A friend called a couple of days ago: Why no posts, man? Been busy, very busy. Death in the family and too much work that buys me my bread still pending. "So put some of your old ones, they were quite nice, on that old blog." Well, here is one... written a long time ago.

On Children
(Are not they the sunshine of our lives?)

Children, some one once said, are the face of God Himself. Wajullah. And I should have said Mashaallaah, mashaallah and kept quiet. But that is so wrong isn’t it?

And the great Tagore said: Every child comes with a message from God, that He is not yet disappointed with man. Yeah sure! He is waiting to see how many more it will take before this race He created gets wiser.

Children, in fact could sell you to the first bidder and come home with a new skateboard they bought with the money. And should some one ask them, what happened to your Mummy/ Daddy, pat comes the reply:

“I don’t know.”

If an alien were to visit earth, and listen to a conversation between a parent and child, he would go back thinking we don’t believe in teaching our children at all.

Father: “Son, what happened to your hair.”

Son: “I don’t know.”

Mother: “Where is your school book?”

Son: “I don’t know.”

Father: “Son, your hair was okay in the morning, and I remember very well, if my memory serves me right, you had a beautiful mane of hair, just like Daddy’s when he married your Mummy, that covered the whole of your head.”

Son: “I don’t know”

Mother: “Were you hungry? Did you eat the books?”

Son: “I don’t know.”

Father: “Was your head with the whole morning...”

Son: “I don’t know.”

And sometimes, it must be confusing to the children too, at how often the parents keep changing their names. “Whatsyourname, you - Jesus Christ - can’t you hear me.”

Or sometimes, “Oh Lordinheaven child, have you gone deaf or what?”

And can a parent ever win against the wiles and guile that is childhood?

Take heart, usually you can. If you start doing your things yourself.
Even the great Bill Cosby couldn’t do anything about it:

See, Daddy forgot his glasses in his bedroom. And since he worked hard to get himself an expensive coolie, he thinks why not once in a while enjoy the fruits of labor. So he calls his five year old, and gives explicit directions, child, go upstairs and go to the bedroom, and bring my glasses for me. He sits back, relaxing. After all his old dog could do such an easy job.

He is destined to wait. The little angel returns, but without the glasses.
“But Daddy I don’t know where the bedroom is.”

And this little angel finds it without fail, with the eyes closed, every morning. Right when Daddy wants to snuggle closer to Mummy. And finds it with the precision of a laser guided bomb when Daddy and Mummy have one of their funny moods.

But this time you don’t take chances, you give explicit directions. You take the angel’s left hand and make fist of it. Then you tell her:

“Okay, now you go up the stairs, and go to the first door on your clenched fist side. You enter that door, keep your fist closed still, and once you go in turn to the side of your clenched fist. Now there on the table is that toy you like to play with whenever Daddy wants to read something.

Remember the thing that Daddy puts on his face that you feel is so funny. Remember that toy, which Daddy is supposed to put on and you are supposed to take it off and smudge it? Right. Good Girl. Clever Angel. Go bring that thing.”

You are a parent. You are destined to wait, that is the exact reason you were in fact created for. And the little angel returns, empty handed, of course.

“Daddy it is not there.”

So this time you take the angel by the hand, you lead her up the stairs, and show her how follow the fist. You take her into the room, gently, and lead her to the table. And there in all splendor are the glasses. But of course, the drawer is now open, the books are not where you left them, your cigarettes are all out of their box, but IT is there. Right where you had the stroke of genius and predicted it would be.

You show it to her, in triumph. “But Daddy, it was not there just now!!!”
You can’t teach old dogs new tricks, hell, you can’t teach new dogs new tricks either.

There comes a time when you are not sure of your name either. They come home very often and address you : DadCanI..... or MummyIWant.... And you like the Pavlovian rat come with a age-old, ingrained response. “NO” And here you have to beware. The response comes out even before the stimuli. Da.... No!. Mu..... No!

There are times too, when you become expert in your family tree. You try to teach your precious one, that when you have three apples and you give away two of them, how many remain. And your precious one will gladden your heart, by having done that extremely difficult mathematical sum ten times. But the only trouble is he has come up with ten different answers. You will then make it simpler, after all the precious one is just a child. You get real apples out. And you show them with a demonstration. And that is when you begin to wonder to yourself. Okay, my father was...... my mother was.... and their parents were.... and then... nope, there were no idiots in your family as long you can count, but then your counting itself is now suspect. You then look at your spouse, and there is a crooked look in your eye. You go: “Honey, My Darling sugar-coated-flu-pill, you never told me about your family. Come tell me, and you know what I like to hear about in families? About any half wit uncles and grand uncles, silly!!” And you give a most vivacious smile.

But what you don’t know is that your sugarcoatedflupill has been doing the same algebra in her mind. My father...

You have not had the opportunity to know just how logical these little ones are. For that you have to have two of them, gender doesn’t matter.

Look at this scene from my friend’s home.

“Mummy, Lilly is making faces at me.” And since guests are around, Mummy is a paragon of patience, and tells Lilly with the best smile not to do such horrible things to her sister. When the offence gets repeated, mummy tells Lilly not to commit such heinous crimes before guests, wait until they are gone. The offence, of course is repeated. And mummy has given up trying to keep the younger one’s heart and tells Mary: “ Mary, don’t look at Lilly, pretend she is not there.”

And Little Mary replies: “But Mummy, if I don’t look at her I can’t see her making faces at me!”

And you thought they can’t deduct two apples from three.
Soon you will begin to really start to doubt your memory. Wasn’t it yesterday that you stocked up the refrigerator? And since when did you start to cook for a dozen construction workers? And then you can’t remember ever having bought so many clothes in your lifetime. Must be, since you seem to be washing all of them everyday. And you begin to wonder if you should start taking some memory enhancing pills. You THOUGHT you had switched on that light, you THOUGHT you had closed that door. And this about time you also begin to wonder what kind of specialist is it that deals with the part of the brain that controls what controls left and right and center. For you see that young devil can’t seem to understand that the knob that controls the volume on his music player can also turn left.

And there are times too, which will come a few years down the line for you. You will take the not so little anymore aside and leave explicit instructions. Listen, son, listen carefully, we love you very much, and there is nothing - nothing in the world that we wouldn’t do for you. But when I go out, don’t ever say which family you belong to. When people ask your parents’ name just make it up. Say some famous name, will you. Say P. Ramlee or even Shahrukh Khan, you would like that wouldn’t you? Good, and by chance you see us walking by, let us play a game shall we? Just pretend we are not there.

Soon you realize that the insurance policy you gave birth to thinking of your old is the one giving you old age. And you realize that all those familiar faces you see at the cardiologist that you have started to visit all have a son or daughter about the same age of yours. And you soon learn that those that have died young, had several of them at home.

Ever think why parents are always so keen on getting their offspring married? Well, here’s the secret. So that they can send them off packing, close the door and take deep breath. And maybe plan that second honeymoon. The first one rudely interrupted by morning sickness. And they can really plan it well. After all... they won’t be interrupted this time, even if they wanted to.

But then, you can dream on. For just about when you are about to kiss your beloved, there is a knock on the door.... “Mummy, Daddy, we want to go to a party, can you take care of our little bundle of joy for us?”

This post supplements the previous post

There are two camps, three, truth be told. As there always are in everything that matters, and even doesn’t, in this word. One in favor, one against and one that just don’t give a damn.

Salman Rushdie deserves the knighthood, he doesn’t and who gives a damn if he sits in exalted company of Ian Botham.

I naturally sit in the first of the camps, now and then taking a stroll into the third where I have good friends to have a cuppa.

Zafar at DreamInk bandies that the man has suffered enough, missed out a few Bookers, been hunted, haunted and tormented. This is a little tidbit of happiness coming his way and he must just be allowed that.

Priyavada Gopal sees it in a different light. She doesn’t care much for Salman, it is quite clear. Her views are pretty strong too.

But.

One strange thing I have noticed when this piece of news is thrown around is ‘Salman Rushdie, the author of Satanic Verses...’ It belies fact. A man is recognized by the best work he has done, Salman’s best was not Satanic Verses. It was with Midnight’s Children that he made the impact, changed the world.

He took the literary world by the tail, swung it around several times like a hammer thrower and flung it. He changed the perceptions of writing in India, paved the way, unmistakably, for the likes of Arundhati Roy, Ghosh, Vikram Chandra and more. He made it possible for every writer in India to dream of recognition.

He looked in the eye of all writers writing in English at the time and said: There yet is another way to do it.

Not many books can claim to have set a precedent, his did. That is what he should be commended for and that is what he should be exalted for.

I may be presumptuous, but I have a feeling – inkling – that the book did that to many other writers from different parts of the world, gave them a sense of belief, a direction, a hope. That you don’t have to write in Queen’s English or just have to follow the precedents set by the masters, you can create your own, make new ones. He liberated them.

He had a part, to put it figuratively, in selling every book by a writer of Indian origin -Naipaul included - after Midnight’s Children.

And that’s what he should be remembered and honored for. Sir Salman Rushdie – author of groundbreaking Midnight’s Children.

I believe that and I will defend that with every last bit of change in my pocket.

Gastronomically Speaking...

I saw my fictional characters, the sign language talkers again, at a children’s playground. I had taken my two year old to have a swing at the swings and they were sitting, sipping cups of foamy tea.

I decided to give them a name each. Referring to them as the dumb man and the mute woman seemed so – ah – Philistine. Her name, I decided immediately, should be Siti – that was as generic and specific one could get. I played around a name or two for the man in my mind, unable to decide one. I asked my son.

“What name son? Ian? After all after if anyone from the Mufti’s department queried I could tell them it was actually Sufian Bin Abdullah.”

“Surat khabar lama, teet-teet, teet-teet.” My son replied me. Two year olds, I must let the secret out, have no sense of satire.

Well, he looked stout enough to pass for a Scotsman, Ian he will be.

As my son swung like a pendulum, jumped off the swing and played the slide I watched with one eye the conversation in progress.

“What has food got to do with literature?” Ian said, scowling. He scowled when she said something totally pointless and he had a inkling she actually leading somewhere he couldn’t fathom.

“Darling, everything! Each book is like a meal. Some good, some bad and just plain horrible like they were kept out of the refrigerator for days before being served.”

“That is being frivolous, books, I am talking of good books here, are to be taken seriously, they have changed the way we look at things, they have molded and mentored mankind in its 3000 years of civilized existence.”

“Are you sure civilized is the right word? But oh, let us not go there now.”

“Of course you don’t want to go there, you avoid the subject at all costs.”

“That is true darling, it is a subject that tastes like belacan at a belacan factory. Don’t scowl so, my love, you look like the Ayatollah from Kam Raslan’s book.”

Ian’s scowl just got darker.

“Okay let follow the ways of the grandpoobahest (1)of them all, Socrates. His dialectic method. And since Salman has been sired recently, tell me what gastronomical delights that book conjures to you.”

(I swear, dear reader, him being sired was not my idea; I am reporting the conversation verbatim.)

“Books don’t conjure any gastronomic thoughts in me, unless they are cook books.”

"Have you lost your Bacon honey, some books are to be tasted etcetera, etcetera?"

"You are taking it out of context. Anyway I read that just because the teacher forced me to."

“Bear with me darling. Imagine, say, Midnight’s Children as a sumptuous meal at the Bombay Palace, what would be on the table?”

“Chutney, of course, no Indian meal without chutney.” Ian was getting the hang of things.

“Chutney! Yes and mango at that, nothing like the sour sauciness of a mango chutney. What else.”

“Rice, biryani rice, the scented, flavored one.”

“With all the spices in it. A clove that you bite of by mistake and say ouch, but that does not stop from enjoying the rest. You are going great.”

“Palak Paneer, that’s a must.” Ian said, showing off his knowledge of good food.

“And garlic naan, it certainly must be garlic, the exotic flavor.”

“And sheek kebabs. Still with a sliver of coal on it, the rustic international feel they bring.”

“Sweetheart, you are a peach.”

“Definitely some chicken curry, the spiciest available, dal and papad”

“And top it all off with a big huge glass of lassi.”

“Yes, yes.” Signaled Ian, looking like he would choke.

“See my love, that’s what he did. He brought the whole plethora of Indian spices in one grand banquet. He took all the spices and all the flavors and put them all smack on a single table. Not serve you one by one, no, he gave it all to you. He smote you with the entire aroma. The kind of meal after which you just irreverently say: That was some food bhenchod!”

"Oh god in heaven, yes." The man signaled frantically.

"He straddled two civilizations, Western and Eastern, almost removed the ethnic worl and made Salim Sinai a citizen of the word. He quoted Laila Maju and Romeo and Juliet in the same breath. He blurred the divide. It was not a story about India or Indians for the world to read.
He gave the characters the exuberance of Leopald and added a Dickensian touch to it."

The man sighed.

"He took a perforated sheet and made it a statement on the ridiculous."

It was as if he was deflated a little after the flurry of signaling. They ordered something else.

“Please, not Ulysses. I am too full for that now.”

“Of course, sweetheart. Ulysses is the one I have kept for when I get sick of you and want to just kill you.”

(Note to Antares: liked the sound of the word so much and it fit Socrates like a glove - had to use.)

Reviewing

Over the course I have been asked to review books. I have cordially and humbly (if that is possible) refused.

I couldn’t review a book if my life depended on it. I just don’t have the talent, the grace and the understanding of literature required to do it. I admit envy when I find people like Sharon Bakar, who have the precise eye for words, are able to analyze a book, plot the plot and tell you where the heart of the books lies.

Me, I couldn’t do that, not objectively. I failed at it when I was young; I fail in it now.

Long ago, when in a class, being taught by visiting poet Nissim Ezekiel in a lecture dreadfully called ‘Poetry and Criticism” I was told after my inability to critique a poem from Gitanjali, by the great Nissim to never think of a profession in teaching.

To me books are great, okay or just plain dung masquerading as a book. My tastes would send some highbrow readers into fits. I think some the best dialog ever written was by Erle Stanley Gardner in his Perry Mason books, some of the best building of a plot and maintaining it was done by Mario Puzo in his ‘Godfather.’ He could not keep the excellence going, his Fools Die was one of the worst from him, notwithstanding the brilliant fist chapter.

A Divided Man

Was surfing, reading and came across Mohsin Hamid's this article:

http://www.mohsinhamid.com/myreluctantfundamentalist.html

This sentence struck me. just wanted to share. Haven't read his book yet, now I must.

"After all, a novel can often be a divided man’s conversation with himself."

A Conversation of Signs.

A friend and I were at a restaurant, when my eyes strayed to another couple not so far away. My friend pouted a little, as she does when she is not the center of attention.

“Hello?” She said, tilting her head, ever so little, that her nose looks a little crooked and makes me laugh. To her chagrin of course!

“Helloooo?” She said again, not having received any response from the most often used word, prolonging it so it might elicit reply.

“Ah, I am sorry. I was watching their conversation.”

“They are talking in sign language, and you don’t know any sign language.” She was visibly pouting. She blames me for being worst sign reader in the world. I don’t, for example, understand her get-me-out-of-her sign when she is pilloried in a odious conversation. Nor do I understand her various signs that some particularly big day gift is due.

“I don’t understand it, but I sure can enjoy it, can’t I?”

“That is silly. You can’t enjoy something you can’t understand. You were just trying to look at her ass, you old goat.”

I wasn’t. Looking at her ass, I mean, not from where she was sitting, not from my point of view. I would have liked to, but that is not for now.

“Darling, you can perfectly enjoy any good conversation, whether it happened or not. Twain told me so himself.”

“You are being silly.”

“No I am not, to elucidate, let tell you of the conversation so far.”

“If you must.”

Which I must, I love the sound of my voice. Put me on a stage, I freeze; in a company of three, I might hem and haw but in a two people table I like to talk.

The couple had shared some joke, I told her, as they came in laughing, the mirth on her face belied the sadness of never having to listened to Beethoven or read aloud lines from Hamlet.

“So, what shall we talk about?” The man asked, nodding happily.

They ordered cups of coffee and toasted bread.

“Whatever,” she laughed.

“God, Devil or Pak Lah’s wedding.” He ventured, throwing signs in the wind.

“Who wants to talk of weddings, anyway, old folks should never get married again.”

“That is a bad thing to say, girl, very bad. What has age got to do with love.”

“What has love got to do with marriage?”

“I am shocked! We have been married for thirteen years and you say love and marriage don’t mix.”

“For old people, no. If I met you now I wouldn’t have married you, just shacked up with you. Old folks getting married just add to the property dispute.”

“That is meaningless, Ipse Dixit comment. Something asserted but not proven.”

“Say what you want, but why talk of that.” She picked up the plastic laminated menu and began to fan herself.

“God?”

“God’s on vacation; has been since United States of America got independent. He relinquished His duties to its president. Why do thing they act like they own the planet?” She rolled her eyes. “God, sorry, Mr. President, you are so out of loop.”

“Then let us talk of Devil.”

“Been there and done that. He isn’t working for himself anymore since he got the job of Secretary of Defense.”

“God and Devil in cahoots, that is interesting. Books, then. I know I like to talk of book.” He said eagerly and bobbed his head up and down. “Shakespeare, maybe. Could I read a few lines? How do I love thee? Let me count…”

“Stop, stop.” She taps the table to convey the urgency. “Not Shakespeare, darling. I have been stuffed with him from age twelve to age twenty-two. I think the best way to enjoy Shakespeare is remove him from all syllabi. Let people – readers - discover him by themselves, unexplained and without flatulent professors telling them what he meant.”

“Joyce then? Bloomsday is coming.”

“I love Joyce. I would dump you for him anytime. Always wanted to be Molly and say yes and yes and yes and yes. But it is futile talking of Joyce. Hardly anyone understands him.”

“Who then? Maugham, Greene, Rushdie?”

“You are trying to piss me off aren’t you, with that last one?”

“Most certainly not.” He looked indignant.

“Rushdie excited me when I first read Midnight’s Children, I confess. What voice, what brilliant writing. Every book has got to have a voice, peculiar to it. Mockingbird had, Moby Dick had, and every damn good book had a voice peculiar to itself. Rushdie took it and overextended it, used it in other books too. In the Moor book he managed to get the right pitch but failed in all others.”

“You are just being a bitch, are not you?”

“Call a reader by any other name…. Seriously, try reading Labours of Hercule Poirot like it was Hamlet. Damn! Look at three books of a writer I love; compare Grapes of Wrath, East of Eden and Winter of Our Discontent. You can recognize the man’s style but his voice changes with each tale. Or take Maugham’s Razor’s Edge and Of Human Bondage.”

“I get it, you don’t like Rushdie.”

She was smiling broadly. “I didn’t say that. I love the old coot. I just don’t much care for his books after Midnight’s…”

“Bosh. I loved his Shame.”

“That is because you are you. You love Kafka too, do you know what his problem was?”

“Rushdie’s?”

“Kafka’s. He never got a good blowjob. That was his only problem.”

The man guffawed; pieces of breadcrumbs flew in all directions. “As opposed to?”

“Paulo Coelho. Got a few too many, I guess, have you read his Witches?”

My friend stopped me, regrettably. I thought the sign language conversation was soon going to veer to Malaysian writers… Even though in its infancy, Malaysian literature had found a fine one in Kam Raslan. Some of her comments on the others, though, might have been insightful.

Why I Write

George Orwell's essay on why he writes.

A sentence from it:

The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude.