I sat alone on the porch waiting for him. Why was I even here?

The wind was subtle and the sky was clouded—overcast and Grey. What else had I to do? I was restless and young. I had several things on my mind when I had agreed to meet with him.

I had never met him before, personally. Our first encounter was digitally processed, like the way much of this world is—At least for me. Especially at this time in my life, there is little much I experience beyond that niche in my room, that glowing box that fit perfectly in my lap (but was hell to carry to school). It started with a picture. A passing thought and then the click of a button.

Before I knew it, even though I was already exchanging information with someone else (but as I’ve mentioned before, I was young, and restless) we had agreed to meet (I was mostly restless at this point, there is no way people who claim youthfulness, have as much back problems as I do.) I was experimenting, but there is no longer need for excuses. No inhibitions. No attachments. Just an Enlightened freedom.

So there I sat on the damp terrace, sucking in the damp October air. One could taste it in the air that rusty, moist flavor that lingers on your tongue, before it rains.

The question came to my mind again.

Why am I waiting here? For some guy I’ve never met?

The chill of the young night did little to dissuade me. He came so fast, swerving expertly onto the driveway with his Civic chariot. I boarded without second thought and we sailed off into the valley.

We spoke as we normally did on the phone and the Internet. There was no awkwardness or tension at all. But there is a whole different vibe about speaking with someone in person, than speaking with them with a cable between the two parties. I started to wonder that it was a shame that the world is so dependent on E-meeting. But then again, knowing me, I would have never been able to gather the courage to talk to him without some prior knowledge of him.

He was an aspiring accountant.  A promising one at that, whose talent was immediately recognized by a large Jewish firm near York University. His nose was funny-looking, and he was a little pudgy. Not a Sean Kingston pudgy, but more of a Stephen Harper kind of pudgy.

He had so much to say, and I always had something to counter with. I felt as I should—different? Unique? Someone who can make him laugh and brighten his day… whether that’s true on his side or not, I cannot say, but for the car ride, that’s how I felt.

I knew where I was standing with him. I wasn’t interested in getting into a “relationship” per se, but the company was nice to have after a long seven or eight (nine?) months of solitude. The heart was so tired of breaking, so whether I built a wall out of fear or uncertainty, remains a mystery until this day. But the way he looked at me made me tilt my head to the side. I needed another perspective if I was going to brand this one.

His eyes were grey like the sky with an intriguing luster. The kind of luster almost cause a childhood ADD relapse. Twinkling almost, his eyes smiled too when I cracked a joke. No matter what we did that evening, we had a good time and I was undoubtedly happy.

The attraction was mutual. I knew this as he slowly made his moves. Subtle he was. Small gestures of chivalry which amused me more than anything else. Yet I tested him as he lay down the stakes for the next game. It was a competitive tussle. I won once, but these stakes were in my favor whether I won or lost. I thought it would be more fun if I lost. I wouldn’t want to hurt his manhood too much.

He left me waiting for it, wanting it. Now it was he who was playing me. We headed back into his car and we ended up at Orion’s Gate. I don’t remember what movie we watched. We were enveloped behind a velvet curtain of lustful bliss. The only thing I remember of the movie was the dim glow reflected on his face. His lips were like peach marshmallows and his tongue was sweet from his cherry flavored gum.  His hair held up by some cheap gel, fell in ringlets around my face. Between breaths I playfully pulled the one ringlet that would get in my way. It was cute. But his smirk was cuter as he pursued my mouth further.

The night eventually came to an end. We sat this time chastely in front of the Tim Hortons. I rarely drank coffee, if you consider a French Vanilla as coffee. There was something powdery and artificial about it, and you tasted it as you got to the bottom of the cup. Conversation had only slightly changed between us. Instead of the joking-joking, there was a more sullen and relaxed feel. No pressure. The rain that had fallen had been diminished to a hazy mist, and the sight of it made the neon signs glimmer. The night was aging though, and I had to go home.

He called me the next evening. We spoke of the previous evening in the same tone we always held. He didn’t believe me when I told him I let him win, but I had expected that. His gray eyes were  coloured lenses and his hair was curled. I maintained my cool, while still being friendly. We wished each other goodnight sometime before midnight. But something had changed within me.

Like rain I had felt. Once I fell the feeling was no more.

So here I am now. I wait again on the porch. The clouds at play, and so am I. The Civic chariot arrives and we drive off into the hidden sunset.

I don’t ask why. I ask why not.

Author:Jacquelin Chatterpaul

The first time it happened was an accident.

Lemons were being peeled, that Kevin Costner film was on a rerun, summer had heat, and ice was being chucked in glasses. It had been a long day of packing boxes, with a suddenly friendly neighbor who volunteered her Sunday in a fit of elevator generosity.

How do you even thank someone you barely know, but who has a jagged sense of irony, can organize chaos, and is just plain nice, when you’ve found them, just when you are moving. So he made lemonade. Would have added some liquor, but it oddly felt inappropriate while the sun was still out. No one would have questioned that ethic in Spain…ah Spain…

A shock of lemon squeezed itself into her messy curls, and he decided to pluck it, without permissions. It was barely perceptible, but he saw her lips twist into an awkward smile, lopsided, as if the right side of her face was stroke-ridden, but it wasn’t grotesque, just odd…ly charming in a paralytic sort of way. An evolved chimp fear grin…

He didn’t see her again for a while.

They had stayed in touch, as promised, but his new job, and her constant travels, seemed to unmake the coffee cup that shouldn’t have been so hard for two same-city dwellers. They were occasionally invited to the same parties, but somehow they never seemed to arrive at the same time. Her face, now and again, would pop up in friend’s photos, and he’d think: “Now that’s a five-star girl.” But he never saw that lopped curve on her lips in any of them. And the memory faded.

Once while riding the subway he had a eureka moment: “She never did call in that IOU for strong arms when moving!” Hence, she must still live in his old building. Perhaps he could go there with the pretence for checking for old mail, but it had already been weeks, and the more he thought about it, it seemed to grow into a disproportionately stalkerish idea.

He let go.

After a while he stopped looking out for her at street corners, stolen gazes, coffee places or laundromats.

Two Fridays to that lapse in judgment, he found her again, abruptly.

It was in Aisle 3 of a supermarket he didn’t usually go to, but it was on his way to a friend’s housewarming. He was in-charge of cheese. She turned a corner and ran over his left foot with her overwhelming grocery cart.

And there it was again, that unmistakable arch of her oral orifice, pulling a Beyonce.

To the left, to the left.

Pleasantly embarrassed at having found him and run him over at the same time. (It’s easy being bipolar in urban settings.) He told her about cheese; she said she was getting supplies for a soup kitchen she volunteered for. They crowded Aisle 3 for at least ten minutes while irate shoppers tried to meander around them.

“Listen,” he said after a suit made him step aside to dive into a shelf of gourmet crackers their presence was embargoing, “I was heading to this party…”

“Oh don’t let me keep you…”

“Uh…actually, I was wondering if you’d like to come along?”

“I have to get these supplies to the kitchen, and really I am not dressed.”

“You look fine, its low key, and I’ll help you drop off the groceries.”

“I don’t even know anyone there…”

“You know me.”

“Do I?”

“No.”

An inept silence, then he spluttered.

“I’d like you to know me.”

There it was again then, that semi perk of the lips, which he was dangerously close to ego-maniacking as an exclusive communication.

“I’d like that, but without background noise…maybe we can get coffee after you are done there?”

“That’ll be late.”

“I don’t sleep much.”

“So it’s a date?”

“Its coffee…”

“I’ll text you as I’m heading out, we can go to the all night diner by my old…by your place.”

“Ok midnight warrior, see you then.”

Another half smile later, Aisle 3 was clear.

But his mind wasn’t. He thought about her all evening, through cheese, wine, grapes, and some odd-poofy thingees–canapés gone haywire. He thought about her throughout the chatter, the tour of the nearly empty rooms, the board games, the pizza delivery guy messing up the order (pineapple on cheese? really?), and some late-arriving drunk walking in on the new white carpet with wet soles, and the ensuing hoopla (did you know spilling Diet Sprite on top is a cheap home-made remedy?). He thought so much he calamitously munched on a handful of peanuts.

Yes he’s allergic, yes there was a rush to the ER, yes that was faster then calling the ambulance, and no there was no midnight text nor warrioring nor coffee.

The next day he agonized about calling and explaining, but it all felt like such a story. At noon, he got a text from her.

“I fell asleep early, and I guess you had a late night, c’est la vie.”

Now that’s five-star girl!

He called her/she didn’t pick up/he didn’t leave a message/she didn’t call back.

He didn’t see her again for a while.

Then he heard she maybe dating his college roommate’s sister’s ex-boyfriend. THAT cad, I mean seriously what the hell is she thinking! Did Jockmeister even get the nuances of the smile? Did he get that she was an absolute five star girl! It seriously led to a decline in his opinion of her. I mean if she’s taking herself to town with THAT subspecies of the human race, why the hell should he want ANYTHING to do with her. Damn the torch, he had more qualitative things to do with his time!

One Wednesday to that lapse in judgment, he found her again, abruptly.

Ok no that’s a lie; he knew she would be at the Klimt prints exhibition. (No he wasn’t so in tune to her artistic tastes, Facebook Twitterings help!) He went there early, and he’d stay there all night if he had to. He couldn’t help thinking he had to ask her why that guy for God’s sake, why him!

She walked in, alone, wearing a sun-bright yellow dress that he though was completely out of place for such a setting. He let his gaze follow her till the hair on the back of her neck must have stood under the severe scrutiny, but she seemed to be lost in Klimt. He could bear it no longer. He strode up, and stood besides her staring at the ‘The Virgins’ and willed her to turn his way. But patience couldn’t outlive the righteousness of his revulsions, he vehmenced:

“I think Gustav’s reputation as a master of eroticism is an utter ridicule of his works, they are absolute labors and expressions of love.”

She didn’t turn. Her answer flowed in unperturbed knowledge of his presence and his stance.

“Eroticism is a huge facet of love.”

“But there is this whole desire amongst people to vulgarize it. Klimt was not a horn-dog.”

“There is nothing understated about Klimt, he saw it, he said it, minimalism is over-rated.”

“Not everything needs to be declared.”

She then let him see her lips rise in the familiar partial skew, as if it was indeed for him and him alone. It was even more tantalizing viewed in profile.

“Can’t we just take the guesswork out of…guesswork?”

He c/wouldn’t answer. She started to walk away then, in another direction. He had been mistaken, she had not come alone. Jockmiester was there, bodaciously laughing at someone’s joke. Despite himself, he grabbed her wrist. She returned his questioning gaze:

“So your vision of Klimt is more in line with ‘Mulher Sentada’?”

“‘The Kiss’. I revel in expressions. Its something I can sink my teeth into, respond to, follow, enjoy.”

“So there is nothing to be said for natural progression? Every thing must be chased?”

“I believe in seeking…and I want to be sought.”

She left then, that five star girl, he watched her walk to Jockmiester, he saw she kissed his cheek, her lips did not curl in the act.

It would be a while before he even dared to think of her again…this was going to be a write-off. It was official, recession had hit EQ.

It was a Monday, so cold-so blue, beginning of the week. There was a gentle tap on his shoulder as he was about to walk out with his morning cuppa. Her hair was longer, her cheeks seemed sharper, but he knew it was her, although he desperately wanted to see that smile as a reconfirmation. She seemed warm wrapped up in her woolies. He had a bizarre urge to run his finger down her lips, and forcibly mold on that signature contour.

She said she’d lost her old phone with his number. She’s meant to call him post-Klimt.

He said that may have left him verklempt.

There was muted laughter.

A moment, and then there it was.

“Where did you get that smile from?”

“Targhe.”

“I’ve wondered about it.”

“Its wondered about you.”

“If I didn’t have to go to work right now, I’d…”

“I know.”

“You know that you are a five star girl don’t you.”

“No.”

“Well, you are.”

“No.”

“How can I convince you?”

“I don’t think you can in a coffee line.”

“How about over dinner, sometime.”

“Yes, sometime…”

“I promise not to eat peanuts!”

“What?”

That Thursday, he was held back at work, he emailed her to let her know dinner may not happen, but maybe a coffee and that promised conversation? She emailed back:

“Ok midnight warrior, text me as you are leaving, you know I never sleep.”

He sat there thinking of her smile. He visualized it, felt his finger trace it across her face. He thought of the utter joy that randomly catching it every few months gave him. The stopping of his heart, melting into his gut, slipping through his soul. He though how it was fleeting bird, so beautiful in flights…of fancy.

He thought of pursuit vs. predisposition.

He thought many big thoughts about that smile on that five-star girl.

Then he deleted her number from his phone.

Author: Fatima Yamin

The story begins with a recipe, a mixture of “Rice Krispies, Planters peanuts and chopped red onion. She adds salt, lemon juice, thin slices of chili pepper…” (pg 1). This really is the best way to describe this book—the result of two worlds coming together. In an Interview, Jhumpa Lahiri says that “though I’ve never lived anywhere but America, India continues to form part of my fictional landscape” This was the perfect framework for her first full-length novel The Namesake which makes a fairly successful attempt to allure non-Bengali and Bengali readers. This novel traverses the legacy of one immigrant family from Calcutta, India—the  Gangulis. From perspectives Ashoke and Ashima and their children Gogol (Nikhil) and Sonali Lahiri illuminates the plight of the immigrant as the constant negotiation of culture in the formation of identity.

Unlike many of her predecessors and contemporaries, Lahiri’s delicate prose doesn’t attempt to impose “Bengaliess” on the reader. The symbols and images are universal, and appeal more to one’s humanity rather than one’s nationality. When Ashima is about to give birth for the first time, she compares the immigrant experience to being pregnant. “Like pregnancy, being a foreigner is something that elicits the same curiosity from strangers, the same pity and respect.” (pg 50)

A non South Asian person with no exposure to the (Hindu)Bengali culture may not understand the significance of Gogol’s first rice feeding or the foreshadowing indicated by the watered-down wedding ceremony without the sacred fire. But for the most part, Lahiri does her best to describe American and Bengali culture with an equal amount of detail.  She evokes the suburbia of Gogol and Sonia ’s adolescence (which may invoke nostalgia in some readers)  who ask Ashima and Ashoke questions a non-South Asian reader may be asking. Simultaneously, Lahiri portrays the combination of cultures to create something new. Much of the novel follows Gogol’s journey walking that tightrope between expectations of being Bengali and being American. Unfortunately it is not until after Ashoke dies that he develops a sense of respect for his Bengaliness.

Considering this is her first full-length novel, Lahiri does well to capture the immigrant experience and weaves the Ganguli family tales into one masterpiece of a book. Lahiri’s style is compelling and clear. She accepts the non-South Asian reader and welcomes the South Asian reader, leaving both groups reeling when by the time they get to the end of the book.

Author: Jacqueline Chatterpaul

When I was a little girl, my father used to take me to the sea. This was not just any ordinary visit, we had to make sure it was the fourteenth night of the moon, so I counted all I could on my little fingers that the moon would come faster, but the moon only came when it will. Years later, he gave me a ring which could have been stolen from one of the moon’s fingers.

I used to run after the moon, but in the car that my father drove, the moon was always running after him. I could watch it come so near to us, the wind sending it our way. The car used to be driving fast on Mai Kolachi, that new road they build only so that he and I could travel faster to the sea, and also that there was a reference point now, ‘lets take Mai Kolachi that one that runs to the sea.’

In time, words and phrases erode, just like the color on your hair does, and we started saying “oh just to Mai Kolachi? each time someone had asked us where it was we were going. My mother and sister never came along, though my father had wanted us three to go together.

I sometimes liked to visit alone, and hear the cars passing by on the street. These were the days when my father and I pretended the two of us didn’t exist for each other. The wind would embrace my calm then, and while he drove the car, I spoke several things in its ears. I once told the wind, “I’m about to sink into solitude.”

When Abu liked to talk of the moon, sitting by the sea, he was quite the man. He would tell me complicated things about life, and how to live it as a running clock with no hands. To feel it’s essential present. The waves would crash on their shores. Each word of the sea, brought calm to the mind of water. Everything came back to its own roots and shores.

At around fourteen, when I declared to my father that perhaps God didn’t exist after all. He mentioned his own period of burnt atheism in his life, and said: “one comes back to one’s roots.” I despised his response. It was allowing me freedom, but only at the cost of a certainty I couldn’t really care for. I was just embarking towards my life and the subtlety of his questioning glance burnt me deeper still. In any case, he said “yes, you can.” And I did.

A couple of years later I told him: “one is not born into a relation, you have to create it every day, like making sun out of yellow paint – the paint isn’t everything.” This had startled him, and he has not understood clearly up to this day, how I could say that. When my father speaks English I’m sometimes reminded of Spaniards or Native Americans, who speak from their heart.

He works on theories that he calls ‘theories of the wave.’ All the time he is talking about currency markets and foreign exchange, and yet the constant in his language came to be, what was constant to me as well: the moon. He had a theory that the moon affected the waves, and so a similar pattern could emerge in the currency markets that also moved like waves. Or this was what I understood about his sketches. He is with his paper and pencil all day, sketching graphs that rise and fall, and keep the rhythm of waves: each thing falls, he once said to me, and the history class teacher had said: “nations as well as people, have their infancy, adolescence and old age.”

At an early age I learnt that the Fibonacci series of numbers had a special significance, because it was also the number of your fingers, and your hands, your arms, and Michelangelo believed in it too. Father always had crazed eyes, as if he had seen something, known someone years before, and all this was certainly very important – more important than dying, giving up, not laughing, or laughing. Abu had a terrible friend who left him, the way no man can ever leave another. He never told me this. I found out only two months ago that Bali even existed.

My Bali was a musical man, he could sing or compose a tune within a second of his fingers running on water. He played the drums, the harmonica and the guitar. He was the friend of my father’s life. They used to play squash together, run together and go to office-meetings together. They used to laugh as well. Bali was someone you could rely on to come up with a solution to every anguish, be it of why she wasn’t talking to you, or why there wasn’t enough cash coming in. He had a solution. He had laughter. He had music. When Bali Chacha died, I was three years old. Abu has never been the same. And my mother, time, his contacts, all forgot to mention this death to me. So I have pretended like it didn’t exist.

It must hurt a man. His daughter too thinking his pain doesn’t exist.

As if, Bali’s leaving and missing and singing and talking and not talking anymore, wasn’t enough. My father is one of the best men I have ever known. Except for one answer, he’s been able to give me all of the rest, and except for one person, he told me about all of the rest.

I sometimes wonder at what happens to father-daughter relations in

Pakistan these days, or from always, I don’t know. There was a time when the moon hadn’t shone so brightly on my street, at that time I used to know the difference between right and wrong. Now the distinctions are all not quite that clear. Perhaps fathers are our brothers, when we become older, instead of just well-wishing friends out from the distance in our married lives, or work lives, or party lives, or whatsoever lives.

I sometimes feel, that on coming of age, the relationship dynamic between a father and daughter ought to change. If he never realizes that the girl has become a mature young woman, she has a heart that is incurable or a mind that is furious, then he’ll miss out on the beauty of the moonlight. This would be a terrible thing to happen to a father, who has loved his little girl – when she was a little girl – oh so very well. So very well.

He brought her all the right gifts, on all the right birthdays, took her as a princess on those sun-died days. I know that my father bought me the white horse I couldn’t get my eyes off of, the one that had a magical carriage behind it, so it could trail behind the horse like the magic that is dust-shine behind Cinderella’s pumpkin-carriage.

He got it for me, not caring it was expensive, or inappropriate. [I mean, it was a horse, with a golden mane, and a fierce blue red light on its forehead, it struck me then, it was an ordinary horse that could become a unicorn at will, upon a lighted touch.] It was important for me, his little girl, and he made sure I had it. Just like he made sure I had silver earrings, matching shoes, and an exquisite bracelet.

When one grows older, these things shouldn’t slip off our minds, like old shoes. It is so important an hour for a father. He is going to miss this for the rest of his life. I think between fathers and daughters, is a sacred trust – but I also think, if this trust doesn’t reach its own avenues of beauty, and change shape over the years, then the life that is lived, will be lost to the life that could have been lived. In my case, it was my poetry that did it. When I had my book of poems ready, I called my father after several months of agitated absence and said: “Abu now I am like you, I’m an entrepreneur too. I wrote my book, it’s a risk I took on life, just like you.”

Little girls want to be like their fathers too, it’s not just the boys that harbor this desire. I was a poet to the moon, he was a sketcher of graphs that made sense to no one but himself. We did have a meeting point, it’s just that it took us several years to realize this. A woman in love, is altogether a mystery to a father, he approaches it like someone coming near mysterious white birds on the Karachi sea, that will disappear the moment he says “Can I sit here with you?” The sea is lost, it’s uncertain, it’s always present. This is what I am to you, father, is it not. It’s what you are to me, as well. It’s what you are to the white bird, the sky on the Karachi retreat, to Bali’s haunting voice that keeps singing, over all of my life and yours. He is with us as well.

Abu didn’t realize I was going to be Bali for him, when I grew up. He didn’t see it coming, but friends like metamorphosis on Greek nymphs, can take place anywhere. We are to be friends, I just know it.

Author: Fatima Ijaz Mirza

My rating: 3/5 I am usually skeptical about picking up new authors unless I have read or heard good things about them. Similarly, when I came across Saborna Roychowdhury’s first novel “The Distance”, I was not sure what I should be prepared for. Naturally, I looked towards the background of the writer before I embarked on the journey of reading a completely new story.

Roychowdhury’s past boasts of several short stories in various U.S magazines and a nomination for the Pushcart. With this information reassuring me, I embarked on the journey of discovering a new author. And what did I find?

An interesting coming of age story that deals with the inner turmoil of a girl/woman who has to choose between duty and desire. It could have been slated in the category of a classic clichéd tale of a South Asian woman caught in a love triangle. Except, it has more to it. It is also a tale a woman who chooses to go abroad via marriage to escape a stagnant life back in oppressive Calcutta, and to forget her activist no-future lover, Amitav, who drags her further into the heart of a struggle against the corrupt system. We come face-to-face with a character whose roots prevent her to completely assimilate herself in a new environment (Vancouver) thousands of miles away from “home” and truly love her husband, Neel, who also has ambitions of his own. For Mini, home not only means the little crowded apartment she grew up in but also the many memories that contribute to the true essence of her character.

However, the book is not glitch free. I personally feel that any good editor could have fixed minor little details that make reading a slight inconvenience. On one page, it is noted that Neel, is allergic to eggs. However, on another page, Neel and Mini carry egg curry and rice on a day trip to save money. Another instance is Neel’s and Mini’s stay in Vancouver is noted to be five years at the beginning of a chapter, but throughout the book, thereafter, the length of stay is mentioned as four years. There are also a few grammatical mistakes that could have easily been taken care of. Nevertheless, what sticks out the most are the translated Bengali metaphors sprinkled throughout the book. Instead of adding to the narrative, they cause a jarring sensation within the reader. For example, “She will rub chun kali on our faces” would have been more apt than “she will rub lime and ink on our faces”. The actual translation causes a disjointed feeling. For a non-Bengali reader, it is easier to substitute words from our imagination to fit the original words, but the literal translation makes the words impact-less. And, for a Bengali reader, like me, I found this habit of literally translating Bengali idioms slightly comical and distasteful.

Despite the criticisms, I also have some good things to say about the book. Roychowdhury is a strong and gifted storyteller. She builds the story’s momentum, with the reader growing closer to Mini with every successive page. Mini is portrayed as an immature selfish girl at first who gradually learns to negotiate her identity as a wife, a lover, a daughter and finally, a woman. Roychowdhury is also able to portray the true picture of immigrants in a foreign land like Canada. Very artfully, she delves into their lives and weaves out their conditions and their dilemmas of assimilation. As we get further enmeshed into the intricate poetic tapestry, we also tend to overlook the bad points I pointed out earlier. I admit that they cause a grating sensation, but we are able to ignore it and move on in order to reach the final climax as soon as possible; a climax that is unexpected and in many ways leaves the reader questioning their own inner turmoil.

On the whole, Roychowdhury is a lyrical and graceful author, whose fluidity in narration keeps this book afloat. As a first novel, it’s an extraordinary attempt at telling a complex story of inner journey. I would say catch the book, and the author, because we can surely expect some great things from this one!

Now available on www.monfakira.com. Also, available on Amazon on a later date.

Author: Sanchari Sur

“A friend in need is a friend indeed.” This timeless saying can be interpreted to mean that someone who is your friend in a time of need is indeed your friend. Some friends are only around for the good times, but they are nowhere to be found when you need a favor. I have a few of those friends. The key is to understand what kind of expectations you can have from each friend, that way you will never get upset. Friends indeed  are the first to come to your side and even ask if they can do anything for you and they are true treasures. Recently, one of my friends indeed became a friend in need.
Last week, my friend Joe went on a vacation to the Dominican Republic. He went with his entire family for his father’s 70th birthday. All of the members of his household flew to their beautiful house in Puerto Plata, all except for Caesar- Joe’s dog. My friend has had this dog for about 7 months and I’m truly convinced that he bought this dog just to please me. My favorite type of dogs is pugs and Joe picked out the cutest pug for himself. Perhaps he did this because he really loves the breed also, or because he knows I love them but can’t have a dog in my own house. Either way, I instantly fell in love with his adorable puppy. And since I loved this puppy so much and even joked about being his Godmother, I was the first person Joe asked to take care of Caesar while he was away. I am also his closest friend in the literal sense- I live only 15 minutes away from his house.

First, I should say that I have never taken care of anything. I have never had a pet, unless you count my Tamagotchi that I had in 6th grade (That’s a reference only a ’90s child will understand!).  Even a babysitting job is something that never crossed my path. Basically, I have evaded sole responsibility for another living thing for the past 24.5 years! I was approaching the unknown with great anticipation. I was extremely excited about taking care of Caesar for one week. Each time I visited Joe’s house, Caesar runs up to me and we play for hours,  so I thought this would be a piece of cake. I didn’t know that I would learn so much in one week.

Day 1

I dropped Joe off at the airport at 6 A.M. and returned to his house to feed Caesar and let him into the backyard to go to the bathroom. Easy! The dog ate his breakfast with gusto and enjoyed a hearty “bathroom” experience. I left him to the business of chewing on a rubber bone and walked to my car. Exactly at the time I reached my car, I stopped in horror. I realized that I left Joe’s house keys on his coffee table. Oddly enough, I remembered to lock every window and door and even remembered to turn off the coffee machine, but I forgot the keys. Instant panic! How will I get back in? The dog will starve to death if I don’t get in! Poor Caesar was locked in. Complete and utter panic, I tell you. The first thing I do in any horrible situation, and I’m sure you do this also: call Mom and Dad.

Of course, neither Mom nor Dad is a locksmith. They had no idea how I was going to get into the house. Even if I called a locksmith, which Dad said would probably cost me at least $100, I couldn’t be sure that I would be granted entry. After all, it wasn’t my house and how could I prove to the locksmith that I was the entrusted dogsitter? “A friend in need is a friend indeed” never proved truer than on this day.

I thought of my friend who is extremely crafty and street smart. He knows how to open locks by using a credit card. It was approximately 8 A.M. at this point. Now a good friend will actually answer your frantic call when they are peacefully slumbering, but a true friend will get out of bed and come out to help you! In the freezing cold air, my friend struggled to finesse the backdoor lock. Poor Caesar was barking like mad, probably thinking we were real criminals trying to break in. I was the lookout to make sure no neighbors were watching us and dialing the police. No luck. The door didn’t budge. I had brought a list of locksmiths’ phone numbers, but I somehow knew my friend indeed would not fail me. Our very last resort was to try the front door. Just as I began to formulate the thought that we were in plain sight for the neighbors, the door opened! It was such a relief to get back into the house, yet at the same I felt incredibly stupid to make a mistake like this. I was in charge of the dog and empty house for no more than 2 hours and I already faced a scary situation! Would this determine how the rest of my week would be?

Day 2
Caesar was very happy to see me return in the morning. He once again ate his breakfast and I applied a lube to his eyes to keep them from getting irritated. We played for a bit and walked around the house. Caesar followed my every step. There was however, one moment when I was standing in a room that he disappeared for a moment. I heard the jingling of his collar in the hallway and when I stepped out of the room, I saw the little something behind Caesar. Caesar was moving quickly towards the stairs. And a few feet behind him, a fresh bit of…bodily excretion, shall we say? Bad Caesar, very bad! A time out for you in your cage! A time out for the pup while I was compelled to clean up the mess. I realized this wouldn’t be as easy as I thought.

Having a dog is very much like having a child, as I would soon find out. They, like babies, must be “trained” on where/how to go to the bathroom. In this case, I know that Caesar was trained, but I think he was either uncomfortable with me or he was testing me. Both of these emotions are also ones that small children experience!

Day 3
Caesar gave me a bit of trouble about eating his food. The dry kibble is of course foul-smelling and not the least bit appetizing to me, but for dogs it is supposedly first-class dining. I tried talking to Caesar. “Come on Caesar, eat your breakfast. Ooh! Yummy yummy! MMMmm, breakfast is yummy!” He tilted his head and looked at me with what I interpreted as curiosity. “Please Caesar, eat something!” I was so worried that he would starve to death if I didn’t get him to eat. It wasn’t until I personally took some of the kibble out of the bowl and hand-fed the dog that Caesar began to chow down. This was a moment quite reminiscent of my childhood when my parents had to cajole me to eat. “Just one more bite, Farrah. Be a good girl, finish your food.” Unfortunately, they have to try to convince me to do the opposite now!

Day 4
I have the potty training under control. But, now the problem is with me! I left Caesar alone in the house all day and forgot to turn on some lights. By the time I return, it will be dark and the poor dog will be all alone in the dark. This thought gnawed at me all day. The guilt of not remembering to leave a light on for the dog bothered me throughout every activity I did. This must be what parents go through, I thought. Not only do they have to worry about their kids being afraid of the dark, but if you have a problem with a child, it will not stop bothering you! You will be thinking about it nonstop. And how do single parents get along? I have had no help with taking care of this dog and it would be so helpful if I had another person watching him when I wasn’t around. Then Caesar would always be fed and there would be someone to let him out into the backyard and to play with him. Kudos to all the single parents that take care of their puppies on their own.

Day 5
Caesar has not once said thank you for anything I’ve done for him. I have given him treats, taken him outside to play, fed him out of my own hands, cleaned up his messes, worried over his health and well-being, and not once as he shown me any gratitude! Hmm…another parental sentiment.

Day 6
Everything went very well today, except for bedtime. Caesar sleeps in his cage and must be put to bed at 11 P.M. Tonight there was a bit of a fight about his bedtime, but I stood firm and did not let him stay up any later. When he saw me walking towards his cage, he decided to make a game called “It’ll Be Bedtime If You Manage to Catch Me.” He ran all over the kitchen and under the tables and for the life of me, I could not catch him. He squirmed out of my grasp if I got even close. Finally, HA HA, I outsmarted him! I took out a treat and led him towards the cage. I put the treat on the floor and when he bent down to pick it up, I grabbed him! Farrah-1, Caesar- 0.

Day 7
Today is my last day with Caesar. I will be picking Joe up from the airport in a few hours. It is a bittersweet day. I still love my little pup, but I must say it was not as easy as I thought it would be. It certainly confirmed that although I love dogs, but I don’t think I will have one of my own someday. No, I think I can appreciate them from afar. When I told my parents about my adventures with Caesar, they laughed at me, mostly because they faced the same problems when raising my brother and me. If ever there were an experience to teach me responsibility, this was it. I don’t think that I would have learned as much if I was given a dog when I was a child. I think it was a perfect time to understand what it means to have complete responsibility for something living and to feel what it’s like to be relied upon because I am able to reflect and make sense of what I learn. It was challenging, yet fulfilling to take care of a pet. I can only imagine that taking care of a child is like this, multiplied by 100.

All I have to say is- Joe, you owe me one, or perhaps three!

Author: Farah Mohsin ,Questions? Comments? E-mail farrahmohsin@gmail.com

Luke saw her first time outside the “Sydney Smith” hall. She was standing on her toes trying to peep inside the wagon selling French Fries, through the high narrow window, waiting for the wagon guy to hand back her change.
That evening the unpredictable weather of Toronto was showing its rea colors. Sun and the clouds were playing hide and seek. Luke, would play with shadows by placing his feet on the darker side and then reverting back on his steps. It was a tough day. There were noises of first years leaving one classroom and running to the next. He was on his way to “Bora Laskin” law library. There were readings to be finished, assignments to be completed. And right there he was mesmerized by the pair of green eyes.
She looked towards him, as if it was a child’s play. Eyes mocking, lips smiling and inviting. “Hey you!”. He shouted without thinking. “Wait, Are you Anita’s friend?”
There was no Anita. Out of 204 seats, there were only 4 brown in his JD class. But still there was no harm. He wanted a friendly random conversation.
“Oh which Anita? The PSF one?Are you talking about Anita Sheikh?”
“Yeah, yeah, that one…” The stone had hit the target.
“So, you have midterms”?
“No I am done”. She smiled back…
The man in the wagon now shouted. He had finally found 50 cents and was eager to hand it back.
“Wanna have some fries?”
“This place sucks but I like fries…”
“Indian”? “Pakistani”? “Bengali”? “Hispanic”?
It was hard to tell from her face.

She had tied her hairs neatly in a ponytail, and was wearing T-shirt
with a random slogan pasted all over it.
“Define naughty”. The words on the t-shirt matched the twinkle in her eyes. She was full of life and happiness.
“Probably a senior 4th year student?”.
Luke made a rough guess…
“So you have seen me with Anita right”? We did this dance number o the annual fundraising thing?”
She was talking without any pause.
” yes… I remember”. Luke murmured.
Wait.. sorry I have to run for my class… she picked her backpack from stairs and vanished into the building”.
Luke stood there staring at the random encounter.
In the evening when he left for his small dingy apartment in annex, he went over the details. “Did she understand her glance, her undertone.”
Will he be able to find her again in this mammoth campus?
Does she have a boyfriend?
Is she conservative?
Then he laughed thinking that he was chasing a shadow. Like the shadows of the clouds.
The girl with green eyes disappeared behind the never-ending pile of assignments and work. He was looking for serious clerkships that summer. The April wind, her eyes, the hair piled up on the head, all went into oblivion.
Luke was not a chaser. He chased money, ambition, a good job on Bay Street but not women. He had learned that women chase men with all the above attributes. He had one high school relationship and one university affair on his record. Women were not a permanent thing in his life. Perhaps one day when he would have a proper job and a car, he would look for that woman. Woman who would carry his child. Listen to Beethoven and Chopin with him. Drink red wine with him, and would use his mother’s silver cutlery. A proper woman with soft manners. Now he added green eyes in that picture, smiling at him from the clouds hovering on his head.
Luke was a success story. Very few of his friends were aware that his permanent address was on Rosedale. He had gone to Upper Canada college and had done his undergrad from a small secluded liberal collage in America. His father was a partner in a major law firm on Bay Street.
No one knew what happened between them. One summer he packed all his belongings and moved out.
April turned into May and then June. The city dwellers stripped themselves out of their windbreakers. On sunny days, young girls running on the tracks became a common sight. And then he saw her again…This time in a student bar. Alone ,aloof , angry…
“Hey, you, naughty.”
He was also slightly drunk…
“Sophia”…
“Sophia DeSouza”
She repeated it…. in her own drunk voice.
That evening they randomly walked on the College street. They counted the stars. “Well there were no stars that night, just another illusion”. They walked towards Sydney Smith Hall to revoke that story. And sat there on the stairs.
“so …”
“I am in JD/MBA”. Luke said with a glint in his eyes. “Oh! you are the nerd. Wow.” Sophia murmured.
“I am third year math major, university college. And I want to teach physics. Wait, I want to Correct physics when I grow up.” That is how it started….
The university affair. Luke and Sophia DeSouza. She claimed that her green eyes were a gift from her English great grandmother, who was saved during the great mutiny by her great grandfather. She pronounced Mumbai , rather than Bombay. She was an international student, who had come to Canada to finally settle down.
“See, it is hard to get permanent residency in USA or England. But it is easy in Canada.”
Luke would wonder about that English great grandmother. There was nothing English about Sophia, except her name and her colonial English. She still used patrol pump other than gas station. She always fetched groceries from the dickey rather than trunk. And she drank chai rather than coffee.
“colonial… so colonial…”
Luke was enthralled. Mystery.. alive history…
They would go to concerts together. Luke was music major in his undergrad, then they would eat from any random place, stealing kisses here and there. It never went beyond that point. Kisses, hugs, phone calls….. And Luke hated it. He was used to women who would throw themselves at him. What kind of girl is she? “catholic”… Will they marry? How would their kids look like? Then Luke imagined curries instead of turkey on his table.
His friend would throw innuendoes at him.
“Is she playing a game?”
“Is there a boy friend…”
Probably she would have an arranged marriage, with funny makeup and heavy saris.
Probably he was just an experiment like her physics experiments.
He would wonder. Here and there. Bleeding with desire.
Summer came to an end. And Thanksgiving, came near..
He would hate Sophie and then would suddenly call her. Sophie….
“why are we waiting.” He raised the question one evening….”waiting for…”? she smiled at him.. Teasingly..
“you know what I mean”.
“You know I am catholic”. She answered him back…
It is 21st century… and I want you…he was stern and argumentative …
“it didn’t happen that night. Not even after that night…
It was again a drunken spree. They had gone out for bowling. One shot led to another. He had taken Sophie to his one room apartment.
“Now…?”She shouted at him , stripping teasingly .. And then… Luke stood there…
The young nubile body of the woman he supposedly love.
His father… there in his parents room, his nanny… green eyes… nakedness.. and that smile”.
His own washroom, him, the nanny.
Luke felt nausea. Past demons… He opened the door and moved into the balcony…some one was still smiling at him with green eyes.

Author:Sarah Zahid

From approximately 1680 to 1758 AD, the Sufi mystic Abdullah Shah – Bulley Shah as he is lovingly addressed – weaved a discourse of words; his discourse was, and still is, an agitation against society’s preoccupation with the body as the dictionary for human meaning.

The Punjabi Sufis have often been misconstrued to only be a part of the mystical strand of Islam. They are apart from this part: they are freethinkers. Bulley Shah went beyond the body: he went to the soul, an independent region. If the project of sociology is to change the world, this loci should surface as a region for our study. Bulley Shah’s sociology, as I have come to understand it, can be thought of as such: as human beings we are each different and we are each the same because we are each different, our difference is our sameness and our sameness is our difference. He punctures the orientalist schism.

Living in the Indo-Pak region of Kasur, a region pulsating with ethno-political schisms, Bulley Shah, himself a descendant of the Prophet Mohammad, was ostracized for ridiculing institutionalized religion and denouncing all forms of social categorizations. Through the power of the pen, he mocked specialist knowledge, “ Dasseyn hor, tey hor kamaaweyn. Andar khot, baahar sachyaar” (You preach something and act inversely. Inwardly, you are corrupt, but, outwardly, you are pious – a liar hidden in the garb of truth)”.

As a social activist, Bulley Shah’s context afforded him little reprieve: he was banished from his locale and proceeded to live with a community of dancing females. History narrates that Bulley Shah returned to his locale, 12 years later, having adopted the identity of a female dancer – he was a preened dancer and wooed his audience. In this connection, Bulley washed away his static social identity and it was in this effort that Bulley Shah took to his pen to collapse different bodies into sameness.

Through poetry and dance, Bulley Shah, who professed heterosexuality, connected male and female characters into a narrative that could only be played by a transgendered individual, also known as Hijras. His work remains a central script in many 21^st century theatricals in Pakistan. And today, Pakistan’s Hijra community visits his shrine, along with other Sufi shrines, as one of their only spaces of spiritual comfort. In fact, female musicians, like Abida Parveen, have realized the penetrative powers of their voices and have established themselves in male-only domains. In the honour of Bulley Shah, Parveen sings the line, quoted at the beginning of this essay.

The power of Bulley Shah is thus in his ability to become an ally and experience the field; as training sociologists, we need to be introduced to this field at the very onset. Bulley Shah does not sit within specialist tools either – his sociology is an interdisciplinary practice, a “process” and not a project. And, more importantly, his work never stationed the self strictly within the corporeal, material guise: he rid himself of this guise by revealing its porous fabric.

These histories of social emancipation should not be detached from human sexual histories. There is a lot to learn and our academe needs to reflect on these victories; I celebrate these victories because we need to incorporate such achievements into future discussions. Otherwise, how different are we from “The Gender Grammarians”?

I know not who I am

I am neither a believer going to the mosque
Nor given to non-believing ways
Neither clean, nor unclean
Neither Moses not Pharoah
I know not who I am

I am neither among sinners nor among saints
Neither happy, nor unhappy
I belong neither to water not to earth
I am neither fire, not air
I know not who I am

Neither do I know the secret of religion
Nor am I born of Adam and Eve
I have given myself no name
I belong neither to those who squat and pray
Nor to those who have gone astray
I know not who I am

I was in the beginning, I’d be there in the end
I know not any one other than the One
Who could be wiser than Bulleh Shah
Whose Master is ever there to tend?
I know not who I am.

You read to become all knowledgeable

You read so many books
to know it all,
yet fail to ever read your
heart at all.

You rush to holy shrines to play a part,
Would you dare enter the shrine of your heart

You are quick to attack the evil one,
yet pride is a battle you have not won.


You grab for a star you can control,
yet fail to grasp the light in your soul.

Let the race end, my friend

Stop trying to be the one who knows,
for ‘God is One’ you need to know.

End the race, my friend

God is All we need! God is All!

Follow the wandering dervish!

If you deny the power of all that’s true,
God will not grant strength to you.

We are lost in this river of self,
no boat or streams are of any help.

End the race, my friend

Stop trying to know it all, my friend.

God is All we need! God is All!

There is a Cheat in the folds of my covering!

There is a Cheat in the folds of my covering
There is a Cheat in the folds of my covering

Whom to tell my shrieks Oh! Hermit
There is a Cheat in the folds of my covering

If he slipped sans rumpus
There would be uproar in the whole universe

There is a Cheat in the folds of my covering

Muslims are wary of fire and Hindus fear grave
Leaving apart all bickering and brawl
Escaped somebody else that was brave

There is a Cheat in the folds of my covering

Somewhere Ram and at other Mullah
It is the furor old and ancient

There is a Cheat in the folds of my covering

Prayer calls were made at Heavenly throne
These were listened at the exalted Lahore
Shah Inayat has fastened strings
And slyly pulls my wings

There is a Cheat in the folds of my covering

The one who believed has known
Others have collapsed and thrown
All scuffle and tussle came to halt
When Bulleh appeared on  the scene

There is a Cheat in the folds of my covering

Author: Ali Abbas

A few weeks ago, I directed my walk towards the Borders bookstore by my house. I browsed through the store and saw a large display of Martha Stewart’s newest cookbook. Some of you who are sports fans may have a favorite athlete- one that you follow every move of. Perhaps you buy every album of a musician or band and buy tickets to their shows. Well, my culinary queen, Martha Stewart, recently released her latest cookbook. The enormous display held a multitudinous amount of her overpriced yet genius book. I promptly swiped a copy from the display and sat down in the leather chairs that Borders oddly provides (I once read an entire book while sitting in one of them.)

I flipped through Martha’s recipes; what brilliance she displayed by dividing her book by seasons. The recopies use vegetables that are in season, hence the division. Oh, my gastronomic guru, how you care for your adoring fans! You want us to eat only the freshest of vegetables! It doesn’t stop there. Martha provides an appetizer, main dish, sides and dessert. 52 delicious, cohesive meals.

I sat on the Borders chair leafing through the pages. “Ooh” and “Oh, I never thought to put those things together” is a sampling of the thoughts that were in my head. I even had the audacity to scribble down a few recipes in my notebook; clearly, I had no intentions of buying the book.

When I got up to put it back, there was a big sign that I failed to pay attention to before. Borders is a place of overstimulation with way too much to look at to be able to pay mind to all of it. The sign read that Martha herself would be doing a book signing on Thursday night. I was floored. A big time celebrity coming to my town, my hero no less!

Let me explain that my love for Ms. Stewart was not love at first sight. Essentially, I saw one of her craft ideas. Take a glass jar, fill it with all of the dry ingredients for a cookie recipe, print the recipe and tie it to the jar with pretty ribbon. I copied it and people loved it. Then I went to her for more ideas. And from there, I began to develop my own ideas and incorporate hers with my own until I realized that I love her.

I added Martha’s book signing to my mental calendar. Throughout the week I fantasized about impressing her with my skills as a baker. She would love my cupcakes so much that she would ask me to wait to speak with her after the book signing when she would say, “Please, could you give me the recipe for your delicious cupcakes? Better yet, why don’t you come work for me and create more recipes like this? I have never tasted a more delectable morsel in my life!”

It could go the other way too. I might be walking back to my car after the signing and I would be accosted by big burly men in leather jackets. They would shove me into a black stretch limo. Martha would be sitting across from me wearing the cutest knit poncho, a big man on either side of her. “Listen,” she would say. “I tasted your cupcakes and I looked at your Facebook pictures of all your baked goods and crafts. I see where this is headed, and frankly, I don’t take kindly to competition.” I would be paralyzed with fear. My eyes would be fixated on the vintage ceramic floral buttons of Martha’s poncho. “Enough with the baking, Farrah. Or you’ll be sorry.” Martha would slowly turn her head towards a gigantic goon and mutter, “Get her out of here,” at which time I would be thrown out as quickly as I was dragged in.

Plausible, very plausible, but I do think Martha would have much more tact and grace than this. Her mode of death threats would probably come via mail on pretty monogrammed stationary.

Several friends were not very supportive when I told them that I would be giving Martha some of my cupcakes when I meet her. They all told me that she wouldn’t accept them for fear of accepting rat poison-laced baked goods. “But I’m not a crazy fan!” I said. I resolved that they were probably right and Martha would stop me before I could even place the box of cupcakes on her table.

Thursday came and I baked some coffee infused chocolate and vanilla cupcakes with coffee frosting. A very tasty selection. I arrived at the bookstore to observe the line that swirled all the way around the store. First, I purchased several copies of her book. I walked to the back of the line and waited for my turn to meet THE Martha.

I was definitely nervous when I got on line. Martha is notorious for being a right snob. It is something she doesn’t take dire measures to hide. I’ve watched her in interviews and on her show and the way she interacts with other people is definitely in a snooty manner. But isn’t that better than being the extremely sugary typical chef/homemaker that we see on TV? Martha is real, even if it means she shows her true colors that aren’t very pretty. She doesn’t hide the fact that she got into trouble and was in prison for a few months. She got into trouble and STILL continued to be a success, even after she got out of jail. What an inspiration! Would she be as pretentious and uppity as she sometimes seems?

I finally reached her table. It was like being the next kid to sit on Santa Claus’ lap. Or the next group to go on the roller coaster. “I have a gift for you!” I said when I reached her. “Oh, really?” she said. “These are coffee infused cupcakes.” She thanked me graciously and placed them next to her and proceeded to ask me if I had a bakery. Our conversation was quick and friendly and my admiration for the great business woman/ domestic diva was reaffirmed.

Questions? Comments? E-mail farrahmohsin@gmail.com

Author: Farah Mohsin

Amrita Pritam ( 1919 – 2005 ) was an outspoken critic of the partition of British India. As one of India’s foremost writers and poets, her scholarship deals specifically with wording the experiences of females in colonial and post-colonial South Asia. Pritam is an archive of female experiences of the partition and her Punjabi poem, Today I plead with Waris Shah ( Ajj Aakhan Waris Shah Noon ), documents her own experiences in Punjab. Waris Shah, a Punjabi Sufi saint, is remembered as the Sufi saint of love and is revered as the custodian of love ( Ishq Da Waris ).Buried in Pakistan Punjab, his shrine attracts love-struck devotees throughout the year, many of whom undertake the pilgrimage to utter their vows ( Manat ) to their beloveds . Most Punjabis, Sufis and non-Sufis alike, have committed Waris Shah’s poetry to memory and Pritam’s poem to him stands as a revealing dialogue between Sufism and females, a dialogue that breaks female silence on the violence of the partition. Pritam invokes Waris Shah as the sharer of people’s sorrows and she shares the sorrows of the females of Punjab with him. The poem asserts a female’s right to write. Pritam’s work breaks the codes of femininity. She confronts the saint directly and does not ask of a male to mediate between them: perhaps Pritam was the only female left standing as Punjab was bathed in blood? Written in Punjabi, Ajj Akhan Waris Shah Noon ( Today I Call To You Waris Shah ), stands as an ageless text and it takes on the present progressive tense, ensuring that her words are always grounded within the reader’s present reality. Innumerable renditions of the text have been performed in genres other than Qawwali. Most recently, a Pakistan rock band, Meekaal Hasan, has utilized the text to bring together the musical heritage of India and Pakistan. Pritam’s work is eternal. I read her poem as a Ghazal, an ode to love about the death of its lovers. And I would venture a step further into categorizing her work as a Sufiyana Kalam. The difference, though, is that a male is not required to speak: Pritam speaks and Waris Shah is silent. Pritam eventually does ask Waris Shah to respond to her – however, his silence serves as his response to a female’s suffering in Punjab. Pritam approaches the shrine of Waris Shah and pleads with him to rise from the dead. The poem is grounded in the unseen, a site that characterizes the individualized worship of Sufism. Imagining Waris Shah to be listening to her plea, Pritam mourns the death of the “daughters” of Punjab. She mourns that a hundred thousand of such daughters have been killed and that Waris Shah’s beloved Punjab is bathed in blood. Indeed, Pritam is asking Waris Shah to say something about the deaths, “ When one daughter of the Punjab wept you penned a thousand dirges of lament – Today a hundred thousand cry out to you to make another statement”. In essence, she is asking Waris Shah to put an end to the violence. However, Waris Shah is silent and Pritam is left in the bloody fields of Punjab. Without delving further into the poem, Pritam’s acrid accounts are quite unnerving. She is referring to the slaughter of women, a genocide that goes untold in the glorified narratives of partition. I cite this work as a Sufiyana Kalam because it has the heart of Qawwali in it : Pritam is in the raptures of an individual bond, an individual bond that speaks for various other individuals who have been denied this bond. The power of these lyrics are undeniable. Are we not left to wonder as to how much more could Sufism attain if female participation was furthered? The question, I believe, answers itself.

I say to Waris Shah today

I say to Waris Shah today, speak from your grave
And add a new page to your book of love Once one daughter of Punjab wept, and you wrote your long saga;
Today thousands weep, calling to you Waris Shah: Arise, o friend of the afflicted; arise and see the state of Punjab,
Corpses strewn on fields, and the Chenaab flowing with much blood. Someone filled the five rivers with poison,
And this same water now irrigates our soil. Where was lost the flute, where the songs of love sounded?
And all Ranjha’s brothers forgotten to play the flute. Blood has rained on the soil, graves are oozing with blood,
The princesses of love cry their hearts out in the graveyards. Today all the Quaido’ns have become the thieves of love and beauty,
Where can we find another one like Waris Shah? Waris Shah! I say to you, speak from your grave
And add a new page to your book of love.

This translation is taken from book in English by Darshan Singh Maini called STUDIES IN PUNJABI POETRY