Sweet Cider

It was worth making the effort to get to the penultimate showing of Sweet Cider, Emteaz Hussain’s stage debut for Tamasha productions. It helps that I am enamoured with the plethora of Turkish grill restaurants, or mangal ocakbasis, that encircle the Arcola theatre in Dalston. (My cousin recently changed my life by introducing me to Hasan Meze & Mangal whose grilled onion with pomegranate juice, olive oil and lemon juice is simply superb).

The play itself was both charming and challenging. The audience is invited to share an unspecified period of time with two Muslim girls from somewhere near Manchester as they rebuild their lives having been forced to relocate to a women's refuge. It was refreshing to see the idiosyncratic Northern Anglo-Pakistani dialect replicated so wonderfully well on stage.

My only criticism would have to be the writer's succumbing to dealing with seemingly every single issue affecting British Muslim youth at the expense of character development. A noteworthy debut nonetheless.

Attack of the Clipboards

View episode 3 of the BMJ blog here.

Iqbal on the (1935) Credit Crunch

An extract from Allamah Muhammad Iqbal's 'Lenin in the divine presence':

The towering Bank out-tops the cathedral roof;
What they call commerce is a game of dice
For one, profit, for millions swooping death.
There science, philosophy, scholarship, government,
Preach man's equality and drink men's blood.

The Bundu Khan Rollercoaster

We made a surprisingly impulsive decision to eat at the brand new Bundu Khan restaurant in Whitechapel the other day. (In reality it was a neuro-linguistically programmed predestined decision as several people had mentioned the eatery in conversation over the previous fortnight.) We drove past, made the mental connections and somehow found a parking space.

The Bundu Khan phenomenon was born in Karachi. It soon spread across Pakistan (with four restaurants in Lahore) and is now truly international. It boasts branches in Australia and the US and, with this yeast-independent expansion, is probably within walking distance of where you're reading this from now.

Our experience was mixed. The decor was understated and crisp. The staff were overstated and seemed more numerous than actual choices on the menu. The poppadoms were far from crisp and were probably vestiges of the Raj. The fish curry was the best I'd ever had. The 'special Bundu Khan paratha' was essentially a deep-fried nan. We disagreed over the relative merits of our drinks as well as those of the palak-paneer. The cocktails left a lot to be desired. "Like toilet cleaner" apparently.

I'm trying hard to convince myself that this was a memorable trip. It was. But for all the wrong reasons.

The Universal Strategy

Read the second instalment of my BMJ Blog here.

Whole Lotah Love!

I’ve always wondered whether Iris, my housekeeper at university, ever thought to herself why on earth I had a watering-can in my bathroom despite my digs being totally devoid of any greenery whatsoever. Not even a sprig of mint or coriander for garnish. She (thankfully) asked no questions and heard no lies.

The lotah, ibreeq, bottle-shottle – call it what you will – is a utensil found in many a Muslim bathroom. In its simplest form it’s a jug with a spout that’s used as a hands-on bidet. Despite the allure of triple quilted toilet paper, we continue to prefer to combine forces, or the brave just simply wash and go. It’s an ubiquitous feature of life, reflecting religious injunctions on cleanliness and ritual purity.

Traditionally it looks like an oversized teapot without a lid and is made from metal or plastic although the variations in size, shape and colour are almost endless. Logistical nightmares can arise when you’re unexpectedly faced with a different style of lotah to the one you’ve grown up with. Left-handers seem to be at a distinct disadvantage when adhering to the left hand – dirty, right hand – clean, convention.

An increasingly common modern variant of the lotah is what the plumber recently working on my uncle’s house subtly referred to as the ‘bum-shower’. These often frightfully complex gadgets are nothing more than a modified hosepipe. Attached either side of a toilet they can be the source of epic flooding disasters if the owners don’t clarify instructions before you find yourself using one.

Equally traumatic experiences can arise from finding yourself in need of a lotah when there just isn’t one around. Spurred on by the embarrassment of always taking a bottle of mineral water to the toilets or sneaking around them with moistened toilet paper, creative individuals have found an ingenious use for collapsible plastic bottles.

On honeymoon in Malaysia I encountered a Japanese inspired toilet with a built-in retractable bidet which perhaps offers the perfect harmony between water and manual input. We can only live in hope…alongside the Andrex puppy.

Flashmob Iftar

Last Tuesday, as the sun set, I found myself sat on some tarpaulin in Lincoln' Inn Fields, one of London's soup kitchen corners, sharing some food with family and randoms. This was my first flashmob experience, and a flashmob iftar at that.

The chaotic spontaneity combined with an act of goodwill really helped to practically apply the ethos of Ramadhan that so often remains theoretical and abstract. So many people sharing thoughts and stories over food with strangers showed a wonderful flip-side to the usual tabloid typecasting.

Read the organiser's thoughts here and the Guardian's Sarfaraz Manzoor sheds some light on the flashmob iftar phenomenon here.

On the frontline as a GP registrar

From this week's British Medical Journal Editor's Choice:

New guest blogger Tauseef Mehrali is about to start a year's stint as a GP registrar in London, fully aware that his future will require the utmost in flexibility and lateral thinking: "Central London has the dubious distinction of being the epicentre of changes to primary care provision, and I'm already eyeing up a corner of my local Tesco Express to set up shop in. I wonder how many reward points patients will accrue on agreeing to see me as they wander past the frozen veg."

Yes that's right, I now have the cyber-equivalent of a holiday home. Read more here.

Where have all the good sales assistants gone?

As we slalomed around several incredibly over sized pushchairs parked throughout the baby department of a well-known triliteral high-street store - the very same store that Londoners are warned to mind out for as they get on and off the tube - we noticed a dearth of sales staff. Our task was to find an outfit for a friend's now not-so-newly-arrived baby. I decided to wade through the sea of pushchairs and see if the cashier could shed some light on this.

Me: Excuse me...there don't seem to be any sales staff on the shop floor.
Cashier: [with an expression that suggested this was quite a normal state of affairs] Oh right.
Me: We just wanted to see if this [holding up a stripey baby jumpsuit] was available in the 3-6 months size.
Cashier: I don't know where they [presumably referring to her co-workers] all are.

In due adherence to shopping protocol I thanked her for her assistance.

Ramadhan in Images

Click here for a wonderfully diverse pictorial tour of the Muslim world during Ramadhan (and as pointed out by SD, perhaps the biggest jalebi in the world...ever).

Date Dilemma

In the prelude to Ramadhan, coming a respectable third in the topic of conversation league to the perennial moon-sighting debacle and what date to book off work for Eid, is the date dilemma.

Traditionally consumed at the time of breaking the fast, the wrong date can induce huge feelings of regret as a chalky, flaky, pseudo-sweet disaster destroys your palate. Thoughts of chewing the stone are usually not far away at this point.

Thankfully, such experiences have been few and far between. My earliest childhood date memories revolve around the ubiquitous almond-stuffed blocks of dates from Medina. These were soon replaced by the uniquely glossy rotab dates of Iran.

Enter the Medjool date.

A Medjool (left) and a Khadrawi (right) date.

The Medjool date represents the evolutionary pinnacle of the date species. This year's crop from South Africa, which I managed to get my hands on in Green Street, is exceptional.

Iqbal for Dinner

Between dinner and dessert at a friend's place yesterday, we were treated to a farsi masterclass via the medium of Iqbal.

A Dialogue between God and Man

God

I made the whole world with the same water and clay,
But you creater Iran, Tartary and Ethiopia.
From the earth I brought forth pure iron,
But you made from that iron sword, arrow and gun.
You made an axe for the tree in the garden,
And a cage for the songbird.

Man

You made the night, I made the lamp;
You made the earthen bowl, I made the goblet.
You made deserts, mountains and valleys;
I made gardens, meadows and parks.
I am one who makes a mirror out of stone,
And turns poison into sweet, delicious drink.

And perhaps my favourite, delightfully oblique piece:

Solitude

I went up to the ocean and, addressing a wave, said:
‘You’re always restless; tell me what is it that troubles you.
You have a million pearls enfolded in your garment’s skirt,
But do you, like me, have a heart – the only pearl that’s true?
It squirmed, retreated from the shore, and uttered not a word.

I went up to the mountain and said, "O huge heap of stone!
Can you not hear the wailing of a heart in agony?
If in your stones there is a gem which is a drop of blood,
Then speak, O speak, to a sad soul that pines for company.
If it had breathed, it breathed no more, and uttered not a word.

I travelled long in upper space, approached the moon, and said:
"O ceaseless wanderer, is there any rest ordained for you?
Your radiance makes the whole world gleam white like a jasmine field.
But is your breast aglow with a live heart whose light shines through?"
She looked round at the starry crops, and uttered not a word.

Transcending sun and moon, I went up to the Throne of God.
"There’s not a thing," I said, "I can be friends with, not a thing.
Your world is heartless, while my dust is all of heart’s stuff made.
A pretty garden, but not the kind of place to make one sing."
He answered with the smile He wore, and uttered not a word.

Commercial Cambridge

As the digressive_mind and I strolled through Cambridge yesterday, even the warm late-afternoon glow of the colleges along Kings Parade couldn't disguise the overwhelming commercialisation of the town. The preponderance of (admittedly discreet) malls and high-street franchises renders the place less quirky and more capitalist.

Fasting Fast Approaching

Over at Akram's Razor, Svend captures the zeitgeist:

Gulp ye coffee while ye may, for Ramadan is but 2 weeks away.

As is the case every year, Ramadan arrives just as I'm trying to get back into some semblance of an exercise routine.

So much for that plan, at least for a month and a half or so. There's always the nocturnal walk, I suppose.

Our infinite ignorance

In today's issue of the British Medical Journal, Dr Iona Heath frames the philosophies of Karl Popper and Immanuel Kant in the context of modern medicine, in particular the widening schism between research and clinical practice.

Her assertion is that only a select band of clinicians are involved in research that itself focuses on patients whose outcomes conform with trends (rather than the fascinating conundrums posed by those that buck the trend, such as octogenarian smokers). The remaining clinicians are 'handed down' the results of such research in the form of 'guidelines, incentives and imperatives'. In Heath's opinion, this state of affairs stifles autonomous thought on the part of the clinician and she invokes Kant's 'battle cry of the Enlightenment': '"Sapere aude" Dare to use your own intelligence!', encouraging its use as a battle cry for every clinician.

It might be well for all of us to remember that, while differing widely in the various little bits we know, in our infinite ignorance we are all equal. (Karl Popper)

Khuda Ke Liye

I recently watched Khuda ke liye (For the sake of God), Pakistan's critically (and internationally) acclaimed movie depicting some of the country's deeply entrenched and divisive social issues: religious conservatism vs liberalism, east vs west, men vs women.

Shoaib Mansoor's film almost succeeded in convincing me of its merits but sadly a few things detracted too substantially from the viewing experience.

1. It reinforces plenty of stereotypes (which may reflect the state of affairs in Pakistan) but I find it hard to accept that there is such a barren middle ground between the wildly polarised ends of manifestation and expression of religious belief. Fanatical religious zealots and unfettered libertines seem to make up the majority of the cast of characters with the odd individual in a state of transition from one state to the other or in denial.
2. Mary (a second generation Pakistani in the UK who is forced into a marriage in Afghanistan) has the worst Mockney accent in cinematic history. It makes Don Cheadle's accent in Ocean's Eleven, 'the most preposterous Cockney accent since Dick van Dyke' seem like a linguistic masterclass. [Incidentally, Mary's father who dupes her into this awful relationship, leaves the village he has chosen as her prison before wishing her goodbye because the toilet's aren't quite up to scratch!]
3. It was far, far too long. The point could have been made in at least 60 minutes less time.
4. The accompanying subtitles were obviously compiled by someone with a working knowledge of neither Urdu nor English. Simply hopeless.

Still, despite these shortcomings, the film bodes well as a harbinger of what's to come from non-Lollywood Pakistani cinema.

Goodbye General

Mohammed Hanif, of exploding mangoes fame, reflects on the General's departure from Pakistani politics in The Guardian:

What a shame that America's spurned lover won't get to try his luck on America's Got Talent to win his old ally back. With no western country interested in making use of his abilities, his showbiz career will have to bloom in the deserts of Saudi Arabia, that retirement home for Muslim dictators. Give him his own daytime show. His audience there will appreciate his enlightened moderation more than Pakistanis ever did.

Whatever happened to Ali Eteraz?

The answer seems to lie here.

Square Mile Coffee Roasters

I had the good fortune of chancing upon London's newest roasters in full swing the other day. Coffeegeek.com's forums are all aglow with praise for the new company that boasts the World Barista Champion 2008, Stephen Morrissey, on their staff.

Anyway, after a relatively painless drive through East London and a bit of almost-legal parking I wandered along a narrow alley until the smell of roasting coffee and enormous brown sacks signposted the way. My perseverance was rewarded by a super-fresh batch of roasted coffee (the WBC limited edition espresso blend). As it was so fresh, the staff advised to let it air for a while otherwise the resulting coffee would be too gaseous.

So I drove back with a half-open bag of freshly roasted coffee beans on the passenger seat, stopping at red lights to inhale the aroma, like a refined glue-sniffer.

Channel 4 documentary: Misleading & Defamatory

Channel 4 is getting a much deserved coordinated roasting for its woefully inaccurate documentary entitled The Qur'an - specifically its portrayal of Shia beliefs.