In Tana

It’s cold this night in Tana,
the city of thousand homes.
Drums and guitars of a strange song
emanate from the quiet, wooden bar.
The air bites into the skin,
I order a white wine, and
grilled fish with white rice.

I know you are across the ocean,
a hop across, if I could.
You are sleeping, I know,
to get relief from headache and cold.

I wish you were with me tonight;
We could snuggle under the blanket,
feel the heat of our naked bodies,
rubbing each other,
kissing the tender spots,
feeling the tips of our fingers,
looking into each other’s eyes,
let’s make love, darling.

Here in Anantananarivo, city of thousand homes;
let’s lie close to one another for hours,
exploring the map of each other’s body
discovering secrets,
waking up hidden passions,
curling into each other’s arms,
feeling the heat and
the gentle waft of our breaths,
let’s lie awake into the night, late and lazy,
watching the diamond stars in a clear sky
through the window by the bed.
Let’s lie there like that,
consummating,
fulfilling, and
redefining
our ancient love.

From Tana To Tharoor

I just came back from a week-long trip to Madagascar. Surprisingly, though most of my friends and colleagues have heard about the place, mainly thanks to the Spielberg's movie of the same name, few could place the country geographically.

A friend of mine, a CEO of a Technopark company, called me back and asked: “Hi Sabin, I'm a bit confused. Is it a South American country or a Southern African country?”

Before I give you some highlights about the trip, let me place the country. Madagascar is part of Africa but not on the main land. It is the world's fourth largest island near Mauritius in the Indian Ocean.

I flew out from Mumbai to Nairobi from where I flew down south to the capital city of Madagascar, Anantananarivo, or Tana. In my last column for Yentha I'd written about 'identity crisis' and a couple of my experiences at airports.

The immigration officer at the Mumbai international airport took a good look at my passport, and pronounced “Sabeen Mohammed Iqbal” with a stress on the middle name. He took a few minutes more, checking if the photograph was doctored. And, he just flicked the passport towards me in a way that could be interpreted as 'throwing'. I picked up the passport, feeling insulted. When we travel overseas this little blue book is our identity and our cultural anchor. Any dig at it is a stab at our whole identity. My friend and colleague felt more insulted than me. Prodded by him, I went back to the officer and told him that I could take this attitude in a foreign country. But sir, I said, I am an Indian citizen and if you don't respect an Indian passport, who would? He gazed at me for some time, and said he didn't mean it that way. I walked off after giving him my business card. As I was turning towards the security check area, I looked back and saw him still looking at my card.

Tana was a surprise package. I felt as if I was in a quaint little French town inhabited by Asians. Madagascar bears a French look, thanks to its French reign, and the people are mostly inter-racial and are descendants of Indonesians.

Though it is rich in untapped natural resources, the country is still poor, and receives a UN fund. It is kind of a free country with over 50 per cent of population under 20 years of age. So if you walk around the Tana town, you'd see mainly youth hanging out and fiddling with their many mobile phones. Their baby-faced president, Andrey Rejoelina, is younger than me, which means he is bubbling under the 40-mark.

Once again I took a firm decision to learn French, lest I miss out many opportunities for some interesting conversations. Tana was the fifth French-speaking city I'd been to and left wondering why I never paid a visit to the Alliance Francaise back in our city.

Never too late, I'm pretty bent on turning a Francophile.

Being in a French world means you forget about cricket. With the IPL nearing knockout stage, I had to be online to keep myself updated about cricket and non-cricket hot news emerging out of India.

Hmm, some hot news we have been having these days. The biggest wicket of this IPL is that of Mr Tharoor. And, the bowler is Modi.

It is a heady and ugly mix of politics and business, cricket being just a vehicle for their Machiavellian ways. It is good for media, and reporters chomping at the bit to take a peek at the underbelly of the business of cricket.

But then I have decided to get away from all these. Over the years, many idols have fallen. It is the tragedy of the common fan. The heroes keep falling from the pedestal. But it is, I reckon, human nature that we keep replacing them. It seems we need some figure to hero-worship.

On the way back, while checking in at the Tana airport, I overheard a security staff asking my friend for 'some gift', and I saw him tucking a 10,000 ariyari (local currency) note into his jacket which was being scanned. I moved on. I turned back only when a hand fell on my shoulders. It was security staff. He was all seriousness as he went ahead frisking me. He then asked me to follow him. He took me to a small curtained enclosure. He began checking me, and then in a minute, asked me, in a tone of request: “Please give me some gift.” I looked at him. He was sheepish, and I couldn't help smiling at him. “What do you want?” I asked. “Some gift.” I walked out giving him a crisp 10,000 ariyari note. He walked beside me, laughing and putting his hand on my shoulder. “Welcome back to Tana, my friend,” he said as he let me walk away.

Sure, I will come back to Tana, the city of thousand homes. I said in my mind. Though it was bribery or daylight robbery, I liked the way he did it. And I was smiling as I walked into the duty free shops.

I landed in Mumbai, into the quagmire of IPL, and raids at Modi's office and detailed reports about his high-profile staff. And, then came the Tharoor exit. No wonder he never replied to my mails asking for details of the Kochi team's owners. When I sent the mails three weeks ago, I didn't know I was trying to touch the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

(Read yentha.com)

Out In Tana City

I explored some parts of the city last evening. It was not surprising to see a large number of youth out on the streets, walking, hanging out, jamming and laughing since over 50 per cent of the population here in Madagascar is below 20.

It makes one feel young--if one is feeling a bit jaded or worried over the occasional niggling pain in the knee.

I had gone out with my friend, Sheetal Nahar, a steel consultant from Mumbai. Though Sheetal has been to Africa on business many times over the years, this is his first trip to Madagascar, and he too, like me, has been in for a surprise by the country.

While my two of my other companions in this trip decided to cool their heels in the balcony of the French guest house we stay at, Sheetal and I decided to 'explore' the city.

Taking a cue from someone from the African mainland, we 'explored' only the non-living things! The place, let me admit, is good for 'exploration and mining!' Pun intended.

We had visited an Australian mining company a day before.

The city centre was bustling, with some weird energy. The evening sunlight was glittering golden on everything.

I wanted to try some sausages being fried by the wayside. Since Sheetal, a Jain and a strict vegetarian, was with me I kept myself away from the mouth-watering beef. But Sheetal said he had no qualms and I could go ahead with it. But then, somehow, I wanted to respect his cultural sensitivities by not eating something so crude.

The weather is good for walking as the temps are hovering around early 20s and there is a cool breeze wafting across. You don't feel tired till you lie down in your bed. Once you stretch your limbs in the bed, you won't realize dozing off. I did yesterday, and missed a few important calls.

I woke up only when Denise, my friend and colleague, thudded on the wooded door. Dinner was a grilled chunk of some fleshy fish. I didn't know its name, but taste was as good as any.

We couldn't escape the French feel however we tried--by playing old Hindi love songs and talking in Malayalam.

I am in a dilemma now. I had decided to go for a basic German course at the Goethe Zentrum when I am back in Trivandrum, but now am confused whether to do German or French.

Oui...

By the Breakfast Table

I am sitting in my usual corner of the restaurant of Les 3 Metis, which is more of a French guest house than a hotel.

I feel homely sitting here, cutting my omelette, crunchy yet inspiriting, into tiny pieces and sipping hot chocolate.

It's warm inside, while it's a bit chilly outside even at 8.30.

We have no official programme, as of now, for today. And,I am planning for a walk in the city to get a feel of the people. Need to take some pictures of the people, places and shops.

But the uphill roads road a challenge to my stamina and fitness. But I have eaten some chunks of beef in the past two days, I need to walk, at least make myself happy.

It is a pity that tourism is not promoted in this country. And, during a dinner I asked the director of cabinet why it was so. He looked at me for a few moments, broke out into a smile and shook his head. He said: "I'm I have to give you a silly answer...we've never thought about it!"

"Or, we have never met someone to do it," he added, sipping his coffee. I told him you'd perhaps never come across a better person than the one sitting across him!

My cheeks!

In a cute little pink glass vase on my table, there are five yellow flowers. I don't know their name, but they make me happy, and miss my love.

I am through with my breakfast, and now I have go up and pack my bag for the walk into the city.

Yesterday was a hectic day of visits to some high-end residential areas and meetings with government officials. Came back to hotel late after dinner of medium-done beef steak and red wine. Woke up late, and now have to run as we have a meeting with the energy minister and tourism minister.

Will post more soon.

Lonely In Madagascar

Madagascar has been a revelation for me since we landed at Saturday noon. Maybe it’s because of my geographical or political ignorance that I was not aware of the ‘character’ of Madagascar.
It is a far cry from any African country in the continent. But if you ask me which I other African country I have visited, the answer will be in the negative. But being in mainstream media for some years, and that too having handled ‘Africa Pages’ for a newspaper for some time, I have a fair idea of the political and geographical features of many of the African countries.
But Madagascar is a surprise package. It starts with the climate. Now it is summer, and the temps yesterday were in early 20s, and in the night it was quite nippy. In winter, the day could be as low as 15 degrees and nights could be down to six or five!
I nearly froze in the bathroom yesterday. After a long day of walking--I walked six kilometres!--and crisscrossing the city and going up the highest spot in the city—it was a sight to behold—I came back to the room by 6pm tired. We agreed to meet at the restaurant at 7pm for dinner and a review of the day, and to plan today. All I remembered was sitting in the bed. I woke when my phone was ringing nonstop. It was quarter past eight. I ran into the shower and let the water fall on me.
I didn’t know what hit me. The water was ice cold and I thought even my heart was frozen. I had to limp out of the shower area after my quickest bath—I cannot call it bath; I just crawled out the reach of the needling water.
The hotel we are staying—Les 3 Metis—is a quiet, homely French structure with wooden flooring and wicker chairs and table in the expansive balcony. What I like the most about the hotel is the expansive bathroom. With distinct dry and wet areas, it is nearly as big as the bedroom itself. Sitting in the closet, I can see sun rising over the red roof tiles, clouds with crimson tint floating around. In the night, I sit there watching the stars.
The place turns one romantic, and being one, I keep missing my love. I wish if she was with me: to walk around these streets, around the lake and under the trees in the city centre, to perch on a stone bench by the narrow cobbled road that winds its way up to Top Ville—the highest point in the city—and to stand just behind her as we watch the stunning bird’s eye view of Anantananarivo, the capital city, which in Madagasi means “the city of thousand homes”.
For lunch and dinner, we go to Indian Palace down the street, run by Abdul, an enterprising guy from Hyderabad. Abdul was a Hindu when he came to Madagascar 10 years ago as a cook. According to our friend here, he became a Muslim to run a Hyderabadi/Indian restaurant. He married a Madagascar girl, who is a Christian, and they have a child, who is being brought up as a Hindu!
I had to shake my head to get the story right. Anyway, Abdul is a smart fellow. Always talking—in Hindi, Telugu, English, Madagasi and French—he is a one-stop helpline for all Indians here.
Last night, we decided to have dinner from Les 3 Metis itself. I had some rice and deep-fried slices of duck with some red wine. It was cool. After dinner we sat around the tables in the porch and watched the starry sky. I was hoping to get a call as I was beginning to get frustrated being ‘lonely’ in the middle of chats and business plans. One call, Lord, but it never came, and by midnight I walked up the wooden stairs, and hit the sack and slept off immediately.
Today we are planning to meet government officials and a couple of ministers. And, tomorrow will leave for Tamatau, about 350kms away from the city to visit a couple of properties, for two days.
I wish the telephone calls were cheaper! Or let the calls and messages come in…lest I will turn lonely and frustrated.

In Madagascar

I have always wanted to be in Africa. The continent has fascinated me with its colours and noises. There were some opportunities in the past but I somehow couldn't make it. But today I am in Antananarivo, the capital of Madagascar.

A brief stopover at the Jomo Kenyatta airport in Nairobi gave a taste of real Africa: big bosoms, boisterous laughter, weird combination of dress and the unmistakable vastness. But a three-hour flight down south, it's a different take.

Madagascar is not Africa in its salient features. It's quite different--from people to architecture to streets to climate. It gives one the impression of being in quaint little French small town.

We--my two friends/colleagues and I--were received at the airport by Mr German, who works for the telecom ministry. And, we were taken to our typically French hotel by Mr Saravanan, advisor to the President.

After a short break, we headed to an Indian restaurant for lunch. More about Abdullah, the owner of the restaurant, will be posted later.

Denise, my friend, and I had dum biriyani while Sheetal, our friend from Mumbai who is particular about his Jain food habits, chose chapattis with paneer.

After lunch, we bought mobile SIM cards and went to our rooms for a nap.

At five, we met down for tea and some discussion on the projects we are involved here. At 7.30, went for dinner, again, at Abdullah's place.

Tomorrow, that's later today as it's well past midnight now, we are planning to visit a hotel that's up for sale.

EYE. PEE. YELL: IDENTITY CRISIS
By Sabin Iqbal
On Apr 05, 2010

Sometime in our life, we go through phases where our identity is challenged or faces a crisis. The 9/11 attacks have split the world in an unprecedented manner, and we keep running into situations where our cultural and personal identities are under scrutiny, especially if we live in a foreign country with multiracial, multicultural neighbours.


Our identity can be one of default (by birth) or by preference. Both could come under a cloud.


Come April 22, Belgium could be the first European country to make wearing burka (veil) in public places illegal.


It has opened a can of worms.


I don’t personally subscribe to the belief that all Muslim women should wear a veil. My mother doesn’t; neither does my sister. But if someone wants to wear it, it is up to them as long as it doesn’t put others’ life in danger or infringe on others’ freedom.


The Belgian committee has made the step citing national security, which I believe is valid since we increasingly read about burka-clad women exploding as suicide bombers. The recent suicide bombs in Chechnya are an example.


In France also there are attempts to ban burka in public, despite growing opposition.


A few people have voiced their concerns against the Belgian move, saying it is against personal freedom.


Talking of personal freedom, I have a few things to share. I have lived nearly 15 years in the Middle East. The expatriate populations in these countries are treated second-class citizens who don’t even think of personal freedoms or civil rights.


In one of these countries, every woman, irrespective of her faith or preference, has to wear a hijab. You and I know that there are thousands of women who don’t like it but have no choice if they want to live there. We have heard innumerable stories of the religious police and their crude ways.

What about personal freedom?


Go to any of these countries during Ramadan and eat something in public during the day. You will be picked up by police for flouting the rule that during Ramadan you are not allowed to eat anything in public whether you fast or not, whether you share the faith or not.

Where is the so-called personal freedom here?


For some time, Sharjah had introduced a ‘decency law’ by which anyone not ‘properly dressed’ could be arrested. Women wearing even saris were frowned upon! Men who wore shorts were under threat of being coated with black paint!


Where is this personal freedom?


I remember reading a small bit of news some years ago from one of the States in the US about a woman’s litigation against the authorities who had asked her to remove her burka while taking a photograph for identity card. How could she file litigation against the rule that photographs on identity cards must have facial details for security and identification purposes?


It is surprising that a country like Belgium, with its stark linguistic division between the Flemish-speaking Flanders and the French-speaking Wallonia, has unanimously backed the proposed ban on burka. It means there is a general feeling against the women wearing burka. The argument defending the Bill as it is to ‘liberate women’ is absurd as no one has given Brussels any responsibility to take up a moral cause. It is still a personal choice, but if wearing burka helps the militants in any way, it should be checked.

I spent the summer of 2001 in Belgium, and stayed at a Belgian friend’s apartment. One of their concerns that I found out from Mamma, my friend’s old mom, was the increasing population of North African immigrants. Once a few of them—from Algeria, Morocco or Tunisia—moved to an apartment, the Belgians would ease themselves out of the building. It was not about discrimination, but it was against a cultural invasion as the immigrants, from a different culture, played their music loud, laughed and shouted, giving scant respect to the Belgians, who in turn became uneasy of the newcomers.


My friend’s sister showed me a political refugee walking along the street, and told me that her child was studying in a better school than her own children’s school. I got strong vibes of resentment from the pleasant, friendly woman whose husband was a Lebanese.


Sometime in our life, we tend to ask in retrospection: “Who am I? And what am I doing here?”


My own little, insignificant identity was under some duress when I decided to marry a Christian girl 10 years ago. Everyone expected her to change her name, at least as a formality and to please some egos. But I was against it. There were some weak protests and attempts from the religious sect to put my mother under stress by saying that she wouldn’t be buried in the cemetery next to the family mosque. I had to put my foot down and say that I was an Indian citizen, and a journalist, and I had the right to marry anyone, and that if anyone threatened my mother because of it, I’d approach the court.


That settled it.


When I was working with a newspaper in Sharjah, one of my Muslim colleagues asked me why I was wearing a gold ring as it was against my default identity. I pointed to his expensive, golden wristwatch and asked for an explanation. That settled it, but he hardly spoke to me after that.


Sania Mirza and Shoaib Malik are in a pre-honeymoon soup. I believe no one has any right to dictate to Sania whom she should marry or not marry. She can very well marry a Pakistani since it is her life and she will not become an enemy to India by marrying a Pakistani. I have interviewed Sania when she came to Dubai as part of her endorsement with a jewellery brand, and she came across as an intelligent girl with quick, bold answers and opinions, though I don’t read much into the quality of her tennis. There are scores of Russian and Central and Eastern European teenagers who play much better tennis. But they are not Indians and not pretty, and they don’t have a media starving for comely heroines.


It’s not only people who are in identity crisis. Cricket too is undergoing a painful, stressful identity crisis since the invasion by the IPL.


Is the IPL cricket after all? Or, is it just tamasha cricket? Is cricket Modi’s toy or Boycott’s religion?


I don’t know.


But I admire the Pathans and the Tiwaris. And, the way Collingwood and Taylor swung the bat across last night and powered the ball into the second tier of the stands. It takes some talent whether in the IPL or in Tests.


At the same time I admire Dravid’s Wall and Boycott’s brick. I mean, BRICK. (Do you know that the Arabs pronouce P as B?)


Identity crisis. What else?


sabin
Sabin Iqbal
Editor, Yentha.com