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.

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.

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."

The Wisdom of Dastiism, Verse I Chapter H2C

"O Dastis! Believe but do not trust."

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

Where did the spoilt sport go for vacation?

The Bahanas

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)

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

And so it happened. All that had to happen eventually: A modern-life altering event. They had walked not too distant from each other for only a short distance and he was trying to keep pace and catch up. He never did. She was always ahead of him and still gaining speed. It was as if she was luring him into a never ending false hope. Like holding candy over a child’s head and then whisking it away when the child jumps at it.

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."

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)

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.

Comming Soon

They told her she couldn't.
And so, she had a reason.

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.

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.

On Votes

In each man’s hand lies the nation’s fate,

Each man is a star of nations great.

-Allama Iqbal-

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...

The Chemical Brothers feat. Richard Ashcroft - The Test