So, life is NOT fair … no really, none of us had ever had it easy, not even the 1^st man on the planet Adam himself – he was perfect, but the snake of Lucifer screwed it up for him with just a piece’o’fruit. Likewise, as human beings, we don’t have it easy either. We were created in perfect form, with intellect etc, but as we grow, there are challenges, speedhumps and pot-holes in forms of our fellow human beings. Yeah!

So, I’ve been having sleepless nights (no, there’s no dark circles under my eyes cos I’m black already – haha). No really – and it has nothing to do with my worrying about the next plate of food cos Allah has provided for me – check, last night I ate biltong, Kit Kat chunky, Oreo McFlurry and toffee apple for supper (#1 advantage of staying on your own – you eat what you crave). Now, these sleepless nights are due to the fact that it’s the month of Dhul Hijjah and it’s one of the best and most favoured months in the Islamic calendar – the month of that lifetime journey called Hajj. I’d like to explain Hajj to you, but I I’m too lazy to do it so please ask Sheykh Jujl (Google in Arabic J ).

So, when people go on Hajj in my country (South Africa) it’s a big deal from ALL aspects – the spiritual, the emotional and the material. SPIRITUAL: it’s the 5^th pillar of our religion; EMOTIONAL: it’s the closest I can get to my creator on Mt. Arafat; MATERIAL: it’s a shopping trip for some (really). No no, there’s nothing wrong with taking advantage of the beautiful stuff that’s on display in the shops in the Middle East but yes, some people primarily go for the best Abayas and the best “toppies” – hats. Ok, enough of my negativism. Let’s go back to the part where us South Africans make it a big deal – this is when a soon to be Hajee goes around visiting, does phonecalls, SMSes and Tweets asking EVERYBODY for forgiveness – no really, by everyone, I mean even the ants that they sprayed with DOOM. And yes, that is when they are most sincere (I believe) – sincere because they know that they’re going to be cleansed by the Mercy of Allah Ta’ala and also because naturally, we’re ALL sinners, we’ve done some injustices to fellow human begins and we’d like them to forgive us, no?

So, this being the season of the holy pilgrimage brought back many emotions and ugly memories in me. A few years ago, somebody that I love very much went for hajj. He/she did the whole ritual of phoning up/going to visit and asking for maaf. This is when you see Muslims being most sincere and the best believers – the salamekum changes to “As-salaamu alaykum” and so on, and I really appreciate it. The men with naked faces start growing beards in keeping with the Sunnah of our Holy Prophet (PBUH). And so came the airport ritual: Tjo tjo tjo! Airlines are at their happiest during Hajj season – Muslims don’t mind spending on luxury… yeah, as South African Muslims we’re spoilt – we want the hotel closest to the Haram (sacred place) even though I’m sure you can walk up there – personally, I feel that those hotels close to the Harams should be reserved for the disabled and the old and frail since they don’t have so much vooma to be able to walk there and young’uns should use their energy and walk to the Haram… and besides, isn’t ALL of makkah/madinah a Haram already? Just because the dome is closer to you doesn’t make you more blessed than that 65 year old Nigerian who can’t afford a hotel and therefore she has to sleep in a tent and has to make a journey everyday of her Hajj just to get close to the Haram. Yes, comfort is necessary when you’re traveling but cumon, it’s Hajj, Allah ta’ala is already taking good care of you – you’re at His doorstep – how much more comfortable can you be… you’re so close *holds finger and index thumb together* so close…

Okay, I’m losing the plot – where was I? Oh ja, back to the airport – now, we’re dressed in our best, all looking so Masha Allah, wearing scarves full covered – Abayas, hats and even the Precious maid (double pun) is invited to the airport. So, the soon to be hajees have done their rounds of going to every person they know to go ask for “maaf” (forgiveness in Urdu/Hindi) and phoned up and it’s mostly closest relatives/friends at the airport who are there to see the last of their beloved just before they take that final step in their holy journey. So, at one stage I was one of those friends/relatives at the airport – dressed in my most Islamic tissues in hand (yeah, even Kleenex loves Hajj season) cos everyone is at their most sincere – we’re crying for so many reasons: forgiveness, happy at the fact that that person has been chosen to go, and also because we’ll just miss them. Ay, but Saberah cries easily – no really, my tears spring up quicker than Julius Malema can play the race card. So there, I’m not even sure why I was crying – I was crying for so many reasons: I was gonna miss them, I was crying because they were crying, I was happy and the big one: because that person had asked me for forgiveness – sjoe! All my life I thought I knew how to forgive, all my life I thought I don’t hold grudges, all my life I thought that I had no hard feelings against any individual. Yes, throughout life I had some injustices done to me, and likewise, I’ve done some injustices upon others – they said sorry, I said sorry and we smiled happily ever after… sometimes, a person doesn’t need to say sorry for you to forgive them – you know the drill, ja? From that day, I learnt that I should rather forgive than stay angry – no, I wasn’t angry at that person, I’m not an angry person but, that person did the whole “Hajj Hug” (you hug 3 times starting from the right shoulder, and then you do that air-kiss on the right cheek) – it’s the tightest, most loving hug ever: I love it – and you’re not even worried about your milkjugs getting squashed. So there, this person did the whole Hajj Hug on the number of people – with every hug the person did, I burst into fresh, hot tears – I’m emotional like that (thank God for Kleenex softest care). So, I was the last individual to be hugged “oh Saberah, make me maaf” something inside me shattered, something burst, literally, a can of worms opened, a whole fountain of my emotions opened – it was the longest and the most uncomfortable yet loving and most important hug of my life… “Maaf my baby, please make me maaf” (ok, I’m re-crying now – I told you so) … *sob*sob*sob… *sniff*sniff*sniff* . The airport was in pure silence, I couldn’t hear any other crying or other perfected “Asalamu Alaykums” in that I’m-oh-so-pious-accent. All I could hear, was the repeated maaf into my right ear from that individual, I could feel their heartbeat in mine, I wasn’t even worried about how ugly I look when I cry. Kleenex no longer mattered, I flooded that person’s right shoulder, I tasted the salt from my tears, there was so much of it. “Please make me maaf for all that I have done, please” … suddenly, it ALL flooded back, ALL the injustices that they have done – suddenly I forgot all the favours that they have done upon me, I forgot how much I loved them and how they took care of me. No no, the abuse that I have taken from that person came back: between all those tears, heartbeats and maafs, I also questioned myself at what a hypocrite I had been – I had lied to myself that I had forgiven them a minute or a few days after they’ve done whatever: why now? Why was it all coming back? Am I that evil? Am I that grudgeous? I remembered petty incidents. My head was so light with all that emotion, I was dizzy with all these flashback of my life with that person. My head was literally swirling with emotions – everything was so blur and happened at such speed – I held on tighter, I hugged intensely – I’m not sure why, whether I was so weak I needed support to be able to stand or whether I was FINALLY forgiving, I don’t know.

I remember a few years ago, my mum, sister and I were busy in the kitchen, and we were just chatting – something came up about how my mum used to punish my siblings when they were younger: my sis got so angry and so upset saying “hitting us with a wooden spoon was so unfair, even then” she was serious – the conversation took a u-turn and I said: “hau, that happened 11 years ago, you can’t still be angry” – now I understand why – it’s not that she hadn’t forgiven my mum, it’s those emotions that come back all over again – sometimes, you think that you’ve forgotten, but you haven’t. yes, people say forgive and forget – forgiving is as easy as slicing water, but forgetting eish!

So, lately, since it’s Hajj season, I’m reminded of that day again – I’m emotional, I’m thinking of that person a lot – I remember that at that moment at the airport, I was the one who held the upper hand, I was the one who had the key in softening that person’s heart and lifting their burden of their wrongdoings. Yes, I cried because I was weakening somebody: by being the one to which the injustices had been done to. As emotional as I was, so was the other person. Everybody was focusing on me that day, and the days leading to that day because they knew how the other person had treated me – don’t get me wrong, this person’s not a total sinner. He/she is probably a better believer than I am – but at that moment, with just a few tear drops (ok, it was a flood – so what?). I must admit that at that moment, I was at my strongest and at my weakest point: strongest because Allah Ta’ala softened my heart, He made it possible for me to forgive – I didn’t say “you’re forgiven” no no, I nodded, smiled through the tears – my action spoke louder than words (I can’t speak when I’m crying). He made me realise how important forgiveness is – each and everyone of us is able to forgive – we have to. Yesterday, I got a call from a friend – she asked me if “so-and-so” was still troubling me, I replied and told her that I had kinda forgiven “so-and-so” even though “so-and-so”s action were still fresh in my mind, I was just hoping that “so-and-so” doesn’t do to another human being what they did to me.

I also read some stuff about Salman Rushdie – gosh, that man is paying everyday for what he wrote 20 years ago: he suffers from global hate as much as George Bush does… why is it so hard that as an Ummah we forgive them (there’s many more). The Iraqis were able to forgive Saddam Hussein – Saddam Hussein was a modern day Pharaoh back in the ‘80s – if his soccer team lost, he’ll feed the alive players to the lions in front of an audience – finish en klaar, no questions. The Iraqis as a nation forgave him, and what touches me the most was that he was forgiven before his death. However, for them to forgive him, it had to take another tyrant to be the bad guy – you guessed him, George Bush. Likewise, Salman Rushdie is suffering enough already: he doesn’t have true friends; no single woman can stand him (how many wives have left him so far?). I remember when I first went to Jumma Musjid primary school, the main thing I used to hear from the kids was “Michael Jackson is a shaytaan”. How hurt was I, for me, Michael Jackson was a hero – coming from poor rural KZN, my first words of English were learnt through MJ’s music – Will you be there. The kids didn’t even know why he was a Shaytaan, but they’ve been taught to hate him by their elders already – I still don’t know why… and guess what? He later became Muslim, before he died. Now, we also don’t know whether Salman had repented or not, maybe Allah has forgiven him already, yet he’s still a Shaytaan in our hearts and minds… remember the story of one of the great Caliphs of Islam Hadrat Umar (RA)? He was a worse enemy of Islam and his life made a total turnaround to him being the greatest leader – even Shaytaan feared him.

I’m not perfect, I have not asked EVERY single person that I’ve wronged for forgiveness, but I sure do know that before my death date is due (when ever that is – I hope it’s not soon). I hope that I, Saberah Gumede have found it in my heart to forgive – I don’t want to be the reason for another human being not entering heaven simply because I’m a scrooge. No, if I don’t forgive, how on earth do I expect to be forgiven? It’s like love – notice how the most loving are loved back? Think Angelina Jolie… so there, I’d like to go into my graveyard with a clean heart, and a gorgeous smile on my face because I know I don’t hold any ill-feelings towards any individuals…Remember, it’s not only your worship that holds the key to Jannah, it’s also how you treat other individuals that Allah has created… you may not know which ONE of them is a saint – but they could hold your yay or nay to your entry to Jannah…

I have friends from different walks of life (even though I’d like to have friends from all walks of life one day). I remember when I was young, (13 actually) my mom set me up with penpals from different parts of the world – but naughty me screwed up those penpal relationships – Hawema! Yes, I was so mischievous as a child (and I still am, sometimes)… so basically, these penpals were from 1^st world countries: America, Spain etc… and this is how I screwed up: we used to send each other letters and just think what a 13 year old (back in our days) would talk about: family, pets, favourite colours etc… so, one of my pen-pal had a pet-dog and she’ll ask me if kids in Africa also had pets. So, I responded something like (I’m paraphrasing from memory, its not exact): Dogs are nothing in Africa, here, I have a pet-crocodile that stays in our pool and we don’t really have cats, but we have lions and tigers – when they die, we use their skin to cover ourselves as clothing… (yes! I am part of the reason why people from the 1^st world country think that we have elephants in our airport runways – I’m sorry, I was stupid and mischievous). Yes, I lied – and my mum hates lies… she was also very protective over me, and she used to open some of my stuffL. And she opened this letter from my pen-pal in response to my “pets”. I don’t remember much of the letter because my mom was so woedend (furious in Afrikaans) that she stopped all sort of communications between me and my penpals – she didn’t even give me money to buy those airmail stamps – and she warned me that I was never allowed ANYwhere near the post office… Ja neh, that was the end of it… and the end of my communication with global peeps… well, we didn’t have FaceBook and stuff…

Fastforward >>> 2009: obviously I’ve grown up and I’m mature (I bluff myself with this adjective all the time *tee-hee*). So, through life I’ve met friends through school, university, work, social circles, flatmates, friends of friends, friends of friends of friends of friends… you know how it goes >>> basically, I met friends in my journey of life through different means and methods. E.g.: I belong to this email group called politicalislam and I met friends through there; I belonged to a Halaqa (religious study circle) group and met friends there etc etc… Ya’ll know what I’m getting at.

There’s some of this saying I got via e-mail that says something to the effect of “true friends do not say sorry or thank you” <<< personally, I disagree… a friend needs to feel appreciated. I don’t see anything wrong with dropping a friend an SMS (or flowers, or biltong for me) to say thanks for being a ray of sunshine in my life or whatever.

I’m not sure whether saying that my friends were handpicked by God is a form of Shirk (polytheism – please correct me if I’m wrong). But I know for sure that when I met/was introduced to my friends, it was our souls that met – our souls were re-united, and they welcomed me into their homes, their wardrobes, their families and into their fridges

My friends have different roles in my life, just like how I have a different role in their lives. There are those friends who remind you how important education is, some who remind me how important family is, some who remind me how important it is to smile, some who remind me how important it is to cover up (modesty), and some who make it seem OK for me not to pay my TV Licence. Likewise, for different friends I play different roles: to some I’m that nagging conscience which reminds them to make peace with whomever, to some I’m the entertainer, to some the one who bakes muffins etc… I guess what I’m trying to get at is: having a good and solid structure of friends. Think of them as a house – in a solid house you need windows, a roof, doors, a wall, furniture, food etc – and that’s exactly what my friends are: blankets – keep me warm, windows – shield me from nasty storms of life, doors – lock away troubles… and so much more >>> these are the metaphors on top of mind as I’m typing this. And for me, it’s important that I allow these friends to play these different roles – I can’t expect a blanket to do the job of a door: I’ve got to allow myself to be entertained by some and mothered by others – I’ve got to appreciate what Allah has handpicked for me.

No, it’s not friendship day or anything, but this blog was inspired by a problem which I’m having with a potential stalker. Yes, Allah is the best of protectors, but in my most vulnerable, in my most weakest (no no, most weakest is not a typing error) and in my lowest and most depressive state, He shows me what a support structure that I have. My friends feel violent on my behalf; they responded to the perpetrator on my behalf, they traveled a few kilometers just to give me a hug. I’m not gonna go into the details of what I’m going through on this blog as this is solely for my friends. No, when days are dark, friends are many – they come in their droves. Those who are a thousand miles have made calls on my behalf so that I can get security/bouncers to protect me – there’s so much more. No, I am not mentioning names because I’ll be putting their lives at risk… but one thing’s for sure, I know that I have pillows and pillows of support from my friends – when someone drops me or pushes me, these pillows (or trampolines) will be always there for me to bounce off and be my normal self again. Yes, Allah has me under His majestic wings, but I’m definitely grateful for the cushions in disguise of friendship.

Yes, throughout our lives we are ALL gonna come across nasty people who will sprinkle some drops of misery, pain and hurt into our lives – but when one has friends like mine, all they do is pour buckets of affection, support, prayer and love.

Thank you all – I wish there was a way in which I could show my appreciation. Yes, Allah loves you and only He knows how much I value you. I may not be able to show it in terms of affection, nor may I be able to say it in words – but He knows that you are all much more significant in my life than you think you are. Yes, I’m talking about YOU YOU and YOU – yes, you making wudhu, yeah yeah – even you walking up that stairs… oh yeah, and you taking that snooze (wake up and read my blog) and even you that’s breastfeeding that child… yes, even you that’s busy stroking that beard… oh well, I’m talking about ALL of you…

And I’d like to dedicate this song to you:  http://music.yeucahat.com/song/English/19194-Will-You-Be-There~Michael-Jackson.html

Mwah and hugs to all the ladies and hi5es to all the dudes. You all rock. Yes, when you say jump, I won’t even bother asking “how high” I’ll just do it – all because you are my friends, and you’ve done so much more than I can quantify in numbers, say in words or express…

And oh, this is an email I got from mum this morning: “Salaams

Hope you are well.

I want you NOT to make any contact or entertailn any response to all the chitter chatter, for now make contact with friends the old fashioned way.

Do not be intimitated by this guy, I will get to the bottom of this

Abba and iI will now take over.

He is not answering his telephone, are there any other contact details.

I WILL SORT THIS CHAPPIE OUT ONCE AND FOR ALL  NOBODY CHANCES WITH MY CHICKENS.

LUV

MUM”

So, I’m not much of a blogger nor an intellectual philosophical person like the Accidental Academics, the Neds, the Jhaveris and the Habib’s – I’m just a fun loving person who enjoys poking, following, updating statuses, LOLing and soon to be waving to everybody. My statuses goes as far as I would blog. Thankfully, I have a group of very intellectual friends who comment and message me, and grafitisize my virtual wall – and the lazy ones who simply like my statuses cos they know that the comments that follow will be interesting and therefore, they wanna be notified when somebody comments.

Thanks God for these intellectual and funny friends who can type up more than 500 words and make sense and open a platform for good discussions and therefore, they provide daily entertainment and education for me and many others, on the web – I could never, (ok, maybe I would – but self-esteem prevents me from doing it). I mean dude, even my FaceBook notes are copied and pasted from emails… most of them actually. I love the internet, and I’m grateful for the fact that where I work, my internet usage is not frowned upon – my bosses don’t micro-manage me (Yeay Me!) and neither do they nit-pick on every little thing I do, but rather, they are advisors and mentors… I also like the fact that where I work, I can dress as funky and as colorful as I want to (one advantage of being away from home *evil-grin*). Your blouse is never too short nor your v-necks too deep… I’m gonna stop with this immodest “kakpraat”…

So, this blog is not necessarily about the web etc – but it’s about Pick ‘n’ Pay. Yes, I shop at Pick ‘n’ Pay… I know some Muslims will wanna stone me because I’m supposed to be boycotting the Jews! Ha! My big size 8 foot!!! Yes, the Slum’O’s know how to boycott, but I’m yet to find a Muslim owned, Palestine supporting grocery store and family supermarket that has the same level-of service, respect and cleanliness as Pick ‘n’ Pay. Shoprite and Checkers are smelly, their fruit and Veggies are hardly fresh – they’re smaller, and their trolleys are sticky (eeeeeeuwwwww!)… Gosh, Muslim owned shops are even worse. Mind you, I have experienced it, and I know what I’m talking about. The difference between walking at an “Indian” shop and at walking at a non-Indian shop is that, in the former, you get the look of suspicion from the moment your toes kiss the entrance step till the moment your heels say “Amen” at the exit step… by the former, I mean Indian and by latter, I mean non-Indian. In the former shops, they don’t smile – the glasses are pushed further up the noses, and they send someone to follow you around because you’re black… Yes. I’ve been to Indian shops a helluva many times because I’m a person who does not like to reach conclusions at just one experience, but I’m a social person who likes to experiment many times before making a generalization – and so far, I’ve been looked down upon. I have Indian friends who shop at the same Indian shops and they never get the same level of low service as I do – for them it’s better, I guess one can never fully understand unless they experience it (but luckily for them, they never will cos their hair is straighter, and they’ve got less cheeks than I do)… hey hey hey, mind you, I have nothing against Indians… most of my best friends are Indians – and by friends, I don’t mean the ones who only know you at school just to copy your maths homework or in the workplace, but would never wanna be seen with you at Waffle Express; by friends, I mean those who call you up, check what you’re doing and before you know it,  you’re viewing childhood photo-albums in their lounges with their parents and listening to their toothless grandparents tell you the sentimental stories of Grey Street in a mixture of Gujarati and English, only to be called by their moms who want you to help knead the dough or help stuff the samoosas in the kitchen ‘cos you have more active hands than them, or their dads who want that special Masala Tea made by you of course – those are friends – heck, SISTERS! (and brothers) know what I’m saying??? I’ve been called Indian a million times (yes, I counted ) because of my behavioural patterns, accent, cultural preferences and the way I cook – all that is inherent from my family! Aha! Saberah was adopted by an Indian family!!! Yes, I love Indians, and I identify with them much more than I do with black people because, they are my people, my family, my advisors etc… it’s just the shopowners…

Back to the latter, now – if you walk at a Pick ‘n’ Pay, the fruit is fresh, they’re neat, well-spaced, wide variety of brands, nobody follows you around, nobody calls you “mama” (I despise that word cos I’m only 23), and there’s always someone to help you with a smile. Also, they don’t offer you the cheaper deal because, they feel that you might not be able to afford “it”, but they know that the fact that you walked into their shop means that you are a customer, not a ‘mama’ who’s going to steal their stuff and stuff it into her “c-cup” breasts. The latter never gives you rotten fruit in the midst of pretty-looking fruit.

Oh, oh, before I forget – I know most of my Durbanite friends love Caminettoes for their pizza – me too… so, when I was in Durbs, I occasionally bought pizza from Caminettoes (I always phone and place an order so that I just pick it up and not have to wait) … So, it happened several times that as Saberah Gumede, I’ll place an order over the phone and be told that it’ll be ready in 20 minutes – I’ll be there in 20 minutes only to be told to wait another 20 minutes… this prompted me to use my “adoptive” surname, RASHID when placing orders at Caminettoes – so, as Saberah Rashid, I do the same process that Saberah Gumede does: order on the phone, be told that it will be ready in 20 minutes, and Overport traffic permitting, I’m there in approximately 20 minutes and guess what? I don’t have to wait!!!! Hmm, makes one wonder – I wish I knew what was the cause of these really – obviously either way, they could never tell I was black cos I do not have a black accent. So, Debonairs it is; or Pizza Hut, or one of those fancy Italian places on Florida Road… Dammit I’m sounding like a coconut now…Gosh, I have so many of these stories – I could go on and on and on… some of you are probably wondering, well, why doesn’t she go to her black places then? Firstly, they’re far away from me and secondly, because the Muslim owned shops have comfortably Halaal stock and thirdly, I do shop wherever I want to and yes, I do go to different places and the experiences are different… and I hope that highlighted my point of why I would rather shop at P ‘n’ P where I’m simply a customer and I get the “Thank you ma’am” and not the “hey’wena mama” – yes, at P ‘n’ P they speak to you in proper, well-versed English because, they assume that you’re on the same level as that Suburbian Housewife who wears pearls, speaks English and understands it… please don’t get me wrong, not all Indian shops are the same.. But most are (especially in Durbs). So far, shopping in Lens has been mixed, some treat you as their Durban counter parts and some treat you as their customer… and I love the CII shop at Trade Route Mall for that… however, the sad thing is that these “Jewish” owned shops have a greater level of service and respect than the former… Yes, I sometimes find it hypocritical that they hold placards over one bearded Indian who was stripped at an airport for looking Middle Eastern whereas, our own Muslim brothers are doing it to their fellow Nationals (giving the suspicious look, treating you as an inferior, following you around)… Sometimes, I’m evil enough to think “well, now you know how it feels”. (I’m hoping that the Accidental Academic doesn’t find offence in that because, I know he’s open minded and doesn’t deserve any of the treatment he received when he was gallivanting in Europe) .Yes, it’s humiliating when I walk into a shop with my Indian sister and I’m told “mama, shiya lo’bag lapha front – leave your bag in the front” and when I ask them why doesn’t she have to leave her bag in the front I’m told – hers is smaller (or some stupid excuse) – I’m still waiting for someone to tell me that we can see through her bag, so its ok.

Yes, South Africa is a very violent place and crime is one of our professions – yes, even I am paranoid (I didn’t even open the door for those trick or treating kids who’re celebrating Halloween)… but, the best thing is for one to get a CCTV camera just like P ‘n’ P (P ‘n’ P also gets robbed), treat everyone as a customer  - the fact that they walk into your shop means that they have enough money to afford some of the items on your shelf, and please – clean up your shops, also, please check the expiry dates on items… for me, as a person who’s paying for the items, I expect a good level of services as you show to anyone else… I don’t know how it was like to live during apartheid areas, but I sure do know what it’s like to be a victim of racial profiling. Just like most South African, I’m an optimist, a dreamer and a romanticist – and I sometimes wish we were all blind so that we wouldn’t see race or skin colour, but rather judged people on their views opinion and attitudes toward the world and everything else that matters (or doesn’t matter). Yes, I’m optimistic and positive enough to know that my open-minded friends and open-minded readers would see the article for what it is… Yes, this is a non-racial piece of writing, but it’s just my thoughts and a reflection of my experiences… I have nothing against any group of people, but, when a majority of a group of people are being unjust to one group of people, then it must be brought to light – just like how we’re bringing to light a group of Israelis who’re being unjust to a group of Palestinians.

Yes, I’ve had more positive experiences with a Indian people, I mean , after all, they’re my family, friends, flatmates and this blog forbids you from making any generalizations about Indians otherwise you’ll have me to deal with. Yes, I want to be at the frontline against racial stereotyping and generalizing, but it’s not easy when people see you for your race… I could write a thesis about why I love Indians and I will – watch this space… yes, I’m always being told of being “too Indian” on a daily basis – I make good curries, speak some Hindi and Urdu and damn, my rotis are rounder than my butt…

So there…