My Mehram, ساحِل Sahil
Gazing out from the Kadıköy Sahil, the glistening water dances like a scattering of misri rocks, trickling beneath a city camouflaged in multiple life modes. The sahils of Istanbul are the spectators of everything the city inhales and exhales. They are a testament to the ever-shifting and floating landscape.
Writer Orhan Pamuk reminds us of the concept of hüzün (melancholy):
“Hüzün does not just paralyse the inhabitants of Istanbul, it also gives them poetic license to be paralysed. It is a way of looking at life that… is ultimately as life affirming as it is negating.” Hüzün is therefore a sought-after state, and it is the absence, not the presence, of hüzün that causes the sufferer distress. “It is the failure to experience hüzün,” Pamuk says, “that leads him to feel it.” Hüzün is tinged with a religious meaning; for the Sufi; it is a spiritual anguish they feel at not being close to God, somewhere between an illness and a mystical state.
There has to be some truth to this, as I keep wandering back to this city. Sometimes to heal the various fragments of my heart; to be that stranger and outsider who doesn't know anyone and no one knows me; to feed my soul that yearns for the unknown, to stroll for countless hours to catch the smells, sounds and sights that hold a strange familiarity. My reckless eyes skim around in search of my aboo (father) through the display of ash-black moustaches. The dry, wrinkly Turkish skin with fields of grey unshaved hair; the swinging Casio silver watches; the pungent woody aroma like a cheap men’s aftershave from the late 1980s entices me to believe how he would have smelled. Suddenly, my thoughts merge with a smoky aroma of fish wraps from a sidewalk vendor. I am awakened and reminded that aboo rests in his grave in Sahiwal. For me, Istanbul is a silent declaration of cascading amidst the chaos, the in-between, the liminal. This is a city of synthesis.
I trail to Findikli Sahil café, sipping my chai; a lukewarm breeze hits me from the Bosphorus. The strong sulphur like gas whiff is fused with cumin, garlic and onion, transporting me to my ami’s (mother) Sunday Yakhnee Pilao (rice dish) in Edinburgh. Simultaneously, the aroma carries me back to a childhood memory of visiting the shrine of Baba Farid in Pakpattan (Pakistan). A vivid recollection of images of crowded people, the scorching Punjabi sun, bags of rose petals and green ceremonial cloth. Perhaps the combination of these specific chemical compounds fused with the spices induces sentiments from the past.
‘Floating’ in this vast city offers respite to heal from the past; the juxtaposition of urban vs rural is everyone's life story. Frequently, I use this anger as ammunition to survive; It offers comfort and relief within the many contradictions I harbour.
Sometimes I visit Istanbul to resemble the Turkish language with Urdu and Farsi. The calligraphy scriptures engraved outside the mosques and Ottoman gravestones are witnesses of a bygone era. Yet, as I enter a traditional Turkish café in the back streets of Kadıköy or Cihangir, my eyes inspect the room to find ‘Bismillah’ written in Islamic calligraphy. I relentlessly seek this reaction, again, again, and again.
The Turkish Latin script represents my present-day reality. While glancing at a menu, I encounter words such as, sade (Plain), siyah (Dark/Black), çorba (soup), and Zeytin (Olive). These words spark memories of maternal affection of doing mutalia (studying) of Urdu language as an eight-year-old with my ami. Additionally, words such as Meydan (Square), Sahil (beach), Taze (Fresh), Dunya (World), and Terzi (Tailor) ignite my passion about the Urdu lexicon. The amalgamation of these languages affirms the courage, conflict and vulnerability that simmers within me.
As I scribble my sensations, the afternoon call for prayer (Azaan) unfolds in the background. It reconciles my damaged parts; retelling old tales, a gentle whisper from my nana, uttering the azaan in my ear when I was born. It makes me pause and pay attention - the soundscapes of the call of prayer are an ancient testimony to the everyday life that passes by. For me, it entails qualities of care, ethics and respect. The interruption enables me to process my grief and trauma for a moment. The elongated tones echo a longing, a cry for something unknown. Perhaps a reminder to the human race to wake up from their deep slumber, show compassion and have mercy for each other. Once the azaan is over, it feels like I have received a tender cuddle and a kiss from my mother.