Friday, December 31, 2004

Suppressed voices of the Bay Area

I hate being sick, since it prevents me from certain makro pleasures. This time it is especially bad, I am performing in a theatrical skit. This is my 5th play this year and the 13th time I go up on stage in front of an audience. I will play a corrupt Punjabi politician named Cheema, as well as an effeminate art gallery owner named Kumar. In the first role I have to shout with masculine bravado, in the second I aim to shriek with indignation.

My throat does not cooperate on both. After standing in line for an hour at the Haight street post office where Christmas spirit was missing. I had some boiled eggs, took a ghusul sehat bath and caught 21 bus to Market street. Here waited for our director to pick me in his borrowed car which refused to cooperate. However, after a mild panic attack, he arrived with his wife, mother and 1-yr old son.

The theatrical performances were arranged at Mehran restaurant, which is located in a strip mall off the Steven Creek exit on I-880 in Newark. Fremont and Newark are desi land. Next to Mehran is Chandni another Pakistani restaurant with seating capacity for 500+ people. These halal (kosher) meat serving restaurant are the backbone of all south Asian activities like weddings, mehndis, roza kushai (first fast), engagement and recently theater.

The rehearsal started amid complete confusion. Our director (who is in more ways like Woody Allen then I can explain) was acting, as well as directing. Most actors were amateurs, and some like me were woefully unprepared. Additionally, we had a host of good hearted advisors who presented different analysis to every problem. As a self centered individual (also known as actor), my personal challenges were a suffering from a sore throat, pangs of hunger -- which was partially planned as I was (ahem) method acting and planned to stuff myself silly with good Pakistani food -- and lastly my disillusions with the character. I have a twirling moustache, a fake Punjabi accent, two towels wrapped around my waist, and to top it all off, a Jinnah cap to cover my long hair. I can’t imagine any Punjabi politician wearing a Jinnah cap, the last stalwart Nawabzada Nasrullah Khan passed away last year. It does not bode well, but nobody wants to play a villain and I am getting quite good at twirling so I got the part.

I prepared for the part by pretending to be Noori Nath (the villain from the ultimate lollywood classic Maula Jat), and by watching Farooq Qaiser of ‘Kaliyan’ fame (the ground breaking puppet show from Islamabad TV) in his new program ‘Hasher Nashar’. In this show he dubs American sitcoms with Punjabi storylines. One has to see the Fresh Prince of Bel Air episode. The Butler is named Butt Sahib and addressed as ‘Butt Sahib tussi bohat hee kalai ho’. Later Clint Eastwood in ‘A few Dollars More’ is referred to as Feeqa and says his famous line with a squint, ‘Tussi tu hastai wai bhi changai nahi lagtai’. It is hilarious, and Mr. Qaisar as a Punjabi can do it whole heartedly, while I as an Urdu speaker can only make it a caricature.

At last food was served and I enjoyed the chicken karhai, mutton korma, pilau and daal. Nothing beats some finger licking, bone crushing spicy food as a preparation to play a corrupt politician. Unknown to our organizers, the other section of the restaurant was rented to boisterous Afghanis having an engagement party. Foremost of all effects was the jingle Mera jota hai japani (My shoe is Japanese) sung by Mukesh from Raj Kapoor’s bollywood classic Shree 420 . Subsequent effects were ice cold coronas with slivers of lime, Chello kabobs and girls flashy flirty dresses. Obviously, these were Tajiks who spoke Dari and I could spot the men with their polished boots and designer shirts. They looked more like 2nd generation Hispanics in PBS American Story. They were having a great time, and it was good to see their shiny happy faces. Unfortunately, there music was suppressed our show and the first skit started hesitantly. The sound was inadequate, the MC’s were unprepared. Finally the microphones were placed and sixty people in the audience got engaged. This continued throughout the show and the audience lacked a coherent program that could hold the pieces together. That was unfortunate since among the organizers we have some excellent Urdu orators.

The first political skit, a parody on a Pakistani news talk show, went in without too many hitches. The oppressed lady did a grand finale, while Mr Dehalvi playing a oppressed minority (the immigrants from Indian) played his part with uncanny realism. The cues were a bit off, but the hilarity of the situation was evident and we got some laughs. My Cheema looked like Ghulam Fareed Sabri Qawal. At any moment I wanted to break out and say ‘Allah’ - May his soul rest in peace, I am not worthy as he remains the greatest - still I resisted the temptation as it might have come out as a burp.

However, my character problems were minuscule compared to the other controversy circulating. An important prop for the second skit was a mutilated painting. To add ‘realism’ to it, the poster pasted with pictures of Ram, Shankar, Quran, Kabba, Church, Jesus, star of David, etc, was defaced. By some idle chance the Kabba was spared. A classically trained harmonium player of North Indian music – an impeccably dressed grey haired gentleman, with a shawl over his raw silk kurta - was outraged, and asked a FOSA activist

‘Why was the Kabba spared?’

She immediately started ripping at the Kabba when he stopped her and asked her (I am imagining Amrish Puri in ‘Indiana Jones and the temple of doom’

‘No get that Muslim gentleman who ripped at our Ram to do it.’

Our resident Arundhati Roy (and now I am imagining this with a Masterpiece theater vision) looked him straight in the eye and said,

‘This is exactly why we are having this program. You may leave if you have an issue with our message.’

The gentleman left.

The second skit was infrequently rehearsed, but it packed a wallop in the political message. An art gallery with the defaced paintings on display was the scene as various by standers gave their insight. These ranged from extremists to activists to artsy fartsy artists. I intentionally played the art gallery owner as an effeminate Mr. Kumar, solely for the sake of wearing my ridiculous Fun Min Chu shirt. The skit was bit more chaotic, but the bystanders saved the skit from monotony.

My parts done for the night, my stomach satiated, I walked over to Chandani restaurant where the Zaytuna institute was having their sixth annual fundraiser event Where Then Are You Going? Islam, Ethics, & the Dawn of the 21st Century. The expensive camera cranes, P/A system and boom mikes was an indicator of the level of investment. I returned the appeasing gazes of brothers and sisters listening to the perfect accent of American Muslims. This institute was founded in part by Hamza Yousuf, a Californian convert who has lived with North Africans Sufis and Arab sheikhs for over 10 years. He has been Bush’s advisor on Islam after 9/11 and remains a proponent of what I call C-SPAN Islam. His message is spiritual and establishes a path for young people that make them shun the frivolities of the pop consumer culture. I bought a calendar of mosques and flashed smiles at beaming faces of sisters. My comfort level increased exponentially as I was not the only terrorist looking guy. I sat down and listened to the political message about spring cleaning our spiritual insides out and reducing the baggage of guilt and ego. How refreshing? Was that something that our Maulanas in Pakistan completely missed? Of course not, this message was tailor made for Silicon Valley professionals with some of the highest per capita disposable income in the world (except the beloved royal family from the land of Hejaz). These Doctors, engineers, real estate tycoons and business man only listen to logic.

Walking back past the Afghani engagement party, I nodded to the men as they stood outside smoking, and joined our motley crew of voluntary thespian pulling across a program on a shoe string budget. It was an accomplishment indeed and kudos to the organizers. The program continued with a much needed reflection on the Ahmedis persecution in Pakistan. Like the Army operation against Bengalis, Balochi, MRD, MQM and the current WANA insurgency, most Pakistanis tend to follow the ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’ method of self denial. Similarly, the movie on Dalits was an eye opener and I enjoyed that movie, since it made us feel closer to the dalits and their poetry.

Later, Ustaad Singh’s daughter sang Faiz Sahib’s ‘Hum Dekhai Gai’. She reminded everyone of Iqbal Bano’s classic rendition, as she was a delight to watch in her innocence and beauty. Later she performs a Kathak dance which was rudely interrupted by your resident villain as fahashat. But all ends well, as he is confronted by another Muslim and advised to close my eyes if I don’t want to watch. There was some controversy as the other actor declined on playing the resident evil character at the last moment and the role was dumped on me. My response was what some would consider stubborn egotism, or for those who know me, just being lazy. So I did not change from Mr. Kumar’s burgundy shirt to a turbaned fundamentalist and it looked rather ridiculous. Although, being a method actor, I sensed that the girl’s mother was hesitant in having her teenager daughter oogled at by mustachioed south Asian gentleman. Or maybe the Zaytun institute was getting to me.

Later more skits followed, the selection from Lamps on Lillypads performance was a audience hit. The leading dancer does remind me of the prim Donna in the movie version of the phantom of the opera. Even she faced some controversy as she mentioned Salman Rushdie in her introduction, although later she was asked not use his prose in her spoken word. Later a Pakistan woman complained to me that she should not even mention his name. ‘Does she not know how Muslims feel about him?’ A FOSA activist reminded her that she should be able to, even though he believes Mr. Rushdie to be a bad writer. I disagreed, I believe him to be an excellent writer. He has changed the style of English literature. I love his work, but he remains an arrgant asshole. Like Sir Naipul, who additionally is a sad man and harbors nothing but negativities for the world. Irrelevant to her pedantic complains the dance was wonderful; a combination of poetry and spoken word that spans all cultures (sort of Deepak Chopra/Dalai Lama/Madonna) and is richly enamored with flawless kathak moves.

The last skit, a PowerPoint/spoken word depiction of Manto’s short story ‘Khol Do’. It was a let down. It would have been better to leave that skit out, and I would go as far as to say it would have Manto turn in his grave. The actors needed stage support, the oration lacked fire and using PowerPoint as a presentation mechanism for arts remains a pet peeve of mine. In all, it was confusing as the audience could not even see the old man desperately looking for his daughter during the partition, nor was the final beat on which the whole play depended, clear in intent or projection.

The show ended with a musical performance by a local band. They held the place together for a while especially as they sang Allah Hoo and Shahbaz Qalander. Outside, away from judging eyes, I joined the enterprising Uncles who were having wine in the parking lot. Being a bit eager to open the bottle, I ended up breaking it, splashing the wine all over my jeans. That pretty much alienated me from the Zaytun institute and I spend the rest of the evening discussing theater and politics with mustachioed south Asian gentleman.

The conversations escalated when we were joined by the leading lady from another play. She was dressed to impress and zeroed in on our resident critic. He had called our last play a high school production, she was livid and took him to task. Later I rode back with her and the director of the play. Meekly I mentioned that it is futile to argue with critics. They write what they see and suffer from their own biases, just like we do, it is unintentional and as artists we should try to not get caught up in ourselves as not to take criticism, even if it hurts. She explained to me that her main complaint was that he should be more understanding since south Asian theater is up and coming in the Bay Area and it is not easy to do a major production on a shoe string budget. She could of course do the same to his production, but she is too good hearted to do that.

Fortunately, we avoided a stop at a Jewish lesbian’s holiday party and proceeded to a holiday/collecting money for a Japanese guy’s dental root canal party. It was amusing to see the boy in stylish clothing, but then I was told that he worked as a tailor. I was impressed by the sacrifices young kids make for their passion, something I could not even imagine since I was bought up to be a 9-5 guy. The cozy flat was decorated too my liking with Kilims, calligraphy and a French cavalry sword. The owner owns a rug shop and told me that the best rugs are being made in Afghan refugee camps in Pakistan.

Later staring at the cracks in my ceiling, my mind came back to the many facets of the South Asian community in the Bay Area. Whether it is the tight knit Ahmedis, the nationalist Hindus, the undermined Dalits, the fundamentalist Wahabis, the corona swigging Tajiks, the spiritualist of Zaitun institute, the family oriented Pakistanis, the razor sharp critics, the hapless activist, or the Bollywood inspired artists like us, we all have prejudices but lack the resolution to accept each other. That’s why organization like FOSA (Friends of South Asia) serves a much needed function. It would be simple to call it a dichotomy, but to me it is a crazy manifestation of who we are.
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