To Afridi With Love

This article has been written by Maheen Sadiq

There’s a lot to be said about the cricket tournament, especially our match against India. And it has a lot more to do with Misbah-ul-Haq and Umar Gul’s bad luck, and Sachin Tendulkar’s good fortune.

Cricket speaks to our nation in a way our government never has.

And Shahid Afridi addressed the nation in a way our president never has – unselfish, genuine, modest. So when Afridi apologized to Pakistan, millions listened and were humbled by the gesture. Our eyes filled with tears and our hearts with love and strange kind of sorrow. Shahid Afridi, you need not apologize to the nation. We are proud of you and our entire cricket team! You didn’t bring back the cup, but any excitement, any happiness, any hope that Pakistanis have felt in the past few months is because of your brilliance. We’ve been hearing a lot of “Pakistan needs something to celebrate,” but what Pakistanis really needed was something to look forward to, and the green team gave us that with the anticipation of each game played.

The funny thing about cricket is that it can unite the nation through a victory or a loss. It would have been wonderful to go out on the streets and celebrate with dhols, etc, as we did when we won the 20/20 Cricket World Cup in 2009. But even after our loss yesterday, the people of Pakistan, in their state of disbelief, came out and shared their sorrow. Misery loves company. Cars on streets, people driving around slowly, quietly, patiently. No honking, no cursing, no where to go, no where to escape. It was surreal. This only goes to show what cricket means to us and the massive void it fills for our nation.

Cricketers, you made us patriotic. You made us passionate. You made us proud.

And these precious adjectives are some that Pakistan rarely gets the chance to associate itself with.

So again, Afridi, your apology is appreciated but not needed. You conducted yourself with patience, grace and dignity, encouraging your own with a smile, and congratulating the opponents with an even bigger smile. You didn’t win the semi-finals, but you won our hearts. Thank you for showing the world we are not an aggressive nation.

To Pakistan, I propose this: if there’s anyone who needs to apologize it’s us.

So to Afridi and the team, I apologize for the pressure I put on you to win the World Cup. It comes from my own shortcomings. So lazy and so cowardly am I that I am incapable of creating for myself a reason to celebrate Pakistan. Since as far as I can remember, my patriotism has tenaciously clung to cricket. It is unfair. I know.

To those Pakistanis who thought this was a match between Hindus and Muslims, I’m glad India won. This was never a battle between nations, or a jehad against Hindus. It was a semi-final cricket match, and if a loss is what it took to be reminded of this then I’m glad we lost. Victory would have only made you gloat over something you had wrong all along anyway.

However, if there was one thing I was relieved to discover it was that we don’t hate India. We may hate America, but we don’t hate India. No burning of the Indian flag, no bitter remarks, no threatening reaction. Phew! Just healthy competition and a pure love for the game.

So we don’t hate India. In fact, we hate Zardari. What pleased me even more were the numerous text messages and facebook statuses I came across that poked fun at Zardari. My personal favourite is, “ We congratulate India on winning the semi-finals. As a good-will gesture, India can keep Pakistan’s prime minister. And if it wins the finals, we will give our president too.”

Ahhh, Zardari jokes. They never get old. He’s our scapegoat now. It’s his fault we lost. Somehow.

That being said, think. It’s time we stop asking of our cricketers something we should have been asking of ourselves. Or our government. Lets find ourselves a reason to be patriotic and celebrate Pakistan, and let cricket be a sport, not an identity. If we all just took a little responsibility, maybe our beloved team can finally approach the pitch as cricketers, not as soldiers entering the battlefield. We owe it to them.

Welcome back, boys!


 http://www.maati.tv/beta/to-afridi-with-love/

A Matter of Honour: Face to Face with Jeffrey Archer!

He swept me off my feet. No, yanked me right off them. Jeffrey Archer came, spoke, conquered. A man of wit, wit, wit. Charm, charm, charm. And of course, substance. Excerpts from his speech at the Landmark bookstoe yesterday:

My favourite Indian author: Vikram Seth. The man seems able to do just about anything: paint pictures, play the violin, sing. I'm surprised he isn't opening the batting for India!

I don't paint pictures. I don't play the violin. I don't sing. I only write. And I am grateful.

I am very self-disciplined. I wake up at 5.30. I write from 6 to 8. Then I take a break, and write for 2 hours again. Another 2 hour break, then back to writing. You don't have to do what I do. Do what works for you.

God-given Gift. (on being asked what inspires him.)

If you're writing a short story, you have to know the ending before you write the first word, and then build up toward that ending. With my novels, I usually know where I'm going until about one-third of the way. By the time I'm there, I develop ideas about where the rest of the story is going.

I am not tech savvy. I write every single word with a felt pen, on paper. (Jeffrey Archer has written 17 novels, several short story collections and plays)

Check out his blog: http://jeffreyarchers.blogspot.com/

Hazaaron Khwahishein Aisi…

My (Very basic) Wish-list..
Tea at the Savoy.
My footprint on the Great Wall of China.
A Virgin Galactic Boarding Pass.
Tour the south of France and the Scottish countryside.
A villa by the Mediterranean. Lovely white stucco walls, with overhanging blazing red flowers, and a lawn filled with flowers...a cocktail of colour and scent.
Spend a l-o-n-g weekend at the world's lushest orchard (first find out where it is!), thinking green thoughts in a green shade...
Learn how to make India's yummiest Kadhi-chawal!

My First Short Story (written in 1990)

Miss Petunia

The house next door had been unoccupied for nearly two years.

Then one morning, a bunch of carpenters descended on it. Thak-thak-thak, whirrr, they went. A gardener with weed-like hair followed, and finally, some painters, armed with buckets of creamy liquid.

In February, Mrs. and Miss “Kichloo” moved in. Mom was delighted. “Kichloos are from Kashmir. Maybe Mrs Kichloo will teach me how to make that yummy Kashmir dum aloo. I say, let’s invite them for dinner tomorrow.”

The moment I saw the young Miss Kichloo, I gave her a new name: Miss Petunia. That’s just the way she looked…like a soft white petunia come alive from an impressionist painting. Cornflower-blue eyes, crimson-bud lips, damask- rose skin… and ah! a little cleft in her chin that dented my heart…For a boy of 17, Miss Petunia was ambrosia, if only for the eyes.

Everything to do with her was floral. Her skirts, her shirts, her cotton handbag, even the strap of her watch. But I was soon to discover more. One night they invited us over. I was amazed at the profusion of flowers inside. An absolutely huge painting of February flowers covered the main living room wall.

The upholstry, wall tiles, crockery, tablecloth, everything was floral. Dad said it was as if they had brought down the valley of Kashmir with them. Finally, we ran out of synonyms for "beautiful". Miss Petunia seemed touched and happy. I shot up a glance at her mother, and suddenly got a feeling that her eyes could cut you up- like sharp knives. I shivered.

I knew we were all secretly comparing the place with our sparse, simple home with its plain brown carpet and cream curtains. In fact, I realised there were hardly any floral objects anywhere in our house. Mum had no time to be artistic.

Miss Petunia, whose real name was Sharda, offered to show us around the house. Her mother’s thin lips curled up into wafers at this, but she said nothing and stayed put at the dining table. I felt relieved.

Miss Petunia’s own room was even softer than the rest of the house. Done up in baby pink floral wallpaper, it had a four-poster bed with a blue cornflower bedspread. We saw the whole house except the master bedroom downstairs- her mother’s bedroom. I had no wish to.

Our colony was quite new. About 20 kilometres from the main city, an exclusive township of 15 odd bungalows, meant for those who could afford the better things of life. Most of the bungalows were unoccupied. Inevitably, therefore, Miss Petunia made friends with us. Soon, we were pretty close.

In the summer twilight, we would sit on the soft, wonderful grass in her lawn- grass that seemed to gobble you up like a fluffy satin quilt. Assorted flowery scents would float in on the wings of the evening breeze, in a superb mix of perfume that could never be captured in a bottle.

Lying under the stars, we shared our little secrets. She told me her father was an American. (So that explained those cornflower eyes). He was separated from her mother. Thanks to a generous alimony, they were here.

Many more evenings later, she told me there was someone very special in her life. And that he was abroad. At that, unbidden, a hot tear rolled down the corner of my eye and melted into the dewy grass. Boys aren’t supposed to cry, but ah, I was only 17. Then the curtain parted in her mother’s bedroom and I knew it was time for me to leave.

Every evening, I would go to her house, and her mother would open the door. She would throw me a plastic smile, which I somehow longed to tell her I didn’t need.

Once I was in Miss Petunia’s room, however, I would feel relaxed, and curiously, safe. I would sit on a chair while she stood before her mirror, applying kajal and a soft mauve lipstick. Up her silken locks would go in a neat bun, which she would secure with a silken floral tassel. It was as if she were dressing up for a date. Then she would pull out an envelope from a secret drawer underneath her shoe cupboard. I would take it from her without a word and hide it inside my shirt. Obviously Mrs. Kichloo knew nothing about the boyfriend.

We would post the fat floral envelope into the letter-box down the lane, and she would turn back with a soft swish of her floral skirt. I wondered how and what possibly she could write to him about- every single day. If she couldn’t come one day for some reason, she would bring two envelopes next evening.

Miss Petunia told me all about Abhi. `We met last year," she said. "He is dad’s friend’s son. Mother never allowed me to mix up with people, boys or girls. But somehow, we fell instantly fell in love. Then Mum decided to move here. I didn’t want to come. Abhi is working in a computer firm there. He says he will come and take me away after a few months. We write to each other every day, but of course he cannot post his letters. I do, but if she gets to know..’ she left the sentence hanging.

I was content to be the shoulder she could cry on. In fact, it was strangely romantic to be the silent, pining lover. Abhi was hardly a flesh and blood person to me- sitting so far away, he had brought the two of us so close. I was almost grateful to him.

Another day, she told me, "Do you know why Mother left father? Because he loved me. Every time he picked me up or played with me, she worked herself up into a rage. He couldn’t be a normal dad to me. Couldn’t bathe me, feed me, kiss me, buy me an ice-cream. She wanted to do it all. Then they would fight, and I began to be scared of going up to Dad. If mother knew about Abhi, she would.. kill him. She can’t stand the thought that I would marry and go away."

I was curious to know why she was so lenient in my case, then. `She doesn’t want anyone to know that she is paranoid. She is, Raju, my mother is, how shall I say, not all there. Her father killed her mother and then blew his own brains off- and imagine, my mother saw it all, crouched behind the bed!. Ever since, she just clings. She is afraid to lose me, the poor dear. People notice it, and begin to question it. She doesn’t want that questioning. This is a new place, and your father is a very big man.’

I didn’t think Mrs. Kichloo was a `poor dear’ at all, but I said nothing.

Sometime in the middle of January, Miss Petunia suddenly stopped coming out at all. I went to call her once, twice, thrice, but each time her mother would open the door and give me a glassy-eyed look. She would say, Sharda is unwell. She will not be able to see you for a week, maybe ten days. The rest of the day I carried a thorn in my heart.

I persuaded Mum to find out what the matter was. She too drew a blank.

I began to feel extremely uneasy. How could someone be holed up in a room for weeks? Miss Petunia would wilt. She needed a doctor. Why didn't her mother take her to a hospital if something were so wrong? I decided to investigate.

I snooped around the house that night. There was no light in Miss Petunia’s room, but the window was very slightly open. I waited till midnight, and then shinned up the pipe.

Inside her room, I flicked on my torch, and saw her wilted face between the covers. She looked white. White, not like a soft petunia anymore, but like a ghost. Her eyes blinked in the torchlight. When she realised it was me, a stream of long-held-back tears flowed from her eyes. `Raju..’she tried to whisper. `My letters..’ she held out her arms- and I saw they were covered with bandage- soaked in blood. I couldn’t help crying out, and immediately heard hurried footsteps coming up. `Run’, please- she begged.

I zipped down the metal pipe like a scud missile. All the time, my mind raced furiously. It looked like Miss Petunia had slashed her wrists. Why? She was dying, I could see it in her face. My sweaty palms lost their grip and I landed on the ground with a bruising thud.

I picked myself up, and saw her.. Mrs. Kichloo, eyes glinting, holding something like a meat-cleaver in her hands. I froze for two long seconds, and then ran..ran for my life. At some point, I fell and blanked out.

When I awoke, my cream curtains had changed to a hospital green. My bed was harder, longer. My hand was connected to a tube. `Oh, Raju, my Raju..’ Mum sobbed. Dad pressed my forehead. Savi, my sister, sobbed. I just stared.

"Raju, you’ve been unconscious more than 12 hours. What happened? The doctor says there has been some deep shock to your system. And why were you dressed in your shirt and pants at night?" I kept quiet.

Much later, back home, I broached the subject of the neighbours. `Oh, Mrs. Kichloo left suddenly,’ said mum. `No goodbye, no forwarding address."

"And Miss Petunia?" my voice trembled. `Pooh, Miss Petunia indeed. She used to look like a rather droopy petunia, if you ask me. Must have gone, too. I was too hassled with you to bother. Someone said they've moved to Lucknow. Weird, no? I'm quite glad they left."

All of that week, I slept in my parent’s room. They asked me no questions, but they could sense that I was afraid, disturbed, broken.

Next Monday, I wobbled across to her house. The grass was spring-green again, and the blossoms were back. I pictured her there on the lawn, lemonade in hand, whispering softly, `Raju, I have something to tell you.’ Suddenly I wanted to know what she had wanted to tell me. I thought of her last words to me- `my letters..’

I clambered up her wall, and let myself into her room. It still held her perfume. I pulled out the secret drawer, and drew out a big bunch of thin floral envelopes. I caressed them a long time. Then I got down, took a last longing look at the house, and posted her letters down the lane.

There was a letter for me in the next day’s post. From her. O my God! She was alive, and she would tell me her address..I almost tore it open.

The blue floral letter paper had red stains. Between the folds, the ink was blotched - with dried blood. `Raju,dearest..’I stood there, shocked. Then I ran up to my father and handed him the first page. Dad wanted to know where the next page was, but I said, eyes down, that maybe poor Miss Petunia had run out of blood.

Two days later, Mrs. Kichloo was arrested from a seedy Lucknow hotel. Asked about her daughter, she just laughed and shook her head. Miss Petunia was never found.

Post Script

I
know where Miss Petunia is. She told me everything in her letter. How her mother had got to know about Abhi. How she slashed Miss Petunia’s wrists. Where she was going to bury her. And later, how she would kill Abhi..’

Among those letters I had found that day, I had posted one to myself- without knowing it.

I often go and sit with her in the lawn. Next to the freshly planted row of crysanthymums. I don’t want to tell anyone she lies beneath this bed of flowers. I don’t want them to disturb her..

Lyrics From Long Ago

Across my dreams

with nets of wonder

I chase the bright, elusive butterfly of love...

I heard this song when I was very young. Haven't heard it ever since, but would love to know who wrote, who sang it. Any clue?

Too Much of Me...

Brought back these thoughts from my walk in the park this evening…

Ahead of me, two women, both overweight, panting as they discuss their maid problems. Watching their kurtas highlight jiggling lumps of flesh all over hips and 'waists', I wonder what excuse they (or I) have for being out of shape. How can we bring ourselves to choose, try on and pay for clothes that scream 'unfit.' Isn't it a sin to saddle this precious, God-gifted body with ugly, unhealthy fat? How can we expect to be happy or make others happy if our vital organs are groaning under layers of adipose tissue, and our self-image is perpetually low? And if we aren't here to be or make happy, then why are we here at all?

That Love Is All There Is...?

Is there such a thing as love? What we call love is basically a desperate need to be appreciated, valued, isn't it? But if love is so selfish, then how can it be beautiful? Why do poets and so called 'lovers' waste their entire lives pining for it? Maybe I just haven't met anyone who is happy in love. Even Dr Ahmar, and his love, Zoya, of Dhoop Kinarey, were never happy together. Had they married, they wouldn't have lasted as a couple because their needs and natures were simply too different.

Is it possible to be happy alone? I haven't met anyone who is alone and happy, either. A friend comes to mind, but I don't know if she is as happy as she claims to be. Or maybe it is just the love-addicted fool in me that refuses to believe anyone can be happy without someone in their lives.

Love hurts. And hurts bad. Because there is nothing more painful than feeling unappreciated, unwanted, undervalued. See? That selfishness again. What is this crazy need to be wanted? How would it feel to be alone and fulfilled within oneself? I have never been that way, because all my life, I have been 'in love' with someone or the other.

Are you happy? In love or alone? Would you like to share your feelings with me?