Whose fault?

From the HK Magazine...

It’s something most of us take for granted, but for Bibi and her mother, the simple task of opening a bank account has proved a frustrating struggle. Bibi was born and raised in Hong Kong and her mother has lived here for more than 20 years. They both have permanent residency, and both Pakistani and British National (Overseas) passports. Two months ago, her mother got a new job and wanted to open a Hang Seng Bank account, but unlike average Chinese Hong Kongers, who only need to submit their ID card, proof of address and the required sum of money, the teller at Hang Seng Bank asked whether she was Indian or Pakistani. “Then the teller asked if my mother still holds a Pakistani passport,” recalls Bibi. “When my mom said yes, the member of staff told her that she was being rejected because ‘Pakistan is a terrorist country’ and they have to prevent cases of money laundering for terrorists.” What is even more preposterous is, Bibi herself was once told to just put “Chinese” as her nationality in order to speed up the process when opening a bank account a few years before, something she is uncomfortable with now that she knows the reason why. “It’s unfair because we are Hong Kong residents, just like local Chinese,” she says. “My mom doesn’t even use her Pakistani passport anymore—it’s been lying at the bottom of a drawer for 20 years.”


It is not about Pakistanis and it is not about Hong Kong banks but how the cause that one supports, paints the ones who do not concur, with the same brush. Both the sides stand justified just as the German immigration officer at the Munich Airport, who made me take off my shoes, my belt and my jacket because the metal in my junk jewellery awakened the sensors. It took me long to get over it. The officer’s defense I assume were probably the four brown faces staring out from “wanted terrorists” posters all around.

To read the rest of Bibi and her mother’s story click here:

Dilli Bambai

Wrote this once upon a time...

Dilli

It seems that the collective rag bhairavi of the Delhi junta melted the rain God. The city is rocking. And the first real rains of this season have come in style. I just came back from a ritual I have been doing as long as I can remember. Had a great time getting wet in the rains. This place looks awesome. For the poor mortals who can only see concrete for miles and miles, watching trees coming dangerously low, long winding glistening roads and street lights looking like hazy twinkles can be a dream.

Went out with my umbrella, which breathed its last today. Sat in my favorite place, which is a broken brick wall with eucalyptus trees and a small road in front. On a lucky day, I can sight at least six peacocks. Though my place is flooding, I can’t shut out the rains. I am happy.

It would be wrong if I don’t put in my metaphor for a rainy day. Looks the sky is crying along with me….. Its time, for Neruda and a hot cuppa of chai.

.........And it was at that time... Poetry came
to find me. Don’t know, don’t know from where,
it leapt, winter or the river.
Don’t know how or when
no, not words, not
voices, not silence,
but I was called from the street,
from the branches of the night,
suddenly, from the others,
in violent flames,
or coming back alone,
I, without a face,
it touched me.

Bambai

paani yahan bhi barasta hai
bahut barasta hai
fark...
wahan tehani se boondein tapakti thi
yahan imaraton me daraarein padti hai
us din sar pe suitcase rakh ke
kamar tak ke paani me tairte hue
ek chhoote sheher ki baarish yaad aa gayi