Autobiography January 2013
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Welcome to the sixteenth issue of Udantya! ______________________________ This month we learn more about ourselves through our stories!
_______________________________ Backstage Pass The Essence of Udantya Megaphone A Word from the Editors Spotlight Pieces of My Puzzle - Namita Azad Darkroom Carpe Diem - Namita Azad
©Namita Azad
Armchair Critic The Truth About Truth -Aparna Vidyasagar
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Jam Session My Story; Your Eyes - Aparna Vidyasagar
In February, Udantya celebrates two years of creativity!
Around Town
The theme is 'Favorite Things'.
Cameo A Dive Into the Pensieve - Ambalika Khadria
Write about anything that catches your fancy; anything under the sun.
A Shia-Muslim-American’s Response to the Quetta Bomb Blasts - Zehra Imam
The deadline for submission is February 13, 2013. ***
Archive (hosted on Issuu) ©Udantya 2013
FAQ
Backstage Pass
The very essence of artistic expression is that, it is captured in many different ways.
A picture, a word or a tune. Your rebellion, your journey and your destination. Here, we aim to capture it all. Join us or explore with us. Welcome to Udantya Welcome to our creative space!
Udantya aims to be a collaborative effort. If you have any articles, photos or music you would like to share, please email us at udantya@gmail.com. Future themed issues will be announced a month in advance.
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Š Udantya 2013
Megaphone From the Editors Autobiography. Our stories in our own words. Must we have lived, a lifetime of life? Ever-evolving, never defined. To teach and to learn at any time. Our stories in our own words. Autobiography. ___________________________________ In the Spotlight segment this month, Namita shares the defining part of the last six months of her life, through her experiences while in India.
Armchair Critic examines the concept of truth through one of the most well known autobiographies, Mahatma Gandhi’s, ‘The Story of My Experiments With Truth’. Aparna peels aways the layers and dissects the truth, about truth! In Jam Session, is a mixed bag as always. Have you considered what happens when your story intersects with those of others? Do you believe in love at first sight? And, what about famous last words makes them so famous? Read on to find out! Our Cameo this month features first time contributors Ambalika (Rika) Khadria and Zehra Imam. Rika’s story is of one life, and a lifelong friendship. Zehra writes of her experiences as a Shia Muslim and talks about bringing hope amidst hostility. We hope you enjoy our stories! ***
In Darkroom this month, Namita takes us on a journey through the city of New York, viewed through her lens. She captures the stories of different people in the city, all in the span of a day. Enjoy the ride! © Udantya 2013
Spotlight Pieces of My Puzzle by Namita Azad
The best friends sitting next to me are discussing last night’s dinner party. The young college graduate in front of me is explaining to his brother why he can’t wear blue to his job interview the day after. The couple behind me is having a conversation in French, which I think involves dinner in Soho tonight. And, the barista a few tables away from me is smiling, serving a group of friends their coffee. Everyone has a story for today. Today has created another conversation, another reason to smile, another day to live, and another chance at finding meaning.
Experiencing other people’s lives makes you realize parts of yourself that were unknown before. India gave me many such instances some of which have embedded themselves deeply in my story. The one experience that has left me deeply inspired was while I was completing my Global Health internship at Christian Medical College (CMC) in Ludhiana, Punjab. One of my projects involved conducting cancer education and awareness sessions with primary school children in the rural regions of Southern Punjab - ares that hold the highest incidence of cancer cases in all of India. As a public health practitioner, it was always a dream to be on the field and make a difference to the state of health of the needy. We conducted sessions with fourth, fifth and sixth graders as well as having discussions with the school teachers and principal. Being at that school and teaching these young minds about cancer was a high that I had never experienced before. They were shy and silent at first but as the teachers and I probed them a little and pushed them to share their thoughts and questions, it allowed for some great discussions. To witness young minds question, challenge their ideologies and make promises of change was the kind of experience for which I had always aspired. As a student, I had read many similar case studies that were conducted all across the globe but to practice it first hand was a completely different learning experience.
Surrounded by all this, I find my mind wandering to the same question again; what is my story? Do I have a story? Is it time to get a story? Shouldn’t I have more experiences to have a good story? So I sit back, and think back. The last six months of my life felt like the biggest, longest and scariest roller coaster ride. Just as a puzzle is built a step at time with the right pieces, I felt a significant part of my puzzle had been pieced together through this time. Whether it was when I looked into the beaming eyes of the cleaning woman who came to my home every morning, or when I played with the stuttering child of our office’s helper boy and or when I had conversations with the local auto-driver who took me to and from the grocery store, my heart would warm up. ©Udantya 2013
The next defining moment was a lot more personal. Indian marital communions have popularly been the union of two families more than just the two individuals. Similarly, in my case, even though my husband and I fell in love and decided to get married, our marriage was by and large a family event for both sides. And, an important part for both of us was meeting the respective in-laws. I happened to have my first meeting with my in-laws two months before the wedding! I had been communicating with them for over a year at this point via telephone but meeting them in person seemed like a completely fresh start. Within the blink of an eye I had been gifted a whole new family; I had someone else I was to call ‘mother’, another brotherly figure to confide in, and a set of new grandparents. Growing up I was always used to getting to know people, understanding them and then building my individual relationships with them. For the first time I was given a relationship and then had to understand and get to know the individual. It was like starting from the finish line and moving to the beginning, which requires a lot of patience and strength. The charm however comes in when the definitions you have for these relationships take on new meanings. I do not fully know which emotions to experience when I refer to my mother-in-law as my mother in conversations, but the beauty is that it is becoming a lot more natural and familiar.
The last incident is one that still boggles my mind even when I think of it today. I was standing at the New Delhi Railway Station. I had just run up eight or nine flights of stairs with a heavy suitcase in my hand trying frantically to get to the station in time. There were eleven minutes to my train and like the millions of people surrounding me, I was trying to figure out, at which platform I was supposed be. Suddenly, I felt a strong jerk on my right arm. I looked down and saw my suitcase missing from my hand. Instantly I looked up and saw nothing but the million faces that were around me before that moment. And just then I realized, I had been robbed, in broad daylight while standing in a crowd. The thought bewildered me so much that I just froze there, not knowing what to do or where to go next. At that very moment my grandmother call me to inquire whether I had boarded my train safely and after telling her what had just happened, she instructed me to just get on that train. Attempting to find the thieves or reporting it to railway authorities would only land me in more trouble and possibly threaten my safety. And so like a puppet being strung from one place to another, I dashed to my platform and ran onto the moving train. I sank into my seat and for the next four hours, I retraced the entire incident over and over in my mind. I tried to hard figure out what I did wrong, what could I have done differently, what they would do with my stuff. Where would my bag be now? Innumerable questions raced through my
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Darkroom
mind. That day was the first time I had ever been robbed. It was the most violating feeling of all. To think that they now possessed my personal belongings angered me and not knowing what is happening to my things made me incredibly sad. There was a tornado of emotions churning inside of me and I wanted to just scream at the top of the lungs but something muted me. That train ride is an experience I can't let go. I realized so many emotions that have become such a vivid memory. When I stepped off that train four hours later, there was a certain amount of strength that walked off with me. For the first time I understood the phrase 'survival of the fittest' because of how unfit I felt both mentally and physically at that moment. And after having gone through that, I also realized that, after that day, I would never allow myself to be such a vulnerable target for anyone else.
Carpe Diem by Namita Azad
Each day we live a chapter of our stories. Whether it's our struggle, our triumph, our ordinary or our realization. It's our tale to tell and our story to discover. Udantya explores the different stories by people form all walks of life in the span of one day in New York City.
These three incidents and the many other smaller ones that came before and after them, have created avenues for more discoveries about myself and the world around me. They created unknown paths of personal strength and realization on to which I would never have ventured previously. But more than that, they've made me realize the small nuances of my own personality and have encouraged me to step out of my comfort zone more often so that I can learn about myself. For, a complete puzzle is always found in the disarray of its pieces.
Carpe Diem on Vimeo ŠUdantya 2013
Armchair Critic The Truth About Truth by Aparna Vidyasagar
When considering the merits of the autobiography versus a biography, I have in the past, favored the autobiography. After all, who can tell our own story better than us, in our own words? Would it not be the most truthful account of our history? Given all of the shades of grey that exist in our lives, we would expect the truth to be unadulterated and absolute. The more I think about it however, I find myself wading through a murky river of grey. I have to acknowledge the subjective truth that no doubt colors an autobiography (and for that matter a biography). Our memories are far from being recorded truths. They are filtered through our impressions, prejudices and revisions. Even an earnest attempt at an honest retelling cannot be free of the subjective perspective. Is the absolute truth ever attainable? It is with this inquisitory frame of mind, striving to understand the nuances of truth, that I approach Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi’s, ‘The Story of My Experiments With Truth’. The book serves doubly as an autobiography and a story of spiritual insight. At the very beginning, Gandhi dissects the primary components of his story - the nature of his experiments, and more importantly, the nature of truth. He states that he has conducted his experiments in the manner of a scientist, with ‘utmost accuracy, forethought and precision’. And of the results and his own conclusions, he does not ‘claim any finality’ and ‘keeps an open mind regarding them’. As a scientist, this appeals to me greatly. One of the foundations of good science is healthy skepticism. Every result disproven is a door through which to move forward. Therefore if the outcomes of our personal experiments are subject to modification, are we as individuals not better off for it? For, how else are we to grow and to evolve?
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© Udantya 2013
There is great humility with which the nature of truth is examined. Perhaps one would expect no less from a man given the epithet ‘Mahatma’ (The Great Soul), but history is always kind to the illustrious. And, I am happy to not be vindicated, at least at this beginning stage. To Gandhi, the ‘absolute truth’ in the spiritual sense directly pertains to have reached God. And, in his pursuit of the absolute truth, he draws his own conclusions and learns his own lessons. These are his ‘relative truths’. He states in no uncertain terms that his words must not be taken as authoritative. In turn, he promises to judge himself harshly and asks that his readers do not hesitate to do the same. The book delves into the period starting from Gandhi’s childhood, to roughly 1921. As we now know, 1919 onwards marks a pivotal time in the history of the Indian freedom movement and many could sense that independence was within reach. Gandhi’s personal philosophies of Satyagraha (non-violent protests) had gathered great national momentum. As a result, Gandhi had become the living symbol of Ahimsa (non-violence). As that national symbol, history paints him as unfaltering, but the book opens a window into Gandhi’s personal struggle with his philosophies. Two incidents of Gandhi’s departure from his philosophy of truth and Ahimsa (towards all creatures) strike a chord. The first is his participation in the Boer War from 1899 to 1902, as a part of the Indian ambulance corps for the British Empire. While his personal alliance was with the Boers he felt that as a British subject his duty lay with the Empire. Furthermore, in order for India’s freedom to be secured, he believed it would be through being in the good graces of the Empire. And so, he helped in the war effort in the most peaceful means possible. The second incident is his departure from a vegan diet. Gandhi’s experiments with austerity in dietetics led him to become very ill and weak, quite close to death. He mentions primarily following a meager diet of lemons and a version of peanut butter. At the urging of his friends and doctors he finally gives in to drinking some goats milk. This was roughly in 1919, at a time when the British government was looking to pass the Rowlatt Bill as the Rowlatt Act. The Bill aimed to curb any political agitation by making any type of public gathering illegal. It was heavy handed at the very least, and Gandhi was eager to lead a Satyagraha movement against the Bill and the subsequently enacted Act. In choosing his health over his principles, he states in his own words that his ‘will to live proved stronger than the devotion to the truth”. Moreover, he considers allowing for his desire to serve, as succumbing to temptation.
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I found the two reactions rather interesting. The two incidents are separated by close to two decades, and in both cases Gandhi chose serving the future and the welfare of India over his personal principles. Yet, he is harsher on himself in the latter instance. To me, as a reader, participating in the war effort seems to be a clearer violation of the principles of Ahimsa. Moreover, his participation did not lead to any tangible results for the freedom effort; Indians simply proved to be stalwart subjects of the British Empire in times of need**. So his personal sacrifice seems to be for nought. In the second instance, he is the face of the Satyagraha movement. He is the binding force and the spirit of the non-violent fight, and yet he finds himself to be selfish and disloyal to the truth. Why? Perhaps the lens of time tempered his judgement of his own participation in the Boer War. Perhaps he was inclined to be more forgiving of the younger version of himself, striving to refine a personal philosophy and balance it with a sense of pressing duty. Regardless of the apparent lack of consistency, he has remained true to his original promise of being open to changing outcomes and judging himself in the harshest terms. For me, the lesson I derive is that one should remain true to oneself, rather than to a rule. Later in his life, I see a struggle between instinct and a meticulously developed paradigm lying within many of Gandhi's words. For many of us, we are first answerable to ourselves. Then why color our vision of ourselves with guilt resulting from blind adherence to principles, no matter how carefully defined? If, at the core of our very being we believe our actions to be necessary, then by extension are they not justified? Is the truth not to simply be true? So then I must revisit my original question. The autobiography versus the biography. The brutal candor and self-examination put forth in Gandhi’s autobiography is compelling. And so I conclude, that if an individual sets out to write an honest history of themselves, to the best of their abilities, then it is the truth. They have achieved their absolute, personal truth. * Gandhi’s autobiography is a wonderful exploration of history - personal and national, and a spiritual exploration. A lot has been said about the nature of Gandhi’s experiments - some salacious, some in absolute reverence. I urge the reader to step back and take Gandhi’s following words to heart as they read the book, “I hope and pray that no one will take the advice interspersed in the following chapters as authoritative. The experiments narrated should be regarded as illustrations, in the light of which everyone may carry on his own experiments according to his own inclination and capacity.”. *
*Gandhi’s Gujarati language pro-independence newspaper publishing house; preached the tenets of Swaraj or home rule. ** It is not clear whether he wanted or expected much more.
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Jam Session
I stood on the street corner for half an hour, few made eye contact, many cut me off, and most simply ignored me. No one smiled. I felt small. I thought back to the number of times I ignored the requests of a petitioner or a pan-handler. I always made the effort to at least smile or mention that I didn't have the time, but there were moments when I was too busy to do either. I justified it to myself as somehow being balanced by the times that I did make an effort. Perhaps on a Karmic scale it does, but to the person I just ignored, I am one of many, with no history and no future.
My Story; Your Eyes. by Aparna Vidyasagar
Our stories are almost possessively ours. Even when our paths cross with others, they are the ones who become players in the stage that we set. Little do we consider that in those moments when we exchange a smile, lend a helping hand, or raise a certain finger in road-rage, our characters, histories and futures are re-imagined and become a part of someone else’s story; sometimes remembered, sometimes forgotten.
What then, do I carry away from this? We live in a time where we strive to purposefully shut the world out, behind walls of blaring music or ducking behind pages of thick books. But in the moments when we look up, and listen, we have the opportunity to connect with the people around us. Whether the experience is good or bad, remembered or forgotten, we have lived a moment, alive to the world around us. And in doing so, we have allowed ourselves and our stories to be seen through the eyes of others.
Who are we in the eyes of others? Have you ever wondered who wonders about you, as you look out the cafe window lost in thought. Perhaps that conversation with your neighbor on the train was just the welcome that they needed in a new city. And, to the chap you just flicked off you’re most certainly an absolute ass. For every stranger who has left an indelible impression in our lives, we may have done the same for someone else.
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In one simple harsh moment some time ago, I had the opportunity to view a part of myself through the eyes of another. I stood on a street corner, well dressed and friendly, hoping to have a few folks speak to me for a film I was trying to make. ŠUdantya 2013
“My Story; Your Eyes” ©Aparna Vidyasagar
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Around Town For the die hard romantic or the student of human eccentricities, check out ‘Missed Connections’ for your city. Maybe the cute guy on the subway is looking for you too!
‘Famous Last words’ aired on This American Life on October 28, 1998. Our last words tend to sum us up and define us for posterity, especially if we are famous. Host Ira Glass examines stories of such last words- famous and not so famous, in this episode. Click here to download the transcript or give the show a listen. ©Udantya 2013
Cameo A Dive into the Pensieve by Ambalika Khadria
Autobiographies are written by old and famous people, they say; but then, why would anyone want to know about my life? It’s just special to me. It has the usual ups and downs, and highs and lows that we all have; only defined and charted out in different ways. These past years have been eventful; with blank phases, exceedingly frolicking times, some disturbing situations, and a lot of staring at inanimate objects. But within the customary everyday lifestyle, my life till date has been spiced with one face, one entity. It is whom I’d like to present as the protagonist of my life story. This is the one story that I believe is worth sharing, about the only thing that has been a constant in my life. I was very little when I saw her for the first time; a girl about three or four years old, looking at me with an awestruck expression, almost confused at seeing me. Her mother was holding her and pointing toward me. I couldn’t hear them as they were at a distance, but somehow I had felt a connection with her the moment our eyes had met. One would wonder about that possibility considering we were both so young, but I distinctly remember that strong feeling. It was as if we could read each other’s thoughts. Her mother had taken her hand and made her wave at me, and I had waved back. That had seemed to brighten her up. She would stare for a while and then wave again, with a surprised yet excited look on her face. I had wondered if it was something about my face as she just wouldn’t stop staring. I distinctly remember being very curious about this little girl and her family. There were a couple of times when I had called out to them – “aunty, uncle,chutki*” (as I didn’t know her name), but they wouldn’t answer me. As that of every child, my life too had continued, full of new things to learn and new people to meet; but even at that young age, I had realized that seeing that girl was the only thing I would look forward to everyday. After the initial few tries, when I had called out to her in vain and all she had done was stare back at me, I had stopped trying to make conversation with her, and it was only when I was a little older that I realized they spoke a different language. Although they lived just next door, they never spoke to us, and had a world of their own, with people who spoke only to each other. I vaguely remember feeling doubtful as to whether it was me and my family that was the anomaly. But no, our world was normal; my parents lived in New Delhi, the place where I spent most of my childhood days. The little girl was also growing up, and it was when I was around seven years old, when she had actually spoken to me for the first time in English! She had scanned her room to check if anyone was around, looked me in the eye, smiled, and uttered, ‘Hello’. I was thrilled and had immediately responded by saying ‘Hello’, almost in sync. But after that she had gone quiet again. It seemed that this was the only word she knew. I had tried asking her what her name was, but again to no avail. All she would do was stare at me for a while, and then leave. That day ©Udantya 2013
onward, she would come and sit by the window every morning, eyes groggy with sleep, and stare at me for sometime before leaving. This puzzle in my life continued. There would be lull phases when I wouldn’t see her for more than two minutes a day, and then there would be days when she would spend hours staring at me. We were both growing up, and I’d say the time she spent by her window kept increasing. I think I was around nine when I had found out she had a baby sister. Thereafter she would spend more time alone by her window staring at me. It had begun to feel a little scary and I believe I had stopped trying to 'talk' to her after that. It soon became a way of life for me – seeing her every once in a while just staring, or smiling, or stealthily using her mother’s nail-polish or lipstick. I had developed an affection for her, and wanted to give her all my time, so sometimes to give her company I’d do the same thing, and then we’d smile at each other. She sort of became a close friend of mine, even though we never spoke. A few years passed like this, and I was in class six, when I saw her in a different uniform – she had changed her school to the Delhi Public School just like me! I had searched for her in my school, and thought I saw her every now and then. But it was possible it was just my wishful thinking. There are so many ‘DPSes’ in Delhi, she could have been just anywhere. I had left it at that, and concluded that since she had become the most important part of my life, I was perhaps imagining her. On one otherwise uneventful day, few days after our exams had ended in class seven, I saw her run to the window, sobbing. I called out to her, urging her to talk to me, to say something, but she just continued crying. She locked herself in the room, and took out a bundle of papers that had something written in a language I couldn’t understand. From the equations I could gather it was probably a Chemistry exam paper, splashed in red ink. I had figured she had scored poorly and was scared of showing it to her parents. I tried to calm her down, but she just went on crying. And then she did something horrific. Taking a glass full of water, she emptied some sort of a blue solution into it. I tried to read what it said but the script was different. I was frantic, I screamed, called for my mom, but no one heard me. She stared at me, and then at the glass of water, and was almost about to gulp it down when there was a huge bang in her door, and she immediately threw the water out of the other window. Her mother had come in and looked extremely angry. I was too scared to continue witnessing that awful moment, so I just left. That was perhaps the first ever dramatic experience of my life; how could a young girl like me want to end her life just because of a poor score in an exam? After that incident, I somehow felt that we had come closer. It was as if I was the only one who knew her secret. I could read her face. Her lack of words had stopped becoming a hindrance to our communication. Even though we never spoke, she would come to me for comfort, cry in front of me, calm herself, and then go back. On occasions she would be dressed up and apply makeup in front of me and then stare for a while, almost as if asking for appreciation. I would smile at her at give her the 'thumbs up'.
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We were both growing up and it felt as if our lives were going in parallel. I learnt that she was a dancer too, and she would dance freely with the doors to her room locked. She didn’t seem to care that I could see her. I would dance along with her almost every time! Whenever she'd be down, I would just quietly be there for her. At times I would find myself weeping too, seeing her cry. I knew I could call her my best friend; my soulmate. We would know when we wanted to see each other and somehow we’d be there each time. I attended college in Delhi University, and spent three years of my life there. I saw her many times in the vicinity. I made some wonderful friends; some lasted, some didn’t, but throughout this phase, I maintained the one relationship which was the closest to me – her. By this time, I had realized we didn’t need a common language in order to communicate; at least that’s how I felt. She seemed happy in college too. She cried less, smiled more, and spent most of her time on the phone. I think she had found someone special. I remember being amazed at how much our lives were coinciding. The last few months of college were hard, because I knew I was leaving the country to go to pursue my Master degree in Singapore. I was going to leave my friends, and most importantly, this nameless soulmate of mine. I had spent the last few minutes ‘talking’ to her. We had both cried and said our goodbyes. As usual, no words were exchanged. I had left with a heavy heart, not knowing what to expect. The next few years of my life in Singapore were very different. I missed my friends, and most importantly my window-friend. I felt lost without her. At first, I thought I saw her from time to time, but as time passed that stopped happening. I had met people from different cities and had tried hard to blend in, tried to be someone I was not, so that I could get along with them. There was an imminent alienated feeling. In hindsight, I don’t think I was happy, although I used to tell myself that I was. Somehow the balloon I was living in in the last three years had started deflating. I had started to lose my self-esteem. Ten months later, I had finally visited home. I couldn’t stop myself from running to my room the minute I had entered the house, leaving my mother surprised. But to my extreme disappointment, she wasn’t there! I never saw her in the two weeks that I was at home. I can't begin to express how much I missed her and often wondered how she was. But slowly the memories started fading, and I stopped actively thinking of her. I was quite entwined in my life away from home. Life went on normally, but there was this internal struggle, and I always knew something was amiss. I felt like I had lost something forever. I must have visited home eight to ten times in those four years, but I never saw her. I think I had slowly stopped searching, and accepted that she was just a part of my life at one time, and now I really was on my own. Following my four years away from home, I moved yet again, this time to pursue a PhD in Madison, Wisconsin. This was a welcome change. I made some wonderful friends, some of whom I could say would be friends for life. Yet, I missed my first home away from home of the past four years. There was a big part of me still residing in Singapore and I think for that reason
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I didn’t feel fully settled. Apart from the usual adjustments to a different setting, I was dealing with a new phase of life, while coming from the fear of being judged. Even though life went on fine, I felt a sense of insecurity deep inside, as if I wanted to be assured of something. The internal struggle surfaced again. I took some steps to sort out my insecurities. I joined breathing, yoga and meditation groups and through these, met some of my dearest friends. I got actively involved in a student’s association on campus to unleash my hobbies, and had some wonderful times. But in spite of all this, I was, for the most part, still hooked to my life in Singapore and the memories I had built there. Occasionally my mind would float across the times with my windowfriend, but she was quickly forgotten as there was so much going on already. At the end of my second year, I passed the preliminary exam for a PhD candidate. I clearly remember, that very moment. I had thought of her and almost immediately felt reconnected. It had seemed like wherever she was, she knew what was happening in my life, and could sense my happiness. But very soon after, some dreams of mine were brutally shattered, and I was left trying to pick up the broken pieces for months together. This was my time to cry locked up in my room, and oh how much I wished I could see her again! I had visited home twice in this period. I would sit by my window, waiting for her, this time angry from within. I was always there for her when she was in distress. When I needed her now, she was nowhere to be seen! She had left without any indication or word. In the way rocks are eroded by water and come out smooth, I think my personality too was being defined. Slowly, I started to feel better. It was an inexplicable emergence. Things were changing inside me and I could feel something or someone taking care of me. Could it have been that my long lost soulmate was near? Almost as if my thoughts were heard, suddenly one day, I saw her! Instantly, the dark clouds started clearing out! The growing connection I had felt with her was real! There she was, sitting by the window of a room next door, grown up, and radiant! I shouted out at her, and burst out crying. She hugged herself as if hugging me. I couldn’t believe it! It was as if she had realized I needed her, sought me out and come to be near me. I went out and knocked at the door which looked like the place she was living in, but no one answered. To anyone else, it would seem suspicious, but to me, it was only fitting. I smiled to myself. She was the same person, the wordless soul-mate of mine, back with me again, this time in a different country! We sat and gazed at each other, and I realized she also had gone through a lot. She would tear up in between, and then wipe her tears and smile. Something told me her story was similar to mine, and no matter what had happened, she had now found what she was looking for; she was truly happy. For me, spring had arrived! Life began to feel easier, everything had a hint of positivity in it, and I regained my faith in friendship. I had found my companion again! This happens to be first time I am narrating to the world, my best friend’s role in my life. As I finished reading it to myself, I began to wonder why she never spoke to me; why she decided to lock herself up from everyone else but me; why she confided in me so much; and why my life made no sense without her around. In my lowest moments, without her, I had felt as if I had lost my soulmate, but did she also consider me a part of her? Why could I never understand what she wrote? If she lived in the same places as I did, why did we not share a common language. Why did we only communicate silently? Was I crazy? Was this all
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in my head?
Suddenly it hit me. No, neither was I crazy, nor was it all just a coincidence. She was very very real and had lost herself without me as well. She was someone who had literally turned my life inside-out. The reason I didn’t understand her language or her writing was because it was all backwards. The window through which I saw her was never a window. It was black and opaque. She was not in my head, I was in hers. All this while, I was just her reflection, born on the first day she looked at the mirror; lost inside her mind when she had lost her self. * Chutki- (Hindi) 'little one'.
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ŠUdantya 2013
A Shia-Muslim-American’s Response to the Quetta Bomb Blasts by Zehra Imam
* In a predominantly Muslim Pakistan, Shias are the largest minority group*. * I first heard about Irfan Ali through a friend who is the co-director of Chanan Development Association, a youth and women’s empowerment organization in Pakistan. Irfan was one of their fellows, a peace activist who was recently killed in the second Quetta bomb blast. I was born in Karachi, and despite having experienced the effects of sectarian violence first-hand, my friend’s message still shook me. I, along with members of the Illuminated Cities Project and Chanan Development Association team, am committed to transforming hostile environments into hopeful spaces through interfaith work that we hope will reduce religious intolerance and sectarian violence. This is one of the first times I am publicly declaring that I am a Shia. I usually shy away from it and not naively. I learned early on to never speak about my Shia identity openly. In Pakistan, I could always spot Shias during the holy month of Mauharram because we were supposed to wear clothes that were darker, somber shades, no jewelry, and no make-up to commemorate the martyrdom of the Prophet’s family. As a child, I also knew that Shias and Sunnis were both killed in cyclical sectarian battles. In America, my own experiences with being Shia contained a concealed quality. A few summers ago, I did an intensive summer Islamic studies program. I was the only Shia. I didn’t tell anyone, not even participants with whom I am a now close friend. I told only one professor because he asked. I regretted it immediately because I felt that everything I had ever said to him was immediately delegitimized.
©Udantya 2013
You might think, “Why care about what someone thinks of you?”. The reason this community perception is so important to me, is because being a part of a community is of paramount importance to many religions, especially Islam. And, it is what really drew me towards the religion. The Islam I learned about ensured that everybody was included – women, children, the elderly, and anyone who was ostracized for any reason. What I feared most for so long about disclosing this nuance about my identity was not being seen as a legitimate part of the Muslim community. I used to fear Muslim reactions the most, especially since I have alternate approaches to practicing Shia’ism. I don’t agree with the displays of self-harm when commemorating the leader of a community, and don't attend most religious events. I keep my associations with Shia’ism because of the principles of social-justice, compassion, how to conduct yourself in moments of crisis, and being kind to your enemies that are at the core of its message. What I take from Shia’ism is this: that we can measure how much we have progressed as a human species by how much respect we are able to show one another, especially during moments of crisis and disagreement. Many individuals have served as reminders of this key lesson throughout my life. I was on the phone one day, speaking harshly with my best friend. My brother heard me, and immediately said, "Don't talk to him like that. Show him respect, even during a fight.". Is this not what Desmond Tutu practiced? He said “people are truly wonderful,” and I must believe him because he saw human beings in their most base forms. Irfan Ali described himself as someone whose “religion is respect” and as someone who “love[s] all religions.” Religious intolerance is not just a phenomenon of Pakistan or Palestine. In those places it is just another reminder of what can happen if religious differences are not genuinely respected. When we encounter hostile spaces consistently, we are meant to learn from the courage of Irfan and all my friends who are still in Pakistan right now unrelentingly responding with a peaceful message. My friends in Pakistan speak about diversity, tolerance, and compassion and they embody it. They are youth leading youth in creating peace festivals and currently supporting and participating in peace protests that have been going on for many days. They don’t settle for a Pakistan that isn’t at an optimal state. Victor Frankl said, “If we take man as he is, we make him worse. If we take man as he should be, we make him capable of becoming what he can be.”. My friends, though deeply disheartened, continue to believe in a better world, as he would have encouraged. *
©Udantya 2013
* Religious intolerance is not just a phenomenon of Pakistan. The Quetta bomb blasts are just an extreme version of what can happen if religious differences are not genuinely respected. * My friends at Chanan Development Association in Pakistan and the Illuminated Cities Project team inspired me to write this piece after many years of not being able to talk about my identity. We are all actively working towards transforming hostile environments into hopeful spaces and creating, for individuals like myself, a space that can honor and respect those with different beliefs. * * To get an explanation of Shia’ism as well as its differences with Sunni Islam, please refer to this BBC link that highlights the beliefs and differences.
ŠUdantya 2013
FAQ We’ve had a few questions over the past few months, so we thought it would be a good idea to chart out our very own FAQ page.
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ŠUdantya 2013