With or against you, I have to choose
I side with you, and still it's me that you abuse
You point the gun at my home and say "Now, what are you going to do?"
The hunt is on, the hunt is on it's true, Oh simple man, the hunt is on for you
Only when you've lost a limb or a loved one- do you know that you're accused
Your pride stands wounded and alone, like a tamed lion caged in a zoo
"We won't let it happen again", we said. But those promises are not for you
We won't let it happen again. But only to those who come for you.
Run, simple man run,there is no justice planned
They've come to wipe you out, from your simple land.
A mother mourns a son, and another mourns them in simple twos
But where are you going to run simple man? Your mother will still weep for you
"We won't let it happen again", they said. But those promises are not for you
We won't let it happen again, but in the end they do it to you.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Monday, December 08, 2008
Sattire Attire part IX: Hunny Bunny
Magas ko bagh mein jane na dena, Na haq khoon parwane ka ho ga!
(Pray do not let the bee enter the garden, for it will lead the moth to its death) - Mirza Ghalib
For if the bee does enter the garden, it will mate with the flowers. It will then make a home, a hive and it will make honey. And in the end, the hive will become wax for candle. The moth will wander as it had always wandered; aimlessly and of little importance. The moth will linger around the flame of the candle until maddened by the obsession it will plunge into an ironic darkness. The hive will be a source of sweet and bitter; honey and death.
Like brothers in arms, like comrades in battle, the two could do little to avoid each other. Each of their lives marred by the absence of the other. Sylvester and Dmitri had their lives turn upside down and side to side. Good friends are hard to find, like seahorses in the infinite vastness of the ocean. Love follows from fate. Friends do not follow, they take a stand. By you. Around you and beside you. They are more precious than blood, for if ever any was needed, they would bleed. Like trust in a bank, faith in friends is like a fortress; unshaken, passing the tests of war, storm and time. Trust in friends is worth boasting.
You cannot choose your relatives, but you can choose your friends. You can choose your friends, but your soul-mate is chosen for you. Sylvester and Dmitri had chosen each other. And they un-chose each other for what appeared to both of them as 'fate' had planned it. Sylvester felt his trust was shaken and Dmitri felt that he was left alone, bleeding.
But fate has a funny, and a not ambiguous, way of playing things. Her name was Fate.
"Your name is Fate?" Sylvester asked his n-th obsession out of genuine alarm.
"Yes, it is. It is because it was meant to be". Her voice had the charm of hypnosis; luring Sylvester into an unconscious or, as Dmitri would put it, an idiotic and foolish state of mind.
"Meant to be? Is anything meant to be at all?"
At this she chuckled. Then she simultaneously said two things. She reprimanded Sylvester with her eyes, "You mock me with your skepticism and your skeptic friend? You mock a world beyond the deciphered laws of nature? You assume the unknown to be untrue? Therefore, you assume that untruth to be fact and a law, and then the rest becomes unknown to you. You ignorant, conformist fool"
And with her voice she had a different message, "Everything is meant to be. Me, you, this place, this time and everything else, it all is meant to be. This tension between us is meant to be, this tension between us and your friend is meant to be. The choices we make and the choices we do not make, they are all meant to be. Nothing is an independent event, it all means something. Each event connects us from the past to the future. The present is just a continuous transitionary stage where we are meant to be arriving from our past and it is a stage from where we go to where we are meant to be in the future. We, here right now, are meant to be."
She'd struck him with two blows at the same time. She had hit him hard and soft in one go. Sylvester was in an abyss of confusion where one abandons logic and clings on to the folly misdirections of the heart.
Dmitri saw in Sylvester a dog wagging its tail in front of its master; Fate. And again in another time and in another place the classical and romantic battle had begun. And Sylvester was the one caught between the two non-reconciling winds building up towards a storm. But Sylvester was a fool with a fool's hope for intuitive survival and Dmitri knew that this time God was stingy with the allocation of luck that was meant to be his. "Check please" he said to the waitress. It was time to sort things out.
(Pray do not let the bee enter the garden, for it will lead the moth to its death) - Mirza Ghalib
For if the bee does enter the garden, it will mate with the flowers. It will then make a home, a hive and it will make honey. And in the end, the hive will become wax for candle. The moth will wander as it had always wandered; aimlessly and of little importance. The moth will linger around the flame of the candle until maddened by the obsession it will plunge into an ironic darkness. The hive will be a source of sweet and bitter; honey and death.
Like brothers in arms, like comrades in battle, the two could do little to avoid each other. Each of their lives marred by the absence of the other. Sylvester and Dmitri had their lives turn upside down and side to side. Good friends are hard to find, like seahorses in the infinite vastness of the ocean. Love follows from fate. Friends do not follow, they take a stand. By you. Around you and beside you. They are more precious than blood, for if ever any was needed, they would bleed. Like trust in a bank, faith in friends is like a fortress; unshaken, passing the tests of war, storm and time. Trust in friends is worth boasting.
You cannot choose your relatives, but you can choose your friends. You can choose your friends, but your soul-mate is chosen for you. Sylvester and Dmitri had chosen each other. And they un-chose each other for what appeared to both of them as 'fate' had planned it. Sylvester felt his trust was shaken and Dmitri felt that he was left alone, bleeding.
But fate has a funny, and a not ambiguous, way of playing things. Her name was Fate.
"Your name is Fate?" Sylvester asked his n-th obsession out of genuine alarm.
"Yes, it is. It is because it was meant to be". Her voice had the charm of hypnosis; luring Sylvester into an unconscious or, as Dmitri would put it, an idiotic and foolish state of mind.
"Meant to be? Is anything meant to be at all?"
At this she chuckled. Then she simultaneously said two things. She reprimanded Sylvester with her eyes, "You mock me with your skepticism and your skeptic friend? You mock a world beyond the deciphered laws of nature? You assume the unknown to be untrue? Therefore, you assume that untruth to be fact and a law, and then the rest becomes unknown to you. You ignorant, conformist fool"
And with her voice she had a different message, "Everything is meant to be. Me, you, this place, this time and everything else, it all is meant to be. This tension between us is meant to be, this tension between us and your friend is meant to be. The choices we make and the choices we do not make, they are all meant to be. Nothing is an independent event, it all means something. Each event connects us from the past to the future. The present is just a continuous transitionary stage where we are meant to be arriving from our past and it is a stage from where we go to where we are meant to be in the future. We, here right now, are meant to be."
She'd struck him with two blows at the same time. She had hit him hard and soft in one go. Sylvester was in an abyss of confusion where one abandons logic and clings on to the folly misdirections of the heart.
Dmitri saw in Sylvester a dog wagging its tail in front of its master; Fate. And again in another time and in another place the classical and romantic battle had begun. And Sylvester was the one caught between the two non-reconciling winds building up towards a storm. But Sylvester was a fool with a fool's hope for intuitive survival and Dmitri knew that this time God was stingy with the allocation of luck that was meant to be his. "Check please" he said to the waitress. It was time to sort things out.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Moral of the story part V: Accent Agieu
You have to be a fool to be hungry again at 2 a.m., when everything is closed. I mean, 8 p.m., are you hungry? No.
But 2 a.m., Yes very, very much. It's all well in the beginning, there's the pizza that saves you. But a pizza is a pizza and it is not for everyday. You can die from eating pizza too regularly. They call it the inflamation of the taste buds. Like Aids it has no cure and prevention is the only...prevention.
When to have to revert to places like "Pita Factory", you know you're ******.
Pita Factory, a factory of Pitas. No, they're not made in China but they sure taste like they are. Would you ever eat a cake that came from the "Cake Factory"? Or would you eat fruit that came from the "Fruit Factory"?
"Steak Factory"?
"Stuffed Chicken Breast with Pineapple Sauce Factory"? You get the point.
So, once it had to be Pita Factory. Now it's not smart to walk into a Pita Factory on an empty stomach. Firstly, because you might end up eating something. Secondly, if your mind is a little preoccupied, you might... well I'll make my point with the aid of an anecdote.
I stood in line behind two policemen. They're going to be tough with the tickets tonight, I thought. One of the policemen spoke in accented English. So, naturally, I tried figuring out what it was.
I tried and I tried and then I concluded: Not Australian. Definitely not Australian. And definitely not ..."Chicken Souvlaki!". I was lost in my own thoughts, I did not realize that the policemen had left and I was next in line. Well, after the policemen I was the only one in line.
I gave the girl who was about to manufacture my pita a look of recognition; yea, chicken souvlaki... that's me.
"What would like on it?", she asked. I knew what I wanted, the same as everytime. So I said
"Some ta-mate-Os..." and out came an Australian accent.
"Some what?" She asked, a little taken aback.
"Tah-Mate-Os" I tried to hide the obvious shock that ought to have been registered on my face. I guess I managed to do so as she took it in stride and filled my pita with ta-mate-os.
Then she looked up to see what else I wanted on there.
Now I was in a bit of a pickle. I am not known for mimicking accents. I now had to tailor my pita according to the skill-level of my accent-mimicking skill. So, I pictured Shane Warne. And then, in my mind, I asked him to say onions... "un-yuns". And the girl was kind enough to oblige. So far so good, she probably thinks I'm from Australia and not just ordering in an accented speech for no reason. Which is exactly what I was doing, by the way.
Ok, next... come on Shane. "Sum cue-cambers". Haha! I was getting the hang of it. Just a couple more I thought.
But unfortunately that was it. I was looking at the deli and I couldn't pronounce anything else. Shane Warne had walked away. Finally, I cleverly managed with some finger pointing and "sum o that an sum o that..." .
I had pulled it off. I was so proud of myself.
"Would you like it for here or to go?", she asked.
"To gow please". Oh yeah. Confident. Cocky. Australian. I don't know how, I'm not even 6 feet tall.
While she was packaging my Pita in the Pita Factory, my phone rang. I answered it and spoke in fluent Urdu: "Yaar, abhee bari mushkil mein hoon. Meiney ghalti se Australian accent mein khana order kar deeya hai. Yaar, I'll call you back in 5 mins".
So much for covering up for my initial accented slip of tongue. But I didn't even realize it. Nor did my brilliant friend who had called me.
I didn't realize it even when she handed me my Pita to-gow with a look on her face that suggested that she'd just heard a joke. And then I said, "Thanks mate" and she almost burst out laughing.
And then as I slipped my phone back into my pocket, it hit me. After having painfully ordered in an accented speech, I had just blown it with that phone call. And then I almost burst out laughing. The place was pretty much empty because at 2 a.m., people usually get their pitas to-gow. Which was a good thing if any one of us was going to laugh out loud. Anyways by 2:15 am I had something to eat. Or so to say. I hail from Lahore, I like eating things that taste good.
But eating the pita was like digging a hole in the ground. You kept looking at it and hoped that it would end soon. Here's the thing with the pita, if Frank Sinatra ever writes a song about a Pita Factory pita, it would be called "One bite of warm, two bites of cold". Because the vegetables were very very cold and the meat was a little hot. It is awful. Moral of the story: Try doing it some time. Ye'll laav it mate.
But 2 a.m., Yes very, very much. It's all well in the beginning, there's the pizza that saves you. But a pizza is a pizza and it is not for everyday. You can die from eating pizza too regularly. They call it the inflamation of the taste buds. Like Aids it has no cure and prevention is the only...prevention.
When to have to revert to places like "Pita Factory", you know you're ******.
Pita Factory, a factory of Pitas. No, they're not made in China but they sure taste like they are. Would you ever eat a cake that came from the "Cake Factory"? Or would you eat fruit that came from the "Fruit Factory"?
"Steak Factory"?
"Stuffed Chicken Breast with Pineapple Sauce Factory"? You get the point.
So, once it had to be Pita Factory. Now it's not smart to walk into a Pita Factory on an empty stomach. Firstly, because you might end up eating something. Secondly, if your mind is a little preoccupied, you might... well I'll make my point with the aid of an anecdote.
I stood in line behind two policemen. They're going to be tough with the tickets tonight, I thought. One of the policemen spoke in accented English. So, naturally, I tried figuring out what it was.
I tried and I tried and then I concluded: Not Australian. Definitely not Australian. And definitely not ..."Chicken Souvlaki!". I was lost in my own thoughts, I did not realize that the policemen had left and I was next in line. Well, after the policemen I was the only one in line.
I gave the girl who was about to manufacture my pita a look of recognition; yea, chicken souvlaki... that's me.
"What would like on it?", she asked. I knew what I wanted, the same as everytime. So I said
"Some ta-mate-Os..." and out came an Australian accent.
"Some what?" She asked, a little taken aback.
"Tah-Mate-Os" I tried to hide the obvious shock that ought to have been registered on my face. I guess I managed to do so as she took it in stride and filled my pita with ta-mate-os.
Then she looked up to see what else I wanted on there.
Now I was in a bit of a pickle. I am not known for mimicking accents. I now had to tailor my pita according to the skill-level of my accent-mimicking skill. So, I pictured Shane Warne. And then, in my mind, I asked him to say onions... "un-yuns". And the girl was kind enough to oblige. So far so good, she probably thinks I'm from Australia and not just ordering in an accented speech for no reason. Which is exactly what I was doing, by the way.
Ok, next... come on Shane. "Sum cue-cambers". Haha! I was getting the hang of it. Just a couple more I thought.
But unfortunately that was it. I was looking at the deli and I couldn't pronounce anything else. Shane Warne had walked away. Finally, I cleverly managed with some finger pointing and "sum o that an sum o that..." .
I had pulled it off. I was so proud of myself.
"Would you like it for here or to go?", she asked.
"To gow please". Oh yeah. Confident. Cocky. Australian. I don't know how, I'm not even 6 feet tall.
While she was packaging my Pita in the Pita Factory, my phone rang. I answered it and spoke in fluent Urdu: "Yaar, abhee bari mushkil mein hoon. Meiney ghalti se Australian accent mein khana order kar deeya hai. Yaar, I'll call you back in 5 mins".
So much for covering up for my initial accented slip of tongue. But I didn't even realize it. Nor did my brilliant friend who had called me.
I didn't realize it even when she handed me my Pita to-gow with a look on her face that suggested that she'd just heard a joke. And then I said, "Thanks mate" and she almost burst out laughing.
And then as I slipped my phone back into my pocket, it hit me. After having painfully ordered in an accented speech, I had just blown it with that phone call. And then I almost burst out laughing. The place was pretty much empty because at 2 a.m., people usually get their pitas to-gow. Which was a good thing if any one of us was going to laugh out loud. Anyways by 2:15 am I had something to eat. Or so to say. I hail from Lahore, I like eating things that taste good.
But eating the pita was like digging a hole in the ground. You kept looking at it and hoped that it would end soon. Here's the thing with the pita, if Frank Sinatra ever writes a song about a Pita Factory pita, it would be called "One bite of warm, two bites of cold". Because the vegetables were very very cold and the meat was a little hot. It is awful. Moral of the story: Try doing it some time. Ye'll laav it mate.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The President's Speech.
"Countrymen,
Lend me your ears no more. Do not listen to any lies or, for that matter, any truths and I bestow upon you. I do not want to make false promises. For I cannot promise you better days. I do not want to be your excuse for poverty and immorality. For I cannot earn you money and change your ways. I am merely one man, you are the nation.
Countrymen, lend me, instead, your arms and legs. Your minds and bodies. Do not listen for gathering hope but create hope. For I cannot change your fortunes for you. But you can. Hence, lend me yourselves.
We are at war. So do not listen to me when I say we need to show solidarity. Lend me yourselves. Show me solidarity. You are the nation. Fight this evil, do no wait to be rescued. For Nations fight, only the helpless wait to be rescued. When a group of people is united no more, it is like a cripple; waiting for help or like a king, waiting for service. You are not a cripple and you are not a king. And you have no destiny lest you make it. And this fight beckons you forward to rise and do so.
You are the nation and your fortunes are tied with what you do. So, lend me not your ears. You should know better. Show me that there is indeed a people and not a cripple nor a king that misfortune has fallen upon. Because people overcome their misfortunes by their own hands, their own destiny. Kings and cripples wait. They wait for help and aid. And they are forever unable to change what may be.
So, do not listen to me. For I will deliver no sermon and you will learn nothing. Remember, if there is no lesson, then it is not worth listening and not worth mentioning.
We have suffered so far, and for what? And no matter what we do, we will inevitably suffer more. Let's face this hardship. Let's bring it upon ourselves. Let's work longer, study harder, spend less, donate more, fight braver. So that if nothing else, in the end we will, at least, be holding our heads up. Not our hands held open. So that in end, we will at least be a people and not a cripple or a king.
Countrymen, lend me yourselves."
Lend me your ears no more. Do not listen to any lies or, for that matter, any truths and I bestow upon you. I do not want to make false promises. For I cannot promise you better days. I do not want to be your excuse for poverty and immorality. For I cannot earn you money and change your ways. I am merely one man, you are the nation.
Countrymen, lend me, instead, your arms and legs. Your minds and bodies. Do not listen for gathering hope but create hope. For I cannot change your fortunes for you. But you can. Hence, lend me yourselves.
We are at war. So do not listen to me when I say we need to show solidarity. Lend me yourselves. Show me solidarity. You are the nation. Fight this evil, do no wait to be rescued. For Nations fight, only the helpless wait to be rescued. When a group of people is united no more, it is like a cripple; waiting for help or like a king, waiting for service. You are not a cripple and you are not a king. And you have no destiny lest you make it. And this fight beckons you forward to rise and do so.
You are the nation and your fortunes are tied with what you do. So, lend me not your ears. You should know better. Show me that there is indeed a people and not a cripple nor a king that misfortune has fallen upon. Because people overcome their misfortunes by their own hands, their own destiny. Kings and cripples wait. They wait for help and aid. And they are forever unable to change what may be.
So, do not listen to me. For I will deliver no sermon and you will learn nothing. Remember, if there is no lesson, then it is not worth listening and not worth mentioning.
We have suffered so far, and for what? And no matter what we do, we will inevitably suffer more. Let's face this hardship. Let's bring it upon ourselves. Let's work longer, study harder, spend less, donate more, fight braver. So that if nothing else, in the end we will, at least, be holding our heads up. Not our hands held open. So that in end, we will at least be a people and not a cripple or a king.
Countrymen, lend me yourselves."
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Sattire Attire part VIII; illegally Blonde
False face must hide what the false heart doth know. - William Shakespeare
"Dmitri, my friend, it was like magic". Sylvester had started his narration before Dmitri could do anything to prevent it. They were interesting at first, his stories, but now... well, it was the same story. The same beginning, the same ending and whatever was in the middle was irrelevant.
"...she was like a breath of fresh air in the depths of a coal mine, like a sea-shell with the secrets of its voyage. She was like the answer to the question of mortal life, like unwritten poetry she has me obsessed..."
Still in the middle. How long before he finishes? wondered Dmitri.
"...what is it Dmitri? It seems like you have something on your mind. The only problems that you usually have on your mind are mine! and let me assure you, I have been through worse. Then what is it that troubles you?"
Dmitri was looking at the table, he never had the heart to say it before but enough was enough. "Sylvester, you are a poodle-faker and that saddens me."
"A poodle-faker?!" said Sylvester, more alarmed and amused than upset.
"Yes, Sylvester, a poodle-faker. An aspiring ladies' man. Though all you do is... well whatever you do, you do it wrong and it doesn't work. They're all frippets, the lot you chase, and you're a man-frippet."
"A frippet? Now don't go on calling them that. Me, well I can imagine, but they're not all..."
"Well what would have me call them? They're all quite pre-disposed to showing off and I'm being generous when I call you a man-frippet."
"That's not fair. I mean you can't..." and Sylvester was interrupted, not by Dmitri, but by a frippet who had just made her way into the diner.
Dmitri demanded attention. He half got up from his seat, bent over the table and grabbed Sylvester by his collars, "You listen to me!"
The frustration, quite understandable for us, was not so obvious to the rest of the diner. As a result, the many lights that were dispersed around the diner had all focused on table 8; Dmitri and Sylvester's table. The fine blond frippet too had turned around, a little confused.
Sylvester made use of this opportunity, "He means me, not you". To that she giggled and took her seat to see Dmitri let go of Sylvester's collar.
"Stop showing your teeth, she's not for you; you'll regret it" Dmitri told Sylvester with a little less acrimony and a little more authority.
"What do you mean? Just look at her. If I could..." Sylvester was about to go on a 10 minute monologue about a woman he didn't even know, but for his sake and ours, Dmitri cut him off, "Blah blah blah. You listen to me now. That is a dumb blonde."
"But not all blondes are dumb!!" a hurt Sylvester said in defense of the blonde-hood.
"Don't tell me that you don't know?" asked Dmitri, a little surprised.
"Know what?"
This explained a little but not all of Sylvester's foolish behaviour in the past. Dmitri explained:
"You are right. Not all blondes are dumb. Some are actually very smart. This applies to all natural blondes. However, the term dumb-blonde I use for the unnatural or illegally blonde."
"But but but how can you tell the difference?!" This was news for Sylvester.
"It's quite simple. Just look at your dumb-blonde frippet there...sorry there was no need for me to say that. You haven't taken your eyes off her still, therefore, keep looking at her. Her head is blonde. Her eyebrows are not. Connect the dots..."
"But it can't be true. Can't she be smart and want to be blonde?" Dmitri didn't need to answer that one. The blonde was overheard:
"...so I gave him my cell-phone instead of my home-phone. You know, since my home-phone does not have caller ID. Now I know when he's calling and so I can ignore him..."
And for once, Sylvester had nothing to say.
"Dmitri, my friend, it was like magic". Sylvester had started his narration before Dmitri could do anything to prevent it. They were interesting at first, his stories, but now... well, it was the same story. The same beginning, the same ending and whatever was in the middle was irrelevant.
"...she was like a breath of fresh air in the depths of a coal mine, like a sea-shell with the secrets of its voyage. She was like the answer to the question of mortal life, like unwritten poetry she has me obsessed..."
Still in the middle. How long before he finishes? wondered Dmitri.
"...what is it Dmitri? It seems like you have something on your mind. The only problems that you usually have on your mind are mine! and let me assure you, I have been through worse. Then what is it that troubles you?"
Dmitri was looking at the table, he never had the heart to say it before but enough was enough. "Sylvester, you are a poodle-faker and that saddens me."
"A poodle-faker?!" said Sylvester, more alarmed and amused than upset.
"Yes, Sylvester, a poodle-faker. An aspiring ladies' man. Though all you do is... well whatever you do, you do it wrong and it doesn't work. They're all frippets, the lot you chase, and you're a man-frippet."
"A frippet? Now don't go on calling them that. Me, well I can imagine, but they're not all..."
"Well what would have me call them? They're all quite pre-disposed to showing off and I'm being generous when I call you a man-frippet."
"That's not fair. I mean you can't..." and Sylvester was interrupted, not by Dmitri, but by a frippet who had just made her way into the diner.
Dmitri demanded attention. He half got up from his seat, bent over the table and grabbed Sylvester by his collars, "You listen to me!"
The frustration, quite understandable for us, was not so obvious to the rest of the diner. As a result, the many lights that were dispersed around the diner had all focused on table 8; Dmitri and Sylvester's table. The fine blond frippet too had turned around, a little confused.
Sylvester made use of this opportunity, "He means me, not you". To that she giggled and took her seat to see Dmitri let go of Sylvester's collar.
"Stop showing your teeth, she's not for you; you'll regret it" Dmitri told Sylvester with a little less acrimony and a little more authority.
"What do you mean? Just look at her. If I could..." Sylvester was about to go on a 10 minute monologue about a woman he didn't even know, but for his sake and ours, Dmitri cut him off, "Blah blah blah. You listen to me now. That is a dumb blonde."
"But not all blondes are dumb!!" a hurt Sylvester said in defense of the blonde-hood.
"Don't tell me that you don't know?" asked Dmitri, a little surprised.
"Know what?"
This explained a little but not all of Sylvester's foolish behaviour in the past. Dmitri explained:
"You are right. Not all blondes are dumb. Some are actually very smart. This applies to all natural blondes. However, the term dumb-blonde I use for the unnatural or illegally blonde."
"But but but how can you tell the difference?!" This was news for Sylvester.
"It's quite simple. Just look at your dumb-blonde frippet there...sorry there was no need for me to say that. You haven't taken your eyes off her still, therefore, keep looking at her. Her head is blonde. Her eyebrows are not. Connect the dots..."
"But it can't be true. Can't she be smart and want to be blonde?" Dmitri didn't need to answer that one. The blonde was overheard:
"...so I gave him my cell-phone instead of my home-phone. You know, since my home-phone does not have caller ID. Now I know when he's calling and so I can ignore him..."
And for once, Sylvester had nothing to say.
Monday, November 03, 2008
Moral of the story part III : Goals in Life
The mood is gloomy. Dark clouds approach. And to make it worse, there's no cricket to take our minds off of all that's going wrong. Whenever we get thrashed by Australia, it makes us all sad; all ethnicities and all religious sects. Whenever Shahid Afridi lasts for more than fifteen minutes on pitch it makes us all happy. The same can be said for when Shoaib Akhtar lasts for more than 15 minutes on the field. Such a touchy topic, Shahid Afridi and Shoaib Akhtar. Today, we talk about Shahid Afridi, or rather we recall an interview once conducted by a sports channel. (translated)
"So, Shahid, you are making your big comeback against India?"
"Yes, of course, I had to come back in the team. Whenever the team needs me, I'm there. And right now the team needs me"
"But after such a big lay off, are you ready to make a come-back?"
"I wouldn't really call it a lay-off, I just took a break you know, spend some time with the family"
"We heard rumours that you were retiring from cricket?"
"Well yes, I was thinking about it. But now that I'm married and now that I have children, I have achieved everything that I wanted to do in life, so now I can think about playing cricket."
Clearly, anybody that makes any overtures about Shahid Afridi desiring the captaincy is not familiar with Shahid's goals in life. Regardless, our worlds come to a halt for the 15 minutes when this man walks out of the pavillion. And they only resume when he walks back towards it. Cricket is dead. All we get to watch is India churning out success stories like sodomized (commercialized) music records.
"So, Shahid, you are making your big comeback against India?"
"Yes, of course, I had to come back in the team. Whenever the team needs me, I'm there. And right now the team needs me"
"But after such a big lay off, are you ready to make a come-back?"
"I wouldn't really call it a lay-off, I just took a break you know, spend some time with the family"
"We heard rumours that you were retiring from cricket?"
"Well yes, I was thinking about it. But now that I'm married and now that I have children, I have achieved everything that I wanted to do in life, so now I can think about playing cricket."
Clearly, anybody that makes any overtures about Shahid Afridi desiring the captaincy is not familiar with Shahid's goals in life. Regardless, our worlds come to a halt for the 15 minutes when this man walks out of the pavillion. And they only resume when he walks back towards it. Cricket is dead. All we get to watch is India churning out success stories like sodomized (commercialized) music records.
Friday, October 31, 2008
The Tribesman
Sickly. That's how he felt. Sick in the head, more to the point. His allegiance torn between himself and his land. He had betrayed his land, like his land had betrayed him. Could they ever be at peace again, the land and himself? Could he? He had caused much harm. Maybe enough. He had thought about bringing it all to halt on more than one occasion. Only to betray and be betrayed again.
Freedom, they called it. Freedom, which had cost him his brother, nephew and had amputated his son. And yet what was he fighting for? Freedom again? This fight had been fought already, this hatchet had long been buried.
In a war where there were only two sides, he wondered what side he was on. Especially, since he was in the cross-fire. Behind enemy lines, beyond them and between them. When hot lead pierces flesh, there's only one outcome and a mother's wail needs no language to be understood. Then it matters not where the bullet came from. From friend or foe.
There was a third side in the war; a side that was losing. It had no enemy, yet it suffered. It had lost half its men, with no honour bestowed upon them. Just criticism. The war, that was not its own but was being fought on its land, had not just taunted but insulted its existence. He heard the explosions and he took his position.
He was an excellent shot. Almost every bullet hit home and every one that did was a shot through the heart. His own more than the others'. It was an unfair war which did not allow him to pick sides; he had to fight all of them. Lacking all elements of fear he got ready to face the storm, embrace it and then make it turn away, and he wondered whether today would be the end of it all. For if all good things come to an end, then they must first begin with the ending of a bad thing.
Freedom, they called it. Freedom, which had cost him his brother, nephew and had amputated his son. And yet what was he fighting for? Freedom again? This fight had been fought already, this hatchet had long been buried.
In a war where there were only two sides, he wondered what side he was on. Especially, since he was in the cross-fire. Behind enemy lines, beyond them and between them. When hot lead pierces flesh, there's only one outcome and a mother's wail needs no language to be understood. Then it matters not where the bullet came from. From friend or foe.
There was a third side in the war; a side that was losing. It had no enemy, yet it suffered. It had lost half its men, with no honour bestowed upon them. Just criticism. The war, that was not its own but was being fought on its land, had not just taunted but insulted its existence. He heard the explosions and he took his position.
He was an excellent shot. Almost every bullet hit home and every one that did was a shot through the heart. His own more than the others'. It was an unfair war which did not allow him to pick sides; he had to fight all of them. Lacking all elements of fear he got ready to face the storm, embrace it and then make it turn away, and he wondered whether today would be the end of it all. For if all good things come to an end, then they must first begin with the ending of a bad thing.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Before Aqaba. A-Lawrence, Auda Abu Tayi and Shrefi Ali.
In Auda Abu Tayi's tent.
Lawrence: They are a tribe of slaves, they serve the Turks.
Auda: Well they are nothing to me, my tribe is the Howeitat.
Sherif Ali: Who work only for profit.
Auda: Who work at Auda's pleasure.
Lawrence: And Auda's pleasure is to serve the Turks.
Auda: Serve? I Serve?
Lawrence: It is the servant who takes money.
Auda gets up and faces his tribesmen.
Auda: I am Auda abu Tayi!!! Does Auda serve?
Tribesmen: NO!
Auda: Does Auda abu Tayi serve?
Tribesmen: NO!
Auda : I carry twenty-three great wounds, all got in battle. Seventy-five men have I killed with my own hands in battle. I Scatter, I burn my enemies' tents. I take away their flocks and herds. The Turks pay me a golden treasure. Yet I am poor... because I am a river to my people!! Is that service??
Lawrence: No.
Lawrence: They are a tribe of slaves, they serve the Turks.
Auda: Well they are nothing to me, my tribe is the Howeitat.
Sherif Ali: Who work only for profit.
Auda: Who work at Auda's pleasure.
Lawrence: And Auda's pleasure is to serve the Turks.
Auda: Serve? I Serve?
Lawrence: It is the servant who takes money.
Auda gets up and faces his tribesmen.
Auda: I am Auda abu Tayi!!! Does Auda serve?
Tribesmen: NO!
Auda: Does Auda abu Tayi serve?
Tribesmen: NO!
Auda : I carry twenty-three great wounds, all got in battle. Seventy-five men have I killed with my own hands in battle. I Scatter, I burn my enemies' tents. I take away their flocks and herds. The Turks pay me a golden treasure. Yet I am poor... because I am a river to my people!! Is that service??
Lawrence: No.
Monday, October 06, 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
Moral of the story part II
Are you fasting? I'm slowing. This year I've only slowed, not fasted. I guess I'll have to quick later on in the year sometime to make up for all the slowing I've done so far. But I'm very lazy. It's hard enough for me as it is. I put off everything till tomorrow whenever possible. And it's not a pleasant thought to be putting the fasting off to the afterlife. I mean if it's possible tomorrow, then I'll do it tomorrow. If it's possible much much later... well you get the picture.
Sinner!! They say.
I hear, I try. I try to obey.
Strength and Honour, and Courage they say.
Mighty words they are, but maybe not today.
If not, then tomorrow will you pay?
Would you rather take on the world in haste and gamble your life away?
Je suis tres faime, je veux manger une grande petite dejeuner.
Frog Racing. That's what I was trying to get to. But somehow I drifted away from the desired topic. Maybe it's because frogs are frowned upon (are they?).
Today's lesson will be on Frog Racing. What you will need:
(i) Frog I
(ii)Frog II
(..)............
(n) Frog N
(n+1) A big pot for N number of Frogs
Instructions:
(-) Fill pot with water.
(-) Catch Frog I and put it in the pot
(-) Catch Frog II upto Frog N and put them in the pot also.
(-) Make sure each frog is differentiable or has a limit which exists when x approaches infinity(math joke)
(-) Find N-1 friends or partners in crime. Each person picks a Frog. Remember to pick first.
(-)Pick the smallest Frog. The big ones don't like to move.
(-)The race track should be straight and not meandering. A non-straight race track will result in chaos and confusion and an inevitable Frog death.
(-) Line up with Frogs in hand. On the signal put the Frog down.
(-) This is where it gets tricky. Guide the Frog (make it hop in a straight line) by stepping on either side of the Frog. This technique fulfills two purposes. The Frog does not deviate from the path and the Frog is too scared shitless to deviate from the path so it makes a real dash for it.
(-) Please do not deviate from the path yourself. There may be casualties.
(-) First to reach finish-line wins.
(-) [optional] If you loose, bitch about the track being too soft.
(-) Let the winner go free. Toss the rest back in the pot with water.
(-) Make Frog soup.
(-) Realize half-way that Frog is not Halal meat.
(-) If any Frogs are still alive, toss them into the pond.
(-) If any Frogs are dead then.... inalillahi wa inalillahi rajioun.
(-) Practice makes perfect. Do it as often as possible.
Moral of the story is, don't go too fast or you'll get a speeding ticket.
Sinner!! They say.
I hear, I try. I try to obey.
Strength and Honour, and Courage they say.
Mighty words they are, but maybe not today.
If not, then tomorrow will you pay?
Would you rather take on the world in haste and gamble your life away?
Je suis tres faime, je veux manger une grande petite dejeuner.
Frog Racing. That's what I was trying to get to. But somehow I drifted away from the desired topic. Maybe it's because frogs are frowned upon (are they?).
Today's lesson will be on Frog Racing. What you will need:
(i) Frog I
(ii)Frog II
(..)............
(n) Frog N
(n+1) A big pot for N number of Frogs
Instructions:
(-) Fill pot with water.
(-) Catch Frog I and put it in the pot
(-) Catch Frog II upto Frog N and put them in the pot also.
(-) Make sure each frog is differentiable or has a limit which exists when x approaches infinity(math joke)
(-) Find N-1 friends or partners in crime. Each person picks a Frog. Remember to pick first.
(-)Pick the smallest Frog. The big ones don't like to move.
(-)The race track should be straight and not meandering. A non-straight race track will result in chaos and confusion and an inevitable Frog death.
(-) Line up with Frogs in hand. On the signal put the Frog down.
(-) This is where it gets tricky. Guide the Frog (make it hop in a straight line) by stepping on either side of the Frog. This technique fulfills two purposes. The Frog does not deviate from the path and the Frog is too scared shitless to deviate from the path so it makes a real dash for it.
(-) Please do not deviate from the path yourself. There may be casualties.
(-) First to reach finish-line wins.
(-) [optional] If you loose, bitch about the track being too soft.
(-) Let the winner go free. Toss the rest back in the pot with water.
(-) Make Frog soup.
(-) Realize half-way that Frog is not Halal meat.
(-) If any Frogs are still alive, toss them into the pond.
(-) If any Frogs are dead then.... inalillahi wa inalillahi rajioun.
(-) Practice makes perfect. Do it as often as possible.
Moral of the story is, don't go too fast or you'll get a speeding ticket.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Zoo Tv
It was not a starry night. The moon was out, all whole and all white. Its presence overwhelming that of any other star. The rat could understand how the stars felt that night. Everyday, his tiny presence was overshadowed by the roars of the lions, the theatricals of the monkeys and, strangely enough, even by the lazy saunter of the giraffes. Even on the days that the lions only moaned and the monkeys only scratched each other, (giraffes always had their lazy saunter) the rat was as prominent as a drop of rainwater in the ocean. He had lived his whole life at the zoo and in the shadows of other animals.
It is a depressing thought, but the rat was never depressed. He had the company of so many animals of different nationalities. And he was friends with them all. All except the elephant.
This has nothing to do with the folly notion that elephants are afraid of mice. While we're on the subject, elephants would not die for peanuts.
No, the rat and the elephant were not friends. They were not enemies either. The elephant was the star of the zoo; the main attraction. He was actually a runaway from a circus, who was later captured and delivered to the zoo. As show-business had always been part of his nature, at the site of even a small group of people the elephant would perform his tricks and display his skill. Eventually, he became very popular and the success got to his head. He only ever spoke with the lion or the zebras or some other exotic animals or birds. It is ironic that the elephant was the only American at the zoo. He had been at the circus for as long as he could remember. And he had always been very haughty.
"What are you looking at?" The turtle asked the rat. The turtle was considered one of the wisest animals of the zoo. But he mostly kept to himself (inside his shell). Legend had it that he had once beaten the rabbit in a race. Some animals believed the story, some did not. But the rabbit or the turtle never spoke of it. Ever. They did not speak to each other either. So the rat had and inkling that the legend might be true, but he would never really know for sure.
"There are no stars tonight, turtle". The rat never had frame a question for the turtle. Because the turtle would always give an answer. Even if you did not ask a question.
"But that is only because the moon is too bright and the stars are not bright enough. They are still there, the stars, but they are not bright enough" And sure enough it made sense and the rat believed him.
Silence ensued. The most valuable of silences; the one right before a lesson.
"You think the stars are too small and that is why they do not shine bright enough. But you are wrong. The stars, though they appear to be much smaller than the moon, are actually infinitely larger than the moon. But they are so far away from us that they appear to be small. Just like the giraffes appear to be smaller than the turtles from where we are because their dwelling is towards the other end of the zoo. So you see my friend, rat, that all that appears to be small is sometimes the biggest thing of all". And after that little sermon the turtle retired to his shell, leaving the rat to ponder on what he had said.
The rat made his way back home, towards the food-court. It was a long walk but it seemed short. Just like the stars.
And when he thought about what the turtle had said and looked up at the sky again, he could relate to the stars even more. For he too appeared to be small, but he was probably bigger than all the other animals in depth and kindness. Even though everyday all that the people would notice would be the full brunt of the other animals and just a small flicker of himself, he knew that if anyone looked hard enough, they would see him for how big he is. How much bigger he is than the elephant.
It is a depressing thought, but the rat was never depressed. He had the company of so many animals of different nationalities. And he was friends with them all. All except the elephant.
This has nothing to do with the folly notion that elephants are afraid of mice. While we're on the subject, elephants would not die for peanuts.
No, the rat and the elephant were not friends. They were not enemies either. The elephant was the star of the zoo; the main attraction. He was actually a runaway from a circus, who was later captured and delivered to the zoo. As show-business had always been part of his nature, at the site of even a small group of people the elephant would perform his tricks and display his skill. Eventually, he became very popular and the success got to his head. He only ever spoke with the lion or the zebras or some other exotic animals or birds. It is ironic that the elephant was the only American at the zoo. He had been at the circus for as long as he could remember. And he had always been very haughty.
"What are you looking at?" The turtle asked the rat. The turtle was considered one of the wisest animals of the zoo. But he mostly kept to himself (inside his shell). Legend had it that he had once beaten the rabbit in a race. Some animals believed the story, some did not. But the rabbit or the turtle never spoke of it. Ever. They did not speak to each other either. So the rat had and inkling that the legend might be true, but he would never really know for sure.
"There are no stars tonight, turtle". The rat never had frame a question for the turtle. Because the turtle would always give an answer. Even if you did not ask a question.
"But that is only because the moon is too bright and the stars are not bright enough. They are still there, the stars, but they are not bright enough" And sure enough it made sense and the rat believed him.
Silence ensued. The most valuable of silences; the one right before a lesson.
"You think the stars are too small and that is why they do not shine bright enough. But you are wrong. The stars, though they appear to be much smaller than the moon, are actually infinitely larger than the moon. But they are so far away from us that they appear to be small. Just like the giraffes appear to be smaller than the turtles from where we are because their dwelling is towards the other end of the zoo. So you see my friend, rat, that all that appears to be small is sometimes the biggest thing of all". And after that little sermon the turtle retired to his shell, leaving the rat to ponder on what he had said.
The rat made his way back home, towards the food-court. It was a long walk but it seemed short. Just like the stars.
And when he thought about what the turtle had said and looked up at the sky again, he could relate to the stars even more. For he too appeared to be small, but he was probably bigger than all the other animals in depth and kindness. Even though everyday all that the people would notice would be the full brunt of the other animals and just a small flicker of himself, he knew that if anyone looked hard enough, they would see him for how big he is. How much bigger he is than the elephant.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Work in Progress: A trip to the mosque part II
Have not been there since part I (Ramadan only). No trip, no story. No guts, no glory. No money, no gori. No joke, I'm sorry.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
SS182 - part 1
This is the story of a young man, very much like me. So much so, that I will narrate this story in first person.
LUMS. No, not a misspelled dirty word. No, not a disease. Not even Lahore University of(fering) Marital Services. But getting warmer. Let's start again.
LUMS. Lahore University of Monday/Mid-day/Misdirected Sermons.
Finally, LUMS. Lahore University of Management Sciences. The grandest (second to Aitchison, of course) educational institution in the country. Where I spent two miserable quarters, labouring ten to fifteen minutes every week in order to get normal grade in Islamic Studies. A face showing grade. Nothing too flashy, like an A, to suggest any fanatic tendencies nor anything too third grade, like a C, to prevent the truth from being revealed. ( Please, do not misunderstand my use of the word reveal ).
'What truth?', you might ask. The truth not suggesting any atheistic tendencies but the truth suggesting lack of, how to put it politely... oh yes: the truth suggesting a lack of aptitude for the course.
I still remember the course code: SS182. The horrors and the nightmares associated with that era I cannot bring myself to divulge... my fingers shake and then I type words that are not real words.
I took the course twice. I took the course twice. Just like I wrote that last sentence twice. Twice.
The first time I ended up with a C-, a few feeble points above "FAIL!". And to think I had an A in O'Level Islamiat. Maybe it was the overconfidence. I made the mistake of actually claiming it to be overconfidence when I was confronted by my parents. At least, there is a morale to this story, albeit in the beginning of the story.
The second time, (with a serious lack of overconfidence) I set out to improve upon the C- performance; I was handed a C.
"It is Futile", was the message. Loud and Clear, sir.
But, how did I manage to end up with a C- in the first place?
It wouldn't be possible without a twist in the tale. Ten minutes a week are more than ample. When confronted, admitting this last bit was even worse than the overconfidence.
When I first took SS182, my uncle was teaching. Obviously, I had the advantage. Ha! That's what I thought.
He, a man of integrity, would never ever do me favour over other students. In fact, he would make sure there be no room for any assumptions. And me, overconfident about my integration skills alluding to integrity, never asked him for any special treatment either. And I also would go out of my way to make sure that I did not do too well in the course, to prevent the tongues from wagging.
I guess we both were a bit too careful.
LUMS. No, not a misspelled dirty word. No, not a disease. Not even Lahore University of(fering) Marital Services. But getting warmer. Let's start again.
LUMS. Lahore University of Monday/Mid-day/Misdirected Sermons.
Finally, LUMS. Lahore University of Management Sciences. The grandest (second to Aitchison, of course) educational institution in the country. Where I spent two miserable quarters, labouring ten to fifteen minutes every week in order to get normal grade in Islamic Studies. A face showing grade. Nothing too flashy, like an A, to suggest any fanatic tendencies nor anything too third grade, like a C, to prevent the truth from being revealed. ( Please, do not misunderstand my use of the word reveal ).
'What truth?', you might ask. The truth not suggesting any atheistic tendencies but the truth suggesting lack of, how to put it politely... oh yes: the truth suggesting a lack of aptitude for the course.
I still remember the course code: SS182. The horrors and the nightmares associated with that era I cannot bring myself to divulge... my fingers shake and then I type words that are not real words.
I took the course twice. I took the course twice. Just like I wrote that last sentence twice. Twice.
The first time I ended up with a C-, a few feeble points above "FAIL!". And to think I had an A in O'Level Islamiat. Maybe it was the overconfidence. I made the mistake of actually claiming it to be overconfidence when I was confronted by my parents. At least, there is a morale to this story, albeit in the beginning of the story.
The second time, (with a serious lack of overconfidence) I set out to improve upon the C- performance; I was handed a C.
"It is Futile", was the message. Loud and Clear, sir.
But, how did I manage to end up with a C- in the first place?
It wouldn't be possible without a twist in the tale. Ten minutes a week are more than ample. When confronted, admitting this last bit was even worse than the overconfidence.
When I first took SS182, my uncle was teaching. Obviously, I had the advantage. Ha! That's what I thought.
He, a man of integrity, would never ever do me favour over other students. In fact, he would make sure there be no room for any assumptions. And me, overconfident about my integration skills alluding to integrity, never asked him for any special treatment either. And I also would go out of my way to make sure that I did not do too well in the course, to prevent the tongues from wagging.
I guess we both were a bit too careful.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Friday, August 01, 2008
WE
"To love.
To be loved.
To never forget your own insignificance.
To never get used to the unspeakable violence and vulgar disparity of
life around you.
To seek joy in the saddest places.
To pursue beauty to its lair.
To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple.
To respect strength, never power.
Above all, to watch.
To try and understand.
To never look away. And never, never to forget."
-- Arundhati Roy
To be loved.
To never forget your own insignificance.
To never get used to the unspeakable violence and vulgar disparity of
life around you.
To seek joy in the saddest places.
To pursue beauty to its lair.
To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple.
To respect strength, never power.
Above all, to watch.
To try and understand.
To never look away. And never, never to forget."
-- Arundhati Roy
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Moral of the story part 1
"My name is Rambo Rambo. Jaan Rambo..."
Ok then, dear Rambo, what would you have us do today? Would you have us wear our clothes inside out? flog a dead horse? count to infinity...twice? or would you rather we cut only half the nails on our fingers, that too in alternating fashion.
Speaking of which, it just might become the new fad... (annoying female model complaining to hapless internee) "..well I think the whole alternating sequence is monotonous. Personally, I like to have a gap of two before I leave a nail uncut....tsk uncouth! Why aren't you staring at me in an awestruck manner? The couth, I mean, the youth of today na!"
And so we stumble, quite unknowingly, upon the term "na". We've all used it. Be in a "please" tone or a "I tell you" tone.
An "I tell you" tone would be:"... The couth, I mean, the youth of today I tell you!"
But the more popular use of the expression is the begging "please" tone: "give it to me na!"
or "day do, naa!"
To which some halfwit charlatan would say "acha? day do naa? yaani ke naa doun? theek hai, jaisay marzi... waisay mein tau dainay hi wala thaa..."
There's also the one that comes at the end of a question. You know what I'm talking about naa?
Before we got absorbed in this... this.. thing. We were talking about dead horses and nails.
Now, about nails...
Have you ever been stung by a wasp? If you have... tough luck. If you haven't... lucky you, but it's going to cost me the next couple of lines. When a wasp stings you, it hurts a bit and after a while you experience some swelling around the unfortunate area that got stung.
So, imagine you sitting at an outdoor cafe under the shade of an umbrella at your table. Your table is laden with osama. haha bad joke. Imagine your table is laden with orange juice and some other healthy food item (I only know of orange juice). And while you're there, under the shade wearing your shades, sipping your juice and eating your healthy food item, this wasp creeps up to your left hand, which is completely motionless and comfortably rested on the table, picks your forefinger and WHAM delivers the blow through the nail, into the skin.
Suddenly you feel pain in a part of your body that you've never felt before. The finger under your nail had always been protected by the nail.
You writhe in pain as you spill your juice and spit your food and shout out curse words that would embarrass the local hero of a dodgy neighbourhood. You're filling in the blanks from A to Z, and you don't realize that the worst is yet to come. When your vocabulary runs out at the letter V, the 'W'orst comes... the swelling beings, inside your nail.
The complication is that only your flesh swells up, your nail does not. So, your nail pops out, still attached to the top of your swelled up flesh. And your finger is shaped like a mushroom with a piece of nail attached to one end. How painful would that be? And how disgusting a sight would that be?
Moral of the story being that if you don't match your socks, you best not wear your frocks.
Ok then, dear Rambo, what would you have us do today? Would you have us wear our clothes inside out? flog a dead horse? count to infinity...twice? or would you rather we cut only half the nails on our fingers, that too in alternating fashion.
Speaking of which, it just might become the new fad... (annoying female model complaining to hapless internee) "..well I think the whole alternating sequence is monotonous. Personally, I like to have a gap of two before I leave a nail uncut....tsk uncouth! Why aren't you staring at me in an awestruck manner? The couth, I mean, the youth of today na!"
And so we stumble, quite unknowingly, upon the term "na". We've all used it. Be in a "please" tone or a "I tell you" tone.
An "I tell you" tone would be:"... The couth, I mean, the youth of today I tell you!"
But the more popular use of the expression is the begging "please" tone: "give it to me na!"
or "day do, naa!"
To which some halfwit charlatan would say "acha? day do naa? yaani ke naa doun? theek hai, jaisay marzi... waisay mein tau dainay hi wala thaa..."
There's also the one that comes at the end of a question. You know what I'm talking about naa?
Before we got absorbed in this... this.. thing. We were talking about dead horses and nails.
Now, about nails...
Have you ever been stung by a wasp? If you have... tough luck. If you haven't... lucky you, but it's going to cost me the next couple of lines. When a wasp stings you, it hurts a bit and after a while you experience some swelling around the unfortunate area that got stung.
So, imagine you sitting at an outdoor cafe under the shade of an umbrella at your table. Your table is laden with osama. haha bad joke. Imagine your table is laden with orange juice and some other healthy food item (I only know of orange juice). And while you're there, under the shade wearing your shades, sipping your juice and eating your healthy food item, this wasp creeps up to your left hand, which is completely motionless and comfortably rested on the table, picks your forefinger and WHAM delivers the blow through the nail, into the skin.
Suddenly you feel pain in a part of your body that you've never felt before. The finger under your nail had always been protected by the nail.
You writhe in pain as you spill your juice and spit your food and shout out curse words that would embarrass the local hero of a dodgy neighbourhood. You're filling in the blanks from A to Z, and you don't realize that the worst is yet to come. When your vocabulary runs out at the letter V, the 'W'orst comes... the swelling beings, inside your nail.
The complication is that only your flesh swells up, your nail does not. So, your nail pops out, still attached to the top of your swelled up flesh. And your finger is shaped like a mushroom with a piece of nail attached to one end. How painful would that be? And how disgusting a sight would that be?
Moral of the story being that if you don't match your socks, you best not wear your frocks.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Sattire Attire- A bridge- Who dares wins
"It had been days since they'd last seen each other. Their eyes met, after a long time, and they acknowledged each other's presence:"hello". All either one of them needed was a sign. A sign to step closer or to step away... a sign to move away from the comfort zone of the grey area where anything is still possible.
Still, no sign comes and no move is made. They wait, not willing to let go of a part of it. Not wanting to risk a part of it for all of it. They will never be fully happy or fully sad. They will remain... in the middle." Wrote Sylvester in his diary.
Still, no sign comes and no move is made. They wait, not willing to let go of a part of it. Not wanting to risk a part of it for all of it. They will never be fully happy or fully sad. They will remain... in the middle." Wrote Sylvester in his diary.
Friday, July 11, 2008
One Tree Hill (excerpt)
"The boy saw the comet and he felt as though his life had meaning. And when it went away, he waited his entire life for it to come back to him. It was more than just a comet because of what it brought to his life: direction, beauty, meaning. There are many who couldn't understand, and sometimes he walked among them. But even in his darkest hours, he knew in his heart that someday it would return to him, and his world would be whole again... And his belief in God and love and art would be re-awakened in his heart."
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Sattire Attire Part VII: Promise by God? No, promise by promise!
"No, not an oath. If not the face of men, the sufferance of our souls, the time's abuse. If these be motives weak, break off betimes. And hence every man to his idle bed" - Shakespeare, Willaim (Julius Caesar)
"You always tell the truth"
"Always. I say it as I see it"
"Why?"
"To patronize others... though that's only a half truth. The whole truth is that I cannot lie. My expressions give it away. When I say something that I do not believe, it shows and I cannot hide it. The words I speak may be lies, but I still end up conveying what is true. Be it the words, or the expression that betrays the words."
Silence. The whetherman had not opened up like this before, so naturally he was at a loss of words. Dmitri, on the other hand, was assessing himself. How good a lier was he?
"Very good" Dmitri, thinking aloud.
"What?"
"The food" said Dmitri, proving his aptitude as a liar to himself again. "But tell me, do you see that man over there? The one in the hat."
"Yes, what about him? Do you know him?"
"I will answer your second question first; yes and no. And in response to your first, I have a favour to ask of you."
"What's in it for me?"
"After you have done what I have asked of you, you will get your freedom from this slavery of honest words..."
"But what if I don't want that freedom?"
"You want it, your face says so. Do you know what else it says? It says that you've been held back in your professional life because of this slavery. Your words may be honest, but they must be complimented with honest actions. And let's just say that there's no parity between the two of them." Dmitri arched forward, restricting the whetherman's vision"You dropped out of college before you got kicked out of college. Because you cheated, and all you had to do was to deny that you did. But you couldn't, and so you left. Hence, by doing me a favour, you will be doing yourself a favour."
The whetherman was on the verge of tears. He had spoken true all his life. And all his life he had been running away from one too, the truth that Dmitri had so simply put to him; honesty is not the best policy. For you may speak true, but not act it. Or vice versa. Eitherway, you've damned yourself. Dmitri continued:
"I'll take your silence for an acquiesce. Now, that man over there thinks he's my friend. He is not, and he gets on my nerves. I will introduce you to him, and you will try to stir discord between us when I have left town in two days time. You will do that by telling him the truth about him."
"But I don't understand..."
"I'm not asking you to lie. I can't list all the things I don't like about him. In fact, I hate almost everything about him. His whining, self-obsessiveness... it's a long list and a very annoying one, and one that you'll get acquainted with very soon. And when you do, you tell that him to his face... but from me of course. So you see, all of you have to do is tell the truth. One of them being that I hate him and the other being his nuisance."
"Why do I get the feeling that two truths make a lie? Why do you want me to do this?"
"They may or may not. And you don't have to know any reasons. You may do so, if you wish to be free"
"And you promise that I shall be free and be able to lie?"
"A promise? Why, it's up to you if you seize the chance that I present to you. There's no need for promises" - but to you Sylvester, my friend, I do promise that you will be free.
"You always tell the truth"
"Always. I say it as I see it"
"Why?"
"To patronize others... though that's only a half truth. The whole truth is that I cannot lie. My expressions give it away. When I say something that I do not believe, it shows and I cannot hide it. The words I speak may be lies, but I still end up conveying what is true. Be it the words, or the expression that betrays the words."
Silence. The whetherman had not opened up like this before, so naturally he was at a loss of words. Dmitri, on the other hand, was assessing himself. How good a lier was he?
"Very good" Dmitri, thinking aloud.
"What?"
"The food" said Dmitri, proving his aptitude as a liar to himself again. "But tell me, do you see that man over there? The one in the hat."
"Yes, what about him? Do you know him?"
"I will answer your second question first; yes and no. And in response to your first, I have a favour to ask of you."
"What's in it for me?"
"After you have done what I have asked of you, you will get your freedom from this slavery of honest words..."
"But what if I don't want that freedom?"
"You want it, your face says so. Do you know what else it says? It says that you've been held back in your professional life because of this slavery. Your words may be honest, but they must be complimented with honest actions. And let's just say that there's no parity between the two of them." Dmitri arched forward, restricting the whetherman's vision"You dropped out of college before you got kicked out of college. Because you cheated, and all you had to do was to deny that you did. But you couldn't, and so you left. Hence, by doing me a favour, you will be doing yourself a favour."
The whetherman was on the verge of tears. He had spoken true all his life. And all his life he had been running away from one too, the truth that Dmitri had so simply put to him; honesty is not the best policy. For you may speak true, but not act it. Or vice versa. Eitherway, you've damned yourself. Dmitri continued:
"I'll take your silence for an acquiesce. Now, that man over there thinks he's my friend. He is not, and he gets on my nerves. I will introduce you to him, and you will try to stir discord between us when I have left town in two days time. You will do that by telling him the truth about him."
"But I don't understand..."
"I'm not asking you to lie. I can't list all the things I don't like about him. In fact, I hate almost everything about him. His whining, self-obsessiveness... it's a long list and a very annoying one, and one that you'll get acquainted with very soon. And when you do, you tell that him to his face... but from me of course. So you see, all of you have to do is tell the truth. One of them being that I hate him and the other being his nuisance."
"Why do I get the feeling that two truths make a lie? Why do you want me to do this?"
"They may or may not. And you don't have to know any reasons. You may do so, if you wish to be free"
"And you promise that I shall be free and be able to lie?"
"A promise? Why, it's up to you if you seize the chance that I present to you. There's no need for promises" - but to you Sylvester, my friend, I do promise that you will be free.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
When the world ends
When the land beckons me forth,
I shall rise, bestow my worth,
Like a moraine, like greatness long forgotten in time,
I shall alter nature, bring the glacier back to its prime.
Like a secret word carved in the depths of a cave,
I shall seek a way out, bring it back to the land of the brave,
Like a grain of sand in the emptiness of a desert, I shall not be alone,
We shall turn the heavy tide, we shall reclaim our throne,
But if chance wills the battle turn sour and bring us on the crux,
Remember, we are of this land and this land is of us.
I shall rise, bestow my worth,
Like a moraine, like greatness long forgotten in time,
I shall alter nature, bring the glacier back to its prime.
Like a secret word carved in the depths of a cave,
I shall seek a way out, bring it back to the land of the brave,
Like a grain of sand in the emptiness of a desert, I shall not be alone,
We shall turn the heavy tide, we shall reclaim our throne,
But if chance wills the battle turn sour and bring us on the crux,
Remember, we are of this land and this land is of us.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
On Wolrd War I
"If there is ever another war in Europe, it will come out of some damned silly thing in the Balkans." - Otto von Bismark
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Sattire Attire part VI: Blame the Name Game
"What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet." - Shakespeare, William (Romeo & Juliet)
After having finished his soup and having licked his bowl clean, our hero gathered the courage from what little hope he had to make an overture of a little chit-chat.
"Excuse me, Madam."
Calm. Cool. Collected. Like a professional of an unnamed profession. Like a hunter.
"Yes?"
Slightly puzzled. Slightly Caught off-guard. Slightly overwhelmed. Like a pretentious prey.
"Are you expecting any company? "
And he thought, not so calm and not so cool. Too fast and too early.
"No, I am not... uh are you the manager?"
Still unsure about the purpose of the dialogue. She wondered if she had done something wrong, after all she was a stranger here.
"A manager I am not. Though if you expected company, a dog in the manger I would be..."
Words not character. That's the key, he thought to himself. Feeling proud of his witty-self.
"Je suis desole, je nes comprends pas. Ma anglais nes bien pas."
She understood the words, but not the meaning of the words. It was like reading a newspaper and still being unaware of what had happened.
"Pardon?"
Just my luck, he thought. Ma francais nes bien pas.
"Oh, I am sorry. My English is not very good... Were you calling the manager a dog?"
"Haha! No no! Do not misunderstand me. The manager and I are good friends. In fact, I run most of his business." Awkward pause. Words not character! How now? "So,I gather that you are new here?"
"Is being new a crime?"
"Quite the contrary, in my opinion. Though some would consider it to be so. Though, before you start feeling unwelcome, might I ask you if you have decided what you'd like to have?"
"You say that you come here often, what is it that you would recommend?"
"The special for special people of course. I myself just had..."
"Fool's hope soup? My English is not that bad. Do you take me for a fool?"
"My dear madam, it is I who is the fool. Fool enough to try and make your acquaintance after but a glimpse of your graceful person"
"Quite the charmer, aren't you?"
"Like I said before, the special for special people..."
"Indeed. And by what name do the special people address you?"
"A man lives one life under many names. My friends call me Affable, my enemies call me something inappropriate. My team-mates call me Captain, my colleagues call me Ambitious. The beggar calls me Rich, and the rich call me poor. The women call me a Romantic, the men call me Reliable. The public calls me a socialist, whereas the politicians call me a Vote. If I were to wake up on the other side of the bed one day, I could be something else altogether. A name is but a word with no meaning. Call me an adjective that suits my person. Bestow upon me your reason, or what would you have me be?"
"What do you call yourself then?"
"Sylvester"
"Then Sylvester you are."
"And you would be?"
"I am nobody. Nobody you've met until now. I might remain that way, in fact I probably will. I beseech you, coerce me not into revealing what I call myself. Cajole me not, you do not know how deep this well is. For the time being, I am Nobody."
"Would Nobody like to go for a walk?"
"What was it that you had? Fool's-Hope soup? Aptly done."
And so, like a hunter who's run out of bullets, Sylvester had run out of words. A prey in the dark is just as dangerous as the hunter. So, when the hunter runs out of firepower, the balance of power shifts and the roles change; the hunter becomes the hunted and the prey becomes a beast. If the hunter's (now hunted) smart he will realize this change of position.
And so, Sylvester turned around to look for a friendly face. None. A familiar face? No where to be seen. Dmitri had left, he realized. He was in the jungle alone, in the dark. He felt vulnerable; she knew his name. Nobody knew his name. Ever.
After having finished his soup and having licked his bowl clean, our hero gathered the courage from what little hope he had to make an overture of a little chit-chat.
"Excuse me, Madam."
Calm. Cool. Collected. Like a professional of an unnamed profession. Like a hunter.
"Yes?"
Slightly puzzled. Slightly Caught off-guard. Slightly overwhelmed. Like a pretentious prey.
"Are you expecting any company? "
And he thought, not so calm and not so cool. Too fast and too early.
"No, I am not... uh are you the manager?"
Still unsure about the purpose of the dialogue. She wondered if she had done something wrong, after all she was a stranger here.
"A manager I am not. Though if you expected company, a dog in the manger I would be..."
Words not character. That's the key, he thought to himself. Feeling proud of his witty-self.
"Je suis desole, je nes comprends pas. Ma anglais nes bien pas."
She understood the words, but not the meaning of the words. It was like reading a newspaper and still being unaware of what had happened.
"Pardon?"
Just my luck, he thought. Ma francais nes bien pas.
"Oh, I am sorry. My English is not very good... Were you calling the manager a dog?"
"Haha! No no! Do not misunderstand me. The manager and I are good friends. In fact, I run most of his business." Awkward pause. Words not character! How now? "So,I gather that you are new here?"
"Is being new a crime?"
"Quite the contrary, in my opinion. Though some would consider it to be so. Though, before you start feeling unwelcome, might I ask you if you have decided what you'd like to have?"
"You say that you come here often, what is it that you would recommend?"
"The special for special people of course. I myself just had..."
"Fool's hope soup? My English is not that bad. Do you take me for a fool?"
"My dear madam, it is I who is the fool. Fool enough to try and make your acquaintance after but a glimpse of your graceful person"
"Quite the charmer, aren't you?"
"Like I said before, the special for special people..."
"Indeed. And by what name do the special people address you?"
"A man lives one life under many names. My friends call me Affable, my enemies call me something inappropriate. My team-mates call me Captain, my colleagues call me Ambitious. The beggar calls me Rich, and the rich call me poor. The women call me a Romantic, the men call me Reliable. The public calls me a socialist, whereas the politicians call me a Vote. If I were to wake up on the other side of the bed one day, I could be something else altogether. A name is but a word with no meaning. Call me an adjective that suits my person. Bestow upon me your reason, or what would you have me be?"
"What do you call yourself then?"
"Sylvester"
"Then Sylvester you are."
"And you would be?"
"I am nobody. Nobody you've met until now. I might remain that way, in fact I probably will. I beseech you, coerce me not into revealing what I call myself. Cajole me not, you do not know how deep this well is. For the time being, I am Nobody."
"Would Nobody like to go for a walk?"
"What was it that you had? Fool's-Hope soup? Aptly done."
And so, like a hunter who's run out of bullets, Sylvester had run out of words. A prey in the dark is just as dangerous as the hunter. So, when the hunter runs out of firepower, the balance of power shifts and the roles change; the hunter becomes the hunted and the prey becomes a beast. If the hunter's (now hunted) smart he will realize this change of position.
And so, Sylvester turned around to look for a friendly face. None. A familiar face? No where to be seen. Dmitri had left, he realized. He was in the jungle alone, in the dark. He felt vulnerable; she knew his name. Nobody knew his name. Ever.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Sattire Attire part V: True Say
"... for truth is truth to the end of reckoning" - Shakespeare, William
They call me the whetherman. I do not predict the weather; such folly ambitions dwell not in my desires. I am the man that tells the truth when asked for it: I've never told a fat woman that she's not fat. I've never told a 'singer' that they can sing, when they can't. I've never even encouraged them. I've never complimented the chef if my gustatory sense was not satisfied by the delicacy. And I've never told a child that they could be President.
I tell the truth, and I do it because it allows me to patronize others. That's my reason and that's another truth. Knowledge is power but truth is a weapon, which when wielded inflicts a wound such that it cannot be healed. Like death, it cannot be undone.
People come to me as if I am some holy man. I am not, I don't believe in god. I am not well educated either, I dropped out of college. But truth does not need reason, truth needs no faith, truth needs no logic or science. All it needs is for someone to recognize it and not corrupt it and say it as it is without realizing the consequences. The problem with education is that you realize the consequences and then you distort to truth to suit your reasons.
I say it out aloud as it appears, "whether you like it or not" and that's where I get my alias from.
It's very simple. If you ask me what the weather is like to day, I would tell you. But if you ask me what the weather would be like tomorrow, I would not tell you for you would have asked the wrong question. It may sound an easy thing to do, but how many times have you told a man the truth when you require his favour? How many times have you told a relative that you do not like them? How many times have you spoken what is true when it would've done you ill? How many times have spoken the truth when you were under no obligation to do so?
Don't get me wrong though, telling the truth is not my occupation. It is just my disposition.
"I hear you have a way with words" asked a man not too tall. I did not notice him walk up to me, it was as if he could become invisible in a crowd of three. I was not caught off my guard and I displayed as much surprise as one does when one flips a page of a book.
It was as if I had anticipated this chance occurrence. The thing that felt odd though, was the fact that he walked right up to me and, without any sort of introduction, he had started the conversation. He got to the point immediately. I liked him already. I continued the ambiguity...
"Do I? I suppose I do. Everyone does."
"I meant, I hear you tell the truth..." said the man.
I took out and lit a cigarette, I studied his features as I did so. The look on his face was that of a veiled determination; he had something on his mind it seemed, but you could not tell what it was until you heard the strain in his voice. His voice but a sonorous whisper. He was not too broad, not too athletic at all; if he had a woman, it would not be for his looks. He had solemnity in his stride which was intriguing. Like I said before, you would not notice him in a crowd of three. But when you did, you'd want to know where he's headed. For he carried around with him an aura of mystery. There was something ominous about his presence, but in a comforting sort of way. You did not feel any danger, you just felt that you're about to be put in an uncomfortable position, as if you are about to witness occurrence that you don't want to. After the smoke cleared away I noticed that he was waiting for me, not too impatiently, to continue.
"Do I? Yes, I suppose I do"
"Everyone doesn't"
"Haha! I suppose you have a knack for it too"
"A knack for it? Suggesting a lack of it to begin with?"
"I see that you have a way with words too"
"Everyone does, as you said so yourself."
"I must admit that I did, Mister...?" It was about time I asked him for his name.
"Dmitri"
"Pleased to meet you, might I suggest we grab some grub or brew while we discuss... whatever it is that you want to discuss?"
"That would be suitable."
"I know a diner around here somewhere that would suit our purpose..."
"Excellent!"
It later turned out that the diner served only one purpose; his. But that is how things were meant to be, whether I liked it or not.
They call me the whetherman. I do not predict the weather; such folly ambitions dwell not in my desires. I am the man that tells the truth when asked for it: I've never told a fat woman that she's not fat. I've never told a 'singer' that they can sing, when they can't. I've never even encouraged them. I've never complimented the chef if my gustatory sense was not satisfied by the delicacy. And I've never told a child that they could be President.
I tell the truth, and I do it because it allows me to patronize others. That's my reason and that's another truth. Knowledge is power but truth is a weapon, which when wielded inflicts a wound such that it cannot be healed. Like death, it cannot be undone.
People come to me as if I am some holy man. I am not, I don't believe in god. I am not well educated either, I dropped out of college. But truth does not need reason, truth needs no faith, truth needs no logic or science. All it needs is for someone to recognize it and not corrupt it and say it as it is without realizing the consequences. The problem with education is that you realize the consequences and then you distort to truth to suit your reasons.
I say it out aloud as it appears, "whether you like it or not" and that's where I get my alias from.
It's very simple. If you ask me what the weather is like to day, I would tell you. But if you ask me what the weather would be like tomorrow, I would not tell you for you would have asked the wrong question. It may sound an easy thing to do, but how many times have you told a man the truth when you require his favour? How many times have you told a relative that you do not like them? How many times have you spoken what is true when it would've done you ill? How many times have spoken the truth when you were under no obligation to do so?
Don't get me wrong though, telling the truth is not my occupation. It is just my disposition.
"I hear you have a way with words" asked a man not too tall. I did not notice him walk up to me, it was as if he could become invisible in a crowd of three. I was not caught off my guard and I displayed as much surprise as one does when one flips a page of a book.
It was as if I had anticipated this chance occurrence. The thing that felt odd though, was the fact that he walked right up to me and, without any sort of introduction, he had started the conversation. He got to the point immediately. I liked him already. I continued the ambiguity...
"Do I? I suppose I do. Everyone does."
"I meant, I hear you tell the truth..." said the man.
I took out and lit a cigarette, I studied his features as I did so. The look on his face was that of a veiled determination; he had something on his mind it seemed, but you could not tell what it was until you heard the strain in his voice. His voice but a sonorous whisper. He was not too broad, not too athletic at all; if he had a woman, it would not be for his looks. He had solemnity in his stride which was intriguing. Like I said before, you would not notice him in a crowd of three. But when you did, you'd want to know where he's headed. For he carried around with him an aura of mystery. There was something ominous about his presence, but in a comforting sort of way. You did not feel any danger, you just felt that you're about to be put in an uncomfortable position, as if you are about to witness occurrence that you don't want to. After the smoke cleared away I noticed that he was waiting for me, not too impatiently, to continue.
"Do I? Yes, I suppose I do"
"Everyone doesn't"
"Haha! I suppose you have a knack for it too"
"A knack for it? Suggesting a lack of it to begin with?"
"I see that you have a way with words too"
"Everyone does, as you said so yourself."
"I must admit that I did, Mister...?" It was about time I asked him for his name.
"Dmitri"
"Pleased to meet you, might I suggest we grab some grub or brew while we discuss... whatever it is that you want to discuss?"
"That would be suitable."
"I know a diner around here somewhere that would suit our purpose..."
"Excellent!"
It later turned out that the diner served only one purpose; his. But that is how things were meant to be, whether I liked it or not.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Sattire Attire Part IV: Social Geography
"My God she's the one, Dmitri" said our hero for the nth time. Dmitri kept adding sugar to his coffee, so that his horrendous tasting drink would take his mind off his friend's unending nonsense.
"What do you think?" inquired our hero.
"I think I wish this coffee were Irish" uttered Dmitri with an obvious hint of frustration.
"What? She's Irish? I've always loved Ireland..." and he went on to describe his love for Ireland.
The most knowledge he'd had about the land was derived from the movie called Braveheart, and that movie was about Scotland.
I should have kept quiet, thought Dmitri, this is a pointless crusade.
"...white houses with blue doors stationed on hilltops overlooking the sapphire Mediterranean sea.." went on our hero, now describing the south of Greece.
"The Mediterranean sea!? That's between southern Europe and North Africa! And no where near Ireland!" voiced Dmitri in his voice of logic and reason.
"Oh but in my heart everything is a metaphor, everything beautiful is one and the same. It is all Ireland for now. Just as we are one and the same. Me and my Bella" Our hero said in his voice of treason.
"Bella isn't even an Irish name!" voiced Dmitri some more.
"Oh so she IS Irish?"
Dmitri poured some salt into his coffee and then he said with strained politeness,
"Remember what I told you about the mirage and the desert?"
"Well I remember you telling me about a desert and a mirage, I don't exactly remember what though. But there are no desserts in Ireland, there are some, though, in Northern Africa. You mean to say that she's from there and that she's not Irish?"
"In your language of metaphors, yes. Yes, she is from the desert. Your whole life is a journey through that desert. You see her and you are drawn to the idea of her. The journey has made you thirsty, and in your suffering you see an oasis which is not your... destination. Or if I may put it more poetically, your destiny." said Dmitri, trying very hard to maintain character.
"Can we call it destiny-tion then?" Our hero, ever reliable in his stupidity.
Dmitri took a sip of his coffee, which by now contained a considerable amount of sugar, salt, pepper, pancake syrup and soup. He winced and shrugged off the bad tasting coffee and comment. He then got up and walked out of the diner.
"What do you think?" inquired our hero.
"I think I wish this coffee were Irish" uttered Dmitri with an obvious hint of frustration.
"What? She's Irish? I've always loved Ireland..." and he went on to describe his love for Ireland.
The most knowledge he'd had about the land was derived from the movie called Braveheart, and that movie was about Scotland.
I should have kept quiet, thought Dmitri, this is a pointless crusade.
"...white houses with blue doors stationed on hilltops overlooking the sapphire Mediterranean sea.." went on our hero, now describing the south of Greece.
"The Mediterranean sea!? That's between southern Europe and North Africa! And no where near Ireland!" voiced Dmitri in his voice of logic and reason.
"Oh but in my heart everything is a metaphor, everything beautiful is one and the same. It is all Ireland for now. Just as we are one and the same. Me and my Bella" Our hero said in his voice of treason.
"Bella isn't even an Irish name!" voiced Dmitri some more.
"Oh so she IS Irish?"
Dmitri poured some salt into his coffee and then he said with strained politeness,
"Remember what I told you about the mirage and the desert?"
"Well I remember you telling me about a desert and a mirage, I don't exactly remember what though. But there are no desserts in Ireland, there are some, though, in Northern Africa. You mean to say that she's from there and that she's not Irish?"
"In your language of metaphors, yes. Yes, she is from the desert. Your whole life is a journey through that desert. You see her and you are drawn to the idea of her. The journey has made you thirsty, and in your suffering you see an oasis which is not your... destination. Or if I may put it more poetically, your destiny." said Dmitri, trying very hard to maintain character.
"Can we call it destiny-tion then?" Our hero, ever reliable in his stupidity.
Dmitri took a sip of his coffee, which by now contained a considerable amount of sugar, salt, pepper, pancake syrup and soup. He winced and shrugged off the bad tasting coffee and comment. He then got up and walked out of the diner.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Monday, April 21, 2008
Troubled minutes and dark thoughts (part II)
Thick fog. So thick that it blocked his view of the sky. Or maybe it was just too cloudy up above. Either way he had no way of telling, and it mattered little. The clarity of the sky that is. The fog, however, was the reason why he was awake at an unholy hour. What he was about to do was probably illegal, that fact did not stiff his conscience. Whether or not it was the right thing to do did.
The question of 'how an illegal act can be the correct and moral thing to do?' was what had prevented him from taking action earlier. Now, in the dead of the night, which was pretty dead itself, he was going to commit the crime. No external influenced had cajoled him save his own reason. Which is why there was no turning back, it was going to happen tonight.
It was cold but he walked, he loved the winter smell. Winter smelt different. It felt different. It felt cold, yes but it brought out a side in him that he feared himself. He felt calm, like an ocean with no wind. Steady but deep and dark. The deeper, the darker and more ominous. And the worst part of it all being that he felt no remorse for feeling that way. Just fear.
Darkness is synonymous with evil. The dark lord is evil where as the bright lord, if there ever were any, would be anything but evil. The good in man fears the dark when the evil in him revels in it. The evil in man fears the day, when the good in him longs for it. It is but a cycle of the contrasting natures of man in relation to the nature of the world.
So in winters, when the days are short and the nights are long, it was but natural for him feel the way he did; slightly evil. All his reasonings were tainted by that very nature of him and so he felt that what he was about to do was just. An act of evil motivated by a repercussion for the good. Though reasoning, now, was a thing of the past. He had reasoned and he had decided. And he thought of nothing else but the task at hand. Tonight, under the cloak of darkness, he was going to do it, he was going to plant the seeds of a riot. (To be continued in part III)
The question of 'how an illegal act can be the correct and moral thing to do?' was what had prevented him from taking action earlier. Now, in the dead of the night, which was pretty dead itself, he was going to commit the crime. No external influenced had cajoled him save his own reason. Which is why there was no turning back, it was going to happen tonight.
It was cold but he walked, he loved the winter smell. Winter smelt different. It felt different. It felt cold, yes but it brought out a side in him that he feared himself. He felt calm, like an ocean with no wind. Steady but deep and dark. The deeper, the darker and more ominous. And the worst part of it all being that he felt no remorse for feeling that way. Just fear.
Darkness is synonymous with evil. The dark lord is evil where as the bright lord, if there ever were any, would be anything but evil. The good in man fears the dark when the evil in him revels in it. The evil in man fears the day, when the good in him longs for it. It is but a cycle of the contrasting natures of man in relation to the nature of the world.
So in winters, when the days are short and the nights are long, it was but natural for him feel the way he did; slightly evil. All his reasonings were tainted by that very nature of him and so he felt that what he was about to do was just. An act of evil motivated by a repercussion for the good. Though reasoning, now, was a thing of the past. He had reasoned and he had decided. And he thought of nothing else but the task at hand. Tonight, under the cloak of darkness, he was going to do it, he was going to plant the seeds of a riot. (To be continued in part III)
Sattire Attire part III: deserting dessert
‘I want to break free from your lies, you’re so satisfied I don’t need you. I want to break free’ Queen – I want to break free
He cursed himself in his own head and the hat kept remitting the ill-feeling back. He cursed Dmitri when he was in his company; cursed him for not keeping his vigilance intact for him.
Though Dmitri knew better than to take those offhand words to heart, he’d been in a similar position before. He’d seen it all before and he’d heard it all before.
“That damned diner is cursed” said he who’d been smitten with ill-fate. They both knew that it was he himself who was cursed. It was he himself who’d always fallen for a trap.
“You make a dash for the mirage” said Dmitri, “when you should stay on course”.
“A mirage?” inquired he.
“Yes, my friend, a mirage. A sense of infinite hope though be it only false. Like a piece of glass likened to a diamond in a stash of coal. And when you reach for it, it inflicts upon you a gash. You bleed due to your own greed.”
She had walked away from him. And he had walked to her. She had vanished like a mirage, like hope that was artificial. And she had left him in a desert after pulling him off course. Was he to blame himself or was he to blame her? He had to break free from her trap. He blamed himself. He had to break free...
“I’m hungry, let’s go to that diner” he said finally.
“That damned diner?” Dmitri mocked.
Not yielding any attention to that bit of rhetoric, courtesy another ill-fated mirage, our hero responded “Yes that damned diner. That’s the one. And today’s special will be special, I can feel it”. His eyes transfixed. "Yes, I can feel it... that's the one, I can feel it..."
“I’m sure of it. Do you feel stupidity?” Dmitri read the situation as accurately as an open book.
“..I can feel it!” His eyes, mind and heart transfixed on the oasis. He had broken free from her. He had not, though, from the cycle which governed his shame. Deep inside he knew that he should know better. But he could feel it. He failed to see, though, that in the entire universe it as only he himself that could feel it. Only him.
When they entered the diner, the sign read "Today's Special: Fool's Hope". Dmitri read it, our hero on the other hand was trying to fathom something else.
"Today's special for me" ordered he.
"One too many you've had" said Dmitri, "Just coffee for me. I'll watch him eat and then complain. Thank you."
Saturday, March 15, 2008
St. Crispin's Day
- EXT. DAY. Agincourt
- King Henry:
- What's he that wishes so?
- My cousin Westmorland. No, my fair cousin:
- If we are marked to die, we are enough
- To do our country loss; and if to live,
- The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
- God's will, I pray thee, wish not one man more.
- Rather proclaim it, Westmorland, through my host,
- That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
- Let him depart. His passport shall be made
- And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
- We would not die in that man's company
- That fears his fellowship to die with us.
- This day is called the Feast of Crispian:
- He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
- Will stand a-tiptoe when the day is named,
- And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
- He that shall see this day and live t'old age,
- Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
- And say "To-morrow is Saint Crispian":
- Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars
- And say "These wounds I had on Crispin's day."
- Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
- But he'll remember with advantages
- What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
- Familiar in his mouth as household words
- Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
- Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
- Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
- This story shall the good man teach his son;
- And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
- From this day to the ending of the world,
- But we in it shall be remembered;
- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
- For he today that sheds his blood with me
- Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
- This day shall gentle his condition:
- And gentlemen in England now abed
- Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
- And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
- That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day!
Shakespeare, William - Henry V (Kenneth Branagh version)
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Facts of Life => Fact of the day part 4: Thank you for Joking
So it's Pindi we discuss today, in briefs (error led pun intended) though. Islamabad's twin, not identical ofcourse. The two have as many similarities as does an unmatched pair of cotton socks; they both share the weather, and the socks share the cotton.
Islamabad may be Islamabad during the day, but at night it belongs to the Pindi boys. And why not, they're twins. Which brings the comparison between the two to a close and we zoom in to a Nihari hang out in Pindi, where the delicacy being manufactured, unspoiled, by too many cooks. The owner has clearly been feeding on Nihari every since his Cerelac days; he does not need a naala for his shalwar. He squats in front of his register, next to the broth, stagnant like a caterpillar. Cater-'pillar' indeed. He pinches the mole on his left cheek and he straightens his beard with his fingernails. He sticks his pinky in his ear and then he shakes it with so much vigour that his skull shakes. He then stealthily makes the culprit hand disappear and oddly enough at the end of the night his shalwar has rust-like stains around the knee-cap area. And to top it all of, he would belch like a man who's had his fill of nihari... well that naturally makes sense. This man is all about the Nihari and sometimes the Nihari is all about him. His joint though, not his shalwar-knee-cap, is very popular. So popular that it even creates interest in the Islamabad part of town. At a time too early for the Pindi boys, but too late for the Isloo-sers (a term coined by the Pindi boys to get back at the Isloo-sers for calling them Pindi boys as opposed to Pindi bouays), a group clinching their upward pointing nostrils walks in. The obese man takes notice: cha-ching! There is a sense of urgency among the staff, the chotas are prompt to the calls, the dirty dishes are wiped twice before being served and the obese man belches with his mouth closed. The nihari though, thanks to the too many cooks who don't spoil the broth, lives up to the word that had spread. One of the new-commers then gets up to face the obese man to pay for the experience: cha-ching! "I'm alright Jack, keep your hands off of my stack". While he's paying through his upward pointing nose a cat drops out of no where between him and the cater-pillar man. "What the hell?! Ye kya hai?" inquires the young man in accented Urdu. "Billi...urrrrp" comes the prompt reply. A moment later the look of disgust on the young man registers with the cater-pillar man and he placates him by telling him that the cat is the part of his masterplan for getting rid of the rodents in kitchen. Enough said.
Islamabad may be Islamabad during the day, but at night it belongs to the Pindi boys. And why not, they're twins. Which brings the comparison between the two to a close and we zoom in to a Nihari hang out in Pindi, where the delicacy being manufactured, unspoiled, by too many cooks. The owner has clearly been feeding on Nihari every since his Cerelac days; he does not need a naala for his shalwar. He squats in front of his register, next to the broth, stagnant like a caterpillar. Cater-'pillar' indeed. He pinches the mole on his left cheek and he straightens his beard with his fingernails. He sticks his pinky in his ear and then he shakes it with so much vigour that his skull shakes. He then stealthily makes the culprit hand disappear and oddly enough at the end of the night his shalwar has rust-like stains around the knee-cap area. And to top it all of, he would belch like a man who's had his fill of nihari... well that naturally makes sense. This man is all about the Nihari and sometimes the Nihari is all about him. His joint though, not his shalwar-knee-cap, is very popular. So popular that it even creates interest in the Islamabad part of town. At a time too early for the Pindi boys, but too late for the Isloo-sers (a term coined by the Pindi boys to get back at the Isloo-sers for calling them Pindi boys as opposed to Pindi bouays), a group clinching their upward pointing nostrils walks in. The obese man takes notice: cha-ching! There is a sense of urgency among the staff, the chotas are prompt to the calls, the dirty dishes are wiped twice before being served and the obese man belches with his mouth closed. The nihari though, thanks to the too many cooks who don't spoil the broth, lives up to the word that had spread. One of the new-commers then gets up to face the obese man to pay for the experience: cha-ching! "I'm alright Jack, keep your hands off of my stack". While he's paying through his upward pointing nose a cat drops out of no where between him and the cater-pillar man. "What the hell?! Ye kya hai?" inquires the young man in accented Urdu. "Billi...urrrrp" comes the prompt reply. A moment later the look of disgust on the young man registers with the cater-pillar man and he placates him by telling him that the cat is the part of his masterplan for getting rid of the rodents in kitchen. Enough said.