makes sense to get some well needed sleep, I think.
Sweet dreams all. Hello August. It's going to be one heck of a month. A pink month. A month of pinkness. And many other feel good things. It all makes sense, no? :)

I am asking for Your Mercy,

somedays I wonder if you hear it...

this plea..

this hope.

this effort.

Or is this Wisdom

beyond me;

tests-of-strength?

Unless it's in a queue,

in-waiting,

then it's okay.

It's enough.

Because You are enough;

for me.

Drifting, Dripping Words

Words drift across a page
In search of inner light.
But the glow of a lamp
standing
ominously
over my shoulder
forces the muse
into
a
corner,
making it shrivel up
in fright.

Words drip down the sides
of these pages,
and are splayed across
the little table.

Words rain over the table's edge,
making their escape
towards the floor;
seeped in carpeted carelessness,
they wait
to be
trampled on.

i got a tan. well done!

i got a tan. on a roadtrip.

im tired.

tired of these

and those.

but super-exhilarated

super duper so

because the view,

the sun, surf and sand

the company of loved ones

and the faces met

were all

so...

exhilarating

:)

Lunch with Kathy & Ms C

These interview sessions are taking me down a path of memory recollections that lead off into some of the darkest sinews of the human mind. Most of them are rooted in conflict and struggle; some thrived on tiny snippets of hope and almost always thirsted for compassion. Of course, there was very little to be found.

Ahmed Kathrada was tried along with hundreds of others in a time when treason was almost a buzzword. Today we sat down to a feisty curried lunch after he recounted the details of some of those proceedings; and the strategic mindset of his senior, Maulvi Cachalia, during the freedom struggle. But the moments I found to be most profound of these recollections, would have to be the close to thirty years spent in jail; and the criminal record for life, that disallows entry into a country like Canada.

The archives of memory and history twist with far more complexity than nature's vast DNA, and yet they need to be unraveled...
Ideals still need to be purveyed and protected; hope still gleams for many in an effort to not succumb to despair; and the quest for survival still a more than valiant struggle that keeps us in the depths of the quandary, hard at work.

But then there's that cloud of depravity; the winds of apathy churning sandstorms around us, blinding.. misleading... and allowing only thuggery to show its face.

About those ideals... What were they again? All evidence lost that there were men of steely character who fought in blood and sweat and tears and more blood. Ruling party or not, politics is a strange-ish game of umbrella morals and scattered corruption beyond the reach of the greater scope of an organisation.

Will the Emperor be found unclothed? Whats the vote?

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 End...

Some of the most imaginative stories are begun with the words "Once Upon a Time".

Even Coelho's 'Eleven Minutes' does this. But then, the idea of beginning at the begin, is a nominal and conventional route as far as story-telling goes.

I like the idea of beginning at the end. It has that something in it that suggests we (at least a part) are permanently frozen in our every moment; that everyone moment of NOW has a nostalgic before and an inevitable after.

I have written a goodbye post to every year since I began blogging in 2005. Each time I said goodbye to a year of things and happenings; sometimes gladly, mostly reluctant... but then I never bid farewell to the memories or feelings or lessons. And mostly, I never ever said goodbye to the experiences that indulged my craving for wholeness. These were my highlights; my essential milestones... They were the products of my often limited supply of enthusiasm. And this limitation had to be pointed out to me; for a long time I deluded myself into believing that enthusiasm existed in endless supply. Then I heard not. It was like discovering that Santa doesn't exist. Or worse still, the Tooth Fairy! Imagine that?!

They happen every single year, of course. These milestones of discovery. And they're not always easy to acknowledge or recognise. Oh, but they sure do take place. Angels in disguise tend to present them in the most creative ways. Those same angels in disguise both force and entice the inner demons out on a scant spring-cleaning effort. And they tease the inner angels too, encouraging a romance of sorts between them for a time.

It's the End again. Candles have melted, and taps have run dry. There's no more squeezing that toothpaste tube. 2008 is done; save for a few pernicious scraps of dark poetry scribbled across the draft of that thing called a novel, and other's published here and there and elsewhere, it was another eventful and evolutionary year. That I can say, without so much as a drop of doubt.

A year ago, I yearned for newness. I got it in torrents. The storm replenished me, insatiated me... and then washed me ashore to yet another beach of newness. This ebb and flow is what life is all about. At least that what it is to me... part of that tidal wave of evolutionary relationships, personal growth and discovery... and a longer list of reasons to feel an overwhelming gratitude for riding the crest of the wave every so often, after a time of drowning in the confusion of the greater depths of salty water.

The ebb and flow... the circularity of reason... the evolution of life and being...
And the thrilling realisation that ends are really beginnings...

Here's wishing everyone a gregarious and enthusiastic new year 2009!


With love and appreciation

Shafinaaz

And in other news...

In other news....

I am writing some fabulous fiction :P

check it out...

okay, rather...

i should pass around the address when I have more to share...

okay whatever...

Sigh.

Shafs...

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??!!

the night he died...

My family never talks about the night that my grandfather died. I heard it all at the hearing. They came at 2am. They broke down the door. They dragged him out into the street. And they shot him.
I listened as people told their bits of the story. I pieced together these bits like a puzzle. The picture of that night formed in my mind. The little girl crouched under the dining table was my mother. I recognized the sad terror in her eyes that she carries with her still.
My grandmother’s grip on my hand tightened. We sat in the gallery as they spoke. We didn’t look at each other. Not once. But we knew. The pieces we collected here were important. They were pieces of his body. And of a wounded families soul.

I grew up in a small town in the North. Giyani, it was called. This was my mother’s family. A humble people, the sePedi. My grandmother packed up her things and moved back to her home soon after he died. She took whatever she could, the children, chickens, the furniture from the wedding, the old gramophone that made them the envy of the neighbours in Orlando. Even the photo’s of her white wedding.
They lived a glorious life. I heard it all. But not once did they talk about that dreadful night when it all changed.

He was a gentlemen, she said. He listened to those fancy radio shows, and read the poetry of those great English poets. I paged through some of his books. Yeats, Shakespeare, Byron. Im sure, if he was alive today, I would have been an educated man. Still, I knew I was meant to live different from the rest of the gents out here in Alex. My name is the same as his. David Zondo. Same blood. Same vision of better times and better things. He was David Zondo the school teacher, and great thinker of his time. I am David Zondo taxi driver, with great hopes. My father left before I opened my eyes to this world. It didn’t matter. I was the offspring of a hero. A martyr. That was all I knew. That was enough.

ok now im just clowning around...

It was almost comical the way she did it. She squinched her nose in the mirror, rolled her eyes and then pouted her lips in that way fish do. Then came the sounds, the carnival tunes, the muffled voices of children's laughter and the glorious feel of the crowds applause. Deafening. Exciting. But it also filled her with a familiar dread.

And yet, this was her chosen ritual to calm her nerves before she took to the catwalk.

Her mom had been queen of the trapeze. Until that fateful day when she fell to her death. Her own life wasn't anything less of a circus act. The same anxiety. The same thrill. The applause and the adrenalin seemed to feed off each other. Fueling fear and delight at the same time. It was her rendezvous with heroine that kept it all in balance. Just like those glamorous trapeze artists.