Idd (Eid) Festival

Sharing an excerpt from my novel, The Beggar’s Dance (pg. 117 paperback), on Idd (Eid) festival. In this scene, Juma (protagonist—a street boy) is receiving Idd gift from his secret friend, Zakiya.

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I look forward to the Idd festivals in the next two days, at the end of Ramadan. Dada Zakiya has promised to share the offering she receives for Idd. After Idd Namaz, prayers, in the morning, family and friends will exchange mithhai, Indian sweets. Dada Zakiya tells me that she gets lots of money from her uncles and aunts. She does not fancy mithhai but looks forward to the Cadbury Whole Nut chocolate from London that her aunt sends her every Idd. “I love chocolates. It’s a once-a-year treat, so scrumptious.”

Mithhai photo courtesy: Gulnar Fazal

The butcher on the street is busy with orders. A fully loaded pickup arrives with whole halal goats. The workers’ long white jackets are smudged with blood as they put one goat at a time over their shoulder and take it to the butchery. Mama Fatima rushes out of the salon and makes her order.
“Hamisi will be preparing goat biryani for the family and himself the day before,” Dada Zakiya says, revealing the feast menu. She asks me to meet her by the Darkhana gates on Idd at twelve noon when she comes for a community lunch and dandhiya-raas, festive dances and music.

“Idd Mubarak, Happy Idd, Juma,” Dada Zakiya says, wearing a beautiful white dress and a stylish silver clip on the right side of her perfect shoulder-length hair. “For you.” She hands me two full bags. “I have lots of assorted mithhai, goat biryani and soda.” She smiles and tucks twenty shillings in my pocket. “I got a total of one hundred shillings cash in gifts. I will spend the remaining eighty on Hindi cassettes,” she whispers secretively. I accept the auspicious meal and think of Josephine. I will share the spirit and celebrate with her tonight when her pimp is not watching.
Dada Zakiya twists her left wrist, showing me her watch. “It’s my grandmother’s. Mother tells me that at nineteen, I am responsible and old enough to own it.”
Her friend comes by and they hug each other. “Idd Mubarak.” Holding their dandhiya, dancing sticks, painted in red and green, they walk into the gates of Darkhana and join the happy crowd. I hear live drums playing and dance to the end of the street till the sound fades off.
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What inspired me to write my first Novel - The Beggar's Dance

When I was ten years old, growing up in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, one evening, I watched a young boy (about eight years old) with his mother, begging. I wondered why I was in the comfort of a car, enjoying an icecream treat and he was on the sidewalk begging? I couldn’t understand so I went back to find him, but never saw him. For a very long time, I would think of him and try to figure out how he’d have spent his day and survived—not realizing that I was writing The Beggar’s Dance all along. It took me many years to understand that there was nothing special about me; I was just born lucky. This childhood encounter was the seed that led to the unfolding of Juma’s story.

The protagonist, Juma, is my imagination of a beggar I once met. He seeks freedom from the life of a beggar. It's his inner spirit that leads him on a journey of hope and survival. 

Sadhana Shivdasani - my imaginary guru

I was three years old when my dad took me to the movie theatre, in Mbeya, Tanzania, where we lived. I discovered how grand our world was through the Hindi Cinema. It was magic. I was mesmerized with the songs, colours and language as I watched the movie Rajkumar, starring Sadhana. I was completely in love with the actress. She was a beauty—her voice, her hair, her smile, her fashion—everything about her was a reflection of what I wanted to become. I can go on forever speaking of this beauty queen.

By age five I was certain that Sadhana and I were destined to be together. So I asked my dad if he could marry her.

“I’m already married to your mother,” Dad said.

“But Sadhana is so beautiful,” I said.

"So is your mother."

Now let me make it clear that I love my mum very much and she is a complete beauty as well. But Sadhana was someone I desperately wanted to meet. Sure enough my scheme of splitting my parents and having my dad marry Sadhana didn’t work. So I captured her in my imagination, think up a dialogue then act and pretend to be her. She became my imaginary guru.


When I watched her in Waqt, a Yash Chopra production, released in 1967, I wished I had a piano to play music and sing like her. Instead I danced and swirled my body around a curtain and sang the song, smiled, played pretend. My family would laugh at me. But I did not let my imagination die, because Sadhana kept me alive.
I remember every Sadhana movie and where I'd watched it. Such as Ek Phool Do Mali at Shan theatre, in Nairobi, Kenya. Or many more memorable movies like Intequam, Arzoo, Mera Sayaa, Mere Mehboob, I’d seen them in Dar es Salaam with my parents, mostly at Empire Cinema or Avalon theatre.

I had not seen Woh Kaun Thi, which was released in 1964. Mum had told me the story and I’d dreamed to watch it one day. Then finally, it was showing at Cameo Cinema when I was around eleven years old, but it was rated as not suitable for children due to a ghost story. I was really mad at my dad when he could not convince the ticket master to allow me to watch the movie. I cried and cried. Then at age thirteen, when I lived in Arusha, Tanzania, Woh Kaun Thi was showing at Metropole Cinema, a special Saturday afternoon show. No one realized how important this movie was for me. I could not convince any one to go with me, but my aunt gave me money for the admission. So I walked to the theatre, got myself a ticket, and finally watched the movie—alone.

Though, Sadhana quietly disappeared from the Hindi Cinema in early seventies, she remained my imaginary guru.

Rest in Peace, Sadhana Shivdasani (September 2, 1941 - December 25, 2015)

(video clips shared from various You Tube channel)

East African Safari Rally

The month of April in Vancouver, British Columbia, is breathtaking. The showy mountains and colourful gardens bring smile to my whole being. Soon my front garden will turn red and pink with azalea flowers, and the favourite of all, the magnolia tree will bloom in abundance. And of course, the best is walking my dog in the neighbourhood under the cherry trees (quite a few around).

Datsun 240z East African Safari Rally - Shekhar Mehta1971

Photo: JPG file on Pinterest via Vintage East Africa. (See Link). 

This takes me to my childhood, how different the month of April was in Africa. The monsoon season was truly magical. I felt joyful when the water from heavens poured.

My most cherished memory is a family holiday. Dad drove us from Dar es Salaam to Arusha to Ngorongo Crater for a wildlife safari trip. It was during the Easter week holidays, and the East African Safari Rally was happening. Every time the race cars zoomed by, Dad pulled aside to let the drivers pass. We honked and cheered. Wow! what an experience.

Happy April to all.

http://www.pinterest.com/pin/48695239695193407/

The Monsoon Rains

After a heavy rainfall, the sun was out, the grass was wet, and the worms welcomed the migrating birds for a feast. I stood on my deck and listened to the stellar jays, robins, chickadees and woodpeckers singing together. Rain is magical in the West Coast during the fall season, despite the cold.

I remember as a child, growing up in East Africa, the cool breeze from the rains brought laughter on the streets. Children would get drenched playing—a heavenly experience.The scent of the earth and rain was divine.

I have captured several scenes in my novel, The Beggar's Dance, during the monsoon season.

Memories of the Streets

Mkwepu Street (source: unknown)

I am left with heartache after watching BBC Africa* on heritage buildings demolished in Dar es Salaam. My mum had her dressmaking shop, Karifa, on Mkwepu Street where I spent hours after school—either doing homework, buying fruits from the vendors, chatting with shopkeepers, giving out coins to the beggars or simply belonging there. In the last three years, I've lived on this street through my imagination, which inspired some scenes in my novel, The Beggar’s Dance. I can't believe the history is disappearing and all I am left with is memories.

I searched further to convince myself maybe the news is untrue, until I saw a photograph* of the entire block gone, and it brought tears to my eyes. I had to walk away from what I was witnessing, go out into the fresh air but the darn tears would not stop. I am hoping that the scenes I have in my novel capture the memories and I am able to do justice to the streets I grew up in.

Now, how am I going to break this news to my mum. Sigh! 

* see links:
Demolished buildings - The Citizen 

Heritage buildings, Dar es Salaam - BBC Africa

The Magic of Indian Ocean

While on the beach, capturing my childhood memories, a young man comes by, asking me to excuse his cow so they could pass. This memory remains deep in my heart. And every time I think of this day, I hear the roaring of the ocean waves, the laughter of the children and the moo of the cow.

Oyster Bay, Dar es Salaam, Tanzania 1987

Come hear me whisper my writing journey through my past—the life in Africa that defined me, and through my present—the life in Canada where I found growth. Without both, I could have not written my novel, The Beggar’s Dance.

It's been over three years in the writing of The Beggar's Dance, and now it's ready to publish. Whether it chooses a traditional or self publishing route, neither one is going to fail me. Why? Because this is what I am supposed to do, share a story.