White is a colour...

White is a colour. Anybody who says otherwise has never had the joy of sloshing about in the snow. My very first, as yet abstract experience was rather grim. Having landed in Frankfurt in the early hours of Friday 3 December, I was treated to the laments of frustrated passengers from around the world who had been eagerly waiting to get their flight to Berlin for Christmas. Many had been waiting for a flight for over 24 hours. The delayed flight schedule was the result of new blankets of snow covering the city.
Anxiety crept stealthily through the waiting lounge, reflected on the faces of travellers. I felt it too, as the ground staff announced further delays every ten minutes or so. Until finally, just over an hour had passed beyond what would have been our departure time, and the boarding gates opened.

Of course, it would be yet another 45 minutes before take-off, but then we were all set to our destination Berlin.

And a beautiful sight awaited us on arrival...

It didn't matter that we had just stepped into a city that allowed us a drop of some 30 degrees Celcius. A scorching Johannesburg had just bid us farewell at 22 degrees the evening before, and Berlin boasted an icy welcome at -8 degrees. Generous lather of bright white snow covered pathways, trees and buildings. A steady trickle of snow flakes continued to make its way to the ground. Delighted, I eagerly shoved my waterproof K-way gloves into the pockets of my down-padded jacket, slipped back my fur beanie and gathered handfuls of the soft ice.

There is a first time for everything, and this was my first encounter with snow.

S-N-O-W

A gush of wind whistled past my face, freezing a silly smile in place. Adrenalin was not to let this cold get the better of me. At this point, cold is just a word in the dictionary. Google it. Really. It is just a word! It means nothing compared to the precious experience that can transport a stuffy academic back to the days of childhood wonder and discovery.

And it renders beautiful a puzzled city of brilliant old architecture, remnants of pre-fab ugliness and gloomy grey skies. The snow adds colour. And Berlin comes alive! The streets are filled with grace, filled with smiling faces, filled with the festive glow of Christmas and the promise of newness.

White is a colour. A vibrant one at that!

Berlin sparkles because of it.

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 Away: Book Review

Never have I been so vividly held captive by the intricate balance of metaphor and narrative as I have with this new work-of-art compilation of travel writing that is Home Away. This spectacle of South African writing is anything but isolated lekker local stuff; rather it reveals the truly global flavour of being South African at home in the world at large.
Edited by Louis Greenberg of ‘The Beggar’s Signwriters’ fame, twenty-four writers have been handpicked, each to envisage an hour in a day in a particular city in the world. It is as Greenberg suggests, a collection of ‘…stories (that) blur fact and fiction; they contain a dozen languages and two dozen versions of the truth. Together, they write a South Africa for tomorrow that yesterday would not allow.’
At the very beginning, the anthology kicks off with the excitement of this whirlwind tour around the world in just one text. Vikas Swarup sets the scene as your conductor to begin this journey; be prepared. In addition you will meet an alter ego in each writer as you move along. You will be whisked through Nairobi at midnight, with a plot to kill a politician, and then taken briskly through Mauritius, Amsterdam, Sydney and Mainz before you can think of drinking sunrise. Havana is the last of the poetic night rendezvous; you wake up in the warm arms of Kampala. Not white. Not black. Purely African.
Through the morning you are swiftly guided through Lagos, Maun, Ushuaia, then onward to Oxford, Tokyo and the City of Angels, Los Angeles. After lunching in British Columbia you will commit the perfect crime in Moscow before being shown how to juggle odds in Dakar. It’s mid-afternoon in Patmos and Peru before you know it and you’re treated to glimpses of London and Austria. Ivan Vladislavic enlikens Oklahoma City to the Free State. A flavour of being South African lingers through the mind of each writer, each voice displayed here. The evening is rounding up. But it’s not over yet. Fairbanks greets you before you rush off to Paris.
Finally, a happy ending awaits in Hong Kong. The clock strikes midnight.
You may raise a glass of the finest. You’ve earned your wings!

And so at once, the reader is made aware upon opening these pages, that it’s a good idea to keep your seatbelt fastened until the aircraft has come to a complete stop. This is only going to happen when you have finally reached the last page.
Home Away occurs as a series of freeze frames. Rather, it feels as though you’re watching twenty four short films through the eyes of twenty four actors; each on cue waiting their turn to play their part on this wordy stage until the hour hand on the clock has made not one, but two complete circles. A day slips through the sands of time.
I had the pleasure of attending the Johannesburg launch of this new masterpiece on May 13. About ten of the 24 authors were present, including Greenberg, the editor and creative genius behind this work. While it’s true that these 24 hour segments occur as flashes from 24 different cities around the world, it also bears mentioning that these 24 writers capture very different temperaments, flavours and energies linked to their respective stories.


In this gem of a collection is to be found more than varied armchair travel, and much more than you bargained for if you were looking for entertainment. These narratives also tell much about the sense of place and displacement that comes of traversing geographical boundaries, sometimes out of choice, often because of some extenuating circumstance. A war, a heartbreak, a recession, an escape. Something might happen that causes a land of promise to turn hostile. And so you leave.
Our love affairs with land and country can be quite fickle. This love-hate relationship with our environment is vividly shown to mirror our ways of relating to people in Home Away’s string of motion picture type stories. We learn that how we create our identity is strongly linked to where we imagine we belong in the world.
And that the fluidity of both our identity and where we might be situated in the world, is a fuel to each other. Sometimes we want to stay where we are. Sometimes we just have to leave. We have to move on. And yet other times, we know that we will inevitably find our way back to the place we always called home.

The twenty-four resounding voices in Home Away echo one thing: that our sense of place and feeling at home in the world will always be foreshadowed by the ability to feel at home with ourselves. These ideas resonate throughout the book and its chain of narratives.

It’s impossible to choose favourites in such a harmonious treasure of writing, but I would like to share just three sips from the ocean of Home Away. The reader has to read the entire collection to be truly quenched:

‘In Kampala there are moments when I forget that I am white. The woman who is here doesn’t feel like a middle-aged, white South African woman. The light is muted. The air is warm. She imagines she is black, that she has lived here all her life, that she is truly African.’ The warm arms of Kampala by Colleen Higgs


‘In this perfect stillness, noise is obscene. I know this because a loud thump has jolted me out of my slumber. Even before I am fully awake, my Palaeolithic self is in full panic, flight-ready: adrenaline surging, heart thumping, muscles rigid, ears pricked for the slightest clue as to the source of the sound. I wait.
… I haven’t been back in Sydney for long. Evidently, this is my Joburg self reacting: naked feral fear, fear so habitual that you no longer notice it’s there. It takes a while to learn to let go of the unceasing anxiety… Here, in the dark of the middle of the night, I must learn to be an expat again. Remind myself that I have nothing to be afraid of, congratulate myself on my escape.’ Redundant by Sarah Britten

‘With or without electricity, my favourite city in the entire world is not dissimilar to a series of quick, sharp slaps to the cheek… My first slap comes at 7:01. I wake up suddenly to the sound of a street fight brewing outside my open bedroom window. I listen intently; the fog of sleep quickly lifts and my mind and body are alert, ready for a day in Lagos.’ The Generator Man by Moky Makura

Note: Royalties from the sale of Home Away are being shared between the Adonis Musati Project and Kids Haven. Both organisations deal with the needs of refugee children and families.

Intense familiarity

Sometime, I think during day two of the Literature Festival that I attended in Jaipur, I looked up from a bench that I was seated on to see a woman coming towards me with a look of immense glee adorning her face. A moment of intense recognition passed between us, and I all but bounced off my seat to hug and greet her, all the while doing the math in my head as to how I might actually know her and more so, searching the files in my head for a name. The mind is a soldier, and will quickly look to reasoning the name, place, event or some or other marker that will explain the familiarity.
The intense familiarity, as I said before.
And when that moment had passed, and we enquired after each others names, we discovered to both our surprise, that we had not ever met before. Emma is from the UK, and now lives in Delhi with her family. I thought I'd met her back home in South Africa. I was wrong. But then, she too, was oddly caught off guard that I wasn't really known to her. We chatted on for a bit, she introduced me to her companion, and then we became friends. We bumped into each other a few times more over the remaining days at the festival.

On day three, I met Deepika. Also by chance; as I think she was friendly enough to strike up a casual conversation when we were seated together, also outside the Dharbar Hall at Diggi Palace (I just realised that it was the same place that I had met Emma). And we proceeded to some of the sessions together, and chatted on for a while. I was struck by the familiarity in our exchange, and I must say that the magneticism of some people will always leave an indelible impression.

Or perhaps its just India. The space of mystery around the heritage site that was host to the celebration of the art of writing, as opposed to the commercialisation of the sacred space. And the energy of the people who converged on the space almost like pilgrims, intent on being nurtured and sharing the magic of the bookish events there.

I think its just India.
And whatever it is about being in an ancient, flowing mass of energy that millions of people call 'Mother Land' that draws people to it, as well as it being the space within which people, souls rather, are drawn to each other, almost as though they are known to each other all along.

Emma and Deepika really seemed to know me a long time in the space of a few minutes. I did wonder if they would recall their encounter with me. And then I got mail from Deepika, confirming just that.

So. I think its something to do with the air in India.
I think, its just India.

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

the lure of the desert

Sometime early December, I made my way to Dubai for a wedding. The reason was festive, a wedding in the extended family, and the meeting of many known faces for the same reason. We loved the energy there, and it was a great way to end the year.

Two weeks later, the father of the bride drowned in a jet ski accident in Lake Malawi.

Life and death are cyclical. Of course, we know this. But the proximity of these events in dimensions of time, space and relativity make for a surreal mosaic: What a way to begin the year!

Time is a treadmill at high speed.
Another trip to Dubai this evening, feels like the spiral draws and engulfs, the wheel turns and the hamster runs it.

Not a wedding, this time, but festive all the same, considering the oasis in the desert born of stories beyond the 1001 Arabian Nights.

There's certainly something to be said about the lure of the Arabian sands and the passage of time.

M4K is off to Cape Town...

I have wonderful memories of my first book launch in Cape Town in 2007. Daughters are Diamonds was well received at the Cape Town Book Fair that year, and went on to produce a momentum that resonates still. It's time to visit the shores of this beautiful city once again, with a string of friends waiting there, and of course, with my new publication: Memoirs For Kimya.
Ben Williams of BookSA made special reference to the event here: http://news.book.co.za/blog/2009/10/13/au-courant-three-indie-book-launches-on-our-october-radar-screen/

Also, I will be chatting to Nancy Richards on SAFM (104-107fm) tomorrow at 1:00pm.. or a little after 1.. Tune in to listen or call in if you wish... Audio streaming live at www.safm.co.za

"We move through life as it moves through us. We make up stories in our minds.
And often these stories overlap.
We hope with all our heart.
We dream. We love, often deeply. We experience some gains and some losses.
Each of these moments leave an imprint on the rich tapestry of our souls.
Sometimes the only way to share the awesomeness
is by whispering a few words on the wind.
'Memoirs for Kimya' is a collection of whispers
and a tribute to the many people we meet along life's journey."


WORDFIRE Press takes pleasure in inviting you to the launch of

Memoirs For Kimya by Shafinaaz Hassim

Date: Sunday 18 October 2009.

Venue: Bo-kaap Kombuis, 7 August St, Bo-Kaap; Cape Town

Time: 6:00pm

To Blog

Of course, just as it is with every motivated thing in life, there are reasons to blog. And there are reasons not to blog. And then there is just plain old non-reason. Not in a do-not-care kind of way, but rather in a just-not way.

Blogging is writing in a way that puts words out on a fluttering flag of sorts; a piece of fabric flaps in the wind, tied to a fickle post, without the guarantee that it will stay there, but in the meanwhile holding on for dear life. At some point it always tugs just beyond that sane disposition that we give it due. The force of pull and stay and the fight with wind and calm is an orchestra that brings both life and wear and tear to a simple piece of cloth, with strangely painted war art that gives it just a small token of belonging. Why? Because in symbols we find meaning and closeness. And a sense that this is home, in all its dreary plainness. And in all its wonder, too, of course.

I think that blogging is far more forgiving than the world of print media will ever be, and I think that short sentences are like drops of lemon on honey, made for flu-ish days. And I also think that grammatical errors are little rebellions from the artists creative pen. And of course, finally, long windy sentences are like taking a road trip and discovering oh-so-many wonderful things.

The scenic route is misunderstood. We should take more of them :)

Here's to loving being at home and here's to traveling to incredible new places and also to those long sentences that transport us between them. I missed them.

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

:)

to the port city of friendliness

I'm off to Port Elizabeth tomorrow. Flight out at 6am. Yep. Means that I probably won't sleep much tonight. Or that I will sleep really early and then not after the morning Fajr prayers. I notice the difference; when my heads lead and I don't make it awake in time for the early morning prayers. My being feels like I missed out on a meal. A nourishment. Something significant. I didn't wake up today; I felt it. Rather, I am feeling it. All day today.

I hope this serves as adequate reason to not miss out again. And again. The flesh is weak sometimes, and turns into molten lead, writhing in bed to the demon's lullaby in my ear. Heaven's music might be sweeter, but its like that proverbial bowl of marshmallows when ur just a weak, infant soul. Dear God, make me grow up. Today.

And Protect me. Everyday.

And so, after what is probably a decade or more, I will travel out to the friendly city. And hope to see Grahamstown, too. When I completed by matric all those many years ago, I applied for my first choice of study, architecture, at PE university especially interested in the idea that the university is set at the seaside. I chose Wits in Johannesburg instead. But PE still beckons more than a decade later. I liek the idea that a place can be labelled the Friendly City. There's something feelgood about that. And I'm excited about the trip, even though I hear that it's already quite cold out there. And with the image of sun and sand in my head, I've already packed a bag of summer dresses and pretty tops with cargo pants, flip-flops and sunglasses. Oh and sun-screen too, of course.

And so, that's to be reviewed, but the excitement stays :)

time travel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

thriving on chaos

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


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

Ciao for now

S

land of the taj

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

milk evaporates

Milk evaporates at some point. I realised this in larger than life format in the early hours of Thursday morning; decidedly spontaneous, I left Johannesburg soon after the morning prayers on a roadtrip to the east coast. Since the method of choice these past few years has been a quick airport soiree and a booked flight out of Johannesburg, it had been a while since Dad drove that distance... I stressed about the gazillion speed camera's. Dad loved the views, and so did my mom. Well, stunning it was, but I had done this route twice last year in order to take my car through in Jan, and then back home again in June when my lecturing contract spewed me out, gutted and chewed to an unlikely perfection.

And so, we made our way in the early hours through a trough of gurgling milk. Morning light seemed that way, with just a couple of hundred bubbles of light from oncoming cars, and a few from overhead streetlights bobbing over the surface of the milkiness. Then the stove signal of the sun emerged as a red globule, making milkiness boil and bubble to another state, less liquid and opaque; more airy and evaporating easily to reveal the blue yonder.

City lights and concrete lanes soon gave way to rolling green hills and clear skies - all part of the meander through the provinces to the lush kwa-zulu natal.

And then the smell of the ocean, rolling ridge road and the rest of it.

Aah... It's awesome to be back!

songs of time and travel

We're a bunch of Idols' fans... So we were watching the Indian Idols on television, and the song from the movie RACE played at some point. And my brother in law remembered Malawi. Yes, it was the Malawi soundtrack :P (We went off to Malawi in March for my brother's wedding).

Especially Pehli Nazar. We had a CD in every car after that. In my brother's car, in my car, in my brother in laws car, in my sister in laws brother's cars. You get the sense of it. Dad had a CD in the home entertainment thingie. It was all over the place. So much so that some of the songs still remind me of my ride to work along the M4, the look of the ocean (remember, I learned how to s-l-o-w down so I could enjoy the view) and navigating the twisty ride along Ridge Rd, of course. Come rain or shine, RACE was a permanent soundtrack for weeks after the Malawi trip. I had the best of the collection. Abdur Rahim made certain of it with the added remixes and whatever else he could find to download ;)

This year went by oh-so-quickly. (Well, come to think of it, so did 2007). Sometimes I feel dizzy just thinking about it. But the songs remain. We heard some other songs today. Songs that remind us of other travels. Like Cape Town. And India. And Egypt. And London. Lol. Oh yea... Kelly Clarkson, Roxette, Savage Garden, Natalie Imbruglia, Enya, UB40, U2!!! A maze of hindi soundtracks stretching the imagination from Yeh Shaam Mastani to Teri Deewani.

There are songs that remind us of childhood. And songs that remind us of school. And songs that remind us of bittersweet days of uni. Awkward moments and exhiliarating moments. Songs for rainy days and songs for scorching summer. Moments in freezing cappuccino drugged days, and moments of hearts gladdened by the quality of togetherness. Some songs played on the Hiveld graveyard shift, others in peak traffic. Oh there are those peak traffic songs for sure! Those save sanity at the bleakest moments. Or they perpetuate insanity enough to survive the chaos, especially when power failures threaten any remaining sense of humour.

Its so easy for something you can't live without to become second rate trash. This goes for songs and dresses :P

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??!!

Gift of Nothing...

One of my dearest friends has the deepest, darkest sense of humour. In a simple email, this is what I get. Not that he doesnt appreciate words. I mean he can complete a half quote of Omar Khayyam in a second, and reads things like Antoine St. Exupery's 'The Little Prince' (and the French version:P) But, in keeping with SG's 'You are not your Blog' I shall take this lightly ;)

Or maybe nOt!

http://img227.imageshack.us/img227/3961/bbbtp2.jpg

*sigh*

the energy of words

words have energy. and so do books. even as a child, i was always overwhelmed by the energy inherent in the space of a library or bookshop. i grew up in a small town in the north called pietersburg. the little indian ghetto we lived in was called nirvana. my mom and i would walk to the library every so often. this event thrilled me beyond measure. i remember, i was barely five when i got my first book out the library. the tales of peter rabbit. the over zealous reader in me was enticed pretty early on, wanting to be an adult along with my twenty-something year old parents, and not the baby first-born happy only with teddybears and other such trinkets.
and so began my love affair with books. my parents are avid readers. so the energy follows along a bloodline, perhaps. or a kind of conditioning, maybe. what is interesting, is that, i chose the nerdy reclusive route of an adolescent, intent on burrowing in the world of words, rather than the shaky aspirations of the other kids. my friend mish reminds me often, of her visits to pietersburg, to her maternal grandparents. my sister would be enthralled by her tea-sets, and they could compare notes on barbie fads. (ok, i had an india barbie ;) but, i would be mesmerized by the single wall of towering bookshelves in her grandfather's lounge. layers upon layers of time old wisdom, collected here in his sacred space. i learned much later that, when he passed on, his oldest grandson (my mom's first cousin ebie) inherited his out-of-print works. i also learned, from my dad, that sunday afternoons were set aside for philosophical seminars in his lounge, attended by a select few of his friends. some of his grandchildren of my own age, lament not being at an age of understanding when he was around to impart the knowledge he possessed. but the energy that held my attention, and many others, was undeniable. i remember it still.

when i moved to johannesburg, i soon became acquainted with the old bookstores of mellville, the side roads of fordsburg (i bought orwells '1984' for R2.50!) and the flea market bookstalls at the zoo lake and bruma. old mellville is still my favourite hangout. last year, when i travelled to cape town for the bookfair, i discovered some worthy gems at the parade bookstalls (i got a signed copy of psychoanalyst june singer's 'seeing through the visible world' @ R25 - dr.singer worked with carl jung, btw:P). and this year, when i stayed out in durban for a few months, i happily came upon one or two places of rare bookish discovery, out in bulwer near the university, and in kensington (amitav gosh' 'the glass palace' and vikram seth's 'an equal music' at R40 each) etc.

london's all year sales place one in the happy position to buy books at 'three for two' bargains. and because of the large book buying potential, and hence the great print runs, prices are far cheaper than that of the south african book market. i find this both with regards to local and overseas print. i have my theories, and all are not related to cost. a sinister exploitation abounds. but thats another post.

books have an energy that sings to me like the piped piper did in that old folktale... let me not forget to mention the bookstores of old delhi. i have trudged and dragged my brother and some cousins at various times through the streets around the jama masjid in delhi's old quarter looking for hidden treasures, only to be delighted beyond my expectations. lucky for me, my dad shares my enthusiasm and has more than happily led the way. we're known to gift each other some or other book gift. and unlike a tie or a pair of socks kind of gift, i believe that books (for self and for gifts) find you, and not the other way around. books FIND you. i liked typing that. it reminds me of my new acquisitions, a single copy of 'the essential rumi' and 'the book of love' waited on a lonely shelf in mumbai for me ;)

there was a time when mumbai flourished with too many books to choose from. the 'fountain' area (think scene for movie 'chameli') once listed hundreds of sidewalk vendors intent on distributing largely pirated works, now long cleared up. but even there, i have my choice places to shop at. at least, now, shopping for books is less precarious. and still well worth the ardent search for works not to be found anywhere else in the world. of course, apart from the carefully placed individual booksellers, there are the mainstream stores. but its in these caves of some dust and many sweet-smelling pages that are to be found anything your reader imagination can conjur, from the best-selling popular fictions to the rarest of finds.

there is an energy about this. a sharing of someones soul, someones dreams, someones fears, someones hopes tried and tested. theres a flow of life in books. and this flow of life and energy binds us, inextricably. i am writing again. i feel linked to the energy of the universe in more than one way. spirit thirsts and is quenched. through books, and life, through believing and being.

Durbans always eventful, often arb

And so last night I attended premiering of Mission Istanbul, saw the Oberoi character in the flesh and a rather well-tailored suit, unlike in the movie; and got home again to perform rituals of hot chocolate and evening handshakes with the goldfish who have replaced me, namely lindt and mint. But of course, its all in good faith, and so today was more refueling of the sunshine tank :) Interesting how a trip to the mall can turn pretty spontaneous and awesome at the same time. And so it did, in good ol fashioned kiddy fun style at Milky Lane. Must be the weather.
Waffles, anyone? Imagine, having political and philosophical debate with two reknowned thinkers of the east coast, over waffles and creme soda floats. Yep, it was the weather!

I am begining to enjoy these random short posts.
They delve into daily life more than my cryptic (or maybe not so cryptic) rambling philosophies about everymans guide to absolutely nothing.

So this is value-driven :P

Or something.