Dear Chooran

 Sidra Gufran

I am bored of writing about the university, I know it is our beat, but let's face it, it's been over done to the core. So, I thought for a change, I would write about something that would benefit mankind in general (read: my class fellows, juniors and some seniors).

We've been doing this assignment for over two months but nothing has been said in class about basic blogging ethics. Or, if there was then, I was probably taking a pleasure stroll in my very own lala land.

A follower of this blog, once brought me at the edge of my nerves by instigating and re-instigating me to reply to his comments, in the name of “basic blogging ethics”. I ended up fighting with him. Follower one, Sidrah zero. But thank you follower, because you made me explore a couple of links on blogging ethics since I belong to the Google world. So, yes, reading a couple of links on the topic automatically makes me an expert who can write a blog on it.

I also like to consider myself a journalist, so I reserve this post to journalistic blogging. The Society for Professional Journalists relates in its rule book “responsible bloggers should recognize that they are publishing their work publicly, and therefore, have certain ethical obligation to their readers, the people they write about and the society in general”.

Credibility is a must for blogging. This is one organisational structure where you are your own gate-keeper. Check and recheck your facts before you publish it. Your published work is like carving on stone. So never delete your post. What you've have posted is there to stay, and that it is why it is a good idea to think and rethink before you hit the publish button.

Do not lie about your identity, misquote a fact, rephrase a fact as an opinion or plagiarise it. It is true that the more eyeballs your content manages to roll, the more comments and followers you attract, but this is where you draw a line. Ethical journalism is ideally what we all are here to do.

Anonymity raises questions. So remain transparent about your identity. Own what you have written, and if a follower points out a mistake, accept graciously. The followers your blog attracts are basically like minded people who share similar perspectives gathered all together on a platform. Therefore do not disappoint them. Actively engage in comments and use this space to interact.

PS. With this one last post Chooran Chutney comes to an end. Followers and commentors, thank you for making this little venture a success. Chooran, you were a good candy. Ciao ragazzi.

Our Wise Old Neighbour from Iran

By Sidrah Gufran Roghay

If you have been a part of the department of mass communication then it is impossible to miss the merry go lucky owner of the busiest corner of the building, with his twinkling eyes and charcoal curls that he sometimes ties in a pony tail. One of the earliest persons to come to the department, way before the office staff and at times the sweepers and known for his sing-song  "Kya Lain Gay Aap". Students love him for his honesty, wit, and sagacity that several years of studies cannot buy.

As a first year when I was new to the department I was impressed by the way he would always dust his shoes before he entered, pick up dustbins that lay fallen down and give free advice to passing students. There is a whole corner of his canteen dedicated to personal belongings of students, for he is trusted by many.

Many a times he would talk to me about how media through sensationalization was depriving our nation of hope. For a man who had hardly received any formal education I found his arguments solid, having weight.

Wanting to know more about his life I decided to have a heart to heart with this lovely man, our Abdul Bhai. I know he belongs to Iran since he is always talking me into lending him my little Alto to visit Iran. I must add at times I am tempted to do so. Often he tells me about the adventures of the journey. "We sit in a four-wheeler, which charges twelve hundred per person. It takes about eleven people at a time. Once we reach the border we drive very fast, for if an official catches us we're in for deep trouble. Once inside Iran, no one stops you."

He tells me he was born in a small village Niqoor, in the Balochistan province of Iran. Since there hadn't been any rain in the area for several years and he largely cultivated for a living, he along with his family decided to migrate to Karachi.

And when was that? Well this was one hard question for him. Bad with his dates he twitches his little button nose, and reminisces the past. "I witnessed the 65 war in Karachi, so it must have been somewhere around 1958", he recalls. Barefooted and empty pocketed then, he started his schooling in a government school in Shantinagar, where he had hardly completed grade nine when he traveled back to Iran to work as a cook's right hand on a small fishing ship.

Fate brought him back to Karachi. Its funny how he remember dates according to the political situation in Pakistan. "I came back when Bhutto Sahib was hanged, in search of a better job prospect."

After staying in Pipri for three years where he earned a living through dispatching sacks of rice, he came back to Karachi. This was when he finally entered Karachi University in 1982. He started working in the Central Cafeteria. He talks about the good old times when the campus was a vast desert full of thorny bushes, wild animals, and few departments. My favourite story is the one about the  deadly snake; he calls it an annaconda, which took lives of many dogs (and not humans). This he recounts is the sole reason for the decline of dogs in Karachi University.

After another couple of years his roots called him back and he returned to Iran.

His journey too and fro from Iran is a regular part of his life, and narrating each trip will simply bore my dear readers, so I fast forward it to the time when he entered the department of Mass Communication. "I came here three years back. Khursheed Sahib brought me here. He's the clean shaved fair guy who sits in the office." He secretly confides to me that he thinks he is very handsome."

I count back to his date of birth, which was roughly in the mid fifties, and I realize he must be a man in his mid or even late fifties. His short, petite body, brisk gait and happy face largely minus these years from his face. So what is the secret behind your fitness? He breaks into his well known chuckle and remarks "meri khushi meri sehat ka raz hai." He never gets angry he tells me. "I never shout at my children, and I hate people who beat up their children."

And what is it that you like about Karachi University? He laughs then stays quiet for a very long time, and then shares his wise owl wisdom with me. "Theres nothing I like or dislike about the university." Difficult to comprehend I decide to leave this matter to the reader's comprehension, and with this wise note I sign off. This was my interpretation of the life of Abdul Bhai, our well loved canteen wala from the country next door!

The “sense” of touch

By Sidra Gufran

It was a “farigh” day at the university when after the Math paper I was perched on a bench at the smoker’s corner talking, to some class-fellows about regional politics, coffee and organ donation. Across the glass door, inside the department, there was another group sitting, discussing “Aafia Siddiqui”. It was one heated discussion. On the stairs by the canteen a blog meeting was going on. And somewhere (I heard) a group of girls with a complaint about a teacher was vowing to go to the chair person and get its rightful share of marks which they thought they deserved.

As the clock struck twelve, (the sub-continental superstition attaches special meaning to this) a “kho kho” wave spread through the department. Within seconds two teams were formed, queries about the rules and “what is kho kho?” to Bengali born friends were answered, and people were dragged to positions.

The game began.

“Kho per kho” was the strategy adopted by the standing team. The kho was passed on to the “plan starter bhai”, then a short guy who is also famous as my twin, and then a fair, spiked dude. He reached out to grab a tall, bespectacled girl and then stopped in mid air and declared, “Isko pakrun kaisay?”

There were torrents of laughter. And then a well respected senior solemnly proclaimed that he could pat her on the head. Like Muslims comply to Mufti sahibs we nodded our heads in unison and got back to our positions. The game resumed.

The same spiked fair dude was running. Amidst the hullabaloo of people shouting “kho karo” he stood behind a girl and announced “kho!”.

She remained unmoved.

He shouted “kho” again, this time louder.

She did not budge.

 “Why are you not poking me?” came the innocent reply.

Laughter broke again. While the former remained adamant on the fact that he will not touch a female the latter insisted that this was against the rules.

Negotiations began. To touch or not to touch, that was the question! Suggestions of using a ruler and handkerchief were thrown at the poor guy. After much hue and cry the game began with renewed fervor...and then the “guardians of faith” propped up  and declared “kho kho” was “fahash”.

We all dispersed.

Of False Airs and Language Barriers

By Sidrah Roghay

When I first told my mother that I planned on enrolling in Karachi University I was met with a lot of resistance. My argument was that the degree is recognized, she said it’s a war zone.

I was still made to sit for a test at a private university offering media sciences as a bachelor’s programme. I messed up the test majorly. Mainly because till the night before I was sitting in a mall in Dubai watching Arab women with their puffed up hair and overly done eye make up, wondering why men think they are pretty. Surprisingly, I still got a call for an interview. The panel was less interested in what I can do and more in what my daddy does for a living. A week later I got an acceptance letter that I threw down the bin.

I assume my parents never got to know about it.

Adjusting at Karachi University was never easy. Here I was in the middle of a never ending campus where Grey’s Anatomy was unheard of and designer labels were spotted once in a blue moon. People got offended if you talked in English. Un-made eyebrows and untamed hair was a common sight. Even women stared!

I remember the first time my chair person wanted me to go on stage. She insisted I host in Urdu. I would stutter and stammer every time. I was scared of making a major mistake and forgetting my sentence midway. After several failed rehearsals she gave up and told me to continue in whatever language I was comfortable in. I took a sigh of relief. The third time I took the mike I was able to make an announcement in proper Urdu (with some help from Prof Mahmud Ghaznavi).

In my first year Urdu was a compulsory subject. My teacher mastered his subject, and spoke in Urdu I had never heard before. The first three classes or so, I sat at the back bench like an idiot not grasping a word of what he said. But he was a kind chap, he went easy on me and encouraged me to make mistakes. While many other students from the same system of education opted for “easy Urdu” I took advanced Urdu as a challenge. Here I was being introduced to people like Putras Bukhari, Ibn-e-Insha and Nazir Akbar Abadi. I cursed my education system for hiding such treasures from me. These were great men, and in no way less than Dickens, Hardy or Orwell. The six months of Urdu classes served as an appetizer for me. I tried to look into Urdu literature more. I bought Iqbal and Umera Ahmed.

At KU I realized that language was just a mode of communication, and not knowing a particular language does not in any way make you less learned. Here, I pushed aside all false air of belonging to “a certain system of education”. I learned to look at people behind their bushy eyebrows and black robes. I was meeting people from such diverse backgrounds. I made friends with a Somali, Sudani and got to know an amazing Italian teacher. Through interaction with people from interior sindh I began to understand the Sindhi language.

I learnt about real life stories and struggles people had made, and were still making to get to this place.

While previously I would step aside from all political discussions, politely saying “I’m non-political”, here I unknowingly absorbed a little bit of each political party. I know each of their songs by heart, and with that outlines of their political agenda. I formed an opinion of my own.

In a nutshell I got a taste of what real life would be like, mass culture and aspirations and teachers and friends who have shaped me into a better, more aware individual.

Of Jesus Christ and Holy Cross

By Sidrah Roghay

At the far end of the staff colony, where you generally see manicured lawns of well-taken-care-of houses, G-Block is situated. It is a cluttered area where small blocks of houses are situated right in front of each other, and separated by miniature streams of sewage water that have sprung from under the cemented floor. Here the sweepers of the university reside. While we take care to cross, trying to prevent our dupattas and feet from getting dirty, the residents walk through it unaffected, often barefoot.

Our interest in this remote and largely ignored area was the presence of a church built in 1991.

I was expecting a medium sized stone building with a dome or minaret, but here I was standing in dirty water, trying to ignore the stench coming from it so as to not offend my subjects ( the people I was talking to).

By now a group of children had gathered around us. When we told a man that we wanted to visit the church he procured a bunch of keys from somewhere and led us to one of the doors right at our back. The door was no different from others in the area. But difference became evident as soon as we stepped in.
We were standing in the middle of a spotless white room. At the far end was the altar, with a cross on it. Elizabeth, a vibrant young girl, with heavy bangs on her head told me that they come here every Sunday.
“Do you have fun?” I asked all the kids.

“Yes, a lot.” they answered in unison.

Once inside, the children started sitting on the white floor in neat rows. Boys on one side girls on the other.

The girls told me that they clean the church everyday with their mothers. On special occasions the children get together and decorate the church with charts and ribbons.

Quite contrary to Muslim children, going to church for them was an enjoyable experience.

Here, the father was not an alien being who intimidated youngsters, and beat them up with wooden sticks, but some one they could look up to.

Maybe its time we make learning fun for our children too.

OF BHAIS AND SHISTERS

By Sidrah Gufran Roghay

Initially, the enormity of the Karachi University campus used to scare me. Many a times I would get late for classes, as I got lost in the similar looking alleys of the Arts lobby. It was one such day, early in the morning, when I decided to wait for my friend who would guide me to class. The lobby was deserted, only the Rangers accompanied me.

Not knowing what to do, I seated myself on a raised platform with a wall to lean on, and took out a magazine that I kept handy for times like these. Fifteen minutes passed and a tall wiry dude joined me on the bench. He was being extremely finicky, and I realized, it was probably my presence that made him twitch, toss and turn so much.

I refused to budge from my place. “I came here first” was my argument. Minutes passed and two more guys joined him. They seemed to be engrossed deep in conversation. I stayed put.

Finally, one of them mustered enough guts to come up to me and say, “Shister, yahan say uth jain. We will get in trouble with our seniors.”

I innocently replied “Why?”.

He uncomfortably shrugged.

I was still discovering the weirdness around this place called KU, so I moved.

Later on I came to know about the famous seat at the even more famous (read notorious) Arts lobby. Rumours are, that the seat belonged to a certain ‘Bhai” and only his followers have the right to sit there.

I remember my surprise at the discovery and I find myself smiling again as I write this post.

The next couple of days I would make it a point to sit on the same bench every day, and enjoy “Bhai log” getting uncomfortable. On being asked to move I would take advantage of being the fairer sex and innocently ask “why?”. We laughed our heads off later.

I stopped because I got bored, but I still wonder what happens at the bench!

GREASED ---- AGAIN!!!

By Sidrah Roghay

As I made my way from the arts lobby to the sociology department, last Friday, I saw puddles of grease spread all through the corners of the raised pavement where students generally sit for a small bite or chit chat.

Rumour has it that a certain student wing of a political party performs this “noble” deed religiously every month or so, to prevent girls and boys sitting together on the pavement. With such creative ideas prevailing in our society I wonder why it does not prosper!

“Young love is hard to contain” they say. So what if couples can not sit, they choose to stand in the corners, leaning by the side of pillars, smiling at each other.

With the recent splurge of greenery in the university after the rains, couples have a lot of other places to sit. The Valika Cricket ground, lush green nowadays, is a cherished place by many. Generally marooned, most time of the year except the “Paigham-e-Aman Cup”, an occasional couple or so may be spotted sneaking out here to enjoy the scenery and privacy in this vast area.

Who said seminar libraries are there to enhance your knowledge about the book world? Reading the daily newspaper can be even more enjoyable if you have your sweet love sitting right beside you, stealing a quick whisper or joke with you.

The department of mass communication is another favourite dating spot, probably because it is the only department with leather sofas in its atrium. Couples may very conveniently come here an hour early for their “subsy” as they like to call it, and leave an hour, or hours, after class. And, of course... this department also holds a medal for not pasting sign boards saying “students not allowed” in its spacious atrium!

So well I am proud to be part of a generation with epic ideas of having their own way.

Shoot! I hope the department of Mass Communication is not the next target for these nocturnal grease-rs!