Patterns of Remembrance + You

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Patterns of Remembrance

Zahra Sohail Mukhi

Table Of Contents Introduction The Beginning | The Build Up | Setting the Scene

The First Poetry | Politics of Moving | Anxieties of Movement | Presence | Absence

The Second Everyday Musings | Walks around the City | Textures of Being | Patterns of Arrival and Departure

The Third Their Stories, Their Words | Of Loss and Gain | Remembering Time | Geographies of Memory

The Fourth Questions | Anecdotes | The Document as Background | Subverting Meaning

Dictionary Of Language | Power | Body | Politics

Acknowledgements

Introduction You may know this already. So this isn’t an introduction then. We could call it a beginning. But do stories like these ever begin from one point? Have any of our stories ever begun from one point? Can we conceivably say so?

Then, this becomes the first few lines of the rest of this piece. You can hold any amount of expectations or none at all.

It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you read this and it gives you something to think about. If it doesn’t, that’s fine too.

For now, just read—if you want to. You don’t have to dwell on anything or think about anything (especially if you’re already in bed or if you’ve had a bad day).

Just read.

Thinking will happen later.

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There are no people in this work.

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There are parts of people.

You may know them. You might’ve seen them around.

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They might know you. They might’ve seen you around.

You cannot deny them.

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They cannot deny you.

The First

tsriF ehT

My hair tells me it’s time.

The sticky sweat on my body tells me it’s time.

The smudged kajal, receding down Meray baalon ki kafiyat, bata rahi hai keh from my eyelids to become one with it’s time. my circles, tells me it’s time.

The sticky sweat on The dark tinge of my skin tells me my body mujhse keh raha hai, waqt ho it’s time. chuka hai.

Dear sweet monsoon, The smudged kajal, meri aankhon se you’ve been away for too long. neeche behta hua, meray halkon se milta hua .noisacco eht si ti syevoc skcoL tells me it’s time.

The dark tinge of my skin tells me no taews dimuH .noisacco eht si ti syevnoc erugif Waqt ho chuka hai. nwod gnidnecsed ,lhok deraemS htiw enibmoc ot seye hguorht .noisacco eht si ti syevnoc ,sgnir eht Dear sweet monsoon, eht aae si tinahi. syevnoc niks fo ssenkrad ehT kitni der hui, tum .noisacco ,niar teews ,niaR .dessap sah emit

Is the thinking happening yet?

What do you tell an 11-year-old who goes to a place, they think will be paradise?

Do you tell them there is no such thing as paradise on earth?

Do you shatter their dreams of freedom where there will be none?

Do you tell them a truth even you sometimes deny?

What do you tell a 15-year-old who comes back from said place, disoriented and in denial?

Do you tell them it’ll get better?

Do you tell them they’ll have no one to go to?

Do you tell them they’ll have to survive this on their own?

I was too young to understand that the color of my skin and my accent would warrant racial attacks against me. I was too young to understand that it wouldn’t be easy gelling with the crowd.

I bring pain upon myself to take the pain away.

It sucked there, it sucks here. I would choose here for one simple fact: I don’t have to explain myself here.

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‘They’ think I am here for a visit when they look at my identification. I smile and pass on. I don’t have the energy to explain my trauma to every person I meet.

Stuck inside my room all day and night.

There wasn’t much for me to look forward to.

I loved being alone because being around people meant being bullied.

I would rather be alone than be forced to run away.

It sucked there, it sucks here. I would choose here for one simple fact: I don’t have to explain myself here.

Treated As

as a

a

paindu celebrity

there here

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Accents change and my status elevates or drops.

They were more scared for me there than they are here.

This city isn’t the best but I have started being myself.

Because my brownness is normal. I don’t reduce myself anymore for being different.

To write as if your life depended on it: to write across the chalkboard, putting up there in public words you have dredged, sieved up from dreams, from behind screen memories, out of silence—words you have dreaded and needed in order to know you exist.

Adrienne Rich, ‘What is Found There’

And if he did, did he also have to hide his ancestry? Did he have to come up with a false lineage? Did he ever have to prove that he came from where he said he came from? Did he live in fear all his life? Fear of ‘being found out’? Of ‘not belonging to the place running in my veins’

The Second

The Second The Second

The Second The Second The Second

The Second The Second

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The Second

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The Second The Second The Second

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The Second The Second The Second

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To the memory of my right molar tooth, I pray that you grew into a leaf or a flower before the ants and the worms got to you. I pray you gave life in death. I pray that even in death you were life giving. I kept you inside when you were done with your life, I kept you inside because I was afraid of the pain you would cause. Your child grew from my gums but you stayed there, supporting it. And I didn’t let go of you until you were pulled out from me, one afternoon at the dentists. I think I was more relieved than sad, I’m sure you were too.

I hope you found peace after a prolonged death. I promise I cherished you.

Mangoes and motias/smell like a summer when/my home was full of people/Motias on tables, in pots, around necks and/hands/Mangoes in wooden crates, bowls, baskets and/tables/Motias, churned for their essence—/made into sharbat/Summers now feature mango/Motias I find in perfumes, teas/trying to hold onto nostalgia/A smell I may forget to/remember soon/I will meet you in the beyond

MnM’s MnM’s

There is a place, a place full of dust—that eyewitness to all of history (dust should write out our histories). A place that bleeds and heals within hours. A place that carries the burden of being a silent spectator in itself that is violent and loud. A place where djinns lurk under every tree, every plant and every rock. A place where there are very few roads and millions of cars. A place where public transport gives motivational speeches, with a very high success rate. A place where walking isn’t easy, its almost..weird. A place that takes but also gives, though not in equal measure. A place that smells of neem trees, bougainvillea and garbage dumps. A place that infuriates. That place—is the Capital of a planet in a far away galaxy, one with no power, water or gas.

Ber

The first fruit of the ber tree came after the one who had gifted it, left.

Ber, green and brown small, hard and soft crunchy and smooth.

Sickly sweet—like her.

I felt the waterworks as the first bite went into my mouth down my throat and into my stomach to be broken down by gases.

And whenever it gives bounty to us who are ridden with grief we wonder what joy she would get and smile to ourselves still broken but whole again.

did they think about the afternoon light?

or is it just us

reducing light to entertain our whims?

They tell you one thing. But do you really believe in it?

Ask yourself if the piece of ‘smart’ plastic you keep safely away , do you really see yourself in it?

How close am I to this person on this plastic card? What does it tell me about me? If I were to lose my memory, would I remember or understand who I used to be from this one card? I think not. It doesn’t reveal any deep secrets, it won’t get me anywhere, it won’t save me from the burden of carrying my life. It won’t make me teary or emotional. It just makes me angry and frustrated.

But what if this chip carried in it, everything about me? My secrets, my first kiss, my first travel experience, my first trauma and everything in between and since? What if they already know everything? I guess I’ll now have to reinvent my entire life or die from thinking about the what-if’s.

Or throw this away and live as a nameless person with no i d e n t i t y .

A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale A Fairytale The only time I agree to sit outside is between 4 and 7 pm.

Between 4 and 7 pm the light stays pretty, the weather stays softer, the world seems calmer, and I imagine myself in a fairytale one where I am alone, in my veranda, and the day is only 4 to 7 pm long.

Golden light transforms even the devil into the angel he once was.

Cornerstones of existence; abhi bohat time hai ab time nahi bacha.

‫ت‬ ‫ذ‬ ‫ك‬ ‫ر‬ ‫ہ‬

t a z k i r a h

When I think of the early 2000’s—the earliest I can remember—I think of Sesame Street, on PTV at 1pm and actual rain. Actual rain in which I would play in the keechar in my underwear—actual rain where Ammi would scream at us to dry off before entering the house.

I think of a time where I was never aware of everything that went wrong with the city. I was unaffected, to a degree—what a privilege.

I remember a time when every time we would be leaving from Nani’s house, we would get a chocolate. I remember playing with Ammi’s toys, drawing and painting until I made a huge mess. I remember beaches and families meeting just because and barbecues that would go on until very late at night (only on the weekends). I remember Dada taking us for a (slow) spin in the car around the mohalla, up to Hill Park and getting packets of juice every time he would come home. I remember being fed by his hands—angoor roti, aam roti—insisting I eat one niwala even if I had eaten before him.

I remember—or at least I now imagine—the city being open. A lot more so. Maybe it was the fewer cars, or I just imagine it to be so because I never noticed. I remember the city being more forgiving—it still is. I remember spending my time between Nani’s, school and home and thinking ‘what a wild life’. I also remember being bullied at school, the feeling of not being the right fit among people I had grown up with.

When I think about my life since then, I remember death, loss, pain, distance. I also remember growth, learning, love, finding my people, and hobbies I’ve made part of me. I would imagine the people who witnessed by birth, would also witness my death. But the city has shown (not the world), that can’t be true. This was also determined on the day of my ancestors big event when it was written that I would not be so lucky. Maybe in a parallel universe, someday, a 75-year-old Zahra will be surrounded by her Bari Dadi, her Dada and her Nani and the people she’s lost since, standing beside her deathbed witnessing as on her birth.

‘Karachi’ sounds so exotic, so otherworldly as if an alien being placed it here for it to grow. As if its mother was the planet and Karachi the city she couldn’t keep or hold on to. But it also doesn’t sound so. I wonder how I would feel, how my life would change had I been living in ‘Kurrachee’ or ‘Kolachi’ (not the restaurant).

I have had a fascination with airports. The reason? Dada and Aboo worked/work there as engineers. Airplane food, airplane seats, toiletries and every other thing you could think of, made a place in our home once. Airports as a place of transit, as a place of arrival and departure and planes fascinated me, they still do. The fascination of traveling, of going from one place to another. Airports anywhere would (usually) be the first place I arrived at. It was how I would gauge the place. The first place I would/could encounter the language. My fascination is something I cannot explain. I think the fact that I can’t really make much sense of the entire entirety, has given me that fascination. Mine is also the only airport that mostly operates when the city sleeps. Every time we would go to pick or drop someone, it would more often than not be around 1-5 am. And as I would see the cars on the road, I would imagine them only coming from the airport or going towards them. I could not conceive of any other place they could be

going to or coming from. Airports are also subject to my scrutiny. Because well, racism and bigotry in the name of high security and just eyes watching you everywhere you go. But maybe thats why flights arrive and leave when the city sleeps. Because Karachi, once it imprints its mark on you will either make you stay or pack itself in your suitcase and go wherever you go.

So people come and go when it sleeps to not be bombarded by it.

And yes the city is an it and not a he/she/them. It is made up of he/she/them’s—its identity?

No one knows. For some it is an unforgiving place that has taken and taken and taken and never given. For some, it is a tether to their roots, they memories, their imaginations. For some, it is a place that resides in their memories and not in their present. I think for these people, living in the past is their reality. I think they are either in denial of the present of trying to recover a past that exists only in those memories. For some, the city is a place they’re not quite sure of. And it is them who have it the hardest. If you’re not sure about something, how do you even become a part of, engage with or negotiate the space? I can’t categorize these people. They live, die and breathe amongst me but I can’t ever completely know who they are.

I often wonder how my life would’ve changed had I not been in this city. A lot calmer and peaceful, I imagine. Traffic would be better. But then I wonder what would I do without the Arabian Sea; the (almost) murky waters that I insist has oil spilt in it every month and the beaches that have been littered by their own people. The idea of being able to go there whenever I want, of being able to sit quietly in chaos—because there is always always some quiet. Of koel ki ku ku, of crows cawing until my ears bleed and I silently scream at them to stop, of water tankers entering homes at 2 am (promises were made of 9 pm). Of struggling hawkers, vendors, domestic help, office people, students—everything’s a struggle. I have now known struggle since Ammi and Aboo stopped (partially) struggling on my behalf. And now I know forms of struggle and nothing but.

I don’t think I could fully leave this city of my memories. It has made its imprint on me, and I on it (although I don’t think it knows me). So, when all is said and done and when this world ends, burning right before my eyes, I will remember the sweet motia growing in my garden in the sweltering summer, crates of mangoes, dancing under actual rain, beach trips (that got more haram as the years passed), my first trip to the book bazaar at Frere Hall, my first time driving alone, late nights on my veranda, staying up all night and asleep all day in the chuttis, the anticipation of firsts, feeling the cool mosaic tiles beneath my feet even on the hottest of days, wasting away the day baking or sitting next to Nana Nani feeling as if I have arrived in another city altogether—disconnection with the routine—sounds of cooking and cleaning at 11 am, of homes getting into their routine, the sabziwala screaming out everyday, of a car suddenly hitting the brakes going at 110 kmp/h, the sounds of the city asleep, the sounds of each season changing with the wind and the sun, quiet winters and equally loud summers. There is obviously, no in-between.

The Third

The Third

The Third

The Third

Nana was from a small place called Amreli and Nani was from a small place called Chital. When India was developing and the economy was booming, my Nani’s brothers decided to settle in Bilaspur aur uss ke saath ek choti si jagah hai Takhatpur. Nana moved to Africa, he did a lot of business and then came back and invested in East Pakistan and my Nani built a home there. So when it was time for my mom to get married, her brother found a match who was an extended family from that side and got my mother to move from Bangladesh and got her married in Bilaspur. It wasn’t a choice, Dad’s parents had moved from Chital so it wasn’t a conscious decision, it was their parents decision.

Ten Generations ago, we converted from Hinduism to Islam. Our surname was Masani, which means the area where the bodies were burnt, funeral pyres were lit, that is where they lived. Their work was to prepare the dead bodies for burning. It was the lowest caste. We lived in a small place called Bantwa in the state of Gujarat in India. Thats where we came from.

We came here for safety—because wahan rumors yeh they keh the Indian army is coming to take over the area. Phir hum yahan aa gaye in 1948. Bas phir aur kya? I was 5 years old.We were not politically motivated, you see and we were rich enough to have our facilities.

A lot of the official documentation like at Mamu’s house, it was never discussed so I kind of still do not know how I managed to stay here, if Mamu manipulated the nationality which I later found out keh I had another passport to travel with, with my maiden name. And it was only offered to me when I got married and I wanted to travel and I needed to work on my documentation so he said keh this option is available. So he had a plan A, B and C in place without me knowing about it. Mein ne kabhi poocha hee nahi, unhon ne kabhi mujhe dikhaya nahi and mein ne kabhi uss ko istemaal nahi kia.

After marriage I got all the documentation done and became a Pakistani resident. And that is why at that time I felt it wasn’t a choice anymore. I had already broken the law which wasn’t a conscious decision but it had already happened and I had no other choice but to kind of continue being a Pakistani citizen. By then I was already engaged to be married and all of that was already in plan.

So when my mom gave me the option of either coming to Karachi or staying in Bilaspur to study, I chose to come to Karachi but I still wasn’t prepared for the shock enough. I think it wasn’t just about India/Pakistan, it was about growing up in a small town and then coming to a big city. I came to my Mamu’s when I decided I wanted to stay here for a year. Mamu Mami had never had a daughter before so for them, they didn’t know what to do. It was just too overprotective.

My father my grandfather were very poor. They needed to do some business.

They had no land tou they would go to the farmers outside the state and buy gurr and come and sell it in the big city. Junagadh tha na it was a big city tou wahan ja ke bechte they woh. Wahan se kharidte they yahan aate they aur wahan border tha na wahan tax dena parta tha. Sab ko pata tha keh Pir Mohammad ke paas paisay tou hotay nahi hain. Bola acha theek hai tum esa karo apne chashmey rakho idhar. Tou chashmey rakhte they, andar jaa ke bech ke wapis aatey they aur paisay dete they aur chashmey wapis le jate they. That was routine for father and son. Wahan se shiru kia yeh commodities ka trade.

Phir iss ko meray father ney develop kia and he made it into a very big business in Calcutta. Itna keh mein tum ko bataun ke jab hum Partition ke baad Pakistan aa gaye tou one or two years after that the Indian ambassador came to my father and said aap wapis aa jao India Nehru Babu bula rahey hain to restart you business, we need you and we’ll give you all the facilities you want. Yeh baat hui thi. Thats how big he was. Another thing I’ll tell you. He had branches all over the British Empire you see. Rangoon mein thi, Burma mein which was a very big producer of rice and wahan se jo rice season hota tha na, that was about 3 months long. Tou everyday one chartered ship full of rice would come from Rangoon to Calcutta. Aur raat mein sab bik jaata tha. Routine hota tha yeh for 90 days.

Meri jawani ki cheezein kia thein? Mein hota tha bara, ho gaya.

My favorite place was Clifton Beach, Old Clifton—kabhi I’ll take you there.

Shaam ko sab jama hotey they, chai peetay they, patties khaatey they and then come back.

Baaki swimming ke liye jaatey they wahan Malir mein grand hotel hoti thi Parsi ki mein aur uncle jaatey they Saturday afternoon. I would pick him up around 1.30, swimming karte they shaam ko 6-6.30 ho jaein, I would drop him home.

Phir shaam ko 8 baje wapis I would pick him up. Kahin phir bahir jaway, Chinese dinner karey, movie dekhe, yeh sab.

There were a lot of things I was doing that I was crossing the boundaries of my religion, living in Bilaspur. But thats the kind of culture I grew up with. There were only 2 Muslim families in that mohallah. Ganesh Chaturti ya Durga Puja pe jab chanda lene aate they, culturally meri Dadi ne yeh trend set kia tha keh hum sab uss ka hissa hotey they. Gali ke corner pe Durga Puja ka setup hota tha aur humaray ghar ki boundary wall ke bahir Ganesh Chaturti ke liye Ganesh ki pooja hoti thi. Woh jo 9 days ka celebration hota tha uss mein se ek din ka prasad jab tak meri Dadi zinda thi, woh ghar pe bana ke deti thi and it was acceptable. As a kid I never thought keh it was an unIslamic thing to do.

Diwali ka jo ek din hota tha Dhanteras ka, you buy a metal, ghar ka koi na koi bartan aata hai and we would wait keh iss dhanteras pe esa pressure cooker lein gein and for a family of 22 this was what we did. My mom still does that even if its just a set of 16 spoons.

Humaray mohallay mein bohat saarey marwaris they and they do very elaborate Diwali. Aur unn ke yahan purey 9 din rangoli hoti hee hoti hai and throughout that time humaray ghar ke bahar rangoli hoti hai. And all of us were encouraged to put rangoli. Hum sab cousins ki turn hoti thi. Tou the bahar ka area was like a show off kyunke puray mohallay ka dikhta tha so while I was growing up the older cousins would do the outside ones and the younger ones would make the patterns inside and once in a while we would be given the pleasure keh ab yeh fill in kardo iss ke yeh colors daal do iss ki esi outline kardo. So the Hindu-Muslim thing when it happens, it really pinches me. Because I’ve seen an ideal way of growing together and that was a possibility. But now when I go to India, a lot of my extended family specifically those living in Bombay will talk about the hardships that they are going through as Muslims in being able to buy a house or investing in a property. They really have a tough time. I think it has a lot to do with growing up in a small town.

We had a very big building in Calcutta. Tou sab traders jab aate they South India se ya kahin se we would give them rooms because Calcutta is a very big market you see. Woh bechte they, jis ko bhi. Tou cash aata tha bohat saara. Tou cash phir wapis kese le jawey, dangerous hota tha na. Tou phir humko dewey, humari office ko. We would keep the cash and give them a parchi, keh humari wahan pe branch hai wahan se tum le lena keh aa manas ne etla paisa dai dejo tamme. And these notes became almost currency. They knew paisay tou mil hee jaein gein, like a cheque. Yahan tak tha keh it was even accepted even in Russia. HHHP (Haji Habib Haji Pir Mohammad) ka naam howay tou it would be accepted.

’71 ki war ke bohat se affects huey hum pey. East Pakistan mein business tha bohat sara and it was gone one day, it was finished.

Very recently with this India Pakistan war thing I was in school when the first news came in the morning about India targeting and then this whole fear after the flying restriction. I was in school, doing whatever I was supposed to but it was a very difficult day for me. So even if I’m not physically glued, there is this constant panic and it had hit me very strongly last year in January when I had applied for my visa to go back to India for a nephews wedding. And my visa did not come. I could not believe it. In the 20 years it had never happened. I fill in all the documentations and the requirements. I have established my trust in the fact that there is a process and if I follow the procedure I will get my visa, it has always happened. Mein apni ticket book kara ke beth jati hoon agle din ki knowing ke shaid abhi visa aai nahi hai but mujhe har waqt at the back of my mind pata hota hai keh meri visa aa jae gi. So last year when I did not get my visa, that has really shaken me from inside, that now that choice is not there for me keh jab mujhe jana hoga mein uth ke chali jaon gi.

Mein apne aap ko bohat martaba dekhti hoon ke khuda ka khwasta if I kind off break off with my husband today and just decide keh mein apne bachon ko le kar ab yahan nahi reh sakti, what choices do I have? This is not my home country; that realization. My home is there. But its not my home, I can’t go back because both my kids are Pakistani nationals and officially I’m a Pakistani national so that feeling of not having the roots to go back to and that closure is still something that I’m kind of understanding in my head what will it be like.

I’ve never accepted this as my home country, I’ve accepted the nationality but kesay I don’t know. I’m not sure, its a very recent realization in my head. Like I look at a lot of women that if they break off with their husband they would go back to their parents home. My parents home is there. And if this is not my home then what is my home? Its a very very weird feeling. And more so I’ve verbally started saying that as parents its our responsibility to educate our daughters and give them a home. I would only want to follow the jahaiz scene to have a home for my daughter because at least the land has to be hers. So she doesn’t have to go through this. Culturally its very weird because we’re not taught to think this way.

If I go back now, I will culturally be a misfit there. Because there is so much that has evolved there. I have changed so much and they have changed so much that there is no way that I will ever be able to go back and live there. Ek choice tou honi chahiye, woh choice meray paas nahi hai. So I think about it aur woh meray dimaag mein hai aur mein bohat martaba sochti hoon keh woh imaginary land kia hoga, I’m not clear on it. I can’t conceive of a world where this is not my life.

These documents have defined me for who I am and I have taken that role as it was defined on a platter. But did I ask for options, did I even look for options? I did not. I just took it that way and I made my life here around it.

I was in East Pakistan for 5 years. Karachi se mujhe message aata tha keh Sunday ko fishing jaana hai. I would go there Saturday evening, Sunday ko fishing, Monday morning wapis East Pakistan, Dhaka.

You’re talking about nationality, mein tou ghar ke lihaaz se dekhti hoon and the roots for my children are here in this house.

I miss them but not sad. Its part of life na.

I did not even ask for my choices, and I took it as they came to me, I didn’t even question it.

Every 15th August, I would stand by myself and sing the national anthem and do the Indian Independence Day celebration with myself or with whosoever I would have around me—koi na koi Indian connection hota hai workplace pe. So we would stand together and sing the national anthem because that doesn’t go from inside. I still do that every year. If I’m at home my kids would do it with me. Or sometimes match se pehlay I would tell them because its your mothers motherland you better stand with me and do it.

But it just seems stupid now as an adult. I wasn’t even thinking keh mein ek saal kese Pakistan mein reh gai.

Karachi mein yeh tha khe you could not go everywhere.

You could only go to safe places. Jo MQM ki held jagaein thein you couldn’t go there. Baaki sab khula tha, aate they jaatey they.

I’ve come from a place you’re familiar with It runs in your veins But more in mine.

Will you deny me a place amongst you?

Will I have to be at odds with myself?

I don’t belong there anymore And I’m not sure I belong here either.

Do I have a place I belong to?

Is belonging a prerequisite to living like chai is a prerequisite to evenings?

The Fourth

I was starry eyed and hopeful

I was alone and isolated

for a new beginning.

in that new beginning.

There was no one to talk to, and

I know this city in association to a kind of liberation

I felt three years

after coming back. Three years in denial, three years of thinking I am better than the rest.

I kept going into myself.

Kachra

I will paint over this city with my body, leaving traces of my being all over—the parts that are whole and broken, made and unmade. This will be my litter.

A new musafir Have I yet to understand this place I live in, this place I come from? I don’t know it it doesn’t know me.

It also doesn’t recognize the rain, that which has resided in it for centuries. And so it tries to stop its arrival.I am but a new musafir I would be

surprised if it recognized that I from its womb.

Or do I? Or does it?

objective/dijective ussi tarhan kardun?

Ek value likh do

Rustling of hair, clothes and leaves

Thin, sweet whistle.

x plus 20/negative/phatt phatt of motorcycle/pronounced in the mornings.

What is Found Everywhere

Hum of the plane engin e takin g off to a far away land.

Pen nahi hai?

Etymology

‘haway su thase?’ ‘haway!’

Used as exclamations in most cases, ‘haway’ denotes the absurdity of any given situation. We exclaim, ‘haway!’ in situations where we cannot fathom something, when we want to build intrigue, when we’re stuck in a situation, when we’re frustrated or angry. ‘Haway’ multitasks between our emotions—used as ubiquitously as ‘okay’ or ‘aur sunao’ or ‘acha’. ‘Haway’, I feel, is the pinnacle of the Gujarati language. A person who doesn’t know much of the language will know this one word and will use it as often as any native speaker.

‘Haway’ comes from the need to find one word that could do everything.

One word where meanings changed so that emotions could be obscured while being revealed. I imagine a person who just wanted life to be simple, without any overcomplications of meaning, sound, and andaaz. A person who coined this word out of a sound probably made by the children around them.

I don’t remember the first time I ever used it. I do remember the first time I started including it in every other sentence. I was probably 12-13 years old, surrounded by a group of ‘friends’ I didn’t feel particularly welcome in. This group started using ‘haway’ as a way to sound cool. So I started using it to sound cooler as well. Only when I really wanted to break away did I realize that this word had been around me, on the tongues of my grandparents, parents, uncles and aunts for years. They did not use it as a symbol of ‘coolness’. Theirs was an everyday kind of use. And so, thats what I shifted to. I used it for being ‘cool’ with those people while slowly shifting into a space where ‘haway’ became an extension of my right hand.

I don’t use it as ubiquitously anymore but, I think in ‘haway’ and ‘haway’ thinks in me.

That which is Quiet

Peace in a city isn’t equivalent to quiet. Peace could mean coming home and unwinding by having a hot (small) shower or tea or coffee or lazing aroundv the house, watching shit videos. All the while there is someone stuck in traffic on a congested road, honking their horn. The sound of peace or quiet or eerie silence in winter. When fans and air conditioning are switched off so that all you hear are the footsteps of those around you against a light spatter of dust on the floor and your own heartbeat and every breath you take and the soft hum of a generator going on 4 galis away and theconversations happening in the street below your window or those in the house next door. Peace does not equate to zero problems. There are thoughts spinning in your head, you think about death and the amount of work you have and aging and frailty and abandon.

Peace may also sound like the headache you’ve had since 10 am finally easing around 8 pm. The difference between silence in the morning and night—the difference of the sun and the moon and your encounters and experiences.

Sound: Of quiet/silent night/mornings|Of those days where everything irritates|Of 2 am gham hour when you’re snuggled in bed on your phone laughing at something|Of the loss of a person and feeling empty when you look at a place they used to be in|Of travel—the quiet hum of the bus/the loud hum of the airplane when everyones asleep and you’re lethargic from lack of sleep|Of sunrises on beaches with a whole camp around you, of cool blue mornings with no one on the beach but you and your people|Of the feeling ofnot wanting to get out of bed|Of a happy/productive day you didn’t think would happen|Of the zoning out of sound and then zoning back in when you hear something familiar or loud or soft

Blankets that Remember

Once you move past the pain, all that remains is fondness. Once you stop crying at every thought, smell, memory, picture, piece of lint, all that remains is a sad but content smile.

Will I ever forget this smell? That smell of that house, in that weather at that one time? Will I never remember? Will it come back to me in another manifestation? Will it wrap me inside it?

Will that smell imprint itself in my subconscious? Will that smell fade away from that blanket, of that house, in that weather at that one time? Will it be lost to me until I am in another world and they come back to me?

The Last First

Whats so special about firsts anyway? Its not like any of us remember any of it anyway. We think we do, but we don’t. Firsts aren’t always memorable. What we remember are the moments that make us laugh, cry, smile, tremble all over or want to hide of embarrassment—even 20 years later.

Some firsts don’t have that influence on us. Some do.

And some we don’t even know ever happened. So whats so special about firsts anyway? You are only born once—there is no first—you only die once—there is no first.

Taking my arm out of my body making peace with that which tore me apart; my other arm.

Taking both and trying to contain the sound of the gushing red to not alarm the ants and the bees.

And then trying to contain the sting of microbes inside me.

And I wonder, would it be better to contain my impulse rather than pick up the pieces after?

Or let the thrill flow?

Let my soul feel the rush of knowing of doubt and of fear?

With an arm in an arm and a gushing waterfall from a cavity; what were the chances that I would pierce my own belly with a fork, dirty from the last meal?

Is there a demon inside of me?

Am I the demon, the rakshas that wants to destroy its vessel?

Is my place not in this world?

The Rakshas and Me

I’m not from here. I don’t belong there either.

I Fear a Day When I am standing in my childhood home, in the middle of the veranda, afraid to go inside.

I am afraid to see whats left of it. I don’t know how I survived this. The damage has been done and I can no longer alter it.

I remember from a time that was and a time that will be. I remember all that was there when I wasn’t. I remember it through the eyes of the mosaic tiles I walk on—or whats left of them.

or towards it.

Because I don’t recognize it.

I don’t see what I used I don’t feel any kind of to know. I don’t know emotion in this city how to feel. Do I give up and move on?

Or do I try, fail, give up and then move on?

I took a walk from my home, around the mohallah to take photographs for an assignment. It was the first time I had walked all around instead of driven in years.

I remember when I was young, I would cycle for hours—but even then cycling alone felt awkward.

Because I felt like all the other kids in the mohallah were staring, judging, whispering. So unless my friends wouldn’t come out, I would more often than not go back home. But there were also times I would venture to quieter places where there were no stares, judgements, and whispers and I would spend the evening cycling.

I have known loneliness and solitude all my life. Perhaps thats why I prefer being alone more and more.So I walked around taking photographs. I was subject of and to the male gaze,

I remember looking forward to cool winter evenings and sitting outside in the evening light.

What I don’t remember is when this became a luxury rather than just routine. I am standing in my childhood home, in the middle of the veranda, trying to feel the dead city around me.Trying—and failing to feel the city that was hurt but healed, the city that was lively and noisy, the city that I hated and loved.I feel nothing now.

of some friendly faces, of children playing and cycling like I used to, of uncles asking for directions. And it was probably the first time I fully realized that this one space, this one tiny mohallah in Karachi, is so quiet.

So quiet I could place it in another city and not see or feel the difference.

Walking Around

Prickly Pears The arms jutting out of my brain, push against the skull protecting it, wanting to breathe and let lose—the skull resists and they wrestle until one tires and the other dances in victory.

My skull no longer feels heavy but the muscles inside of it throb constantly until I chemically make them stop.

I have dealt with nothing for the past month, sitting in my wicker chair waiting for something to happen.

This waiting has tired me, I no longer wish to wait.

a solid structure.I do not know if I have feelings anymore. I do not know if I can feel. Maybe all I feel is physical pain like the one in my skull that won’t stop. Death by headache won’t be so impossible, it is an easier way to go. Maybe I’m just

overreacting to a simple headache.All around me is dust and earth. The forest that once was has disappeared. A prickly pear remains I no longer wish to do on my window sill. Soon it will be no anything at all.I am one of more as well. I do not anticipate the the few left in this small future, I do not wish to hope. But I town that was once a metropolis. I have seen concrete crumble before me.In my twenty years of consciousguess someday, prickly pears ness, I have wasted away will be the only thing I see, faster than vines grow around and maybe my own reflection.

My toes lie on my the first day it my birthday but I don’t know chapals that have came to me.It was which. My ankles and my calves this rough surface. feel strong and heavy.The top of my head hurts, but only a bit.

My soles are tough It too is just waking up and cannot think of much right now. and so this surface But maybe thats just my lack of sleep. My thighs take up space seems alright.

I and flatten out when I’m sitting, I don’t particularly like can’t feel the toe this feeling but there isn’t much that I can do. My stomach ring in my right toe feels bloated and heavier than usual. In consequence, my back because its been a with all its extra fat feels heavier as well. My arms that write part of me for so long this are also full of flab and ever-changing. They’re strong, I can’t even remember they’re present. My shoulders, broad and huge give the rest of my body its structure. They hold my body, support it like a tree trunk does its branches.

I stopped feeling my neck, I don’t like it. I don’t know when or how but its there and not there at the same time.

My Body is Here

Everything Sells

As ominous as the name sounds, as scary as this place is made out to be, Shershah was like most other places in Karachi, welcoming. The market begins with huge warehouses and factories, equally huge trucks and lorries making their way past the smaller cars. The road, bumpy and full of potholes—makes you feel as if this area was never developed, neglected by all those who profit off of it. I was told, the roads were made hundreds of times only for these trucks and lorries to trample all over them. There is a row of banks—for a business of millions. It is loud, full of dust flowing up and down, left, right, and center getting into places it shouldn’t be possible to get into. But then thats how dust finds itself, right? The ultimate witness of all the histories of this world. The keeper of everyones secrets. Out of the noise, dust and kache roads, we arrive inside an area with a bunch of shops. Contrary to the noise ‘outside’, this was as quiet as my mohallah (dare I say, quieter still). There were shops and warehouses with expensive security cameras, television sets, massagers, barbie dolls, kitchen utensils, UPS’, generators, cell phones and that one odd Chinese consulting his phone, squatting in the middle of a shop. Its all cheap, like a lot of other things in Karachi, a lot of second hand and a lot of new but damaged stuff. Things sell, as they do everywhere else in Karachi.

Is the thinking happening yet?

[Language] [Body] [Power]

A Dictionary

]egaugnaL[ ]ydoB[ ]rewoP[

abdomen noun : the part of the body that hurts every month

: a sign of paranoia : not allowed to be porous like the thing(s) it is made around

andazan verb : not the same as ‘approximate’ : universal measurement for desi mothers : and their children : confusion, frustration, awe : burnt hands, tired tongues and satisfaction : recipes that will never turn out the same

boss noun, adjective : refers to authority : yes boss, jee boss : kesay ho boss : false sense of importance

appendix noun : supplementary material usually attached at the end of a piece of writing : the end of my piece authority noun : a false sense of worth : a shelter for those who have something to hide bladder noun : straight reaction from the brain in fear : difficult to empty on the road bone noun : the corpses I find lying on the sidewalk : the people I see in magazines border noun : the outer edge

breast noun : when have I not been gawked at cell noun : inhabiting my body and dying everyday : death in life — death for life charming adjective : getting away with things : and then denying them city noun : an inhabited place : bent on artificial divisions collarbone noun : I’m only beautiful if they show command verb : a false sense of worth that is entitled : obey — and stay quiet diaphragm noun : the only thing that aids breath dominant adjective

: virtue than a vice : where I have to assert power to navigate

: the bone that carries the flesh that hate more than love : strong, resilient — overcoming all insecurities

elbow noun : the only part of my body : that becomes distinctly white : when it is deprived of something : it also wouldn’t choose to conform

fibula noun : the bone I sit on : the one that carries most of my burdens

ethnic adjective : grouping people into categories : making them up on biases : “ethnic groups” — those you refuse to believe have any say esophagus noun : does it feel the same guilt : when sending down food I know I should not be having fatafat verb : quick, jaldi : sweet sour medicine to cure the stomach : shh don’t tell them its ‘wahan se’ : or we’ll all suffer from gas and diarrhea

finger noun : these fingers that are writing : are as important as the life that fuels them force noun : prying unwillingness out of things and matter gadhero/gadheri adjective : insult; meaning male/female donkey : it’s got a kick to it : but I wonder how a donkey might feel : every time this insult is hurled at someone

feminine adjective : gendered social norms : having to do with the female : also having to do with bullying, chastising, catcalling : and subservience

ganglo/gangli adjective : a person who acts like they don’t know anything : dumb on purpose : when I need to get out of a situation : often with my mother : I will be a gangli

femur noun

ghela/gheli adjective

: crazy, fool : like idiot but local : my mother calls me gheli, my brother ghela : when she’s disappointed but also in a good mood : an endearing insult

pelvis and upper part of the femur together with the fleshy parts covering them : the region that old people complain about — usually : and young people want to assert that it doesn’t lie

groin noun : the part we’re told to hide : the part others want to violate and uncover

influence noun : getting away with the little things becomes so much easier

haway adjective : emphatic : exclamation : used in situations of the bizarre, the uncanny, the sad, the mysterious, the happy, the curious, and anticipation : also means now, really, now what, what the fuck, this can’t be happening, speechless expressions : close to the various connotations of ‘acha’ and ‘ab’ : said meaninglessly in trivial moments as well hierarchy noun : the structure everyone hates : but that which they crave to climb to the top of hip noun : the laterally projecting region of each side of the lower or posterior part of the mammalian trunk formed by the lateral parts of the

iris noun : variations in color when hit by the sun : pronounced dull or usual by Stereotypes jaw noun : also made into a symbol of beauty kidney noun : I wonder if another being would eat my kidneys law noun : are we fooling ourselves by thinking this actually works leader noun : always waiting for a better one ligament noun : constellations within me lobe noun : rounded parts of the body that

serve a purpose : ears that were pierced one too many times main noun : chief — important : “main languages” — the very few you even consider masculine adjective : having to do with the male gender : dominance; authority : dangerous for those who don’t conform military adjective : of soldiers, arms and war : of death, blood and conflict : of money poured into violence minority noun : differing from the majority in size and other attributes : “minority languages” — set aside; unwanted; a nuisance money noun : a medium of exchange; wealth; poverty : the unbalance : the source of despair nation noun : an excuse to exercise control national adjective : belonging to that nation : “national language” — one out of

many — an excuse to deny the importance of others navel noun : the mark left from my mother’s body : the only evidence of the form of my birth office noun : a position : authority; dominance : traditionally masculine : untraditionally being taken over by non-males official adjective : authority; holding an office : “official language(s)” — the language you recognize as important enough to show off in other adjective : not included in the many : “other languages” — the ones you don’t know what to do with ovary noun : the part that makes me so essential : without which you wouldn’t exist to try and control; dominate prestige noun : weight or credit in general opinion : often an illusion privilege noun : movement; access

: escape; stagnation : choice of a way of living

: I am dead from this world without it

pore noun : holes over my skin that sweat : holes too small to conquer

state noun : a politically organized body occupying a territory : the truth is—it’s never organized : more excuses to hide behind a sheet of unity

provincial adjective : relating to or coming from a province : “provincial languages”— an excuse to divide further pupil noun : of little importance in scrutiny : the black depths from which a soul peers forth rectum noun : symbol — before it all turns to shit regional adjective : of a region : “regional languages” — as if there weren’t enough divisions scene noun : letter of the urdu/persian alphabet : scenario : slang for ‘plan’ : ‘what scene?’ ‘scene kia hai’ skull noun : the bone that protects the thing that wrote this : the thing that would kill if injured spine noun

superior adjective : of a higher rank : expecting obedience : also expecting respect for nothing sub-provincial unknown : a word that doesn’t exist in the dictionary : invented to divide into tiny bits and pieces : “sub-provincial languages” tasali noun, verb : untranslatable : peace of mind : not really : peace of the soul : not really : calm mind, body, soul : close territory noun : a geographic area belonging to a political body : not nation; not state : having borders—porous or definite : can be fought over

thyroid adjective : because there has to be a medical explanation : an arbitrary reason for bodies that don’t conform toe noun : stretching out from the foot : adorned with color—on occasion torso noun : the part most scrutinized unity noun : a state of harmony; of being one : a false pretense uterus noun : the only internal part I get to see—never whole vertebra noun : building blocks for my spinal column : a bone that won’t serve its purpose twice war noun : a state of hostility; conflict : an event which benefits those who look away : an event that profits some if it goes on : an event that takes lives of the many and enriches those of the few warrant noun : sanction; authorization

: a formality that delays : a formality that saves—on occasion white blood cell noun : that one little thing that can change everything : blue blood sounds much fancier wrist noun : that which is not white and fair : that which allows movement : that which will dismantle you

Acknowledgments First and foremost I would like to thank my capstone supervisor, Zahra Malkani for her immense support, faith and help in making this into the project it has turned out to be today. I had given up all hope of ever practicing art again, but her classes and her guidance have helped me pursue art in all its forms. Zahra, you have helped me grow as an individual, as an artist, as a writer and I cannot thank you enough.

I would like to thank my parents and family for enduring my tantrums, mood swings and rants during this year. And for telling me stories and anecdotes about the city they saw and lived in. They were my first inspiration. I would like to thank each and every person I interviewed for trusting me with their stories, you know who you are.

And to all my professors at Habib University, thank you for the knowledge you have imparted, the lens you have given me and thank you for helping me grow into the person I am today. All of you, in your own way have contributed to this project.

To my friends, thank you for those nods of faith, the silent looks of sympathy and the days spent ignoring all pending work. I couldn’t have done it without any of it.

Lastly I would like to thank those who came before me for paving the way.

None of this would’ve been possible without you.