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Onward,
Alexander, Jeffrey, Becky and Deva
November
10, 2006
Watching History be Written and Re-Written
An
Iraqi in India
By FARZANA VERSEY
Michael Fathallah is dead, but then
there are so many dead Iraqis. So, why do I remember him? I am
sorry this is not the right thing to say at such a wrong time,
but I just cannot forgive him for having made me drink coffee
that tasted like something out of a sewer.
He had gazed at me intently and stated, "You like it! It
is our specialty." Since it was not a question, I was hoping
no answer was required. I shook my head weakly as I fidgeted
with the chipped cup that had no handle. To make matters worse,
he brought out a whole bunch of bananas, saying, "Eat!"
I assured him all this was not necessary. "Oh, we Iraqis
like to pamper our guests." Like this?
I began to think about how I should do it. Ought I to just peel
the fruit and start chomping on it, or must I do the ladylike
thing and break off one-inch bits and pop them delicately in
my mouth? My host was getting impatient. "Ok, ok, never
mind, but these are good for your stomach."
Although I was born a Muslim, as an Indian my affiliation with
the religion was far removed from the Arabian Nights adventure
one was supposed to look forward to in the afterlife. As a matter
of fact, the so-called Arab identity was completely alien.
The only Arabs one encountered were tourists who consolidated
the stereotype with their white kaftan costumes and veils holding
prayer beads in their hands even as they scoured the streets
for knick-knacks. Soon, the shops started stocking up on colorful
sequined scarves and trinkets that might appeal to their sensibilities.
Despite the money, one noticed that they weren't quite treated
with the same respect as even the Caucasian backpackers.
It was during one such story I was doing, about the influx of
Arabs, that I got to see the amazing variety of people. Not all
of them were sheikhs who arrogantly threw the windows in their
rooms in five-star hotels wide open to let in the rain and then
offered to pay for the soiled carpets. Many lived in small hotels
in nondescript localities; they'd huddle together in corridors,
mostly awaiting the fate of a sick relative they had admitted
into a hospital. India was a cheap and good option for medical
treatment.
A chance conversation had led me to discover the Arabs that had
made their homes in Mumbai.
That is how I met Michael one afternoon at his apartment in a
lane infested with shady characters -- pimps, prostitutes, drug
peddlers. I was ushered into a large airy room that seemed to
have no furniture. I sat on a low rickety stool and he made himself
comfortable on what could have been a cot but was covered entirely
with newspapers. He was dressed in pinstriped pajamas -- the
kind prisoners wear, and a long shirt. He was completely unselfconscious
and I soon found myself liking this encounter. Besides, I was
getting rid of my pre-conceived notions about Arabs.
He was a practicing Roman Catholic and clarified: "All Arabs
are not Muslim." But he supported Iraqi laws and found the
interference of the West, even in matters of laws like execution,
disgusting. "Who are they to decide?" he asked.
He had come to what was then called Bombay towards the end of
1917 with a shipload of books and had seen "history written
and re-written". Since education in his country was not
upto his father's standards, he got himself admitted to St. Mary's
School, a respected missionary-run educational institution that
even today is considered among the better schools. After his
studies, he returned home to Basra and worked as a bank manager.
But in 1942, he made the trip back to Bombay to help his brother-in-law
with his business and stayed on until his death.
He would spend his time at the Arab School, which would transform
into a club in the evenings, and he'd pore over the crumpled
old newspapers from Iraq. The events were probably stale, but
they kept him in touch with a part of his country. Culturally,
did he still feel close to the Arabs? "Of course, I have
lived amongst them -- a gallant, valiant, hospitable people."
It wrenched his heart to watch what happened before his eyes
in his adopted home. Sleazy action being replayed night after
night -- apartments that went under the guise of guest houses
from where the Arab tourists trooped out in the early hours of
the morning, even as they were fleeced of their money and belongings
by hustlers.
Michael was extremely protective of the reputation of his people.
So, what kept him in Bombay? "For those of us who don't
have unlimited wealth, this is the best place. I can also walk
around anywhere in my long night shirt." He picked up a
banana and started eating it.
There were no curtains and a gentle breeze was blowing in from
the open balcony. He beckoned me to join him outside. We watched
the street below and the hotel across from where silly grins
greeted us. He took the fruit peel and threw it on the pavement
below. "Look, I have become one of you," he declared.
As he escorted me to the door, he said, "Come again, please.
I can only offer you the best coffee in the world."
I found myself smiling. I don't
know when the bitter taste on my tongue had disappeared.
Farzana Versey is a Mumbai-based journalist-writer whose
columns have appeared in several mainstream newspapers and magazines.
She can be reached at: farzanavee@yahoo.com
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