What is the Female Equivalent of Having Balls?

O.K., so in the last post, I wrote about playing tennis. You need balls to play tennis. I mean tennis balls which reminds me of the fact that tennis balls are one of the most abused sporting equipment in India. Poor things are berehmi se smashed all over the cricket field when they are only meant to be played between the two baselines of a tennis court. Baseball bats and hockey sticks come a close second and third on the most abused sporting equipment list. (A cricket bat is too unwieldy)

But this post is about the other kind of balls which has got nothing to do with sports. On second thoughts, you need these balls in every sport to be a good sport. They tell me that the lack of balls was the reason why Roddick lost to Djokovic in the masters cup recently. Oh my! I am mixing the two kinds of balls. I should stop doing that. It will make my serves inconsistent.

Dartmouth is a very elite undergraduate college. Alas! This is not true anymore for gradute schools because they let me in. The undergraduate students here are all very competitive and intent on proving themselves from the rest. So they are always looking for ways to differentiate themselves from the crowd. (Crowd is only a figure of speech, the population density here is very less compared to Bangladesh)

One of the ways for a guy to put himself out of the crowd (again!) is to wear feminist stickers. Now, I confess that feminist is not a word I know a lot about. I use it nevertheless because the lack of concrete proof of WMDs being present in Iraq did not stop the American government from attacking that nation. In my komal dimaag a feminist is the female equivalent of a male chauvinistic pig. (You now know why I disowned the word earlier). But think of it, what you would call a guy who is wearing a badge which says "US feminist army" on his shirt. I called him weird. For once, I was right. The guy agreed that it was weird, so point proven. He WAS different from the crowd (third time)

I stuck up a conversation with the guy and he said something about feminism being a taboo topic to be talked about on the campus. Nobody would come out and talk about it. So, even though 50% junta on the campus is female, all the women are expected to behave as women. In other words, the IITian concept of a non-male is discouraged. If you've got it, flaunt it is the order of the day. As a result, it is becoming very difficult for real courageous female students on campus to come forth and assert their individuality. I would love to see that. There is nothing more in a woman I like more than assertiveness as long as she is asserting the same points as me.

The feminism badges which this guy was wearing were not the real brass badges (those are very expensive) but rather they were paper cuttings taped on his back and side-arms. As the paper was not laminated, I think it was destroyed by the brief spell of downpour yesterday. If I were the guy promoting feminism on campus, I would make sure my stickers are laminated or better still buy the brass ones. To be honest, I cannot still make sense of why would a guy want to encourage feminism and feministic self-expression on campus. Blame it on my one-and-a-half-pound-two-weeks-refrigated-bheja which won't fry before 400 degrees celsius.

By the way, if you were still wondering about the answer to the title question, it is.... you guessed it... ovaries. Woh kehte hain na... ke...common sense is very uncommon in common people.

-
Huzefa

Coincidenes

I bought a pair of swimming shorts at the beginning of this summer term. The plan was to enroll in a swimming class and learn some hath pair marna. It seems that Indians are probably the only people at Dartmouth who can't swim. How else can you explain that there were only two enrollments in the beginners swimming class? The first was me and the second was- you guessed it- another Indian. So, no wonder that the class was "canceled due to lack of participation". The poor folks at the physical education department did not know that two mote taaze Indians in a beginner’s swimming class is not a lack of participation. Aapke liye to hum do hi kaafi hai.

As I wanted to play some sport in the summer so that I could wear my 32" jeans for at least a few more months before I have to throw them away*, I joined beginner's tennis class. Luckily, the shorts which I had bought were loose enough to be worn in tennis classes without attracting undue attention of the large number of females present in the class. It is a different matter that these shorts did not have side pockets or any pockets. This severely hampered by ability to keep balls with me while serving.
* The reason for throwing is that I have no younger brother and all my cousins play at least two hours a day.

Tennis is not a water sport, so the swimming shorts which I worn in the tennis classes had no chance of getting wet unless my hairy Indian skin was very upset due to the acute deficiency of Indori food in my body. Thankfully, my skin did not get upset and I enjoyed "playing" tennis in my swimming shorts as much as I could. In fact, I will risk stating that my game "improved" to such an extent that by the time the class ended, I was serving an average of only three double faults per game. Lao ab Djokovic ko mere saamne.

All this while, my inability to put my swimming shorts to a proper water test was constantly nagging me. I wanted to see the water droplets on the inside and outside fabric of the shorts simultaneously.

Today was the last tennis class. I was expecting the instructor to shake our hands and pat our backs for being such good "sports" throughout the term. But he just kept pointing out the mistakes in my serves. May be I expect too much or may be the instructor was more interested in the females in the class. I think it is the second one.

Bhagwan ke ghar main der hain, lekin andher to bilkul nahin. Aaj is truism main mera yakeen double ho gaya. As I was coming back from the tennis class today, it started raining very heavily. Just like monsoons. And hence, each and every thread on the inside and outside fabric of my swimming shorts got wet. I have individually checked them.

The good part is that the shorts are still intact. I hope there will be another beginner's swimming class in fall and I also hope for a lot of new Indian students starting school in fall.

-Huzefa

Becoming Men

This is one incident from my school days which I remember vividly. I was in XII at that time.

Being the senior most class in the school, we all used to be very smug and sometimes even haughty. Except for one teacher or may be two, we had good relationships with all our teachers. It used to be a very friendly but hyper-charged environment in the class during those crazy days of studies and preparations for board exams.

A male teacher whom I would call 'A' sir was our class teacher. A sir was a popular teacher among senior school students and even more popular among the alumni of the school. I liked him too. He taught us English.

I was a volunteer for the school assembly which means I helped junior students get in line during the assembly and morning prayers. My duties also included helping the class monitors check their classmates for proper uniforms, particularly on Saturday which was the P.T. day. I took my duties as a volunteer a bit too seriously. I used to be very strict and took deep pride in wearing the badge

That year we had a new principal whom I would call Sister B. She had a panache of organizing some or other extracurricular activity every weekend. It didn't matter even if we had exams Not that it was bad, we used to enjoy them but as the term progressed, she went overboard with her innumerable social and cultural and god knows what events.

We had just finished with the annual cultural event at the school and now the board exams were fast approaching. We were all in the mood of serious studying. Just then the principal came with the idea of having a 'moral-value exhibition' that weekend. Only with her it was not an idea and we all had to simply cooperate. She had already made up her mind and nothing would make her change it.

In the class we had a heated discussion with A sir about the exhibition and even he was of the opinion that this exhibition was frivolous and we could all do without it. I was so opposed to the idea that I decided to resign from being a volunteer as a token of protest. I figured that was the only way in which I could let my opposition known to the principal.

After the lecture I went to A sir and took out my badge and gave it to him. I no longer wanted to be a volunteer. I was willing to let go of a job which I so dearly loved and which was a matter of pride for me. It was then that A sir talked to me. He told me he knew how much I valued my volunteer's badge and he told me he knew my feelings. He told me that even he was not in the favor of the exhibition but he was contributing to it nonetheless. It was a simple matter of obeying your superiors. Therefore, I should also take a part.

I did take a part in the exhibition and the event was a success. The chairman of the municipality was the chief guest and he was impressed by the show. Funny I remember these details.

What is not funny that I remember that day as when I became an adult. In those few minutes when I was talking to A sir, I was transformed from a boy to a man. He made me understand a very simple fact of life:

"....Courage to change the things I cannot accept and humility to accept the things I cannot
change..."

I am indebted to him for the rest of my life.

Huzefa

Kharak No Halwo

You require:
Kharak (dry dates): 500 gms, Milk: about a liter, Ghee (clarified butter): about 300 gms, Condensed milk: 200 ml, sugar: very little, about 3-4 tbsp

Servings: about 12-15 (enough for one week :-) )

Preparation time: lots

Preparation:

1. Soak the kharak in milk for about 24 hrs. Kharak will absorb most of the milk and will swell due to it.
2. One by one, remove the seeds from the swollen kharaks. This will be pretty quick as kharak will be pretty soft after soaking.
3. Grate this seedless kharak in a mixer-grinder. Don't grate very finely, but just enough so that no big pieces are visible.
4. Take the grated kharak in a pot, preferably non-stick. The pot should be big enough for easy stirring.
5. Add about half of the ghee and cook on high flame for about 5 mins with constant vigorous stirring.
6. Lower the flame and add condensed milk and the remaining ghee. Stirring should not be stopped.
7. Cook on a low flame (not lowest) for about 30-35 mins till the mixture turns a thick brown in color. If you find kharak sticking to the bottom, add more ghee and stir. Remember, stirring is the key.
8. After 30 mins or so, the halwa is ready, taste for sugar and add according to taste.
9. From here, continue cooking on a lower flame for a few more mins if you want your halwa soft or you could turn off the flame right away.
10. Garnish with cashew nuts or some other dry fruit.
11. Eat and stove the rest in refrigerator.

Generation Gap- Revisited

This is in part, a continuation of my previous post. In family matters Coomy treats her step-father- Nariman Vakeel very shabbily. One of the reasons is that Nariman became her step-father at the late age of 11, so she didn't have the child-father feelings for her. But the major reason was that though Nariman had married Yasmin, he could not forget Lucy which was the woman he loved. Lucy was always there in his mind and he had not accepted his married life whole-heartedly. He went to such lengths to meet Lucy which would be considered nothing short of scandalous. Chaeteu felicity was constantly strained- so were Nariman's relations with the family.

What child could be expected to love her father if she cannot respect him. It is possible for adults to love someone in spite of shortcomings; but for children it is a different case. Children see in their father a man who is perfect, who is all powerful, who can do nothing wrong and who is the answer to all their questions. But when parents fight and children watch them abusing and hitting each other, it is the children who suffer. The image of perfect parent is shattered. Forever.

Coomy draws her hatred from this. Nariman, on his part does not make any conscious effort to build the bridges with his children which he is intentionally or otherwise burning. Coomy holds Nariman responsible for her mother's death. Anyone in Coomy's position would do that. With this past, can Coomy be expected to nurse her bed-ridden step-father? One would say that time heals, so Coomy would also forget the past and become friends with Nariman. But she does nothing of the sort. She is too human for that. And fate treats her appropriately in the end but that is a different story.

Please read this summary before proceeding:

"Story of Pao" is the most critically acclaimed film produced in Vietnam
during 2006. It centers on a young girl, Pao, a member of an ethnic
minority group living in the Vietnamese highlands. By recalling Pao's
memories of her parents and their emotional life, the film deftly explores
the concept of love from different points of view." Courtesy: Christina Skourou

In stark contrast to Coomy is Pao. The woman whom Pao's father married could not conceive. Her infertility was almost a curse in the highlands. So Pao's father brought home another woman- Mrs Kim who bore Pao and her younger brother. Mrs Kim would not live with Pao, instead she left them all after living with them for a short while. Pao grows up resenting the presence of Mrs Kim in the house. She is oblivious to the fact that Mrs Kim lover her father too much to live with them.

Pao falls in love with a guy from the local market. Let us call this guy A. Shortly after Pao finds that Pao's mother (not Mrs Kim) loves A's father. This discovery shatters Pao and she becomes more and more withdrawn. The mother, with her conscience heavy, disappears under mysterious circumstances. Pao's father and the rest assume she has died. The death affects Pao's father badly and he takes to drinking heavily. Pao's world is disappearing in front of her eyes. What does she do?

She decides to find and bring Mrs Kim, her biological mother back- for her father. Not for her and not for her brother but her sick and weak father. She is gone from her home for weeks and faces many difficulties but she is finally able to track Mrs Kim; only to find out that she is living with another man. Defeated and hopeless, she prepares to return to her village- empty handed. While returning, she finds that her mother who is living with A's father. She had not died. But escaped with her love!

When Pao reaches home, she finds Mrs Kim nursing her ailing father.

This is the power of love. It was love which made Pao's mother run away with A's father and it was love which made Mrs Kim return to Pao's father. Pao never tells her father the truth about her mother . This is the difference between Coomy and Pao. Pao could forgive, Coomy could not.

On a different note, If Nariman had defied his parents and married Lucy.. if....

Huzefa

Family Matters

I just finished reading Rohinton Mistry's Family Matters. At first when I picked up the book, I had tried figuring out the phrase 'family matters' as in the matters of the family or the importance of family. I think its the latter, that the author wanted to say.In his own style of writing which contains a lot of dialogue and use of a simple language mixed heartily with Parsi and Gujarati and Hindi words, Rohinton Mistry has written a beautiful novel.

I think of the Parsis and the image which comes to my mind is an old man- a little eccentric bt very amiable and one who always loves children, of a cranky woman swearing gadhera, gaanda. Guess what! both these characters and some more are present in Family Matters. The novel explores the importance of family in the lives of an old man who is suffering from Parkinson's, his step-children, his daughter and her family. The characters are all very realistic and their life in Bombay- all too easy to connect with.

Money isn't the solution to all of man's problems. It is not the final destination but the journey wherein lie the little joys of life. Yezaad is barely able to make the ends meet with his meagre salary and when his father-in-law suffering from Parkinson's is forced into his house, it becomes a strain for everybody in the house. Toast without butter, meals without meat, a bath on alternate days- such things. But this hardship brings the family closer than ever. All members pitch in-even Yezad's 9 and 13 year old sons.

Jehangir in the epilogue says he misses his old father- one who used to laugh, get angry, shout at him used to tell jokes. Now, he is not the same man. This is when they are living much more comfortably than before- in the seven-room chateau felicity home. A man never learns from his mistakes. I couldn't help feeling this way towards the end. Children become adults and their parents feel something slipping out of their hands.

I say it is wrong in the first place to hold on to them.

Huzefa

Rizq

Rizq is an Arabic word. It roughly means your share in God's scheme of things. To use it in a sentence, I could say my rizq is in America. Most commonly it is understood in terms of food and water which a person consumes. Think of "daane daane pe likha hai khane wale ka naam". Yes, you get it.

My name as it turns out has been written on $3.49 loaves of bread, $4.59 a pound tomatoes, 12-can packs of sprite, tins of pringles, packets of chicken and on Indian spices, of course. I was a little worried about the food initially but at the same time I was looking forward to cook my own meals too.

It seems to me that during the first month, I was having a 'beginners' luck'. Nothing could go wrong with my cooking. Whether it was the chicken drumsticks or mince-meat or aloo-gobhi- everything I cooked was edible and easily digestible. I had kind of like 'settled in' and now that I was doing my own food, I could appreciate my tiffin in Indore better than ever.

But this last week has been a disaster in terms of my culinary (dis)abilities, whatever I have tried to cook has turned out to be a disaster. Semi-boiled chana dal, chicken thighs with all the skin and fat intact, scrambled eggs and potatoes you name it I've got it. I was ruining up big time on all my cooking. The saving grace was I had found a very good pizza delievery and savored their offerings for a while, then there was the dining hall in college.

Just today, I've prepared three dishes which I hope will last me the next week. I found a kind soul online while I was preparing and she guided me through the intricacies of rajma and moong-dal. I have all of that food now stored in the refrigerator.

It is important to eat your food. For me, it is a tie which connects me to all whom I have left behind. There is a joy in knowing that you are eating the same kind of food in a foreign land which your folks eat back home. When I wear a topi, wash hands and eat my meal with hands, the distances are bridged. Just like that.

According to my grandmother if our rizq and rozi is in a foreign land then we have to go and earn it there. Difficult as it might be but that is the way it is. I pray to God that I always respect and value my rizq. There are many in this world who don't even have two meals a day.

Faith,
Huzefa