Fiction: The Wedding Singer

               

            Years ago, for my cousin's wedding in Jalandhar, my uncle had festooned his home with none-too-cheap lights, like you might see for Diwali or Christmas, and made sure that the money was spent wisely for the wedding celebrations, so that we could all celebrate without too big of a bill flopping down on his threadbare income. Of course there was alcohol, reserved for the men who could have it, along with firecrackers, many of which I, 9 years old at the time, lit and watched scintillate in the near-night darkness, and there was a dholi who banged away while others flailed around with jerky bhangra moves. But my uncle had also hired just a single musician to sing and play for the crowd gathered at the wedding, someone who was respectable enough and charismatic enough to keep a crowd entertained, but somebody simple, without a fee-demanding hubris. Where he found him I'll never know, and I don't think anyone else knew this either, but he'd found a singer-cum-harmonium player to don the stage for that night, a pin-thin man in a cream-colored kurta-pyjama and stiffly starched wedding jacket with a thinner Raj Kapoor-style mustache. Looking back, I'm sure there were some men who were disappointed with my uncle; they were expecting some kind of vampish mujra in skimpy clothes to shimmy in front of them and give their whiskey a more intoxicating effect. But then it was my uncle, and the joke among my father and some other men from the last wedding he'd given was that given the choice between bad alcohol or good alcohol and bad-looking women or good-looking women he'd choose good alcohol and bad-looking  women (kind of unfair since he himself married a shimmering beauty from Patiala, and had a good name otherwise unstained by liquor). But not long after the man had gotten on the none-too-high stage, he'd gathered a crowd of spectators, and his surprisingly clear voice suited his dilapidated harmonium's chords well. He was actually something beyond a professional; his songs were stylistically rendered with evocative riffs of the harmonium's keys, and his grace was there in his soothing voice. Even though there was no percussion with him, one of the guys took a dholki used for the women's songs and started drumming along, and others clapped while he sang. His repetoire was mostly a motley collection of Panjabi wedding songs, Hindi film songs, and other songs I hadn't heard before that I later learned were his own. He sang sarke sarke jaandiye muthiyaare ni with geniune Panjabi gusto and the happy taarif karun kya uski in a light Mohammed Rafi-style voice.  This mehfil lasted for nearly an hour before he left the stage and handed out some mithai to the children, and dropped into a corner of the light-brimming courtyard for refreshments. He kept close to my uncle, and met with other people after that, including the blushing bride before the baraat came to take her away, and left after the baraat. Later, my uncle gave me a keepsake the man had given him in exchange for his generous tip, an amulet blessed by goddess Kali. I kept it in my kurta pocket and carried it with me, and the sole thing I later remembered about the wedding was that singer.

                And then years later, in London, just a few days before my wedding to Simran, I went to a local desi cafe, a hole-in-the-wall just off of Soho Road, and found the man there, harmonium and all. He'd aged over the years, his hair graying at the temples, but everything else was untouched by time, including his voice, which blended into the emotions of the songs he fingered on the old harmonium. Around him was a small all-desi audience, including the cafe's owner, who was obviously a special friend of his he'd wanted to share with others who came in, and I had just happened to come in the middle of the mini-concert, asking for a plate of aalu parathas and a cup of chai, which I waited for in the ensuing rendition of Kishore Kumar's Aa chal ke tujhe. The air redolent of garam masala and his distinctly soulful voice, I sat in a corner under a sultry kodachrome of Hema Malini and listened while I sipped from my steam-rimmed cup, watching how he strummed the discolored keys without even a glance down at his hands, his eyes closed in concentration as his voice reached for the next note. When he finished a song, there were a couple of wah-wahs of appreciation from the audience, and the singer would stop pumping the harmonium's bellows to say a side word to his listeners, sometimes to ask for a request, other times to playfully argue with someone, and always to sip from a glass of water he kept by his harmonium. I wanted desperately for him to croon a Panjabi tune, one of the folk songs I'd heard at the wedding, even one of the new disco-style bhangra songs from Heera or Alaap or something, but I didn't say anything. By the time I'd been sitting there for over an hour, my second cup of chai down to little more than a trickle, he started to turn to me while in the middle of a verse, to smile or waggle his head, and I remembered that I still had the amulet in my pocket. I fingered it while he continued to sing, and when he was tired, unable to sing after a few hours of his singing and playing, I reached for my wallet after most everyone had left and gave him a small sheaf of pounds out of appreciation. He smiled beatifically at me as I wandered over to him, and pointed at the money in my hand. "Eh ki hai, bhai? What is this?"

                "This is my token of appreciation,  sir-ji," I said, and gave him the wad of money, but as I was about to go, he called out to me.

                "Arre, ek minute yaara! Just a minute!" he called out. He held in his hand a photograph, something that looked familiar. Then I saw that the picture of my to-be wife, the one I had kept after my engagement to her, was in his hands. "In giving me your money you've left something else behind," he said, and his words at that moment he reminded me of one of the songs he'd song that night at the wedding. Did he recognize me? I wondered.           

                Bashfully I returned to him, and took the picture from his hand. "Eh kaun hai? Who is this beauty?" He was smiling at me in his avuncular way, and I thought I felt him recognize me despite my mustache and my age.

                I couldn't avoid telling him. "This is... well, she will be my wife in a few days."

                He handed back the photograph. "Khush raho, beta. May the two of you always be happy." After a pause, he turned to me. "I used to perform a lot at weddings in the Panjab, until my older brother brought me here to Britain. Would you a like a song for the two of you?"

                I could tell that he was tired from performing, and I tried to refuse. "Nahin ji, saade lai taa inni takleef naa karo. Don't take the trouble to, Paji. You've sung enough."

                He insisted, gently tugging at my shirtsleeve. "Beta, this is my gift for you and your wife. Please take it." So I sat down in the nearly empty cafe and listened to him start a song I'd never before heard, a Panjabi song, suffused with a sindoor-laden bride under a saffron evening sky and a uxorious groom riding in on a white mare to claim his wife, and when he'd finished with the rasp of his antique harmonium he nodded at me in goodwill as I folded my hands in goodbye. "Jite raho, beta, khush raho,"he said, and I left then into the autumnal evening, fingering the amulet in my pocket. Though I returned again and again to that cafe after my marriage, I never saw him again, and though I felt as though he had recognized me, I could never be sure. I never learned his name, and he never knew mine, but for me he was always a special character who'd bestowed gifts on weddings, rendered them moonlit by his scintillating voice, and I always will regret not knowing his name.

Defining Sikhism

                                                

                 Sometimes I am amazed, especially in this age of information, at how people have not yet heard of Sikhism. Whenever I ask others about this religion, largely practiced by Panjabi immigrants and second-generationers in a wide range of countries and of course in Panjab in northern India, I generally get blank stares. Ask a typical American on the streets and I am confident that very very few would be able to tell you anything about Sikhism. When I ask my uber-Western-oriented family about Sikhs, they know enough to be able to point out that Sikh men wear turbans (and for some reason they never mention the beards, maybe because the turban is more distinctive), but beyond that they have no idea as to what they believe, what their history is, or how they live. In the wake of the 9/11 attacks, many Sikhs in America were persecuted because they were thought to be Muslims by their American attackers (one account I read included a Sikh man who was tauntingly called Osama by white youth and was almost run over by a car). And  I was shocked when one of my intellectual friends, a very well-read young man not much older than me, had absolutely no idea what Sikhism was. I feel as though I need to do some introductory work to prepare my American readers and readers elsewhere to this religion.

                Sikhism is a religion that originated in the Panjab in the 15th century, founded by a former Brahmin-caste Hindu named Nanak, around the time that there was more and more strife growing between Hindus and the Muslim conquerors. Nanak rejected many of the conventional ideas of Hinduism, including caste and polytheism, and established worship of Vaheguru, the one omnipresent God. Despite throwing away some of what Hinduism had to offer, Nanak kept some other common Hindu beliefs, such as dharma/karma, and the belief in the transmigration of souls. Nanak recorded many of the doctrines of Sikhism in his writings, the most venerated one today being the Guru Granth Sahib. Among many of his ardent beliefs were the beliefs that all men are created equal (the establishment of a langar or free kitchen in Sikh gurdwaras to this day  was meant to  preserve this view, since Hindus would not dare to stoop to the level of eating with a person of a lower caste) and the belief in courage, which would later be solidified by the teachings of Guru Gobind Singh. In the beginning, Nanak had many persecutors, both Hindus and Muslims, each side of whom had elements in his belief. But his beliefs did not end at his death; in fact, Nanak was the first of the ten gurus of the faith, and he holds a special place in the minds of Sikhs today. As just mentioned, Nanak was followed by nine other gurus, who survived the terror of persecution by Hindus and Muslims (mainly Muslims, who held the position of power in those days), and the last, most notable guru, Guru Gobind Singh, is the one who probably takes the most credit for the making the Sikh faith what it is today. Determined to keep the Sikh faith alive through the trials set to his followers by the Mughal emperors, Guru Gobind Singh in 1699  set up a tent and asked his followers if there was anyone among them who was willing to die for the sake of the guru. Five times Guru Gobind Singh asked this, five times a follower responded, and five times the staid Guru Gobind Singh emerged from the tent with a sword dripping with blood. It turned out that he had not killed any of those who had responded, but five goats that he had kept for this purpose, and the five who had responded, now garlanded and dressed in saffron robes, were given the title of the Panjpiyaare (the Five Beloved), who became the first initiates in to the Khalsa, the society of the guru's own. Not long after this, Guru Gobind Singh established the five K's, which the Khalsa all adopted as outward signs and which all baptised Sikhs today still hold to: Kara, the iron bangle worn on the wrist (symbolizing dedication to Vaheguru), Kesh, the wearing of unshorn hair (which is the reason Sikh men have beards and wear the turban, symbolizing the natural appearance of saintlihood), Kangha, the comb kept in a topknot (symbolizing cleanliness), Kachcha, shorts worn underneath everyday clothes (symbolizing chastity), and the Kirpan, or sword (symbolizing dignity and courage). 

                Sikhism today is strong in the Panjab region of North India and around the world, with a following of about 23 million, and life continues as usual for Sikhs who follow the practices of the ten gurus. A Sikh temple is called a gurdwara, and in it there are no idols but only the Guru Granth Sahib itself, which follows after Guru Gobind Singh said, that after the line of the ten gurus there shall be only one guru, the Guru Granth Sahib itself.  A worship service in a gurdwara features men and women (sitting on separate sides) who cover their heads in reverance to Vaheguru, and raagis, or devotional singers, who sing the praises of Vaheguru on tabla and harmonium.

                An attempt at explaining Sikhism today by many catching onto Nanak's twisting of Hinduism into a completely different set of teachings is often offered by non-Sikhs, who say that Sikhism is a blend of elements of Hinduism (such as the aforementioned dharma/karma beliefs and reincarnation) and Islam (monotheism and a view of all men as strictly equal). While this is useful in trying to describe what Sikhs believe, and maybe even in trying to understand history, Sikhs do not believe (according to the bold print type in my copy of Sikh Religion from the Sikh Missionary Center) that their religion is a "blend or a reproduction of earlier religions but it is a new revelation altogether." (p3).

                This is just a brief overview of Sikhism. As with any religion, there is a great deal of complexity in views and certain sects, but this is just an introduction to the basic of the religion for any of my Western readers. I hope that this has helped in teaching about Sikhism.

The Beauty of Urdu--Nastaliq Calligraphy

                

             One of the forms of art that strikes me the most is calligraphy, the art of writing, which isn't, sadly,  as prominent or as respected as it used to be, especially in English. Still, it's an art form that you can find in some pretty pedestrian places, in newspapers, magazines, coffee house art collections, and art exhibits (although today it can readily be done on a computer, taking away the humanity of simple handstrokes). I've always felt for the elegant curves of Roman letters, depending on context and style, of the beauty of cursive, which never fails to remind me of my great-grandfather Meulendyke, who inscribed a book from 1913 that I still have today with the handsome curliques of his last name. I've often been saddened by the loss of cursive among this generation, and much of calligraphy too, but I still handwrite whenever I can, and not just in English. 

                 Though I can really appreciate calligraphy in Roman script, I've found I have a great appreciation also for calligraphy in Arabic script, and I'm not alone. Traditional Islamic culture believed that the creation of images in art was competition with Allah, a sign of hubris and humanism that defied the main tenet of Islam's humility before Allah. Therefore, since images were haraam (not permitted), the writing of words, particularly passages from the Qur'an, were seen to be the highest from of art, and calligraphy grew to be a main decorative aspect in Islamic culture, especially in architecture and just plain on-the-page writing. The Persians, conquered by Islam early on, developed the Nastaliq style of writing the Arabic script, which is used generally to write Urdu and Farsi (though computers today present most languages written in Arabic script  through the rather plain Naskh style, which the Arabs use almost unfailingly anyway).  We have so much to give credit to the Persians and their obsession with symmetry and mathematics; would it hurt to add this beautiful rendering of Arabic lettering to the list?

                I hope that to my readers who can't read Nastaliq or Arabic in general that this would appear beautiful to them. But, turning philosophical here, I believe that it's hard to truly appreciate the beauty of calligraphy until you can understand what is written down. So, I hope that you can appreciate a little of the Nastaliq samples that I've put down here. And if you want to learn to read or write Arabic (or Farsi, Urdu, etc.), feel free to ask me for some sources on how to read and write. There's a realm of beauty here in the undulating curves of Arabic calligraphy.

                This first sample is a line of Urdu poetry written down in a classical Nastaliq style. It reads "a life without love is like a flower without aroma." ("Zindagi beghair muhabbat aisi hai jaise beghair khushbu ke phul.")

                This sample is a couplet of Urdu poetry penned by the 19th Century poet Ghalib.

                This sample is another couplet of Ghalib, but this time written with a calligraphised English translation underneath.

                This sample is actually not Nastaliq, but just the Arabic words "houb" ( love) and "salaam" (peace) written so make a literal word-picture in the shape of a dove:

                This sample is just another word-picture, but with the Nastaliq lines replacing a man's hairdo:

                Here is a final sample of the Islamic creed written in decorative calligraphy:

Patel--Poem of an Immigrant

                Your last name is the badge

                For every brown face around

                For umpteen pages in the yellowbooks

                Between pages of docile names

                Of  New Jersey Amreekans who can't tell where you're from

                And those who can tell

                They call you curryfaced Hindu dothead

                Patel.

               

                You came here from Gujarat to live a cliche

                To open a corner store and sweat all day

                Pinching pennies and making profits off

                Groceries of Indian food and other stuff

                Knowing you'd have to make your name

                Earning hard money was all in your game

                Enduring smiles of  your fellow NRI desis

                And the hate-crusted grimace of xenophobe crazies.

                Your  kem chos mesh with hey-yos

                On the concrete-hedged streets

                On low-down graffiti'd subway stops

                Where you and your silk sari'd wife

                Get stares from inevitable bystanders

                Reminding you that you're still

                Just that shadowy foreigner named

                Patel.

               

                Your business lifts itself up all of the way

                To clothe you in success and shine for display

                The merits of hard work that can pay off

                In your struggle through the grime and the rough

                But when you find a window shattered by rocks

                A scribbled-up hate-note in the mailbox

                You feel you're a victim of some cruel game

                That lunges on your brown skin and your odd name

                You get letters from your family back home

                Asking about your new-found fortunes

                Asking about your success that

                Has left you so quickly

                And they don't know of your downfall

                Which you can't bear to tell

                Was the result of being an Indian, of being a

                Patel.

Malkit Singh, Bhangra Master

                                                 

               

                For years I've been enthralled by bhangra music, ever since I first heard samples of it in my late middle school days from library CDs and online sound bytes. But I first really exposed myself to the growing industry of bhangra, based mostly in the UK by Panjabi expatriates and second/third generation Panjabis, when I bought the album Rough Guide to Bhangra Dance at the end of my 10th grade term. I remember that at first, I had mixed feelings about the absorption of Western influences into bhangra, since I'd been trying as hard as possible to distance myself from Western music, but eventually I found that I was more comfortable than I at first had thought. Looking back, maybe it was that the mixed music was a lot like me in its nature; a smattering of Western influences blended with a growing desire to be more and more desi. Since then, I've been addicted to the beat of the dhol and the strum of the tumbi, the liquid melodies of harmonium and keyboards mixing, and the intoxicating voices of bhangra legends alike, most notably Malkit Singh, whose soaring voice and desi approach to singing  ignited true-blue bhangra fever in me. In fact, the Rough Guide to Bhangra Dance album introduced me to this legend in the first place with the thudding beat of the song "Chal Hun."

                Not long after I heard "Chal Hun," I began to get myself further and further into bhangra, finding tracks online and recording them off the Internet with my poor-quality tape recorder, taking the tapes to my car or bedroom and listen while driving, reading, or doing homework.  I got to know more about Malkit Singh's songs, about his pioneering of Panjabi folk music over the decades through SmasHits.com and Youtube, recording some of his biggest hits like "Gur Nalon Ishq Mitha" and "Jind Mahi" onto my cassette tapes, the latter of which I discovered when watching Bend It Like Beckham, thinking, "Isn't that Malkit's voice?" When I started learning how to play tabla and dholak, his tracks often provided the model for self-teaching and practice while I tapped along.

                Though Malkit is among my favorite bhangra singers (others include Gurdas Maan, Sukshinder Shinda, Panjabi MC, and Sangeeta), he has a special place in the world music scene. First of all, he got in the Guiness Book of World Records in 2001 for Biggest Selling Bhangra Solo Artist, totalling sales of 4.9 billion records since he began his career in 1985. Only a few years ago, he became the first British-Asian musician to get the MBE (Most Excellant Award of the British Empire) from the Queen of England herself. That certainly stands for something in the world music scene, much more so in the bhangra industry.

                What I've always liked about Malkit Singh is his approach to combining musical styles and folk themes. Often his songs are based on common folk themes, such as the inevitable bhangra/giddha dances, girl-watching, love songs, village songs, but he is able to sustain these things without losing the Panjabi touch to the music, partially reinforced by the tunes and the instruments he chooses in his songs. He has kind of a Midas touch (pun fully intended, since that is the name of one of his albums) with the music he sings to, many of which are based on traditional folk lyrics that you could hear in any pind (village) in Panjab. With some other bhangra musicians you can see that their influence is more Western (such as Juggy D or Veronica, even some of Tigerstyle's songs), whereas with Malkit you can see he has more of a desi approach to music. And yet he incorporates some of the most unexpected instruments into his songs (such as, in the song "Naram Jehi", the use of steel drums and a ska-style trumpet to a bhangra beat, or in "Mar Javaan Gur Khaa Ke" the use of bagpipe skirls), which add ethnicity to the song but are still touched altogether by the Panjabi sense of the tune and the urbanized folkiness of the lyrics. Malkit's voice also carries some weight with it, reminding me of the quintessence of energetic bhangra, whose road he has helped to pave over the years with the help of other pioneers such as Gurdas Maan and Channi Singh from the band Alaap. Still, Malkit Singh holds a special place in the arena, and he still has the golden voice that proves he is still a champion.  

             Here are some Youtube videos of Malkit Singh's newer songs:

 

Hindi's Versatility

                Sometimes I am amazed by the versatility of Hindi and other South Asian languages in the expansion of globalization and the reign of English as ruling lingua franca here in the 21st Century. So far I've noticed that Hindi/Urdu, along with Panjabi, Gujarati, and Tamil, are almost ambidextrous when it comes to incorporation of English speech and writing into their languages, which leads to exploration of some interesting aspects of the broad desi mentality.

                First, we start with speech. In my time studying Hindi/Urdu and other desi languages, I've been around a lot of desi people who use English words and phrases in context with their native tongue without any kind of hesitation. I remember wondering why a lot of desis used this mixed language, this khichri bhasha, when it dawned on me that the British Raj had a great hand in it with their widespread reign and the unification of a bunch of desis who didn't speak the same local languages under the banner of English. It could be argued that this basis of English was one of the great reasons why India wasn't split up into numerous localities after Partition from Pakistan and Independence in 1947, but I won't touch that, other than the fact that the only way desis from all over communicate today both professionally and casually is mainly through English, despite the push in Nehru's India for Hindi as the dominant national language (opposed virulently by a strong South Indian sentiment for Tamil and Telugu). But with this British hand on India's past, English is used readily and incorporated into local languages without a second thought, though maybe NRIs do it more than stay-at-desh desis because English has more of a pervasive presence. This mish-mash of Hindi and English is often called Hinglish and has gotten popular in advertisements ( think of Pepsi's Hindi slogan of  Yeh Dil Maange More! or the back-and-forth Hinglish of films like In Which Annie Gives It Those Ones or Love Aaj Kal). I myself use Hinglish all the time, using Hindi phrases and words most of the time and English words when I'm not familiar with how to translate an idea quickly or when I don't know the Hindi/Urdu word for something. It's catchy, quirky, a blend of the familiar world of English returned with the zany Hindi colloquialisms, a taste of elegant British tea with a spoonful of chai masala thrown in. Bole to, it's ek dum unique and zabardast, the khichri bhasha of the British Raj badshah and the jhakaas Bombay-wallah tapori. Hinglish Zindabad!

                But Hindi's versatility doesn't just lie there. Something I've noticed that I've never seen mentioned deserves a note here. People always talk about Hinglish and its effect on speech, but what about Hindi's adjustment to the Roman script itself? Traditionally, Hindi is written with the Devanagari script, which I learned while I was in middle school, Urdu is written with an adapted version of Arabic script in a poetic style called Nastaliq, Panjabi is written in Gurmukhi (or Shahmukhi, in Pakistan), Gujarati is written with the Gujarati script, etc. Yet because a lot of desis use English when writing to eachother, they often transliterate the words of their native tongue into Roman script, and now it's led to desis writing to eachother in Roman script, especially in e-mails or on posted comments on YouTube. Why is this? I think it's because, since computers and the Internet have ushered most desis into the English-dominated world, to type in Hindi fonts requires an extra effort, an extra discipline to something is otherwise fun and easy to do (since the letters of the fonts are all scrambled anyway when they are put onto computer keys and it could take an hour or so to write a simple note to a friend). The same would go for other desi languages, which have mostly incorporated the Roman script to write their words and phrases ( except maybe Tamil, which I've noticed is generally kept in its native script whenever I see it).  Understand, too, that desis have a history of pragmatic thought which comes through in their collective cultures, and the attitude when it comes to this kind of situation is that of "kuchh bhi chalega", or  "anything goes." That is, as long as the Romanized transliterations of their languages helps them to convey the idea they want to convey to the reader, it'll do. It's the old attitude that Pavan K. Verma describes in his book Being Indian through the single word jugaad, which, though a difficult word to translate exactly, is a way of getting through a situation using whatever means is available. It can be used to talk about the car mechanic who fixes his malfunctioning car's leaking radiator with the crude improvisation of chewing gum if he doesn't have the right compound to fix it with or it can be used to talk about the desi man abroad who, sitting at the computer and unable to get the fonts to work, resorts to transliteration. In any matter, this adaptation of Hindi and other desi languages through Roman script may be the next necessary step to communication in the 21^st Century.

MNIK--A Peaceful View of Islam

In the wake of 9/11, many Muslims have undergone persecution for their religion, seeing as it was that Islam was a part of the terror attacks on the World Trade Center buildings, and this has also changed the way that Americans in general perceive Islam. In earlier times, during the Cold War, Islam was seen as a weapon against the Communist ideology that was perceived for years as a threat to the Capitalist system, and American forces worked through Pakistani and Afghani forces in order to crush the power of the Iron Curtain. Later, after the fall of the Soviet Union, it wasn't seen as much of a threat, and it was only about ten years ago, when the terror attacks took place, that the image of Islam became tarnished in American eyes. Muslims suddenly gained the ire of Americans and were branded with the image of self-detonating fanatics, which still remains with us today. But though there are forces that continue to portray this image, there are currents of resistance to this unjust branding of Islam as an entirely violent religion, including the recent Bollywood film My Name Is Khan.

                The story of My Name Is Khan ( abbrieviated to MNIK) is about an Indian Muslim man (played brilliantly by Shah Rukh Khan) named Rizwan Khan who moves to the United States. He is a high-functioning Apsberger's patient who comes to San Francisco to work for his brother Zakir as a salesman for Mehnaz Herbal Beauty Products, and this takes him one day to a hair salon, where he falls in love with a Hindu hairdresser named Mandira (played by Kajol). After marrying Mandira (with resistance from his brother Zakir) and bringing into his life Mandira's son from a previous marriage, Sameer, things begin to appear all right, but only for a short while. Not much later, the attacks of  9/11 occur, and there is persecution of Muslims in America shown ( including a TV salesman in Dearborne whose shop is broken into and all of his merchandise destroyed). The beuaty palor that Mandira and Rizwan own gets less customers because of the "Khan" in the title. In Sameer's classroom, a teacher calls Islam "the world's most violent religion", teaching that jihad is "killing people in the name of God." When he opens his locker, an avalanche of Osama Bin Laden pictures fall out, much to the laughter of those standing by. Zakir's wife, a psychologist at a university who wears a hijab, has her headscarf ripped off and the words "Get out of my country!" screamed at her, causing grief for the family. And then the unthinkable happens: Sameer is killed by some teenage boys on the school soccer field, and this brings havoc to the lives of Rizwan and Mandira. Mandira blames the death of her son on her husband, who has the last name Khan. In her anger, she suggests that Rizwan go and say to the President, "My name is Khan, and I'm not a terrorist." Rizwan, being an Apsberger's patient who thinks literally, leaves not much later and goes all over the country in order to track down the President in order to say those lines to him, while Mandira searches for Sameer's killers. On Rizwan's adventure through America, he meets all kinds of people, gets into jail because of a misunderstanding that he is a terrorist (and gets out of jail thanks to two young desi journalists who happened to have recorded his exact words and bring all of this to the media), and in the end, after demonstrating to the entire nation via media that he is not a terrorist ( that too by helping victims of a hurricane in Georgia recover from disaster), he finally gets to meet the President and is reunited with Mandira.

                One of the recurring themes of this film is a simple dichotomy of humanity, a lesson that Rizwan is shown by his mother in the beginning of the film. During the riots of Bombay, his mother hears him repeating some things that other Muslims underneath their chawl window mutter about killing Hindus, and she brings out a pen and a piece of paper before him. She draws a stick figure of Rizwan with another stick figure holding a lollipop, and then another stick figure of Rizwan with another stick figure, this time holding a gun. She says to him "Tell me which one of these is Hindu and which one is Muslim." After a minute, she says to Rizwan that there are only two types of people in the world: good people and bad people. The film runs forward on this theme, and Rizwan uses the same line when his brother gets upset that he intends on marrying Mandira: "Meri ammi kehti thi ki is duniya mein sirf do kisam ke insaan hain: achche log aur burre log." This shows the message of the film as being ecumenical when it comes to religions, meaning that since there are only two types of people in the world, it doesn't matter whether or not you marry outside of your own religion. Humanity is more important.

                This theme becomes more important and more controversial when Rizwan reports to the police, after visiting a mosque, a man named Faisal Rehman, a fellow Muslim, who intends on committing terrorist acts in the city. More poignant is the scene beforehand, when Rizwan listens to the conversation of Faisal Rehman with other Muslims who support his cause, and Faisal Rehman begins to liken his situation of being called to acts of terrorism in the city to Ibrahim being called by Allah to sacrifice his son Ishmael. Rizwan intervenes and says that Allah didn't call Ibrahim to sacrifice Ishmael because Allah is a merciful God who would never do such a thing. He tells them again about the dichotomy of  humanity and of what his mother said, and noted that committing acts of terrorism in the city was absolutely unnecessary and wrong. Faisal Rehman begins to get angry, but the real symbolism of the moment comes when one of Rehman's listeners asks, "So then who called Ibrahim to sacrifice his son Ishmael?" To which Rizwan replies, taking his prayer stones from his palms, " Shaitaan tha, Shaitaan tha! It was the Devil !" Meanwhile, he throws the prayer stones at Faisal Rehman as he announces it was the Devil. The real symbolism being, of course, that the stoning is the same as stoning the pillar of the Devil in Mecca and equating Faisal Rehman to Satan. After leaving ( Faisal Rehman doesn't follow), Rizwan reports Faisal Rehman to the police. All of this is controversial because it emphasizes that true Islam is peaceful and doesn't promote violence, meaning that Muslims who commit acts of terror are not true believers. Unsurprisingly, Shah Rukh Khan got death threats after this film was released from militant Muslims.

                There are othermarks of this belief in peaceful Islam. The main saying of the film, "My name is Khan, and I'm not a terrorist," depicts that a person can be a Muslim and not be violent at all.  There is also the chanting of "Allah hi Rehm" or "Allah is mercy" in one of the film's main songs. It seems that one of the aims of this film is to give the world a view that Muslims are not all terrorists, that most of the world's Muslims are tolerant and peaceful. As Pakistani novelist Mohsin Hamid states in National Geographic, "Yes, there are extremists here (in Pakistan). But most of us want nothing to do with violence." In the wake of 9/11 and American views of most Muslims as radicals, this film is an act of moderation on those harsh views, which are not entirely baseless but often ignore the Islam of the masses.

                Here is the URL for a song clip from My Name Is Khan, a soulful, heartfelt song called Noor-e-Khuda (Light of God). The lyrics break my heart every time I listen and the tune remains in my ears long after I've listened to it.

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