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Hiatus He cocked his head back to let his nose rise out of the water. There was no tingle of coldness on his nose. He felt his hands. Dry cloth. He opened his eyes slowly. Oily brown light illuminated the beams under a roof in a rough patchwork. He then started paying attention to the sounds. A BBC radio crackled and spat and in a low drone, and he heard quiet chattering and the unmistakable smacking of food in mouths. He sniffed the air. Khichuri. He hated khichuri. Then, he began to remember. He was hiding in the pool. The army had come to his village to kill and pillage. He didn't understand why, but he saw his friend ask them not to hurt anyone and get refused rather violently. He wouldn't wait, so he slipped into the pond so no one would find him. How long was he there? It hurt to think about it. A huge man filled his field of view and startled him. But he didn't even have the energy to flinch. He had survived on nothing but water for a very long time, and his body was depleted. "Eat, get your strength back," the big man told him as the boy raised himself on his elbows slowly. The man had a kindly face, though he looked very strong. Silently, he took the plate, and without washing his hands, began to eat. A memory of his mother telling him off not to eat without washing his hands split through his head, but he suppressed it. The man sat beside him, watching him eat. "Don't like khichuri, eh?" He asked. The boy kept eating. "What's your name, boy?" The boy then took his attention back to his food, and Abdul Rauf looked down at him. What a pitiful state the boy was in. Nothing but water for three days, he thought. What a world we live in, where even children are no longer spared from the horrors of war. A rush of blood went to Abdul Rauf's head. For many long years he witnessed the wrongs of those who governed him, but this was too much. His family was safe in India, but this boy had lost everything. The buck stops here, he told himself. He got off the bed and went up to his friends who were eating silently in a corner. It was raining, and the men ate quietly and quickly, punctuated by requests for the salt or more water. An air of nervousness and worry permeated the small room. They were to go into the jungle today, but on discovery of this 14-year-old in the water, they had decided to delay it till tomorrow. The pitter-patter of the rain ran in the background as Abdur Rauf approached them. "Hey, Musaddiq. That boy is not fit to move, and we cannot leave "We leave him if he can't move. The war will not wait for us," Musaddiq said. Abdul Rauf grimaced. Another man who seemed too busy to pay any attention to anything other than food continued stuffing his face. "Hey, Rehman! You fat freak! Do you care for nothing other than your stomach? What do we do with the boy?" Abdul Rauf spat. "You want me to eat him?" Rehman replied, looking up with a grin on his face, rice dripping from the sides of his mouth. "That's disgusting!" Abdul Rauf said and left the merry congregation. He didn't have an appetite tonight. Arif didn't bother to listen. Buried in his own reveries, he ate silently, intent on finishing what was on his plate. He knew if he didn't eat, he would die. And he couldn't die. Why, he didn't know, but he just couldn't. "I can walk, Uncle," Arif told Abdul Rauf as the old man crossed him to his own bed. "We'll see tomorrow what you can or cannot do, Arif," he replied. His facial expression changed to a fatherly configuration. "Sleep, get your strength back." He turned around, and Arif thought he heard the old man say, under his breath, "You'll need it." He watched the big old man's back disappear into the darkness, and then saw the brown beams of the ceiling do the same. RS Readers Club My family and other animals A baffling book review I was literally mortified after reading your book review where Saqiba Aziz wrote about the book 'My Family And Other Animals'. First of all, the author's name is Gerald Durrell! Yes, you missed the all important double 'r'. Apart from making the macabre mistake of misspelling the author's name in a book review, there were some other things that mystified me. The very structure seems rather disoriented. The first 3 paragraphs describe the beauty of the book, the next 4 paragraphs are based on how annoying the book is, and then the conclusion says 'drop your Sidney Sheldon for once, grab this book'. Another interesting point you made was: "I have no idea what Durell was thinking of achieving when he put at least 4 difficult words in each page." Well, what do you mean by 'difficult words'? A word that is difficult to you or something that is difficult to all? I don't think Durrell was trying to achieve anything by using those words. Those words, in fact, clarified the beauty of Corfu in a way that easy words couldn't. It is simply not right to attack such a brilliant author for using words that precisely say what he intended to. If using extra precise words were annoying, Rabindranath Tagore would have been the most annoying author in Bangla literature! Another thing that you must keep in mind is that, the book was written more than half a century ago, so his vocabulary will obviously seem a little out of the ordinary. I wonder how fiercely vexed you would be while reading Dickens. You also seemed to find the unique incidents involving the animals bothersome. Of course, that can be imagined not everyone can feel comfortable when such matters are taken on so descriptively. But I wonder how you can, at the end, recommend this book if you don't like the animals' part! They make up 50% of the book, if not more! If you didn't like those parts, you could have always said at the end that the book had a negative impression, or mixed impressions, upon you. However, you ended by thoroughly urging the readers to get the book. Hmm… I've been sounding so much like a schoolteacher. Nevertheless, I picked on the points that I found wrong. I would have loved to say, "my intentions were not to attack you", but I can't do that I'm afraid. I think your style (not structure style, language) of writing was very good, its just some of your points that I wanted to counter. It will be interesting to see the slap-backs. For the time being, all hail the Durrells! By Azhar Chowdhury Book review Crescent Cross-culture books and films have been in vogue for a while, made popular by such hit films as Monsoon Wedding, The Guru, and of course Bend it Like Beckham, to name a few, and the Oriental crossovers like the Joy Luck Club even before that. If you're in the mood for some cross-culture fiction, but are bored of the same Sub-continental and Oriental fusion, then you could do far worse than give Crescent a try. The author of Arabian Jazz, Diana Abu Jaber brings us another spicy Arab-American tale. In what has been described as 'Mostly Martha meets The Arabian Nights', Abu-Jaber gives us a shining story of love and loss, set in West L.A.'s Iraqi-American community. Raised by her uncle, a professor, Sirine, half-American, half-Arabian finds a comfortable place for herself within the university community. An accomplished chef, this thirty-something woman has found her true calling in feeding the foreign students, academics and residents who frequent Nadia's Middle Eastern café.
The story of Sirine and Han is interwoven with enchanting fables of mermaids, jinns and a quest journey in the ancient Arabian tradition. Though initially they seem rather distracting and pointless initially, they play quite a pivotal role towards the end of the novel. With Iraq being on the news as the scene of so much violence and controversy, it's hard to keep in mind the richness of its age-old culture and traditions, the sophistication of its literature and music. Through the characters of Han and Nathan, the photographer, we see this other oft-ignored side of the Iraqis. Abu Jaber's language is rich and flavorful; her narration is a little slow-moving, so it's better to read it when you're in the time and mood for some languid perusal. One last warning before I wrap this up: do not read this on an empty stomach! By Sabrina F Ahmad Alone Nameless Maxim |
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The café's regulars come for the conversations and the ongoing Bedouin soap opera playing on TV, as much as for glimpses of Sirine, whose cooking soothes their homesickness. Blonde and fair, Sirine has a constant stream of admirers in this charismatic community. However, she never truly connects with any of them until Han, a distinguished, handsome professor with a mysterious past, shows up at the café. Just about all their common friends, from the café owner Nadia to Sirine's uncle to Han's friend the poet, all act as eager matchmakers, and when Sirine and Han finally come together, their feverish affair brings much joy. For Sirine, this relationship also brings a new awareness of her own cultural identity. As she loves, she too, is asked to bear the price of freedom.