Mendicant Mafias

In which we look at the moral dilemma of giving to street beggars: damned if we do and damned if we don’t!

Image courtesy of Sofia Bilgrami

In all poor countries beggary is a fact of life. It has even become a nuisance feature of plush first world cities like London and New York. Its not an exaggeration to say that every foray out into the streets of Karachi is fraught with waves of maimed beggars, scruffy kids, shrouded women thrusting swaddled babies at cars, wizened crones sharply rapping windows, elderly bearded men clutching sibhas (the Muslim rosary) importuning you piously, gaudily made up hijras (transsexuals) clapping their way down the lines of cars at traffic lights and now, the most recent trend, kids and youths pouncing upon windscreens with squeegees dripping with corrosive soapy water. Woe betide the latter should any of them dare besmirch my driver’s carefully polished car, for then his usually controlled demeanour quickly disintegrates as he starts to unclip his seat-belt and make as if to get out and beat up these extorters of conscience money.

This is a menace that will never go away. I’ve blogged before about the humbling upside of encountering the disabled and the destitute. But survival strategy dictates that while living here one develops a modus operandi if one is to avoid being sucked into paralyzing guilt or flying into rages of irritation. Giving to charity and helping the poor in some meaningful sustainable way obviates most of the guilt and is simply good citizenship. Better to support a bona fide foundation that deploys resources in constructive ways (like the Zubeda Khaliq Memorial Trust, or Panah) than to drip feed a few rupees to anonymous beggars. 

In a country where poverty abounds and the disabled are almost invisible to the state (vocational training is scarcely available), perhaps giving to the disabled begging on the street is more easily justifiable. But there are layers to the phenomenon of beggary that point to deeply disturbing social fault-lines: mafia operations, abduction of children and enforced beggary, drug addiction, and the lack of effective social welfare infrastructure. The most twisted aspects of beggary are maiming and trafficking. What Egyptian novelist Naguib Mahfouz wrote of so hauntingly in his book 'Midaq Alley' also happens here.

It staggers the mind that beggary is actually considered a ‘career’. There are whole tribes in rural Sindh who live by the proceeds of urban beggary. Every Ramadan, the month in which most Muslims are brought closer to their consciences, the numbers of mendicants on the streets swell and sidewalks become their temporary home. Some generous households in rich neighbourhoods become feeding depots for crowds of them as long strips of table cloth are laid down on the pavements outside and covered with dates, fresh fruit, sherbets, pekoras and samosas. During the rest of the year, every Friday after congregational prayers, the faithful have to wade through clusters of beggars as they leave the mosques. It is heart-wrenching to see hordes of kids being forced to beg on the streets; given the chance any one of them would prefer to be in school or anywhere else but live such a hazardous street life.

The whole issue of giving to beggars is a thorny one. On the one hand Islamic moral heritage teaches of the high value placed on charity and helping the indigent, shoring up instinctive human philanthropy with religious imperative. The Prophet is known to have said, ‘Give to a beggar even if he comes on a horse’. Charity is central to our faith. It's bad form to say no. The Qur'an says, 'Never will you attain true goodness until you give of what you love, and Allah is aware of what you do.' (3:92).

The very notion of Islam's wealth tax – the zakat – is to ‘purify’ wealth of excess storage and hoarding and should result in its redistribution where it is most needed. Imam Ja‘far al-Sadiq was once asked why zakat was calculated at two and half percent, and his reply was that out of every thousand people, there would always be 25 indigents incapable of earning their keep. Implicit in the principle practice and very lexicography of zakat is the idea of individuals and societies being rendered 'purer' - i.e. healthier (for the Arabic also implies increase and growth) - by the very act.

On the other hand it seems charity doesn’t really help stem or end beggary but  encourages it. In which case the question arises: are you making the situation worse? Does the so-called good deed invert into a bad one? And as far as zakat is concerned (as distinct from charity or sadaqa) it involves not only the collection but also the responsible disbursement of funds. It is here where it seems the greatest weakness lies: we simply don't have confidence that our zakat is going to where its most needed, unless we deliver it there ourselves. 

Furthermore, there is another moral principle espoused by Islam: that of not asking at all - at least not of creation, but only of God. The truth is that ultimately we do not own anything for ourselves, we are merely guardians and stewards of wealth given to us. 

The Indo-Pak sub-continent has a long history of honorable beggary, however, in both Hindu and Islamic traditions. In one manifestation common in South India Shiva is the supreme beggar-ascetic (Bhikshatana), one of his four arms holding out a skull-cup to receive alms. Hindu sannyasin were often labelled as ‘fakirs’ (an Arabic term absorbed into the Anglo-Indian vernacular) and there has always been a strong tradition of Hindu ascetics staying near the shrines of prominent Sufis like Sultan Bahu, where they would be equally welcomed and tolerated alongside Muslim mendicants, and like the inevitably present majdhubs (enraptured lovers of God). 

In the esoteric tradition of Islam, wandering dervishes, or ‘fakirs,’ (faqir: literally, a poor one who recognizes his utter need of and subsistence in God) were worthy recipients of people’s charity for they had chosen to rely on providence for their sustenance, and this was always recognized as a noble, if not exactly imitable, way to live a godly life. Giving to them was always considered a way of drawing upon oneself God's favour and blessing. Much has changed, however, and nowadays most such characters are deemed a parasitical nuisance.

When I was a young bride learning how to cope in Karachi, my mother-in-law showed me one way of handling the onslaught. She would regularly challenge able-bodied women who approached her saying, ‘Come and work for me!’ Invariably the answer was ‘No, why should I? I earn more this way!’ And off my mother-in-law would go, cursing these lazy good-for-nothings. While I would look on with a bit of remorse, she had no such compunctions of bourgeois guilt at privilege, because she had lived through the difficulties of partition and the sacrifice that went into growing this country.  She and her husband had helped to support their entire family as they came over here and settled, sharing with them whatever they had in their hour of need. Pride and a staunch work ethic had seen them through the toughest of times. Laziness or greed was inexcusable. Now, as an elderly woman, it is her utter delight to spend all she has on worthy causes.

How I wish I could be as firm-minded as her and less wavering. Sadly I grew up in a more pampered way, but still with a strong sense of duty to give and share. Keen awareness of the favors I’ve been blessed with propel me to reach for my purse. Irritation at the increasing invasiveness of their asking makes me put it back. I may be merely assuaging my distress at the relative misfortune of others or demonstrating my gratitude for my own good fortune. I don’t know. I cannot deny the element of guilt that creeps in. My ears are not immune to the cleverly worded  and intoned entreaties and prayers peppered upon them. My guilty charity changes nothing. I feel complicit in these cankering games of extortion. It just perpetuates the gross oppression of man-made injustices – and generates more guilt in the form of self reproach. And this is of course what the mendicant mafias bank on. Literally!

Gizmo’s Even Greater Adventure

In which Gizmo, aforesaid Hamster, escapes his cage and is flung into the big wide world outside.

Gizmo's next great adventure took place when once again I was abroad, but this time on my own, as school was still in session. 786 Hilal was fully occupied by family and extended family. Zahra, my sister in law, and her husband Azhar had just arrived from Canada and were trying to sleep off the jetlag in our guest bedroom on the lower ground floor. In the middle of the night Zahra was disturbed by a persistent scrabbling noise.  She woke up her husband, they switched on the light and found to their amazement a rodent perched on their bed, nose twitching, whiskers vibrating and paws proffered up elegantly.

‘A rat!’ shrieked Zahra.

Azhar girded his loins and gritted his teeth.

Gizmo did not react to the shout of alarm. In fact, he did not show the slightest inclination to scarper.

Azhar’s mental machinery jerked into action and he got up to catch the ‘rat’.

In spite of the fog of jet lag, it occurred to Zahra that this was an unusual rat as she would have expected him to have scurried off lickety-split. But the idea that before her quivered an esteemed pet resident of 786 Hilal had not occurred to her.

Azhar managed to place the ‘rat’ under the waste basket which he left turned upside down. That would do for now, he thought. Best to deal with it in the morning.

Both went back to sleep. Some time later, they were again awoken by the disturbing sounds of scratching. Azhar got up to check on the ‘rat’. The ‘rat’ had almost chewed its way out through the basket, its snout was now poking out through the hole it had made.

‘This creature is not going to let us sleep!’ groaned Azhar. ‘I’m going to kill it!’

‘No!’ cried Zahra, ‘just put it out.’

Amenable to his wife’s entreaty, Azhar roused himself further out of his soporific stupor, put on his slippers, went up and out through the front door, intending to rid himself of this pest. By then it was almost 5 am and close to fajr, the morning prayer. His emergence took the nightwatchman by surprise. But Azhar marched up to the gate, let himself out, walked across the street to the huge empty plot opposite and flung the ‘rat’ into the pile of garbage that daily accumulates from the string of houses along the street.

Hearing the commotion at the gate, Chacha, our diligent chowkidar, came to investigate.

‘What was that all about?’ he asked the guard.

‘Oh, the Mehman (guest) Sahib threw a rat out of the house,’ said the guard, grinning.

Chacha was nonplussed.

‘Rat?’ thought Chacha to himself, ‘there are no rats in this house!’ And he should know because not only did he fulfil the role of chowkidar, he was also our general and invaluable helper around the house. Every day he would open up the house and close it up. He would set up the breakfast table every morning, slice up melon for breakfast, make tea and toast for Ammi, set out the dinner table, take care of the balcony plants, feed the cat, feed and water the birds, help clean up the corpses of cockroaches and chipkallis which might have been dealt death blows during the night, set up our namaz room for circles of dhikr whenever we have them,  bring tea to our guests, clean the fans and mosquito screens once a week – in short he fulfilled an indispensable role of bearer and Man Friday, all with dedication and touching humility.  If our home had become infested with rats, he would have been the first to notice. Having played a pivotal role in Gizmo’s rescue in his first great adventure, hamster welfare was yet another item on his wide-ranging checklist.

‘Gizmo! It’s Gizmo!’ he realized with a sudden and awful dread. ‘Chotey Sahib’s Gizmo!’

Probably fearing all sorts of dire consequences should Gizmo be once again lost, but this time possibly forever, Chacha got mobilized.

Things moved rapidly from now on.

Kimchi, our diminutive and semi-feral garden cat, had also gotten wind of the commotion and her curiosity was peaked. She seldom let any opportunity for mischief pass her by. She soon squeezed herself out under the gate and into the street and started to follow up the heady aroma of Gizmo’s somewhat musky scent (in the way that small furry mammals can reek).

Chacha was now out in the garbage heap opposite the house, trying to pick over the debris in search for the fluffball that is Gizmo. Undaunted by the pile of orange peel, empty tetrapaks, rotting vegetables and other unsavoury items of refuse, Chacha strained to see a living creature amongst the decaying debris. Then he noticed Kimchi start bounding down the road towards Hilal Park, but a few hundred yards down the street.

Somehow Kimchi’s purposefulness struck Chacha as noteworthy and instinctively he abandoned the garbage heap and started to follow her down towards the direction of the park.

His eyes trailing the road for any sight of a moving ball of pale golden fluff, Chacha found himself at the corner of the park. Suddenly, there before him, scurrying along the ground at a creditable speed, was Gizmo! With Kimchi about to pounce, Chacha swooped on the rodent with relief.

Back home he inserted Gizmo into his small cage and made sure the gates were shut. Gizmo was safe and sound, back in his little home, far away from the heady odours of Hilal street, the dust, building debris, and wafting petunia scents from the park. But also far from the beady eyes of crows ever on the lookout for a tasty morsel and kites swirling above in the Karachi skies ready to scoop up such a prize meal.

Chacha takes pride in his care and concern for the residents of 786 Hilal, big and small alike, and so he should.

Gizmo’s Great Adventure

In which Gizmo, resident pet Angora Hamster at 786 Hilal, escapes his cage and is awol for a whole week.

Every summer the kids and I visit my parents abroad. Abbas usually manages to join us for part of our summer sojourn, but during most of this time he remains in Karachi at work. One summer, he was not alone, for our niece, Alia, was still living with us. Alia had moved into 786 to be with us for the last 18 months of her fine arts degree at Indus, since her own family had just moved to Islamabad and  transferring wasn’t an option or desirable. Abbas’ mother was also installed with us until the dust had settled on her oldest son's move and would then join Ali and his family later in Isloo.

Daily life at 786 was chugging along at a steady and stately pace as usual. Then Ali came down from Islamabad for work and was esconced in the guest bedroom on the lower ground floor (this house has three floors).

Alia was delighted to have her father back in Karachi. She fell asleep in his room while snuggling up to him in her kittenish way. Little did he know that he would also be sharing his room with another, albeit unwanted, guest.

Having repaired for an early night, Ali was woken up around midnight by strange sounds.  He got up to open the door. Outside the door were sprinkled large black uneven shaped ‘droppings’. What kind of creature could poop like that, Ali wondered? I doubt it occurred to his sleepy mind, however, that a cockroach may have mutated into a giant size capable of such feces. Karachi cucarachas can indeed grow to creepy proportions with menacing tentacles. The puzzle was later resolved, however, as we shall see.

He went back to bed. Sounds of scrabbling woke him up again. Switching on the light showed there to be a fluffball perched on the bed with shiny black eyes beaming out of the golden fur. Gizmo! My son Joshua’s pet hamster had escaped.  

Not Gizmo - he was cuter.

But Gizmo proved elusive.

Eventually Ali caught the blighter and marched him up to his cage, which was then residing in the dining room. I had left it there rather than in my son’s room out of fear that he would be forgotten and neglected in our absence. We did not want to return from our holidays to read funeral rites over Gizmo. Josh would be heartbroken.

Finally, thinking the problem solved, Ali went back down to sleep.

What Ali hadn’t realized was that by merely pulling the cage door down, he had not safely incarcerated Gizmo, merely relocated him temporarily. Gizmo soon discovered that the latch had not been clipped shut and once again absconded. Following the same route as before, Gizmo deftly scarpered down 17 giant Aztec steps, braving a possible attack from Sushi, resident cat but heretofore feeble mouser, and back into Ali’s bedroom.

This time, however, Ali was at a loss to locate him and suffered a disturbed sleep.

Days passed with no sign of Gizmo. Nor did Ali hear any more nocturnal scrabblings.

The lower ground floor was searched thoroughly by Chacha and Fatima. There were three other rooms on this floor: a laundry room, a library-cum-majlis (prayer room), and a huge storeroom. No sign of Gizzie. Not a fluff.

It was soon noticed, however, that Sushi, resident cat, was also unaccounted for. No one had seen him for a couple of days either. With two of 786 Hilal’s pet population missing, Chacha was beginning to have sleepless nights himself. He barely slept for 4 hours as it was. This was truly a turn for the worse and he worried about what I would say and how Josh would react. Josh had sometimes declared Sushi to be his younger brother – a show of fraternal affection that worried me whenever invoked. Some time back, Josh’s reaction to losing the garden’s resident chameleon to some marauding crows had stuck in my mind: weeping and wailing, Josh had declared, ‘He was my best friend int he whole world!’ Heart-broken and bereft, he mourned its passing for several days. With Sushi enjoying the status of ‘brother’ – largely fed, I’m afraid, by Abbas’ fondness for our handsome feline which would prompt him to occasionally declare him a third child  - it beggared the imagination to think of Josh’s possible reaction to the loss of Gizmo.

Were the disappearance of hamster and cat both connected in some way? Was Sushi skulking around unseen in a funk of guilt? Or was it coincidental? Chacha pondered over these questions anxiously.

Gizmo in my mind's eye

The storeroom’s high window looked out onto the servants’ quarters. One afternoon Chacha had retired downstairs to have a post-prandial puff on his Hookah, he suddenly noticed Sushi sat in inside the window sill of the store-room. He made an instant connection: cat-in- ambush-pose in storeroom equals pet hamster-soon-to-be-victim.

Chacha swiftly retrieved Sushi from the storeroom and took over Sushi’s watch. An hour of patient squatting was eventually rewarded when Gizmo peeped out from among the boxes.

Chacha was very careful to secure the hatches. And thus did Gizmo’s great adventure come to a peaceful end.

Postscript: The mystery of the mutant cockroach droppings was resolved when it was realized that the droppings were in fact bits of the rubber strip attached to the bottom of the bedroom door to keep out tropical nocturnal insects and retain the cold air-conditioned temperature which had been gnawed away at the corner and spat out by our daredevil hamster. The small hole was a perfect match for Gizmo’s girth.

A Ramadan Tale - Chacha & the Tapenade

In which Chacha’s alacrity exposes him to my inner control freak

In Ramadan our lives are turned upside down. The general idea is to reduce outer distractions so inner interactions can take centre stage. Its not just food but a whole slew of other worldly activities that are restricted. Life in Karachi often gets to feel like a runaway train, so when Ramadan comes round I welcome it with the relief of one who’s found the brakes.  I am forced to stop, take stock and narrow down. The simple act of proscribing any form of alimentation during daylight hours lends inner muscle to the deeper ‘authentic’ self.

As I settle into the rhythm of the fast, I find a blissful inner silence starts to descend and infuse throughout my being. The usual mental white noise is hushed by the lack of blood sugar and by the cessation of constant taste-bud stimulation. There’s a distinct shift away from worldly pleasure to inner treasure.

Which is not to say that fasting isn’t a challenge! Fasting in Karachi brings with it its own peculiar pressures, pleasant and unpleasant, both. Heat and long busy days easily erode one’s energy levels.  Possibly the most stressful and conflicting aspect is iftaar. Well, not the act of breaking fast itself, but the accompanying culture of fried foods and over-eating.  Once upon a time iftaar was a matter of a few dates, water or milk, and maybe a warm beverage or light soup. While dates still appear on the menu in Pakistan, iftaari, as the fast-breaking is known here, is a much grander affair: the common comestibles prepared are pekoras (spicey gram flour fritters), samosas and chaat (spicy salads of chickpeas or fruit). There are of course many other delectables but almost every household would have these as the core of their fast breaking.

A Pakistani Muslim prepares to distribute food stuff among the people for 'Iftar', a time to break the fast, at a shop on the first day of holy fasting month of Ramadan, Sunday, Aug. 23, 2009 in Rawalpindi, Pakistan. During the Islamic holy month of Ramadan observant Muslims throughout the world refrain from eating, drinking, smoking and sex from sunrise to sunset. (AP Photo/Anjum Naveed) http://newshopper.sulekha.com/pakistan-ramadan_photo_945169.htm

I grew up in an Arab/European family that broke fast with dates and water, prayed and then ate dinner starting off with a light soup. A far simpler affair. Every year since I moved to Karachi I would declare my home a pekora-free zone, as I also harbour a morbid fear of re-using oil (heating oil releases those nasty free-radicals & carcinogenic peroxides). And every year I have started to succumb more easily to the expectations of fried, toxically tasty morsels. While virtuous low GI chaats help feed the higher centres of one’s being, the greasy stuff just drags the energies down. But that, it seems, is what the punters like!

Ramadan meals,therefore, often become a big deal.  Even sacrosanct. During the first few days the day long deprivation is often rewarded upon fast-breaking by a heightened awareness of how Nature’s bounty is a banquet of pleasure in taste and texture, usually taken for granted.  In my case this gratitude is accompanied by a strong streak of nutritional self-righteousness and keen moral aspiration. The demon fear of starvation is also manacled as you realize you can go through a calorie free day without collapsing.

Nevertheless over-indulgence always threatens – let’s be honest here! As my husband and I have grown older, however, we find that after the first few days of preparing Ramadan ‘treats’, we tend to retreat to safe, nourishing, digestible food. In order to function optimally, you cannot indulge in eating what you like in any amount you like. Post-iftaar indigestion threatens to obviate the whole purpose of the fast. I start to obsess about what I put into my mouth and fear invitations to other people’s homes where banquets of fried foods and other delectable dishes that one wouldn’t normally dream of eating for 'break-fast' are served. Pekoras and samosas are, in the final analysis, hard to resist. At least in my own home I have greater control. What you put into your body becomes as important as what it tastes like in your mouth. It’s a happy day when a liking for the two coincide.

Made from olives, capers, garlic, olive oil, lemon juice, herbs to taste. http://dico-cuisine.fr/news/tapenade

So now let me wax lyrical about tapenade. Breakfast in general – even outside the ‘fast’ -  has long posed a problem for me. Sugary cereals are out – can’t deal with the post insulin surge-slump. Toast, butter and jam is another slippery slope, particularly here where we cannot get real whole wheat bread or pure rye. I never grew up with a British-style ‘fry up’ so its not in my culinary vocab. The early pre-dawn meal of Sehri demands just the right kind of nourishment, light and savoury. And skipping to the heart of the matter: there is no substitute for a good tapenade on toast, preferably with the cooling and sweet counterpoint of fresh yoghurt on top, with a few fresh mung bean sprouts sprinkled on for crunch and living enzymes. A close second would be my father’s famous breakfast mixture – based on za'tar (eastern thyme) and yoghurt.

For Ramadan a few years ago Abbas had brought back with him from South Africa a small but costly jar of gourmet tapenade from a delicious deli.  And so it was with a sense of self satisfaction that we would spread a thin layer of this ambrosial paste onto our toast at 4 in the morning.  The earthy aromas and unctuous texture rendered the usual insipid ‘bran’ toast more than just edible, but delicious. Noble, even! So sparing were we with this treat that it seemed we’d be able to eke it out over almost the entire month. We were set!

Five days into the fast the jar disappeared. I let its disappearance go uncommented – after all we could eat other things too. I wasn’t too perturbed and enjoyed delaying the gratification. But the following day I searched throughout the kitchen for it. Finally, after a few puzzling hours of mounting frustration, I discovered the jar in the pickle cupboard. Suspicions aroused, I twisted the lid off to take a whiff – not entirely forbidden by the fast. Instead of that rich, olivey aroma, a sharp smell of vinegar scented with Iranian Angelica seed (golpar) assaulted my nostrils. What?! I was stunned. Some leftover Persian pickles had been decanted into this more appropriately sized jar. How could this have happened? As I googled my mind for all logical possibilities, one rapidly emerged. Chacha must have smelt the tapenade and thought it was off. And...thrown...it...out! Horrors! But he had saved the jar as he knew how thrifty I am with jars (well, they are very useful whenever its jam-making time).

I was apoplectic.

After a brief inquisition with Chacha, our tireless bearer-cum-chowkidar, he sheepishly acknowledged that he had indeed discarded the offending material as it had been left by the sink – an obvious indication to him that it was meant to be discarded. And besides, it did smell bad. To him. Needless to say, Chacha has never eaten an olive in his life, much less nibbled tapenade on melba toast. I’m not sure he even knew they feature in the Qur’an on that magical list of holy fruit and veg. After his admissal he first looked chuffed with himself, and then, as he saw my face cloud over, his eyebrows swiftly contorted into a spasm of mortification.

‘But Chacha!’ I remonstrated futilely, ‘it wasn’t supposed to be thrown away. It wasn’t bad!’ 

‘But it was left near the sink!’ he cried in dismay.

Too late. In my fulmination I thoughtlessly trotted out another dagger for his heart.

 ‘And it was expensive! Sahib had brought it from abroad!’ 

Having thus imbued this absent paste with even more unattainable mystique, Chacha’s mortification was complete. He hung his head in shame. The pain of failure and the embarrassment of ignorance radiated from his every pore.

His rueful demeanour slammed the brakes on my juggernaut of annoyance. I immediately castigated myself: how could I indulge in such indignation in the face of such innocence? Remorse reached down and in and whacked me one.

To see Chacha thus pained iced my ire in a jiffy, for Chacha is our resident Man Friday, our ‘salt-of-the-earth’.  And without salt bread tastes bland.

Respect!