Introduction of self to the class.

Topic to be spoken on..viz..The advent of and A short history of Dawoodi Bohras in Mumbai

" The attractions of the city to Muslims is evident from the facts that state that between 1840 and 1915 Bombay became the third largest city in the British Empire, the largest port in Asia and , after overtaking Calcutta, the industrial center of all India and the economic center of the west
Indian Ocean. From the beginning of its great expansion around 1840, Bombay drew Muslims as diverse as the merchants and political exiles of Iran and the rural poor of the surrounding country in the Gujrat and the Konkan, in fact from all over India.

 From mid century onwards, its growth came to rely on migrant labor from its continental hinterland, creating not only a muslim labor force but a huge market demand for religious production. which continues to this day. Entire markets sprang up and continue to do huge business in RIDAS, as we call the purdahs that bohra women wear, as well as every conceivable kind of religious requirement. Not only are these goods in demand locally but also supplied worldwide from The United States to the middle east and Africa

In 1850 Bombay was already home to around 100,00 muslims. Yet, historian Nile Green says that Bombay was not an indiscriminate Muslim melting pot in which difference was dissolved into a single homogenous Muslim community demanding a single formation of their faith.

In its cosmopolitan environment, different Muslims protected their customary community boundaries. Bombay's distinct 'Mohalla ' quarters housed separate 'Jamaats' or communities of Mongol, Irani, Habashi, Konkani, Pathan, Hadhrami, Memon, Khojas and of course, the Dawoodi Bohras.

Each community had its own 'Masjid' where the members offered prayers and held discourses, specially in the months of Ramazaan and Moharram. Each community even had their own version of the Arabic calenders. and its own Jamaatkhanas where religious or celebratory feasts were held. They were all classed as Muslims but the different sects follow their own rules, marry mostly within their own and keep their working  and religious lives in similarly communitarian distinction.. All of this justifies that Islam is not a single monolithic faith. It also shows the variety of Islamic sects that made Bombay their home.

Of the Bohra community The Gazeteer says, "The Bohras are the descendants of the Fatemite Khalifa of Egypt in the fourth and fifth centuries of the Muhammedan era. The community comprises four main divisions, vis., Sunni, Aliya, Dawoodi and Suleimani, of which the Dawoodi is numerically the largest and separated itself from the suleimani,which is the smallest, about 300 years ago, owing to a dispute as to who was the rightful Dai, or leader. The section favoring the claims of Dawood came to be known as the Dawoodi Bohras.

The term 'Bohra' is derived from the Gujrati VOHORVU or VYAVAHAAR meaning to trade. From Saurashtra and Kutch, Kathiawaar and and Surat, the Gujrati speaking trading castes began flooding into Bombay from mid 18th century onwards. It also was significant that the seat of the Daawat shifted in about 1815 to Bombay. This led to an even greater influx of bohras coming and settling in Bombay as their Dai, their spiritual head encouraged them to invest in small businesses often giving them interest free loans and advice on how to go about it. Education for both boys and girls is encouraged. Deserving students are provided loans, again interest free for education abroad and for setting up small industries.

In the 1700's Surats decline of an important centre of trade and industry, the incentives given and business oppurtunities proved a draw. For the Dawoodi Bohras, the city also seemed to offer escape from the religious persecution of the Sunni  sultans of Gujarat. The famines of 1790, 1813 and 1877-79 in Kutch and Kathiawaar also made them flee their native lands. They were attracted by the wealth that could be made here and joined the floods of migrants flooding the city which was booming because of the cotton trade and the share mania.



The Bohras are essentially a business class, though in todays day and age they have aspired to and scaled the heights of most professional careers. Bohras originating from small towns of Gujrat and Kathiawar, spread far and wide in search of livelihood. Bombay because of its vast business oppurtunities attracted many small town first generation Bohras. They came to Bombay with very little material possessions. Armed with only their dreams of making it big, they came seeking employment and starting off as Feriwalas, house to house vendors carting different goods. They lived in the homes of relatives or on room sharing basis often seeking food and security from the various masjids in their vicinity.

The Bohras established themselves as itinerant peddlars, who would buy all kinds of goods at auctions and go door to door selling them. Travel writers like James Maclean drew up intresting pen portraits of the Bohra peddler, quote," Unpacking bales of cloth for inspection of the ladies of the house and with marvellous patience, never uttering a word by way of complaint even if after all their goods have been displayed, nothing is bought." He goes on to describe the Bohra traders wares as quote," jewelry from Trichinopoly and Delhi, London and Paris; shawls from Kashmir and Amritsar
Rampore Chudders, Dacca muslins, Cutch and Kashmir silver and gold work, silk and satin from China and Europe, carnalians and agates, curbuncles, pearls rubies and  diamonds.."

So taken up was Lady Amelia Falkland by the Bohra traders that her journal on Bombay published in 1857 was titled "Chow- Chow" after the Bohra vendors 'Chow- chow' or mixed oddment bag, famed for having within its depths from quote, " Pins, ribbons and hair dyes, to a copy of 'Uncle Toms cabin', and bottles of anchovy sauce and Wiltshire Cheese."

The coming of shops however pushed the peddlers out of existance, tho some of them moved on to other lucrative businesses likeretailinf foodstuffs, hardware, provisions, tin works, glassware, shoes, perfumes, perfumery, saddles and harnesses. The Northern end of Fort, in mumbai, is srill called Bora Bazaar after the large number of Bohras who set up shop there.

Sameera Khan says, that their enterprising spirit remained and manifested itself in multiple business dealings. When kerosene began to be imported in tins they began to buy up empty tins cases at 2 and 2 and a half annas each and fashion them into lanterns, kerosene lamps, cash boxes, travelling trunks and oil and ghee pots.

Maclean gives a lucid description of the Muslim quarters in the city in 1877 quote " Immediatly north of the Fort is Sheikh Abdul Rehman Street, Masjid Bunder and Dongri. These are the Muslim quarters of the towns. Streets are full of shops kept by the Bohras for the retail sale of furniture, clothing, cutlery.."

Walter Hamilton, in 'A Description Of Hindoostan' 1820, wrote " the remarkable race of men named the Bohras, who although Mahomeddans in religion, are almost Jews in manners and genius. They form everywhere a distinct community and are everywhere noted for their proficiency in bargaining, minute thrift and constant attention to lucre.."

According to the 1872 census of Bombay city and Island, in the city's Muslim population there were 7.94% bohras. Today, their number has grown vastly. From the inital 'muslim' areas they are now spread all over the city and its suburbs. By the late 19th century, some Bohra families, could be counted among the richest in the city. Akberallys and Monginis became household names. Wockhart and Saify Hospitals can be counted among the state of the art hospitals in Mumbai. Living by the principles taught by their Dais, they have prospered and given back to Society.The SBUT project stands tall among the cluster developments in the city, being upheld by the prime minister Narenra Modi as worthy of emulation elsewhere in the country. Whether the Swachh Bharat campaign or the Save the sparrow campaign, bohras have participated enthusiastically. The birthday of their Dai, is often celebrated by planting of many saplings . The first generation Bohra left behind a legacy of enterprise which has enabled future generations to go from strength to strength. Bohras, distinct in their colorful ridas, the men clad in kurtapyjama and  long white overcoat called the saya are a ubiquitous part of the city. Their priorities lie in education and business, and so their uplift has been swift. Many Bohra schools even at a mohalla level ensure education for the not so well off, be it Bohra or otherwise. MSB, the school set up in Mazgaon imparts quality education.

Children hence imbibe the moral and spiritual values of their forefathers and grow up to be responsible members of society. They are a part of the vast Muslim brotherhood, but remain individualistic in that they are more liberal. Women stand alongside their men, as eduacated and as career oriented as the men. In fact many ladies and gentlemen from the 1940's are an alumnus of this very college ! They have the best of both worlds, often choosing their own partners or settling down in arranged marriages.

So in ending i think you will agree with me when i say, the Bohras came.. and conquered.. But unlike Alexander the great, they made Bombay their home, and are determined that this marriage of geography and enterprise will have a happily ever after..

Thank you.

Come Into My Parlor...

Bodies lay strewn as far as the eye could see. Some were behind light curtains, some had been placed in a sitting position. Some of them had white faces, some were green, some the colour of earth. All of them were clad in white.  My five year old recoiled, buried her head in my thigh, and clung on to the rest of the limb for dear life.
"Mama..! " she muttered, " There are no sleeping beauties here only ghosts ! Co..Co.. Come on lets get out. " She tugged at the afore mentioned limb as hard as she could, trying to get us to leave.
I started to shush her up, trying to explain the whole concept of a parlor to her. Titters rose from all around us, the 'dead ' bodies having come to life at her words. Added to that must have been the sight of myself, trying to balance on one leg, the other flailing in the air even as the tot refused to relinquish it.

Teetering and shouting at her, the inevitable happened. I lost my balance ending up clutching at a chair to avoid falling. Unfortunately the chair had a body.. errr.. lady  in it. Lulled no doubt by the soothing hands of her masseuse, she had dropped off to sleep. The next thing she knew she had been whirled around a couple of times, make that six. The combined shrieks of the lady, myself, the kid, and the rest of the ladies who had been in serene repose up until then, had a passing police man burst in. To which the shrieks grew louder, as the half clad ladies rose as one, sheets clutched to chest.

My first instinct had been to grab the kid and flee, but struck by conscience and horror, mostly the latter, i stood rooted to the spot, the kid clutched possessively to my chest.
 After profuse apologies, and half baked stuttered explanations on my part, some normalcy was restored. The good humored among the ladies, were convulsed with laughter, the morose, indignant ones muttered darkly, glaring at my kid whose face was buried somewhere deep among an unmentionable part of my anatomy.

"Ai there, Anna ! See what madam wants," the command came from the tall lady, surrounded by minions. The owner of the parlor, she had had her work disrupted, but had been gracious enough to not chase us out forthwith. A hay stack, or rather a hair stack on the floor rocked. From behind it a young girl arose hurriedly. Apparently, she had sought refuge behind the stack when the policeman had barged in. A peremptory "Anna !" had her hurriedly say," Ya madam, what do you want done ? "

I emerged from the parlor with a brand new hairstyle, my joey, still clutching my pouch in a death grip.

"What happened, " exclaimed the hubby when he saw us. "I thought you had gone to have the baby"s hair cut.." Sinking down onto the sofa, I muttered, "It's a long story.." 

'Hairy' Tales.

"Poor thing, " The lady standing beside me whispered, "She has no mum,"
Shocked I looked first at the girl, then at the bengali lady,who had spoken to me.
"What ?!" I exclaimed, "But I just saw her mother yesterday. Whatever happened to her ?"
"Oh ."She muttered apologetically. "Nothing, Nothing. I just assumed... You see her hair is not oiled, and just a loose pony tail, so i assumed.."
My bemused glare had her scuttling away from me, still muttering about irresponsible,socialite, lazy mothers who had no time to oil their kids hair even in school.

What is it with Indian moms and oiled hair I wondered . My thoughts went back to my own childhood. Ever since i could remember, my hair had been oiled and plaited into two neat plaits. Both us sisters had waist length hair. For the first fifteen years of life, at least, that hair had always,but always, been oiled and plaited. It didn't help that our neighbours were Sardars. Leave alone the women, on Sundays when the men washed their hair, one had to look twice to make out girl from boy !
 After a head wash in the mornings, ma would sit us down and by evening, the two inevitable plaits were firmly in place. We knew no other hairstyle. We must have all looked like clones in school, Short girl, tall girl, fat girl, thin girl, fair girl or dark, Hindu or Muslim or any other ! Except for the Chinese girls, we all wore oiled plaits. As for the Chinese, they had such beautiful sleek straight hair, never a single hair was out of place, so it looked oiled. Anyway, they were Chinese were they not, Even if their five generations had lived in India !

I don't believe I have ever seen a Bengali girl without oil in her hair, and I lived in Kolkata for the first twenty years of life. Occasionally, they would, of course, go entirely bald, believing that the hair would grow back stronger. There was this girl in class, when I was in junior college, who was the top scorer. Short and nondescript, owly glasses perched on a small nose, but with the ability to work hard and long. Her hair was the only vanity she indulged herself in, Long and straight, and always, what else ? Oiled. One day, we got our mid term results. Of course, she had top scored again, but only in maths and science ! In English, someone had scored better than her. The next day, I breezed into class, of course Sushmita, the nerd, was already present. The "Hi..!" I had begun to shout out, died in mid word as I beheld her head, sedately covered with a scarf, tied neatly under the chin.

"Sushmita ! What happened, " I cried out. She looked up, benevolent smile in place, "Shaved my head, " she answered mildly, as if it was the most normal thing to do and why was I so shocked. But shocked was not the word for what I felt. Touching my plaits possessively, I was apalled.  Never, not ever, would I ever do that. To my vain teenage self it was the ultimate desecration. But it set me thinking. Why was I not making the most of my hair ? Why did I have to oil it everyday ? So when mum asked me to sit down to oil my hair the next time, I balked a little. Looking intently at her face, I stuttered, "Ma, i dont want to oil it..." Seeing the horrified look, quickly changing it to.."For one day. Please. " Ma's expression was so bemused, bordering on the comical, that before she had the time to think, I was gone. Thus far and no further. The next day, the plaits were oiled and happy again. Truth be told, so was I. My head was much cooler that way .

Cut to circa 2015 and my daughter the rebel. Up until the time she was in school, she was perpetually in two. Plaits i mean. That lasted as long as teenage hit. Then the hair started becoming shorter and shorter, until the day, we had a what-the-hell impulse where she got up from the parlor chair, her hair cut shorter than the average boy ! A fallacy that since most boys prefer to grow their hair when they rebel !

So we live. A happy daughter and a defensive mother. Since the fateful day when we left most of her hair in the parlour, she and I have become the cynosure of most eyes. The old looking accusingly at me, while the younger lot open their eyes wide and go "Oh, your mother let you do THAT ! " envy writ large on their faces.

The day might just come when i join her, more out of necessity than rebellion. The only thing holding me back is my mother. I'm sure she will tear her hair out in despair, so i would rather not split hairs and keep mine. !

This Her Childhood.

The surgery had drained her. She lay in a an alien world, within an alien body. The only sensation was of pain. Pain that was all consuming, that seemed to be devouring her. In a haze of medication and alternating between consciousness and blackouts, she wondered how she had ever got there. Who had trapped her, more vital, how on earth would she escape. She opened her mouth to scream.

But the screams were already resounding in the room and penetrating her consciousness. Then she saw her. The tiny five year old being wheeled in to her twin sharing room. Strapped to her hand was an I V. From somewhere behind her back emerged coils of tubing leading down to drains, affixed to the tubes. The paraphenalia emerging from her body seemed to be larger- and heavier- than her body even.

Pinky, or Kuku, as her parents called her was born prematurely in the thirty second week of pregnancy. Her young parents, for whom she was the second daughter, their elder child was a normal healthy ten year old, doted on her.She was a tiny ethereal little thing, and there was such little hope that she would survive even. "Kachre ke dibbey main phek do," was the brutal opinion of the head nurse, which the mother overheard . As if to prove her wrong, she lived and kept living until a pediatrician, a relative, was able to call a neo natal specialist who gave her the vital injections needed to get her lungs to work.

But there her battles did not end. Nor did her ability to survive each and every crisis that came her way. Each time the doctors gave up on her, like a baby Phoenix, she rose from the ashes. If it was her eyes that needed attention one year, it was her liver the next, and her kidneys the next. The last time had been her gravest challenge yet. She kept getting fevers, which were eventually diagnosed as a reflux of urine back into the kidneys because of a blocked ureter. This needed a minor operation for which she now had been admitted.

Selfishly, when i learnt that a baby had been admitted into the other half of my daughters room, i was alarmed. How would there be the peace and quiet, she needed to recuperate if their was a wailing or naughty kid in an adjoining bed. Should there not be a paediatric ward in the hospital i questioned.

The vagaries of misfortune and ill health throw together the most random of people in life. That has been my experience in the multiple times i have been to hospital as a companion for various family members. Also people who are nervous and scared for their loved ones, bored too i guess, with the endless hours of waiting in shared rooms where nothing, from ablutions to conversations on finance remain confidential, take to strangers readily. Kindred souls in suffering, tho strangers otherwise, they pour out their fears, in fact their entire life stories to each other, the anonymity acting as a catharsis.

So when the child's grandma, with total disregard for privacy, peered into our section of the room, i turned into a cold, discouraging alien, who answered all her queries about my child in a cold off hand fashion. I also requested her to maintain silence, to keep the child quiet as my daughter needed rest.

She nodded sympathetically, and for the rest of the day, there was total silence, hushed whispers were all we heard.  Some part of my mind registered that even the child was whispering only. Which Five year old is so good, i thought to myself. After one more day of model behaviour, i was defeated. Curiosity getting the better of me, i stepped into their side of the ward. Their she lay. a small fragile thing clad in hospital robes. A small face with the most brightest of eyes. Light brown hair, framing a delicate profile. A small toy in her hand had her engrossed. I tried talking to her, she hid behind her mum, answering in small whispers.

The next day, the child was wheeled in for surgery. When she was brought back, it was imperative that she be kept lying on her side, so we tiptoed around our respective spaces, hoping the sedation would last for a few hours. By evening tho she started to come around and that was when the screams started. Sedated again, she slept, getting up occasionally and repeatedly asking for water. Her vigilant grandma and mother took it in turns to keep her distracted. Amazing child that she was. she heard them out then would keep quiet dozing off again. On asking i was told, that she had been to hospitals so many times that she was used to it all !

Day turned to night. Anguished about our respective children, an uneasy silence fell as we slept, our senses alert should the children awake. Every time she would moan, her grandma would pat her down, Morning dawned and the nursing staff descended on us. The child screamed as her I V's were shifted from one hand to another. Unable to bear it, i asked her mum to lift her up and take her out of the room. Distracted, the child quietened down. That entire day, the child did whatever the parents asked her to. Gradually, they gave her water, liquids. Once, only the granny was there with her when she threw up. The cleaning staff took almost thirty minutes to come, during which the small figure sat patiently with her granny clutching on to her, seated precariously on a chair. Come evening, the physiotherapists arrived. My daughter was taken outside the room with her IV's trailing her. As she walked the corridor, a small figure emerged behind her also trailing IV's..

Returning to the room, my daughter was in acute pain. As a mother, i could feel the tears in my eyes, as she battled pain and depression.  How would she recover ? How would i get her back on her feet ? Suddenly i heard a soft little voice, singing an all too familiar song. The baby behind the curtain was crooning " We shall overcome, We shall overcome.." softly to herself ! In a flash, i tore aside the curtain, and together we sang that inspiring song, our troubles receding, our souls uplifted, our burden of pain, much the lighter.

How fair was life, how did the Gods allow such a small child to be stuck in a quagmire of hospitals and medicines. Why was her older sister leading a perfectly normal life while this little scrap of humanity laboured to survive. Day after day.. Was this her childhood, a boon  in that she was alive, or was it a cruel affliction, that robbed her of the joys, and unfettered liberties due to such small children.. ? Who is to judge ? Who is to decide ?  

The Lost World

Once upon a time there was an innocent world....


She sat benumbed on her prayer mat. The picture on the mantlepiece across looked back at her. The child in the picture was the picture of pure innocence. A small shy little boy bravely facing the cameraman. Tousled soft brown hair, sunshine angled at the lens so that the face was half illuminated, half in shadow.  How she loved the picture, how she had loved the child, as had everyone around them.

"Oi Mukhtaarey ! " resonated around the house, as she chased him across the rooms, trying to get him to finish his milk. "Oi maaaaa... Pehley dhoond to sahi mujhko.." the little boy would chortle, as his mum pretended to search for him...

The first day of school. His Abba and his mum, holding onto his little fingers, as he wrapped them tightly around theirs, refusing to let go. Where had time flown. Childhood evolved into teenage. The child who had been content to listen to bedtime stories, now preferred his laptop to his mum. She who anxiously still queried his meals, only to be told brusquely that she need not bother. He still could not sleep without hugging her tho, and she sought solace from his friends mums who reassured her that their children did just the same.

He had been her only child, and they had tried to give him the best that life had to offer. Being Muslim and young was no longer easy, in an increasingly hostile world. She knew that he spent long hours discussing the scenario abroad, the US, Australia, even France, after the Charlie Hebdo attacks. That he had made it abroad, to a university of his choice, in spite of it all, showed his dedication to his studies. How proud she was of him !

Yet. Within her heart she knew. They lived in a dangerous world. The internet had brought home all the angst and violence that prevailed in the world. How safe was he, was a question she asked herself everyday. All it would take was one zealot, one madman, one racist police officer, one shot from one gun. Everyday anxiously they waited for night and the skype, to reassure herself he was alive and well. His choice of subject did not help. Journalists were constantly at risk of life and limb.

Where was the world of her youth ? Where did the innocence go ? Questions that she asked herself often. The only rebellion then had been a stolen ice cream, a party with girlfriends on the sly. Fathers word was law. For her and her brother. Marriage was a happy arrangement. Maybe the thought that it was for keeps brought security and love. A journey she was contented to share with a good man who cherished and loved her. Of  the child she beget him. The son who grew up happy. Until the advent of the computer. That it made a recluse of him, she could forgive, that it took her away from them, opened up the vistas of wild and dangerous adventure, she never could. Yet if she was to keep up with him, she needed it. Vitally.

 Then  it happened. For the next five days there was no contact. Skype, phone calls, even e mails were not responded to. Only after she had panicked and called her cousin there, did he call her. The call came from an unknown number. An he told her that she was not to contact him. He would whenever he could. When she demanded to know why, he impatiently replied that he was busy with exams, job interviews.

So she waited. Prayer beads in hand. These days, they were never far from her hands. Her otherwise carefree husband seemed to be retreating into his own world. He came and went, silent as a shadow. They avoided looking into each others' eyes, lest the fear she felt was reflected in his too. The tenth day, he came home with a ticket in his hands. He was off to the United States. To bring him back. Joy and trepidition, her heart filled with mixed emotions, but she was relieved that he was going.

The wait became longer. Her husband no longer picked up the phone too. And still she waited.

When the door bell rang, she went to answer it. Outside stood her son, and her husband. But why the wheel chair. A thousand questions shrieking in her mind, she gathered him in her arms, going down on bent knees to embrace him, their tears mingling within her dupatta.

The society he had joined, had demanded of him that he use his expertise to make a bomb. Oversee the explosion. He refused, his mothers love and anxiety had saved him in the end.  But he had to pay a price. The next day as he crossed the street, the car came swiftly, silently. He was thrown into the bushes nearby with the impact. When he came to, he lay in hospital. The stub of his amputated leg, a grim reminder of how lucky he had been.

His father had been called by his relatives to bring him back home. Back to the innocent world of his mother's love.

A Valiant Man

The trip to Ahmedabad had been uneventful,  pleasant even. Dad and mum, in their eighties now and Sakina were with me. After a halt at the Shrines of Syedna Kutbuddin Shahid, we rested and prayed. I was almost relaxed because this was the final leg of the journey. Dad walked slowly with the help of a walking stick. Afflicted with degeneration of the knee cartilage,he walked with a great deal of trouble. pain was a constant that he battled with pain killers.  

We reached the platform at about nine p m. The train was scheduled to leave at ten. Concerned a little about time i anxiously scanned platform l where the train was supposed to arrive. To my horror i was told it would only go to Platform Five instead. The coolie, with our considerable luggage started to run ahead, sakina in his wake. I started to hurry the parents towards a lift which would take us up to the footover bridge. Crowds notwithstanding we struggled slowly along. Dad must have been equally anxious, but was calm, concentrating on hurrying as much as possible.

After what seemed an interminable wait for the lift, we alighted on the footover, only to be faced with the prospect of a long stretch of corridor to take a lift down to the platform. Nine thirty. We were just descending on to the platform. Nine forty. We were finally on the platform with the train alongside us. B 2. B 2. Almost obsessively my mind repeated those words. The number of the bogey we were supposed to be in. Panic stricken we turned left and struggled along amidst the teeming crowds, Sakina was nonstop on the phone hurrying me on. All of a sudden i stopped. To my horror i realised we were heading right instead of left. Towards S 2. Panicked Ileft the parents and raced in the opposite direction, abandoning the folks, reaching the right bogey in a flash. Swinging up, my daughter took one look at my face and took off to find the folks. I collapsed on the seat, my entire body trembling with the surety that they would miss the train.

Five..... Minutes to ten. Anxiously peering from the door, i got a call. "Ma, put your head out. Do as i say. Fast." I did just that. Miraculously, dad's head emerged from the door of the adjacent bogey. Mum was pushed in literally, followed by dad. Finally in flew my brave daughter. Just as the whistle blew and the train started, we sat stunned and laughing almost hysterically. We had made it.

Sakina it seemed had the sense i lacked. Having flown across the entire platform, she had located the folks, and got them to climb in the nearest bogey. Then. pushing people aside, brandishing one of dads two sticks, she hurried them along until they reached B 2.

Having caught our breaths i anxiously turned to dad. Only allah knows how his feet must have pained him, Only Allah knows how tired he must have been. But nary a word of complaint from him. He kept reassuring me that he was fine. Everything was fine. Any other old person in his place would have blasted me off. Not my dad. That is the stuff he is made of. 

Wardrobe Malfunction !

Wardrobe Malfunction...Ah. Those words ! Man or woman, those words jumps out into the consciousness. Images of women clutching at falling dresses assails the voyeur in most all of us. But ah, gentle reader, this one, this blog is about malfunctions of a different kind. One only Indians are afflicted with. Bemused ? Don't be. I refer to the Indian dhoti. As worn by Indian men.

All of sixteen, I was. Travelling with an old highly possessive aunt, who glared at every male who happened to even look our way.  We had just landed at Ahmedabad station with only about fifteen minutes to catch our connecting train to Mumbai. Off we raced behind our spritely coolie, or raced as fast as her old legs and panting heart could carry us. Holding my hand firmly in hers, we trotted along, when suddenly she realised that a man was calling after us. Aunt looked back, consternation giving way to indignation as he waved at her. Clutching my hand tighter still, she forbade me from looking back and tried running faster still.

So off we sailed , trotting as fast as we could behind the coolie, with aunt darting killer looks at the now desperately running after us man.  In spite of myself I looked back. What I saw made me stop in my tracks . Skidding to a halt, dragging aunt also to a stop, I pointed behind us. Pulling at me,  her ranting stopped midway. The poor man's dhoti was caught in aunt's trailing purse. Clutching at his rapidly opening dhoti, the man gave a hard tug, dislodging the errant edge of cloth caught in the hook of  her purse. Glaring at her he whirled away, muttering expletives under his breath. A sheepish aunt tugged at my hand as we carried on towards our train. This time I trailed behind her. You see I was trying to run even as I clutched at my stomach, I was laughing so hard.

The rest of the people travelling with us thought us to be quite mad. Aunt and I. Every few minutes we kept bursting into giggles, aunt wiping tears of laughter rolling down her cheeks now that we were safely ensconced in our train.

Fast forward to 2014. My daughter had just joined college.  The admirable thing about this college was that many differently abled students were given seats.  In her first year, she was highly excited about a guest professor from abroad who would be giving them a lecture that day. He was an Indian and proclaimed himself thus, by his attire. A dhoti and kurta.

Anxious to meet him, she and a friend waited at the gates to catch a glimpse of him as he entered.  Expecting a venerable old man, to their consternation, in strode a youngish man in his thirties. However for some reason he seemed to be rushing in behind a student. Looking at their watches, they wondered why he was hurrying so much when there was still a good fifteen minutes to the lecture.

Their wonder  turned into peals of  quickly stifled laughter as they realised the reason for his haste.
Ahead of him walked a blind student in whose cane was caught that time bomb of a garment, his dhoti.  Fortunately, they reached the foyer where the student halted with the  harried professor in his wake. Catching hold of his shoulder, he made polite conversation with him while surreptiously  pulling his errant garment together.

So gentle reader, now you know why the Indian male abandoned this garment altogether. The imagination boggles at the plight of a local train jam packed with males wearing dhotis and trying to emerge from it with both dhoti and dignity intact !