Books upon books can be written about Pakistan's identity crisis.
A state created 60 years ago, on a piece of land that has hosted civilization for centuries. A country created in the name of one religion, yet being home to people and sacred sites of other faiths. Created for Muslims of South Asia, forgetting momentarily that Islam, however much some religious wackos may say, and what the creation of Bangladesh proved, is not and can never be the sole source of identity for the various ethnicities that span Pakistan's length.
Sure, we have always been faced with an identity crisis. Who the hell are we exactly? What are our anthropological origins, as Pakistanis? No one knows, and I have no intention of even speculating an answer - more out of fear that there probably isn't one.
But it is interesting to note that given the absence of even a vaguely convincing answer to our identity, we have worked over the past decades in improvising an answer by looking at nations outside our borders and then work our way inwards. If by merely observing ourselves leads to nothing, we have had to look at others and see how are we different.
We as a nation define ourselves from the outside in.
What do I mean by that? Let's take India, from which we separated and are permanently wary of being absorbed into (even though absorbing Pakistan into itself would be the last thing India would want). Through our post-independence history, we have gradually tried to shut ourselves out from anything that India seems to identify with. This tendency is particularly noticeable in culture, but has also permeated into our political ideology, social approach, economic orientation, even architecture! I am not mentioning foreign policy because I am trying to focus on the deliberate official moulding of our internal dynamics, even though our foreign policy has been virulently and blindly do-the-opposite-to-what-India-does and has significant implications on our internal workings.
Over the years, we have decided we will not be secular like India (even at the official level); we will not initiate land reforms like India did; we will not shy away from having our armed forces interfere in politics even if Indian politicians are equally inept as ours; we will be as capitalist as we can possibly be, at the expense of obscene levels of inequality, to differentiate ourselves from the socialist economic structure next door; and we will build lego-like, insipid, boxed government buildings all over Islamabad lest any semblance of rich South Asian architecture makes our capital look vaguely Indian.
And where do I even begin with on the cultural crisis we have landed ourselves in? Indian movies are a no-no because we fear that our countrymen are so naive that they would unreservedly dance and sing away into a union with India. Even Indian television channels are now blacked out because those senseless saas-bahu soap operas are too much of a distraction from the unending Quranic recitals that we need to expound upon for our 'cultural invention.' And of course, singing and dancing are certainly not to be aired, because apparently Islam forbids it (can someone please remind them that bribery, honor killings, mistreatment of women and illiteracy are also prohibited in Islam, but we have no official state regulations on those). We have gotten to the extent of regulating our dress too: on official gatherings with foreign dignitaries, wearing saris is especially prohibited - never mind that our mothers and grandmothers have worn saris through their lives and never felt any less Pakistani.
Of course, it has proven to be a futile task. Nations have inherent identities based on a common language, culture, religion and historical experience. There can always be sub-groups within a nation, but those sub-groups most often share the overall historical trajectory of the larger nation.
I like to look at the former Yugoslavia. At the surface, it made sense for the South Slavs to establish a state that encompassed the various Slavic sub-groups: Slovenes, Serbs, Croats, Bosniaks, Montenegrins and Macedonians under one flag and authority. They shared variants of the same language, historically experienced the same colonial back and forth between the Hapsburgs and the Ottomans and collectively espoused the same goal of shedding their subservience to their neighbors. But after the creation of a South Slav state, and at the demise of a dictatorial lordship who is politically expedient, diplmatically suave and brutally repressive in keeping the sub-groups together, that artificial state discovered eventually its in-built weaknesses that led to anarchy and collapse surprisingly quickly upon the slightest deviation by one of the sub-groups.
I am not suggesting that the former Yugoslavia is or could be a primer to Pakistan. What I am saying is that if the South Slavs could not create a national identity for themselves over a period of 70+ years, can a Pakistani identity ever be created?
I have been struggling with answers. The easiest and most thoughtless answer is that Pakistani identity is based on Islam, simply because it has been disproved (East Pakistanis were Muslims too, and so are some Baluchis who would prefer separating) and it is inherently untrue (what about the millions of Christians and Hindus who are Pakistani citizens?).
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Beardos all over
I look for physical change in Pakistan every time I pay a visit there. I am aware that my superficial assessment is not an accurate measure for judging social and material progress, but given the little time and crippling heat I am faced with during my time there, I rely mostly on what my eyes could digest to see where Pakiland is headed.
This time: lots of cars... too many actually - hmmm, extra disposable income? Good for the economy, not good for a drive around! Or maybe a booming population? That's part of it. Or as a friend mentioned, a complete absence of any viable alternative mode of transportation? Uh oh, can someone please wake up the mass transit program!
Whatever the reason, I was setting new records in reaching the airport from my DHA residence.
And Mr. Mustafa Kamal, Sir, your signal-free Sharah-e-Faisal is not much of a help. There is something called 'congestion,' which we in America suffer from daily on the signal-free East Coast beltway. Time for a more innovative solution. Look to Bangkok's Skytrain, please, or perhaps even our beloved Delhi's Metro. If Calcutta can have a mass-transit system, then we Karachiites might as well jump into the sea not being capable enough of putting up one, or deserving one.
What else? The billboards were missing, thanks to the storm that struck a week before I arrived and blew up away the ugly metal sheets, which in turn struck many and tragically killed scores. Poverty? Ummm, not much difference. Mr. Shaukat Aziz needs new convoluted formulas to justify his fascinations on that one. New restaurants? That haute cuisine crowd seems to have moved on from the filet mignons to cocktail parties on Korangi rooftops. But I did enjoy the New Yorkish suave ambience during dinner at Limoncello and the sizzling brownies at Cafe Coffee Day, an Indian coffee chain. Perhaps the Indians will allow us a pass with a tiny Agha's Juice Spot in Mumbai soon. Sadly, that's all we seem to have to reciprocate with at the moment.
But most strangely, I saw a lot of beards. Tons of them, in all varieties. The impenetrable, thick, bushy ones; the scrawny and scraggy, seldom-shaved ones; the flourescent orange, henna-dyed ones; even the peach fuzz-turned-lint types that puzzle the mind on whether they can be called beards at all. Most of them, of course, came with the moustaches missing.
And dont even get me started on the burqas. Even 14th century Japanese ninjas allowed a wider eye opening in the interest of being capable of at least walking in a straight line. But flowing in long, black burqas - the expensive designer silk ones covered in heavily embroidered shiny sequins (so much for Islam's punch line for modesty in dress) - Pakistan's new found religious flamboyance seems to have taken the women for a ride too. And yes, how can one forget to mention the contribution of the Jamia Hafsa-Lal Masjid enterprise in this new raging fashion lineup. I am sure Paris would kill to know the secret from the Jamia ladies (or could there be men in those burqas too? Hey, you never know!) on how their captivating catwalks to massage parlors enamored (or scared) so many into adding a burqa to their wardrobes.
In any case, a 'holier than thou' competition seems to have been raging across Karachi this summer. And one can only keep wondering what is driving this pettiness. Varying interpretations of Islamic injunctions on dress notwithstanding, it is worthy that so many want to adopt a physical appearance that ostensibly brings them closer to God. But the problem lies in the hypocrisy that hides under the facial hair and black chadors. A simple test provides an insight: can I trust someone with a beardful and moustache-less display of religiosity that he would not cheat me, shortchange me or lie to my clean-shaven face? Would the modesty of a burqa eventually reveal in private a woman who is not bedecked in ill-gotten jewellery, heavy make-up and a relentless urge to spit some venom on her companions?
Granted that this question would likely return in the negative for a good number of the clean-shaven and sleeveless lot. But that lot at least does not present themselves as the epitome of piety to begin with. And this is exactly where the crux of the problem lies: these beard and burqas have become unchallengeable tools of mass deception by habitual cheaters, liars and scandalizers in presenting an outwardly appearance of humbleness and piety, when in reality there is nothing but an unworthy character lurking underneath that doesn't take too long to show.
I returned to New York this week thinking whether this tide of beards and burqas could ever be turned. Rather difficult it seems, I fear to conclude. This flaunting of artificial piety will continue until no one can deny the dark and hairy hypocrisy, and when the beardos have throughly discredited themselves. That realization might one day lead to a society that has not necessarily adopted the 7th century fashion sense but has instead learned that it is far more important to have a worthy brain, a good heart and an accommodating attitude than to masquerade in beards and burqas as someone who doesn't, in reality, deserve even a Muslim name.
This time: lots of cars... too many actually - hmmm, extra disposable income? Good for the economy, not good for a drive around! Or maybe a booming population? That's part of it. Or as a friend mentioned, a complete absence of any viable alternative mode of transportation? Uh oh, can someone please wake up the mass transit program!
Whatever the reason, I was setting new records in reaching the airport from my DHA residence.
And Mr. Mustafa Kamal, Sir, your signal-free Sharah-e-Faisal is not much of a help. There is something called 'congestion,' which we in America suffer from daily on the signal-free East Coast beltway. Time for a more innovative solution. Look to Bangkok's Skytrain, please, or perhaps even our beloved Delhi's Metro. If Calcutta can have a mass-transit system, then we Karachiites might as well jump into the sea not being capable enough of putting up one, or deserving one.
What else? The billboards were missing, thanks to the storm that struck a week before I arrived and blew up away the ugly metal sheets, which in turn struck many and tragically killed scores. Poverty? Ummm, not much difference. Mr. Shaukat Aziz needs new convoluted formulas to justify his fascinations on that one. New restaurants? That haute cuisine crowd seems to have moved on from the filet mignons to cocktail parties on Korangi rooftops. But I did enjoy the New Yorkish suave ambience during dinner at Limoncello and the sizzling brownies at Cafe Coffee Day, an Indian coffee chain. Perhaps the Indians will allow us a pass with a tiny Agha's Juice Spot in Mumbai soon. Sadly, that's all we seem to have to reciprocate with at the moment.
But most strangely, I saw a lot of beards. Tons of them, in all varieties. The impenetrable, thick, bushy ones; the scrawny and scraggy, seldom-shaved ones; the flourescent orange, henna-dyed ones; even the peach fuzz-turned-lint types that puzzle the mind on whether they can be called beards at all. Most of them, of course, came with the moustaches missing.
And dont even get me started on the burqas. Even 14th century Japanese ninjas allowed a wider eye opening in the interest of being capable of at least walking in a straight line. But flowing in long, black burqas - the expensive designer silk ones covered in heavily embroidered shiny sequins (so much for Islam's punch line for modesty in dress) - Pakistan's new found religious flamboyance seems to have taken the women for a ride too. And yes, how can one forget to mention the contribution of the Jamia Hafsa-Lal Masjid enterprise in this new raging fashion lineup. I am sure Paris would kill to know the secret from the Jamia ladies (or could there be men in those burqas too? Hey, you never know!) on how their captivating catwalks to massage parlors enamored (or scared) so many into adding a burqa to their wardrobes.
In any case, a 'holier than thou' competition seems to have been raging across Karachi this summer. And one can only keep wondering what is driving this pettiness. Varying interpretations of Islamic injunctions on dress notwithstanding, it is worthy that so many want to adopt a physical appearance that ostensibly brings them closer to God. But the problem lies in the hypocrisy that hides under the facial hair and black chadors. A simple test provides an insight: can I trust someone with a beardful and moustache-less display of religiosity that he would not cheat me, shortchange me or lie to my clean-shaven face? Would the modesty of a burqa eventually reveal in private a woman who is not bedecked in ill-gotten jewellery, heavy make-up and a relentless urge to spit some venom on her companions?
Granted that this question would likely return in the negative for a good number of the clean-shaven and sleeveless lot. But that lot at least does not present themselves as the epitome of piety to begin with. And this is exactly where the crux of the problem lies: these beard and burqas have become unchallengeable tools of mass deception by habitual cheaters, liars and scandalizers in presenting an outwardly appearance of humbleness and piety, when in reality there is nothing but an unworthy character lurking underneath that doesn't take too long to show.
I returned to New York this week thinking whether this tide of beards and burqas could ever be turned. Rather difficult it seems, I fear to conclude. This flaunting of artificial piety will continue until no one can deny the dark and hairy hypocrisy, and when the beardos have throughly discredited themselves. That realization might one day lead to a society that has not necessarily adopted the 7th century fashion sense but has instead learned that it is far more important to have a worthy brain, a good heart and an accommodating attitude than to masquerade in beards and burqas as someone who doesn't, in reality, deserve even a Muslim name.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Train to Pakistan, 1947 - 2007
Its been nearly 60 years since the horrific Partition, and we continue to live under its shadow - and burn in it.
On Sunday, February 18, almost at the famous Midnight's Stroke to add insult to injury, 67 passengers on the Samjhauta Express were burned alive as fire broke out on two carriages rumbling on their way from Delhi to Lahore. Whether a terrorist attack or sabotage, people died not just because of the fire, but because India and Pakisan maximized the damage because they are so damn insecure about each other.
The world has moved on, we hear quite often. But India and Pakistan seem to have been trapped in a perpetual time warp. Many of the passengers could have been saved had the carriages on fire not been locked from outside and with wrought iron rods barricading the windows!
The rationale for the padlocks and window bars, you ask? We Indians and Pakistanis are so ridiculously paranoid about each other, we 'd rather that an accident trap passengers and take innocent lives than risk the danger of a loner trying to embark on or disembark from the train enroute. Forget the fact that the Samjhauta Express and its passengers go through unending scrutiny as they cross the international border.
The Samjhauta and Thar Express trains that run at erratic schedules between India and Pakistan are the sole means of transport between the two countries for the poor. For us previliged people, acquiring a visa is perhaps the only debilitating obstacle should we have the nerve to take a peep of what's across the border. Once we have a visa (whose application, of course, we have dutifully backed up with a brimming bank account and perhaps a high-up source or two), the elusive mysteries of India and Pakistan are a 45-minute airline flight away.
But for those who have to bleed to cough out a few thousand rupees for the battle with fate in getting a visa and bracing up for a struggle to get across Sir Cyril Radcliffe's Line, the trains are the only option. But we consider all that to be a bit too convenient for these poor people, so we lock them like cattle or corn in the bogeys and send them off in the stifling heat. After being harassed enough at immigration, the wretched beings are thrown about at the border crossing into another train (ahan, yes, we cannot trust train wheels that have touched the unholy soil of the other side to be free from threats to our national security). Finally, the ragbags are disgorged at Delhi or Lahore, from where they persist onto their final destinations.
Inhuman is an understatement to describe the process these passengers have to endure to travel to family who were lost to the other side through no fault of their own. The fight between India and Pakistan has always been more about prestige and self-respect than survival. Yet these two countries ensure that their paranoia of each other shower enough humiliation, and perhaps even fireballs, upon their poorest and most powerless people, and make life even more miserable for those who have nothing but misery to speak of.
After 60 long years, even saying "shame on us" sounds shameful.
On Sunday, February 18, almost at the famous Midnight's Stroke to add insult to injury, 67 passengers on the Samjhauta Express were burned alive as fire broke out on two carriages rumbling on their way from Delhi to Lahore. Whether a terrorist attack or sabotage, people died not just because of the fire, but because India and Pakisan maximized the damage because they are so damn insecure about each other.
The world has moved on, we hear quite often. But India and Pakistan seem to have been trapped in a perpetual time warp. Many of the passengers could have been saved had the carriages on fire not been locked from outside and with wrought iron rods barricading the windows!
The rationale for the padlocks and window bars, you ask? We Indians and Pakistanis are so ridiculously paranoid about each other, we 'd rather that an accident trap passengers and take innocent lives than risk the danger of a loner trying to embark on or disembark from the train enroute. Forget the fact that the Samjhauta Express and its passengers go through unending scrutiny as they cross the international border.
The Samjhauta and Thar Express trains that run at erratic schedules between India and Pakistan are the sole means of transport between the two countries for the poor. For us previliged people, acquiring a visa is perhaps the only debilitating obstacle should we have the nerve to take a peep of what's across the border. Once we have a visa (whose application, of course, we have dutifully backed up with a brimming bank account and perhaps a high-up source or two), the elusive mysteries of India and Pakistan are a 45-minute airline flight away.
But for those who have to bleed to cough out a few thousand rupees for the battle with fate in getting a visa and bracing up for a struggle to get across Sir Cyril Radcliffe's Line, the trains are the only option. But we consider all that to be a bit too convenient for these poor people, so we lock them like cattle or corn in the bogeys and send them off in the stifling heat. After being harassed enough at immigration, the wretched beings are thrown about at the border crossing into another train (ahan, yes, we cannot trust train wheels that have touched the unholy soil of the other side to be free from threats to our national security). Finally, the ragbags are disgorged at Delhi or Lahore, from where they persist onto their final destinations.
Inhuman is an understatement to describe the process these passengers have to endure to travel to family who were lost to the other side through no fault of their own. The fight between India and Pakistan has always been more about prestige and self-respect than survival. Yet these two countries ensure that their paranoia of each other shower enough humiliation, and perhaps even fireballs, upon their poorest and most powerless people, and make life even more miserable for those who have nothing but misery to speak of.
After 60 long years, even saying "shame on us" sounds shameful.
Monday, February 05, 2007
This land is my land
My spate of movie-watching continues.
The plan was to watch an animated feature. But Netflix didn't deliver. So on the shelf was 'Khosla Ka Ghosla,' a Bollywood presentation.
Bollywood is undeniably way ahead of anything Pakistan could ever hope to match in the entire realm of entertainment. This was always the case, but the gap seems to have grown to a level where we have simply dropped off from the radar screen completely.
'Khosla Ka Ghosla' is a story of the ills of property dealings in India. The realism was so stark, it was jolting. And yet the story ran with just the right amount of humour and humanism. The production values are top-notch, and Anupam Kher has a sealing performance as a riveting phenomenon in Indian cinema.
But most interesting was the performance of the State in matters where properties are usurped by the land mafia thorugh brute show of force. It's as if the entire government machinery is overwhelmingly appreciative of such bullying tactics. And there is not a whimper of protest against such injustice. Pakistan's property markets are exactly like that, if not worse. But the question is why isn't there a solution to this circus of swindling? Perhaps a more relevant question would be who and what is involved in the actual act of usurption of property that a greater windfall is expected in letting the illegal act stand than from correcting it?
I don't have any answer. Good night.
The plan was to watch an animated feature. But Netflix didn't deliver. So on the shelf was 'Khosla Ka Ghosla,' a Bollywood presentation.
Bollywood is undeniably way ahead of anything Pakistan could ever hope to match in the entire realm of entertainment. This was always the case, but the gap seems to have grown to a level where we have simply dropped off from the radar screen completely.
'Khosla Ka Ghosla' is a story of the ills of property dealings in India. The realism was so stark, it was jolting. And yet the story ran with just the right amount of humour and humanism. The production values are top-notch, and Anupam Kher has a sealing performance as a riveting phenomenon in Indian cinema.
But most interesting was the performance of the State in matters where properties are usurped by the land mafia thorugh brute show of force. It's as if the entire government machinery is overwhelmingly appreciative of such bullying tactics. And there is not a whimper of protest against such injustice. Pakistan's property markets are exactly like that, if not worse. But the question is why isn't there a solution to this circus of swindling? Perhaps a more relevant question would be who and what is involved in the actual act of usurption of property that a greater windfall is expected in letting the illegal act stand than from correcting it?
I don't have any answer. Good night.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Fantasy is not for me
What it is within me that incapacitates true love from taking me over. I thought I was sensible and mature enough to have realized the complexities and bluntness of life to occassionally be mentally provoked by Bollywood’s typical fantasy extravaganza. But I have seen enough love stories play out in real life (some of them quite obnoxious, unfortunately I must admit) to have to question myself: am I, mentally, really far above the naive love-falling lot, or am I made of cold stone?
Maybe what I am trying to comment on is that perhaps life, or at least a small part of it, is beautiful, or could potentially be so if I happen to look at its charms more closely. Or maybe that’s not what I am trying to say. Lets try again: I think what I am trying to say is that I don’t live life happily, and I think I should.
Maybe I will fall in love - I have often heard it sort of comes all of a sudden (which is exactly what I hate about it). Maybe its well and good that I haven’t fallen in love. I tend to push my love in unifocal directions. And I fear that others who I presently love most may become victims of my duller side. My infatuation with someone else would inevitably (or so I think) wean me away from those I love now; not necessarily decreasing the love entirely but certainly spreading it thin.
I keep digressing. To come back to it all, what is it with me? I seem to have all the right ingredients for a full-fledged love story, Bollywood-style: I am shy, introvert, respectful and polite to begin with; passionate, committed, crazy and doting all the way; and altruistic, principled, mature and a true family man in finality. But in reality my life seems to be completely without what the elements enmeshed in it should ideally produce. So, why is my life not like a Bollywood fairy tale, when I truly consider myself no less than a lone super star?
I never thought I would fall this low to have ever been asking this question. Truly sad.
Maybe what I am trying to comment on is that perhaps life, or at least a small part of it, is beautiful, or could potentially be so if I happen to look at its charms more closely. Or maybe that’s not what I am trying to say. Lets try again: I think what I am trying to say is that I don’t live life happily, and I think I should.
Maybe I will fall in love - I have often heard it sort of comes all of a sudden (which is exactly what I hate about it). Maybe its well and good that I haven’t fallen in love. I tend to push my love in unifocal directions. And I fear that others who I presently love most may become victims of my duller side. My infatuation with someone else would inevitably (or so I think) wean me away from those I love now; not necessarily decreasing the love entirely but certainly spreading it thin.
I keep digressing. To come back to it all, what is it with me? I seem to have all the right ingredients for a full-fledged love story, Bollywood-style: I am shy, introvert, respectful and polite to begin with; passionate, committed, crazy and doting all the way; and altruistic, principled, mature and a true family man in finality. But in reality my life seems to be completely without what the elements enmeshed in it should ideally produce. So, why is my life not like a Bollywood fairy tale, when I truly consider myself no less than a lone super star?
I never thought I would fall this low to have ever been asking this question. Truly sad.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
World Capital
Is there any way to describe New York City? I should perhaps make it clear that I never was nor probably ever will be a big fan of this rotten, rat-infested fruit of a place. The aimless rush of life, the ear-busting noise and that rancid stench of urine and garbage trails along the sidewalks simply make it an unacceptable place for anyone half-civilized. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, in all my years of living here, I have yet to come across another person who shares my feelings for this city - my frank opinions are oftentimes met with stares, some of them a bit disparaging; if I am lucky, I can hope to get away with confounded looks or forced smiles as a response to such lunacy.
But over the past several months, I have come to discover something that may not necessarily help in my appreciating this city, but may help me in appreciating the fact that I am living here. It is quite certain that I do not intend to live in New York for all my life (or at least I have not as yet reached that point of enthrallment that afflicts so many of my 'New Yorker' friends and co-workers). But I cannot discount the fact that it was New York that thrusted the so-called 'real world' upon me with such thumping force and yet with such steely encouragement, I was swimming in its tempests even before I could shout out an SOS. And today, because of New York, I am probably capable of surving in any urban jungle that life throws at me.
New York is packed, true. New York is dirty, unbearably true. New York is rude, mostly true. New York is sinful, definitely true. But as my father recently uttered out of the blue after a trip to lower Manhattan, if there ever was an eighth wonder of the world, this City is it. With more restaurants than you could ever hope to dine in over a lifetime, with every inch occupied for a purpose than any miniaturist could ever imagine, with more nationalities fluttering about its boroughs than its own Midtown-based United Nations Headquarters could ever boast of, and with as much life streaming below its jam-packed surface as above it, this City is a true marvel.
It is an amazing engineering and organizational feat how this City is run. From the nightly garbage collection along its countless narrow streets and alleys to the logistics of funneling in and out millions of workers into a tiny island connected only by a handful of bridges and tunnels, a mere imagining of the administrative burdens this City has to bear can be bewildering. Yet, the City functions, day in and day out, with minor train delays, random traffic jams and an occassional accident. No amount of heat or rain, which sometimes last for days, overloads the City into a complete shutdown, something quite normally expected for a place functioning at such a high speed and with such precious resources, and it takes a full-fledged Nor'easter dumping 20 inches of snow to sufficiently freeze its spirit. A challenger to this Stunner is not within sight.
And even after the mammoth tragedy that this City has suffered, it has emerged more enigmatic, tolerant and universal than anywhere else in the rest of the world. It is as if the unexpected, the inspiring and the wonderful are all inherent in the soul of this City that grow stronger just when you think otherwise.
I may never fall in love with this City. I may want to move away at my next opportunity. I may never succeed in soaking my spirit in this City's colors. But I cannot ignore, let alone deny, the power, business, glamor and glory that is New York. And forever, it shall stay with me, this fact that at one point in my life I was among those who have been fortunate enough to call The Big Apple home.
But over the past several months, I have come to discover something that may not necessarily help in my appreciating this city, but may help me in appreciating the fact that I am living here. It is quite certain that I do not intend to live in New York for all my life (or at least I have not as yet reached that point of enthrallment that afflicts so many of my 'New Yorker' friends and co-workers). But I cannot discount the fact that it was New York that thrusted the so-called 'real world' upon me with such thumping force and yet with such steely encouragement, I was swimming in its tempests even before I could shout out an SOS. And today, because of New York, I am probably capable of surving in any urban jungle that life throws at me.
New York is packed, true. New York is dirty, unbearably true. New York is rude, mostly true. New York is sinful, definitely true. But as my father recently uttered out of the blue after a trip to lower Manhattan, if there ever was an eighth wonder of the world, this City is it. With more restaurants than you could ever hope to dine in over a lifetime, with every inch occupied for a purpose than any miniaturist could ever imagine, with more nationalities fluttering about its boroughs than its own Midtown-based United Nations Headquarters could ever boast of, and with as much life streaming below its jam-packed surface as above it, this City is a true marvel.
It is an amazing engineering and organizational feat how this City is run. From the nightly garbage collection along its countless narrow streets and alleys to the logistics of funneling in and out millions of workers into a tiny island connected only by a handful of bridges and tunnels, a mere imagining of the administrative burdens this City has to bear can be bewildering. Yet, the City functions, day in and day out, with minor train delays, random traffic jams and an occassional accident. No amount of heat or rain, which sometimes last for days, overloads the City into a complete shutdown, something quite normally expected for a place functioning at such a high speed and with such precious resources, and it takes a full-fledged Nor'easter dumping 20 inches of snow to sufficiently freeze its spirit. A challenger to this Stunner is not within sight.
And even after the mammoth tragedy that this City has suffered, it has emerged more enigmatic, tolerant and universal than anywhere else in the rest of the world. It is as if the unexpected, the inspiring and the wonderful are all inherent in the soul of this City that grow stronger just when you think otherwise.
I may never fall in love with this City. I may want to move away at my next opportunity. I may never succeed in soaking my spirit in this City's colors. But I cannot ignore, let alone deny, the power, business, glamor and glory that is New York. And forever, it shall stay with me, this fact that at one point in my life I was among those who have been fortunate enough to call The Big Apple home.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
The First Step
I have finally ventured into the world of blogging, without a clue if it is something I have a knack for.
I liked the idea surrounding a blog - personal thoughts on politics, religion, philosophy, strategy, life, family, food and travel for the world to see, consider or snicker over. Perhaps the experience of blogging leads one to become more open, more articulate and more confident over his/her thoughts, or perhaps it is an exercise in futility to exhibit one's inner self to the outside world, only ending up with further commotions with those inadvertent or misinterpreted utterances. Frankly, I feel that the latter is more of a possibility for a person like me, hence the tepid excitement for this whole blogging enterprise. While there isn't a lava of feelings trapped inside me that this blog is going to help leak out, a lot of me does simply go unsaid, at least to those outside my immediate family. And while this blog most certainly will not be bursting with my deepest headlines on a daily basis, it 'd be my aim to let out a few thoughts that may help in hinting at why I was staring at that empty can of coke in the subway car all the way to work this morning.
But the more important question is not how much I let out, but what and whether I should let out. This blogging system is apparently advertised as a daily journal, but a daily journal isn't usually just a click away. And some of my true feelings on certain issues may carry some negative baggage, none of it deliberate. So I have decided to start easy - stay clear of the most controversial thoughts, but not shying away from what I truly believe in when I do happen to step on a political landmine. I am quite argumentative anyway, so most of the times it may be difficult for the reader (and even for my myself) to judge where exactly I stand.
I wish myself good luck.
I liked the idea surrounding a blog - personal thoughts on politics, religion, philosophy, strategy, life, family, food and travel for the world to see, consider or snicker over. Perhaps the experience of blogging leads one to become more open, more articulate and more confident over his/her thoughts, or perhaps it is an exercise in futility to exhibit one's inner self to the outside world, only ending up with further commotions with those inadvertent or misinterpreted utterances. Frankly, I feel that the latter is more of a possibility for a person like me, hence the tepid excitement for this whole blogging enterprise. While there isn't a lava of feelings trapped inside me that this blog is going to help leak out, a lot of me does simply go unsaid, at least to those outside my immediate family. And while this blog most certainly will not be bursting with my deepest headlines on a daily basis, it 'd be my aim to let out a few thoughts that may help in hinting at why I was staring at that empty can of coke in the subway car all the way to work this morning.
But the more important question is not how much I let out, but what and whether I should let out. This blogging system is apparently advertised as a daily journal, but a daily journal isn't usually just a click away. And some of my true feelings on certain issues may carry some negative baggage, none of it deliberate. So I have decided to start easy - stay clear of the most controversial thoughts, but not shying away from what I truly believe in when I do happen to step on a political landmine. I am quite argumentative anyway, so most of the times it may be difficult for the reader (and even for my myself) to judge where exactly I stand.
I wish myself good luck.
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