My Name And I

It’s funny how one discovers oneself and in what circumstances. Things that one never knew about oneself.

I remember when the book “Satanic Verses” was causing such a stir in the political, religious and literary circles. People were getting killed, their throats slit, fatwas issued for the author to be ‘destroyed’ because what he wrote was considered highly blasphemous and unforgivable by the clerics of Islam. Within the ordinary Muslim communities, people were outraged. There were various levels of outrage. There were also some who perhaps didn’t think it was such a big deal.

When my brother was in the US he was able to read the book, which was of course totally banned in Pakistan. Then when he came home for his college vacations he smuggled his copy of the book in to the country (I really do enjoy dramatizing! Most probably the custom officers didn’t even notice and a book is most likely not even recognized by them as anything significant). My father read the book and got furious. Now this was surprising. Here is a man who looks like he doesn’t have a strict religious stance and is open to all opinions, getting affected by the contents of the book. And that was because this “rot of a concept” of the book was unacceptable even to him as it was an insult to him as a Muslim. My brother didn’t get affected by reading it. I read it and didn’t understand much. But even with my limited comprehension felt the mocking tone of the book. I kind of understood what my dad felt.

Now at this point in my life, I feel that what is common between him and I, is this zone that we have within our emotional space that hardly shows up on the surface otherwise but sometimes due to specific stimulants gets triggered. Now those who take their religion seriously will consider our lifestyle unacceptable. They might also take offence at us for the way we are. Just as my father took offence for what Rushdie wrote.

I discovered this “zone” lately within me that got set off because some troubled brats in the school where I teach, decided to distort my name for fun.

Of course there are several layers to this reaction of mine. Firstly, it’s simply, pride. Secondly, it’s because my name has religious significance. Though, those who know me will find it strange coming from me, regardless of own non-practice of religion, I respect religious thought and ways of living as long as they are not suffocating people who follow the rules of their religion. And certainly there is no reason to complain about my name! It is a beautiful name that belonged to a greatly respected person in history. And not many people know its meaning, which I looked up for and simply love. It means, “a woman who nurtures”.

Coming back to the layers of my reaction the third of which is that the job I do is part of a program that also aims to bring awareness to Japanese students about foreign cultures. And so a person like me feels that giving respect to and importance of names is also a cultural characteristic (though I feel it should be a universal manner!) that needs to be conveyed to the students I interact with.

It’s strange though…Japan is suppose to be a traditional country, the traditions of which give shape to everyday lives of the people, but I suppose it has totally lost its traditions. Tradition is closely knitted with religion. But now Japan is a country without any sense of religion. And whether the secularists and modernists agree or not (though I don’t really care), with traditions and religion lost, distinction of right and wrong is getting blurred. Children especially, aren’t sure at all what the difference is.

Anyways, I have gone off in another tangent…

Let me pull back.

And so with this new discovery about myself, I am nowadays basking under it to let it be absorbed into my consciousness. I am not worried about it, rather on the contrary I feel, I am finally able to see something clear, (…and I admit) within my own blurred vision of how I want to be as a person.

Wishful Thinking

Commuting by trains has its positive traits, though I find it far from charming, which long distance train travels most often are. Even the trains in Pakistan have a little charm.

There is a major station in Saitama where I change trains to go to work. There are points on the platform where the train doors open. I have my own spot (self declared of course and shared by half a dozen other commuters!) on the platform from where I get into the train from the same door everyday (Yes, I also suffer from this obsessive habit…) There is a man who stumbles out of that door everyday and stands on the spot where I wait for this train. I suppose he waits for the next train that is a direct train to the final station whereas this one stops at every station.

Some times, he looks very energetic and steps out briskly. Maybe he is well slept. On many days it’s visible that he fulfils his quota of sleep in the train and has to jostle himself to wake up. Those are the days when he stumbles out. But today was weird. As he stumbled out he had a smirk that did not leave his face for the 20 seconds it took for the doors to close and the train to move. And not just the smirk but he looked sleepy at the same time. Did he have pleasant dream while sleeping in the train. I wonder what he dreamt about…I was somehow a little creeped out. I find people smiling alone very strange. Talking alone in public is of course even stranger! Now this man…I began noticing him because, well, I see him everyday, stepping out of the same train door that I get in from. And normally he isn’t dressed in suits as most men are. He doesn’t even look like a blue-collared worker. Though he wears the same kind of clothes, they are stylish. He also seems to have an affinity for stylish shoes. May be he is a computer programmer or designer, you know one of those contemporary jobs where you don’t have to wear the tie. And as a Japanese man his features are quite sharp and is actually on the good-looking side. So there is another reason why I noticed him! Only, why was he smiling?

There is another man I notice on the station after the next one. He always, always, always looks tortured. He looks like he is suffering from the sleep deprivation method of torture. Most probably he some sleep disorder…How does he survive day after day?

He also stands on the same spot on the platform everyday, in the same posture; miserably sleepy head on sunken neck that rests between hunched shoulders, legs slightly apart as if to balance the tired body weight that he carried on his heels and his arms are always crossed with his briefcase held carelessly in one hand. All winter he wore the same olive green suit daily. Now its grey. Seasonal change maybe? And his briefcase the same as before, a darker shade of his winter suit.

After the almost weeklong Golden Week (GW) holidays, I was curious to see if he is looking refreshed and better. But no…he looked as tired as ever if not more. Maybe his GW was spent driving his family to various places, or to his in-law’s suburban home in another prefecture all together. A nagging wife who demanded what she deserved; holidays from the busy and hectic routine of cleaning the house, doing the laundry, doing grocery shopping, of preparing three regular meals for the family, having to wake really early morning to prepare breakfast and a lunch box for her husband who has to leave for work that takes two hours to reach, perhaps in the middle of Tokyo and then right after, listening and fulfilling the whims and demands of their two teenaged and preteen children respectively. And don’t forget that she has to regularly participate in the school PTA activities because most probably she volunteered to be one of the office bearers. And not to mention having to unwillingly be part of the Garbage Collecting Association of Neighborhood Wives that makes sure the raw garbage is placed in the right place on the right day and not plastic garbage, which is suppose to be put out the day after.

And so the children who don’t get to spend time with their father and a wife who needs a break is driven to her parents house for the holidays who equally needs a break but wont get any because, well…, he is going to the in-law’s house!

So why did I say that commuting by train has its plus points? Because I get to observe these people and make stories about them; a good way to pass my hour-long commute to work in the otherwise boring slumber land of sardine-packed (read human) trains. Can I fancy that someone is doing the same with me? Or probably that wishful thinking…

Looking Through the Mirror

"...to turn inward..." writes Orhan Pamuk in his essay 'My Father's Suitcase'; that is what writing is about and what the writer does.
Ideally we all need to turn inwards though it necessarily may not be transformed to words or images that express our inner being. We may never express who we are (or may never even discover it ourselves…!). In fact most of us never do.

For, those who do and successfully at that, perhaps their gaze is not unidirectional; they keenly observe the outer world around them. Perhaps it is a connection they create between who they are to the outside world and who they are within themselves. And may be this is what the essay also says when the author talks about the nature of writing (I still haven’t finished reading it!).

I have lately been observing and experiencing another kind of “turning-inward”. And that is the kind that blocks the outside world for that period of this inward focus. It is the kind where the outside world is consciously severed from the inner. One may call it fantasy, or escape, or both. Certainly, in my mind, its escape. I have desperately sought this escape myself lately. That is how the routine in Japan has changed me…

Every one that I see each day while I commute to work is huddled inside themselves. And I understand the desire to do so. Every day is like déjà vu. You know what hour and second you will step out of the front door of your house and exactly how many steps to take to reach the station, where the exact same people are again running late like yesterday and the day before and the day before yesterday (and so on…) to catch their trains, like you have your own train to catch, which comes to the platform at the exact same second every day. No matter how hard sometimes you try to change your schedule, walking slowly to intentionally be late to work or just to see how it feels to get on the 7:14am train and not your regular 7:08 am train, you end up running like your fellow commuters and find yourself standing at the platform waiting for the same train you have taken every single day. And thus you reach your destination on the exact same time as you always did. That is what is expected. People are like little components of a huge machine that cannot and will not stop. Occasionally some disgruntled pieces fall out. Strangely the machine still moves, though a little inefficiently than before but still moving, huffing and puffing, “Gambaro!” (lit. meaning; Lets work hard!) it says. For what purpose it is urging is unclear. Many of those who stay to remain as part of a whole unending continuation, seek to “turn-inwards”, to find solace in their own company for they are their own best companions.

Amaltas Amaltas

The Amaltas must be blooming now...its just about the time of the year when some trees in Karachi start blossoming these light, delicate elegant looking yellow flowers. Not many people notice for some odd reason. But I must admit I would not have noticed it either if my mother didn't talk about those Sakura of Pakistan. The Japanese are sentimental about Sakura and 'hana-mi' or flower viewing is a national activity when the Sakura begins to bloom, marking the beginning of Spring.

The Amaltas, to me marks the beginning of real hell heat in Karachi. And yet its a lovable flower. It opens up into delicate paper thin petals, at a time when most living beings seem to be curling themselves like worms on heated up cement pavements....Amaltas somehow floats on its branches strong and dignified.

But it shows that life is very short.

Atleast its life finishes in about two weeks. But what grandness it shows in its two-week life!

This spring, in Japan while the cherry blossoms (Sakura) began to bloom, I was exploring the streets of Istanbul....and lo and behold found a few Sakura trees there! Unfortunately no one could share my excitement.....do I become a Japanese when I am outside Japan? Because when I came back, the sakura was in its late stages, I realised I am not so sentimental about sakura as much as any Japanese would be.... but I remember Amaltas tenderly. I respect it for making itself visible in a hard season!