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Mumtaz Annexi

Sat, 25 Feb 2012, 09:26 PM (-06:00)

There were 10,000 students at Aligarh Muslim University when my father started there. It was the only Muslim college in India.

His first year there, the dorm was full, and he stayed in Mumtaz Annexi.

(I wonder if that’s Google calls Mumtaz House, today.)

The students in the annex were evidently packed several students to a room. There were cots to sleep on and a table with a light to study at. They kept their things under their cots.

“I did my work during the day,” my father said, explaining how he got his homework and studying all finished early. “So I would go to sleep early.”

“The other students in the room would study at night while I was sleeping.”

“That’s when I learned to sleep in the light.”

Amazing thing I learned on this visit to see him: I didn’t know my father could sleep with the light on.

Knowing the Answers

Sat, 25 Feb 2012, 08:55 PM (-06:00)

1. Black Hat

Colonel Heather taught chemistry at Aligarh Muslim University. My father sat in the front row when classes began.

“He used to call on me,” my father said.

“Even back then,” he said, “there were people who were envious if you were smart, if you knew the answers. (I think you have this now.)”

And you see, my father was smart. He knew the answers. Colonel Heather was clearly aware of this and called on him in the front row. So seeking to avoid the scorn of his fellow students, my father moved to the back.

But this did no good. Colonel Heather would still call on him.

“Black hat!” he would shout, pointing to my father in the back, seeking the answer to some question.

“We all wore sherwanis at Aligarh,” my father explained. “And I wore a black hat that was stained from the oil we used to put in our hair.”

2. Final Exam

For the end-of-year lab exam in chemistry, the students had to analyze some salts.

I picture them standing at the counter with test tubes and beakers and solutions of stuff, trying to figure out what was in the sample they were given. I imagine that there was a time limit on the test, so they were all in a rush.

My father was doing a desiccation when he dropped his sample and broke the glass on the floor. His analysis was ruined.

Colonel Heather came up to him and put his hand on my father’s shoulder. “Damn!” Heather said, “What did you do!?”

“But Heather must have put in a good word for me,” my father said, “because I got good marks, anyway.”

Because Heather knew that my father knew the answers.

Update: I got the Colonel’s name wrong. His name was Haider, not Heather. Perils of oral history. My bad.

From Khanpur to Aligarh

Sat, 25 Feb 2012, 08:28 PM (-06:00)

They started the academic year in Khanpur in June. My father had left his family village and was there on a scholarship, but they only had liberal arts and no sciences. He wanted to study science.

Some fellow students told him about Aligarh. They said he should go there and study science. And Aligarh started in October, so he still had time.

My dad decided to leave Khanpur, but it was evidently a delicate thing. His cousin had to send him a telegram that said to come home and to bring all his things.

The math department chair heard that he was leaving and offered him a larger scholarship. My dad said he wanted to study science at Aligarh, and the chairman understood. You see, he went to school at Aligarh.

So he left Khanpur and in the fall enrolled at Aligarh.

He told me this, my father did, sitting in his living room a lifetime later. He was sitting across from me, and I was furiously scribbling notes on paper and watching him talk.

He got a distant gaze in his eyes.

Maybe he was remembering those few days in Khanpur. Or maybe he was remembering his classmates there. Or the math department chair. Or his cousin. Or maybe he was remembering walking onto the campus of Aligarh Muslim University the day he first arrived.

“Oh those days,” my father sighed.

My Father’s Brother

Fri, 24 Feb 2012, 07:38 AM (-06:00)

My father was sitting on the couch. I was sitting across from him. Trudy was sitting next to me. Khadija was sitting on a chair nearby.

“My younger brother was smarter,” he said.

I have heard him say this before. Although I don’t know anything about his brother, I’ve heard my dad talk like this in recent years. And trust me. For him to say that his brother was smarter is saying something.

My dad continued…

“But my father wanted him to stay in the village. He didn’t want him to leave to go to school. And then my father changed his mind about me. He didn’t want me to leave, either. But my mother and cousin disagreed.”

The room was silent. My dad gazed off into space, lost in thought. Rays from the setting sun came in thru the patio windows and lit his face.

“Do you know that his brother died?” Khadija asked. “They sent us a letter.”

“No,” I said. I didn’t know.

“He won’t tell you,” she said, nodding at my dad.

We all sat silently a moment, then my dad spoke.

“Yes. My brother has died. Now I have no one to ask these things.”

What My Mother Said

Thu, 23 Feb 2012, 05:45 PM (-06:00)

My mother came to town.

One day we went to a sandwich shop to get some lunch. It was busy, and there was no clear path to the spot where you order.

“Excuse me,” I said as I squeezed around a woman standing next to a chair.

I walked quickly by and got in line, only to see that my mother was talking to the woman and her two friends.

When she came up to me, my mother said, “Did you see that woman check you out. I told her you were my son!”

Little did she know that the double take was more likely a scowl at the rude man who so quickly squeezed behind her in his rush to order lunch.

What My Brother Said

Thu, 23 Feb 2012, 05:39 PM (-06:00)

My brother came to town.

On Sunday, half-way thru the day, he looked at me and asked, “Is this what your Sundays are usually like?”

“Yes,” I said.

Either he was envious at our slow pace of living and the amount of time we spend working in the yard. Or he was horrified.

Mallory and the Red Witch

Thu, 23 Feb 2012, 05:21 PM (-06:00)

1. The Red Witch

“Did you try to check in at the kiosk?” she asked when Trudy and her husband stepped up to the counter.

She was wearing a read coat with a silky, poofy scarf tied around her neck. She looked straight at the fair and industrious Trudy. No smile. A grim, blank stare on her face.

“I tried to, but it only gave us one boarding pass,” Trudy said and then tried to explain that …

“The kiosk doesn’t print boarding passes,” the woman said, leering at Trudy.

“Well what I tried to …”

“I see you in the system,” she snapped, giving Trudy a nasty look. “Did you check in online?”

“Yes,” Trudy said.

That was all she needed to hear. She stared at Trudy, clearly implying that she had not answered the questions correctly.

Within moments the paperwork was complete, their boarding passes were in their hands and the Red Witch was behind them as they made their way to customs, happy to leave the woman in red behind.

2. Trudy and Her Husband

As they stood in line, Trudy mentioned the encounter at the counter. She talked about how the woman in red was so rude. Sadly, she got no sympathy from her husband.

“I tried to explain, but she just wouldn’t …”

“You didn’t answer her question,” her husband interrupted.

She tried to explain …

“She asked if you tried to use the kiosk, but you wanted to talk about boarding passes.”

Trudy tried to explain again. Her husband would have nothing to do with it. It was a simple question that didn’t get answered. That was there all there was to it.

3. Mallory

There was some confusion with the airplane.

Clearly no pilots had arrived, although it was parked at the gate. Looking out the windows onto the tarmac, they could see that the cockpit was dark. The plane was sitting silently in the cold and dark of a Canadian winter morning.

Mallory was behind the counter working furiously to rebook all the passengers on different flights. Yet despite her fury at the keyboard and her tenacity on the telephone, the line was hardly moving. The passengers were all certain to miss their connections, and they were getting very impatient. Mallory didn’t let it phase her. She kept working at the computer working on one passenger at a time.

There was a group of six at the front of the line. Mallory had booked them all on a different airline. It must have been a complex process, because it took a very, very long time.

The telephone rang, and Mallory picked it up. “I’ll be there in 15 seconds,” she said.

She hung up the phone, gave each of the six passengers a new boarding pass, threw a scarf around her neck.

“Go to that gate over there,” she said. “I need to go get your luggage.”

She put on a coat and disappeared.

4. The Red Witch Returns

“It’s cold outside!” Mallory said to when she finally returned.

“You transferred their bags yourself!?” Trudy’s husband asked.

“But it kind of felt good to be outside,” she smiled.

He leaned over the counter and whispered, “You’re doing a really, really good job. Thank you.”

Just then, the doors behind the counter opened, and the woman with the red coat and the poofy scarf around her neck walked out. She strode into the room, her face carrying that same blank plastic stare.

“Oh no,” Trudy groaned quietly to her husband.

“Yep,” Mallory said.

“What!?” Trudy asked. “You agree? You know!?”

“Yep,” she said with a slightly stern expression replacing her previous smile. “Yep, we all feel the same way. Can’t explain it.”

Trudy looked at her husband and jabbed her elbow into his ribs.

“I was so right.”

You Are With Me

Wed, 22 Feb 2012, 09:34 PM (-06:00)

We return now to an event from our trip to Ottawa. I’ve just about blogged myself out on that trip, but I left this one out. So here it is, out of sequence and a few weeks late.

We stood behind him in line when we were waiting to rent ice skates. He was returning his. Sadly, he found out after a long while that he was in the wrong place to return skates. So he left us, got in a different line and started waiting from scratch.

As it turned out, my skates were too small, and I had to return them. As I walked up to the return line, I saw him standing there in his white winter coat, still waiting patiently.

“Are you still waiting in this line?” I asked as I walked up behind him.

“Yes,” he said, rolling his eyes.

We introduced ourselves.

“I’m David,” I said. “We’re visiting from Texas.”

“I’m Nasser,” he said. “I’m from Palestine.”

We shook hands, and at that point I noticed that he was not at the end of the line but rather in the middle. In walking up behind him, I had cut in line big time.

“Oh,” I said, looking at the people behind him. “I got in line at the wrong place.”

“No,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “You are with me. Here, step in closer.”

The Last Morning

Mon, 20 Feb 2012, 08:50 PM (-06:00)

1. Leaving for the Airport

We suggested that it made sense for us to take a taxi to the airport in the morning. Our flight was to leave at 6:00am, and (doing the math) that meant leaving for the airport at 3:30am. Why get up and drive us, when we can just call a taxi?

They would hear none of it.

So at 2:45 on our last morning in Ottawa, my father’s alarm clock went off, giving him enough time to dress and heat some water for tea before he promised to knock on our bedroom door.

Trudy had taken a shower the night before, so the only threat to our on-time departure was me. But thanks to a blanket slipping off the bed and a resulting dream about sleeping in a tent with ice falling in thru the ceiling, I was up even earlier and took my shower in a flash.

We left for the airport on time.

2. Waving Goodbye

Not only would they have nothing to do with us calling a taxi that morning, but they also refused to drop us off at the curb. They wanted to walk in with us.

So after a bit of driving around, we found a parking spot in the garage. It was far in the back—perhaps as far from the terminal as you can get in that place. We had plenty of time.

We all got out of the car and walked in. They showed us the way to the international check-in counter, a path they evidently know well.

They worried about the line moving slowly, although we had plenty of time. And they tried to give us some (Canadian) cash for snacks. And they stood by patiently on the far side of the barricades as we filled out paperwork and waited in line.

They stood there watching us, smiling and waving. We smiled and waved back just before we disappeared around the corner.

Goodbye, Dad. Goodbye, Khadija. Thanks for the wonderful time.

Beaver Tails

Mon, 20 Feb 2012, 05:41 PM (-06:00)

Happy to be off the ice with our boots attached firmly to the ground, we walked up the stairs to Confederation Park. We wanted to see the big ice sculptures now that they were finished.

There was a galloping horse. There was a modernistic swirl that looped out at us with a reclining nude sitting foremost. There was a great head with frozen construction workers crawling in and out of it. There was another version of the owl that had tipped over and broken during the two-hour competition. And there was a teddy bear with a short sword fending off a nightmare as a boy slept with his head on his pillow.

But perhaps most significantly, there were the Beaver Tails: a hot, flat tail of dough with liquid maple surgary syrup running off the edges for me, a hot tail with chocolate and hazelnut smeared on top for the fair and industrious Trudy.

Did I say chocolate and hazelnut?

Yes, Trudy’s snack had chocolate and hazelnut dripping off the sides. But lo, there was more. As I finished devouring my maple delight, I looked up at Trudy, and she smiled. She smiled at me as she was chowing down on her chocolate delight, her lips and cheeks decorated in chocolate, her smile radiating sheer undiluted joy.

If only there had been space left on the camera.