"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.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
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.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
The Tree
Deep inside the warm lands, where flowed grand and ancient rivers, stood tall the tallest mountains, where slept the still and silent deserts, where the pasturelands stood proud, lived a boy in a village. The boy did as all the other boys in the village; he woke up at dawn, worked in the fields, went to school, fed the animals and played with the rest of the children in the village.
But all the other boys in the village did not do as he did, for he sat under a tree, a big old tree, the oldest in the village and the horizon that encompassed it. He sat under that tree at dawn for breakfast; he watched the birds get at up first light and sing their morning tune as their search for crumbs and worms began. He sat under that old tree when he wanted to rest from working in the fields and he would enjoy the shade and the fresh breeze that it brought him. He would sit there and think. He would think about his past and the tree’s past. As far back as he could remember, when he first came across the tree, it had not grown much. It still had the same number of leaves, branches and twigs, yet he had grown to almost twice his size. Maybe the tree was immortal.
He would sit there and think about his present and the tree’s present. He would think of why the tree bore no fruit. Maybe the tree was wise. He would think that for a long, long distance, no tree could rival this one. But a lot of boys could rival him. He would also think that the old tree was his tree, but was he the old tree’s boy? He was the tree’s friend, but was the tree his?
This question made him uneasy and he would sit under the tree and he would spend many an hour thinking about it. One day, when he could take it no longer, he decided to ask someone. He asked his friends, they told him to go ask someone wise. He asked his siblings, they told him to go ask someone wise as well. He asked his father, he told him to go ask someone wise. When he asked who in the village was wise, his father said go ask your mother. He asked his mother, who in the village was wise; she said that his father was. He asked the workers in the field and they told him that they were wise, but they did not look it. If they were wise they would not be working fields, instead they would be sitting in the shade and talking in the city.
No one he knew was wise. People he knew were either honest, dishonest or fools. If they were honest, they would tell him to put forward his question to someone wise. If they were dishonest, they would claim to be wise. If they were fools, they would claim their husbands or masters to be wise.
The days went by, and he stopped going to the tree for the question caused him much pain. He would work slow, eat less, not play with the other children anymore, he would just sit and think and worry. His father saw that the boy was disturbed, and he asked him why he would not go to school regularly. The boy told his father what disturbed him and he told him that nobody in the village was wise. His father laughed, as he did when he knew everything, and he told the boy not worry, for if he went to school everyday, he would one day become wise and answer his own questions himself along with those of others.
His father was wise, the boy thought, but not the sort of wise that would answer questions for him. And his mother was not a fool; she was wise to marry his father.
The boy then never missed another day of school. He would be the first one to reach school, and the last one to leave it. His teacher could not help but appreciate the boy for his enthusiasm. He did so one day after school, and he asked him what it was that brought about this change. The boy told him all. He told him of the tree, of how there was nobody wise in the village save his father but he would not answer his question for him and wanted him to be wise, which is why he came to school; to answer his question for himself. The teacher then asked the boy about the question that bothered him. And he did.
The boy thought that the teacher, too, was wise, as he did not answer his question for him. The teacher told the boy, that the tree is not an enemy of whoever does not harm it. Yet it is not a friend of whoever does not harm it either.
The tree gives so much, what does it get back? Thought the boy on his way home and there he found his answer. The next day, he went to the tree to eat his breakfast. He did not eat all his bread and he did not drink all his water. He spilled the water near the roots of the tree, to feed the tree and he left the small pieces of bread on the grass for the birds of that tree, so that they won’t have to leave the tree that loved them so much so as to let them build their houses on it. The boy then knew that the tree was his friend as well.
The boy went and told his friends and siblings that he had answered his question. He thanked his father for the advice he gave, he told his mother that she, too, was wise. He told the workers in the field that if they were wise, they would work extra hard on the fields this year and he told his teacher that he wanted to learn more.
That night the boy slept peacefully after many days. He slept so soundly that even the storm, that kept half the village awake that night, did not stir him in his sleep. He awoke to a morose morning mood in general. The roofs leaked, the firewood was half-wet, the floor muddy along with the usual platter of post-rain problems. None of that would dim the boy’s mood. The boy grabbed his breakfast and walked towards his friend.
When he jumped across the canal, the spot where he would first get a glimpse of the tree, he saw it not. He saw all the other trees, the shorter ones but he did not see his friend. With dread in his heart he ran to where the tree once was and saw it lifeless on the ground; dead birds scattered near and under it, and the homeless ones mourning their loss.
The boy ran home and told everyone of what had happened. It did not seem to bother them too much. They were not the tree’s friend and the tree was not theirs'. He told his father and his mother, they told him not to worry, and that another tree would take root. But the tree was his friend. He told his teacher, and he told the boy that everything in life must one day come to an end, and that the boy should not worry as another tree would take root.
The words of his teacher did bring calm upon him but only managed to do so for a little while. Nobody was the tree’s friend, hence nobody cared. He sat next to the fallen tree in the heat; he sat next to his shade. He thought about the future that he had imagined; his and the tree’s. That when he would be old, the tree would be the same and they would still be friends. He alone felt the pain that day; only he was sad for the tree. If another tree were to take root, would it also be his friend?
The boy did not move from where he sat all day. The longer he sat, the angrier he became at the cause of the tragedy. He was like a boiling kettle left on the stove. An old man sat down beside him and tried to make conversation with him. The boy kept silent. The old man told the boy that he too was sad for the tree, and that he too was angry and wanted revenge but his weak bones would not allow it. The old man said that he would not live long enough to see another one take root and that he would only be at peace when he’d avenged the death of his friend.
Confused, the boy asked the old man how he planned to attack storm and lightning and the will of God? At this the old man laughed, he told the boy that it was not lightning and storm that brought down the old tree, but evil men from far away lands.
There was cunning, vile and deception in the old man’s eyes. Yet only he understood his pain and suffering. The boy did not know whether to believe the old man or not. It was almost dark and the boy got up to leave, the old man said that he would camp next to his friend that night and in the morning he would leave for his revenge.
The boy got home, still sad and silent. That night, the village was to celebrate the beginning of the monsoon season, there was to be food and dance and singing. He got to festival to see that his face was the only sad one among the hundred that surrounded him. It was as if nothing had happened and no one had died. He thought of the crazy old man, untrustworthy though he seemed, but he was a loyal friend to the tree. He thought of the crazy old man and his crazy ideas. And then he thought that grief had stricken the old man too hard. But grief had stricken him too... not hard enough?
The celebrations were cut short by another storm. That night, however, everyone slept soundly. The boy, too, it seemed slept soundly. The storm, however, was just as fierce as the last one. When morning came, the tree’s friend was missing from his bed and so was the old man from his camp.
Months later they found the boy, wounded and taken prisoner in a desert land far away. In the time spent with the old man, the boy was exposed to a cruel world where injustice was law. He then harbored injustice. Any friend of the tree was also his friend, and prejudice and war against the friends of his friends was unacceptable. He then harbored prejudice and war. He let the tree fall; he was not going to let his other friends fall. The old man was his counsel; he had brought him this far.
He would take revenge for all the pain and suffering that he’d witnessed. He felt he was fighting the fair fight, for when he was mortally wounded and was being carried away, he did not fret at all for he knew that after he would be gone, another one would take root.
But all the other boys in the village did not do as he did, for he sat under a tree, a big old tree, the oldest in the village and the horizon that encompassed it. He sat under that tree at dawn for breakfast; he watched the birds get at up first light and sing their morning tune as their search for crumbs and worms began. He sat under that old tree when he wanted to rest from working in the fields and he would enjoy the shade and the fresh breeze that it brought him. He would sit there and think. He would think about his past and the tree’s past. As far back as he could remember, when he first came across the tree, it had not grown much. It still had the same number of leaves, branches and twigs, yet he had grown to almost twice his size. Maybe the tree was immortal.
He would sit there and think about his present and the tree’s present. He would think of why the tree bore no fruit. Maybe the tree was wise. He would think that for a long, long distance, no tree could rival this one. But a lot of boys could rival him. He would also think that the old tree was his tree, but was he the old tree’s boy? He was the tree’s friend, but was the tree his?
This question made him uneasy and he would sit under the tree and he would spend many an hour thinking about it. One day, when he could take it no longer, he decided to ask someone. He asked his friends, they told him to go ask someone wise. He asked his siblings, they told him to go ask someone wise as well. He asked his father, he told him to go ask someone wise. When he asked who in the village was wise, his father said go ask your mother. He asked his mother, who in the village was wise; she said that his father was. He asked the workers in the field and they told him that they were wise, but they did not look it. If they were wise they would not be working fields, instead they would be sitting in the shade and talking in the city.
No one he knew was wise. People he knew were either honest, dishonest or fools. If they were honest, they would tell him to put forward his question to someone wise. If they were dishonest, they would claim to be wise. If they were fools, they would claim their husbands or masters to be wise.
The days went by, and he stopped going to the tree for the question caused him much pain. He would work slow, eat less, not play with the other children anymore, he would just sit and think and worry. His father saw that the boy was disturbed, and he asked him why he would not go to school regularly. The boy told his father what disturbed him and he told him that nobody in the village was wise. His father laughed, as he did when he knew everything, and he told the boy not worry, for if he went to school everyday, he would one day become wise and answer his own questions himself along with those of others.
His father was wise, the boy thought, but not the sort of wise that would answer questions for him. And his mother was not a fool; she was wise to marry his father.
The boy then never missed another day of school. He would be the first one to reach school, and the last one to leave it. His teacher could not help but appreciate the boy for his enthusiasm. He did so one day after school, and he asked him what it was that brought about this change. The boy told him all. He told him of the tree, of how there was nobody wise in the village save his father but he would not answer his question for him and wanted him to be wise, which is why he came to school; to answer his question for himself. The teacher then asked the boy about the question that bothered him. And he did.
The boy thought that the teacher, too, was wise, as he did not answer his question for him. The teacher told the boy, that the tree is not an enemy of whoever does not harm it. Yet it is not a friend of whoever does not harm it either.
The tree gives so much, what does it get back? Thought the boy on his way home and there he found his answer. The next day, he went to the tree to eat his breakfast. He did not eat all his bread and he did not drink all his water. He spilled the water near the roots of the tree, to feed the tree and he left the small pieces of bread on the grass for the birds of that tree, so that they won’t have to leave the tree that loved them so much so as to let them build their houses on it. The boy then knew that the tree was his friend as well.
The boy went and told his friends and siblings that he had answered his question. He thanked his father for the advice he gave, he told his mother that she, too, was wise. He told the workers in the field that if they were wise, they would work extra hard on the fields this year and he told his teacher that he wanted to learn more.
That night the boy slept peacefully after many days. He slept so soundly that even the storm, that kept half the village awake that night, did not stir him in his sleep. He awoke to a morose morning mood in general. The roofs leaked, the firewood was half-wet, the floor muddy along with the usual platter of post-rain problems. None of that would dim the boy’s mood. The boy grabbed his breakfast and walked towards his friend.
When he jumped across the canal, the spot where he would first get a glimpse of the tree, he saw it not. He saw all the other trees, the shorter ones but he did not see his friend. With dread in his heart he ran to where the tree once was and saw it lifeless on the ground; dead birds scattered near and under it, and the homeless ones mourning their loss.
The boy ran home and told everyone of what had happened. It did not seem to bother them too much. They were not the tree’s friend and the tree was not theirs'. He told his father and his mother, they told him not to worry, and that another tree would take root. But the tree was his friend. He told his teacher, and he told the boy that everything in life must one day come to an end, and that the boy should not worry as another tree would take root.
The words of his teacher did bring calm upon him but only managed to do so for a little while. Nobody was the tree’s friend, hence nobody cared. He sat next to the fallen tree in the heat; he sat next to his shade. He thought about the future that he had imagined; his and the tree’s. That when he would be old, the tree would be the same and they would still be friends. He alone felt the pain that day; only he was sad for the tree. If another tree were to take root, would it also be his friend?
The boy did not move from where he sat all day. The longer he sat, the angrier he became at the cause of the tragedy. He was like a boiling kettle left on the stove. An old man sat down beside him and tried to make conversation with him. The boy kept silent. The old man told the boy that he too was sad for the tree, and that he too was angry and wanted revenge but his weak bones would not allow it. The old man said that he would not live long enough to see another one take root and that he would only be at peace when he’d avenged the death of his friend.
Confused, the boy asked the old man how he planned to attack storm and lightning and the will of God? At this the old man laughed, he told the boy that it was not lightning and storm that brought down the old tree, but evil men from far away lands.
There was cunning, vile and deception in the old man’s eyes. Yet only he understood his pain and suffering. The boy did not know whether to believe the old man or not. It was almost dark and the boy got up to leave, the old man said that he would camp next to his friend that night and in the morning he would leave for his revenge.
The boy got home, still sad and silent. That night, the village was to celebrate the beginning of the monsoon season, there was to be food and dance and singing. He got to festival to see that his face was the only sad one among the hundred that surrounded him. It was as if nothing had happened and no one had died. He thought of the crazy old man, untrustworthy though he seemed, but he was a loyal friend to the tree. He thought of the crazy old man and his crazy ideas. And then he thought that grief had stricken the old man too hard. But grief had stricken him too... not hard enough?
The celebrations were cut short by another storm. That night, however, everyone slept soundly. The boy, too, it seemed slept soundly. The storm, however, was just as fierce as the last one. When morning came, the tree’s friend was missing from his bed and so was the old man from his camp.
Months later they found the boy, wounded and taken prisoner in a desert land far away. In the time spent with the old man, the boy was exposed to a cruel world where injustice was law. He then harbored injustice. Any friend of the tree was also his friend, and prejudice and war against the friends of his friends was unacceptable. He then harbored prejudice and war. He let the tree fall; he was not going to let his other friends fall. The old man was his counsel; he had brought him this far.
He would take revenge for all the pain and suffering that he’d witnessed. He felt he was fighting the fair fight, for when he was mortally wounded and was being carried away, he did not fret at all for he knew that after he would be gone, another one would take root.
Monday, December 03, 2007
That's not Cricket.
Throw, throw, throw the ball, gently down the seam
Murali, Murali, Murali, Murali, chucks it like a dream
Bowl, bowl, bowl the ball, gently through the air
Murali, Murali, Murali, Murali, here comes Darrell Hair ... No Ball! - (Cricinfo)
Cricket, a synonym for abysmal in Urdu, is what we will disguss(t) today. Pardon me, I meant Cricket is what we will dis and cuss today. Oh damn! What I really meant was, Cricket is what we will discuss today.
It will be tough though, I'm not in good form, though it's not as pointless as Mohammad Sami's place in the side.
With the greatest regret I'll attempt to mock our team's cricketing skills. Yes, for once that is a bigger joke than their English speaking; is well done by PCB, the boys is presentable off the field. Though not so much on the field, and I wonder which matters more. I present to you the Cricket Dictionary:
Salman Butt: See Imran Nazir
Yasir Hameed: See Mohd. Hafeez
Younis Khan: (Adjective) The act of spanking the bottoms of the team-mates at every bottom.. I mean, every opportunity that presents itself.
Mohdammad Yousuf:(not a verb) Trying to walk in Inzi-imam's oh so nimble footsteps.
Shoaib Malik: (choke/joke) Captain.
Misbah-ul-haq:(noun) Hero to Zero (or vice versa).
Imran Nazir: See Yasir Hameed
Kamran Akmal: (flat out liability) Liability.
Shahid Afridi: (class act) Resumed career after achieving his life's dream of building his own Afridi XI at home.
Shoaib Akhtar: (super-star) Sex, drugs, alcohol and the heart of a tiger.
Rao Iftikhar: (fact) Had batting average of 75 in ODIs. Bowler by profession.
Mohd. Hafeez: See Salman Butt
Sohail Tanveer: (joke) Not right-footed, but wrong-footed.
Danish Kaneria: (aspiration) One inning wonder.
Murali, Murali, Murali, Murali, chucks it like a dream
Bowl, bowl, bowl the ball, gently through the air
Murali, Murali, Murali, Murali, here comes Darrell Hair ... No Ball! - (Cricinfo)
Cricket, a synonym for abysmal in Urdu, is what we will disguss(t) today. Pardon me, I meant Cricket is what we will dis and cuss today. Oh damn! What I really meant was, Cricket is what we will discuss today.
It will be tough though, I'm not in good form, though it's not as pointless as Mohammad Sami's place in the side.
With the greatest regret I'll attempt to mock our team's cricketing skills. Yes, for once that is a bigger joke than their English speaking; is well done by PCB, the boys is presentable off the field. Though not so much on the field, and I wonder which matters more. I present to you the Cricket Dictionary:
Salman Butt: See Imran Nazir
Yasir Hameed: See Mohd. Hafeez
Younis Khan: (Adjective) The act of spanking the bottoms of the team-mates at every bottom.. I mean, every opportunity that presents itself.
Mohdammad Yousuf:(not a verb) Trying to walk in Inzi-imam's oh so nimble footsteps.
Shoaib Malik: (choke/joke) Captain.
Misbah-ul-haq:(noun) Hero to Zero (or vice versa).
Imran Nazir: See Yasir Hameed
Kamran Akmal: (flat out liability) Liability.
Shahid Afridi: (class act) Resumed career after achieving his life's dream of building his own Afridi XI at home.
Shoaib Akhtar: (super-star) Sex, drugs, alcohol and the heart of a tiger.
Rao Iftikhar: (fact) Had batting average of 75 in ODIs. Bowler by profession.
Mohd. Hafeez: See Salman Butt
Sohail Tanveer: (joke) Not right-footed, but wrong-footed.
Danish Kaneria: (aspiration) One inning wonder.
Saturday, September 08, 2007
On Votes
In each man’s hand lies the nation’s fate,
Each man is a star of nations great.
-Allama Iqbal-
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test
Can you hear me now? Am I coming through? Is this sweet and pure and true?
Devil came by this morning, said he had something to show me. I was looking like I've never seen a face before. Here we go now, let's slide into the open door.
Pictures and things that I've done before, circling around me, out here on the floor. I'm dreaming this and I'm dreaming that, regretting nothing. Think about that.
I'm seeing waves breaking form to my horizon. Yeah I'm shining. I'm seeing waves breaking form to my horizon. Lord, I'm shining .
Are you hearing me? Like I'm hearing you?
You know I always lost my mind, I can't explain where I've been. You know I almost lost my mind, I couldn't explain what I've seen. But now I think I see the light.
Lend me your hand.
I'm happy now, I'm too late to find that the images are fading away.
Did I pass the acid test?
You'd better go to bed now...
Devil came by this morning, said he had something to show me. I was looking like I've never seen a face before. Here we go now, let's slide into the open door.
Pictures and things that I've done before, circling around me, out here on the floor. I'm dreaming this and I'm dreaming that, regretting nothing. Think about that.
I'm seeing waves breaking form to my horizon. Yeah I'm shining. I'm seeing waves breaking form to my horizon. Lord, I'm shining .
Are you hearing me? Like I'm hearing you?
You know I always lost my mind, I can't explain where I've been. You know I almost lost my mind, I couldn't explain what I've seen. But now I think I see the light.
Lend me your hand.
I'm happy now, I'm too late to find that the images are fading away.
Did I pass the acid test?
You'd better go to bed now...
The Chemical Brothers feat. Richard Ashcroft - The Test
Sunday, September 02, 2007
Deal, No Deal.
The lull before the storm is a phrase that's become obsolete in politics. As the much anticipated general elections are, apparently, just around the corner, the political climate is anything but lull-ly; it's stormy.
BBG (B.B. Jee) is negotiating deals. And the 'innocent' brothers are relying on pure brute force and street politics to seal a hypothetical deal. However absurd both of their positions may sound, they still thrive on popularity.
For one, it's difficult to comprehend how two individuals can reach a deal where more than 1.4 billion individuals are involved. It's not democratic; which raises the obvious question of why the deal has the good blessings of the time-and-again-proven-to-be-nothing-short-of-idiotic American government officials.
"Let's strike a deal. You rule and let me stay too." The important question of the democratic process of voting seems to have brushed aside by a murmurous "oh pfft". BBG, these days popular in the farce known as the American media, has made significant progress in the popular game-show known as "America's next top puppet". The winner signs a deal, and as a bonus gets their corruption charges dropped.
The last bit is a punch line echoed by absurdity. It ought to be a difficult fact for non-smokers to swallow.
There's no grey area in such a scenario. Any entity, barring the independent court (holler!), that mentions 'dropping of corruption charges' is, as 2 + 2 would suggest, corrupt itself. Shame on you BBG and SSG (Commando)! if you want your charges dropped, contest them in court.
Today's headline read "No Deal". Seems like BBG's Swiss accounts are far from bankruptcy status,as she's confident that she can survive for four more years without taking any bribes and/or the like. Hence, judge Judy, the jury and common sense rule "Guilty as charged" to the previous charges of corruption because BBG did not win any lottery (whether the Prime-ministership is a winning lottery ticket or not is debateable).
Come play the game some other time. For the winner, we have a luxurious four year trip to Islamabad with unlimited access to the tax-payer's money transferable to numerous bank accounts in Zurich.
For the Runner-up (who has played this game before), we have four more luxurious years in exile... oops, we have four years of vacationing, sponsored by our dear friends known as the tax-payers. If, for some very, very odd reason, that does not materialize, we also have for the runner-up a not so luxurious yet memorable stay at the infamous resort known as the Montgomery Jail.
And now a word from our sponsors, "We will liberate eye-rack".
Time to divert our unimportant attention to the not lucky players of the game, who are in the ill-favour of our sponsors. Those too 'innocent' for the game; the one and only, no wait... no double duo of the 'innocent' brothers. Not happy with their winnings of the stay at the resort, the brothers decided to abandon the game show and not play again for another 10 years. They even signed a deal/contract with another network to that effect. However, now that the new season is about to commence, the situation is drastically changing. The producers of the game show at WhiteHouse productions are still displeased with the misconduct displayed earlier. If the innocent brothers do decide to cause havoc, they will displease their new beneficiary as well.
So, what do we do? What do we do?
About what?
About eye-rack!
We weight
We wait!?
We weigh in our options and we ummm sign NO DEALS!
Look what they did to eye-rack after they signed the deal. They took them off the air (maybe a little too literally).
The storm is afoot. The die is not cast yet; no deals are signed. Let's keep it that way; uncorrupt. The votes should count, and more importantly the votes should be counted.
Thank you for watching Deal- No Deal, let's hope nobody wins in this pig-fest ordeal.
BBG (B.B. Jee) is negotiating deals. And the 'innocent' brothers are relying on pure brute force and street politics to seal a hypothetical deal. However absurd both of their positions may sound, they still thrive on popularity.
For one, it's difficult to comprehend how two individuals can reach a deal where more than 1.4 billion individuals are involved. It's not democratic; which raises the obvious question of why the deal has the good blessings of the time-and-again-proven-to-be-nothing-short-of-idiotic American government officials.
"Let's strike a deal. You rule and let me stay too." The important question of the democratic process of voting seems to have brushed aside by a murmurous "oh pfft". BBG, these days popular in the farce known as the American media, has made significant progress in the popular game-show known as "America's next top puppet". The winner signs a deal, and as a bonus gets their corruption charges dropped.
The last bit is a punch line echoed by absurdity. It ought to be a difficult fact for non-smokers to swallow.
There's no grey area in such a scenario. Any entity, barring the independent court (holler!), that mentions 'dropping of corruption charges' is, as 2 + 2 would suggest, corrupt itself. Shame on you BBG and SSG (Commando)! if you want your charges dropped, contest them in court.
Today's headline read "No Deal". Seems like BBG's Swiss accounts are far from bankruptcy status,as she's confident that she can survive for four more years without taking any bribes and/or the like. Hence, judge Judy, the jury and common sense rule "Guilty as charged" to the previous charges of corruption because BBG did not win any lottery (whether the Prime-ministership is a winning lottery ticket or not is debateable).
Come play the game some other time. For the winner, we have a luxurious four year trip to Islamabad with unlimited access to the tax-payer's money transferable to numerous bank accounts in Zurich.
For the Runner-up (who has played this game before), we have four more luxurious years in exile... oops, we have four years of vacationing, sponsored by our dear friends known as the tax-payers. If, for some very, very odd reason, that does not materialize, we also have for the runner-up a not so luxurious yet memorable stay at the infamous resort known as the Montgomery Jail.
And now a word from our sponsors, "We will liberate eye-rack".
Time to divert our unimportant attention to the not lucky players of the game, who are in the ill-favour of our sponsors. Those too 'innocent' for the game; the one and only, no wait... no double duo of the 'innocent' brothers. Not happy with their winnings of the stay at the resort, the brothers decided to abandon the game show and not play again for another 10 years. They even signed a deal/contract with another network to that effect. However, now that the new season is about to commence, the situation is drastically changing. The producers of the game show at WhiteHouse productions are still displeased with the misconduct displayed earlier. If the innocent brothers do decide to cause havoc, they will displease their new beneficiary as well.
So, what do we do? What do we do?
About what?
About eye-rack!
We weight
We wait!?
We weigh in our options and we ummm sign NO DEALS!
Look what they did to eye-rack after they signed the deal. They took them off the air (maybe a little too literally).
The storm is afoot. The die is not cast yet; no deals are signed. Let's keep it that way; uncorrupt. The votes should count, and more importantly the votes should be counted.
Thank you for watching Deal- No Deal, let's hope nobody wins in this pig-fest ordeal.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Troubled Minutes and Dark Thoughts.
He lay in darkness. Since the electricity had decided to take a break, he could only hear the clock, the sound of which was otherwise... invisible. There was only the ticking, no tocking. No talking either. He lay on his back, almost motionless as if out of humble fear. He lay there till he could deciphire different shapes in the code of dark. He saw the lamp, in shape but out of life. The chairs, the window, the clutter in the corner, he saw it all in shape but out of life and colour. He felt lesser fear and more comfort. He recognized his room enough to make an educated guess of what lay where. He could not, however, make an educated guess of when the electricity would be called back from its recess.
Electricity, a fool's paradise almost a century ago, is now an economist's inelastic good. Kingdoms and empires were built and held strong without electricity forever before a hundred years. And yet if it's taken away now, life becomes still. Electricity is the equivalent of a beating heart, and maybe within a few years, in more ways than one.
Thoughts like these hardly ever bothered him. He was busy in demarcating the point of discomfort; the level of moisture that his shirt ought to reach in order to prompt him to get up and change. In the darkness he picked his nose and rubbed his finger on his shirt, he WAS going to change eventually; showing no confidence in the electricity's loyalty. And with fair reason, electricity acted like royalty, often sought and seldom found.
As the ticking grew monotonous it grew fainter. The beating of his heart now took center-stage. He thought of the phrase, "heart skipping a beat". And he tried, oh so hard, to skip one. However, he could only manage to make his heart beat faster and faster.
He was awake, but he hadn't moved much. He lay there like a twig in a puddle, ready to embrace whatever future it may have to endure. The negative tone and the word 'endure' reflecting the pessimisstic nature of the man. He had already thought of seven different deaths which he might end up enduring in the blackness of dark. None of them, though, was suicide and half of them involved the super-natural. Black was his favourite color, but he was secretly afraid of its essence.
Once he had completed the gory list, he decided his least favourite was getting bit by a snake in his sleep. That thought had distrubed him a great deal on an earlier occasion. He decided however, that he did not mind dieing of shock. Yes, he would not mind that.
So, he said whatever prayers he could think of and he started preparing himself for a shock.
Luckily the shock that came did not kill him. The electrical shock was back; electricity had returned. In less than a minute he had disposed off all of those ill-thoughts and changed his shirt. In another minute, the only sounds you could here from his room were that of the air-conditioner, the fan and himself. The clock became non-existant, like all that supported it; a nail in the wall.
And ( just for fuck's sake) he lived happily ever after...
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Pearl Jam
"Well then, sit down, my friends, and I'll tell you everything I've just learned from a book on Ceylon and the Cingalese."
Ned and Counseil sat down on a couch, and the first thing the Canadian asked was: "Monsieur, just what is a pearl?"
"Ned," I answered, "to the poet, a pearl is an ocean tear; to Orientals it is a drop of hardened dew; to women it is an oblong jewel with a glassy sheen which they wear on their finger, around their neck or on their ear; to the chemist it is a mixture of calcium phosphate and calcium carbonate with a bit of gelatin; and finally to the naturalist it is merely an abnormal secretion from the same organ which produces mother-of-pearl in certain bivalves."
Source: 20,000 leagues under the sea by Jules Verne
Ned and Counseil sat down on a couch, and the first thing the Canadian asked was: "Monsieur, just what is a pearl?"
"Ned," I answered, "to the poet, a pearl is an ocean tear; to Orientals it is a drop of hardened dew; to women it is an oblong jewel with a glassy sheen which they wear on their finger, around their neck or on their ear; to the chemist it is a mixture of calcium phosphate and calcium carbonate with a bit of gelatin; and finally to the naturalist it is merely an abnormal secretion from the same organ which produces mother-of-pearl in certain bivalves."
Source: 20,000 leagues under the sea by Jules Verne
Friday, June 08, 2007
Sattire Attire part II : Carpe Diem
"There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures."
Source: Julius Ceasar (Shakespeare, William)
Inspired by the Shakespearean influence, our friend in the hat was thinking along similar lines; Carpe Diem. The other individual in the hat asked for the bill, and he followed suite. He left his companion, Dmitri, with the customary responsibility of the change and tip transaction and he made for the door. The closer he got to the exit, the less speedily he walked; not with the intention to intercept the other individual but to confirm with his vague reflection in the glass that all was shipshape and Bristol. Satisfied with his appearance, he walked out into the shelterless world, the thoughts in his head replicating a sort of a Brownian motion getting more and more restless as the target of his attention approached the exit. At this point, had the thoughts under his hat been material they would have knocked his hat off. Such was the intensity and volume of ideas, bitter and sweet thoughts.
He had stood in this position before, both materially and mentally. And every time he had done so he had failed himself. His pessimistic half had always prevented him from initiating a dialogue with a party of interest. So much so, that Dmitri dealt with his responsibility with added laziness everytime; so as to give our hero ample time to procure an excuse for his failure. Today, Dmitri decided to deal with the issue in terms of pennies, for the other individual in the hat seemed to have the grace of a queen and the charm of a circus master. From the moment she'd walked into the diner, she'd had a gravitational pull effect on our friend analogous to the Earth and the Sun's. He was drawn towards disaster, thought Dmitiri, like a moth to a flame. All the while that Dmitri was counting pennies and contemplating the unpleasant, all of our hero's thoughts had converged into one: Carpe Diem.
Today was the day that he was going to seize. Words unspoken are words unheard. Words unheard are words unheeded to. Suddenly their eyes met and , surprisngly, he seized them this time. Not letting go of the initial connection established, he took off his hat, as was customary for gentlemen to do so in times of morality and civil behaviour. As he did so, his thoughts set free; they abandoned him and flew away, leaving him speechless and palefaced. All the poetry and somberness in his method and movement left him. All that she could do was giggle at the our hero's misery. Prompting our hero to abandon his campaign and retreat. He put his hat back on, dumping the plethora of thoughts back into his head...
Dmitri had counted the change and sorted it out in an alternating head and tail sequence. When he looked up, to his surprise he saw two hats moving away from the diner, not in oppositte directions but not too distant from each other either.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Touch is Touch
O ye Dastis!
Remember that touch is touch. Baptize yourself in dastiism, for that is the way prescribed. Touch is touch, and let it be dasti. Be dasti and be touched. You will reach the Nirvana of dastiism and be aware that there is no better state...
Be dasti in your ways.
Source: The Wisdom of Dastiism Chapter II Vol VI
Remember that touch is touch. Baptize yourself in dastiism, for that is the way prescribed. Touch is touch, and let it be dasti. Be dasti and be touched. You will reach the Nirvana of dastiism and be aware that there is no better state...
Be dasti in your ways.
Source: The Wisdom of Dastiism Chapter II Vol VI
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Sattire Attire part I
"You've got me there" said the man in the hat, referring to some pun-ful personal attack by the gentleman sitting on the other side of the table. The comment whizzed past his head like an arrow aimed at an apple. For his sight and conciousness were the slave to another hat in the diner. Not wanting to be rude, he did not abandon his companion. Well, atleast not literally.
The other hat grasped his attention by the throat and did not let go. He was done with his food but had not asked for the bill; he wanted to time it such that he would have an oppurtunity to make acquaintance with the other individual in the hat.
"What's with the hat? Why are you wearing it indoors?" inquired the companion. "It's not just a hat, Dmitiri, it's a thinking hat. Keeps my thoughts from flying too far off, keeps them close to my head" was the witty reply.
What his thoughts were, could only have been guessed by his companion. But we shall be generous enough to share with our audience. It is ironic, however, that the thoughts which the companion was attempting to guess, were guesses themself. Everytime he guessed what the thoughts of the other hat might be, his hat would keep it close to his head. In a way, his companion was guessing at guesses.
All hats hold thoughts. Once you've worn a hat, be it imaginary, and if chance wills you to wear that same hat again, there is a recollection of thoughts which has to be sorted out before new thoughts can be inducted into the hat. Hence the term "Thinking Cap". It makes you think and sometimes about things you've thought already thought of.
When I blog I let my hat do the typing. Ofcourse it's the Pakistan Cricket cap in questions, as all silly thoughts can be associated with it without much friction. Silly is to that hat what yolk is to an egg; intrinsic.
It's interesting to note what thoughts magicians harbour, as it enables them to pull rabbits out of their hats. Vegetarian rodents they are, them rabbits, nibbling away their leafy fodder bit by bit, at lightning speed.
This is a divergence anthem which I intend to pursue at a later time.
Merci .
The other hat grasped his attention by the throat and did not let go. He was done with his food but had not asked for the bill; he wanted to time it such that he would have an oppurtunity to make acquaintance with the other individual in the hat.
"What's with the hat? Why are you wearing it indoors?" inquired the companion. "It's not just a hat, Dmitiri, it's a thinking hat. Keeps my thoughts from flying too far off, keeps them close to my head" was the witty reply.
What his thoughts were, could only have been guessed by his companion. But we shall be generous enough to share with our audience. It is ironic, however, that the thoughts which the companion was attempting to guess, were guesses themself. Everytime he guessed what the thoughts of the other hat might be, his hat would keep it close to his head. In a way, his companion was guessing at guesses.
All hats hold thoughts. Once you've worn a hat, be it imaginary, and if chance wills you to wear that same hat again, there is a recollection of thoughts which has to be sorted out before new thoughts can be inducted into the hat. Hence the term "Thinking Cap". It makes you think and sometimes about things you've thought already thought of.
When I blog I let my hat do the typing. Ofcourse it's the Pakistan Cricket cap in questions, as all silly thoughts can be associated with it without much friction. Silly is to that hat what yolk is to an egg; intrinsic.
It's interesting to note what thoughts magicians harbour, as it enables them to pull rabbits out of their hats. Vegetarian rodents they are, them rabbits, nibbling away their leafy fodder bit by bit, at lightning speed.
This is a divergence anthem which I intend to pursue at a later time.
Merci .