At the Smoothie Shop

At the Smoothie Shop

written by Sabina England, 2012

There was just a shooting and a bombing in Norway today. I bet Muslims did it. They’re such fucked up people.

My friend, Kim, said that to me as we walked into the smoothie shop. She held the door open for me and I stopped to look at her.

What? I repeated, searching for a hint of humor in her face.

Didn’t you see the news? she asked me, there was just a terrorist attack in Norway.

What makes you think Muslims did it? I asked her, feeling troubled by her earlier remark.

She laughed. Muslims blow up everything, she replied, don’t you know that?

Kim still held the door open, impatiently waiting for me to move. I entered the shop, followed by Kim who let the door slam shut. We walked to the cash register to look up at the menu of smoothies. There were about twenty different flavors. I tried to read the menu with interest, but I had difficulty focusing because I kept thinking about Kim’s remarks. I turned around to her and I replied:

I’m a Muslim.

She became surprised. Huh? she said, I thought you’re Hindu?

Uh, no, I shook my head, I’ve told you before that my family is Muslim.

You never said that, Kim replied, I always thought y’all were Hindus because you’re from India.

I rolled my eyes. India has about 250 million Muslims, I explained, and I could have sworn I’ve told you before that I’m Muslim.

Nope, Kim replied. She looked back up at the menu. I think I’m gonna have that Blueberry Blaze smoothie. That sounds good, doesn’t it?

That’s it? I was appalled by her lack of concern over what she said to me about my own people. That we Muslims were fucked up people who blow up everything.

Hey, I said, listen to me. I told you I am Muslim. Aren’t you going to apologize?

She looked confused. Apologize for what? she asked.

Um, what you said about Muslims. That we’re fucked up people and we blow up shit.

Why am I supposed to apologize for that? I’m telling you the truth, Zara, everyone knows it’s true.

My mouth dropped open. Seriously, Kim? I stuttered, are you fucking serious?

Why are you getting so mad? Kim said, everyone’s looking at us. Calm down, Zara.

She chuckled. I quickly glanced around to see if anyone were watching. There was a college student seated at a table in the corner and she had her face buried in her geology textbook. There was an old man sprawled out on the couch and his eyes were shut. I looked over at the cashier and saw that he was texting on his cell phone. Kim was lying, nobody were looking at us.

Just calm down, she said again, a hint of smugness in her voice.

Calm down? I repeated, feeling myself getting angrier, don’t fucking tell me to calm down. Are you going to apologize to me for what you said about my people?

Dude, you’re making yourself look bad, Kim replied, just calm down and please order a smoothie already. Quit getting so mad over everything. It’s my opinion and I’ll say what I want.

Why the fuck do you want to hang out with me and get smoothies if you think I’m going to blow you up anyway? I retorted. My family and I are just fucked up terrorists, right?

Zara, I always thought you were Hindu, Kim said, just chill out. She then laughed. I didn’t know you’re Muslim.

I stayed silent and tried to think of what to do next. I didn’t want to explode and scream at her, or else I’d confirm her racist stereotypings about women of color. Fuck, I never knew before what a racist bigot she was. We were friends for almost a year, when we met at a punk show. We bonded over riot grrl bands. I’d never at once heard her express any racist sentiments about Muslims or other people of color. Or did she? I tried to remember if she’d said anything offensive about other groups. Nope. Wait a minute--there was that one time when she complained about rap music. I hate rap, she spat out. She shuddered at the word rap. Like it was filth. When I told her I didn’t mind some rap and hip hop, she persisted in how awful and nasty rap was, that it was deeply misogynistic and offensive toward girls and women. When I pointed out that rock ‘n’ roll, punk rock, heavy metal, and country music were just as awful with their attitudes toward women, she ignored that and kept ranting how much she hated rap. Was that some kind of a subtle hint that she hated black people? I never even thought about it. We mainly talked about punk bands and sexism. We barely talked about politics or race issues.

Yeah.

Thoughts furiously swirled in my mind.

Kim stood there, staring at me with an amused expression on her face.

I felt the anger inside me rising. That stupid fucking racist Islamophobic bitch. Yeah bitch. Keep laughing, I silently thought to myself, and I’ll fucking stab you in the face with my fork, you little fucking racist whore.

I am hungry, Kim said impatiently, are you going to get a smoothie or not?

Are you going to apologize to me or not? I snapped. But I already knew how she would respond.

Apologize for telling you my opinion? Kim replied, I’m not gonna apologize for what I believe in.

Okay then I’m going to leave, I replied. Nice knowing you, racist bitch.

I turned around to walk out of the smoothie shop.

I am not racist, Kim called out to me, you can’t be racist against a religious group.

I stopped walking and looked back at her in disbelief. Sure you can be racist against a religious group, I replied, trying not to get angry, there are brown and black people who are not Muslim and even they get attacked because dumb bitches like you think they’re Muslim. Ever heard about Sikh men who were murdered in hate crimes because some fucking white trash redneck thought they were Muslim or Arab?

I have no idea what you’re talking about, Kim replied, I am not racist because Muslims are not a race.

Ok, then, I replied, you’re an Islamophobic bigot.

Islamophobia doesn’t exist, she replied, that’s a fake word the media made up to make Americans feel bad for criticizing Muslims.

I wanted to run across the smoothie shop and jump at her and strangle her and pound in her ugly sneering face. I wanted to grab her blonde hair out and rip it out of her scalp. I wanted to kick in her teeth with my Doc Marten boots. I wanted to stomp in her rosy pink cheeks with my fists. Fucking goddamned racist Islamophobic cunt whore bitch.

You basically said that I am a fucked up person and that my mom and dad and brother and sister are all fucked up people, I said, walking back toward her, you have implied that anyone of us would blow up a building because we are Muslims. Do you know there are over 1 billion Muslims worldwide? If what you say is true, why aren’t we blowing up shit everywhere everyday all over America and Europe 24/7 all the damn time?

Oh my god, dude, you’re shouting at me, Kim said, rapidly blinking her ugly blue eyes, you’re fuckin crazy like all Muslims. You’re like a radical, Zara. I was just expressing my opinion. You Muslims want to force all of us to agree with you. Calm the fuck down.

Fuck you, I laughed, you’re gonna tell me to calm down? You’re telling me that I’m a radical because I’m upset you said racist hateful things about my people? I’m gonna tell all the punks and hippies what a racist whore you are.

I’m a whore? Kim said, shocked, why are you calling me misogynistic sexist words? And here all this time I thought you were a proud feminist-

Sweetie. You’re a fucking whore because you have no dignity, I replied, it has nothing to do with gender. Oh, and Kim, I love how you’re upset that I called you a whore after you’ve said racist hateful things about me and my family and my people because we’re Muslim.

Why are you being hateful? Kim said, grabbing my arm. I thought you and me were friends. We had this special bond. Why are you being like this, Zara? Fuck politics! Fuck race! Fuck all religions! You and I are supposed to be friends!

I looked down at her ugly hand on my arm.

Take your hand off me, I calmly said as I felt my body beginning to shake, take your hand off me or I will rip you to pieces and I’ll show you what it’s like to be blown up by a fucked up Muslim radical.

She took her hand off me and retreated. Her face was stunned and red, like someone had smacked her across the face and then punched her.

I turned around and walked out of the smoothie shop. For the whole morning, I had been craving for a mixed strawberry-banana smoothie, but not anymore. My appetite was gone, and all my enthusiasm had been drained out. Tonight, I was supposed to attend a basement punk show but I knew Kim would be there. I decided I wouldn’t go after all or else I’d run up to her and punch her in the face.

Later in the evening, when I went on Facebook to check messages, I found out a Norwegian man was behind the terrorist attacks in Norway, having killed 69 Norwegians.

Muslims didn’t do it, like Kim claimed.

Muslims didn’t do it, like many Americans wrote and commented online.

Muslims didn’t do it, like the New York Times boldly declared on the front page without showing one bit of evidence.

A white man did it.

The Lady of Lake Superior

Vishnu Sahasranama ("The Thousands Names of Vishnu"), c. 1690

"The Lady of Lake Superior" is the fifth story in Urdustan (get a copy!).

"The Lady of Lake Superior" is a supernatural/fantasy story about an Indian immigrant's friendship with a supernatural creature. I don't wanna tell you what it is, because then I'd ruin the surprise for you. Just like "Leon, Her Hasidic Jewish Friend," "The Lady of Lake Superior" is a friendship story. It's basically a story about two people that become friends despite differences in cultural, racial, and ethnic boundaries; it even transcends boundaries of a human-supernatural bond. It's a beautiful story, and I felt very close to the characters when I wrote it. I was inspired to write "The Lady of Lake Superior" because I have some friends from the Upper Peninsula. The story is set in the U.P. The U.P Is located in Northern Michigan, which is shaped like a fish.


click on the map above to see the whole version. Lake Superior is located right above the U.P, shaped like a "fish."

My Native American friend, an Ojibway, grew up in the Upper Peninsula. He told me stories about Lake Superior. It is the world's largest freshwater lake. He says that many people believe there's a secret tribe hiding out on an island in the middle of Lake Superior. He even claimed that he went there to look for the mysterious tribe and he found some mocassins and smoke coming out of the woods. I became interested in Lake Superior so I chose it as a setting for this supernatural/fantasy story. It is breathtaking, and I always imagine my Ojibway friend's stories when I close my eyes and I think of the lake.

The story features the main character, who had just emigrated to the United States from India. He came on a work visa to work as a chef at an Indian restaurant owned by a white hippie couple. His name is Vishnu Arshad. Vishnu Arshad is a Hindu-Muslim name. Any Indian who reads that name out loud will immediately know that Vishnu Arshad was born to a Hindu mother and a Muslim father. He is half Hindu, half Muslim, born and raised Hindu-Muslim. It's not uncommon or unheard in Indian society, but it's not exactly that common, either. He was named after Lord Vishnu. If you are familiar with Hindu deities, you'd know that Lord Vishnu has different Avatar (Incarnations). One of his Avatar happens to be present in this story.

This story, unfortunately, does not have a  happy ending. In the story, someone dies. Sometimes, life isn't always so happy and beautiful. Unfortunate things happen, because that's just how life is. "The Lady of Lake Superior" may be a fantasy story with supernatural elements, but it's much more realistic than some fake-ass, feel-good stories between human beings where nothing bad ever happens. Who does Vishnu Arshad become friends with? Who dies in the story? What happens when the character dies? Find out and buy a copy of Urdustan.

NEXT WEEK: "LOVE AND DEATH IN AL-MADINAH" (the sixth story in Urdustan)

Last Night, I Made Love to Allah

This poem is written on the first day of Ramadan, 1433 A.H 

Last Night... 

 I made love to Allah

Knelt in Salat 

Desperate to be touched 

I wept 

Calling out to Her 

She appeared 

So beautiful 

Lust overcame me 

I went mad 

Took Her into my arms 

We prayed in 

Fornication. 

Exhausted 

I fell into my bed 

Allah was there with the Book, waiting for me 

Naked. 

Her Nur blanketing us 

I turned to Her 

and kissed Her 

and whispered, 

I love you.

more great quotes on my book Urdustan

Thanks to folks on Twitter for reaching out to me and tweeting about my book. I appreciate the support.

Also, recently read @SabinaEngland's Urdustan, which was awesome. Another #fridayreads recommendation!
— Helena Swann (@cuntext) July 13, 2012

and one reader commented on one story from Urdustan, "The Lady of Lake Superior," which I will discuss on my blog next week)

@SabinaEngland "The Lady of Lake Superior" is like nothing u have written before! I felt it inside me! Nicely done!
— sev (@xseverinx) July 10, 2012

Next week, I will discuss the next story in my book URDUSTAN. I was gonna talk about it this week, but I don't feel like it, due to some emotional issues I'm suffering from right now. See ya next week.

Beggars of Old Delhi

Jama Masjid, Old Delhi, India. Built in 1650, it is the largest mosque in India. (photo credit: Shashwat Nagpal)

"Beggars of Old Delhi" is the fourth story in Urdustan (get a copy!).

A lot of people from outside the Indian subcontinent hope that when they visit India, they'd get to see the India they saw in National Geographic or movies such as Slumdog Millionaire and City of Joy. Some people have their cameras out, ready to snap photos of poor or lower-caste Indians in the streets, gawking at them like zoo animals. Unfortunately, some of them happen to be Indian American who are guilty of reducing lower-caste Indians to mere objects of curiosity.

The lead character in this short story, "Beggars of Old Delhi," is Indian American,  the privileged daughter of Indian parents who was part of the Brain Drain emigraton to the United States. She does not have a name because she could be anyone. She represents one fold of the Desi diaspora who proudly boasts of being Indian and celebrating Indian culture yet when they set foot on Indian soil, they recoil like little pampered girls terrified and repulsed by the sight and smell of poor people, the very same individuals who share the same culture, history, and motherland. These Western Diaspora brats complain and cry like little spoiled bitches over having to use floor squats or experiencing blackouts during the day while it's hot. They complain about the hustle 'n' bustle of busy chaotic cities like Calcutta or Mumbai. They bitch about the food and the stares they get from other Indians (the norm in Indian society). They bitch, they cry, they whine, they moan, they complain about this and that, about that and this in India. This and that which doesn't meet up to their expectations, their Western standards of being pampered and comfortable. Complain, complain, complain! All the while they're in India yet they claim to be proud to be Indian!

I've known people like those, and they disgust me. And I've been guilty of being one of those brats, and I've hated myself and I cursed myself so many times.

India is my motherland. I have family and relatives in India. I am Indian. I am proud to be Indian. But sometimes India leaves me confused, dizzy 'n' dazed even though I proudly and loudly proclaim myself to be a daughter of the Indian motherland.

The ABCD (American-Born Confused Desi) character in "Beggars of Old Delhi" walks through the market of Chandni Chowk in Old Delhi near the Jama Masjid. She tries hard not to stare at the beggars who are everywhere in the market. They beg tourists and shoppers alike for money, food, or any other little acts of kindness. She is scared of them yet fascinated by them. She regards them like objects of oddities and not as actual human beings with needs and emotions, who feel hope and fear, just like anyone else, some of whom have had their dreams crushed and dashed, struggling to hold onto the last bit of hope they have in humanity.

Later as she continues to wander through the bazaar, she meets a proud beggar who won't let her or anyone else put him down. One man who read "Beggars of Old Delhi" privately admitted to me that he felt the same way as the ABCD tourist while he lived in South Africa, and he hated the way he felt toward poor people in South Africa. He tried not to exoticize them but he felt himself doing so, and he felt guilty.

"I quite understand," I told him, "because I was like that, too. In some way, I think we're all like that toward other people."

What happens when the ABCD tourist meets the beggar? Do they become friends? Does she treat him badly? Does she speak to him? What does he say to her? Read "Beggars of Old Delhi" and FIND OUT THE TRUTH. Buy a copy of Urdustan.

NEXT WEEK: "THE LADY OF LAKE SUPERIOR" (the fifth story in Urdustan)

another great quote on my book URDUSTAN

Jennifer Jajeh, the brilliant Palestinian-American comedian and star of the one-woman comedy smash show, I Heart Hamas, which has been chosen to perform at the world-famous FRINGE FESTIVAL in Edinburgh this summer, tweeted me yesterday and she said this:

@SabinaEngland Your book is keeping me entertained as I wrestle with the latest bout of insomnia. Congrats lady on a great collection!
— Jennifer Jajeh (@ihearthamas) July 10, 2012

Thanks, Jennifer, and I'm so excited you're going to the Fringe--you have worked so hard on this show for years, and you deserve all the success! BREAK A LEG!!!!