PROLOGUE
               Hyde Park weekend of politics and pop,
Geldof’s gang of divas and mad hatters;
Sergeant Pepper only one heart beating,
resurrected by a once dead Beatle.
The ******, Queen and Irish juggernauts;
The Entertainer and dead bands
re-jigged for the sake of humanity.
   The almighty single named entities
all out for Africa and people power.
Olympics in the bag, a Waterloo
of celebrations in the street that night
Leaping and whooping in sheer delight
Nelson rocking in Trafalgar Square
The promised computer wonderlands
rising from the poisoned dead heart wasteland;
derelict, deserted, still festering.
The Brave Tomorrow in a world of hate.
The flame will be lit, magic rings aloft
and harmony will be our middle name.

On the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl;
the ‘war on terror’ just a tattered trope
drained and exhausted and put out of sight
in a dark corner of a darker shelf.
A power surge the first lie of the day.
Savagely woken from our pleasant dream
al Qa’ida opens up a new franchise
and a new frontier for terror to prowl.

               Howling sirens shatter morning’s progress
Hysterical screech of ambulances
and police cars trying to grip the road.
The oppressive drone of helicopters
gathering like the Furies in the sky;
Blair’s hubris is acknowledged by the gods.
Without warning the deadly game begins.

The Leviathan state machinery,
certain of its strength and authority,
with sheer balletic co-ordination,
steadies itself for a fine performance.
The new citizen army in ‘day glow’
take up their ‘Support Official’ roles,
like air raid wardens in the last big show;
feisty  yet firm, delivering every line
deep voiced and clearly to the whole theatre.
On cue, the Police fan out through Bloomsbury
clearing every emergency exit,
arresting and handcuffing surly streets,
locking down this ancient river city.
Fetching in fluorescent green costuming,
the old Bill nimbly Tangos and Foxtrots
the airways, Oscar, Charlie and Yankee
quickly reply with grid reference Echo;
Whiskey, Sierra, Quebec, November,
beam out from New Scotland Yard,
staccato, nearly lost in static space.
      
              LIVERPOOL STREET STATION
8.51 a.m. Circle Line

Shehezad Tanweer was born in England.
A migrant’s child of hope and better life,
dreaming of his future from his birth.
Only twenty two short years on this earth.
In a madrassah, Lahore, Pakistan,
he spent twelve weeks reading and rote learning
verses chosen from the sacred text.
Chanting the syllables, hour after hour,
swaying back and forth with the word rhythm,
like an underground train rocking the rails,
as it weaves its way beneath the world,
in turning tunnels in the dead of night.

Teve Talevski had a meeting
across the river, he knew he’d be late.
**** trains they do it to you every time.
But something odd happened while he waited
A taut-limbed young woman sashayed past him
in a forget-me-not blue dress of silk.
She rustled on the platform as she turned.
She turned to him and smiled, and he smiled back.
Stale tunnel air pushed along in the rush
of the train arriving in the station.
He found a seat and watched her from afar.
Opened his paper for distraction’s sake
Olympic win exciting like the smile.

Train heading southwest under Whitechapel.
Deafening blast, rushing sound blast, bright flash
of golden light, flying glass and debris
Twisted people thrown to ground, darkness;
the dreadful silent second in blackness.
The stench of human flesh and gunpowder,
burning rubber and fiery acrid smoke.
Screaming bone bare pain, blood-drenched tearing pain.
Pitiful weeping, begging for a god
to come, someone to come, and help them out.

Teve pushes off a dead weighted man.
He stands unsteady trying to balance.
Railway staff with torches, moving spotlights
**** and jolt, catching still life scenery,
lighting the exit in gloomy dimness.
They file down the track to Aldgate Station,
Teve passes the sardine can carriage
torn apart by a fierce hungry giant.
Through the dust, four lifeless bodies take shape
and disappear again in drifting smoke.
It’s only later, when safe above ground,
Teve looks around and starts to wonder
where his blue epiphany girl has gone.

                 KINGS CROSS STATION
8.56 a.m. Piccadilly Line

Many named Lyndsey Germaine, Jamaican,
living with his wife and child in Aylesbury,
laying low, never visited the Mosque.   
                Buckinghamshire bomber known as Jamal,
clean shaven, wearing normal western clothes,
annoyed his neighbours with loud music.
Samantha-wife converted and renamed,
Sherafiyah and took to wearing black.
Devout in that jet black shalmar kameez.
Loving father cradled close his daughter
Caressed her cheek and held her tiny hand
He wondered what the future held for her.

Station of the lost and homeless people,
where you can buy anything at a price.
A place where a face can be lost forever;
where the future’s as real as faded dreams.
Below the mainline trains, deep underground
Piccadilly lines cross the River Thames
Cram-packed, shoulder to shoulder and standing,
the train heading southward for Russell Square,
barely pulls away from Kings Cross Station,
when Arash Kazerouni hears the bang,
‘Almighty bang’ before everything stopped.
Twenty six hearts stopped beating that moment.
But glass flew apart in a shattering wave,
followed by a  huge whoosh of smoky soot.
Panic raced down the line with ice fingers
touching and tagging the living with fear.
Spine chiller blanching faces white with shock.

Gracia Hormigos, a housekeeper,
thought, I am being electrocuted.
Her body was shaking, it seemed her mind
was in free fall, no safety cord to pull,
just disconnected, so she looked around,
saw the man next to her had no right leg,
a shattered shard of bone and gouts of  blood,
Where was the rest of his leg and his foot ?

Level headed ones with serious voices
spoke over the screaming and the sobbing;
Titanic lifeboat voices giving orders;
Iceberg cool voices of reassurance;
We’re stoical British bulldog voices
that organize the mayhem and chaos
into meaty chunks of jobs to be done.
Clear air required - break the windows now;
Lines could be live - so we stay where we are;
Help will be here shortly - try to stay calm.

John, Mark and Emma introduce themselves
They never usually speak underground,
averting your gaze, tube train etiquette.
Disaster has its opportunities;
Try the new mobile, take a photograph;
Ring your Mum and Dad, ****** battery’s flat;
My network’s down; my phone light’s still working
Useful to see the way, step carefully.

   Fiona asks, ‘Am I dreaming all this?’
A shrieking man answers her, “I’m dying!”
Hammered glass finally breaks, fresher air;
too late for the man in the front carriage.
London Transport staff in yellow jackets
start an orderly evacuation
The mobile phones held up to light the way.
Only nineteen minutes in a lifetime.
  
EDGEWARE ROAD STATION
9.17 a.m. Circle Line

               Mohammed Sadique Khan, the oldest one.
Perhaps the leader, at least a mentor.
Yorkshire man born, married with a daughter
Gently spoken man, endlessly patient,
worked in the Hamara, Lodge Lane, Leeds,
Council-funded, multi-faith youth Centre;
and the local Primary school, in Beeston.
No-one could believe this of  Mr Khan;
well educated, caring and very kind
Where did he hide his secret other life  ?

Wise enough to wait for the second train.
Two for the price of one, a real bargain.
Westbound second carriage is blown away,
a commuter blasted from the platform,
hurled under the wheels of the east bound train.
Moon Crater holes, the walls pitted and pocked;
a sparse dark-side landscape with black, black air.
The ripped and shredded metal bursts free
like a surprising party popper;
Steel curlicues corkscrew through wood and glass.
Mass is made atomic in the closed space.
Roasting meat and Auschwitzed cremation stench
saturates the already murky air.              
Our human kindling feeds the greedy fire;
Heads alight like medieval torches;
Fiery liquid skin drops from the faceless;
Punk afro hair is cauterised and singed.  
Heat intensity, like a wayward iron,
scorches clothes, fuses fibres together.
Seven people escape this inferno;
many die in later days, badly burned,
and everyone there will live a scarred life.

               TAVISTOCK ROAD
9.47 a.m. Number 30 Bus  

Hasib Hussain migrant son, English born
barely an adult, loved by his mother;
reported him missing later that night.
Police typed his description in the file
and matched his clothes to fragments from the scene.
A hapless victim or vicious bomber ?
Child of the ‘Ummah’ waging deadly war.
Seventy two black eyed virgins waiting
in jihadist paradise just for you.

Red double-decker bus, number thirty,
going from Hackney Wick to Marble Arch;
stuck in traffic, diversions everywhere.
Driver pulls up next to a tree lined square;
the Parking Inspector, Ade Soji,
tells the driver he’s in Tavistock Road,
British Museum nearby and the Square.
A place of peace and quiet reflection;
the sad history of war is remembered;
symbols to make us never forget death;
Cherry Tree from Hiroshima, Japan;
Holocaust Memorial for Jewish dead;
sturdy statue of  Mahatma Gandhi.
Peaceful resistance that drove the Lion out.
Freedom for India but death for him.

Sudden sonic boom, bus roof tears apart,
seats erupt with volcanic force upward,
hot larva of blood and tissue rains down.
Bloodied road becomes a charnel-house scene;
disembodied limbs among the wreckage,
headless corpses; sinews, muscles and bone.
Buildings spattered and smeared with human paint
Impressionist daubs, blood red like the bus.

Jasmine Gardiner, running late for work;
all trains were cancelled from Euston Station;  
she headed for the square, to catch the bus.
It drove straight past her standing at the stop;
before she could curse aloud - Kaboom !
Instinctively she ran, ran for her life.
Umbrella shield from the shower of gore.

On the lower deck, two Aussies squeezed in;
Catherine Klestov was standing in the aisle,
floored by the bomb, suffered cuts and bruises
She limped to Islington two days later.
Louise Barry was reading the paper,
she was ‘****-scared’ by the explosion;
she crawled out of the remnants of the bus,
broken and burned, she lay flat on the road,
the world of sound had gone, ear drums had burst;
she lay there drowsy, quiet, looking up
and amazingly the sky was still there.

Sam Ly, Vietnamese Australian,
One of the boat people once welcomed here.
A refugee, held in his mother’s arms,
she died of cancer, before he was three.
Hi Ly struggled to raise his son alone;
a tough life, inner city high rise flats.
Education the smart migrant’s revenge,
Monash Uni and an IT degree.
Lucky Sam, perfect job of a lifetime;
in London, with his one love, Mandy Ha,
Life going great until that fateful day;
on the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl.

Three other Aussies on that ****** bus;
no serious physical injuries,
Sam’s luck ran out, in choosing where to sit.
His neck was broken, could not breath alone;
his head smashed and crushed, fractured bones and burns
Wrapped in a cocoon of coma safe
This broken figure lying on white sheets
in an English Intensive Care Unit
did not seem like Hi Ly’s beloved son;
but he sat by Sam’s bed in disbelief,
seven days and seven nights of struggle,
until the final hour, when it was done.

In the pit of our stomach we all knew,
but we kept on deep breathing and hoping
this nauseous reality would pass.
The weary inevitability
of horrific disasters such as these.
Strangely familiar like an old newsreel
Black and white, it happened long ago.
But its happening now right before our eyes
satellite pictures beam and bounce the globe.
Twelve thousand miles we watch the story
Plot unfolds rapidly, chapters emerge
We know the places names of this narrative.
  
It is all subterranean, hidden
from the curious, voyeuristic gaze,
Until the icon bus, we are hopeful
This public spectacle is above ground
We can see the force that mangled the bus,
fury that tore people apart limb by limb
Now we can imagine a bomb below,
far below, people trapped, fiery hell;
fighting to breathe each breath in tunnelled tombs.

Herded from the blast they are strangely calm,
obedient, shuffling this way and that.
Blood-streaked, sooty and dishevelled they come.
Out from the choking darkness far below
Dazzled by the brightness of the morning
of a day they feared might be their last.
They have breathed deeply of Kurtz’s horror.
Sights and sounds unimaginable before
will haunt their waking hours for many years;
a lifetime of nightmares in the making.
They trudge like weary soldiers from the Somme
already see the world with older eyes.

On the surface, they find a world where life
simply goes on as before, unmindful.
Cyclist couriers still defy road laws,
sprint racing again in Le Tour de France;
beer-gutted, real men are loading lorries;
lunch time sandwiches are made as usual,
sold and eaten at desks and in the street.
Roadside cafes sell lots of hot sweet tea.
The Umbrella stand soon does brisk business.
Sign writers' hands, still steady, paint the sign.
The summer blooms are watered in the park.
A ***** stretches on the bench and wakes up,
he folds and stows his newspaper blankets;
mouth dry,  he sips water at the fountain.
A lady scoops up her black poodle’s ****.
A young couple argues over nothing.
Betting shops are full of people losing
money and dreaming of a trifecta.
Martin’s still smoking despite the patches.
There’s a rush on Brandy in nearby pubs
Retired gardener dead heads his flowers
and picks a lettuce for the evening meal

Fifty six minutes from start to finish.
Perfectly orchestrated performance.
Rush hour co-ordination excellent.
Maximum devastation was ensured.
Cruel, merciless killing so coldly done.
Fine detail in the maiming and damage.

A REVIEW

Well activated practical response.
Rehearsals really paid off on the day.
Brilliant touch with bus transport for victims;
Space blankets well deployed for shock effect;
Dramatic improv by Paramedics;
Nurses, medicos and casualty staff
showed great technical E.R. Skills - Bravo !
Plenty of pizzazz and dash as always
from the nifty, London Ambo drivers;
Old fashioned know-how from the Fire fighters
in hosing down the fireworks underground.
Dangerous rescues were undertaken,
accomplished with buckets of common sense.
And what can one say about those Bobbies,
jolly good show, the lips unquivering
and universally stiff, no mean feat
in this Premiere season tear-jerker.
Nail-bitingly brittle, but a smash-hit
Poignant misery and stoic suffering,
fortitude, forbearance and lots of grit
Altogether was quite tickety boo.



NOTES ON THE POEM

Liverpool Street Station

A Circle Line train from Moorgate with six carriages and a capacity of 1272 passengers [ 192 seated; 1080 standing]. 7 dead on the first day.

Southbound, destination Aldgate. Explosion occurs midway between Liverpool Street and Aldgate.

Shehezad Tanweer was reported to have ‘never been political’ by a friend who played cricket with him 10 days before the bombing

Teve Talevski is a real person and I have elaborated a little on reports in the press. He runs a coffee shop in North London.

At the time of writing the fate of the blue dress lady is not known

Kings Cross Station

A Piccadilly Line train with six carriages and a capacity of 1238 passengers [272 seated; 966 standing]. 21 dead on first day.

Southbound, destination Russell Square. Explosion occurs mi

With designers like Iman Ahmed, HSY and Sania Maskatiya all showing, it was standing-room only at the venue. Many of the crowd of fashion insiders and socialites ended up sharing seats, with the chivalrous Zaheer Abbas giving his seat to Iman Ahmed after her show and sitting on the floor himself. So much for designer egos!

It was an evening that lived up to its billing.

Iman Ahmed may not be a designer who makes her clothing easily available, but in fashion terms she reaches heights that few other designers can reach. Her “Sartorial Philology and the New Nomad collection” was breathtaking.

The best fashion shows have a narrative — the clothes, styling, music and progression of the outfits blend seamlessly into a whole that portrays the designer’s artistic vision.

It’s hard not to gush about Iman Ahmed’s show last night because it was exactly what a fashion show should be.

Starting with a series of outfits in white and gradually adding tribal colours, Iman used fringing, embroidery and a range of fabrics to great effect. From the inspired detailing to the juxtaposition of texture and silhouette, this was a class act. The tribal white-dotted makeup and beaten silver accessories added further depth to Iman’s stunning layered ensembles.

Levi’s uninspired showing of their new 501 jeans and other stock provided the audience with a pause to process the previous collection. It’s difficult to make a interesting fashion week presentation out of high street wear and something that Levis struggles with.

They used better music than they did at their autumn show but the styling was still painfully lacking. They did manage to make everyone sit up and take notice at the end of their show though — Wasim Akram walked the ramp as their showstopper amid cheers from the admiring audience.

Somal Halepoto was next, with collection that looked distinctly amateur. She seemed to be aiming for a bright kitschy collection but ended up looking merely tacky. The shiny, synthetic-looking fabrics and gaudy embroidery were particularly woeful. Somal’s digital neon animal prints and some of the harem pants were funky but the rest of the collection had little to recommended it.

YBQ’s LalShah collection, meanwhile, was in a different league. An ode to 3 Sufi Sindhi saints, the collection was as much about the artistic impression it made on the ramp as it was about the clothes. The distinctly theatrical presentation relied on the slow beat of sufi music and plentiful accessories for much of its impact.

YBQ sent his models down the ramp in huge pagris, holding flags on poles and garlanded with prayer beads. He used only three colours - red depicting rage, white for peace and black for mourning. Most of the outfits were draped red jersey tunics or gowns with white lowers, braided belts and black turbans.

Rubya Chaudry wore a black gown with red roses but otherwise the outfits were all about subtle plays with drapery and cut. From jodhpur style chooridarsto asymmetrical draping, the outfits had interesting touches but needed all that heavy styling to make an impact. HSY was YBQ’s showstopper and added glamour to the theatrical presentation that he had choreographed.

Wardha Saleem was first up after the break and her Lotus Song collection showed how this talented young designer has been upping her game over recent years.

She used digital flamingo prints, 3D embroidery, gota embroidery and lasercutting in a pretty formal fusion collection. The detailing on the collection was simply stunning. Wardha used gota in delicate patterns that gave her outfits shimmer and paired this with three dimensional embroidery. The outfits featured flowers, fish, elephants and birds picked out in silk thread and beads.

She showed a variety of shift dresses, jackets, saris, capes and draped dresses. The styling was also great fun – the models wore shoes featuring spikes and 3D flowers while the multi-talented Tapu Javeri provided some gorgeous jewellery and music for the show. While there was nothing groundbreaking about her silhouettes, this was a beautiful collection that showed skill and artistry.

Sania Maskatiya, who presented her luxury pret on Day 1, now showed her lawn collection for AlKaram. As far as designer lawn goes, this is something of a dream collaboration.

Textile and print are Sania’s forte and she uses print extensively in her luxury pret. In this collection for Al-Karam she has taken print elements from her pret collections throughout the year including the Sakura, Lokum and Khutoot collections.

The prints are different from those used in her Luxe pret but are based on the same principals. She’s even used the paint splash embroidery from this season’s Khayaat collection in one of the outfits. Designer lawn should be affordable way to wear a designer’s aesthetic and this Sania Maskatiya Al Karam collaboration certainly is.

As for the show itself, showing lawn is always tricky on the ramp. Sania pulled it off with an upbeat presentation using fast music and trendy cuts, throwing a few conventional shalwar kameez in the mix. She fashioned the lawn into jackets, kaftans and draped tunic, using the sort of cuts that are a hallmark of her pret. It’s not how most people wear lawn but it was a great way to show off the prints on the ramp.

Naushaba Brohi’s Inaaya burst onto the fashion scene last year with a spectacular collection. Following up on a dramatic debut is difficult but Naushaba proved that she is not a one hit wonder with this collection. Inaaya’s SS15 collection continued with the theme of using traditional Sindhi crafts in contemporary wear. Naushaba used both touches of Rilli and some stunning mirror work in her collection.

What makes Inaaya noteworthy is the way that she takes unsung traditional crafts that we’ve seen badly used and gives them a high fashion twist. Standout pieces included a bolero with unusual mirror work and a rilli sari that glittered with tiny flashes of mirrors.

Although the collection included many beautiful outfits, there was a lack of focus. The simple tunic with a rilli dupatta didn’t work with knotted purple evening wear jacket. The inability to make a definitive statement let down an otherwise accomplished collection.

Naushaba added a characteristic touch at the end of her show. She’s committed to social responsibility and supports local craftswomen with her brand. Accordingly, Inaaya’s showstopper was Mashal Chaudri of the Reading Room Project along with Naushaba’s daughter Inaaya. She held up a plaque saying “I teach therefore I can” while Inaaya wore a T-Shirt with the slogan “super role model”.

HSY brought the evening to a close with a high-speed presentation of his Hi-Octance menswear collection. The unusual choreography featured the models zipping along the catwalk, pausing briefly on their second round. The energetic presentation complemented a collection of sharp suits and jackets, leavened with quirky polka dot shirts and bold stripy ties.

There was the requisite shirtless model in distressed jeans and an ice-blue jacket but also some appealing suiting fabrics. HSY used only Pakistani fabrics and included solid colours as well as self-checked and striped suits. This was wearable, classy menswear presented creatively.

Day 3 was undoubtedly the best day of TFPW so far. Iman Ahmed undoubted takes the laurels but she was ably supported by HSY, Wardha Saleem, Inaaya, Sania Maskatiya and YBQ.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

the sun hid behind the clouds
causing the 9am sky to be a dusty blue
with rays of sun peeking through every now and then
it was mid-winter and the air was crisp
it smelt of the new year, full of hopes and dreams, love and life
the two of them were found sitting at a little table at a room-large restaurant
in the crowded, busy city center
she wore a pale yellow shalwaar kameez
with a light brown pashmina shawl draped around her narrow shoulders
to protect her from the frosty wind which blew back her dupatta
he still had sleepy eyes and unmade bed hair
she'd dragged him out of bed a little too early
it had been a long night, and it had taken a lot of strength to leave his blanket in the early morning hours
but looking at her eccentric face right now made him realize he'd leave anything to be with her right now
she asked him what he wanted to eat
and he was pulled out of the trance, staring into her green-brown eyes reflecting in the morning sun
"jo tum kaho" he smiled that little side smile at her, letting her order for him
the smile she had fallen in love with on the very first day
8 months ago, in the middle of summer when fate intervened and crossed their paths
she called the waiter and ordered two cups of chai and asked him to bring her parathas straight off the stove
"and keep them coming!" she yelled after the waiter who walked a few steps away to the tiny corner kitchen wide enough for a single man, maybe two
"keep them coming?" he looked at her, a little skeptical
"trust me on this one" she smiled widely at him, "if you can't eat them, i will"
that made him laugh, he knew she wouldn't be able to handle more than two
but he just smiled & nodded, anything she wanted, anything she desired, he couldn't help but grant her
she kicked off her khussas and scrunched her knees on the plastic garden chair
closing her eyes and inhaling the winter air
he looked at her and thought to himself
she is my breath of fresh air
and somehow, call it a sixth sense, she noticed his eyes on her
"kya dekh rahey **?" she pouted her lips
"bus...tumhey" he laughed
she hid her face in her dupatta
"stop it!" she giggled
he leaned over the table and pulled her dupatta away, lowering his voice as he said
"you're beautiful"
she caught her breath, lost in his mahogany eyes- strong, protective, loving
the waiter interrupted them, placing their order on infront of them
"yay. khaana's here! she yelled
to be honest, she was thankful it had come
she felt embarrassed by the grip his gaze had on her
and she was a little hungry too
she reached for a paratha, immediately pulling away and ****** her fingers
"it's too garam" she made a face
he split the paratha, unflinching, and gave her half
"i'm still stronger than you." she said
"i know." he made a kissy face at her
she wanted to reach over and kiss his pouting lips
but she she pretended as if she as unconcerned and began her food
a paratha and a cup of chai later she put her hands on her stomach
"i'm full"
he looked at the three parathas infront of them, the waiter bringing the fourth as per the order
he shook his head
"tum bhi na."
he told the waiter to parcel the rest of the food as he took the last sip of chai
the caffeine worked its way through his body and he stretched away the sleep
"you're full? chalo, okay, i had planned on ordering gulaab jamuns for dessert. i guess i'll have to eat them alone."
her mouth opened in shock, then, realizing he was joking, she smiled cheekily
"i always have space for a gulaab jamun or two."
he laughed, wondering how she managed to make him fall deeper in love with her as the moments passed
they sat under the shade of the gulmohar tree and ate their dessert in silence
taking in the beauty of the weather, of the city, of each other, of the moment
and as the sun reached for the sky, higher and higher
she reached for his hand
gentle, kind, warm
her touch sent a buzz through his body
"i love you" she whispered
he could only stare at her delicate pink lips as she spoke
realizing he had found within her an everlasting future
he smiled at the thought
he'd never thought he'd fall in love with such a silly, gulaab jamun-loving girl
but now, it seemed like she was the only star in his night sky
his shooting star
his hope
**his love.

NEW DELHI, INDIA: Rifling through sweaters in India’s first Gap store in a glitzy New Delhi mall, 21-year-old Ridhi Goel says her grandmother doesn’t mind how she dresses, as long as it’s not too revealing.

“She’s fine with me wearing Western clothes like a shirt but not jeans and a crop top,” said the journalism student, her grey leggings contrasting sharply with her mother’s colourful kurta.

Taking a stand for big brands

“All my family wears Indian clothes, but I find them too uncomfortable. I think maybe there is a generational divide.”

Most women in India still wear traditional dress such as saris or shalwar kameez — but the picture is changing, and on city streets, dazzling silks mingle with logoed T-shirts and jeans.

Young people’s appetite for Western clothes has led a fresh flurry of foreign brands to open up in India in the past few months, including US chain Gap and Sweden’s H&M.;

Others are expanding fast, including popular Spanish retailer Zara and British high-street staple Marks & Spencer, which in October opened its 50th shop in India, its biggest market outside the UK.

Fashion design outlets sealed for non-payment of taxes

Urbanisation, a growing middle class, rising disposable incomes and one of the youngest populations in the world make India hard to ignore.

“The time has come for Western wear to have exponential growth,” J. Suresh, the managing director of textile group Arvind Lifestyle Brands, Gap’s partner in India, told AFP.

“If you look at any girl born after 1990 she will be wearing Western wear. That is the generation coming into college, getting their first job,” he said. ”They will be completely clad in Western wear.”

While globally women are the biggest shoppers, in India men’s clothing dominates with 42 percent of the $38 billion market in 2014, according to consultancy Technopak.

Lucrative trade: Designers approach PRA in wake of fashion crackdown

Shoppers are also younger — the average customer targeted by Gap in its US stores is 35, but their Indian counterpart is five to 10 years younger, Suresh said.

Gap had a head start in India thanks to Bollywood megastar Shah Rukh Khan, whose ubiquitous orange hoodie in 1990s hit Kuch Kuch Hota Hai handed the brand a ready-made following.

But it is young Indian women, increasingly affluent and joining the workforce in expanding numbers, who are driving change, with data showing sales of womenswear growing faster than men’s.

And while Western clothes currently make up only about a quarter of Indian womenswear, their sales are outpacing traditional dress sales.

Experimental exhibition: Emerging artists explore unique mediums

A Marks & Spencer spokesperson cited its Indigo denim range and lingerie as two of its best-performing lines in India, with more than 300,000 bras sold in 2014-15.

“As an increasing number of women move into white collar and blue-collar roles, they are also adopting Western attire,” Devangshu Dutta, chief executive of Third Eyesight, a retail consultancy in Delhi, told AFP.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/white-formal-dresses

When the guests arrived we would hasten to sit in separate rooms.

Quick to cover and observe deep voices through walls,
Men with domed hats and flowing kameez would arrive and wait
for steaming chaaval,
brought in a mound topped with cloves.

Dishes placed and eyes down, they would acknowledge with
half nods,
hairy knuckles to pour the saalan over geometric bowls.

My aunts would hush in the kitchen,
pinning their scarves in a zig-zag fashion.
The colours burning from the tiles,
watching them made me dizzy and inside
I longed
that my plait would one day thread gold like theirs.

Timed silence was a key,
and a pyramid that was never fell,
unlike the tasks that could be
stitched to your hands,
structured stiff – like a testing lap.

Boiled milk in china cups,
there would be nods, gap-tooth smiles, low chatter
with ears pricked to
the humming of satisfaction within.
Sounds through division that showed that yes,
in the right hands
the colours could burn brightly,
and that yes,
in a brush of joint henna,
we would stand separate from your

Vision of us.

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I huddled into my collars and looked to the sky,
The day was overcast with yesterday’s lies,
The wind ripped through the streets and sang pain in my ears,
The clouds above heavily pregnant with tears,
On such a dark and cold day...
My eyes beheld a sight full of radiating rays.

Striding down the street in a landscape very urban
was a youth dressed in a gentle green turban,
His white salwar and kameez caressed by the air,
His fresh face beaming shining and clear,
And upon his lips and around his chin
curled a beard neatly combed and oiled from top to rim.

He walked with the confidence of a vibrant caliph,
I did for a moment in my mind stop and marvel at his belief,
This young man was such a contrast to the dark day,
He displayed brilliance and integrity and trod upon truth’s way,
He seemed one who was at ease with God and his deeds,
What a wonderful ambassador for all races and creeds.

As we two passed I offered up a greeting,
“Asalaam Alaikum”.

His eyebrows rippled and coiled like twin cobras lacking intelligence,
He replied to me with the surly silence of arrogance,
He ignored my universal humanity,
He ignored my peaceful charity,
He ignored my friendship and camaraderie,
He ignored God’s solemn word so rich and full of love’s clarity...

This young man...Who was he?
What did he think himself to be?
He was a stranger to me
and a stranger to himself. Could he not see?
He was a stranger even unto God Almighty Himself,
This self-assured man condemned his soul and lost touch with life itself.



©Rangzeb Hussain

You…
Good for nothing, light weighted
Changes direction according to the wind
It does not have a mind of its own
But I trusted it
To shelter and protect me
But alas…
I live in a windy city,
And it tends to be greedy
Gathering things that lie in its path,
Just like a colonizer
blowing across from one country
to another.

I pin together the sides
Of my fly away kameez/ dress
With nervous, embarrassed fingers
Pressing down, as if to close
a window or a swinging door
left unlocked on a windy day
letting black cats and dusty winds make their way.

Incontrollable weightless
It rises, it flashes
Waving like a red flag in front of a blind bull
Eyes on the Prize - You’re such a tease
I fumble carelessly
My hands desperately try
To hold down my dignity
Before it flies away,
Like a feather from a bird
That slowly descends to the floor
It is so light and so delicate.
It can be easily ripped off
and plucked away like a shriveled
dead fly away hair

I become a nervous wreck, picking at my scalp
One by one, wrapping it around my finger,
running my fingers through my hair
only to find bare skin, lying under dead hair.
Vulnerably the naked scalp peeks
through thin strands of hair
like a sheer curtain that hangs in my room
too afraid to draw it,
because I will have to put faces to the silhouettes,
And I rather know the world
as shadows and black outlines
At least that way
I won’t have to see the eyes
that pierce through me,
Unzipping my skin.

Oh Dipali, Oh Dipali
So pretty, so lovely.
Short hair, the smiley face
So pleasant, your grace.

But why do I wonder,
It's not real?
The masks you wear,
Covering up your anguish and fear.

Look at you, all changed .
Feet to forehead, everything arranged.
Just as an experiment, take my advice,
Need not be beautiful, need not be nice.
Be the one you really are- Just For Today!

Thick glass-frames, oh poor eyesight ?
Or maybe the darkness of  the lonely nights
without the two twinkling stars,
Your eyes reflect the deep scars.
Remove your glasses
Be the one you really are- Just For Today!

Take out your golden wrist watch,
Take out your blue and white friendship bands.
Free up your wrists, Free up your hands.
Burdens of emotions and time,
The marks will show up as their remains.
But Be the one you really are- Just For Today!

Heavily packed your wardrobe, so colourful.
Tops and denims and matching shoes, so cheerful.
Fingers will run through them, but give them a holiday.
How about just a plain salwaar-kameez for today?

Search for your simplest sandals, no high heels.
Be simple,
Today no visual appeals.
No make-up, no fancy handbags.
Be the one you really are- Just For Today!

A beauty rising out of clouds,
For today will just dissolve into the crowds.
Soon you'll realize its value,
An existence so natural, so true.
But for today, just be the one you really are.
And you'll still stand out in millions, my dear,
With your pretty face, and the short hair.

Walking through the sides of a busy pond
Where fishes,frogs,snakes playing hide and seek
Collecting sweet tamarind and small mangoes
In the duppatta of yellow salwar Kameez
Sitting under the shade of a giant banyan tree
Sinking in the flavour of tamarind with mangoes
With an innocent exuberant smile
Vision of people and vehicles passing by
Ringing of the Pooja bell heard from the temple
Jumping out running towards the temple with a banyan leaf bowl
Filling it with mouth-watering rice pudding
Walking home vigilantly in a thought of sharing with siblings
Followed by a black kitten to get a share crying meow-meow!

Musa stands for banana
But his name sake was Furhana
His headwear folded like samosa
Not to be confused with mimosa
Yet the fold was like Koya's head towel
Even the fantastic Ayamu's downwell.
That said: Koya heckled with his sickle knife
Never failed in the field to sit and file
The blade to trim out the hedge's tendrils rife
Closed one eye to see the fence's profile
The cutting-hedge technology of fence
Continued without denouncing offense
Rarely reaching any end, the dense
Fence talk gains again as every day commence.

Beauty creation was his faint inclination
At the entrance of the tea plantation
Stationed near to the police station
Part of his task unasked in the division
Was standing and talking to the man on the bike
Talks like, the strike, the Labour wages hike,
How to dodge a strife for a fair bounty
With words coated with 'chondy-chandy sugar candy.
For its said, he can wear any colour, I-uhml-green or P-yellows
To send jaundice or dainties to the Poor-fellows.
The talk prolong as the baron mellows
Till the madam's call comes from the bungalows.

Back to Musa, sorry for the interruption, he was left behind the lines...
For names of Mayan, Maanu and Jaanu make a beeline
Like Beebi and Kaybee,  maybe the guy too, sounding Shanghai,
All are bonanza, for a due stanza.

Musa chirped with chops of English
And fizzed out the name of fish and dish
Proud that he worked even with some British.
Once he mumbled the name mom and mummy
To call out his humble wife to introduce
The visiting chummy colleagues, over there.
Her numb eyes goggled out of a slimy shawl to reduce
Her head to a crummy Kameez that beleaguered  on her.
Not knowing what his trendy husband is telling,
And why he is calling her before them, Asia instead of Aisha!
His friends knew her trouble and told her its alright
And that made her feel she is the same Ayichumma on her own right.

Once Musa stumbled on the name 'chips' at a shop in the city;
Ordered the same along with other civil society
While seeing it packed, he grumbled for his stupidity
And burst out, "O, just the Koya fried banana, that's aplenty in our vicinity".
The shopkeeper gave a laugh,
And there, Musa left in a huff!

THE CRUSHER

Like a sugar-cane vendor
crushing a bunch of sugar-cane
in his machine,
They squeezed us,
juice extracted,
handed over it on a platter
to the tourists.
"Nice, sweet, very sweet"-
Praised they in chorus
"It's our blood and sweat sirs",
We lamented in exhaustion.
Our cries,
Cries in the wilderness.

THE BEAST

The roar of the beast
terrifies us,
All voices get drowned in its roar,
The shape of the beast,
set off ripples down our spines,
Gigantic, with a wide,
sharp tongue,
Horrifies us.
The sight of the beast,
running towards us
in thirst and hunger,
baring its tongue,
disarms us, forces us
to surrender meekly,
without even a whimper,
followed by a line
of little beasts.
With its sharp, wide, tongue,
lifts our tents
within seconds,
and fill the belly of little beasts.
Our helpless cries, always cries in the wilderness.

DREAMS NIPPED IN BUD

They turn benign once in a while,
little students in uniforms,
followed by their masters,
with sympathies abound,
visit us.
They serve us sumptuous feasts,
pat on our backs,
our children watch them
with blank eyes, emaciated
they are, skinny they are,
Eat everything greedily
sumptuous feasts,
sweets following,
greedily, yes greedily.
Dreams they must have had
wings of ambitions they must had,
"Wings of fire" they must have had,
No let-up, though.
Their cries, like cries in the wilderness.

INDIAN WOMAN

One day we saw a young woman,
In her torn salwar and kameez,
in dishevelled hair.
Her face bruised and lips bleeding
Entering a police-station.
Crying she was.
Half an hour gone.
We saw her returning to the crowded city street,
Her expression stony,
Pause.
Like a mid-air explosion
a sudden impulse,
in a fit of rage and frustration,
She stripped herself off-
her salwar, kameez and shawl
In her bra and *******
talking loudly to herself,
gesturing wildly
frightening sight it was
her entire body too bleeding,
Down the roads she walked
swiftly to nowhere,
a visual feast to the passers by,
and commuters,
All in good humour.
Media men with their cameras followed her,
In a hurry to capture the sight,
without even leaving the minutest details,
the channels flashed the entire sight repeatedly,
The plight of an Indian woman,
the sight an eloquent one
Her cries like cries in the wilderness.

THE VICTIM

One day,
In the broad-daylight,
While city was reeling under
sweltering heat,
A few khaki-wallahs,
Reached our colony,
In a jeep.
Went on a hunt,
to each tent,
fished out a youth,
Bholaram, his name,
the red eyed demons,
Beat him, kicked him around,
punched him,
Rained thundering blows on him,
And reducing him to pulp,
Threw him into the vehicle,
And drove him away.
His parents, wife,
children screamed helplessly
beating their chests
Nothing heard of him
since then.
Their cries like cries in the wilderness.

She was wearing yellow kameez
Beneath it was a white salwar
Lips swollen pink
Eyes beautiful but sink
On the beautiful sunny day
She met me the first time
She had taken off despair
As if she wished to shed that forever
But she knew
This would have to be wore as she moved out from this door
Just as life lies loaded on her beautiful
and flexible core
On meeting second time
She opened up and dare to say
It is difficult to forget
Who has gone away
Once again I will have to find a fresh breeze
Will have to look for some stable crease
Inspite of channel gate
Of responsibilities n age
What will happen now to this vacant soul
Only love can fill this up all
That one gets with difficulty
And that which is full of difficulties.

One day we saw a young woman,
in her torn salwar and kameez,
in dishevelled hair,
her face bruised and lips bleeding
entering a police station
crying she was.
Half an hour gone.
We saw her returning to the crowded city street,
her expression stony,
Pause.
Like a mid-air explosion
a sudden impulse,
in a fit of rage and frustration,
she stripped herself off-
her salwar, kameez and shawl
in her bra and *******
talking loudly to herself,
gesturing wildly
frightening sight it was
her entire body too bleeding,
down the roads she walked
swiftly to nowhere,
a visual feast to the passers by,
and commuters,
all in good humour.
Media men with their cameras followed her-
in a hurry to capture the sight,
without even leaving the minutest details,
the channels flashed the entire sight repeatedly,
the plight of an Indian woman,
the sight an eloquent one
her cries like cries in the wilderness.

the weather outside is truly ideal for listening
to this sort of music...
it has rained a while... slanting to the side...
it has stopped raining (though)...
the clouds are moving across the sky with
much desire to get away from England:
reach the sea and pick up some moisture
in the noon heat...
the wind has shackled the trees to wave...
the music? we lost the sea: departure songs...
2015... it's neumuzik however i look at it...
it's not familiar... first rendition...
if i were asked about other instrumental projects...
say... Demdike Stare... or... Godspeed! You Black Emperor...
all things Canadian...
melancholic: reflective music...
music best suited to writing...
is atmospheric an adjective?
all of a sudden concerning myself with
grammatical categories?
           as you do...
   custodian... i like that word...
if in all the stories of medieval lore there would
be a knight errand...
err-and...
            n'ah... i'd pass on the role even if it comes
to this petty modern: imaging of being
the "hero"... the "knight"...
i'd be the inn-keeper...
            just today i made my final distinction
between two recipes...
one for butter chicken curry...
the other for a korma curry...
butter chicken curry wins... every single time...
i compared two or three websites...
one might have had a great recipe but...
the overtones of politics in the bio of the cook
left me astounded...
making excuses concerning: ahem...
"cultural appropriation"... seriously?!
only Chinese people can cook Chinese food well?
only Indians can cook up a... makeshift
Irish Stew broth? tautology? stew... broth?
probably...
i don't think food can be... sterilized for leftist
political ("correct") convenience...
i don't think anyone can tell me i can't cook
a better curry than a native of the Raj...
now... if you told me i couldn't... don a turban
on my head... or wear a shalwar kameez...
pa-*******-jamas...
no... i couldn't... but why all of a sudden
could it: should it be, considered...
"cultural appropriation" for making a curry?
do i need a Hindu to cook me one
can't i ever, make one?
if this is something that resembles life...
it's at best an imitation...
plus this music is great for the scenes of
the night, it having just rained...
the clouds moving so quickly but me still managing to
spot a demonic death-face in the clouds...
the trees shackles to waving...
great music... but it also *****...
i don't like feeling this sentimental...
the algorithm had a flirt with a glitch...
i've had the sort of recommendations that were
freely available at the height of the platform:
circa 2016... when there was an inbuilt...
thesaurus... notably the synonyms were at work...
- the earth is not a cold dead place (explosions in the sky)
- safehaven (tides from nebula)
- wavering radiant (ISIS)
- geneva (russian circles)
- best of melancholic post-rock mix (infinite tea)
- the bones of a dying world (if these trees could talk)
- refractions (meniscus)
- the hidden forest (anoice)
- b-sides and rarities from industrial silence (madrugada)
- departures (message to bears)

who doesn't like Ludovico Einaudi?!

- i rarely dream... but only this night i was sitting
at my usual spot... by the yawning abyss...
and someone three a 800 page monstrosity of
a romance novel into my lap...
i tend to sit by the abyss since it gives me focus...
rarely i find my body in my dreams...
just the gravity of darkness...
this time round i was given a 800 page
monstrosity of a romance novel...

hmm... post-rock... i've come across this genre
once before...
my Russian ex left me for a New Zealander
acid pusher who was big on...
65daysofstatic...
                            hang-up?
ask me tomorrow... when i'm hung-over...
2nd best *** in my lifetime...
even she couldn't compete with
that Turkish *******... Khadija...
30 minutes became 30 years...
post-rock... elevated emo...
           elevated because... without lyrics...
but still... heart-breaking to listen to...
intricate and complex but...
it's not progressive-rock...
                     there's no... Peter Sinfield involved...
invoked... involved...
so... it can be so little as a syllable to elevate
mere instruments... who cares about it
conjuring up operas!
when the world was created... the choir of demons
that refused to sing...
simply... ushered in... the hebrew definite article:
HA...
and how they laughed... and laughed
until it splintered their minds...
the... point...
unlike in Western Slavic: to: this...
tamto: that...
there's no article distinction in languages
that otherwise have... gender inclusion in their
nouns... which English insinuates...
but doesn't have...
Earth is hardly feminine...
you'd need Mother Earth to associate Earth with
something feminine...
Father Time... time by itself is hardly masculine...
Moon is somehow... deceptively...
masculine...
while the Sun... is also... "deceptively"
feminine... a trait shared by both languages...
Moon: Ksieżyc...
Sun: Słońce...
  but, with regards to names associated with
objects... rower sounds masculine...
it's a bicycle...
               krzesło (a make-believe "he") is
simply a gender-neutral chair...
English, as a language... doesn't have a feel
for gendered nouns... almost all nouns
in English are gender-neutral...
English has a conundrum with
the definite / indefinite article...
i.e. to krzesło: tamto krzesło...
     this chair . that chair
      krzesło: a chair...
      krzesło: the chair...
      
i appreciate how the indefinite article works...
you can suppose abstracting a chair
into... the deconstruction of the chair...
into: something you're not intending
to sit on...

perhaps as little, or as much....
giving the "gravity" associated with painting still: life...
"dead" objects at the end of
a manufacturing process...
          
English can't be undermined so easily:
not by its own people...
what the **** is implied by "gender neutral
pronouns"?!
all the nouns in English are gender neutral!
you can't have gender neutral pronouns!
what you can have are... is? are? is?
a singular or a plural definition...
"gender neutrality" is
not the Socratic concern for a debate
on universalism vs. particularism...
it's an: ex uno...
          to be addressed as "they":
plural? didn't the British royalty already stress this?

one can... we can...
who the **** is a vague current vogue of
"they"?!
in a language with restrictions:
all, the, nouns... are... gender... neutral...
imagine if this was French...
the masculine chair... the feminine table...
it's the English though...
do they... will they... bother... to learn
a foreign language...

see... i was considered "problematic" once...
a schizophrenic...
if i'm also: alias... bilingual...
i must be a ******* quadratic by, now!
if the priests won't entertain the power
of the words... LOUNGE-INTO-GOSH...
who will?!
moi?! i'm tired of being tailored by...
half-respectable... Kafkaesque monstrosities of...
punitive power (struggles)...
buereaucrats...
shadow people... grey people...
bureaucrats...
"too many consonants" in my western Slavic...
so... not enough onomatopoeia:
******* vowels in your... baggage?!
you *******: plump?!
technology abbreviates conundrums
before they're allowed to before
functioning electronic outlets of mass:
replica-tion...
what is it with...
people... "waking" up...
isn't it impossible to keep the people
sleeping... insomniac libido caricature... etc.
what Copernicus arrived at is
not what Darwin: also arrived at...
   nature abhors vacuums...
unless it's in the realm of physics...
there' nothing useless in nature:
since... the evolution of the parasite...
i understand that...
so few people exercise the "elder" use... utility of zunge...
i have no problem with that...

i'm of the... "assertion": let's just call it quits!
if *** was ever a poroblem:
not enough of it...
nirvana's... any...
vs. pearl jam's polished... beside the debute...
GO!  
                      is it really question?

some nouns betters in languages than your own...
ANIMAL vs. ZWIECIĘCIĘ:
it calls how it's cut...
doubly cut....
how it's slaughtered first... then how it's cooked:
almost unlike look0alike:

Ę coupled with Щ...
   no? what's the geography when... linear...
comes... the writing?!

my thirst: struggled first with it...
later?! not much bother...
i live, i also die: to be equated...
synonymous...
or some variant of parody...
do i dare to blink?
do i?!

       RATS....
SZCZURY...
             that... SZCZ collapse...
щoor-y:
where's your hatch of hay-tch??!

ha ha!
ZWIECIĘCIĘ also: best reads as...
ZWIERZĘCIĘ!
ZWIE: it's know as... a name..
it's known by a name...
RZECZ: thing...
CIĘCIĘ: cutting...
what an etymological cocktail of events!
call a thing by its name
that's... to be readily... cut?!
ha!