Abida Parveen

Meda ishq vi tun, meda yar vi tun!
I continue to meander through music. This time it was Abida Parveen, the noted Sufi singer who was singing her heart out with gay abandon. What caught my ear was the lyric. Penned by Khawaja Farid (1845-1901),one of the greatest Saraiki poets of Punjab region, who knew Arabic, Persian, Urdu, Sindhi, Panjabi, Braj Bhasha, and Saraiki. It is the dialect I heard every day at home till my parents departed. Saraiki is widely spoken in Dera Ismail Khan of North West Frontier Province of Pakistan & by those forced to flee to India at partition and their descendents. Some extracts:
Sufi music equates God with love in all its manifestations. It begins with the beloved’s resolve. ‘Yar meda pardes gaya, main kalar ves karensa/har singar kun sat ghatan, main surma mul na paisan/tutti, tang chole wali ho, main kapde mul na dhosan/, Gulam Faridan, jadan yar angad aasi/tadan har singar karesan’. I will be dressed in black, throw away all adornments, not darken my eyes, manage with old, uncomfortable attire but shall not wash my clothing till my lover enters my courtyard. Once you give your hear away, it matters little whether the person is dark or fair. Hence ‘Meda ishq vi tun/ meda yar vi tun/Meda deen vi tun, Iman vi tun, ho meda jism vi tun, medi ruh vi tun.’ (you are my love and lover too; my faith and conviction too; my body and my soul too).
The worshipper as the beloved is quite boastful too. ‘Mede yaar jeha na yaar koi/ O meda yar gulab da phul ae/ Attar kathori, lal jawahir/Onde qadam,qadam da mul ae/main han unde bagh da mali/O attay o medi bulbul ae/ (None is like my lover, he’s the rose flower/ a bowl of perfume, the red jewel or Ruby). ‘Deen dharam di mekon lor na kai/Ik darshan yaar da loran/kafar kafar har koi akhay/Tab hargiz munh na mooran/Mari khayin, jhirkian/Teda daman mul na choran’ (I long not for religion but only for a glimpse of my lover. Though everyone calls me an unbeliever yet I wouldn’t turn my face away. Willing to be thrashed and reprimanded, I will not let go of my lover). Once the heart is given away, no wonder all that matters is a total surrender to the other, whether dark or fair: Ghulam Farida, jeh nal dil ar paway/O gori hovay ya kali! For ‘Meda dharam vi toon/Meda bharam vi toon/Meda sharam vi toon/Meda shaan vi toon’ (you are my faith and illusion too, my blush and my magnificence too).
Two lines, which establish the secular credentials of Sufism by merging the lover’s identity into Lord Krishna’s beyond doubt are: ‘Meda sanwal mithra sham saloona/ Man mohan janan vee tu’. (My sanwal or dusky, mithra or darling, Sham another name for Krishna, saloona, the beautiful/ Man mohan, who wins everyone’s hearts too). The reference is in Hindi words. That may explain why the Islamic site, which I accessed simply mentioned its inability to literally translate these verses. Interestingly, in a similar strain, another verse discounts the stigma attached to the dark skin. It mentions people telling Majnu, the lover that his Laila or beloved was dark. Majnu retorted that the problem was not with his Laila but with the viewers’ sight. He drew an analogy to the sheets of Quran, which are white but the writing of holy verses is in black ink.
The Sufi lyric celebrating Krishna in one stanza, describes the lover in the other as kaba or Mecca, kibla or the direction in which prayers are offered, masjid, the mosque, mimbar, the pulpit from where sermon is delivered, mushaf or the white sheets & the holy Quran too. In fact, the Almighty in a lover’s role is identified with everything around, especially with items of adornment. ‘Medi mehndi kajal musag vi toon/Medi surkhi beera paan vi toon’ (my henna, eyeliner, teeth-cleaner/My rouge, betel too). ‘Musag’ is a piece of bark women commonly used to clean their teeth with and it would leave a tinge of red on lips too. The relationship between the two is variously described: as that between a servant and his master (O main nokar tun sarkar hoven) or the gardener tending the bloom-lover in his garden of beauty (Husan tede da bagh hovay/Main mali tun gulzar hoven). Inspired by such heavenly beauty, the beloved is acutely conscious of filth around her. (‘Charay pallu mere chikar bharay/Main kehra mal mal dhovan/Pani melay atay saban thoray/O main talpay rovan/Gulam Farida, je mekon khabar hondi/Ta main mundhon heer na theewan’) There is filth on all the four sides, which one should I scrub and clean. The water too is dirty now and the soap is scarce leaving me upset and in tears. Gulam Farida, had I known, I wouldn’t have become your Heer or beloved.
A biographical note on Abida Parveen claims that her ‘husky but equally delicate voice proclaiming a deeper bond of Universal Love that soars above the boundaries that divide religious and secular denominations. In this sense, her message can be compared to the likes of Kabir and Nanak, both of whom united Hindus and Muslims. How true!

Straying into Spirituality

The week that I began courting classical music and lived through live painting sessions till its middle had more to offer. I strayed into spirituality when my niece told me about Swami Sukhabodhananda’s discourses on the Bhgwad Gita at Pragati (called pargati or the higher world by bus conductors!) Maidan over the weekend. My senior colleague, whom I had coaxed into the rendezvous, began to lose his patience when Swamiji did not show up past 6.30. As we sauntered out for a stroll, he sarcastically commented, there’s your swami in the big car to our left, attired in silken, saffron. Why can’t these people be more austere? The car may not be his”, I offered the best defence I could muster, and he needs to look good... on camera. He gave me a glare so I used some humor to calm him down.
Swamiji was also to use it to intersperse his talk full of Sanskrit slokas, most of which flew over my head, and words of divine wisdom during the next hour. “Every one I meet with has a problem- with the boss, some Mr. Verma at office or his wife at home. You marry my wife, Swamiji, and all your ananda shall disappear”. The males in the audience broke into guffaws. “I am glad you in Delhi at least laugh at my jokes. At some places, people show constipated faces” and he won over the hearts of Dilliwalas.
“We blame our pristhiti (situation) for our suffering but the real cause lies in our manosthiti or mindset. It made sense. Most of our colleagues are quite happy with the way things are at our work-place. If some of us continue to crib, we need to change our attitude since we can’t change others’ anyway. Swamiji offered more gems of divine wisdom. “All of us experience vishad or sorrow, don’t we? So did Arjuna. He didn’t want to kill his kins, his gurus and wailed in the battle ground. Why? The reason was that he needed to be awakened; to be able to see beyond the physical and become one with the Soul. We too must see beyond and see what we often do not see”. I could only see a paradox. “Sometimes we think we are awake but still do not see-like somnambulists- who walk, eat and even drive a car while still in a slumber. Therefore, my friend, Bhagwad Gita is a wake-up call. Arise and be awake”
I jerked up as a mosquito sang into my ear while another stung me on the ankle. I realized many in the audience were similarly struck and were busy waving them away. An innocuous insect could spoil the serene session of spirituality. My senior prodded me to get up. The next evening, I returned with another friend and found a Prasanna Trust’s volunteer spraying mosquito repellent around the Swamiji’s seat but my raised eyebrows fell when I saw a coil being lit and placed in our vicinity. Repel the negative thoughts, I told myself and immersed myself in the melodious bhajans being played to bring us into a better mood.
Swamiji's arrival was announced-something I missed the previous day. He walked through the audience, many men and women touching his feet, one hefty man almost blocking his way. I thought he would bend and raise them but he just looked benevolently at them with folded hands. Better safe than sorry, I thought, swamis are in the news for all the wrong reasons. His mother arrived on stage to light a lamp. I wondered if he would touch her feet but he didn’t. Perhaps he has transcended the level at which ordinary mortals exist. Swamiji asked us to chant Om with him three times. As the resonance of the divine sound reached a crescendo, I found my mind racing to the Red Fort from whose ramparts successive prime ministers call upon the spectators to shout three times, Jai Hind.
“The cause of our distaste for the present lies in our past. We keep thinking about what happened and it fills us with anger and hurt. So what happens? We spoil our present. We don’t enjoy it. By enjoying, I don’t mean smoking and drinking- to some people enjoyment only means this. I mean being at peace, looking within, being awake and seeing. And then we begin to worry about the future. What would happen to us tomorrow and so on.” The lone Sikh seated ahead of us nodded I agreement.
Swamiji narrated the interview of a trapeze artist who changed swings without a safety net below. When asked if his job required toughness, the artist answered in the negative. One needs awareness and timing. You have to let go of the first to catch the second or you will be left swinging on the first. Similarly, Swamiji concluded, we have to let go of the past and grab the present. Forget the hurts of the past and forgive those who caused it. What did Jesus say about those who were crucifying him? ‘Forgive them for they know not what they are doing’. I wondered if it is easy and found my frown projected on the large screen.
“If you keep living with the hurts of the past, you devastate not only your present but destroy your future too. You keep worrying about things like death”. Swamiji mentioned a computer expert in his thirties, very successful and intelligent, who had stopped going out for fear of being killed on road. He had downloaded data from Google about maximum number of people being killed in road accidents. I said to him, “Your data has not been updated. In fact, most people die not on the road but in their beds. The young man got the message right. So stop worrying about what may happen tomorrow and live your present fully”. I rose to leave with deep thoughtful sigh and bought a book written by Swamiji by way of thanksgiving. The title reads, ‘Oh, LIFE Relax Please!’ and offers Y

Sunday & Thereafter

Sunday was a special day. On the lawns of Indira Gandhi National Centre of Arts lit by lamps, Dr. Shanno Khurana (Shanno mami to me) gave a classical vocal recital dedicated to the Rampur-Sehaswan Gharana as part of The Gharana Festival. What’s amazing is the way she has been defying age to immortalise Indian classical music and its lofty traditions. Born in Jodhpur in 1927, she began singing at an early age and has been enthralling music lovers since then. Her range spans Khayals, Thumris, Dadras, Tappas and her voice transcends the heights of melody when she sings a Maand, Chaiti, Kajri or Hori. I vividly recall her opera ‘Sohni Mahiwal’, which was staged at AIFACS Hall on Rafi Marg, then the epicentre of Delhi’s cultural activities. Shanno Khurana has sung and won bagful of awards at home and abroad-the one aptly bestowing upon her the title of ‘Nightingale of the East’. After a non-stop rendition lasting almost two hours, she was mobbed by admirers. One of them gushed and asked how she could continue to do it at the age of 83. She disarmingly smiled and said, ‘Why not call it 38?” God bless her!

If Sunday showcased the veteran Shanno mami, Monday brought me to face to face with Megha Madan, a promising painter who has hardly stepped out of her teens. When she asked if she could paint a potted plant lying in our courtyard, I was a trifle surprised. There were worthier specimens adorning my home- the hollyhocks along the boundary wall, which have shot up to tree-height and are in full bloom being my favourite- but she repeated her preference. She was enamoured of the varied colours of leaves and the way they formed the shadows in the morning Sun. I gave into the wishes of the third year student of Delhi’s College of Arts and saw her work every morning till noon during the next three days. I thought it was the heat that made her call a halt at noon. The real reason lay in the shifting shadows as the Sun rose in two hours. The white canvas was turned into a replica of the plant catching its hues of colours, twitching leaves and swaying shadows. When she took the work home for the final touches, I could wait no longer and shot her with it. Best wishes to the budding artist!

Tharoor's Interlocutors

Shashi Tharoor has tweeted himself into trouble for the umpteenth time. This time over the role visualized for the Saudis in sorting out Indo-Pak problems. When there was a hue and cry over involving them in what India has always maintained to be bilateral disputes, the Minister of State took shelter in semantics. He has been misunderstood, he claimed, since what he had in mind for the Saudis was the role of an ‘interlocutor’ and not a ‘mediator’. Oxford’s Advanced Learners’ Dictionary defines an interlocutor as ‘one who takes part in a discussion or a dialogue’. One wonders how the Saudis would do that without getting involved in the dispute. If the intent was to use Saudis’ leverage with Pakistanis (remember how they bailed out beleaguered Pakistani leaders like Nawaz Sharif, Zardari & Musharraf !) to put a stop to terror strikes from across the border, our delegation failed to visualize that the Saudis can do likewise in raking up Kashmir problem at Pakistan’s instance. Tweeting apart, it is time for our government to understand that we have to fight our own battles and secondly, prudence is better than valour

On Success & Failure

I have lately become a Robin Sharma fan. In his book, 'The Greatness Guide', he says, 'Nothing fails like success.. Success actually breeds complacency, inefficiency and -worst of all- arrogance'. People 'go on the defensive, spending their energy protecting their success rather than staying true to the very things that got them to the top.'
The thought was striking since one always heard the opposite. So I circulated the quote among friends. This morning, a lady friend emailed her response and emphatically stated that she disagreed and the matter was debatable. I went back to the quote to be able to appreciate what made her express such strong disapproval.
Well, who doesn't seek success? All of us do. And those who do manage to become what in Bollywood or Sports rankings is often described as Number 1, do flaunt their position, market-price and often contempt for competitors. Robin Sharma is merely highlighting that our focus, even while at the top, should be to go on improving ourselves rather than become complacent or condescending. If our industry and innovativeness has taken us to the top slot, we must continue to excel rather than assume airs and worry only about slipping or sliding down the ladder. Most of us do falter, lose focus and come down the rankings. We end up with the first best-seller, be it a movie or a book; the first grand slam; the first major success. A perfect example of success finally failing to deliver consistently.
It will be misreading Robin Sharma to infer that he is decrying success. He is only highlighting the need not to be bogged down with our achievements but aim still higher. The message displayed outside the local YWCA once read, “The widest room is the room for self-improvement”.

Chiki Sarkar's review of Chetan Bhagat's 'Two States'

Chiki Sarkar's review of Chetan Bhagat's latest block-buster 'Two States' (Outlook, Jan. 25) was typical of critics running down works, which become a rage among readers, ostensibly for not coming up to one or the other literary benchmark. Every successful work has its intrinsic merits and need not emulate others. Nor it needs to be banned like Rushdie's or its creator to be exiled, like M.F.Husain in order to be recognized. A critic's job is not to look for what the work never claims to be but to approach and analyze it with empathy. Two States would remain a hit for the simple reason that readers can relate to different characters portrayed with keen observation and gentle sarcasm. Chetan Bhagat's narrative, from whichever couch it may emanate, is extremely interesting, entertaining and gripping, which makes the novel hilarious and simply 'unputdownable'. It is a pity Sarkar has been as petty as the makers of 3 Idiots were in acknowledging Bhagat's merit. The reviewer's attitude is reflective of the way Indians treat sex- enjoy it to the hilt but don't approve of it in public.

God's Own Country!

The Air India’s Flight to Kochi, though punctual, was a listless affair. The only interesting thing happened towards the end when I learnt that my co-passenger was an MP representing the same area we were headed to. He was all praise for the educated Kerala electorate who threw out those playing communal politics, wanted development and did not promote film heroes like Tamilians. He thought the current parliamentary session was a success, formation of a separate Telangana state in Andhra a certainty and his week-end visit home only meant to meet his constituents. While I mused over why the same electorate with the highest literacy rate never reposed faith in a single party and had to flee God’s own country to find jobs elsewhere, we were asked to fasten the seat belts for landing at Kochi’s picturesque airport. On arrival, I told the cab driver that I had met his MP on the flight. He cynically smiled to say, ‘They are only seen during elections’. My wife, meanwhile, was deeply upset that the agent whose card had a logo depicting the silhouette of a houseboat and palm trees with the promise of ‘whispering waves’ had put us up in a budget hotel. She turned out to be right. Abad group ran too many properties to enable us to remember the details. ‘Banta Singh and Santa Singh are the same’, I suggested to her but she called Delhi to ensure that Nair took no more liberties with our itinerary and compensated us with complimentary dinners during the rest of the trip.

We drove through morning to Vaikom, on to a very narrow, broken road. My spine, already weakened with osteophytes, groaned loudly at every thud while I made a cushion of my right hand to pat it with patience. Somehow the road did not fit in with the global image of Kerala’s backwaters. I did not know it then that the actual point where the popular cruises begin was several miles down at Kumarakom or furher down at Alleppey -the southern end of backwaters while we were at the northern tip, being developed as a tourist destination. While I scanned the serene waters spread along the horizon, my wife quizzed the wily Ramesh, who kept more to himself than revealed, about our exact whereabouts. The boat we were supposed to occupy was a beauty but someone in its driver’s family had ostensibly passed away so we were made to move into a larger boat with two bedrooms. Minutes ticked away inexplicably and as our romance with Kerala’s backwaters began, Ramesh also talked us into accepting another couple on board. ‘I told you, Sir, na that the driver has a tragedy so please don’t mind. They will be in a separate room.’ A steam boat brought them to our house boat while it idled around lunch and a harassed young couple came on board. No hellos, no smiles! They vanished into the other bedroom. While we wondered whether they have had a fight or found us bad company, food, enough for six, was served to two of us. The fried fish made up for all bad feelings. They re-emerged when we were asked to move to the upper deck as the ‘other family’ wanted to have lunch. We chose to retire to our room with a fidgety air conditioner and a CD of ‘Slumdog Millionaire’. Ramesh was at it once again, ‘Sorry, Sir. This is the only one we have.’ I preferred to read Chetan Bhagat’s ‘Five Point Someone’ (No, the boat didn’t keep any books) while my wife plugged in her headset to listen to music.
The next two hours were heavenly. We decided to focus on what we had come all the way to see. The house boat slid over the serene waters silently as we gazed enchanted on the embankments lined with countless coconut and palm trees. You could see women washing clothes at the a distant bank and then an odd boat being stuffed with sand. Ramesh had turned a guide now and told us whatever he could. ‘Best sand, Sir. He turned to my wife, ‘Madam, are you enjoying? Should I click your picture- on your second honeymoon’, he chuckled. We didn’t know it then but learnt later that the other couple, on the first-ever honeymoon, had been robbed of privacy. The crafty Ramesh had shown them the same boat and told them the same story. ‘Only you were to go on this exclusive boat. Someone passed away and the driver is not there so we have to put you up on the other house boat! Please don’t mind, huh! Separate room.’ The bitter lady in the other room confided later that the romancing couple had to watch the violent ‘Gazni’ on their honeymoon. ‘Sorry, madam. Only one CD.’


The house boat turned and entered a narrow waterway. There were huts on both sides. Small children came out of some homes to wave to us. Inquisitive men looked at strangers peeping into their lives. An elderly man, already neck-deep in water, looked at us and took a dip. Small boats lay tied on both banks to tree barks dug deep into the still waters. Working jetties! The boat swerved to the left again, stopped intruding into their privacy and entered wider water bodies. The afternoon sun shone relentlessly setting the splashing waters aglow. It looked as if deep, dark surroundings had been set afire. We sailed past an abandoned Chinese fishing net, which looked like a huge squarish bowl, which used to be dipped into waters and then pulled up with a wooden lever along with the booty. We were to see more of them at Alleppey later, some of them in action. A couple of steamers sped past us carrying passengers and gurgling waters around them breaking the deafening silence. We turned right yet again and the boat went past a hamlet with women in nighties busy in household chores. ‘Whatever happened to the traditional Keralite costumes’, my wife wondered. ‘Perhaps convenience and affordability comes first’. Ramesh made his last appearance as the familiar steamboat slid alongside. ‘Sorry, Sir. There is an emergency.’ He jumped on to the steamboat a little later and got away not to be seen again till our departure. We moved along the bank as the distant sun to our left prepared to go down. The houseboat anchored for the night allowing us to come on ground. A row of colas stood on a table. We picked up one and asked about the price. ‘Forty rupees.’ Nothing comes cheap if you are a tourist. We spoke to our daughters to tell them they were being missed as darkness enveloped the sky.

The night too was eventful with air conditioner switching off intermittently and a few of the ants spotted in a row on the boat’s floor managing to climb on to the bed. That was quite scary! The boat scampered back to the spot where we had started from by the time we sat for breakfast. This was when the newly-wed young lady took every crew member to task for terminating the cruise more than an hour before the scheduled time. ‘We paid so much money and you return one hour before time. What’s this? We are not leaving the boat.’ Our local agent happened to call right then and she asked him to reprimand hers in Malayalam. “Are you a Tamilian? he queried and learnt that she was from Hyderabad and spoke Telugu, Hindi and English only. The verbal duel that followed helped her extract another four hours of cruise from the houseboat owner. We felt good for them and packed off hurriedly to Alleppey to give the couple some privacy they deserved. The afternoon was spent shopping for handicrafts saving the evening for the Alleppey beach. Also as Alappuzha beach, it is a beautiful, vast expanse of sands and turquoise blue waters of the Arabian sea. The old lighthouse looked mystical in the evening. There is a century old dock whose pier extends deep into the sea. We felt like walking on it but saw the missing planks in time and returned to the waves. We kept stepping forward and let the waves go past our ankles filling our slippers with sand. Walking long the coastline revealed dozens of young boys and girls befriending the waves. A toddler caught our eye as he tried repeatedly to break free from his father’s clutches to rush in to the sea. As the Sun slid down, our eyes were glued to the horizon while shutters of cameras and mobiles clicked throwing flashes of light forward. Dozens of gleaming Chinese kites rose in the darkening sky. At the same time, the Naval Symphonic Band celebrating the Navy week ironically played the song ‘Suno gaur se duniya walo, Buri nazar na hum pe dalo, Chahe jitna zore laga lo, sab se aage honge, Hindustani.’


We left Alleppey next morning to race to Fort Kochi, 50 kms away and best known for Church of St. Francis where Vasco da Gama lay buried for fourteen years before his remains were taken to Portugal. The once Roman Catholic Church is now managed by the Church of South India and draws the curious and faithful alike. We stepped out to find a row of stalls, Janpath style, selling bric-a-brac, and picked up a few souvenirs after hard bargaining. It was quite warm outside and sighting a fresh coconut vendor was a relief. My wife argued you could get one for 15 rupees even in Delhi but the vendor ignored her and looked over our shoulders at the foreigners for better deals.

Our next halt was at the bowl-shaped Chinese fishing nets, said to be introduced in 13th century by Chinese traders and now a tourist attraction. The size of some of the big fishes being sold next to them, despite being video graphed by a gullible tourist, made me suspicious. A shopkeeper selling garments close to the site confirmed that only the tiny ones were caught in the nets while the rest were supplied by the fishing trawlers from the deep sea. Our nest destination was the Paradesi Jewish Synagogue, which is at the end of the narrow Jew Lane, almost monopolized by the Kashmiri traders who step out of shops to accost tourists. The Synagogue was closed during lunch hour so we chose to shop for spices. When it opened, we went past an exhibition of a series of paintings beginning with the arrival of Jews in Cochin. Most of them either migrated to Portugal or converted later. Female visitors wearing revealing clothes, sleeveless tops and skirts specifically mentioned, could borrow scarves to cover themselves up before entering the prayer house. We were asked to remove our shoes. The Synagogue’s Scrolls, the Torahs, meaning the instructions or laws of Judaism, were hidden behind a curtain inside. A guide was asking a Belgian tourist to look at the glass chandeliers. ‘Do you know from where these came? You made them.’ Oil lamps, one of them was lit, were first filled with water and then oil, which would stay at top, before lighting them. A brass-railed pulpit stood in the middle. ‘Look beneath your feet, Madam. These are all Chinese, 18th century, hand-painted porcelain tiles.’ The lady repeated the information to her male companion in Dutch who nodded intermittently. Near the gate, the man on the counter informed us that prayers are offered on the weekends. ‘Why prohibit photography’, I asked. ‘Security’, he evasively said but the intent could well be to sell brochures and picture post cards showing the Synagogue.

The evening was reserved for Kochi’s Marine Drive, a poor cousin of Mumbai’s in terms of length but lined with many more boats, most with upper decks, which take you across to the harbour end @ 50 rupees an hour. We fell for it and were made to wear life jackets, post-Thekkady tragedy in October this year in which nearly forty people lost their lives. The evening sky changed colours rapidly as the sun went down allowing The Taj hotel’s neon sign to emerge. A coastguard vessel blew its horn twice as we came in its way and in the melee, you could no longer hear the waters lapping against the hull. I tried clicking a few pictures of the ships anchored on the other side but failed. The movement of the boat and darkness all around frustrated my attempts. An engine sound caught my ears right then and a steam boat raced past us without any light. For the first time, the rotatable headlight was switched on as the driver swerved right towards the now illuminated shore. We rounded off the trip with a visit to a five-storied store. My wife called home:

‘Hello! I am at Mahalakshmi store..’
‘No, Madam. Jayalakshmi’, the group of sales girls spoke in unison. ‘on M.G.Road’. As if the location would have altered the name itself.
‘O.K., O.K. Jayalakshmi. Should I pick up a Lehenga and some Punjabi suits for you?’
Punjabi suits in Kerala! Whatever happened to the traditional Pattu-pavadas and Thaavanis! Thank God my wife finally picked up a Kasavu saree for herself!

At dinner, we had fish for the umpteenth time before flying out of God’s own country.
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