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November 30, 2008
Us, Mumbai, Them, Us
I met T. outside the lift in the library today. T., a management student from Lahore whom I had first met, ironically, on the morning of Nov 26. I hadn't heard about the Mumbai attacks then, or maybe the first shots had not been fired at CST yet. The world was different, but how different was it?
That day, in the student lounge, we talked after I'd heard him speak on the phone and - as so often happens here: we recognize each other and feel strangely happy and foolish and make bold - asked, "Are you from India?" People from Pakistan and India sound quite similar. People from certain parts of Pakistan and certain parts of India. We do. And I felt the same naïve kin-affection for T. that I feel for V. from Bangalore and P. from Calcutta. At least P. and I have things in common. Others from India(n subcontinent) have successfully made a claim on my sweet affections even if we'd never exchange two words in Bangalore or Calcutta. Yes, it is silly. I discovered this halka sa chauvinistic side to myself when I came to Notre Dame.
It turned out T. was also an ex-student of a friend's husband who teaches at LUMS. I've never met the latter, but it was comforting to hear T. reminisce about his class. Then I hazarded a "Let's meet up one of these days," and felt a little foolish again, and didn't even think about T. till I ran into him today outside the lift.
He didn't meet my eye and mumbled something, a greeting. My smile ricocheted off; he was already looking away. We stood stiffly in the lift. I wanted to say something to break the ice. Like, hey, I don't blame you at all. Or, no hard feelings. Or, it's okay. Anything would have sounded terrible, inappropriate.
So I just stepped out at the fifth floor with a half-nod, an almost-nod, an absentminded nod as though I was nodding to myself.
That day, in the student lounge, we talked after I'd heard him speak on the phone and - as so often happens here: we recognize each other and feel strangely happy and foolish and make bold - asked, "Are you from India?" People from Pakistan and India sound quite similar. People from certain parts of Pakistan and certain parts of India. We do. And I felt the same naïve kin-affection for T. that I feel for V. from Bangalore and P. from Calcutta. At least P. and I have things in common. Others from India(n subcontinent) have successfully made a claim on my sweet affections even if we'd never exchange two words in Bangalore or Calcutta. Yes, it is silly. I discovered this halka sa chauvinistic side to myself when I came to Notre Dame.
It turned out T. was also an ex-student of a friend's husband who teaches at LUMS. I've never met the latter, but it was comforting to hear T. reminisce about his class. Then I hazarded a "Let's meet up one of these days," and felt a little foolish again, and didn't even think about T. till I ran into him today outside the lift.
He didn't meet my eye and mumbled something, a greeting. My smile ricocheted off; he was already looking away. We stood stiffly in the lift. I wanted to say something to break the ice. Like, hey, I don't blame you at all. Or, no hard feelings. Or, it's okay. Anything would have sounded terrible, inappropriate.
So I just stepped out at the fifth floor with a half-nod, an almost-nod, an absentminded nod as though I was nodding to myself.
November 27, 2008
Mumbai attacked
Yesterday, when I first heard about the Mumbai attacks, I didn't feel anything. Or maybe I felt - small feelings. Nothing that compared to the immensity of the tragedy. I slept, woke up, and the situation in Bombay was still out of control. And I started wondering about my small feelings. You know the reasons. Emotional deadening. Too much exposure to acts of violence. Too much senselessness.
But that I felt small made me feel small. This is not me, this person who can intellectually understand the enormity of what has happened, what is happening, but does not feel shattered, I thought. Or is it me.
I am thousands of miles away from India. Surreal.
Dissociation. At some point, I began obsessively reading the news. Clicking on the refresh button of news sites, reading the same thing over and over again, or in different words. And then a friend emailed: "my thoughts are with you. I can't imagine what you are going through."
And something became huge inside me. Some place of tears.
What makes that fear that terror our own? Because if at all things are to change, we have to own all of it.
But that I felt small made me feel small. This is not me, this person who can intellectually understand the enormity of what has happened, what is happening, but does not feel shattered, I thought. Or is it me.
I am thousands of miles away from India. Surreal.
Dissociation. At some point, I began obsessively reading the news. Clicking on the refresh button of news sites, reading the same thing over and over again, or in different words. And then a friend emailed: "my thoughts are with you. I can't imagine what you are going through."
And something became huge inside me. Some place of tears.
What makes that fear that terror our own? Because if at all things are to change, we have to own all of it.
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