farid thinks...

Monday, August 04, 2014

I Don't Wear a Skull Cap So I Am Invisible To You

I have stopped reading the comments following any article in any of the Indian news sites. I feel insulted. No matter what the news is about, the discussions will always boil down to Muslim bashing. These comments are copy-paste by similar usernames/handles, always abusive and always questioning the loyalty of Muslims towards India. They generalise all Muslims as Pakistani supporters who fly the Pak flag whenever there is an Indo-Pak game. Lately, all Indian Muslims are portrayed dying to get hold of ISIS flags or tees by this group of internet commentators. Twitter is notorious for these so-called "Nationalists" with a HDL in the handle. All they do is spew venom against Muslims, brand people as 'sickulars' who dare to confront them and they all support a common leader and the idea of Hindutva. They often have a picture of a Hindu diety or the tricolor as their profile picture. And they are always anonymous.

There are always fringe elements in all communities. This is true for the Indian Muslim community too. I too do not understand why they raise the Pakistani flag or wear ISIS tee-shirts. I would be the first one to support the Indian Government if they decide to revoke their Indian citizenship and put them in jail or charge them for sedition. But am sure these numbers can be counted at the finger tips and very miniscule. They do not represent the huge population of Muslims in India.

However what these abusive Nationalists do not see are the lakhs of Indian Muslims who proudly wave the Indian tricolor in the stadiums, cheer the Indian team in any sport, fight against the enemies in the borders representing the Indian Armed Forces or stand up and sing the National Anthem whenever it is played.

They cannot see because this majority of Indian Muslims do not wear a skull cap or a beard when they are flying the Indian tricolor or singing the Indian National Anthem. This majority cannot be distinguished from an Indian Hindu because they do not wear their religion on their sleeves.

So why label an entire community as traitors for a minuscule few? This propaganda must stop if you really consider yourself to be a Nationalist. As a Nationalist, you are supposed to build the nation. Not break it apart.

I am an Indian Muslim. I love India. I do not need to prove my loyalty by waving the Indian flag while wearing a skull cap and sporting a beard. I am loyal to India in my heart. You just failed to recognize me for I do not fit the stereotype. And I am not the only one.

Disclaimer: I am not a writer. I can't use flowery language and bombastic words to enliven the article. I am just an average Indian who is trying to express how he feels.

Friday, March 07, 2014

On Rolling Your Own, Writing With a Fountain Pen and Thinking on Paper in 2014

It's a bright sunny morning. Though winter is on it's way out, the chill is still there. I am standing in the balcony sipping my freshly brewed Coorg french press coffee and getting set to roll the first cigarette of the day.

Yes, I roll my own cigarettes. I prefer to select my tobacco, the thickness of the paper and the size of the filter tips over flipping open the pack and lighting a readymade cigarette. Not many people these days know about RYOs India. Once upon a time this was the way people used to smoke. By the way, RYO means Roll Your Own. It is an official word. It is common for people to ask me what am I rolling. Often with suspicions. I have had kids ask me for a joint in music concerts. Even a few drivers and rickshaw wallahs. It pains me to see the disappointment writ large on their face when I tell them the truth. So why do I roll my cigarettes? Simply because I like the ritual of rolling them. Also because it is has a traditional feel to it. Just like writing with a fountain pen.

Yes, I write with a fountain pen. There are not too many people around these days who do that too. I prefer write with a fountain pen over the ball point and gel pens. For a lot of people, fountain pens are a hassle and the newer ballpoints/gels are more convenient. One wouldn't mind losing a few of these, unless you buy the expensive Mont Blancs of the world. Not for me. I love the ritual of personalizing the nib to suit my writing angle, filling up the ink barrel and unscrewing the cap. I love the scrawl of the nib on paper. It feels so traditional. It gives me a feeling that I am in control of my thoughts.

Yes, I think on pen and paper. There are not too many people around these days who do that too. It is always easier to type on a word processor with a keyboard. You can move around stuff how you want. You can undo and redo. You can cut paragraphs of text from one place and paste it somewhere else if you don't like the order. But I can't do that. I wrote these thoughts on paper with a fountain pen. There was one paragraph which I felt should come later. I struck that out and wrote again. I could have been lot easier to move that paragraph with a word processor. But without pen and paper that paragraph would not have existed at all. I could't have written that paragraph in the first place on the keyboard.

OK. It's time to get to work. Till the next blog...

Thursday, March 06, 2014

The Traffic Signal

I see him every day in the same traffic junction. Running from car to car with a dirty rag in his small hands. His clothes always the same. The shirt may have been white in its heydays but now the colour is undecipherable. Everything about him is always the same. Even the smile on his face. The smile that tries to hide a thousand woes and can, in an instant, transform into one of pain and despair.

The lady in the car had her windows rolled down. It had rained in the morning and she was taking in the petrichor. She herself may be wearing an expensive fragrance. I presume, a Chopard or a Burberry. The fragrance couldn't reach me and the petrichor was overbearing.

The boy walks up to her car and starts to clean the windscreen. The driver did not have the time to clean the car. The raindrops settling on the Gurgaon dust gave the car a pockmarked look. Only the windscreen looked clean and the boy made sure that it is. He moves to her rolled down window with his little hand extended and a look of desperate anticipation on his face. He was proud that he was not begging and he deserved a reward for his labour.

The lady stared at him with a forbearing frown on her face and started to roll up her window. Suddenly she stopped. She looked at him and said: When did you last bathe? You will fall sick if you do not keep yourself clean.

He smiled and replied: When I had my last full meal. I heard that if you bathe on a full stomach, the food remains in longer.

The lights turned green. The lady rolled up her window and the car drove off. He stood there watching. His palms remained empty.

Waiting for the light to turn green again, he hoped he would be able to afford a bath tonight.

Illustration courtesy: Pranjal Bhuyan [portfolio]

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Resurrection of Dawn

I sat there watching. Fixated on the horizon beyond the ocean. The waves touching my feet and the sand clinging to my toes. Slowly and gradually the huge ball of fire lowers itself. Its time to immerse itself into the calm and serene sea.

The fisherman's boat casts an eerie shadow. The day's work done and rowing home slowly, the silhouette against the orange sky. As if an artist's masterpiece hung on the wall awaiting appreciation.
The sea gulls flying in unison and landing on the pier, sitting next to each other in perfect order. As if the muezzin has called for the evening prayers and the faithful congregated. The prayer missed my lips. The heart yearned for peace.

Can the calm and serene sea take in the mighty sun? I wondered. The fierce ball of fire that glowed bright and warm the whole day against the chilled waters of the sea. I wondered as the waves touched my feet. A riot of red, orange and yellow played on the horizon as if an angry painter ran havoc on the canvas.

Blunt brush strokes of brilliant colors without any form. The sun lowers itself graciously. The sea engulfing it as if it were a helpless corpse being lowered into the grave. The day died. Dusk takes over. The waves touch my feet again as if to indicate it is time to leave. Time to say goodbye to the day I lived. As if to tell that tomorrow is a new beginning. The ocean survives the dusk and prepares for dawn. For it will be the same ocean that will give birth to the new sun tomorrow.

I sat there watching. Defiant. Contemplative. And also vindicated. Waiting for a new life. Afraid that if I try to walk back I may step on a sea shell. Then night came and brought with it the anticipation of dawn.

A new beginning awaits...

(Photos by: Faridur Rahman Choudhury. Location: Aberystwyth, Wales. Date taken: March 5, 2010)