Kishore Kumar Ke Kuchch Gaane

Yeh rahe kuchch gaane Kishore Kumar ke jo pichchle kai dinon ke liye mere man mein phas gae hain. Shaayad aapke liye yeh gaane jo hain naye nahin hain, lekin hamaare liye yeh saare gaane kafi naye hain, aur main yeh sab post kar raha hun is liye ki in gaanon ke lyrics to mujhe bahut hi khubsurat lagne lage. Mujhe ummeed hai ki aap log in lyrics phir se parh ke to khubsurti aur zindagi ka ankahe sachchai mil paayenge.

ये ददर् भरा अफ़साना, सुन ले अन्जान ज़माना ज़माना
मैं हूँ एक पागल प्रेमी, मेरा ददर् न कोई जाना - २

कोई भी वादा, याद न आया
कोई क़सम भी, याद न आई
मेरी दुहाई, सुन ले खुदाई
मेरे सनम ने, की बेवफ़ाई
दिल टूट गया, दीवाना
सुन ले अन्जान, ज़माना ज़माना
मैं हूँ एक पागल प्रेमी ...

फूलों से मैं ने दामन बचाया
राहो में अपनी काँटे बिछाये
मैं हूँ दीवाना, दीवानगी ने
इक बेवफ़ा से नेहा लगाये
जो प्यार को न पहचाना
सुन ले अनजान ज़माना, ज़माना ...

यादें पुरानी, आने लगीं क्या
आँखें झुका लीं, क्या दिल में आई
देखो नज़ारा, दिलवर हमारा
कैसी हमारी, महफ़िल मे आई
है साथ कोई, बेगाना
सुन ले अन्जान, ज़माना ज़माना
मैं हूँ एक पागल प्रेमी ...

मन्ज़िलों पे आके लुटते हैं दिलों के कारवाँ
कश्तियां साहिल पे अक्सर, डूबती हैं प्यार की
मन्ज़िलें अपनी जगह हैं रास्ते अपनी जगह - २
जब कदम ही साथ ना दें, तो मुसाफ़िर क्या करे
यूँ तो है हमदर्द भी और हमसफ़र भी है मेरा - २
बढ़के कोई हाथ ना दे, दिल भला फिर क्या करे
मन्ज़िलें अपनी जगह हैं रास्ते अपनी जगह
डूबने वाले को तिनके का सहारा ही बहुत
दिल बहल जाए फ़कत, इतना इशारा ही बहुत
इतने पर भी आसमाँ वाला गिरा दे बिजलियाँ
कोई बतलादे ज़रा ये डूबता फिर क्या करे
मन्ज़िलें अपनी जगह हैं रास्ते अपनी जगह
प्यार करना जुर्म है तो, जुर्म हमसे हो गया
काबिल-ए-माफ़ी हुआ करते नहीं ऐसे गुनाह
संगदिल है ये जहाँ और संगदिल मेरा सनम
क्या करें जोश-ए-ज़ुनूं और हौंसला फिर क्या करे
मन्ज़िलें अपनी जगह हैं रास्ते अपनी जगह

आती रहेंगी बहारें
जाती रहेंगी बहारें
दिल की नज़र से दुनियाँ को देखो
दुनियाँ सदा ही हसीं है

मैं ने तो बस यही माँगी है दुआएं
फूलों की तरह हम सदा मुस्कुराये
गाते रहें हम खुशियों के गीत यूँ ही जाये बीत
ज़िंदगी
हो~ आती रहेंगी बहारें ...

तुम जो मिले हो तो दिल को यक़ीं है
धरती पे स्वर्ग जो है तो यहीं है
गाते रहे हम खुशियों के गीत
यूँ ही जाये बीत
ज़िंदगी
हो~ आती रहेंगी बहारें ...

तुम से हैं जब जीवन में सहारे
जहाँ जाये नज़रें वहीं हैं नज़ारे
लेके आयेगी हर नयी बहार
रंग भरा प्यार
और खुशी
हो~ आती रहेंगी बहारें ...

हम हम हूँ हम हम दे रे ना आ आ आ आ आँ

लोग कहते हैं मैं शराबी हूँ - २
तुमने भी शायद यही सोच लिया हां ...
लोग कहते हैं मैं शराबी हूँ

किसीपे हुस्न का गुरूर जवानी का नशा किसीके दिल पे मोहब्बत की रवानी का नशा किसीको देखे साँसों से उभरता है नशा बिना पिये भी कहीं हद से गुज़रता है नशा नशे मैं कौन नहीं हैं मुझे बताओ ज़रा किसे है होश मेरे सामने तो लाओ ज़रा नशा है सब पे मगर रंग नशे का है जुदा खिली खिली हुई सुबह पे है शबनम का नशा हवा पे खुशबू का बादल पे है रिमझिम का नशा कहीं सुरूर है खुशियों का कहीं ग़म का नशा नशा शराब मैं होता तो नाचती बोतल मैकदे झूमते पैमानों मैं होती हलचल नशा शराब मैं होता तो नाचती बोतल नशे मैं कौन नहीं हैं मुझे बताओ ज़रा - २
लोग कहते हैं मैं शराबी हूँ - २
तुमने भी शायद यही सोच लिया लोग कहते हैं मैं शराबी हूँ थोड़ी आँखों से पिला दे रे सजनी दीवानी - २
तुझे मैं तुझे मैं तुझे नौलक्खा मंगा दूंगा सजनी दिवानी

MAIN BHI DESI HU NAA!

                  One of the most difficult parts of attempting to immerse oneself into another culture is that of being recognized by other members of that culture. Such is my trouble, which has been going on since the very beginning in all of attempts to become desi. My difficulties of completely fitting in with desis has basically been because I do not look like I’m desi at all; when was the last time a young man with blue-grey eyes and brownish hair of European descent and Protestant background was considered desi by anybody? If I tried, I could pass for a Kurd from Iran or an Afghan, maybe even Kashmiri, but not desi, not as it is usually thought of as a general South Asian from India or Pakistan.

 Despite my efforts, it is always a difficult process to get to know other local desis. First, I don't look like a desi, and this causes others to look at me first with the thought that I am nothing more than just an American, who is probably ignorant of desi culture, of major world events, and obviously their language. Not only this, but my attempts to be recognized as a desi are sometimes limited depending on whether that person I see and want to talk to speaks Urdu/Hindi, Panjabi, or Gujarati, or some other language, since there are sizable amounts of desis in my community that speak South Indian languages such as Tamil and Telugu, which I have only limited knowledge and experience of due to lack of material for me to teach myself about them. Even if they do speak Urdu/Hindi, Panjabi or Gujarati, my attempts at cementing a relationship can be difficult, even if we share a common language. This does not mean I have not had success. Many of the desis around the tri-city area have either seen me or talked with me at desi events, and many of them are quite willing to talk again if they see me, and often in their native language. At college, I have many desi contacts, including professors, most of whom are Urdu/Hindi speakers. I have also made impact through attending desi events (such as performing the dandiya raas and coming to desi concerts), and I was even recognized at the Diwali function by the President of the India Association of East Central Michigan, that too addressed in Hindi. Still, I feel pain when I walk into a public place to find desis who don't recognize me and (implicitly) think of me as another white brick in the American wall ( that too, even after hours of listening to Kishore Kumar and singing along with desi-filled joy) or when I talk to a desi in their language and get a reply back in English. In some of these cases, obviously, people are not able to see that I consider myself desi, and would have not opportunity probably to have me demonstrate it. But in others, I feel hurt that I'm not seen as desi, but simply as something of a oddball. Most of them probably have not heard my complaints about fitting in neither West nor East, which is the old desi adage that the washerman's dog not at home in the house nor at the riverside. But I still go about trying to advertise my desi-ness, which I feel is a powerful force in my life. Despite not being brown-skinned and dark-haired, I consider myself desi because I am able to speak desi languages, because I consider the culture embedded in those languages as the culture by which I want to live my life ( a view partly influenced by the decline of mainstream American culure and the general bad morals), and because I surround myself with aspects of desi culture ( desi music, desi literature, some general desi philosophy, desi food, desi media, etc.).

                I wish there were other ways of advertising my desi-ness other than simply by talking to other desis or expressing my desi-ness to my family through our time together. I remember that when I was younger I would always practice tabla motions around other desis in the hope that they would notice (I think only one has noticed so far). I used to not like going out with my parents and sisters earlier on because I was afraid that other desis would look at the ways that they acted and would think of me, by medium of association, as not being desi. Now that I've been so immersed in speaking Urdu/Hindi and Panjabi, my English has an accent, which, though at first was involuntary, has now become part of me, something I practice, and I am proud of my desi accent. I try not to worry about the things that I cannot handle these days, and be moderate about my desire to express that I am desi to the world, but lately I have been wondering about hanging a sign around my neck that says MAIN BHI DESI HU NAA! (“I’m Desi Too!”) Maybe that would get the attention of other desis who don't yet know about me.

Visit to Masjid

Islamic Center of Saginaw

                In the past month since the Islamic Center of Saginaw has been opened to the public, I have been there twice, both times out of curiosity in Islam and at the urges of some of my Muslim friends. The first time I went was a few weeks earlier in October, when an openhouse was being held for the benefit of unbelievers and those interested in Islam, including myself and one of my professor friends. But my second visit gave me a second view of the local Islamic community without having to read the beatific and reader-friendly exhibits, allowing to see how they practice and preach.

                I'd come due to a few of my friends urging me to come after I'd expressed a desire to watch the regular Friday prayers. One of them, a white girl who had converted to Islam a few years ago, particularly wanted me to come, which I did. Though I am a Christian, I am not adverse to Islam, unlike many other Christians that I know, and I was happy to experience the Jum'a prayers so long as I didn't worship along with the other Muslims. So I came to the mosque, dressed in my usual modest way, this time with a keffiyeh slung over my shoulders, and happened to meet the Imam, who was among the many Pakistanis in the congregation. Immediately after I began speaking in Urdu with him, he told me he was very impressed, and that I was welcome to stay to watch the prayers.

                After removing my shoes, I ambled into the prayer area, sitting at the back, where I thought I would not be a disturbance for anyone. I listened to the azaan and the beauty of the muezzin's voice, which floated, I noticed, through the building's entire sound system. Not long after the Imam had begun his sermon on the importance of repentance, I realized, after women were gathering in the back, that I should really be up in the front with the men; I had committed a minor faux pas in violating common Islamic practice. Though nobody really seemed to mind, I got up and moved to the front, sitting on the ground with other Muslim men and listened to the sermon. After the final prayers had begun, I moved into the men's shoe-rack area and watched, while latecomers hurriedly snatched their shoes from their feet and got into formation with their brethren, some of them pausing to give their salaam to me.

                I hadn't thought that I would be too much of a presence, but after the service, when the Imam began to converse with me in Urdu and Panjabi, I found the Pakistani presence in the mosque was more than I thought. Interestingly enough, many others after my visit seemed to assume that I was a Muslim, despite my not joining them in prayer and keeping myself erect and in the men's shoe-rack area while the congregation bowed towards Mecca; even today my local Indian Gujarati grocer friend, a Muslim, always greets me with "As-salaam aleikum." And the muezzin, also a Pakistani, grilled me in Panjabi for a few minutes to see how well I spoke. When I told him my name, he said, "What? Christopher? No Aziz-Hamzah-Hamid?" Meaning that he thought I was a Muslim, that I would have an Islamic name, and was soliciting a name change from me. Only the Imam and a few others knew that I was a Christian, but were very friendly about me being there, especially since I fit in well with the desi crowd, with my Urdu and Panjabi small talk.

                I am looking forward to returning to the masjid soon, to get to know some of the local Pakistanis better, and also possibly to work on a project with one of my professors, who has proposed a study of the immigrants and their roles at the mosque. A bit of sociology to add in perspective to the religion. Until then, I will be studying Islam further to make sure I can better understand my similarities and differences.

How I Met Vinod Rathod

Vinod Rathod

                                 This past week, I was stunned by my first (hopefully not my last) chance to meet a famous Bollywood playback singer, which left me wondering if delusions of grandeur are really all that silly after all. I was at Saginaw Valley State University, walking around before a three-hour history class, when I noticed that Curtiss Hall was packed with desis, women in silk saris and men in suits or in kurta-pajamas. I passed by a few times more by coincidence before I tried to ask anyone what was going on. When I finally asked a white guy standing by the sidelines, he said he had no idea. There were a couple of signs that stated that there was a fundraising event for the building of the tri-city Hindu temple that was going up, which I knew had been planned a couple of years ago. Still, I didn't know anything of what was going on until I asked a desi guy in Hindi what was going on. I kind of regretted the Hindi; he was actually a second-generation desi, probably irked by a gora trying to talk to him in Hindi when he was perfectly OK with English. I asked, "What's going on here, yaar?"

                "There's a Bollywood show going on," he said, and was about to turn away from me when I asked him further.

                "What do you mean? Is it like a dancing performance or like a series of film songs? Any singers?"

                "Yeah," he said, "Vinod Rathod is going to sing."

                I'd heard of Vinod Rathod many times, and heard many of his songs before, and was excited by the answer. "What? You mean he's coming here to sing?"

                "No, he's already here." he said, pointing to the auditorium, and left. I wasn't too skeptical, actually, of what he'd just said, since I knew that the playback singer Yesudas had come to SVSU earlier on a couple of years ago; I'd kicked myself when I found out that I'd missed it. But now, it was Vinod Rathod himself about to perform. Before I could do too much more wandering around, I spotted a couple of desi girls I knew and approached one of them, a Nepali, to ask them if thiswas true or not.

                "Is it true?" I asked in Hindi .

                "What?"

                "Is it really true that Vinod Rathod is coming here to sing and perform?"

                The Nepali girl looked skeptical. "Who is Binod Rathod?" The other girl, whom I'd noticed lately wasn't paying as much attention to me as she was to her cellphone, looked up in confusion.

                "He's a singer. You know, a playback singer, who sings for films."

                The other girl looked up from her phone and said, "Koi nahin aanewaala hai. Nobody's coming." Then in English, she added, to my dislike, since she'd gotten this attitude lately of talking to me like I don't speak Hindi at all no matter how much I talk to her in Hindi, said, "It's a Bollywood show."

                I almost was laughing at myself when I heard this, because at that moment I felt like it was all a joke, that he really wasn't coming. I tried to joke with her about it in Hindi. "Main har ek se puchch raha hun aur har dusron se koi dusra jawab mil raha hun. Yeh kya hai? Koi concensus nahin banta hai kya? ("I'm asking every other person and getting another answer from another person. What's going on here? Is there no concensus about what's going on inside?") " Finally she laughed at my attempts to joke,  and after talking slightly with another guy I went off to my history class, feeling like this Vinod Rathod bit was all a joke. But I was still kind of uneasy with myself for missing the show, which I might have liked better than a three-hour long talk about ancient Israel. Anyway, I went to class, an emerged three hours later to go to my meeting with the International Student Association. I didn't think much about the show, thinking instead about the young attractive desi woman sitting a couple rows ahead of me whom I'd seen in a glowing blue sari a few days ago at a navratri garba while performing the dandiya-raas. When that was all over, when I'd talked for a while with some of my Arab and Kuwaiti friends, one of the guys who was the head of the Association said that there was an Indian music performance going on across the hall. Interested,  I asked if it was still going on , and when he said yes, I left the room for the auditorium, but before entering I met one of the desi ushers outside.

                "Tell me, janaab," I said in Hindi, "I heard earlier today that Vinod Rathod himself was coming here to perform, and I'm not sure if it's true or not. Do you know anything about it?"

                "Vinod Rathod? He's inside, yeah, go on in."

                I rushed inside the darkened auditorium to find myself at the tail-end of the performance that had lasted more than three hours. On stage was a man with long hair and wearing an outfit I wouldn't have expected to see on a desi singer (almost like a rockstar's kind of clothes), surrounded by a live band  featuring a tabla player and a couple of keyboards and a drumset. He was vocalizing into the microphone a song I'd heard before, one I'd seen the movie to: Munna Bhai MBBS, which was followed by an encore performance of Kabhi Alvida Naa Kehna. It was the voice I'd heard on cassette tapes in my jaolpy while driving to school, a familiar voice I'd tried more than once to imitate, and had never been successful in doing. Not long after I'd gotten in, the program ended, and a horde of desis streamed out ofthe auditorium while I stood in one of the back rows. Did I have a piece of paper with me? I searched my pocket and found a pamphlet for a mosque openhouse I'd gone to a couple weeks earlier, and found a pen. I was determined to get his autograph if possble, but I wasn't sure if there was going to be security or something for this great singer.

                I made my way up to the front where Vinod Rathod was standing. I'd seen pictures of him before; actually, I'd first seen and heard of him while watching the film Baazigar, in which he appeared onscreen, holding a microphone and singing during the engagement of Shah Rukh Khan and Kajol's characters. It was the same face, but his hair was much longer, and he looked more like a Sufi dervish than what I'd thought. He looked like he should have been holding a dafli in his hands and whirling around doing dhamaal. Up with him, right by the stage, other members of the desi community were getting their pictures taken with him, which made me hesitant to go up and ask him for his autograph; I didn't want to interrupt any pictures being taken. Finally, when I'd gotten close enough, one of the desi guys nearby, who knew that Vinod Rathod was Gujarati and who had been at the garba a few nights earlier and knew that I knew Hindi and some Gujarati, said  out loud, "Hey, he's Gujarati! Say something to him in Gujarati!"

                I looked over and shot back, in Hindi, "Meri Hindi meri Gujarati se zyaada behter lagegi usko! (My Hindi's better than my Gujarati, and my Hindi would sound better to him too.)" At this, Vinod Rathod's eyes widened; he clearly hadn't been expecting the only gora in the crowd to talk in Hindi or Gujarati. I approached him, and he smiled at me. "Rathod ji, aapke dastkhat, (Mr. Rathod, your autograph, please)." I handed him the folded pamphlet and my pen.

                He smiled at the paper, and the asked, grinning widely, "Isse Hindi mein likh dun ya Gujarati mein? (Should I write it in Hindi or in Gujarati?)" He made little circles with the pen in the air.

                I said, "Hindi mein (In Hindi)."

                While he had the piece of paper in his hands, a silk-sari'd woman not too far away looked at me and asked, "Aapko Hindi aati hai kya?(You know Hindi?)" Filled with something like self-pride, or completion at having been recogized as a Hindi-speaker by several people there, I shot back, "Haan, aur aapko is baat pe hairaani aati hai kya? (Yes, and you're surprised by this?)"

                After a brief scribble, Vinod Rathod handed it back to me along with the pen and smiled, folding his palms in namaste. I returned the smile and left, knowing that I was out late (as I generally am on Tuesday nights), I left for the parking lot outside. Reverently, I touched the authographed pamphlet with my eyes and held it to my forehead and my heart before leaving. I looked at the autograph and realized that it wouldn't really have mattered had he written in Hindi or in Gujarati; I could barely make out the Hindi letters he'd scribbed down. In retrospect, I wish that I could have spent more time there, that I hadn't left so soon, but Rathod-ji porbably had a lot of admirers who wanted some time in the spotlight with a famous playback singer. I'd already had mine, and I'd not only gotten his autograph but had been recognized in front of him, this famous singer, as a Hindi (and Gujarati)-speaker, as something close to being to what I felt was authentically desi. I went home that night with the paper, and reverently put the autograph and the pen on my bedroom desk, where they are still right now.