Ode to Lata Read Online Free PDF

prospect of taking me to see a
dhorio
doctor by the name of Dr. Jewel, who had his office in another very tall building in Mombasa island, all fifteen stories of it.  He was by no means inexpensive and had expatriated from England, so naturally he
had
to be the best around.  He would perform virtual miracles on me since his knowledge of medicine had to be superior to any colored doctor.  The women in her community circle would raise their brows and drop their jaws because they would be so impressed that Parin had taken her son to none other than
the
Dr. Jewel.
    “He looks
just
like our
Hazar Imam
,” she would enthuse, referring to the spiritual leader of our community, and inexplicably feel more comforted by the resemblance to his accent and Caucasian appearance.  Ironic as it was, even the spiritual leader believed to be the direct descendant of the Holy Prophet, the very man who most in my community regarded to be God’s very incarnation on earth, looked nothing like his followers and more like the intimidating white man that commanded such awe-inspiring respect.
    It was no wonder then that by the time we had ridden the elevator up those fifteen floors for me to stand in front of Dr. Jewel in my underwear with a thermometer in my mouth, both my mother and I felt as if we were standing in the presence of God himself.  Moses had found the burning bush.  We had found Dr. Jewel.
    As
muindis
we learnt to live by certain principles.  Imported was always better than local.  Ready-made was always better than tailor-made because it came from abroad.  A four-week vacation in London or Canada (always pronounced
Cay-nay-da
), two of the most popular travel destinations, was enough justification to come back with a ridiculously self-imposed accent so that we sounded more like them and less like ourselves.  The ruling principle was, of course, that a fair complexion was always more desirable than a dark one.  That was obvious from the class structure that had based itself through centuries on how light or dark-skinned you were.  Even religious conversion into the Muslim faith could not completely eradicate the traces of this predominantly Hindu belief.
    Remember Shehnaz, who lived in the same flats as your family?  Everyone always referred to her as
masoto
or dirt-rag?  Your grandmother had often mentioned to you that her family had descended from a sect of “untouchables,” a lower-class people in India subjugated to serve the others. 
Shehnaz
masoto
they had called her.  The snooty women in the community would often grimace behind her back when considering her eligibility as a daughter-in-law; but to her face, they would give one of those superficial smiles.  No teeth.  Just upturned lips stretched thin in an effort to be civil.
    It was no wonder that mothers were constantly urging their daughters not to stay out too long in the sun from fear of turning dark. 
Who will marry you if you turn as dark as coal, stupid girl?
There’s a reason why Fair & Lovely and Pond’s Vanishing Cream – and not suntan lotions – were Asian bestsellers.
    But most important of all, despite the alarming similarities in both races, we learnt that we were always better than the
golas
or blacks.  The darker the
masoto
, the lower your class.
    No question about it.  Simple law of nature.  An apparent hierarchy of pigmentation had been a fact of life difficult to miss.  The
dhorias
were the top rung of the ladder.  The
muindis
the middle.  And the
golas
right at the bottom like the dirt they resembled.

CHAPTER 5
     
    CUT THE CORD
     
    My mother called me from Kenya.  There was an echo in the connection, and she acted like she was stuck in my answering machine and was trying desperately to get out.  The notion that the machine was on because I would not or could not come to the phone never entered her mind.  So she continued to call out dramatically, pleading to be recognized.
    “Ali, are you there?  It’s Mummy.  If you