Descent into Despair

During the rule of Nazis in Germany many different communities were targeted on the basis of their beliefs. Martin Niemöller gave a famous statement in which he described the indifference and apathy of German intellectuals and public towards the plight of their fellow citizens. Today his words resonate in my mind and by changing the names of the communities we can describe the way different groups have been targeted in Pakistan since 1947:

First they came for the Hindus, and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a Hindu.

Then they came for the Ahmedis, and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t an Ahmedi.

Then they came for the Christians, and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a Christian.

Then they came for the Shias, and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a Shia.

Then they came for me, and there was no one left to speak for me.

The irony is that the country which was created to protect and give equal rights to the minorities of India couldn't provide safety and security to its own people. Remaining fearful in today’s Pakistan means surrendering to those extremists who challenge our way of life. Our people have showed immense resilience in the last decade and there are many grave issues that we as a nation have to tackle in order to succeed in 21st century, but first we all must get over our religious and political prejudices and unite against all kinds of terrorism and extremism. 

If we don't force the state to take action against those who are killing Shias today then tomorrow they will be after the lives of our loved ones because they are determined to disintegrate our country into different factions. The state knows the identity of the perpetrators, but apparently it doesn’t have the will to take action against them. No negotiations succeed unless they are done from a position of strength and we have seen the horrific results that this policy of appeasement has produced.  

There will be protests, sit-in, roads will be blocked, but terrorists will continue to kill innocent people unless our nation gets united and demand action against those organizations which are responsible for this bloodshed. 

"Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter," - Martin Luther King

Random Blabber

Im so glad our moral hierarchy is protected with no youtube. Thank you PTA - I suddenly feel like I am more pious. Just yesterday, I gave a hundred bucks to a beggar because I felt morally superior. Pre-youtubal laws dictate that if I swear off proxies, I will go to jannat.

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I have also been contemplating growing a beard and shifting all my accounts to Islamic banks.

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Oh and I feel safer because we have no cellular service.

Jihad Too

August 1^st, Wednesday

Panic in the camp. Somebody mentioned drones. A collective outburst of flailing hands, scurrying feet and screaming women, oh, that was the men. It was reminiscent of a Punjabi wedding. Outside, the leader’s voice rang over the megaphone, “RUN FOR THE HILLS!”

“These are the hills,” somebody said.

“RUN FOR THE PLAINS!”

“Stop!” shouted brother Mehsud, trying to calm everyone down. “It’s a false alarm!”

The leader breathed a sigh of relief, shot a glance of approval then let out a fart of contempt. “WHAT MORON WAS RESPONSIBLE!”

The responsible moron was duly found and beaten. I didn’t understand what was going on, so when things calmed down a bit, I asked brother Faisal. He was incredulous, “You don’t know what a Mujahid fears most?”

“An electric shaver?”

No. He showed me a picture of the thing from a newspaper clipping. It was worse. It was an electric shaver with wings!

August 2^nd, Thursday

Prayers, then breakfast, then prayers that we survived breakfast. These were followed by our first suicide drills. “Does this suicide vest make me look fat?” asked brother Faisal standing in front of the mirror.

“No, but the five chins and love handles do.”

Suicide training proved successful, in fact one recruit was so successful we were still picking up pieces of him by the evening.

August 4^th, Saturday

Brother Faisal and I were discussing drones.

“Just imagine, ruthless things with no thoughts of their own killing without regard for innocent lives,” he said.

“But that sounds like us!”

“We’re different. We can’t fly.”

These were certainly cowardly tactics from the Americans. Bravery was twenty kilos of C4 strapped to your chest. Why couldn’t they come down here and face us like men. War had become too impersonal. Brother Faisal reminisced about the days when your enemy had the courtesy to kill you in person, piss on your corpse and sell your women and children into slavery.

Auguest 6^th, Monday

Training continued. There were only eight of us now, not counting the goats. Mehsud was despondent over our scant numbers. “A few years ago the entire camp would be full of young, hopeless faces. They came from all corners of the country. Now look at us,” I looked at us. We were a sorry sight indeed. Suicide bombers seemed to be a dying breed.

August 7^th, Tuesday

Today was beard inspection day. Experts were called in from all over the region to examine our facial grooming. Brother Faisal had been at his with rollers, mousse and pink butterfly clips all morning. He was laughed at prodigiously.

My ten years on a deserted island look garnered some praise but the best beards were all over a meter long.

One of the brothers had eggs in his, where a bird had made a nest. He came second. But the winner was a brother Wahab from Bajaur. The judges wrote a glowing review for him in the evening papers.

“A magnificent specimen. Falling down to the ankles in a curtain of thick hair. Impervious to light, heat and small firearms. The texture is a pashthani juniper with smatterings of animal fur and swamp weed. Streaked with henna, mud and stray drops of urine, the rustling suggests it plays home to a small colony of beetles. Indeed, life blooms inside the dense foliage, by April we expect to see flowers.”

Later, we found out that he’d pulled the proverbial wool over the judge’s eyes. That wasn’t his beard, he’d just been standing behind a bush!

August 8^th, Wednesday

Our first training mission, we were to fire on a bus full of religious minorities. Why, what had they done?

“Mustn’t have paid their fares,” opined brother Faisal.

We were to be accompanied by a man with ten years of field experience, nine of them on a farm. His face was scarred from shrapnel and in place of his left hand was a mangled stump. “It’s dangerous work, ploughing,” he explained of his disabilities. His name was Tahir but we called him Bashir.

I wrote to my mother to tell her the exciting news,

Dear mother,

I am going to kill my first infidel today,

Yours lovingly

“That’s nice dear, don’t forget to wash afterwards,” she wrote back.

August 9^th, Thursday

We traveled to some eastern mountains and prepared an ambush on the assigned route, hiding behind rocks on either side of the path. Then we waited. After a while, we waited some more. Two hours of intense waiting later we were greeted by the sight of even more waiting.

Evening. Nothing.

Night. Nothing.

Next morning, a rug seller came riding on the back of a mule.

“Let’s shoot the donkey,” said brother Faisal.

“But what will we do with the mule?”

Afternoon. Nothing.

Buses in this country, I told them, never on time. We were crestfallen, defeated, everyone but Bashir decided to go home. What commitment. What dedication. What lunacy! There’s still a white haired, one handed man sitting behind a rock somewhere with a clogged gun, and arteries.

August 10^th, Friday

Brother Mehsud came up to me while I was tending the dirt. “The leader wants to see you.”

“Well if he looks out the window I’m sure he’ll catch a glimpse of me.”

I was taken to the mosque, brother Faisal was already inside, looking solemnly at the ground.

“UTTER DISASTER. YOU WERE ON THE WRONG ROAD, AT THE WRONG TIME, AND YOU FAILED TO KILL A SINGLE HEATHEN.”

“Look at it this way, sir, we saved a fortune in bullets,” I offered.

I was to be let off lightly with a punishment of just seventy lashes.

Seventy lashes! Where would I put them all? I only had two eyes. Seventy! This was more punishing for the one counting them.

Only the first lash hurt. By the second I’d fainted. When I woke up my back was a wreck of pain and agony. I’d been sleeping on the floor.

August 13^th, Monday

After last week’s debacle, I was assigned on lookout duty. It was an early warning system to evacuate camp at the sight of drones and travelling salesmen.

“I heard you got the night watch,” said a morose brother Faisal.

“Yes, it can tell the time after dark.”

“Don’t start with me, I’m on toilet duty for the next month.”

“That’s what they call being knee deep in shit.”

August 14^th, Tuesday

Was woken up by the sound of a runaway washing machine. Wait, we didn’t have a runaway washing machine. Drones! Soulless instruments of death and destruction, unmanned, like a eunuch. But this was no time to be waxing lyrical.

Boom! Went the ammunitions trench. Boom! Went the mosque. Boom! Also went the kitchen where the cook was experimenting with a dangerous recipe of beef casserole.

Seeing my brothers caught out without the slightest warning, I did the brave thing and ran quietly for the caves. Soon I was joined by the others.

“Fuck off and find your own hiding place!” I greeted them warmly.

“Look!” brother Faisal pointed to the camp, our Jihad instructor had walked out of his shack, stretched himself in the clearing and stood there, nonplussed, scratching his balls.

“He’s intrepid!”

“He’s fearless!”

“He’s deaf,” somebody explained.

Boom! He was also dead.

August 15^th, Wednesday

In the aftermath of the massacre the idea somehow got into people’s head that it was all my fault.

“DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY IN YOUR DEFENCE?” shouted the leader, who’d been badly injured trying to untangle himself from his blanket.

“I’m sorry sir, I didn’t mean to fall asleep on the job,” that was true, I meant to fall asleep on the bed.

“DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE PUNISHMENT FOR FALLING ASLEEP IS?”

“Being woken up?” It wasn’t. It was another seventy lashes. At this rate I could start my own beauty salon.

August 16^th, Thursday

We were still clearing the rubble when brother Mehsud walked up. He made a grave face. Freshly dug. “We have to move camp.”

But we’d just gotten cable!

“Our location has been compromised.”

Yes, life was full of these little compromises. We were going further West, or further East, depending on how you held the map. We were headed deeper into the war zone. Before we left I had to do a complete stock of our casualties.

“I have good news and bad news,” I told Mehsud.

The cook had died in the attacks.

“What’s the bad news?” he asked.

We’d lost another instructor.

August 17^th, Friday

We travelled to the outskirts of Miranshah.

“Hehe, you said skirts,” said brother Faisal summing up the apprehension we all felt inside.

August 18^th, Saturday

The new camp was close to a village, a Jihad outfit was already encamped in the area. Their leader was a tall, frail man who looked like he’d been in a bad mood all his life.

We exchanged resources, they gave us weapons and intelligence, we gave them vehicles and stupidity in return.

August 19^th, Sunday

We were to clear a small cluster of hills for making camp. I picked up a strange disc shaped object from the ground. “Mine!” shouted brother Saeed. So I gave it to him. Sadly, brother Saeed is with us no more.

August 20^th, Monday

Reports came in about our neighbouring Mujahids. They were engaged with the enemy. “Already! But they’ve only known each other a few months!” I was ignored as usual.

“They’re attacking an American outpost on the other side of the border,” explained Mehsud. “There have been many casualties…”

Subhanallah! Rang a chorus of brothers.

”…all on our side.”

A collective ‘ah, shit’.

August 22^nd, Wednesday

To raise troop morale, the great Muslim cleric Sheikh Yerbouti was flying in from Saudi to perform hymns. His saintliness, whose very farts we were not worthy of smelling, was to be treated with the utmost reverence and servility. We were to keep our heads bowed, not talk to him or even breathe loudly in his presence.

There was a great hullabaloo when he walked in.

“Where is he?” I asked, straining my neck to get a look.

“There!” pointed brother Faisal.

“What, behind the buffalo?”

Oh. He was the buffalo.

His saintliness was a veteran of twenty battles, twelve of them in the court against his many wives. By the time he got clear of the adoring public, what stood for his neck was adorned with garlands, and what stood for his face was adorned with petals. Much bowing, gesturing, hand-shaking and nose-picking followed.

Then he was put on stage. The plan worked, after hearing him sing for two hours we were ready to embrace martyrdom. He concluded to a loud ovation of snores. After the performance, he was offered a bunch of dates, he took all the public holidays. Bastard.

August 24^th, Friday

The leader deemed it was customary for the village nearby to pay their respects, some forty thousand rupees a month to be exact. It was also customary for them to send volunteers for our war effort.

They sent a boy of sixteen with scarcely any hair on his face. Frustrated for years, the brothers looked at him with lust in their eyes and a firm grip on their unmentionables. I took it upon myself to protect his chastity and virtue. We gathered for the afternoon sermon.

“ABSTINENCE BRINGS GREAT REWARD AFTER LIFE.”

But indulgence brought great reward after a few minutes! I feared for the boy, and his unmentionables.

August 25^th, Saturday

Things were heating up on the war front. Much of the fighting was taking place against our own government, which was in collusion with the infidel armies of the west.

“They’re all puppets of the empire,” explained Mehsud.

“But they look so life like.”

“They push their heathen, secular agendas, but in the end, victory will belong to the faithful.”

Ah, we had a new player on the table, but who was this faith fool.

“As long as we’re prepared to lay down our lives for the great cause, nothing can stand in our way.”

We now had what I like to call a difference of opinion. I was of the opinion that we should live on longer to fight the good fight, he was of the opinion that I was a coward and a bastard.

August 26^th, Sunday

News came over the radio. Brother Faisal came over the news. A lone Mujahid had shot a disbelieving, agenda pushing governor.  Jubilation! Wild celebrations ensued. A truckload of alcohol was brought in from the city and set ablaze.

Brother Faisal took off his shirt and danced in front of the fire. It was a sight none of us would forget, though many tried.

(Next week, everyone dies)

For art's sake!

The image of an old man sitting outside the decades-old dry-cleaning shop Gurcson and Co. on Canning Road in Saddar Bazaar of Rawalpindi Cantt is stuck in my mind. This man would skillfully turn his needle in many directions to repair the odd bits of colorful cloth around him. A frequent gesture of his was to adjust the old glasses on his eyes. This "Rafugar" sat on the footpath in front of Gurcson.

As you entered Gurcson, the smell of petro-chemicals hit your nostrils. A man on the counter would quickly take the receipt and locate your clothes from those hanging in the long line of glass cupboards. The dry-cleaned clothes hung in big plastic wraps as if they were artworks headed for a gallery.

There was a feel of the old world about Gurcson and how it functioned, something that's missing from modern dry-cleaning shops. There was often an offer from the shopkeeper to drink tea after my father had picked up our clothes.

I was a child and the importance of this shop or the Canning Road did not occur to me. It was just a place to get clothes washed a few times a year. It was a single utility shop. Not until I was in my-20s did I learn the story of the road from my father.

Shopkeepers in Gurcson's Canning Road used to trade in leather and products made from it during British times. Leather-product shops still exist on Canning to this day. Later I learned that since Hindus do not deal with leather and hides and skins due to their religious beliefs, it gave a chance to Muslims to enter this trade during the pre-Partition period.

Trading castes such as Chiniotis and Memons, who now dominate Pakistan's textile industry, honed their business and trading skills in hides and skins. Canning Road located close to the former Rawalpindi Club must have been crucial for the growth of entrepreneurship among Muslims since the 19th century. It is a pity there are is no archives that would explain the history of the Road and its role in the development of Muslim businesses in this area.

Another place of similar interest is a congested area called "Laalkurti", which literally translates as "Red Shirts". It is a place where the lower-middle classes of Rawalpindi buy everything from yogurt to clothes and shoes. Its narrow alleys have old Hindu architecture. From the "rupee haar" (long garlands made of rupee notes) worn on weddings by the groom in villages to jalebis being fried and daegs being cooked to the modern K&N frozen processed food shop, it has everything. Just a little distance away is the dilapidated Police Chowki. Laalkurti's working class provided services to the colonial administration. They wore red shirts and hence the name. Laalkurti is now called Tariq Abad. 

I was recently struck by the poverty of knowledge about art provided to school and college students when I visited the celebrated Pakistan National Art Gallery (PNCA) in Islamabad. I was surprised to find that the PNCA is a huge, relatively new structure of limited aesthetic merit and poor maintenance.

A mother-and-child made out of twigs was one of the highlights of the special show that was currently on display. It was cleverly done, a large glass sculpture that offered an original geometric experience; it was innovative at the very least. And then there were several galleries of the permanent collection. The artistic depth here was in the work of Jamil Naqsh, Zahoor-ul-Akhlaq, Sadequain, Shakir Ali and Ustad Allah Bux. That depth seemed to be missing in the more recent artworks on display in the gallery. The special gallery devoted to Ustad Allah Bux's works had a display panel full of atrocious English and typos trying to give a history of his work.

The PNCA was almost empty. We only saw a foreigner couple, surrounded by many more staff members who were switching on gallery lights for the sprinkling of visitors. 

We asked the entrance clerk about the number of daily visitors to the gallery. He did not seem to have a record. He said that between 200 and 400 people were at the opening of the current exhibition, following which only 6-7 visitors came to the galleries every day, some of them inevitably foreigners. Why, then, have such a huge building if there are no takers for what it has to offer, and with evidently no effort made to increase the visitors?

Former TV actor Tauqeer Nasir has photos with visiting VIPs on a big notice board in the entrance foyer. Nasir, who used to play the "angry young man" in PTV dramas in the 1980s, now seems rather pleased with having become the top man of PNCA.

Walking around the PNCA, I was reminded of a recent essay by an Indian artist which said that during the British period, art classes in India were offered to poor and low-income group students, whereas Indian elites considered a formal art education not worthy of their kids' time. Now the tables have turned. Art has become an exclusive interest of the Pakistani elite and the rest of society is bereft of it.

Random Thoughts

Love has failed to conquer all.

GOD IS REALLY SENSITIVE, YOU GUYS.

When I toyed with the idea of writing about the touchiest subject known to man, the holy of holies, God himself, I incurred two types of “advice,” for lack of a better word. There were the tearful appeals for the continuing precious attachment of my crazy head, where I keep my crazy brain, to my body. Then there were the rather strongly asserted warnings about the justifiable separation of my not-so-precious shit-filled head, where I keep my shit brain, from my body.

I was told that I’d have to walk a thin line as not to offend anyone. So naturally I thought it would be a good idea to dismiss the thinner-than-a-cat’s-whisker of a line and stomp on as many feelings as possible… maybe even some cancer kids, just for kicks.

To many people, the biggest difference between us and Westerners is really a plus-sized elephant masturbating to daytime television on your couch, sipping your coffee with his trunk: our religious beliefs. Its Team Jesus vs. Team Mohammed, then there is Team Atheist, but they always get disqualified. (I was going to mention Team Moses, but no one cheers for them)

I, on the other hand, disagree. Both worlds mostly believe in a religion, in prophets, heavens and the works. Both worlds also suffer from arrogance, such as the ability to think wear overalls is attractive. On one side, you have many yellow-haired people who believe Islam signed a sponsorship contract with terrorism. (Yes, this is the belief from which I milk jokes.) And on the other side, you have the brown-skinned hairy people, who think the yellow-haired are a nosy mass of people mislead by an obviously bulimic cartoon drawn on glass (that being Jesus). Granted, these are all valid points. Both worlds also share this not-so-humble belief that God went through the trouble of creating an ever-expanding universe, making the planets, stars, galaxies, cosmos and the contents of intergalactic space, just for them.

If all of this is for just one species, then I’d like to nominate crocodiles. They can go without food for two whole years, now that’s something.

I think the real difference between West and us is the ability to discuss religious belief. Talking about religion there is as acceptable as discussing the intimate, yet anaimalistic, sex-toy reliant, love life of your parents in a business meeting. You just don’t do it. You don’t talk about it. You don’t think about talking about it either, you sneaky bastard. Don’t think about it all together, you have a perfectly functioning BlackBerry and an adequate supply of Mars bars at your demand. What more could you possibly ask for?

I once dared to discuss homosexuality and God, two areas where I believe people can believe in and do whatever they like. Unsurprisingly, this was translated to: “I am a victim of abuse, which has led to an unidentified hormonal dysfunction, plaguing me with a serious case of the homos and destabilizing my pysche, making me liable to the temptation of the devil and stripping me of the light of faith.” Then the crazy logic was applied, which is when a crazy person denies being crazy, thus proving they’re cuckoo.
This is how it went down (replace the name Aaloo with “imbecile”):

                          AALOO ONE (in response to the “homosexuality is not a disease” argument): “Gays are   not normal, because God said so. And God said so because gays are sick. My neighbor heard if a woman eats a lot of Gulab-jamun when pregnant, she will give birth to a gay boy. It’s scientifically proven.”
(I chuckle for two minutes, explain the hilarity of her circular reasoning for four minutes, and why one can’t use the equivalent of used toilet paper as scientific proof. Then a group of five Aaloos join the conversation and more arguing ensues.)

                        AALOO TWO: “Well, I have a gay friend overseas and he admits he is sick.”
(This is a perfect example of the Pakistani art of persuasion: you claim that you have a foreign friend that belongs to the group of people you’re discriminating against, and BAM! you’re in the clear, because if you were racist, why would they befriend you? Follow the logic? For the next two minutes, Aaloo One is praised for her “rightness” and the rest storm off.)

Honestly, I’m just glad my head remained intact. I should note, however, that I was “debating” with upper-middle class people and higher. Anything lower than that, and decapitation would seem likely.This inability to talk frankly and honestly extends well beyond religion and includes politics, which is why we will forever live in a literal “hot-zone.” We don’t talk, we yell. And that’s why we’ll probably never invite India to the “Join if you live aceoss the wall” private group on Facebook.

This is why I wholeheartedly believe that we, as a whole, needs to have a heart-to-heart with Oprah. To explore its issues with communication and why we are so jealous and hateful. The following depicts the dialogue that would most certainly take place:

            PAKISTAN: We were all happy, until she [India] came along. She won’t keep her paws [army] off my boyfriend [metaphor for Kashmir]!
            INDIA: There we go again, he was never yours. I saw him first; get it through your thick, veiled head!
(Catfight breaks out.)
          SAUDI ARABIA: You guys done fighting yet? Good. So Oprah, let’s talk investments.
         OPRAH: We’re here to talk about your feelings, Saudi.
         SAUDI ARABIA: But what about the oil—
        OPRAH: And for the last time, I don’t want an oil barrel named after me.
(Bewilderment prevails over SAUDI’s face… not that you can see it.)
        AFGHANISTAN (lesser known SAARC country): May I interrupt? I think what India meant to say—
        PAKISTAN: Quiet, they want real SAARC. What are you doing here again?
        AFGHANISTAN: Saudi is not even SAARC and I have the right to be here, this is a free—
        PAKISTAN: “Hey, we always work our own kind of democracy!” [Real quote from Pervez Musharraf.]
       SAUDI ARABIA: “Shush, you guys! This is such a pivotal moment. We must honor it. Umm, let’s build the world’s largest… err-Oprah monument.”
       OPRAH: “Will it be like Statue of Liberty big?”
And that’s the end result of most western interventions… that and war, of course.
So I’m dedicating this column to those who refuse to talk and keep an open mind. And to the people who think their god is too sensitive to take a joke and to the atheists who have taken it upon themselves to “enlighten” the blind, mislead masses, I beg you all to be offended. God doesn’t need your petty tantrums, I’m pretty sure he has thicker skin than that.

If you still have a problem with the sight of a veiled woman or that of public affection for instance, then chew on a stress ball. Lost a tooth? Then send your rant to: IKnowBetter@SelfassuredProudThiest/Athiest.com

Bharatanatyam in the time of the Taliban

Posing vehemently while dancing and having a nice chat over a cup of coffee with Nirupama Subramanian, corespondent for Indian national daily The Hindu at my dance school in Islamabad. I was captioning it as a perfect rendezvous at that time until I read myself being called a random '20-something man' in her article for the newspaper.

http://www.hindu.com/2009/06/23/stories/2009062361492000.htm

But sticking to my good old optimism, I am going to call it editor's doing and not Nirupama's. Dark skinned Nirupama in her late thirties was genuinely overwhelmed to see a bunch of so-to-say Muslim girls and a guy dancing, a dance form coming exclusively of the area she belongs i-e Southern India. Together we were rehearsing a unique aesthetic piece, which unites a thorough grounding in tradition, innovative formal striving and a keen contemporary political sense.

It is a challenge to strike a balance in terms of technique. I don't believe in a fusion with no meaning and no rigour. There are many other forms of movement which I welcome very much. Just as a poet may welcome cadences, idioms of other languages. There are and will always be very strong impressions of Bharatanatyam in each and every piece - can't escape that. When someone watches a piece, a question may arise, "Is this Bharatanatyam?"

Bharatanatyam has also changed over the years. The art is more important than just one form - it is many forms. If we are true to the art then it will be authentic. We do not do this or that in order to "keep" it authentic. It's not like Bharatanatyam does not allow me to show torture on the stage, so I won't do it. I will make my own gesture to show the burnt fingers. Later, maybe in 100 years, it will become a dance gesture.

Jati is not a decoration, or an interval, but part of the passion. Look at the endings of jati - the muktaya or teermaanam - all are in odd numbers. We translate muktaya as "resolution" but it is not a closure, it is incomplete, the door is open. Even elementary nrtta (pure dance) has emotion, some social meaning beyond arithmetic. In abhinaya the dancer has an aim, a content to convey. In nrtta, it is the social meaning conveyed through the dancer.

Life is full of contradictions but we must question the messages on gender, caste, class, race, community that we propagate. A dancer once told me that Bharatanatyam is feminist, simply because it is "woman-focused." Unlike theatre or TV where women don't get many parts, in Bharatanatyam there are regular roles in javalis, padams ... but what are the women doing? They are only pining for their men. So how is that feminist? I guess one of us has had a wrong definition of feminism.

For teaching or performing traditional pieces I tend more not to choose themes on Hindu deities, like Shiva, Krishna, Durga and Rama. Still, we mostly talk about Hindu gods. Do we even talk about non-Hindu gods, do we even know? Isn't that a political statement? Let us say a Muslim dancer is dancing Bharatanatyam, where is the point of connection? Where is Allah? (or for Christians) Where is Jesus? How do we connect with the rest of the world?

At least we should be able to see the contradictions - from there we can say, we want to do something else. The technique, the form is beautiful. I don't want to let go of my training or to reject Bharatanatyam. So I question these contradictions and take it to a level where I don't have to feel guilty about my choreography and I am also connecting with the audience.

Traditions are created and recreated. It is a question of what we choose to think of as tradition.