All pictures are credited to respective sources

Preity is a Rajput from Himachal Pradesh. She was born on January 31, 1975 in Rohru in Shimla District. Her father was an army officer who died in a car accident. Preity Zinta was only 13 years old then. She is a graduate of Bede's College, Shimla in English Language and masters in criminal psychology.

Preity Zinta made her debut in films with Mani Ratnam's Dil Se opposite Shahrukh Khan in 1998. Since then she has given us Soldier in 1998, Sangharsh in 1991, Kya Kehna in 2000, Mission Kashmir in 2000, Dil Chahta Hai in 2001, Chori Chori Chupke Chupke in 2001, Dil Hai Tumhaara in 2002, The Hero in 2003, Koi...Mil Gaya in 2003, Kal Ho Naa Ho in 2003, Armaan in 2003, Lakshya in 2004, Veer Zaara in 2004, Khullam Khulla Pyaar Karen in 2005, Salaam Namaste in 2005, Kabhi Alvida Naa Kehna in 2006, Jaan-E-Mann in 2006, Jhoom Barabar Jhoom in 2007 and The Last Lear, again in 2007. Her forthcoming films in 2008 are Har Pall, Heaven on Earth and Heroes. She received her first Filmfare award in 2003 for Kal Ho Naa Ho.

Salaam Namaste songs

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Salaam Namaste songs

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Directed by: Siddharth Anand
Produced by: Aditya Chopra,Yash Chopra
Written by: Siddharth Anand,Abbas Tyrewala
Starring: Saif Ali Khan,Preity Zinta,Arshad Warsi,Tania Zaetta,Javed Jaffrey,Jugal Hansraj
Music by: Vishal-Shekhar
Editing by: Ritesh Soni
Distributed by: Yash Raj Films Pvt. Ltd
Release date: September 9, 2005
Running time: 152 mins
Language: Hindi
Budget: $2.5 million (estimated)

1. My Dil Goes Mmm... - Instrumental
2. My Dil Goes Mmm - Remix
3. My Dil Goes Mmm
4. Salam Namaste - Dhol Mix
5. Salam Namaste
6. Tu Jahan
7. What's Goin On

Unfortunately, I am not a part of this section and I am quite irate after watching this one. I would be willing to try my best to keep away as many people from this film as possible.

I could have almost cried from watching this film because it was so excruciating. There may have been worse films than this but there rarely has been a film that has incensed me so much.

Rajveer Singh/RV (Saif Khan) is (probably) an orphan who makes money by changing tyres at a race track. Though he doesn't seem to have too much money or a career, neither is he willing to plan nor is he willing to save. He is the kind of guy that can pay a cabbie (Javed Jaffrey) a hundred dollar bill (when twenty dollars would suffice) to let him drive and break all the laws on the road (in New York when the NYPD is probably dead) to reach his destination (where he does not have any work apparently). On one such occassion, he meets Radhika (Rani Mukherjee) and damages her IPod while falling in love with her at first sight. Luckily for him, the real cabbie is not really a cabbie. He is the manager of a racing team and he invites RV to his team, considering his skill at risking his life while driving like a madman. RV agrees and wins his first race itself not to mention everything else after that while Radhika is watching from the stands (and he magically manages to maintains eye contact with her whenever he looks out of his car window). Radhika marries him despite the protests of her father (Victor Banerjee) who realises he is an idiot (without taking into account money or social status - RV is already rich and famous by then). RV buys a car and a home without informing Radhika and then they also have two kids (whom, unfortunately, he cannot produce without informing her - thankfully though, the production is left out this time).

Everything is fine till Rusty enters the picture. A new bad boy racer who doesn't mind injuring his opponents to win (did I mention that anything goes in this race including cornering and crashing your opponent). He targets RV and causes an accident putting him out for a year. Though RV's physical injuries disappear, the mental scars still do not leave him and he ends up last on ten races continuously upon return (it would seem that Bollywood doesn't know any positions apart from first and last). His dinosaurian ego cannot take the fact that he is a loser. He doesn't accept the fact himself and neither does he let his children know for fear of falling from the hero status in their eyes. He loses his job and everything else because we are told he owns nothing (he buys everything on installments). He is officially poor. When the time comes to move to a desi slum in New York, he and Radhika lie to their kids that they are in a reality show about being poor and they need to be happy (or at least act that way) while they try to exist with only $2000.

Now I just cannot understand why there is a need to lie to your children about being poor? Do you want them to live in their dream worlds without ever facing reality? Do the children think everyone has a rosy life that is only filled with smiles? And pray tell me why is being poor so despicable? Is it that poor people don't have lives or is it that their lives aren't worth living? We already live in a society that gives undue importance to money, power and fame. Do we need movies to further emphasize these unfortunate ideas? Escapist flicks are fine but films that promote living in denial just cannot be accepted.

If that was a bad enough start to the second half of this film, some of the sequences that followed made it even worse. The pig-headed egoistic ass that Saif plays is willing to beg or cheat people for money but cannot accept help from a friend because he did leave his job and come away with him as he also has a life and a family to consider. The stupid pseudo-Bharatiya Nari that Rani Mukherjee plays in the film can beg and almost steal for her children but isn't willing to take money or any help from her father because he points out the blatant fact that her husband cannot plan for the future or save money. Between fifty thousand dollars and living a lie (not to mention living in denial), she chooses the latter. This and much more including the complete lack of any logic and the presence of the irritating girl who plays their daughter (Angelina Idnani) was reason enough for me to squirm in my seat throughout the second half of this film almost to the point of tearing my hair out.

Like some of the other films from the Yashraj stable, attempts to milk the audiences' emotions are in full force. This is headed by the scene where the kid is shown to be eating out of a dumpster. I am sure there are people who were moved by this scene and even a few who may have cried.

That isn't all though. I am disappointed with a part of the audience too. When Saif almost demands $65,000 (for the medical expenses of his child) from his ex-boss who obviously is not going to part with that kind of money like almost everybody in the audience, the boss suggests that he could give him a few hundred and that he should start collecting similar donations from some of his other acquaintances. Even if he didn't give the money, the "bad" man at least gave him a decent piece of advice, something that is commonly done in an extreme situation like this (and remember that Rani Mukherjee can't get the money from her father who we are told is the owner of the 3rd or 4th largest database consortium in the USA or was it World?). But obviously, Saif is too big to beg from the villain. At the point when the boss starts to give him a few hundred, the lady beside me started calling the villanous man a bastard. Multiple times. Why? Why? Why?

Rusty, who causes Saif's accident is obviously the main villain in the piece. The audience hates him for doing this. However, towards the end, Saif pays him back in the same coin and he also (presumably) dies and a part of the audience started clapping for Saif. Is something wrong with me or does the meaning of "wrong" change in your mind depending on the person who commits this and how much you like him/her or care for him/her?

Finally, I wish nobody talks about Roberto Benigni's Life Is Beautiful while referring to this film even if Siddharth Anand took some inspiration from that film. As far as I can see, lying is the only piece of inspiration, and in that case, this film is as inspired from that brilliant effort as it is from a film like Kareeb.

If you want real positives, I don't think there are any. Of course, the whole racing setup is new for the Indian audience (even as New York is starting to bore) and some of the racing accident sequences look good, though they are completely devoid of logic. The soundtrack (Vishal-Shekhar) and background score (Salim-Suleiman) are alright. Saif and Rani are better in the second half (Rani is particularly irritating in the first half). Among the kids, the boy (Ali Haji) is better but nothing to write about. Jaaved Jaffrey is likeable even if he isn't as funny as he was in Salaam Namaste (and I couldn't figure out some of his accented dialogue that was uneven through the film). I wish he had danced to a complete song instead of doing a couple of moves. That would have made at least a few minutes of this worthwhile. Victor Banerjee in a very short role actually does the best job of the lot and he seemed to be the only person from the film that could actually be real. Most of the dialogue (Habib Faisal) is raddi. The humor is only sporadically funny (I was laughing more for unintentionally funny stuff during the first half and was just too shocked/irritated/disturbed/pissed/depressed to laugh in the second half).

The main culprits for this horror are writer Habib Faisal and director Siddharth Anand. Siddharth didn't do a bad job with his first film Salaam Namaste that he also wrote. I liked the energy and humor in that one and he did show some style (even if it wasn't exactly original or unique). However, with this one, he joins my list of directors to keep away from that is headed by Dharmesh Darshan, Suneel Darshan and Kunal Kohli.

I believe it takes almost the same amount of talent and effort to make a money-making film that is bad and a money-making film that is flawed but worth a watch or at least entertaining. I wonder why there are a lot of folks who seem to prefer the former.

I wished for a while that I was in some reality show and that this distasteful film was not the actual one. Alas! Useless dreams like that can only be true when you are in a Yashraj film.

My dad, baffled, a week ago: Yasminay, how can you be my daughter, and not know how to multi-task?
Me: I’m sorry, but I just think there’s just something wrong with the idea of cooking chicken and eating ice cream at the same time.

This was after he came home from the grocery store and gleefully presented me with a little pint of ice cream, my very own ice cream. I was washing dishes at the time, up to my elbows in soapsuds as the daddy-o shoved the carton of ice cream in my face and crowed, “Look what I brought for you!”

After I had laughed and explained that I was quite obviously washing dishes at the moment, and no, I did not want to eat my ice cream until after I had finished washing dishes, and no, I did not think it was possible to wash dishes and eat ice cream at the same time, the daddy-o shook his head sadly and carefully put the ice cream away in the fridge. “Ten minutes, Yasminay!” he warned me. “Eat it soon, or it’ll melt!” I glanced at the piles of dishes, sighed, and, true to fashion, soon forgot all about the ice cream. (Remembering to eat is not one of my strong suits, as you may recall.)

An hour later, the daddy-o wandered by again while I was cooking chicken for dinner, and after a few pointed questions and comments about my having not eaten the ice cream yet, the above conversation ensured.

Which reminds me, this post is supposed to be about chicken, not ice cream. Okay. Please pause this weblog entry while I scramble to recover my train of thought.

Umm. Chicken. I like chicken. A lot.

However, my sister and I were, just a couple days ago, accused of being “soo non-desi.” I’m assuming this is supposed to be an insult, regardless of the fact that we’ve never in our lives referred to ourselves by the term “desi” in the first place. And this coming from a guy who, a few minutes after he called us “non-desi,” laughingly admitted, “Well, they call me Halfghan.” Yes, so the “non-desi” comment stemmed from the fact that I had some issues differentiating between the chicken curry, chicken tikka masala, tandoori chicken, and karahi chicken menu items at Berkeley’s Naan ‘n’ Curry restaurant, and also because, unlike the abovementioned Afghan brother (one of the most desi non-desi people I’ve ever met), neither my sister nor I was all that impressed by the movie Devdas. The fact that he willingly sat down to watch the movie with his grandmother, and enjoyed it enough to rave about it to us and be personally affronted when we didn’t share his enthusiasm, was enough to make me laugh for several minutes though. Hecka cute.

Oh, yeah, chicken. Sorry, I keep getting sidetracked.

My point was, I like chicken. And I cook some pretty damn good chicken, if I do say so myself, even if I may not know a specific name for the type. It’s just chicken, for goodness sake. And it tastes awesome, alhamdulillah. So who cares what it's called. Hey, even one of my aunts told me last week that she liked the chicken I had cooked that weekend. My jaw almost dropped, because I’m the rebel child of the family and, more often than not, my relatives are far more concerned with pointing out things I do or say that they consider wrong or strange than they are with actually patting me on the back. She even repeated the compliment when I saw her a few days ago. And asked me for the recipe. Whoa.

She laughed when I told her there’s no recipe, that it tastes different everytime. S’the truth, yo. She asked what I put in it. I hesitated. “Umm…everything?”

This weekend, I was one of several women in the kitchen, including my cousin and her three sisters-in-law. And this is the part I refer to as the “chicken wars,” because, dang, I nearly had to shove people out of my way in order to cook my chicken properly.

Let me explain this, in no uncertain terms: Any attempts on your part, no matter how apparently good-intentioned and helpful, to stir my chicken or add spices to my chicken or to otherwise even so much as breathe near my pot of simmering chicken will result in you getting perhaps even more hurt than you would if you were to call me “Jasmin.” And as you all should know by now, that is quite a lot of hurting, yo. Are we clear on this?

They rolled up their sleeves and got to work in the kitchen as soon as they arrived, one cooking ground beef, another, vegetables, yet another, rice, a fourth, making salad. “So,” they asked, peering curiously into my pot, empty but for onions and tomatoes and bell peppers and a little bit of olive oil, “What’s going to be cooked in this one?”

“This is where I’m going to cook my chicken,” I answered possessively, emphatically. I don’t know if they got the point, though, because for the next hour or two I had to maintain a constant watch over my chicken. Someone kept stirring it, even when no stirring was required. Someone else wanted to keep the lid on. Yet another one kept asking me what I had put in it, questioning my use of certain spices and ingredients, the cut of the chicken, the heat level of the stove. Once, I turned around from washing my hands at the sink just in time to catch one of the girls about to pour some water into my chicken. I lunged at the stove. “No, no, no!” I said, panicked. “No water!” She stared at me wide-eyed, whether because of my alarm or my forceful demand or because she finally realized she might be in serious danger of being attacked by me, I have no idea.

Don’t you dare touch my chicken, okay?
Thank you.

And you know what, I never did get to eat that ice cream. To be honest, I forgot all about it. And now I just went and checked both the fridge and the freezer, but it’s gone.

Someone ate my ice cream.
I can’t believe this.

The story is nice (and predictable). Boy meets girl (or doesn't), they fight and fall in love. So far so good. The interesting thing is how the film doesn't stop at this point, but goes on and shows that people grow in a relationship, although some people take more time than other.

Another thing I found interesting was the two different kind of relationships that were shown: the more modern kind but still romantic one of Ambar and Nikhil, and the so much more romantic and maybe more traditional of Cathy and Ron. The relationship of Ambar and Nikhil seemed to be a mixture of modern - they live together but aren't married -, and romantic - they move together, although they barely know each other. Ron's and Cathy's relationship is more romantic (they meet and marry immediately), and - I'm not sure about this! - somehow seemed more traditional in that they married before they moved together, and before they had sex. Ambar who isn't married gets pregnant.
Up to now, it was Nikkhil who tamed Ambar.
That's when the film becomes more predictable and the question of who tames whom is reversed. Suddenly it is Nikhil who gets some kind of Angst and doesn't want all the responsibilities (yada yada yada). The dialogue where he tells Ambar to "kill it" is absurd. Yeah, if I want someone to get an abortion, I'll say "kill the baby". Definitely.
The rest if predictable, although I wouldn't have predicted the slapstick in the delivery room. Erm... it was pretty uncool.

I liked:

• that the australian girl Cathy got married before she got pregnant, and that the indian girl (Ambar) actually didn't want to marry
• Saif:
• Saif.
• Arshad.
• Preity!  So good to see another Preity-film after JBJ last weekend!
• the fights between both Cathy and Ron, and Ambar and Nikhil
• how the relationships were shown - not all romance, but a little hue of reality.

I didn't like the slapstick scenes at the end. I think they're the only thing that really put me of, and it didn't fit the tone of the film. Oh, and Preity had the most ridiculous baby belly I've ever seen in a film.

It's not the best of the best, but it's definitely nice and one of the films that you can see when you don't want to watch football like the rest of the country. I need to show it to my friend who says "this is a really modern bollywood film" whenever they kiss and talk about sex!

I have a feeling this will be a looong post.

Music takes you through the bad as well as the good times, when you're at home or travelling. Like doing the things you love, music makes life worth living. I know for sure that my love for discovering new music will never end. I have Move to Bremerton, a Popagandhi post on music, to thank for my latest "find" - The Way I Am by Ingrid Michaelson. Beautiful song.

I've lots of music memories. Especially remember one evening spent with friends and family at the beach in Frösakull, Sweden. A barbecue, sand beneath my feet, the sound of the sea, a light breeze, the sunset, and Van Morrison's Brown Eyed Girl from someome's portable CD player. I think I was ten.     

Around midnight in Frösakull another summer, the heavy rain cause everyone at the party to move into someone's veranda. Kids my age and grown-ups sit down around a large wooden table while one guy, a real bon vivant, gets his guitar and suggests karaoke. First up, Queen's We Will Rock You. Before the first verse, "Buddy you're a boy make a big noise...", we bang our hands on the table. No one misses a beat. I've loved that song ever since.  

The same goes for Bonnie Tyler. My parents, my sister and I used to listen to her during the 9-hour drive to Åre, the small ski resort in northern Sweden where we often spent our winter holidays.

Bonnie Tyler - Have You Ever Seen The Rain  

Have You Ever Seen The Rain was my favourite, eventually I knew all her songs by heart.

I didn't know the songs by Elvis Costello, Michael Jackson, Stevie Wonder and Bryan Adams on my dad's vinyl records that well. Sometimes I wished he would give them to me. I never bought my own LP discs, instead I put my money on CDs. When I was 14 and found Lauryn Hill's The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill in a record store in Stockholm, I made up my mind at once. After seeing a cover on her Can't Take My Eyes Off You at a Swedish TV show the same year I knew I had to buy her album.

Lauryn Hill - Turn The Lights Down Low

I like nearly all Lauryn's songs, especially the ones at her live album MTV Unplugged No. 2.0 - mostly because of the brilliant lyrics.

India Arie - Ready For Love

When I discovered India Arie and her Strenght, Courage & Wisdom, it resulted in three Chinese signs on my left ankle. Now I want another small tattoo meaning love, after Ready For Love.

Daniel Lemma - Keeps Getting Better

I will never forget the first time I heard the Swedish artist Daniel Lemma's soulful voice, or when I heard Greek music - first at a taverna in Parga, then during a long bus drive to Meteora, on a boat from Lefkada to Kefalonia, and in my one-bedroom apartment in Zurich because the Greek family living below played loud Greek music each Friday night, every weekend. Apart from them, I suspect I was the only one in the building who actually enjoyed it.

I'm deliberately looking for songs that truly touch my heart. Almost always when meeting new people - whether it's face-to-face or online - I ask about their music taste. Except for the chance to discover a new talent, it's quite fun to check people's MP3- or iPod playlists.       

Otis Redding - I've been loving you...

Both me and my sis loves rock, but while I'm also into soul by Otis Redding, Al Green, Sam Cooke and Aretha Franklin, she prefers metal and emo rock. It was thanks to her I started listening to My Chemical Romance, Foo Fighters, Babyshambles and Ozzy Osbourne. Soul is better though.   

The Cranberries' songs also top my list of favourite music. I first heard this Irish band during my summer job as a personal assistant in Haverdal, Sweden, in 2003. My 24-year-old, water pipe-loving co-worker who recently got home from travelling in Israel often played her Cranberries albums at work. It was love at first hearing.

When I went to France as an au-pair the following year, I was introduced to various French artists. Five-year-old Emelie showed me her CD by Jenifer, the first winner of Star Academy - the French equivalence to American Idol. On weekdays at 7pm even Emelie's 1-year-old sister Eléonore sat totally sticked to the TV, watching this year's season which apperantly was a really big hit in France.

While working in Zurich in 2005 I had a Portuguese penpal who sent me a CD of Keane, and another one with so called skank. And in London two years ago when my Swedish flatmate let me copy all music from her laptop, I found 3 Doors Down.  The same year I discovered Eva Cassidy at a café in Greenwich.

After a few months in London I spent a couple of weeks at my parents house in Sweden before setting my sights on Malmö, a multicultural city in the southernmost part of the country. There I first heard the reggae singer Alpha Blondy, thanks to a guy living in the same student hall. At the same time I started to like Ben Harper and Jack Johnson more. And Matisyahu.  

Last year I came across the singer Atif Aslam. I have no idea what he says, but can't resist loving his voice.

Atif Aslam - Adaat

Listen to Adaat, Woh Lamhe and Doorie.

Music sources are everywhere... record stores, magasines, websites, ads, people, TV, film, movies.

The Lion King - Hakuna Matata

If I had to pick a cartoon, I'd have to go with the Disney hit The Lion King.

Coldplay - The Scientist

Coldplay's The Scientist and Stereophonic's Maybe Tomorrow from Wicker Park are also impossible not to love... at least for me.

All Saints - Pure Shores

Whenever I hear All Saint's Pure Shores I think of that hot scene with Richard (Leonardo DiCaprio) and Françoise (Virginie Ledoyen) in The Beach.

I also like to watch What Women Want and listen to Frank Sinatra's Too Marvelous For Words, I Won't Dance, and I've Got You Under My Skin. I love the part when Mel Gibson dances around in his Manhattan loft. The music combined with the view and Gibson's improvised dance make a terrific scene. 

And the next time you see Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason, pay attention to Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word by Mary J Blige.

And, not to forget, my absolute favorites... musicals.

RENT - Out Tonight and Another Day

Rosario Dawson surely does a great performance.

Annie - You're Never Fully Dressed Without A Smile

I first saw the musical Annie at Oskarsteatern in Stockholm several years ago, have lost count how many times I've seen the film.

Dirty Dancing - Hungry Eyes

A true classic.

Grease - You're The One That I Want

The best scene in Grease.

Moulin Rouge - Lady Marmalade

Sexy.

The Sound of Music - Do-Re-Mi

Have loved The Sound of Music ever since I saw it in 2nd or 3rd grade.

The Sound of Music - So Long, Farewell

Gretl (the youngest girl) is sooo cute at the end of this song.

Irene Cara - Fame

Won't forget Fame at the theatre Göta Lejon in Stockholm 2004. Is it possible not to love this film?

Aida - How I Know You

Beautiful melody.

Aida on Broadway

If they still play Aida on Broadway, go see it.

Let's return to movies...

Nonpoint - In the Air Tonight

The music in Miami Vice ranges from Nonpoint's cover on In the Air Tonight and Sinnerman (felix da housecat's heavenly house mix) to Auto Rock by Mogwai, Moby's One of These Mornings, and Arranca from the sensual dance scene between Crocket (Colin Farrell) and Isabella (Li Gong). If anyone know where I can find a clip from that scene, please let me know.

And don't forget Carlos Varela's Una Palabra from the end scene in Man on Fire, In the Deep by Bird York from the soudtrack to Crash, or the mix of Chaiyya Chayyia by Sukhwinder Singh & Sapna Awasthi from Inside Man.

Learn Languages Through Music

I love hearing music in other languages and often listen to non-english songs to learn new words and expressions. Lately Hindi because I've wanted to learn the language ever since middle school when I decided I'd travel to India someday. A while ago I searched for Indian music online and found a song from the movie Salaam Namaste. It will be interesting to see if I eventually manage to understand what they say.

 Salaam Namaste - My Dil Goes Mmmm

Watch it, it's funny!

Bombay Dreams

Bombay Dreams by Aneela from the Swedish movie Bombay Dreams.

Jennifer Lopez - Que Hiciste

For practising Spanish, I recommend Jennifer Lopez, Don Omar, Gloria Estefan, Manu Chao and Paola & Chiara.

Per Gessle - Sommartider

 
In case you're interested in learning some Swedish, you can listen to Per Gessle...

Lars Winnerbäck - Dunkla Rum

Lars Winnerbäck...

Lisa Nilsson - Himlen runt hörnet

or Lisa Nilsson.

Whatever you do, keep listening to music!

title: My Dil Goes Mm.. - movie: Salam Namaste

Music by Vishal-Shekhar

Artists: Shaan and Gayatri Iyer

Lyrics:

Aati hain woh aaise chal ke aaise jaise jannat mein rehti hain
dekhti hain sabko aaise jaise sabko woh sehti hain
par gusse mein jo aaye aur ankhein woh dikhlaye
ladte ladte galti se muskaaye
my dil goes mmmmmm.... (4)

karti hu jab usse baatein lagta hain sone wala hain
soke jab jabbhi woh jaage lagta hain rone wala hain
par chupke se woh aaye meri neend se mujhe jagaye
le baahon mein aur khud hi gir jaaye
my dil goes mmmmmm.... (4)

ha woh na na karti hain
ha bada akadti hain
ha thodisi ziddi hain
ha akal se piddi hain
aate hain sab woh aaye, na aaye woh jaati hain
tedhi in baaton se mujhko yeh satati hain
har waqt se pehle aanaa sunn na na koi bahana
par dekhna mera rasta rojana
my dil goes mmmmmm.... (4)

ha picture mein rota hain
ha khulle muh sota hain
ha jara nalayak hain
ha pitne ke layak hain
jaane kya kehta hain jaane kya karta hain
sofe pe chadhta hain pardo se ladta hain
jab karne lage safaai samjho ke shaamat aayi
fir thak ke jab leta hain angdaai
my dil goes mmmmmm.... (4)

ha thodi alag si hain
ha thodi galat si hain
ha thoda alag si hain
ha thoda galat si hain
aaisi bhi hogi woh aaisa na socha tha
aaisa hi hoga woh aaisa hi socha tha
kyo lagta hain yeh apna
yeh sach hain ya hain sapna
dar lagta hain kahi ho na jaaye jhuth
my dil goes mmmmmm.... (12)

Watch Salaam Namaste clip on Youtube Video

Yash Chopra's film Salaam Namaste (2005) is about Nikhil Arora (played by Saif Ali Khan) and Amby (played by Preity zinta) living in Melbourne. The film unfolds problems in their love life and deals specifically with the issue of  marriage relationships ( or the lack of it). The tagline reads: Let's get to know each other. Salaam Namaste (2005) is a fascinating movie that deals with issues that we are all faced with.

Questions for discussion ( By Samuel Thambusamy)

 (1) Ron: How long does it take to know someone?
Nick: Depends, SOmetimes one meeting is enough. Sometimes a lifetime falls short
Ron: One meeting...so I'm not being hasty then.

What would you tell Ron, if he asked you this question? Why?

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2. Can't believe Cathy! Can't believe Ron!
Both Nick and Amby found it hard to believe Cathy and Ron's decision to get married. Do you think Ron should have thought about marriage seriously? Why?

-----------------------------------------------------------

3) Nick had hated Amby (everything about her) till he met her. And then, he fell in love with her. Why do you think he fell in love with Amby?

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4) Amby: So your truth is changeable
Nick: Well...Truth is like a recipe. Somethings you hide and some you reveal.
Amby: So what's the one vital truth that you've hidden so far and from whom?
Nick: My wife doesnt know that we are married! Sorry! Just kidding

What do you think about Nick's definition of Truth? How does it affect relationships?

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5) I don't believe in marriage! But, if my mom was alive then, yes, perphaps I'd even do taht for her sake.

If Nick doesn't believe in marriage why does he fall in love with Amby? Would you feel comfortable to be in love with someone who does not believe in marriage?

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6) Nick: I love you...
Amby: Are you crazy...
Nick: No...
AmbyThen what are you saying
Nick:That I love you
AmbyYou are nuts...
Nick:Why? Because I love you.
AmbyYou don't love me.
Nick: Excuse me, How do you know that?

How does Nick understand love? Do you think Nick was a little too hasty in telling Amby about his love for her? Why?

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7) Nick has known Amber for just five days. Do you think Amby should accept Nick's love? Why? If you were Amby's close friend what would you tell her? 

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tu jahan Salaam Namaste

For more, click on Salaam Namaste tag in the inset window.

This is just to let you know I'm alive and well and constantly complaining to friends who apprehensively fear for my safety - not to mention my soul - about this winter weather business. (My favorite whine of the week: "Winter is stupid. What was God thinking?") Shut up, I know I live in California, but it's freakin' cold 'round here, take my word for it.

All I've been doing these last few weeks is eating, sleeping, lying on my couch watching Season One of Grey's Anatomy (I am so behind the times; they're actually on Season Three now, apparently), and making plans left and right to hang out with friends who support me in my predictably last-minute whims involving get-togethers and food sessions.

Speaking of food: A couple of days ago, having skipped breakfast (I can just see 2Scoops, my self-appointed Nutritionist Extraordinaire, shaking his head over there in sunny San Diego), I continually whined to B while at work about how hungry I was. Lunchtime came and went, and I hadn't even left my desk to go and eat. I think we've all realized by now that my eating habits while at work are disgraceful, to say the least, but even I've got to admit that there are days when I need what the rest of the world calls real food. Even the thought of the mint chocolate chip cookies and snickerdoodles, which I brought in the day before and which were now sitting abandoned in the workplace kitchen, just wasn't doing it for me.

Finally, at 3.45pm, I pushed my chair away from the desk, announced, "I'm going to go find some food!" and walked out to my car. While pulling away from the curb, I called the closeby Desi [South Asian] restaurant. "Hi, I'd like to order two samosas and a naan, to go."

I could swear I heard a muffled laugh from the guy at the other end of the line. "Is that all?"

"Yes, that's it. About how long will it take for the food to be ready?"

"Less than fifteen minutes. What's the name?"

"Yasmine."

When I walked into the restaurant ten minutes later, a guy called out, "Are you Yasmine?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, we only had enough vegetables left for one samosa," he said apologetically,

"Oh." I stood stock-still, thinking, "One samosa and one naan? Geez, what the hell kind of real meal is THAT? The one day I even bother."

Out loud, I said, "One samosa is fine. I do get a naan, though, right?"

The guy smiled. "Yes, the naan is all ready."

I swear I go to this place just for the naan. I had barely settled back into my car before I tore into the bread, freshly-baked and piping-hot. Curiously, I opened the styrofoam container containing the other half of my order. Inside were two samosas. TWO.

I let out a confused, "What the hell?" before I realized that "one samosa" means one order, which actually means two samosas. Suitably enlightened, I closed the container and continued munching on the naan. I had already eaten more than half of it by the time I got back to the office, where B greeted me with, "It's past 4. I can't believe you're eating lunch now, when we're leaving at 5.30 anyway."

Good lookin' out, because by the time I met the lovely rehes for dinner at 7pm, I was still far too full to properly enjoy our Desi/Thai meal. Anyone who can give me good Thai food recommendations is a rockstar in my book (I am extremely wary about Thai food; what I've grown up eating as savory food - i.e. vegetables, etc. - should not taste sugary sweet, as far as I'm concerned). rehes and I need to hang out more regularly. I trust her recommendations.

By the way, did you know that Desi restaurants have spiffy-looking websites now? Man, we're coming on up in the world these days. Never mind the fact that any Desi restaurant describing its food as "seductive and enticing" makes me giggle.

ONE. I finally got a chance to watch Rang De Basanti yesterday afternoon, over at Naz Cinema in the South Bay. I thought it was rocking. I can't remember the last time I laughed so much during a movie. Because our huge group was practically the only audience, I got to laugh as much - and as loudly - as I wanted. And, damn, do I laugh loudly. Is that something I need to be working on?

On second thought, screw that. I'm 25 years old; I refuse to change my loud laugh now. People will just have to start getting used to it.

Also, re. Rang De Basanti: Aamir Khan is way too much fun as usual, Kunal Kapoor is hot and I am considering marrying him when I grow up, and I was actually impressed with Alice Patten's grasp of Hindi. If you're way behind the times with desi films, as I always am, you really need to go see this already. Let me know what you think.

TWO. My favorite crackhead is in the Bay! I foresee lots of ice cream in the near future. Except it won't be mango ice cream from Chinatown, don't worry. Also, we'll have to fit real food somewhere in there, too, since 2Scoops is my self-appointed Nutritionist Extraordinaire.

THREE. It's supposedly 66 degrees Fahrenheit inside the house right now. Lies, all lies. My fingernails are blue with cold. Freakin' hell, yaar.

FOUR. To continue with the disgruntlement, here's a damn stupid question you should never ask me: "What's your GPA [grade point average]?" What makes you think I would even consider answering that question, unless you were a prospective employer or a really, really (REALLY) close friend - of which you are neither, last time I checked. Yeah, really.

Every day brings us closer to spring, originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

As the year winds down to a close, here are a couple of things to keep in mind:

Smile on your brother: The tsunami victims who are still struggling to rebuild their lives, the people devastated by the South Asian earthquake, the strangers on the street. These are just a few examples of those whose stories have deeply touched me this year. You can find dozens more, if you take a minute to look around.

I'll put my "heartless bastard" reputation to rest for a moment and admit that this article about building orphanages in Indonesia, post-tsunami made me tear up:

What does $1 pay for in Aceh? someone asked.

"What does $1 buy here?" Alyan asked back.

"Candy!" the kids said in unison.

"In Takengon," Alyan said, "one dollar will pay for three meals for a child."

Her answer drew silence at first. Then one of the children said, "Let's send more."

[You can read more about the orphanage and Give Light at www.givelight.org. Someday I will share my tsunami poem here, if you think you can handle the scrolling involved.]

Please continue praying for the Attari family. And send some prayers for my uncle - my aunt's husband - who passed away recently as well.

May the year 2006 be one of beauty and blessings.

Let me tell you about my friend S. My friend S is one of the most selfless people I know, the kind of person who, I've realized recently, is always putting everyone else before himself. Somayya is another one of those kind of people. They know it and I know it and everyone else knows it and they keep doing it, sometimes to their own detriment, but that's what makes them so tight, dintcha know. It's a vicious cycle sometimes, but we need more people like that in the world.

S is tight. Actually, he's the self-proclaimed tightest person in the whole wide world. He used to send out emails to the listserve, signing off as, "S____ a.k.a. Tight One." Most of the time, though, he'd email us one-liners stating simply, "I am so tight" or "I am hecka tight," prompting me to fire back responses along the lines of, "Umm, no, the world does not revolve around you, buddy."

I have to be careful about how I respond to S's comments half the time though. Most of my conversations with friends and acquaintances revolve around sarcasm and wry remarks that may come off as disconcertingly harsh and are thus somewhat misconstrued by overly sensitive people like S. Recently, for example, in response to something he had said, I told S he was "hella rude and obnoxious."

He reminded me that he is a fob, chiding me for using "big complicated words he can't spell or say." I didn't realize until the next day that he was dismayed by my comment because he thought he had genuinely hurt my feelings or offended me. So he apologized profusely. Taken aback, I burst out laughing, until I realized he was serious, so I apologized in turn. And then I had to do a step-by-step explanation of the role of sarcasm in my daily conversations. What drama.

"Besides," I explained later, "it's not about me. You know I can take it. But you made that comment to someone you don't know, and who doesn't know you, and I think it comes off as a hella rude first impression."

Then I told him how tight he was, to soften the criticism.
"I know," he said, as if that were obvious. "People tell me all the time, 'S___, you are so tight.' I'm like, 'I know I'm tight. Watch out, people, tight stuff walkin' through.' "
I rolled my eyes, as he continued muttering, "Man, I can't believe I'm so tight."

I've come to realize though that, like many of us, S uses his seeming arrogance, sarcasm, and blunt commentary as a front for masking deeper insecurities and somber life experiences. Once in a while, he'll remain serious long enough to share unexpected, heartbreaking stories, like the one about the girl in high school who used to treat him like crap for wearing the same jeans every single day, because he could only afford one pair. Last summer, he told me I was wise, and I said, No, I'm just complacent, because life's always been too good to me. How could I be wise, when I can't even begin to fathom experiences such as his: "I've slept in the airport, on park benches and streets, collected cans at night... I have done all that, and I don't take it for granted."

"I remember where I come from," he always tells me, "and I'm proud of it. Whatever I have now can be gone in a heartbeat, and I'll give up everything I have, cuz I ain't taking it to heaven."

Two Fridays ago, I checked my phone and found the following text message from S, whose house I had left my car parked in front of that morning before hanging out with Somayya the rest of the day: I washed ur car n took most of da scratches 4rm da right door. I couldnt clean da rims.

I called him straightaway to convey my massive gratitude. "No problem," he kept saying, with a note of genuine surprise in his voice, as if he couldn't understand why I would be calling to thank him. "I was washing my car, so I thought I'd go ahead and wash yours, too."

Last Monday, he called to ask, "Hey, are we still on for lunch tomorrow?"
"Yeah, of course."
"Okay, cool." He reminded me that he was heading out of town in two days, and that he would be back in Sacramento in a couple of weeks. "So hey, just drop your car off tomorrow when we go to lunch, and I'll clean the inside of it, too."
"Are you serious?!"
"Sure. For free. I love cleaning cars."
"Will do, then. Awesome, dude. Thanks so much!"
"No problem. It'll be ready by the time you get off work. Oh, hey, when's the last time you got your oil changed?"
"I dunno. It's been a while, I think."
"How long a while?"
"A few months?"
"How many months?"
"I dunno, man," I said absently, sitting down on the floor of my room and warming up my hands at the heater. "Maybe, like...last summer or something?"
"Ohhh my God... Do you know, you're supposed to change your oil every three thousand miles? Okay, I'll have to change your oil, too. The hell is wrong with you?"

He was supposed to tell me the lengthy, convoluted story about how he made it to the United States, a story he said would take him anywhere from two to five hours to relate. Instead, he spent our entire lunch berating me for not remembering the last time I got the oil changed in my car.
"I don't remember, okay?" I said, throwing up my hands in impatience. "So get over it. I just take it to Jiffy Lube every few months, and they take care of all that drama."
"Every few months? You said last summer. Your car doesn't deserve you. By the time I'm done with it, it won't even want to go home with you at the end of the day."
"Well, I check my oil regularly, even if I don't know how to change it. And the coolant, too. Doesn't that count for something?"
He was not impressed.

We finished lunch, complete with much eye-rolling on my part, and then S dropped me off at work. He then called me twice that afternoon. The first time: "Hey, do you want Armor All on your car?"
I squinted. "Almond oil?"
"Armor All."
"What's that?"
"Say 'yes,' " mouthed Somayya. "It makes your car all shiny."
"Oh, yeah, definitely then."

The second call: "When's the last time you got your transmission fluid changed?"
"Umm..."
"Okay, I'll change that, too."
"Thanks, buddy."

Preoccupied with work and pseudo-studying, I didn't make it back to S's house to pick up my car until almost 9pm that evening, but even in the darkness I could see how clean and shiny my car looked. S and I spent fifteen minutes walking around his driveway, checking out my car from every angle as he relayed everything he had done: washed/polished/waxed the outside, scrubbed the rims, vacuumed and cleaned every inch of the inside, changed my oil and transmission fluid... Thorough detail.
"Oh, and I replaced your air filter, too. Took out your old one and put a new one in." He fished my old air filter out of the garbage can and held it under the garage door light. "See this?"
I peered at it.
"See how black this is?" he said, pointing out the obvious. "It's supposed to be all white."
"Dang." I skipped around my car again, repeatedly rubbing my index finger against the surface, feeling like a gleeful little kid. "It feels so slick. You musta used hella wax and polish on this." I laughed. "Dude, it looks so freakin' clean, I can't believe it!"
"It wasn't that dirty," he shrugged.
I looked at him in disbelief. "Man, are you kidding me? Did you somehow miss the black rims and the inch-thick layers of dust on the dashboard?"
"I've seen dirtier cars than that, okay. Make sure you get your oil changed every three thousand miles," he reminded me. "With all your driving, you have to do this regularly. Wait, how many miles do you drive a week?"
"Umm. Six hundred a week between home and school. Oh, and I work three days a week in Sacramento, too."
"Dayamm. So that makes how many?"
"Another ninety or so. So let's make it an even seven hundred."
"Seven hundred miles a week?!" he yelped. "For the love of God! What are you, insane?"

He handed me a plastic grocery bag. "What's this?" I asked, peering inside.
"An extra bottle of oil, and one of transmission fluid, left over from what I put in your car."
"Dude, just keep them for your own car," I insisted, but he refused to take them. "Okay, just tell me how much all this stuff cost, so I can pay you back."
"No," he said obstinately, opening my car door. "Go home."
"Fine then. I owe you a couple of lunches and ice cream, whenever you get back."
"Okay, okay. Oh, and wear sunglasses in the morning," he warned. "The car might blind you."
I laughed, eyeing the car in the dark. "Buddy, I'm loving the shininess, whatever I can see of it. There's no way it's going to blind me."

The next morning, however, I had to concede he was right, as the sunshine bounced off the interior of my car - especially the shiny dashboard and steering wheel - and attacked my eyes, which were already strained after a late-night study session. Yellow-orange-tinted sunglasses to the rescue!

I called S when I got to campus. "The car looks awesome, dude. Thanks so much!"
"If you thank me one more time," he snapped, "I'm going to throw up."
"Please restrain yourself. And get over it."

In the afternoon, he left me a voicemessage: "Hey, what's crackin'? I just listened to your message from last night, too. Stop thanking me. I just washed your car, it's not like I saved your life or something. Have a beautiful day with your 10am to 9pm back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back classes. Oh, and make sure you don't get stepped on, okay?"

I've been more in touch with S over the past week than I have over the past six months before that. This is mainly because I stalk him everyday by calling to tell him how shiny clean my car is, and how much I love it, and so he feels obligated to return all my rambling phone calls. Now that he's got me all mushy about my car, S is working on two things:

1) Constantly reminding me about how short I am [I'm 5'1", and, yes, I'm perfectly okay with this]
(Sample voicemessages: "Did I ever tell you that you're so short? I noticed it today and was like, 'Dang, Yasmine is hella short! I didn't want to step on you.' " and
"To me, you will always be thirteen years old. Be careful and make sure you don't get stepped on, okay?" and
"Why are you so short? And your brother is a giant. Why? Genetics can't explain that." and
"I'm taller than you. Taller means everything."); and

2) Harassing me about my lack of study habits
(He called me a couple of evenings ago to check up on how my studying was going.
"Um, actually, I just finished dinner."
"Dinner?" he said incredulously. "You got home at 7:30. That was three hours ago. It took you three hours to eat dinner?"
"Well, no, but there's nothing wrong with prolonging a good thing."
"Unless you're taking 24 units," he pointed out. "And your problem is, half the time, you're driving. And the other half, you're napping. What's wrong with you? You're always taking naps everywhere. You need to stop sleeping so damn much."
And last night:
"Are you studying?"
"No! It's Friday!"
"Every day is a Friday for you, isn't it? How are you planning on passing those 24 units?"
"Shut up.")

I'm easily amused and impressed by simple things, and so the ways to my heart are many. But because I am also the Commuter Child Extraordinaire, two things will earn you my massive, never-ending gratitude: Washing my car for me (which no one has ever willingly volunteered to do before S tackled the job), and filling up my gas tank to the max (which my dad always does on the rare occasions he borrows my car).

S called me late Thursday night to share a "pretty tight" verse from the Quran. Why do people always assume I'll be awake at 12:30am?

Oh, wait, because I usually am.

To continue... I was actually asleep for once in my life, so he left a voicemessage with the verse, and the related footnote/commentary. I listened to it early yesterday morning, on my way to school, grateful for the timely reminder in these weeks of ungodly, uncharitable thoughts on my part:

And call not, besides God, on another god. There is no god but He. Everything (that exists) will perish except His own Face. To Him belongs the Command, and to Him will ye (all) be brought back. (Quran, 28:88)

Later in the day, while I was at work, he IMed me with, "Hey, I found another pretty tight verse."
"What is it?"
"2:255. But I don't know how to say it in Arabic."
"Oh!" I said. "That's called Ayat al-Kursi. It's one of my favorites. I can recite the Arabic for you, if you want to hear it. Lemme call you when I get off work, okay?"

I finally got around to calling him that evening, while I was on the road, about ten minutes from home.
"For the love of God!" he exclaimed. "What took you so damn long? I've had the crappiest day ever, and I was looking forward to the Arabic version of that verse all day long."
"Sorry. Alright, buddy, here goes..." So I recited Ayat al-Kursi and the two verses that follow it.
There was empty silence for a few moments after I finished. Then he said, "Wow."
"Yeah, it's good stuff, huh?"
"That just made you the tightest person in my book."
"I already knew that, but thanks anyway."

How can you not love being friends with a kid who sends text messages like the following, a la Martin Luther King, Jr.'s famous speech:
i had a dream and i woke up and wrote about it, that one day we will find a place to eat, i have a dream today that we will eat good food and chill, i have a dream today that my stomach will be full of good food, i have a dream today.

Today's text message states:
u are tight cause u have a friend like me who is the #1 TIGHTEST. ME. i'm Tight. thus making u guys tight cause u guys are my friends.

Indeed.

and it's the way that we will forgive ourselves

and it's the way that we will for no one else

- Josh Kelly, Amen

I call my friend Z one morning to tell her that I am skipping all my classes and instead studying at the cafe of her favorite Borders Bookstore here in the East Bay, and that she is more than welcome to join me any time during the day. She shows up half an hour later with some apples and carrot sticks for us to munch on – I peer ambivalently at her choice of food, having already started on a candy bar – and greetings of, "Heyy, beautiful lady!"

"Okay, stop," I mutter, and hug her tightly. Z graduated from our university in June, and I've barely seen her since. When I last saw her at the end of Ramadan, she urged me to call her up to hang out sometime. "I'm in the Bay all the time now!" she said excitedly. "Alright, will do," I replied, but, later, thinking about the conversation, I realized, Wait, but I'm never there. Even though I live in the Bay, yes I know. But I've known Z since our second year of college, and there are very few people I make an active effort to stay in touch with. Z is one of those rare friends, and I had immediately thought of her when I planned my stakeout at Borders the evening before.

She has her laptop, envelopes and manila folders, and paperwork related to her ongoing graduate school admissions process. I've got my pile of books, lecture notes, and the only CD I ever listen to whenever I'm studying, Norah Jones' Come Away With Me, because that's really the only non-distracting, background-sort-of-music I own.

An hour or so into our study session, as we shift around in our chairs and start becoming distracted by book posters and the cafe menu, Z looks across the table at me and says with practiced casualness, "So Yasmine, I have a question for you. We never have this conversation, you know, so I figured I should ask today." I squint suspiciously. "What conversation?"

She smiles knowingly, and I suddenly occupy myself with flipping through the pages of my book in exaggerated concentration. "Okay. So I have reading to do. Thomas More and the Utopians and their attitude towards boundless human happiness. And religion. Dude, this book is hella cool. I wonder if More was an undercover Muslim, you think?"

She is undeterred by my attempts at intellectual distraction. "Fine, here, I'll write it down for you," she says, smirking while I shake my head and go back to my notes. She hastily scribbles down a few lines and shoves the slip of paper across the table. I glance at it and roll my eyes. "God, why are you so predictable? Why do we need to talk about boys? Do you know how gorgeously simple and drama-free my life is just because I can't be bothered to have conversations like this?"

"Come on," she presses. "Let's talk. Not like any of them are worthy of you anyway, but what are you looking for in a guy?"

"Um," I say. "The guy version of me?" We both burst out laughing, and I explain, "No, wait, I have to tell you this story—" So I tell her about the morning Somayya and I were driving somewhere, having a conversation slightly similar to this one, and Somayya looked across at me and said, "You know what, Yazzo, I've decided what I need is a boy version of you." "Me, too!" I exclaimed, but she corrected me: "No, what you need is a boy version of me," whereupon we giggled hysterically the rest of the way to our destination.

Z laughs at our collective epiphany, but I can tell I won't get away with any more delaying tactics. I sigh. "Okay. Someone who's Muslim, obviously, because that's very important to me. And I guess, basically, someone who's a student of knowledge." I laugh at the expression on her face, knowing instinctively that she's thinking of mullahs and madrassahs. "No, nothing hardcore, don't worry. I mean… Okay, it's kinda like this: Someone who's constantly trying to figure out who he is and how to improve himself and what the hell he's supposed to be doing with his life, and how God fits into all that. That's all part of the process of seeking knowledge too, right there. Just a certain, active way of looking at the world. Oh, and of course he has to be insanely weird and crackheaded like me, otherwise it's never gonna work out. Does that all kinda make sense?"

"Of course it does. See, that wasn't very painful, was it?" She pauses for a moment, ignoring me as I belligerently retort, "Yes, it was!"

"It's funny," she says. "You're looking for someone who very much identifies as Muslim, and I'm looking for someone who's not practicing at all. Maybe not even Muslim at all."

"Why's that?" I ask, somewhat stunned.

We sit there at Borders while she tells me her stories, much of which I knew already, but not the painful depth of it. Her hands are cold, so very cold, so I cover them with my own, and we sit there across from one another with our hands bent together and piled in the middle of the table. Her voice is casual and straightforward – deliberately so, I know – but her eyes are overly bright with pain and unshed tears.

She tells me what it has been like for her, growing up as the only child of a Bengali Christian mother and a Pakistani Muslim father. A mother who swallowed her own pain and taught her daughter the steps of making ablution, explained the intricacies of Muslim prayer, guided her through fasting during Ramadan, and drove her to and from Arabic lessons so Z could read the Quran on her own. And a father who, when Z asked, "Don't we as Muslims have a responsibility and obligation to learn about other religious traditions so we can better understand and explain our own?" sternly, expressly forbade her to do so, yet neither practiced himself nor made any basic effort to teach her about Islam either.

Knowing that her culture is important to her, I ask whether she feels more of a connection to South Asian Christians rather than to South Asian Muslims. She shrugs slightly. "Maybe a little bit, but it's always the same thing: the Christians don't understand the Muslim side of me, and the Muslims don't understand the Christian influence in my life."

"Look at it this way," she says. "Look at yourself, for example. You come across as very confident. You walk into a room knowing exactly who you are. You're Yasmine, and you're Muslim and Pakistani and American. I, on the other hand, can't say any of that so easily. All I know is, I'm Z, and…and that's all."

"You know my car, right?" she asks. I nod. "That car used to be my mother's, and she gave it to me when I started college. She had a bumper sticker on the back that said, in big letters, FEAR GOD, and a short, relevant verse from the Bible underneath. That's all, nothing more." She tells me about the time she rounded the corner into a university parking lot one day, only to find a group of Muslim male acquaintances gathered around her car, examining the bumper sticker and asking one another, "Hey, whose car is that?" "Wait, that belongs to Z, right?" "Oh yeah, her mom's a kaffir, isn't she?"

I flinch.

Z, to give her inner strength due credit, choked back her hurt, smiled coldly at the students and made the requisite small talk while pretending she hadn't heard any of the previous comments. "But, Yasmine," she says now, her hands still cold under mine, "I wanted to fit in so badly that as soon as they turned and left, I ripped off that bumper sticker and I broke my mother's heart that day."

There were raised eyebrows and whispers within their Muslim community when Z's mother recently gathered up her faith and courage and once more began attending church regularly, after so many years of not doing so. At social gatherings, the Muslim women politely ask one another, "Where is Z's mother?" and the answers will range from "Oh, she had a prior commitment," to "Oh, she wasn't feeling very well today," but what no one will admit is that she was not invited in the first place.

And then, as Z reminds me, there was the Muslim graduation picnic held this past June, co-sponsored by the Muslim Students Association from the university and the Muslim community members within the city itself. It was an event well attended not only by Muslims, but also by many non-Muslim university officials and administrators, community leaders including those involved in city council and interfaith activities, and community members including passersby who randomly decided to stop by on the spur of the moment. I was humbled and honored to see such amazing, supportive presence from the non-Muslim community, especially when several of them stood up to warmly proclaim that they were there to show solidarity with us Muslims.

I thought everything was going well, until a former MSA president reached the part in his speech where he began firmly cautioning the Muslim students present against "emulating the kuffar."

I learned later that evening that Z left the picnic soon afterward, in tears, hurt beyond words to hear such harsh condemnation of the so-called "kuffar," a category which obviously includes her own mother, the woman who, while admittedly non-Muslim, had raised Z to be far more aware of Islam and its religious traditions than her Muslim father ever had. Sick and disheartened, Somayya and I repeatedly asked each other, "What the hell was he thinking?" for days afterward as well. It was painful and disappointing to hear such rhetoric from someone I had held in such high esteem as an exemplary brother in Islam, and I lost a massive amount of respect that day for, ironically, someone whose work on interfaith councils I had always very much admired.

"It comes back to the conversation we started with," Z says. "I refuse to marry anyone who disrespects my mother simply because she's not Muslim. Who's to say that non-Muslim men aren't more tolerant and open-hearted than any of the narrow-minded Muslim men I've met so far? Why wouldn't I want to emulate my mother? How would you feel, Yasmine, if you were married to a non-Muslim man and you had to teach your children about his religion at the expense of your own?"

"I think it would break my heart everyday," I say in a small voice.

Sitting as we are with our piled hands and miserable faces in the middle of the Borders cafe, we probably incite some curious glances from fellow cafe patrons, but I don't know, because all I can see is through the tears in my eyes is the sadness on her face. "I can't even begin to imagine," I say, "what a huge heart your mother must have."

And there is more, but I think this is already more than enough. I hesitate to post even this, mainly because Z doesn't know about my weblog, and her stories are not mine to tell and share. And also because I feel I may just be preaching to the choir, so to speak, because as bloggers most of us are already in the habit of choosing our words carefully, painstakingly.

But I write this because I hate the word "kaffir," and I hate how it comes so easily to some Muslims even as it makes me flinch, and I hate that we contemptuously turn away the very same people we accuse of not understanding us, without giving them a fair chance to know who we are, without granting them credit for making the beautiful effort of shared human spirit and outreach that we ourselves as Muslims rarely make a point of with other communities. Who the hell are we to be critical then, when we accuse others of stereotyping us and disliking us and being ignorant of who we are, of the vastness of our humanity and traditions, and of what Islam in its pure beauty truly stands for? And I guess what I'm really just trying to figure out is –

When did we ourselves become so damn self-righteous and judgmental?