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The “rabbinically-approved” clothing site Tznius (Hebrew for “modest”) has a section with scarf-tying instructions. It was a surprising similarity.
(Yes, it’s an Israeli company. But even with those whose policies we do not agree, there are issues upon which we do.)
The 52nd San Francisco International Film Festival is coming up from April 23rd-May 7th.
Before I moved to the City, I used to plan my trips to the West Coast to coincide with it.
It’s that good.
Iqbal Bano singing this poem by Faiz Ahmed Faiz gave me goosebumps. A great way to start the week.
Enjoy!
—
Dasht-e-Tanhaai
dasht-e-tanhaai mein, ai jaan-e-jahaan, larzaan hain
In the desert of my solitude, oh love of my life, quiver
teri avaaz ke saaye,
the shadows of your voice,
tere honthon ke saraab
the mirage of your lips
dasht-e-tanhaai mein,
In the desert of my solitude,
duri ke khas-o-khaak tale
beneath the dust and ashes of distance
khil rahe hain tere pehlu ke saman aur gulaab
bloom the jasmines and roses of your proximity
uht rahi hai kahin qurbat se
From somewhere very close,
teri saans ki aanch
rises the warmth of your breath
apani khushbuu mein sulagti hui
smouldering in its own aroma,
maddham maddham
slowly, bit by bit.
dur ufaq par chamakati hui
far away, across the horizon, glistens
qatra qatra
drop by drop
gir rahi hai teri dil daar nazar ki shabnam
the falling dew of your beguiling glance
is qadar pyaar se hai jaan-e jahaan rakkhaa hai
With such tenderness, O love of my life,
dil ke rukhsaar pe
on the cheek of my heart,
is vaqt teri yaad ne haath
has your memory placed its hand right now
yun guman hota hai
that it looks as if
garche hai abhi subah-e-firaaq
(though it’s still the dawn of adieu)
dhal gaya hijr ka din
the sun of separation has set
aa bhi gaye vasl ki raat
and the night of union has arrived.
- Faiz Ahmed Faiz
(Translated by Ayesha Kaljuvee)
Works by Andy Goldsworthy
We went for a six-mile walk today through my beautiful cloudy city down to see my favorite artist Andy Goldsworthy‘s Spire and then followed the Ecology Trail through the Presidio past folks who smiled greetings, dogs that panted for attention, and children who ran shouting by.
Walking through the park it seems unbelievable that it was built by the US Army, transforming acres of sand dunes into forest as a subtle show of military power. Although the hundred-year old non-native eucalyptus and Monterey cypress were planted in regimented rows, the park reminds me less of the army and more of the story of the Prophet, peace and blessings upon him, holding stones in his hand which were revealed to be singing the praises of God.
All of creation resounds with praise for Him, had we but ears to hear or eyes to see. One of the reasons I like Goldsworthy is because he has the gift of sight. His art is usually made from found, natural objects and is often ephemeral, with decay built into its life cycle – as it is built into ours.
Seeing the Spire standing tall amongst the field of seedlings that will one day obscure it, or watching the extraordinary documentary about Goldsworthy called Rivers & Tides [excerpt], I am reminded of how little I really see of the natural world around me, or the signs (ayats) embedded within them.
As I walk through the Presidio, my steps and breathing slow, I hear the eucalyptus trunk creak in the wind, and see everything from the grasstips to the tree tops bow in humility and grace. How can I become a part of this homage?
Looking up, the trees heave in the wind above as if breathing, reflecting the rise and fall of my chest, and the expansion and contraction of the sea in the distance.
We are all connected, had I but eyes to see, and tongue to praise.
I was flummoxed when the usual Latino/hipster scene in the Mission was replaced by a line of silver-haired white people waiting to watch Bela Fleck’s documentary “Throw Down Your Heart” last night at the Roxie.
It’s a little unnerving being the only brown spot in line, but Basil loves bluegrass and wanted to see the film. Since he’d recently driven me to a desi wedding he had little desire to attend, I figured this was an opportunity to show him that I’m supportive of his interests too.
Subtlety is so lost on Punjabis.
I showed up at a family friend’s wedding last weekend dressed in an elegant blue velvet outfit with a little silver embroidery and a small silver cloth purse. I realized my mistake as soon as Basil and I sat down at the table with six Uncles and Aunties gathered round it.
The Aunties were breathtaking in their bling: heavily embroidered glitzy saris, jewel-encrusted body parts and sandals, and bling even spilling over onto their gigantic purses studded with stones and yet more gold. My poor little purse looked like an ordinary woman who had wandered into a drag queen convention so I hid it under my chair. Likewise my unpolished toes.
I often feel overdressed around the very laid-back and casual gora I married. I always forget how flashy Punjabis are until I enter that world again.
I’ll never be an adequate Aunty. But, somehow, that doesn’t bother me at all.
The 27th San Francisco International Asian-American Film Festival has begun and will run until March 22nd.
Three films of note:
Deepa Mehta’s feature film Heaven on Earth with Preity Zinta
Her brother Dilip Mehta’s documentary The Forgotten Women
And the documentary The Mosque in Morgantown for those who just can’t get enough of Asra Nomani.
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