Encounters

Lali was a fisher-woman who came every other day. She sat in her black abaya against the white wall of the house next door. A woven basket containing chunks of tuna, big pieces of king fish , pomfrets the size of plates , sat in front of her. She sat there from 9 in the morning until 12 . Cats walked up to her ,their eyes glazed over with pleasure from the smell of the fish. The housewives , a mix of Indian and Pakistani expatriates and Omani-Baloushi  women, trooped to where Lali sat. But this was not just a business. It was, for Lali and the women in the neighborhood, a place to exchange gossip about everyone living in the homes under the great acacia tree.

I think my love of fish dates back to that time.I can see her still in my mind's eye as if it were just yesterday. The fish was bought fresh each morning at the Muttrah fish market. And it actually smelled -good even before it was made into all the fragrant curries in the different households. Odd thing to say about fish I know. But it really wasn't smelly. The basket smelled like the sea as did Lali herself. I sometimes wish I could draw her. There was something wonderfully interesting about her face. She seemed of indeterminate age. But now that I think of it she could easily have been middle-aged or near enough. Her plump happy face framed by the black hijab with the sun-browned skin and the big silver nose stud and the twinkly eyes immediately invited one to spill whatever secrets one may or may not be carrying. Her smile was wide and her teeth crooked and yellowed. I wonder what kept her so happy. It could not have been an easy life.

Another thing- she was always good tempered. Even when the haggling began with her customers who invariably quoted ridiculously low prices she never once lost her temper or shouted back. Then again, her voice was loud and booming enough to be heard without her having to shout/shriek/scream. She was nice to the cats. I remember that too. No matter how annoyingly close they got or rubbed themselves up against her -ingratiating themselves to her no doubt in the hopes of having a piece ( or wonder of wonders- an entire fish!) thrown at them.

I always wondered about her. Did she have a family? Where did she go when she wasn't sitting there? I don't think anyone asked. My mother, one of the most curious women you'll ever meet, never knew much about Lali except that she was a Baloushi woman. Did no one ask her? I wish sometimes I'd been old enough to ask. How did it all play out for her- life, love, family, I wonder...

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Another encounter a couple of decades later- this time in the 2000's. I was in Jebel Akhdhar in Oman. It must have been sometime in November. I went trekking there with my parents. We came to a point where stone steps had been cut into the side of a steep hill. The way down was dotted here and there with walnut and almond trees- bare at that time of year except for a few leaves. Somehow , slipping and sliding over the lose stones, we managed to get down to the wadi which was dry and filled with tan colored boulders and rocks of various sizes. I found a ledge to sit on and rest a bit- taking in the pleasant silent solitude of the place. In the distance on the mountains lining the other side of the wadi there were ruins of some old settlements. And then we heard it - a slow steady dull thud of something hitting the rocks in the wadi. It came closer and closer until suddenly round a bend close to where were sitting, a wizened old man in a dishdasha and muzzar came by on crutches. His left leg had been amputated above the knee. But he seemed perfectly balanced on the wooden crutches and deftly negotiated the rocks in the wadi.

Source: Here

Seeing us , he flashed a nearly toothless smile and came closer and struck up a conversation with my father. Dad being fluent enough in the language sussed out that the old gentleman was on his way to a village nearby to meet his friend. The friend's village was five kilometers away from where we were and his village was about seven kilometers in the direction he'd just come from. Further questioning revealed that he'd lost his leg in the war in the 1950's that the Omani forces had fought with the British forces against the invading Saudis. He had apparently been a young lad of 17 or so at the time. There had been shelling and his unit had been hit. He had survived but they had had to amputate the leg. The story was punctuated with lots of  Allah Kareems ( Allah is Merciful) , both by him and my father. We then asked him why did he have to walk to see his friend- it seemed an exhausting thing to do. He said he enjoyed it- the weather was wonderful at that time of year and he couldn't wait around for his children to drive him down as he had already put off the visit for too many weeks. He was his best friend you see- this one that he was going to see. We talked some more and then he was off.

Frankincense is for remembrance

So, this is my 'Oman binge' part of the week /month. The 'Oman binge' is that part of the week/month when I cannot stop thinking about the place and very much resembles those moments of brilliantly unadulterated longing that strikes when thoughts of a beloved paramour come unbidden. And of late, the one thing that absolutely satisfies the craving short of actually packing my bags and hopping on a plane is the prose of Tim Mackintosh-Smith.

I am one of Tony Judt's 'edge people'

My earliest and clearest memory is of the mountains visible from the windows of the living room of our flat in Muttrah, Oman. They were a mix of an unrelenting ocher and a darker shade of brown for 355 days of the year. And then with the winter rains , suddenly they burst forth in an abundantly rich green growth interspersed with tiny gushing white rapids of rainwater. This phenomenal display lasted about ten days and sometimes less. I don't remember feeling anything particularly by way of emotions looking at the scene. But I do remember not being able to look away. My four year old self of course had no specifically profound thoughts to think about those mountains.  Neither does my adult self come to think of it . Perhaps this was when I began appreciating beauty for beauty's sake. And that isn't such a bad thing you know.

In any case I often wonder ( when I do wonder) about my identity in some vague and wondrous way. I do not seem to have one as an Indian at least not in the ways that I think about myself as an Omani and otherwise hopelessly restless wanderer. Can I possibly think of myself as an Omani because my earliest ( and happiest) memories are all of Oman? How could I possibly be an Indian if the only thing about India that I can say is that this is where my parents are from and this is where I studied for a few years in young adulthood. And yet, I suppose I am Indian too in more ways than a couple of pieces of paper can attest. And my parents themselves have in fact lived in Oman far longer than they have ever lived in India. Now you see why my profile says 'undecided'. I am a work in progress and quite confident will always be even as all that I am evolves and dilutes and concentrates in different ways. I am a mixed-up, deconstructed, reconstituted, twisted, completely wholesome, thoroughly unwholesome, thoroughly Omanized, Anglicized, 'Americanized', Indianized, 'Muslimized' ,'completely at peace with my mixed-up potpourri of an identity' mess. And I love every minute of it and all the perspectives it provides even to the point of a cultural schizophrenia. 'Cosmopolitan' does not even begin to define the messy, twisted spaghetti-noodleness of  all the things that I am and will be.

And the point here, if one must be made , is that some time last year I found this beautiful piece written by that beautifully, achingly brilliant man , Tony Judt , just before his death and it's called Edge People. And this is what he had to say in it :

"I prefer the edge: the place where countries, communities, allegiances, affinities, and roots bump uncomfortably up against one another—where cosmopolitanism is not so much an identity as the normal condition of life. Such places once abounded. Well into the twentieth century there were many cities comprising multiple communities and languages—often mutually antagonistic, occasionally clashing, but somehow coexisting. Sarajevo was one, Alexandria another. Tangiers, Salonica, Odessa, Beirut, and Istanbul all qualified—as did smaller towns like Chernovitz and Uzhhorod. By the standards of American conformism, New York resembles aspects of these lost cosmopolitan cities: that is why I live here.
To be sure, there is something self-indulgent in the assertion that one is always at the edge, on the margin. Such a claim is only open to a certain kind of person exercising very particular privileges. Most people, most of the time, would rather not stand out: it is not safe. If everyone else is a Shia, better to be a Shia. If everyone in Denmark is tall and white, then who—given a choice—would opt to be short and brown? And even in an open democracy, it takes a certain obstinacy of character to work willfully against the grain of one’s community, especially if it is small.
But if you are born at intersecting margins and—thanks to the peculiar institution of academic tenure—are at liberty to remain there, it seems to me a decidedly advantageous perch: What should they know of England, who only England know? If identification with a community of origin was fundamental to my sense of self, I would perhaps hesitate before criticizing Israel—the “Jewish State,” “my people”—so roundly. Intellectuals with a more developed sense of organic affiliation instinctively self-censor: they think twice before washing dirty linen in public.
Unlike the late Edward Said, I believe I can understand and even empathize with those who know what it means to love a country. I don’t regard such sentiments as incomprehensible; I just don’t share them. But over the years these fierce unconditional loyalties—to a country, a God, an idea, or a man—have come to terrify me. The thin veneer of civilization rests upon what may well be an illusory faith in our common humanity. But illusory or not, we would do well to cling to it. Certainly, it is that faith—and the constraints it places upon human misbehavior—that is the first to go in times of war or civil unrest.
We are entering, I suspect, upon a time of troubles. It is not just the terrorists, the bankers, and the climate that are going to wreak havoc with our sense of security and stability. Globalization itself—the “flat” earth of so many irenic fantasies—will be a source of fear and uncertainty to billions of people who will turn to their leaders for protection. “Identities” will grow mean and tight, as the indigent and the uprooted beat upon the ever-rising walls of gated communities from Delhi to Dallas.
Being “Danish” or “Italian,” “American” or “European” won’t just be an identity; it will be a rebuff and a reproof to those whom it excludes. The state, far from disappearing, may be about to come into its own: the privileges of citizenship, the protections of card-holding residency rights, will be wielded as political trumps. Intolerant demagogues in established democracies will demand “tests”—of knowledge, of language, of attitude—to determine whether desperate newcomers are deserving of British or Dutch or French “identity.” They are already doing so. In this brave new century we shall miss the tolerant, the marginals: the edge people. My people.

So, this is me signing off for now firmly , stubbornly and comfortably perched on the edge. 

Got this beautiful pic of Jebel Shams, Oman here

Stars in my hand

The year 2001 was a strange one. We had lurched from one family crisis to another and from one health crisis to another. I was back in Oman working and living with my parents. The world was changing ( such a cliche!) in ways that we couldn't really fathom at the time. By November that year we were all fed up and antsy and needed to get out of the city. We decided it was time to leave the city and go away somewhere far away. Now, in Oman this is the simplest thing to do really. An uncle and his family lived in the seaside town of Sur - about 300 Km away from Muscat situated in the Sharqiya region. And so, it was to Sur that we decided to go.

At one time Sur had been a bustling port with trade routes extending to India and beyond. It was ( and still is) the location of one of the biggest ship building yards in the region. Great , beautiful wooden dhows stand in various stages of construction even today. On this trip we had another destination in mind. Remote as Sur might be ,cut off by mountains and the desert from the 'capital area', for those who have complete isolation in mind , the Shariqiya region has other hidden treasures as well one of them being Ras al Hadd. This magical piece of land lies almost at the exact point where the Gulf of Oman meets the Arabian Sea. There is a fishing village situated here. And in recent years this area has become the site of several archeological excavations.But more fascinating , this is also the place where wild sea turtles come ashore to lay eggs. In the months of May-October , literally hundreds of them come ashore and lay their eggs. The government, under the leadership of His Majesty Sultan Qaboos, to its eternal credit has worked tirelessly to successfully preserve this sanctuary for this endangered species.

Ras al Jinz (Photo: from this blogger)

We were of course late for what must be one of the greatest shows on earth. In any case, we decided a trip out to the beach was called for. A group of nine of us got together with two four wheel drives between us. We set out from Sur at 1.00 a.m.  Excursions to the beach take place at night. These are controlled excursions and carefully timed so as to not interfere too much with the turtles. The drive out to the beach was a truly memorable ( and bumpy) one. There were no roads and the track passed between towering canyons and over mud flats and sand dunes. The landscape had an ethereal quality to it. Shapes and shadows of desert scrub standing guard over the ancient land lend a Daliesque surreality to it. Jagged peaks stretched up into the sky. The sky was an inky midnight blue with stars scattered across it. A half moon lay placidly dimly lighting our way. Considering the lateness of the hour, I had been expecting to doze off. But the scene before me was unreal and I didn't want to miss a single thing. Except for the fact of the cars and the presence of the other human beings in the vehicle with me, I would have had a hard time believing that we were still in the 21st century.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity and getting lost a few times , we reached the beach. As if to complete the picture of  surreality, we were met at the gate of the reserve by a wizened old man dressed in a traditional dish dasha and carrying the only flashlight between us. No cameras or flashlights were allowed on the reserve ( which suited me just fine!). Besides us there were three tourists that brought the total number of visitors to 12.

We set off for the beach on foot. A silence had settled over the group and when we did speak it was barely above a whisper. The night and the place demanded that reverence. The beach where we ended up was a wide horse shoe shaped cove. The sand was white and gleamed in the moonlight. The sea was calm and the waves gently lapped the shore. A soft breeze was the only other movement in the still night.  The cliffs stood there looking out to sea as they had perhaps stood for thousands of years. And then we saw her- a lone turtle gently making her way to the sea. The old man whispered to us that she'd probably laid her eggs further up the shore and was now making her way back. None of us moved as we watched her. There is something truly awe-inspiring about these almost primeval creatures- perhaps it's that sense of preternatural calm. They seem to carry the serenity of the deep seas as if they had somehow imbibed that deep, deep stillness. Today, I remember no details of her form save that she looked like one of the boulders on shore had decided to start moving and then there is one other detail- the trail of luminescence. As the turtle moved toward the sea, a trail of glowing blue lit up the path behind her. I bent down and scooped some of it up along with the wet sand. The bits of blue glowed - a deep electric blue. This was a kind of magic that I had not touched before. They looked like bits of stars in the palm of my hand. I looked down at my palm and I looked up at the sky. One felt like the reflection of the other. I wish I had been able to preserve it somehow- this physical evidence of that perfect moment. And then one by one the specks of blue went out  as I stared at them. The turtle had left and I was left on shore looking out to sea.

( The Omani government has since opened the Ras al-Jinz turtle reserve in 2008.And trust me when I say that it will be well worth the visit.)