Two Feathers Floating

Another partially finished story... i'll get to it eventually... i think... until then...

One cloudy afternoon, a little sparrow named Violet was preparing her nest for the rains to come. She had built her humble home nestled within the big tree in anticipation of a rainy season. Violet's nest was a small home, cosy and warm. She decided to get some extra nuts and berries before began raining. Violet has been flying for a few minutes when she saw him. He was holding on tightly to a nearby branch – was he hurt? His eyes were closed, his magnificent red feathers ruffled, his wound exposed. For minute Violet hesitated, should she help this exotic bird she had never seen before? Before she could answer her own inhibitions, big heavy drops of water began splashing down from the sky. The red bird opened his eyes, panicked. Violet watched him as he tried to fly, his left wing struggling against the heaviness of the raindrops.

“Follow me, this way!” she chirped. He saw her, and with no other choice, followed. A few painful moments later Violet and the red bird arrived at her humble home. It was dry, safe, and with food. The red bird collapsed into a corner, his chest gasping for breath, his eyes tight shut. Soon it was pouring around them, big drops of water pounding the leaves above. They heard the wind howling as it wrestled through the many trees in the forest. But all was quiet in Violet's house. The red bird had fallen asleep from exhaustion, and Violet decided it best that she attend to his wounds before getting some rest herself. She was careful not to wake him as she covered his wounded wing with some warm, dry leaves. With that, Violet lay on her pillow and fell asleep.

Sometime during the dark hours of the night, Violet awoke, and heard Mrs. Grey hooting. Mrs. Grey had lived a few branches away for many years now, and some nights Violet would hear the calming sound of her hoot. Violet decided it would be a good idea to get Mrs. Grey's advice. So she left the sleeping red bird and set out to see Mrs. Grey, hoping that she would be able to tell her what kind of bird he was...

“Well hello Violet! You're up late today!” hooted Mrs. Grey.

Violet told Mrs. Grey about the wounded red bird sleeping in her nest. She looked concerned. Mrs. Grey said it would be best if she be careful until they knew exactly what kind of bird he was. Soon the little sparrow and the motherly owl tiptoed into the nest, and found him sleeping soundly.

“He's a Cardinal,” whispered Mrs. Grey. Violet listened intently. A Cardinal, she had never seen one of those before. “Well be careful Violet, these fancy birds aren't too kind to little plain sparrows.” Violet found this hard to believe, how could such a beautiful creature be unkind.

Sam & Ella: The Wedding 4

This is the last of Sam & Ella's current story. I'm still working on the final installment... until then...

Ella

With two days left until Sam’s wedding, I still have not had a moment alone with her. Part of me is relieved by the crowd that surrounds us, because I would not know what to say. At 3pm I make my way across the lawn to the Khan house. I found Sam sitting in the sun room, waiting for her cousin’s to start applying henna on her hands. I closed the door behind me and sat down beside her, “Hey.”

She smiled, and then nodded over to other side of the room where the dining table stood and upon it was a large vase filled with some two dozen red roses. “Go read the card” she chuckled. Confused by the peculiarity of her tone, I walked over to the table and opened the envelope.

My Dearest Samar,

“To the world you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world.” You are my world Samar. As we embark on this journey, I am excited for every blessed moment that we will share throughout our lives.

Anxiously awaiting this Saturday…

Yours,

Shehzad

I could feel Sam watching me as my eyes re-read the card a half dozen times before putting in back in the envelope. Nervously I glanced upon Sam to find her smirking.

“So what do you think?”

“That’s… nice of him” I said hesitantly. My face was never any good at hiding my emotions, and with one glance at Sam, our laughter filled the room. We were still laughing when Sam’s older cousin, Zahra walked in with the henna for Sam’s hands and feet. Caught off guard by our roaring laughter, she glanced at us both like we were lunatics let out of a mental ward. After a few painful moments of uncontrollable laughter, Sam and I were able to regain our speaking skills.

“What was that all about?” Zahra asked as she placed the henna tray on the floor.

“Did you see the delivery that Sam got today?” I said pointing to the flowers. Zahra turned to look at them, and turning to us she said, “There’s nothing to laugh at there, he’s trying to be romantic. Appreciate it Sam, it doesn’t last very long.”

“Show her the card,” said Sam as she rolled up her salwar. Once again, I pulled out the card from its hiding and handed it to Zahra. We waited for a few moments for her reaction. A smirk, a smile, perhaps a chuckle? Zahra had been like Sam’s older sister for most of their lives, most of our lives. She had always been there with advice, with a different perspective, perhaps to shed light on something we had both missed sight of in trying times.

At last the smirk crept upon her lips. And with her voice as low as it could possibly go she said, “He’s anxiously awaiting Sam.” Another roar of laughter was born, except this time, it was only me and Zahra who laughed. Sam had turned crimson and pretended not to hear Zahra as she rubbed her arms and legs with eucalyptus oil, preparing her skin for the true bridal mark, henna.

………………………………………………………………………………………….............................

Sam

I’m still sitting in the sun room. It’s been a few hours since Zahra started decorating my hands with henna. Ammi has decided it would be a good time to take a break and serve dinner. With the henna applied to my feet and partially to my hands, I have now begun my bridal transformation. So I sit here, with no responsibility to do anything except look pretty for the next several days. Being a bride has been a lonely experience for me, my fears unresolved, my anxiety so intense that on some days I feel as though a burst of emotion will break through my skin. I’m told it’s normal to feel this reluctance, to have cold feet or so they say.

About two weeks ago, I had decided to take on a task that Ammi was unwilling to support me through – I sent my father an invitation to my wedding. I had not spoken to him in many years. He had randomly come in and out of my life, with each time bringing more disappointment and broken promises. But I still loved him. Days passed as I waited for his response, and finally today he called. He was going to come! I couldn’t believe it. Ammi was less than ecstatic to hear the news, but she knew what it would mean to me have him here.

“Sam do you want something to drink?” Ella voice brought my drifting thoughts back to reality. I nodded as I picked at my food with my one free hand. Maryam, Zahra’s first born, came up to me asking to look at my hand. As her eyes admired the intricate designs that had been carefully cast upon my skin, I wished that I could share in her innocence. “Sami Khala, Abba said I can put henna on my hands too if I’m a good girl” she declared. “Really? Is your Abba going to do it for you?” I asked teasingly. Maryam chuckled, “Nooo. Abba doesn’t know how to put henna.” For a few brief moments I was lost in the innocence of her giggles. The thought of her father doing intricate henna designs was so hilarious, that Maryam skipped away to share my silliness with him. As I watched her, I hoped the coming days would bring me such a moment as well.

Sam & Ella: The Wedding 3

Ok here's some more of Sam & Ella's story. It's a continuation from the previous posts (I would recommend starting with the first couple posts and then read this one).

Sam

Ella and I have not spoken since the arrival of my trousseau a few days ago. I have had several conversations with myself, searching for words that Ella would want to hear. There has never been an awkward silence between us, never anything that we have not been able to talk through, until now.

When Ella left to visit her father in April, I didn’t tell her of Shehzad’s family visiting us that weekend. And I didn’t tell her when they called Ammi following that visit to formally propose. I had not even called her to tell her that I had accepted, and our engagement announced to our families. Instead I waited. On the morning that she returned from Phoenix, Ella stormed into our living room demanding an explanation for my silence. But I had none to offer.

“I wanted to tell you in person,” I lied.

“Whatever Sam, you should have called me, emailed me, heck you should have sent me a post card,” Ella said emphatically, “How could you not tell me!”

“I told her to call you,” my mother chimed in, “But she wouldn’t listen beta, she kept insisting on telling you when you came home.” Ammi was surprised by my lack of excitement through this decision, but mostly she was just relieved that I had finally agreed. Upon seeing Ammi’s beaming smile, which she had worn on her face for over a week now, Ella’s anger subsided.

“Did you show her the ring?” Ammi said, sounding like a child with a shiny new toy.

“There’s a ring!” yelled Ella, “Sam, why aren’t you wearing it? Where is it? What else are you hiding? Aunty, what else is she hiding?” With that outburst of questions, both Ammi and I began to laugh. Ella had never changed, her energy had always remained two steps ahead of me.

“See Samar, even Ella thinks you should be wearing your ring all the time. Go and put it on before everyone comes over tonight.”

After rolling my eyes at both Ammi and Ella, I walked up to my room. There it was, in the navy blue box that I had received it in, sitting on my dresser, my engagement ring. An emerald cut 1.5 carat diamond shined back at me. Everything I had ever imagined my ring to be lay within these satin walls.

“Oh my god, it’s beautiful,” Ella’s words pierced the air of discontent that hung around me like a foggy morning. With a smile I took out my ring and handed it to Ella for further admiration. “It’s exactly what you wanted Sam, how did he know…” her words trailed into silence as she looked at me. “You’re not happy. Tell me why you’re not happy.”

“Why wouldn’t I be happy?” I said as I took the ring from her and slipped it onto my finger. “Because you always answer my questions with a question when you’re lying.”

“Should I wear a brown or beige scarf with this?” I asked, blatantly trying to change the topic. “Beige and we are not done talking about this” said Ella, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong, I’m fine. Really.” I smiled. Anyone would have bought that smile except Ella. The truth was the past had still followed me to this moment.

“You need to let him go Sam,” Ella said reading the thoughts that only she could see written across my face. My father’s failures had haunted my childhood. As much as I wanted to hate him, I realized that I shared his weaknesses. I had not inherited Ammi’s strength.

Later that night, it was decided that Shehzad and I would be married in two months. And two months later, here I was, two days away from my wedding and still filled with uncertainty.

I want a burger

On one rainy afternoon last week, Erin & I walked in the rain to grab some lunch. We decided it would be best to walk to one of closer resturants, "Eat a Pita". It's one of those places that serves pretty much everything - burgers, wraps, salads, including any other greasy concoctions one may desire. I decided to settle for a simple grilled cheese. As we waited to our orders to arrive, a woman walked in. She was probably in her mid thirties, wearing a worn dirty yellow sweat shirt and grey sweat pants. Covering her head was a fleece hat, made of a purple and neon green geometric design, with a bright purple fur trim. She sat down on a table by the door. She seemed kinda loopy and not really with it. We grabbed our food and started walking. As I followed Erin out the door, we made eye contact.

"I want a burger."

I smiled and kept walking. I wasn't really sure if she was asking me for one or just stating that she felt like eating a burger. I kept thinking about our interaction more and more with each step away from Eat a Pita.

"Erin was she asking us to buy her a burger?"
"I don't know."

We stopped walking for a moment, and then turned around to buy the burger. She was right behind us, and her face lit up as soon we began walking towards her. She stopped me.

"I want a burger with everything," she said, "and some fries too."

By now I had decided that she was either mentally handicapped or really drunk or really high. I'm ashamed to say that I couldn't tell the difference. I ordered the burger, with everything. And then came the hard part.

At first, I just wanted to smile, say you're welcome, and walk out the door. Followed by instant guilt for not wanting to talk to her. When I turned around from the counter, I was met with eager eyes.

"They'll bring it out to you soon," I said. She smiled. The kind of smile you'd expect to see from a five year old in a candy shop. She motioned for me to sit down, I hesitated. Erin took a seat across from her. I was still standing, thinking of a way to tell her that I had to leave. Instead, I just stood there. She got up and offered me her seat, wiping the seat cover with her sleeve. At this point, I had not choice but to sit down.

We were there for no longer five minutes. Five long minutes.

"I like your hat," said Erin, "Where did you get it?"

"I found it!" she said, and there was that smile again. I just watched her as she told us about how she had found her hat in a dumpster, how she was looking forward to her burger, how she didn't like the rain.

The lady behind the counter announced our burger. I grabbed the basket from her and handed it to my new friend. She immediately flipped the top bun and said, "Where's the ketchup? They didn't put everything." Her voice trailing with dissapointment. It made me laugh. "There's some ketchup right here," I said pointing to the red bottle on the table. She laughed too as she squirted some on her bun.

"Well enjoy your burger!" I said, trying to sound as upbeat as possible. She nodded, her eyes unwilling to leave sight of her burger. As I headed for the door, she grabbed my hand, and hugged me.

Walking back to work, I wondered where she lived, where she ate, where she slept. I wondered if she had any family. I wondered how many times I had passed her by on the street without taking any notice.

Rajmohan Gandhi

Have you heard of him? Rajmohan Gandhi: writer, professor of Economics at the Univeristy of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, mentor to countless students to who seek to study with him. He is also the grandson of the late Mahatma Gandhi.

Meeting him was the most amazing thing I have experienced in a long time.

He recently published a biography on Badshah Khan. I can't believe this. Seriously.

More on this later.

Quarters in Chinatown

I believe in Mercy – the kind of Mercy that enables us to give to others when we ourselves are in need of help.

Earlier this summer I found myself at a parking meter in the middle of Chinatown. I fumbled through my black hole of a bag, digging for just one elusive quarter. There was no need to panic, I told myself as I searched. A couple minutes passed and I noticed a homeless man walking towards me from across the street. He looked worn, tired, but young, probably in his late twenties or early thirties. His once white shirt resembled slushy traffic snow. There was dirt on his face, his hands, his hair. “Can I talk to you about something sister?” Could I just pretend like I didn’t see or hear him? Honestly, all I remember was something about the homeless shelter he frequented being shut down due to lack of funding. It was going to be replaced with newly constructed condominiums. “I’m sorry I don’t have any cash on me”. Well at least I wasn’t lying. “That’s ok Ma’am. Could you buy a brother something to eat?” Yes, yes of course I thought, as soon as I found this dumb quarter. “Umm. Yea I don’t have any cash right now, sorry.” As he reached for his pocket, I thought, Oh my God, he’s going to pull out a knife or a gun. I was convinced that this man was going to mug me, steal my purse and take my car.

“Here, you can have my quarters.”

I heard the words echo over and over again in my head as though he had spoken them in an open canyon. “Oh no that’s ok. Thanks,” I said with an awkward smile. My face turned crimson, and a sense of guilt spread from the core of my body to the tips of my fingers. I frantically began emptying the contents of my purse on the sidewalk. And then the words came out again:

“Here, Sister. You can have my quarters.”

I realized that perhaps he was a better human than I. Perhaps, he truly knew what it meant to come to someone's aid. I murmured a prayer; please let me see a bank, please let me see a bank. And then, I finally saw it. On the corner stood my redemption, in the form of a Chase bank.

“Would you wait here for me?” I said. “I'll be right back.”

As I walked back to my car, I saw him waiting, sitting on the sidewalk. “I hope your shelter stays open,” I said as I handed him the envelope. It wasn't much, but it was all I could afford at the time. In return he handed me a postcard of Chicago. A beautiful picture of the Chicago skyline on a gorgeous summer day.

This is our city I thought, and there has to be a place for him to live in it.

King of Khans

I read a book recently that changed my life.

Now I know that sounds dramatic, and over stated, but it's true. The title of the book was "Non-Violent Soldier of Islam: Badshah Khan, A Man to Match His Mountains." Until recently, I didn't know much about Badshah Khan and his relationship to Gandhi's philosophy of non-violence. Having attended an Indian school for some 10 years (from 1st - 10th grade), I'm fairly familiar with Gandhi, and the struggle for independence in the sub-continent. Anyone who's even remotely familiar with Gandhi knows that he was a man of faith, a devout Hindu. However, as far as I knew, most prominent Muslim figures within the Satyagraha movement were secular or cultural Muslims at best. That is until I found Badshah Khan.

I stumbled upon this book really - one of the perks of working for the Interfaith Youth Core (www.ifyc.org). And it stumped me. Literally. A non-violent soldier? Wait, a non-violent soldier from the North Frontier Province of present day Pakistan. No, no, let me say that another way... A non-violent Pushtun soldier of Islam from North Frontier Province of Pakistan. This is what Badshah Khan would have to say about my surprise:

"There is nothing surprising in a Muslim or pathan like me subscribing to the creed of nonviolence. It is not a new creed. It was followed fourteen hundred years ago by the Prophet all the time he was in Mecca, and it has since been followed by all those who wanted to throw off an oppressor's yoke. But we had so far forgotten it that when Gandhiji placed it before us, we thought he was sponsoring a novel creed."

Here's the most amazing thing about Khan: His commitment to non-violence stemmed from his commitment to Islam. It was not a foreign ideology to him. His way to becoming part of the freedom movement in India was to start schools, to educate the next generation much to the dismay of the local "mullah's", to encouraged women to become part of the freedom movement.

In the past week I have mentioned my new found fascination with Badshah Khan to a few friends. Every one of them shows signs of surprise upon hearing the title of the book: Non-violent soldier of Islam. And I began to wonder, have we become so incriminated with our portrayal as a violent people that it surprises us when shown otherwise? I digress, that's a whole separate topic...

...coming back to Khan. Here's how his story ends...

Khan manages to mobilize an "army" of non-violent soldiers in the North Frontier Province known as the Khudai Khidmatgars ("Servants of God") aka the "Red Shirts" (as referred to by the British, and it was also the color of their "uniform"). The Red Shirts become so influential in the area that Khan is exiled from the area for a number of years by the British. He spent the entirety of his time away from home either in Gandhi's Ashram or in prison. The Muslim League under Jinnah's leadership pursues the formation of the independent state of Pakistan. Khan is obviously opposed to partition, but ultimately realizes that he can't stop it.

"I delivered many speeches against the division of India, but the question is: has anybody listened to me? You may hold any opinion about me, but I am not a man of destruction but of construction. If you study my life, you will find that I devoted it to the welfare of our country. We have proclaimed that if the Government of Pakistan would work for our people and our country, the Khudai Khidmatgars would be with them. I repeat that I am not for the destruction of Pakistan. In destruction lies no good."

So how is this Non-violent Soldier of Islam treated in newly partitioned Pakistan?

From 1948 -1954, Khan is held under house arrest with no charge. This is after his address to the Pakistani Parliament stating his willingness to support the construction of Pakistan. In 1956 he's arrested again for disagreeing with the government and remains in prison until 1959. Once released, he goes into exile to Kabul for a few years before returning to Peshawar. In 1969 he was named an "Amnesty International Prisoner of the Year." Badshah Khan died at his Peshawar home under house arrest in 1988. He was 98 years old.

When I came to the closing chapters of Khan's life, I was shocked! Shocked! Pakistan, a country created to ensure Muslims their rights puts a man of faith under house arrest for decades! That too a non-violent man of faith! And why? Because he speaks to his beliefs? Because he asks the government to show constructive progress?

Can you imagine devoting yourself to a struggle for freedom, only to have your freedom restricted by the very people you fought for?