Marginalized

I keep trying to see which other Country has a White (or any color) Stripe or Symbol on the their flag to represent Minorities? Can someone list them here or in my Social media pages, please!

Placing these items 'separately' on the flag

already 'separates' them.

These minorities are part of the country and should be part of whatever the country stands for. Like Unity, Faith, & Discipline. (and I don't mean the rather new meanings these have been given!)

If Countries want Symbolism, that's fine. India has a Chakra. Many Countries have Crosses. Some have colored their flag backgrounds Greens … and others have Reds. They represent that most of these countries have a feeling about some ideology. They don't have a White Margin, like we do.

So often am I reminded of these things, specially when I pass by the large Christian Cross in Karachi, which is absolutely great to see. It's not about the Brits who ruled us (or the Americans who keep trying). It's about  Christianity. I was told that Christians are People of the Book, so that's OK. Lovely …

But there are a few Jews here (We even have at least one that 'officially' claims he is a Jew, while others hide themselves under different names). They don't have a Place of Worship here but are also part of the People of the Book. Can they build a large statue of the Wailing Wall (or something else) here as a token of being Pakistan's Jew.

I sometimes wonder if Hindus can put up a Large Krishna or Ganesh in a Public Place (but they are even opposed from building a new Temple). But that seems unlikely.

And there are other religions here (Sikhs, Parsis, even non-God religions like Buddhism). Can they build things here in Public Places? Guess not … other than their present day temples or whatever they have.

After all our adopted father country, Saudi Arabia, doesn't allow any religion other than Muslims to have a public place of worship there. So naturally we follow.

On the other hand, imagine Muslims wanting to build a Mosque and being disallowed by the residents of another country to do this. There's be riots everywhere, And protest marches. In fact we'd even have them in Pakistan where public property would be destroyed.

I think I'll give up thinking.

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50/25

•••••

I have written several pieces in my blogs about Abi. He had many friends who adored him. He was a good doctor and had the finest bedside manner I have seen. Even after his heart attacks he would go to a patient if they called at night, thinking that they may not get anyone else to attend at this time.

He loved books (English and Urdu), published a set of short stories (Naee Paod) and wrote poems (to be published soon) in Urdu, loved music (Eastern Classical, Qavvaali, and Western Classical), could read musical notes and tried his best to teach me … but failed. He sang fairly well (in Urdu and English), spoke English well (and sometimes, as a joke, in a perfect Scottish accent when we asked), wrote Urdu with a lovely consistent writing, loved Science and Arts. And he adored sweets and mangoes (as do I).

Abi was extremely religious in his last years … but very liberal in his conversations with me even when they were against some parts of his beliefs at times. I owe him so much. My love of literature (and specially Urdu poetry), arts, and music, come from him.

When Abi was in Scotland for his medical studies he had been left with no money (specially from a father who had a lot of it). Abi never brought this up in any conversation and, once, when I said that this was terrible, he got angry at me and said that was between him and his father and I had no business criticising my dada! He finally had to get more money to pay for his examination fees and his last semester. He borrowed this from a 'friend' of his in Scotland (Auntie Dorothy) and promised to pay back soon when he started his practice in Monifieth (Scotland). However, he was called back to India when his mother had Cancer … and then he did not go back to UK.

He got married to my mother and told her in two days that he had to send most of the money he earned here to Dorothy in Monifieth. Ummi decided that it was a bad idea to owe someone money at all … and sold some of her jewellery and gave the money to Abi. That was within a fortnight of their marriage. I met Aunty Dorothy years later when I was in the Merchant Navy and went to Dundee, close to Monifieth. She spoke very fondly of him and of my mother whom she knew through letters.

From his practice in Aligarh (which began soon after his mother died), he eventually moved - in a few months after I was born - to Qarolbaagh in Dilli. He was taken into the British Army as a doctor and we travelled everywhere (Jhaañsi, Mayruth, Attock, to name a few) … but he also went to Palestine, Iraq, Cairo, Babylon, and many other places.

Then came the Partition. Ummi and I accompanied my Khaala and Khaalu (Abbu Jan and Ammi Jan) to Bombay where Abi was supposed to meet us. He did. He had just come from Dilli and found that the house and his little clinic had been burnt completely. Ummi was shocked at all the good things they had saved and bought … and never ever wanted us to buy anything, thinking that it would disappear one day. We set out to Karachi after Abi (a Congress Party member) had been assured by Dr Syed Mahmud (Nuzhat's Nana) and Pandit Ji that things would quieten down in six months and we could return.

That never happened :(

Life in Karachi was fairly bad. We had no money (the first few years Abi would treat refugees free from Ramakrishna Mission Hospital that he was working at. He had been called to join it by his friend and colleague from the UK who was now a Doctor and a Priest! They also gave us a small flat near where they lived. Despite this he and my mother had several friends and relatives who were coming from India to stay over at our house. Often a dozen, sleeping everywhere. How did Ummi manage their food was always a mystery, specially as I grew up and started understanding the 'finances'. Ammi Jan used to laugh and say that Ummi put in a lot of water to make the dishes seem larger than they were.

Abi's health kept getting worse … and he could not keep a job for long after having left Orient Airways as the Chief Medical Officer. He was in his clinic one day and off for days at a time. On some days he made nothing. On other days he made a few bucks. Doctors who were his friends told him that he should give up the refugees and move to a bigger place (Dr Afzal Habib offered to have him in his clinic), but Abi was Abi. The refugees came first. Then relatives. Then friends. Always. And a book, if he ever had money.

When I ran away from home to join the Merchant Navy (there was no way that my father could have paid for my education, college, medical school, going off to UK to learn about the Surgeon I wanted to be), it was quite a tragedy. Abi was really hurt … although he soon discovered that I was a good cadet. Sadly he never lived long enough to see me pass my Second Mate's exams and get a prize for Navigation (from the Commonwealth).

It was the 19th of September, 1963, that Abi died.

His death - at 63 - was a shock to us, despite the fact that he had often been unwell: Heart problems (and small attacks, much as I have had until I had to go in for a quadruple bypass), Diabetes (he'd have his sweets once in a while and add an anti-Diabetic tablet with it … something that I do, too), High Blood Pressure, and an occasional lack of 'balance' as he lost his hearing in one ear and it made him fall at times (I have that now … though I haven't fallen, so far). Despite all these medical problems, Abi died of a Cerebral Haemorrhage when his Blood Pressure was Normal and his heart seemed fine.

•••••

It was on January 13th, 1988, that Ummi died.

Ummi lived through most of this widowhood of 25 years in a wonderful way — until she was confined to a wheelchair, having hurt her spine in a fall at the kitchen. She laughed, watched TV, went out to picnics among family and friends. Some of our relatives and Abi's friends visited her and she would begin to, occasionally, laugh with them.

She had always been a great wife and a lovely mother … and what was really important were two of her qualities: (a) she laughed a lot (and loved mad jokes), and (b) read tremendously (in Urdu). Among the numerous things that Ummi taught me was to laugh at everything. Even in a tragedy - after the initial crying - Ummi would laugh and talk about all the good things the person had said. Most important: she taught me not to be worried. That has been a remarkable thing in my life. I get over most things almost the way she did.

It was a pity to see her on an armchair in the last few years as she spoke less and less, laughed rarely, ate very little so that she could die and just prayed to be taken away. It was sad to see her go but I am glad she went.

Ummi liked animals. Specially mainaas and cats. When we brought Lenny home from our ship and decided to leave her with Ummi, she fell totally in love. Lenny was a strange cat. If Nuzhat and I left the house Lenny would come to the gate with us and wait there until we got back. Even if it was two in the night, there'd be Lenny. Waiting. When we left for our trips, Lenny would be in Ummi's room all the time.

She once said to me that I had one of my father's good habits: I loved books … But I also chose a bad one: I smoked. Abi gave his smoking up the day Ummi asked him to. I had started smoking when I was 14 … and now I was 37 years old. I went into the room and brought my large collection of pipes, my Lucky Strike cigarettes, and 2 Cigars that were in the Phillipine Wooden Box that had my name engraved on it, and told her to pass it to whomever she wanted. I would never smoke again. 

And that's true …

Not having a child for years after I was married — (Nuzhat and I married in 1970) — must have hurt Ummi, though she never told us about it. Or asked us to go to doctors. On our own we did go … and all doctors said was that we were OK. But soon we gave up thinking of a child, until a day in Hong Kong when, Muzaffar, a close friend of ours, asked us to adopt a Viet Nam baby. His wife, Gulnafar, was working with an agency that helped people adopt these children. We agreed after their insistence to come over in two days and see.

While both of us would have been happy with a baby, I felt that it wasn't the right thing to do. Nuzhat's had 5 brothers. They'd have babies. Their children would be the Nana/Nani favourites. My adopted child (and I) would never be able to handle this at all. Still, we had promised and the day came. I went to office and told Nuzhat that I'd pick her up as soon as I returned. Nuzhat said she had a headache and went to a doctor. She came back home and phoned me saying the doctor says she is pregnant. I rushed off and went with her again to the doctor. I wanted to see the baby and she said she'd just 'seen' the baby in the womb — but Nuz and I insisted. She showed us the child. Amazing. 14 years of marriage … and now we were going to be parents.

Nuzhat and I came back to Karachi. I left her and went off to sea. Thought I'd take leave closer to the birth. One day I got tons of calls from Karachi and they couldn't get through (telephony was really bad!) and when I got a call from the Port Office I was told that I had to rush out from the berth and come to office. Had no idea what was happening.

Soon Anwar, Tahira, their children, arrived. I was told that I had a daughter. I said that's silly. Its only 7 months. But they drove fast and picked up Jehan on the way and took me to Saulat (the head of our company) who had arranged a flight for me to Karachi. I got here and saw my daughter: Fairly blue! It was like having given birth to Krishna.

I was told that Nuzhat had gone with her sister-in-law who wanted to see the doctor. Nuz felt a bit of pain. The doctor checked her out and said she must have an operation right away. Called another doctor who arrived. Doctors told her that the baby had the umbilical cord around her throat and could die if they waited anymore. Her sister-in-law rushed home and brought the family. The blueness was because of the lack of breathing well. She became alright after a few months with the blue fading away. (Well, almost.)

Nuzhat and I named her Ragni Marea: The Melody of the Sea. Jan Ammu (my father's first cousin and the older brother of Talat Mahmood) came and recited the Azaan in her right ear and, at my insistence, he sang an alaap of Raag Darbari in her left ear :)

In the last four years Ummi saw my daughter … and that thrilled her. She adored Ragni. She didn't even cry when Ragni jumped on the bed and rolled over her aching feet. She spoke constantly with Ragni and that made Ragni improve her Urdu. Ragni started using words that we all laughed at because they were really big words. And she told Ragni numerous stories.

On the 13th January evening Ummi was lying on her bed and Nuzhat, Nihal Bhai (an old family friend who was staying with us), and I were with her. Ragni, now 4 years old, came in and started speaking to Ummi. Ummi held her hand and looked at her grand-daughter. I heard Ragni saying a few minutes later :  "Can't you see me, Amma Jan?" … Nihal Bhai said Ummi was feeling very weak. Nuzhat and I went immediately to get a doctor. Ragni fell asleep on her side by the time we came back.

The doctor arrived and said Ummi had passed away.

We didn't let Ragni come into the room and sent her off to school the next day (14th Jan) while the funeral was being prepared. In the afternoon we told her that Ummi had been take up to the heavens where angels would treat her. She looked at us and said, "Please don't alter her room. I want to see it look like that." (Now, that's her room when she comes back for a holiday from New York.)

•••••

(A whole year later, Nuzhat's father - a younger brother of Ummi - passed away on the 14th January 1989 …)

A Piece for Pynchon

Postdialectic Narrative
in the works of Pynchon

Zaheer A. Kidvai

Head of the Department of New Media, Hamdard University

1. Contexts of absurdity

The characteristic theme of Hubbard’s[1] critique of postdialectic narrative is the role of the reader as artist. Scuglia[2] implies that we have to choose between deconstructivist appropriation and the pretextual paradigm of narrative.

It could be said that the subject is interpolated into a cultural theory that includes art as a whole. If deconstructivist appropriation holds, we have to choose between postdialectic narrative and posttextual socialism.

But Bataille uses the term ‘the patriarchial paradigm of discourse’ to denote the stasis, and eventually the fatal flaw, of precapitalist sexual identity. The primary theme of the works of Spelling is the common ground between class and narrativity.

Thus, the subject is contextualised into a neocapitalist nihilism that includes culture as a paradox. In Models, Inc., Spelling deconstructs postdialectic narrative; in Robin’s Hoods, however, he examines neocapitalist nihilism.

2. Spelling and deconstructivist appropriation

“Society is intrinsically meaningless,” says Marx; however, according to Hubbard[3] , it is not so much society that is intrinsically meaningless, but rather the absurdity, and hence the defining characteristic, of society. In a sense, Hanfkopf[4] holds that we have to choose between neocapitalist nihilism and postdeconstructivist deconstructivism. The subject is interpolated into a postdialectic narrative that includes sexuality as a reality.

In the works of Pynchon, a predominant concept is the distinction between opening and closing. Therefore, Derrida promotes the use of deconstructivist appropriation to deconstruct and read class. Baudrillard uses the term ‘neocapitalist nihilism’ to denote not discourse per se, but subdiscourse.

If one examines postdialectic narrative, one is faced with a choice: either reject the dialectic paradigm of expression or conclude that art is capable of truth, given that narrativity is equal to truth. However, the premise of deconstructivist appropriation suggests that the goal of the poet is social comment. Lyotard uses the term ‘neocapitalist nihilism’ to denote the role of the observer as reader.

“Culture is elitist,” says Derrida. Thus, many theories concerning posttextual deconstruction exist. Deconstructivist appropriation implies that context must come from the masses, but only if Foucault’s essay on the capitalist paradigm of narrative is valid; if that is not the case, the raison d’etre of the writer is deconstruction.

In the works of Pynchon, a predominant concept is the concept of predialectic language. It could be said that the ground/figure distinction depicted in Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow is also evident in The Crying of Lot 49, although in a more mythopoetical sense. Sontag uses the term ‘postdialectic narrative’ to denote the bridge between class and narrativity.

Therefore, the premise of neocapitalist nihilism suggests that society, perhaps ironically, has significance. The subject is contextualised into a capitalist nationalism that includes sexuality as a paradox.

However, if deconstructivist appropriation holds, the works of Pynchon are empowering. Bataille uses the term ‘subtextual capitalist theory’ to denote the absurdity, and some would say the economy, of neodialectic truth.

Therefore, Porter[5] implies that we have to choose between deconstructivist appropriation and capitalist nihilism. Any number of deconstructivisms concerning the role of the artist as participant may be found.

In a sense, Sontag suggests the use of neocapitalist nihilism to attack class divisions. The subject is interpolated into a predialectic deconstruction that includes consciousness as a totality.

Therefore, the main theme of Scuglia’s[6] analysis of postdialectic narrative is not situationism, but postsituationism. An abundance of narratives concerning deconstructivist appropriation exist.

It could be said that if neocapitalist nihilism holds, we have to choose between submodern desublimation and cultural discourse. Marx uses the term ‘postdialectic narrative’ to denote a predialectic reality.

3. Deconstructivist appropriation and the patriarchialist paradigm of reality

If one examines subconceptual narrative, one is faced with a choice: either accept neocapitalist nihilism or conclude that the State is fundamentally meaningless. But the characteristic theme of the works of Pynchon is the difference between language and class. In Vineland, Pynchon analyses postdialectic narrative; in V he reiterates dialectic discourse.

The primary theme of Parry’s[7] critique of postdialectic narrative is the genre, and eventually the fatal flaw, of subdeconstructivist art. In a sense, the characteristic theme of the works of Pynchon is a self-supporting paradox. Dahmus[8] holds that we have to choose between neocapitalist nihilism and the capitalist paradigm of consensus.

Thus, a number of narratives concerning not construction, as pretextual libertarianism suggests, but neoconstruction may be revealed. The main theme of de Selby’s[9] model of neocapitalist nihilism is the common ground between sexual identity and class.

Therefore, if postdialectic narrative holds, the works of Eco are postmodern. Lacan’s essay on neocapitalist nihilism implies that reality may be used to exploit minorities, given that narrativity is distinct from reality.

It could be said that the primary theme of the works of Eco is not, in fact, theory, but posttheory. Debord uses the term ‘the patriarchialist paradigm of reality’ to denote a pretextual totality.

However, several discourses concerning postdialectic narrative exist. The example of neocapitalist nihilism which is a central theme of Eco’s Foucault’s Pendulum emerges again in The Aesthetics of Thomas Aquinas.

4. Eco and the patriarchialist paradigm of reality

In the works of Eco, a predominant concept is the distinction between closing and opening. But any number of materialisms concerning the collapse, and some would say the economy, of cultural society may be found. Marx uses the term ‘neocapitalist nihilism’ to denote not deappropriation per se, but subdeappropriation.

The characteristic theme of Sargeant’s[10] model of the patriarchialist paradigm of reality is a mythopoetical reality. In a sense, an abundance of narratives concerning postdialectic narrative exist. The premise of prestructuralist discourse suggests that narrativity is capable of significance.

Thus, Baudrillard promotes the use of postdialectic narrative to analyse sexual identity. In JFK, Stone analyses Derridaist reading; in Natural Born Killers, although, he examines the patriarchialist paradigm of reality.

In a sense, textual sublimation implies that consciousness is used to reinforce sexism. Several narratives concerning the role of the reader as writer may be revealed.

But the primary theme of the works of Stone is not discourse, but postdiscourse. Lacan suggests the use of neocapitalist nihilism to challenge hierarchy.

In a sense, the main theme of Tilton’s[11] critique of the patriarchialist paradigm of reality is the role of the reader as poet. Baudrillard uses the term ‘neocapitalist nihilism’ to denote the difference between class and society.

---

1. Hubbard, Z. Q. H. ed. (1983) Reassessing Constructivism: Postdialectic narrative and neocapitalist nihilism. Loompanics

2. Scuglia, N. S. (1975) Neocapitalist nihilism and postdialectic narrative. O’Reilly & Associates

3. Hubbard, A. ed. (1983) The Forgotten House: Neocapitalist nihilism in the works of Pynchon. And/Or Press

4. Hanfkopf, P. L. (1994) Postdialectic narrative and neocapitalist nihilism. University of Michigan Press

5. Porter, Q. ed. (1978) The Meaninglessness of Society: Postdialectic narrative in the works of McLaren. Harvard University Press

6. Scuglia, C. D. K. (1986) Neocapitalist nihilism and postdialectic narrative. And/Or Press

7. Parry, T. ed. (1974) Precapitalist Theories: Postdialectic narrative and neocapitalist nihilism. University of California Press

8. Dahmus, R. T. S. (1991) Neocapitalist nihilism in the works of Eco. Loompanics

9. de Selby, C. ed. (1984) The Circular Sea: Neocapitalist nihilism and postdialectic narrative. Panic Button Books

10. Sargeant, P. Q. S. (1997) Neocapitalist nihilism in the works of Stone. Loompanics

11. Tilton, R. ed. (1989) Forgetting Bataille: Postdialectic narrative in the works of Gaiman. And/Or Press

He NOSE about it all!

Start from my last blogpost

in case you don't know what this is about.

•

Look hard at this pic and you'll find that there is a bump on my right side of the nose. Not a very good picture but that's all I could do at that time from my iPhone.

This is where the crooked nose bone had cracked an artery. The doctor cauterised me with Silver Nitrate, put in a cotton wad dumped heavily with medicine (yes!!! all the way up) … and it was painful, even apart from the anaesthesia. But he said it would be over. Although I wasn't too sure.

A night with Lexotanil. 

The next day, quite apart from the dismay that an alien object was sitting in my nose, I was Ok-ish but feeling a bit weak with lack of blood and sleep. And computers.

Another night with Lexotanil!

It was 6.15 am when woke up - still feeling groggy - and discovered that my bed cover had blood.

No. Not blood.

LOTS OF BLOOD!

A rush to the bathroom, pouring blood into the washbasin until I thought it was far too much. Blew my nose. Removed the wad. Shoved some cotton with a bit of medicine all the way up and after a couple of minutes it stopped pouring out but I could feel the sounds inside.

Sent a message to the doctor and he said I should come in at 7.30 and see him again. "Nothing to worry about. Just control your bleeding …"is what he said.

Control? Hmmm. I bled from 6.15 am to 5.45 pm - changing wads, flowing with blood everywhere, no food, feeling tired (but not too tired, anyway) and finally got to see him in the evening.

"The nose looks good," said Doc. "The Silver Nitrate has worked. Now there are some capillaries that are leaking because the main artery has been stopped from bleeding. That's why there's this blood."

I didn't really care what was bleeding. I wanted it stopped. I blew my nose - along with heavy clots that had formed - and was then subjected to a cotton full of anaesthesia stuck up my nose while I was standing (which also led to my lips being anaesthetised, I guess). A bit of a pain that i could bear. I sat for a while until the Doc put out a new cottonish wad with loads of brownish medicine and said I should lie down. He then (painlessly for him but very painfully for me) shoved the thingy all the way up my nose, twisting and turning. He said, "The nose is rather crooked and we have to stop everything from bleeding!" … and so, after what seemed like several minutes (btw, the clock showed only 4 minutes), it was done. So was I.

This was followed by more cotton, plain, shoved in the beginning because he said there'd be leaks. Sometimes. They actually started while I was in his office and continued all of the next day.

Given more medicine to do this again if needed, I was told to preferably let the main wad remain inside. I did. I had to have a new ointment made at Kausar Medico before I went to see him again the next day.

The driver went to the Kausar Medico at a chowk nearby and was told that he would get it in 5 days. So he went off to Kausar Medico on Bunder Road and was told that he could pick it up in 5 hours. He did this. I am only mentioning that if anyone needs to go to Kausar Medico for a prepared ointment, Bunder Road is the answer for quick service.

At 8.30 I saw the doctor again (That was on Saturday) and he really felt that all was well and I would not bleed at all. I have to remove and reinsert new wads with this ointment for 5 more days and check it with him on Thursday when he will pronounce me, I hope, "All well!"

So bye … and thanks for reading all this. I feel really great. The nose leaks continue with the medicinal secretions. No bleedings, so far. Hope it's over.

Feeling a little weak … but nothing that good old ice cream won't cure :)

(I am sure you guessed what the above picture was!) 

Wondering what YOU are doing?

I wait in the moonlight for your secret …

Thinking of our kissing as one, toes to toes,

In search of the magnificent

Red and Mystical thrill of love.

The dark night floats in on Hummingbird wings

And lands like my kisses on your mole.

Your skin glows like the Mango,

Blossoms deliciously

As the tulip

In the purest hope of spring.

My heart follows your Sitar voice

And leaps like a feline at the whisper of your name.

I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears of honey

While, in the quiet, I listen for your last purring of the day.

(Hahaha: 'Written' via the Pablo Neruda Poem Generator)

Villagitis

Freezing in Lahore?

O, who can hold a fire in his hand
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?
•
Shakespeare - Richard II

Pandit Bhimsen Gururaj Joshi

Born February 4th, 1922

Passed Away January 24th, 2011

A few more days and I'd have called him to wish him my usual birthday greeting. Have done that for the last who-knows-how-many years. It was something that I always enjoyed, thanking him for each year that we got to listen to him.

I admired him in ways that are so difficult to describe on paper. And I am in no mood to write anything at all. The music I am listening to, right now, is his Malkauñs (You can listen to part of it here) —It is a piece that I have always loved. The taans are heavenly …

It's been a year …

It's a sad day: Dr. Shamim's sister passed away in the evening and Nayyara Jamil's mother passed away later on. Both were people we knew for a long while. Funerals tomorrow at the same time. Guess Nuz and I have to 'split' and go to different ones.

=====================================

A year ago it was I who nearly passed away, too. But, as things turned out, I am up and about. 

A pic taken shortly after the operation paraphernalia was removed.

Yes. A year has passed since I had my heart attack.

For most part - specially for those who see me less often - I seem to have recovered entirely. Others, like Nuzhat, Sabeen, Jehan - and even Ragni who sees me frequently on Skype - there are quite a few things that have not gone away. Not totally.

Forgetting proper nouns or using the wrong name for something has lessened a lot but it does happen sometimes. An occasional 'blueness' takes over on certain days, though the frequency has decreased considerably. The doctor says that each patient has a number of ways in which recovery takes place and a year-and-a-half would be a better time to consider in my case.

As someone who has had a borderline Diabetes II issue — no Insulin ... just walking and a diet, mainly, with a tablet of Glucobay* at some meals — has been my way of life for years. Glucobay was a strange medication that Dr. Shamim prescribed me. It's not like other diabetic medicines. It just makes the body believe that I've had my fill of sugar and it distills the sugary parts of whatever I am eating straight into the faeces. A little trick of the trade.

There have been days when I do have chocolates and cakes (specially at birthdays), but mainly have lived with sugar-free ice-creams, drinks (the sugar-free Ginger Beer is fantastic!), chocolates and toffees, and desserts from many places in Karachi — specially great stuff from Sohni and Rahmaté Shireen — plus the indescribably lovely Rab∂ee from Burns Road. Although Nirala has disappeared (why???) from here, I still get friends to bring its Laddoos, Barfis and Gülab Jaamüns from Lahore whenever they come. The Gulab Jaamüns are to die for!

The problem with Diabetes is that many of us don't feel any pain or numbness or other symptoms that other people do when getting heart attacks. I had no such feelings, though I always realized, somehow, that I would have the attack some day (probably because my father was Diabetic and had a heart problem). I always hoped I'd have some way to find out before it was too late.

I did! Not because of pain … but the feeling I had at the time of the attack. It was one of several attacks, I am sure, over the years … coz I had damages to all my arteries, some for quite a while as the doc said. But this was a massive one and I felt a bit of a strangish feeling. Luckily all went well ... and here I am. Alive. And getting better.

BTW, here's something I've got to tell everyone, Diabetic or not: Sugar — even tons of it — does not cause Diabetes. It's generally a generic disease but, sometimes, it could be caused by other problems with your Insulin producing glands. Sugar is not the issue!!!

Of course, once you have Diabetes, you cannot take sugar because your body cannot provide the Insulin needed to counter it. And you are off to a diet, walking, medications, and even Insulin injections, depending upon your level of Diabetes.

There is no 'cure' (yet!) for the disease, either. They'll cure it soon in generic ways, of course. Oh, and please forget about the wonderful medicines, duaas, taaveezes, whatever you see in the Press or TV. Yes, you may even know someone who knew someone who got 'cured' ... but what it was was not Diabetes but a Glucose related problem. Some often have symptoms that look a lot like Diabetes and some medicines do cure it. At other times it just cures itself.

=====================================

*Glucobay (from Bayer) is something that you can use … but ONLY after your Doctor thinks it's OK and recommends the amount that you should take. Do not use it on your own.

A good brochure for Diabetes II patients is available in PDF here.

Chaalis Saal Pahlay

As a sailor I'd always felt odd about how someone married a girl, took her out of her home and environment where she'd probably been happy, brought her over to his own house, and then left her with his family and sailed away. She was now with a bunch of newly acquired family members - often far away from her own home - with whom she would need to start a whole new life, make acquaintances, tread the lines carefully, behave differently from the way she was brought up. Awful.

Of course, there was also the problem of marriage itself. I had always regarded it as a rather odd idea - something that a societal group had come up with when it was essential … and women did not have the say they are beginning to have now. Sooner, or later, I believed the institution will die out. I still believe that, despite a happily married life. The fact that it's been 40 wonderful years of marriage has not altered my feelings that this was something that may have happened to me but isn't always that way in most marriages.

In 1969, October, I got my first command of a ship and could have my wife on board. That was when marriage seemed better. And Nuzhat was the right person. Not only was she far from religion, at least in those days, but she also thought of marriage in much the same way as I did. She kept asking me, nearly into the day itself, to reconsider the possibility.

But 1970 offered no other way … and, on 8th May, we got married.

My mamooñ - Nuzhat's father - wanted me to be there with the baraat on time. No delays. Five o'clock in the evening at the Hotel Intercontinental. (He couldn't consider having the nikah at his house - something I'd have preferred - because he was afraid of people spitting his hated paan ki peek all over his lawn, I think.)

Five o'clock we were at the Hotel. Nuzhat's elder brothers were outside and we were told that no one had really arrived yet. So much for having your own guests come in at the right time.

It took a little while but, by 5.40, we were all seated for the nikah, to be performed by Maulana Ehtesham-ul-Haq (who became a Thanvi after he came out of the Thana, I suspect). I detested the old man for his ridiculous ideas - like considering blood transfusion as 'haraam' - but Mamoon Jan loved his voice and it was his choice, so we were stuck. (Part of the reason of my successful marriage may be the fact that I always felt that nothing this man did could be serious.)

The usual ceremony was followed by Aarsi Moos'haf  … where some old lady (a friend of Nuzhat's mother) was holding a mirror through which Nuzhat and I were to see each other for the first time since 'marriage'. She could not get the mirror right and I finally saw her looking awkwardly at me in the glass. I winked  and the poor woman nearly dropped the mirror.

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What fun it is to sit today and talk of all those wonderful things that happened in those 40 wonderful years.

This is us, now :

And we hope we'll have a great many marriage anniversaries.

Callinography - Can this be displayed in public?

Can it, really?

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Update: Thank you, NB, for having it removed. I doubt if many of you really look at what some of the lines 'say' …

javaaban arz haé

Inimitably Woody

Enuff awready!

DAWN gets it "101%" right!

Just in case this gives you ideas ...

Be warned …

It may be just a rumour ...

... but the electronic market was abuzz that, following Mobilimp's decision to donate cellphones to the deaf, electronic giant Sohni will donate TV sets to the blind.

Before mocking the telco's initiative, please understand that there's method in their madness: These are non-working sets!

Word Clouds

This is just a "yooñhee" post, so skip it if you wish.

I was woken up - at just past 4AM!!! - by the sounds of some guys emptying their guns (hopefully [not] into each other ... I am feeling ambivalent!) and decided to while away the time doing something that didn't require much thinking.

Choosing the last couple of posts of the three bloggers I follow regularly (though, sadly, only one of them is prolific), plus an older one of my own, I decided to generate "word clouds", using Wordle. In all four cases, I used the very first option presented by the application after hitting the 'Randomize' button. Here are the results:

Jehan Ara: In the Line of Wire

Sabeen Mahmud: Meanderings

Zakintosh: Windmills of My Mind

Waste of time? I think I've found a couple of interesting ideas about using these in classrooms. Maybe I'll share them here some day, once they've taken better shape. Feel free to suggest some that come to your mind.

At the Dentist

OK ... so this woman walks in and from about five feet away stares hard at me and says in a really lovey tone, "When did you get this shirt?" ... then takes another step forward while pulling out her glasses (perhaps to examine my clothing at a closer range) and then suddenly stops and steps back and says "Shit. I thought you were someone else!" This is for her: ;-)

Yayyy ... 'Windmills' is back!!!

Oh, I know not all of you feel that way about my blog ... but I do ;-)

Thank you, Sabeen, for spending so much time trying to get to the root of the problem and those endless and fruitless calls that you had to make, but you've got it going ...

شكریہ