The Museum of Innocence

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

City of many seasons

There must be
something
powerful,
and beautiful,
something rather enigmatic,
about seeing the city
that you live in
turn so many shades,
show so many colours,
reveal various personas
as the seasons wash over it.

In that place that you call 'home',
sober autumns might be followed by
a bright white Christmas;
and scented springs followed by
a vibrant, raging summertime!

But, what if the same can be said of
the person that you love?

What then?

Sober moments, rare and fleeting might be
followed by blinding cold,
the winter of your Love.
Fragrant love-making, impassioned or sweet,
followed by the storms of a violent retribution.

They say that even sunshine burns if you get too much.

Either way, the seasons still wash over it;
over that place you call home.
And rest assured,
the Master Painter forever waves
a kaleidoscopic paintbrush
over that city
of your dreams.

Greedy for Air

I've been enjoying my round of fiction reads this month.

Just last week, I got through "The White Tiger". Much can be said about a book that openly reveals that greed and survival are really not the same thing. The human mind forever fascinates me. The limits we place upon ourselves, as well as the new frontiers that are challenged in those finite boxes of sanity and insanity are largely unexplored. There are, I believe, yet to be seen examples of how much the potential of the human mind will surprise and enthrall, and yes, even horrify the 'clanging masses' rest of us.

Taking from the White Tiger, although situated in India, the story has echoes of relevance for South Africa; not just from an 'Indian' point of view, but also if we were to take both a human and then even an inhumane outlook. Okay, let's not pretend that we're one swathing mass of loving humanity; there are amongst us those who will sell their mother's left hand given the right blend of conditions.

Writer's like Adiga are adept at bringing that 'potential' of the inhumane human to the fore; of highlighting the irreverent contradictions of what it is to be a human being. And while I would like to imagine, still, that it takes much of a stretch of the imagination, I know at some rational level, that I would be kidding myself: I had barely put the pages of The White Tiger to rest, when the ET debacle exploded right in our midst. Not even for 7lakh rupees. Just. Dead.
Was it because of years of pent up Hatred?
Was it an act of Love?

I don't really want to know. A human life was slaughtered at the hands of people maimed by his own acts of terrorizing them over years. Do we really reap what we sow? This might be an apt example. Still, a human life is so easily rendered to a bag of bones and flesh and blood that oozes back into the womb of the earth. We're so easily turned back into the clay from which we came.
All material, mortal. There it is again. Mortality looks back from the mirror everyday.

Which brings me to the new book that I am reading, and reviewing, this time, for an Afrikaans paper: 'Say You're One of Them,' by Uwem Akpan. I am just learning, that childhood is a commodity in Africa. Akpan brings this idea to life in his book.

And. midway through the book, I am blown away. Now to scrape and claw for some moments of objectivity. Watch this space.

S

sPiced chOcolate caTastrophe

Chocolate oozes from the pot.

Melting desires, heaving at boiling point

in a restless fit of ecstacy.

Sweetness seethes over the edges,

And the aroma of chilli from the spice-makers palette

rises into the smoke above the mass

of now burnt delight.

The Food of the God's

is reduced to a darkened glory

of cocoa and ashes and

bellowing clouds announcing only catastrophe;

a fitting memorial to the

demise of a masterpiece

of spiced

chocolate

coal.


** note: Theo-bromide is an active ingredient in chocolate that translates as 'food of the gods'. i couldnt resist. not the chocolate, but the reference. the rest of its hardly sweet.

a river runs through...

I am chatting to a writer buddy; and we're discussing love, life and relationships; toothpasty* kinda talk... nothing unique or unheard of, but forever enticing of reflection.

And so I said something and the advice was: 'Don't Change. Stay who you are.'

Aah. Words are strange things. Acknowledgment from friends means so much of course; but let's be totally honest: Change is inevitable. Sometimes fundamental things change, and other times its little nuances that may not show.

Life moves through us, and changes us... Just like a river moves by banks and towns, replenishing and feeding; bringing along with the tide, it's flood of enthusiasm and sometimes leaving destruction in it's wake.

I wonder, if we had to map out a canvas of these changes... what on earth would it look like?

Will it be filled with colour, streaks running down in the dance with gravity's pull? Or will it be adorned with something natural, wholesome and felt; textured by the seasons, tarnished by the rust and glowing with days of eternal sunshine? If I had to paint one for every person that I have met in my life, I imagine filling hallways with amazing design; some gregarious and dark, other's awash with soulful inspirations. Wind chimes would signal laughter and drumbeats for passion, love and sadness; fear, malice and anger would flow as the bark used on railway sleepers, and joy would appear as mirrors reflecting the eyes of all who hold them close.

Joy is as it does. In all of us. A whole new world exists, just by thinking about making something that reminds me of everyone I have encountered on my path; everyone who has made an undeniable impact on being who I am. On the evolution of who I am at this moment. Evolutionary relationships are the basis of all we do, and all that makes us; A blog I enjoy reading by Azra also discusses this most beautifully in a recent post.

It's inevitable that some will be immortalised in the words I write; while other's will find their way into the light through the colours that my eye picks out. A river runs through me; every day I am replenished, destroyed, and filled to overflowing again. Words are strange things indeed.

So. What will your change canvas look like?

Shafs


*word and concept, courtesy lady h as added to discussion about my toothpaste theory; and her toothpasty chats with the Guy.

short stories in six sentences

I am really into this number six thing. So much so that I have tried the Six Sentences or 6S challenge. I have a profile (yes one more thing to maintain, and have two new posts). But because its writing, and more writing, its all good.

http://sixsentences.ning.com/profile/ShafinaazHassim

The End.
He kissed her forehead. It said goodbye. She opened her eyes to a dark room and the sound of the heart monitor beeping. Her vitals were almost okay, but she remembered last night. One minute they were on the highway, singing along to their honeymoon song. Next thing she remembers is the flash of light, the blur of glass and metal, the stench of blood and the white sheet being pulled over his body on the wet tarmac.

Burning Memories.
It was crazy to think that she could do it, but it played in her head for ten hours in the darkness. The gleam of silver; the smell of flesh burning. When she finally did it, it seemed all too familiar. First she stabbed him; fourteen times for good measure. Then she burned the bed, and the house around it, so that the memory of the monster could go up in smoke. That's when she saw it: her freedom rising out of the ashes, a victorious phoenix.

Shhhhhh... Don't speak!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mumbai Burning...

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

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

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