Wanderings and wonderings of Aman on his travels

[mynamesaman]

What Sohni-Mahiwal taught me about choosing the perfect cheesecake

One of my favourite stories of all time is that of Sohni Mahiwal. Mahiwal, a rich trader comes to the Sohni’s village, where she paints clay pots for her father to sell.  Mahiwal becomes besotted by her and gives up his life of privilege and herds buffalos for Sohni’s father. They fall in love, but her father refuses to marry Sohni to an outsider and arranges her marriage with another potter within the village.

Unhappily married to a man she despises, Sohni swims every night across the Chenab river using a clay pot to keep afloat in the water, to where Mahiwal herds buffaloes. One night her sister-in-law replaces the clay pot with an unbaked clay pot, which dissolves in water and she dies in the whirling waves of the river. Mahiwal tries to jump in the water to save Sohni, but dies in the currents as well. As their bodies are consumed by the waves of the river Chenab, their love becomes immortalised in the oratory traditions of the Sufi poets of Punjab.

Sohni laments to the clay pot for letting her drown, the clay pot responds:

““I am a pot made of unbaked clay, bound to melt away in the river. Being unsound and unsteady, I cannot but fail in carrying you across.”

But this isn’t just another tragic love story, it has a much deeper meaning to it. A meaning so powerful, where the story was able to maintain its longevity; crossing oceans and centuries in reaching the humblest of readers in you and me. 

The story of the ill-fated lovers was used to spread the message of Islam throughout the Indian subcontinent. If you don’t believe me, ask any Asian parent and they will be able to tell you the story of Soni Mahiwal. If they can’t, let me know, I can send you the Bollywood film to watch on Sunday evening!

The Sufi’s above anything else always extolled the virtues of finding a sound guide to reach one’s destination. For Muslims this was the path to salvation and God. The clay pot in the story of Sohni Mahiwal is a metaphor of the guide, where we must ensure we entrust our safety to a sound vehicle, otherwise your fate will be that of Sohni, devoured by the currents of life. Therein comes Islam, the sound vehicle on which you can rely to help you reach the shore.

Even if you don’t believe in God, the message is still pretty simple. Sohni should have invested in some armbands and we would have never had this issue. I jest! Never entrust your entire self to something or someone, without making sure it’s not going to flake on you. Unlike the pot, the only thing we want half baked, is our cheesecake!

[mynamesaman]

Wagah Border – Beating Retreat Ceremony

The crowd screams ‘Long Live Pakistan’ as the soldier crosses into no man’s land to briefly shake hands with his Indian counterpart. It’s at this moment, you not only understand what it truly means to be Pakistani, but the crowd shouting ‘God is Great’ makes this reawakened sense of national identity a divine right. Just like the sports team you support, your side was chosen long before you were born!

The walk towards the Gates of Freedom had all the excitement of a world cup final, tinged with a rite of passage of sorts. These same gates had once welcomed Muslim refugees after the partition of Pakistan and India. The sense of anticipation heightened as we reached the imposing picture of Muhammed Ali Jinnah at the entrance, the founding father of a country my mother so proudly calls her own.

We find a place to sit and I hear a child nearby, ask why the Indian crowd is twice the size of Pakistanis. Someone replies that they needed more people to keep up with the roar of the Pakistanis. An explanation which makes perfect sense from the conviction of our faces; decorated in the national colours and matching regalia.

As the soldier appears from the Gates of Freedom, like a peacock ready to reveal his feathers, he marks his territory as he high kicks, stamps and speed marches towards the border gates to compete against his Indian rival. This elaborate military dance off lasts for 45 mins. The soldier loses complete control of his emotions and in this one drill, he carries the pride, honour and hopes of an entire nation on his shoulders. His salute to India, a country that quite easily might have been his own, reminds the crowd of one solemn truth in their ecstasy – We are here and we are unapologetically proud to be Pakistani!

The crowd erupts like a goal is being scored every time someone thinks of a new chant.  The chants on both sides of border get louder and louder, as another soldier plays the Pakistani crowd to his every tune, like a pied piper.

In many ways, this country was completely alien to me. Its people would never appreciate a Fish Friday in the same way I did. But as I saw the sapphire green Pakistan flag emblazoned with its national crescent and star being neatly folded, the ecstasy and electricity of both sides’ soldiers crossing their respective borders to briefly shake hands, manages to overcome even my own Yorkshire sensibilities. I shout ‘Long Live Pakistan’ as an ode to the life I may have lived.  

Some see this ceremony as a symbol of Pakistan and India’s rivalry, but I just experienced two proud nations rebuilding a sense of national pride and identity, lost after the perils of empire and partition.  Where once stood a refugee camp for countless Muslims, now stand schoolchildren cheering in a new dawn of patriotism.