13 ALLOY WHEELS FOR SALE

This is a street in Lucknow UP India which connects Bada Imambara ,Chota Imambara and Hussainabad.. one end takes you to the older quarters of Chowk and Nakhas.
Chowk was once renowned for its beautiful dancing girls called Tawaifs , this intoxication of dance was known as Mujra.. households were lost on the beauty of a Tawaif.. a cultured prostitute , it was Adab and Tehzeeb,, etiquette, manners and deportment.

The Nawabs of Oudh I am told by an old wizened man in the Pata Nala area where I was born, were passionately crazy about this leisurely pastime...
the other was love for little boys too, .. fortunes were spent on finding a nice doe eyed little boy who would be the apple of his owners pride.
And jealousies, the tenderness of these little souls in their feminine charms and guile.
The Nawabs loved pigeons or flying pigeons , this was known as Kabutarbazi.. racing pigeon from the roofs of their Havelis.. rare species of pigeons like Shirazis, Fantails, and other imported varieties.
Kite flying was a hobby that was in their blue blood called Patang bazi..kite fights,the razored thread and the delicacy of cutting the string of your opponents kite.
Poetry , nazm, ghazal, the Marsiyas of Mir Aneez, Mir Taki Mir, Mir Dabir...and part of my moms ancestry. my maternal grandfather Daroga Nabban Saab an eminent poet.. my Dads being a race called Moghal Pathans .. converted to Shiaism.
The solemnity of Moharram , the Tazias , the Matams Lucknow was a Shia stonghold even today’s Moharram the Martyrdom of Imam Hussain the Grandson Of The Holy Prophet is celebrated in old time charm., all this happens in Nawabi Nostalgia of Lucknow.

I was born in Lucknow my Dad Mohomed Shakir a very good looking guy , with looks that could kill was settled in Bombay .. he was to marry my Moms step sister whom he had not seen, as he was the only child my paternal grandmother was blackmailed into showing the bride to be, in arranged marriages the husband sees the face of his bride on the wedding night.
A plan was made my grandmother Khurshed Baji , who hid my Dad in a toilet and told him that he could see his bride from an opening.. instead of the bride my Mother only 14 years old ,playfully walked into the courtyard my Dad was hit by a bolt of lightning.. thus ended up marrying her.. my Moms step sister Huzoor Jahan quite elderly was heartbroken and locked herself up .. my Dad consummated the bridal vow and flew away to Bombay as he was having a relationship with an Anglo Indian lady presumably my Dads bosses wife..I think much of my English figure of speech I owe to her..
How it came into me God alone knows,.. the Christian bit too.
I was born in the same year 10th December 1953 in Lucknow never saw my Dad., some folks escorted my mom to Bombay and caught hold of the Casonova and the rest is history,
Dad left the bosses wife and the job.. the earlier days were in penury and living in a leaking shed on a cemetery in Kurla... where human pyres were lit
After that that things took a better turn Dad got a break and he was a Master Cutter and Outfitter and we came to live at Colaba with the old time famous actor Nawab Kashmiris family.. the Nawabs daughter Akthar Baji enrolled me in a school run by European teachers,, Private European School ..opposite Usha Sadan , the principal were Mrs E Lester, Miss Marjorie. Miss June... all deceased. The school was an extension of John the Baptist Methodist Church,.

And my parents are dead and gone, my wife is from Lucknow..
I am a self made man.. Drop out and all... I am enmeshed to the Indianess of America.. revolving my life to the Medicine Wheel...
He is great who can do what he wishes; he is wise who wishes to do what.

Summary
Memories reach out and are not meant to hurt
as hidden words unhidden in meanings you blurt
they come as they flow as they splurt
placed on a pedestal they fall
kiss dirt ...

Life is not to good , I am lucky that Jalal is seeing the city of his birth, through the pages of my past as I once wrote it at Buzznet as body post, deleted , yet vibrantly alive.
What hurts is comments, sometimes the comment placed as a bouquet on the dead body of your post, brings you, your body post to life.
At Buzznet much of the comments is aphrodisiacally abbreviative,to comment you need more prowess than the post you are going to comment on, sometimes a comment becomes a body post.This will be understood by those who have once been in love in their life .
My summaries are not for the living read or unliving dead.
What hurt me is though my posts are coming back to lIfe , I miss the comments, sharp razor edged comments, naughty comments , haughty comments, potty comments, in short I would give Buzznet support my soul to get back those comments..Yes some chapters in Life you cannot UNDO ..
I am not the Shia Thugno1, Photographerno1, Commentator no1, but yes I am Firoze Shakir a substance that does not wash easily, the dust of my

365:8

We ran out of medicine for my daughter. We ran out of her medicine and there weren't any refills on her so we had to call the doctor at the children's research hospital who castigated me because we are overdue for an appointment. Yes.

But we got that all sorted out and the pills were sitting at CVS, all packaged up and waiting for us. Except that the insurance company now wanted the doctor to confirm that my daughter still requires this medication. That was two days ago.

So I drive up to the window at CVS this morning and ask if the is ready.
"Still waiting on confirmation from the insurance company."
"Well, how much is the without the insurance?"
I mean, this stuff is available OTC in other formulations. How much could it possibly be?
"Four[mumblemumblemumblemumble]andelevencents."
"Forty dollars?"
"Four. Hundred. And. Eleven. Dollars. And. It. Doesn't. Matter. How. Many. Cents. Now. Does. It."

Sigh. No medicine today. My girl is getting raspy. I'm worried she'll start vomiting tonight.

01/08/09