Pait ki faryaad hai tau aani jaani
aur guzar jata hai din baghair peeyay paani
magar afsos! saalon ki baat aur hai
keh saal mein aik hi din milti hai biryani
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
I wonder what was the place where I was last night
I wonder what was the place where I was last night,
All around me were half-slaughtered victims of love,
tossing about in agony.
There was a nymph-like beloved with cypress-like form
and tulip-like face,
Ruthlessly playing havoc with the hearts of the lovers.
God himself was the master of ceremonies in that heavenly court,
oh Khusrau, where (the face of) the Prophet too was shedding light
like a candle.
All around me were half-slaughtered victims of love,
tossing about in agony.
There was a nymph-like beloved with cypress-like form
and tulip-like face,
Ruthlessly playing havoc with the hearts of the lovers.
God himself was the master of ceremonies in that heavenly court,
oh Khusrau, where (the face of) the Prophet too was shedding light
like a candle.
Translation of Nami Danam by Ameer Khusro
Saturday, April 04, 2009
Beyond borders
"79!"
Zia had been waiting for almost thirty minutes when his number got called out. He got up and carried his belongings towards a door which led out of the waiting area, but not out of the building.
He walked into another room where many other men and women in uniforms were attending to passengers who had just landed. Their faces not distinguishable, from even a short distance they looked like uniforms with bodies. No smiles, no emotions, no hobbies. Only a most ominous and unwelcoming presence.
Behind every desk was a sign that read: "Welcome to the United States of America". A cheery message for a gloomy place. Like sunlight sneaking its way into a prison cell, it was on the other side of the barrier.
"This way, sir" called out a voice, a man's voice, from one of the uniforms from behind one of the desks. As soon as Zia was within an earshot he heard "Passport please!".
Zia complied, he handed the uniform his passport which was not an American passport but it was, none the less, Blue in colour. Though not blue enough, as the man in the uniform, while making the customary inquiries regarding the purpose of the visit and the amount of alcohol and tobacco in the luggage, said: "One bottle of wine? Looks like you're not getting your 69 or 70 virgins."
"Excuse me?", Zia unsure of what he heard. It didn't sound like a joke.
"You heard me". The uniform confirming what Zia had thought he'd heard. And it wasn't a joke.
So it became a matter of bigotry. It's not the colour of your passport but the colour of your skin, the origin of your name, Zia realized.
After a little more probing Zia heard the uniform say, " Welcome to the USA".
USA, the most sought after yet the most hated country in the whole world. If you're not welcome in heaven, it's just as bad as being in hell.
Zia had been waiting for almost thirty minutes when his number got called out. He got up and carried his belongings towards a door which led out of the waiting area, but not out of the building.
He walked into another room where many other men and women in uniforms were attending to passengers who had just landed. Their faces not distinguishable, from even a short distance they looked like uniforms with bodies. No smiles, no emotions, no hobbies. Only a most ominous and unwelcoming presence.
Behind every desk was a sign that read: "Welcome to the United States of America". A cheery message for a gloomy place. Like sunlight sneaking its way into a prison cell, it was on the other side of the barrier.
"This way, sir" called out a voice, a man's voice, from one of the uniforms from behind one of the desks. As soon as Zia was within an earshot he heard "Passport please!".
Zia complied, he handed the uniform his passport which was not an American passport but it was, none the less, Blue in colour. Though not blue enough, as the man in the uniform, while making the customary inquiries regarding the purpose of the visit and the amount of alcohol and tobacco in the luggage, said: "One bottle of wine? Looks like you're not getting your 69 or 70 virgins."
"Excuse me?", Zia unsure of what he heard. It didn't sound like a joke.
"You heard me". The uniform confirming what Zia had thought he'd heard. And it wasn't a joke.
So it became a matter of bigotry. It's not the colour of your passport but the colour of your skin, the origin of your name, Zia realized.
After a little more probing Zia heard the uniform say, " Welcome to the USA".
USA, the most sought after yet the most hated country in the whole world. If you're not welcome in heaven, it's just as bad as being in hell.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Sattire Attire part X: Sharp wit, sharper sword
"The man has a gun, he knows how to use it. Nine millimeter Browning, let's see what he can do... Dirty animal." - The Gun by Lou Reed
The waitress unsure of the situation, sought to clear up any potential misunderstandings, "Together or separate?"
"Together. The three of us." replied Dmitri in a tone that was meant to remain unchallenged. "Mine, his and her's. Check please!"
"Her's too? But she's not on the table that I'm serving..." The waitress did not wait for a response. She complied and walked off, completely overwhelmed by the storm that was brewing inside Dmitri. Only the agonizing restraint in his voice and his piercing gaze gave any indication of the rage that was going to overcome his usually calm demeanor.
Dmitri's attention had now been diverted to his friend, Sylvester and Sylvester's new, ill-fated friend, Fate.
He got up and fixed his tie. Tightening it almost to a choke-hold. He put on his jacket and buttoned it up. One. Two. Three. And then he walked up to his friend, where he could hear Fate leashing his friend, Sylvester, with an almost witch-like charm... "...that's the most wonderful thing anyone's ever said to me, Sylvester."
"What did he say then?" interrupted Dmitri with a tone that lacked all emotion; neither friendly nor angry. And then with the same tone, he asked Sylvester, "What did you say to her?"
The battle had begun. Dmitri knew it. Fate knew it. Sylvester did not. With his loyalties inexplicably torn between the two, he was a casualty of war before it had begun. For now, his only two companions were pity and sadistic pleasure.
But for the present, Sylvester was caught in a strange predicament; he was confused. His friend, Dmitri, who had always been his friend was acting like an infuriated stranger. On the other hand, the stranger, Fate, was playing the part of a supportive friend. He kept staring at salt-shaker on the table, as if his supposed diverted focus would exempt him from partaking in choosing a side in this battle. A friend, not acting like a friend or an amiable stranger? Of course a friend! Except, the friend in question was pointing a gun to his head...
"What did you tell her then?"
...while asking him to point his gun towards the amiable stranger...
"If you don't want to tell me... do say it to her again. She would not mind, it's the kindest thing she's heard. She says so herself."
Fate, at this point, was maintaining a composure that only mysteriousness can. Mysteriousness backed by uncertainty.
"Are you his friend then?"
"A friend. A guide. A companion. A shepherd. A brother."
"And yet you insult him like he's your livestock...a shepherd more than anything I would say."
"That I must, for he easily gets fattened by any butcher that feeds him. His gluttony knows no bounds."
"If I may correct you, gluttony is the act of outdoing the bounds."
"You digress."
"You contradict." And she said that with a wink and a smile. Dmitri did not know whether to let his guard down or to put it up.
Meanwhile, Sylvester had managed to slip away back to table 8, where he was busy staring at another salt-shaker. He was perspiring. Drenched as if there was a cloud of the monsoon over his head. And the voice in his head spoke: "Why is it that fate is always ill-fate?"
The waitress unsure of the situation, sought to clear up any potential misunderstandings, "Together or separate?"
"Together. The three of us." replied Dmitri in a tone that was meant to remain unchallenged. "Mine, his and her's. Check please!"
"Her's too? But she's not on the table that I'm serving..." The waitress did not wait for a response. She complied and walked off, completely overwhelmed by the storm that was brewing inside Dmitri. Only the agonizing restraint in his voice and his piercing gaze gave any indication of the rage that was going to overcome his usually calm demeanor.
Dmitri's attention had now been diverted to his friend, Sylvester and Sylvester's new, ill-fated friend, Fate.
He got up and fixed his tie. Tightening it almost to a choke-hold. He put on his jacket and buttoned it up. One. Two. Three. And then he walked up to his friend, where he could hear Fate leashing his friend, Sylvester, with an almost witch-like charm... "...that's the most wonderful thing anyone's ever said to me, Sylvester."
"What did he say then?" interrupted Dmitri with a tone that lacked all emotion; neither friendly nor angry. And then with the same tone, he asked Sylvester, "What did you say to her?"
The battle had begun. Dmitri knew it. Fate knew it. Sylvester did not. With his loyalties inexplicably torn between the two, he was a casualty of war before it had begun. For now, his only two companions were pity and sadistic pleasure.
But for the present, Sylvester was caught in a strange predicament; he was confused. His friend, Dmitri, who had always been his friend was acting like an infuriated stranger. On the other hand, the stranger, Fate, was playing the part of a supportive friend. He kept staring at salt-shaker on the table, as if his supposed diverted focus would exempt him from partaking in choosing a side in this battle. A friend, not acting like a friend or an amiable stranger? Of course a friend! Except, the friend in question was pointing a gun to his head...
"What did you tell her then?"
...while asking him to point his gun towards the amiable stranger...
"If you don't want to tell me... do say it to her again. She would not mind, it's the kindest thing she's heard. She says so herself."
Fate, at this point, was maintaining a composure that only mysteriousness can. Mysteriousness backed by uncertainty.
"Are you his friend then?"
"A friend. A guide. A companion. A shepherd. A brother."
"And yet you insult him like he's your livestock...a shepherd more than anything I would say."
"That I must, for he easily gets fattened by any butcher that feeds him. His gluttony knows no bounds."
"If I may correct you, gluttony is the act of outdoing the bounds."
"You digress."
"You contradict." And she said that with a wink and a smile. Dmitri did not know whether to let his guard down or to put it up.
Meanwhile, Sylvester had managed to slip away back to table 8, where he was busy staring at another salt-shaker. He was perspiring. Drenched as if there was a cloud of the monsoon over his head. And the voice in his head spoke: "Why is it that fate is always ill-fate?"
Friday, March 06, 2009
Constancy and Change
A pier in the middle of a field that was clearly used on occasion as a rubbish dump should have been absurd, or sad, but instead was suggestive of both constancy and change. I'll take constancy. Keep the change. - Kamila Shamsi
On Political groups who try to, all the time, define and re-define who we are as opposed to what we were and what we were meant to be. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
On Globalization which promulgates only the American way of life. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
On the increasing social divide and exploitation of the majority by a minority. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
On a people trying to imitate another people more and more. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
On from it getting bad to worse. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
On innocent children growing up to be rational discerning adults, who can identify with class, creed, borders and ethnicity. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
On spirituality degenerating. On the number of fatwas. On the increasing number of Zionist settlers. On the 'theories' that disprove religion. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
On dreams lost to means of living. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
On change ("Yes We Can!") that promises change but delivers constancy. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
On short-lived War and enduring Peace. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
On "what's in" and what's centuries old culture. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
On servants who, when we were young, were our friends and equals. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
On Political groups who try to, all the time, define and re-define who we are as opposed to what we were and what we were meant to be. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
On Globalization which promulgates only the American way of life. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
On the increasing social divide and exploitation of the majority by a minority. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
On a people trying to imitate another people more and more. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
On from it getting bad to worse. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
On innocent children growing up to be rational discerning adults, who can identify with class, creed, borders and ethnicity. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
On spirituality degenerating. On the number of fatwas. On the increasing number of Zionist settlers. On the 'theories' that disprove religion. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
On dreams lost to means of living. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
On change ("Yes We Can!") that promises change but delivers constancy. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
On short-lived War and enduring Peace. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
On "what's in" and what's centuries old culture. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
On servants who, when we were young, were our friends and equals. I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
I'll take constancy. Keep the change.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Monday, February 02, 2009
An Excerpt from a Book
"That wild beast, which lives in man and does not dare to show itself until barriers of law and custom have been removed, was now set free. The signal was given, the barriers were down. As has so often happened in the history of man, permissions were tacitly granted for acts of violence and plunder, even for murder, if they were carried out in the name of higher interests, according to the established rules, and against a limited number of men of a particular type and belief.
A man who saw clearly and with open eyes and was then living could see how this miracle took place and how the whole of a society could, in a single day, be transformed. In a few minutes the business quarter, based on centuries of tradition, was wiped out. It is true that there had always been concealed enmities and jealousies and religious intolerance, coarseness and cruelty, but there had also been courage and fellowship and a feeling for measure and order, which restrained all these instincts within the limits of the supportable and, in the end, calmed them down and submitted them to the general interest of life in common. Men who had been leaders in the commercial quarter for forty years vanished overnight as if they had all died suddenly, together with the habits, customs and institutions which they represented."
Ivo Andric - The Bridge On The Drina
A man who saw clearly and with open eyes and was then living could see how this miracle took place and how the whole of a society could, in a single day, be transformed. In a few minutes the business quarter, based on centuries of tradition, was wiped out. It is true that there had always been concealed enmities and jealousies and religious intolerance, coarseness and cruelty, but there had also been courage and fellowship and a feeling for measure and order, which restrained all these instincts within the limits of the supportable and, in the end, calmed them down and submitted them to the general interest of life in common. Men who had been leaders in the commercial quarter for forty years vanished overnight as if they had all died suddenly, together with the habits, customs and institutions which they represented."
Ivo Andric - The Bridge On The Drina
Monday, January 26, 2009
The Red/White Mosque
"Are we there yet?" I asked in excited nervousness.
"Almost"
We drove past Melody Market to the point where the sidewalk gives way to a right turn. And there it was, the Red Mosque. Standing alone in its eerie presence. Empty. The Red Mosque now painted white. As if all the blood had been purified.
"This is where it happened" said my cousin, referring to the incident. "That was the Jamia-Hafsa, which they've demolished now... and that's the mosque"
I was being given a tour of the place of worship that had been once been a place of worship, then a place where youths were misdirected and then finally a battleground for a bloody, sickening and embarrassing end.
The paint job was awful, you could still see blood stains in a few places. Or was it just my imagination. Maybe it wasn't blood. Maybe it was just the red texture that used to be. Yet the place was empty like a cemetery. No worshipers and no call for prayers.
"It's not that big a place" I remarked. Half thinking, half talking.
"This area's always been very politically active... now, though, people are more careful. What happened, well, was scary. I try to avoid driving through here...."
"Look! There's someone in there!" I said, and indeed there was someone near the entrance of the mosque. Clad in black.
"Of course there's someone. It's a mosque after all"
"You mean... even now?"
"Yea. Life has to go on."
I went there looking for bullet holes and blood stains. But life has to go on. Some things have to be erased from memory and history because life has to go on. Whether what happened was right or wrong is not the question. It happened. Life has to go on, albeit a little haunted, a little empty... a little guilty.
"Almost"
We drove past Melody Market to the point where the sidewalk gives way to a right turn. And there it was, the Red Mosque. Standing alone in its eerie presence. Empty. The Red Mosque now painted white. As if all the blood had been purified.
"This is where it happened" said my cousin, referring to the incident. "That was the Jamia-Hafsa, which they've demolished now... and that's the mosque"
I was being given a tour of the place of worship that had been once been a place of worship, then a place where youths were misdirected and then finally a battleground for a bloody, sickening and embarrassing end.
The paint job was awful, you could still see blood stains in a few places. Or was it just my imagination. Maybe it wasn't blood. Maybe it was just the red texture that used to be. Yet the place was empty like a cemetery. No worshipers and no call for prayers.
"It's not that big a place" I remarked. Half thinking, half talking.
"This area's always been very politically active... now, though, people are more careful. What happened, well, was scary. I try to avoid driving through here...."
"Look! There's someone in there!" I said, and indeed there was someone near the entrance of the mosque. Clad in black.
"Of course there's someone. It's a mosque after all"
"You mean... even now?"
"Yea. Life has to go on."
I went there looking for bullet holes and blood stains. But life has to go on. Some things have to be erased from memory and history because life has to go on. Whether what happened was right or wrong is not the question. It happened. Life has to go on, albeit a little haunted, a little empty... a little guilty.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Sattire Attire: Dmitri writes
And we will find each other when the world becomes what we envision it to be; a fair world. For then only will we be at peace and loyal to ourselves. Till such time we will be preoccupied in our efforts to make change. But as is the will of men, this will never come to pass. For those with power and riches have little reason to compromise. And those with no power nor riches have resigned to a life of submission. Balancing the scale of justice is no easy task when there is only one weight; power and money as one. And if God is to be judge, then we will have to wait till that Day comes. And on that Day when we've come full circle, we'll find each other that one time and then go our designated separate ways. So it is meant to be. So I am without passion, and I only long for that one fateful meeting on that one fateful Day when all we envision will eventually come to pass.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Expression Against Oppression
With or against you, I have to choose
I side with you, and still it's me that you abuse
You point the gun at my home and say "Now, what are you going to do?"
The hunt is on, the hunt is on it's true, Oh simple man, the hunt is on for you
Only when you've lost a limb or a loved one- do you know that you're accused
Your pride stands wounded and alone, like a tamed lion caged in a zoo
"We won't let it happen again", we said. But those promises are not for you
We won't let it happen again. But only to those who come for you.
Run, simple man run,there is no justice planned
They've come to wipe you out, from your simple land.
A mother mourns a son, and another mourns them in simple twos
But where are you going to run simple man? Your mother will still weep for you
"We won't let it happen again", they said. But those promises are not for you
We won't let it happen again, but in the end they do it to you.
I side with you, and still it's me that you abuse
You point the gun at my home and say "Now, what are you going to do?"
The hunt is on, the hunt is on it's true, Oh simple man, the hunt is on for you
Only when you've lost a limb or a loved one- do you know that you're accused
Your pride stands wounded and alone, like a tamed lion caged in a zoo
"We won't let it happen again", we said. But those promises are not for you
We won't let it happen again. But only to those who come for you.
Run, simple man run,there is no justice planned
They've come to wipe you out, from your simple land.
A mother mourns a son, and another mourns them in simple twos
But where are you going to run simple man? Your mother will still weep for you
"We won't let it happen again", they said. But those promises are not for you
We won't let it happen again, but in the end they do it to you.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Sattire Attire part IX: Hunny Bunny
Magas ko bagh mein jane na dena, Na haq khoon parwane ka ho ga!
(Pray do not let the bee enter the garden, for it will lead the moth to its death) - Mirza Ghalib
For if the bee does enter the garden, it will mate with the flowers. It will then make a home, a hive and it will make honey. And in the end, the hive will become wax for candle. The moth will wander as it had always wandered; aimlessly and of little importance. The moth will linger around the flame of the candle until maddened by the obsession it will plunge into an ironic darkness. The hive will be a source of sweet and bitter; honey and death.
Like brothers in arms, like comrades in battle, the two could do little to avoid each other. Each of their lives marred by the absence of the other. Sylvester and Dmitri had their lives turn upside down and side to side. Good friends are hard to find, like seahorses in the infinite vastness of the ocean. Love follows from fate. Friends do not follow, they take a stand. By you. Around you and beside you. They are more precious than blood, for if ever any was needed, they would bleed. Like trust in a bank, faith in friends is like a fortress; unshaken, passing the tests of war, storm and time. Trust in friends is worth boasting.
You cannot choose your relatives, but you can choose your friends. You can choose your friends, but your soul-mate is chosen for you. Sylvester and Dmitri had chosen each other. And they un-chose each other for what appeared to both of them as 'fate' had planned it. Sylvester felt his trust was shaken and Dmitri felt that he was left alone, bleeding.
But fate has a funny, and a not ambiguous, way of playing things. Her name was Fate.
"Your name is Fate?" Sylvester asked his n-th obsession out of genuine alarm.
"Yes, it is. It is because it was meant to be". Her voice had the charm of hypnosis; luring Sylvester into an unconscious or, as Dmitri would put it, an idiotic and foolish state of mind.
"Meant to be? Is anything meant to be at all?"
At this she chuckled. Then she simultaneously said two things. She reprimanded Sylvester with her eyes, "You mock me with your skepticism and your skeptic friend? You mock a world beyond the deciphered laws of nature? You assume the unknown to be untrue? Therefore, you assume that untruth to be fact and a law, and then the rest becomes unknown to you. You ignorant, conformist fool"
And with her voice she had a different message, "Everything is meant to be. Me, you, this place, this time and everything else, it all is meant to be. This tension between us is meant to be, this tension between us and your friend is meant to be. The choices we make and the choices we do not make, they are all meant to be. Nothing is an independent event, it all means something. Each event connects us from the past to the future. The present is just a continuous transitionary stage where we are meant to be arriving from our past and it is a stage from where we go to where we are meant to be in the future. We, here right now, are meant to be."
She'd struck him with two blows at the same time. She had hit him hard and soft in one go. Sylvester was in an abyss of confusion where one abandons logic and clings on to the folly misdirections of the heart.
Dmitri saw in Sylvester a dog wagging its tail in front of its master; Fate. And again in another time and in another place the classical and romantic battle had begun. And Sylvester was the one caught between the two non-reconciling winds building up towards a storm. But Sylvester was a fool with a fool's hope for intuitive survival and Dmitri knew that this time God was stingy with the allocation of luck that was meant to be his. "Check please" he said to the waitress. It was time to sort things out.
(Pray do not let the bee enter the garden, for it will lead the moth to its death) - Mirza Ghalib
For if the bee does enter the garden, it will mate with the flowers. It will then make a home, a hive and it will make honey. And in the end, the hive will become wax for candle. The moth will wander as it had always wandered; aimlessly and of little importance. The moth will linger around the flame of the candle until maddened by the obsession it will plunge into an ironic darkness. The hive will be a source of sweet and bitter; honey and death.
Like brothers in arms, like comrades in battle, the two could do little to avoid each other. Each of their lives marred by the absence of the other. Sylvester and Dmitri had their lives turn upside down and side to side. Good friends are hard to find, like seahorses in the infinite vastness of the ocean. Love follows from fate. Friends do not follow, they take a stand. By you. Around you and beside you. They are more precious than blood, for if ever any was needed, they would bleed. Like trust in a bank, faith in friends is like a fortress; unshaken, passing the tests of war, storm and time. Trust in friends is worth boasting.
You cannot choose your relatives, but you can choose your friends. You can choose your friends, but your soul-mate is chosen for you. Sylvester and Dmitri had chosen each other. And they un-chose each other for what appeared to both of them as 'fate' had planned it. Sylvester felt his trust was shaken and Dmitri felt that he was left alone, bleeding.
But fate has a funny, and a not ambiguous, way of playing things. Her name was Fate.
"Your name is Fate?" Sylvester asked his n-th obsession out of genuine alarm.
"Yes, it is. It is because it was meant to be". Her voice had the charm of hypnosis; luring Sylvester into an unconscious or, as Dmitri would put it, an idiotic and foolish state of mind.
"Meant to be? Is anything meant to be at all?"
At this she chuckled. Then she simultaneously said two things. She reprimanded Sylvester with her eyes, "You mock me with your skepticism and your skeptic friend? You mock a world beyond the deciphered laws of nature? You assume the unknown to be untrue? Therefore, you assume that untruth to be fact and a law, and then the rest becomes unknown to you. You ignorant, conformist fool"
And with her voice she had a different message, "Everything is meant to be. Me, you, this place, this time and everything else, it all is meant to be. This tension between us is meant to be, this tension between us and your friend is meant to be. The choices we make and the choices we do not make, they are all meant to be. Nothing is an independent event, it all means something. Each event connects us from the past to the future. The present is just a continuous transitionary stage where we are meant to be arriving from our past and it is a stage from where we go to where we are meant to be in the future. We, here right now, are meant to be."
She'd struck him with two blows at the same time. She had hit him hard and soft in one go. Sylvester was in an abyss of confusion where one abandons logic and clings on to the folly misdirections of the heart.
Dmitri saw in Sylvester a dog wagging its tail in front of its master; Fate. And again in another time and in another place the classical and romantic battle had begun. And Sylvester was the one caught between the two non-reconciling winds building up towards a storm. But Sylvester was a fool with a fool's hope for intuitive survival and Dmitri knew that this time God was stingy with the allocation of luck that was meant to be his. "Check please" he said to the waitress. It was time to sort things out.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Moral of the story part V: Accent Agieu
You have to be a fool to be hungry again at 2 a.m., when everything is closed. I mean, 8 p.m., are you hungry? No.
But 2 a.m., Yes very, very much. It's all well in the beginning, there's the pizza that saves you. But a pizza is a pizza and it is not for everyday. You can die from eating pizza too regularly. They call it the inflamation of the taste buds. Like Aids it has no cure and prevention is the only...prevention.
When to have to revert to places like "Pita Factory", you know you're ******.
Pita Factory, a factory of Pitas. No, they're not made in China but they sure taste like they are. Would you ever eat a cake that came from the "Cake Factory"? Or would you eat fruit that came from the "Fruit Factory"?
"Steak Factory"?
"Stuffed Chicken Breast with Pineapple Sauce Factory"? You get the point.
So, once it had to be Pita Factory. Now it's not smart to walk into a Pita Factory on an empty stomach. Firstly, because you might end up eating something. Secondly, if your mind is a little preoccupied, you might... well I'll make my point with the aid of an anecdote.
I stood in line behind two policemen. They're going to be tough with the tickets tonight, I thought. One of the policemen spoke in accented English. So, naturally, I tried figuring out what it was.
I tried and I tried and then I concluded: Not Australian. Definitely not Australian. And definitely not ..."Chicken Souvlaki!". I was lost in my own thoughts, I did not realize that the policemen had left and I was next in line. Well, after the policemen I was the only one in line.
I gave the girl who was about to manufacture my pita a look of recognition; yea, chicken souvlaki... that's me.
"What would like on it?", she asked. I knew what I wanted, the same as everytime. So I said
"Some ta-mate-Os..." and out came an Australian accent.
"Some what?" She asked, a little taken aback.
"Tah-Mate-Os" I tried to hide the obvious shock that ought to have been registered on my face. I guess I managed to do so as she took it in stride and filled my pita with ta-mate-os.
Then she looked up to see what else I wanted on there.
Now I was in a bit of a pickle. I am not known for mimicking accents. I now had to tailor my pita according to the skill-level of my accent-mimicking skill. So, I pictured Shane Warne. And then, in my mind, I asked him to say onions... "un-yuns". And the girl was kind enough to oblige. So far so good, she probably thinks I'm from Australia and not just ordering in an accented speech for no reason. Which is exactly what I was doing, by the way.
Ok, next... come on Shane. "Sum cue-cambers". Haha! I was getting the hang of it. Just a couple more I thought.
But unfortunately that was it. I was looking at the deli and I couldn't pronounce anything else. Shane Warne had walked away. Finally, I cleverly managed with some finger pointing and "sum o that an sum o that..." .
I had pulled it off. I was so proud of myself.
"Would you like it for here or to go?", she asked.
"To gow please". Oh yeah. Confident. Cocky. Australian. I don't know how, I'm not even 6 feet tall.
While she was packaging my Pita in the Pita Factory, my phone rang. I answered it and spoke in fluent Urdu: "Yaar, abhee bari mushkil mein hoon. Meiney ghalti se Australian accent mein khana order kar deeya hai. Yaar, I'll call you back in 5 mins".
So much for covering up for my initial accented slip of tongue. But I didn't even realize it. Nor did my brilliant friend who had called me.
I didn't realize it even when she handed me my Pita to-gow with a look on her face that suggested that she'd just heard a joke. And then I said, "Thanks mate" and she almost burst out laughing.
And then as I slipped my phone back into my pocket, it hit me. After having painfully ordered in an accented speech, I had just blown it with that phone call. And then I almost burst out laughing. The place was pretty much empty because at 2 a.m., people usually get their pitas to-gow. Which was a good thing if any one of us was going to laugh out loud. Anyways by 2:15 am I had something to eat. Or so to say. I hail from Lahore, I like eating things that taste good.
But eating the pita was like digging a hole in the ground. You kept looking at it and hoped that it would end soon. Here's the thing with the pita, if Frank Sinatra ever writes a song about a Pita Factory pita, it would be called "One bite of warm, two bites of cold". Because the vegetables were very very cold and the meat was a little hot. It is awful. Moral of the story: Try doing it some time. Ye'll laav it mate.
But 2 a.m., Yes very, very much. It's all well in the beginning, there's the pizza that saves you. But a pizza is a pizza and it is not for everyday. You can die from eating pizza too regularly. They call it the inflamation of the taste buds. Like Aids it has no cure and prevention is the only...prevention.
When to have to revert to places like "Pita Factory", you know you're ******.
Pita Factory, a factory of Pitas. No, they're not made in China but they sure taste like they are. Would you ever eat a cake that came from the "Cake Factory"? Or would you eat fruit that came from the "Fruit Factory"?
"Steak Factory"?
"Stuffed Chicken Breast with Pineapple Sauce Factory"? You get the point.
So, once it had to be Pita Factory. Now it's not smart to walk into a Pita Factory on an empty stomach. Firstly, because you might end up eating something. Secondly, if your mind is a little preoccupied, you might... well I'll make my point with the aid of an anecdote.
I stood in line behind two policemen. They're going to be tough with the tickets tonight, I thought. One of the policemen spoke in accented English. So, naturally, I tried figuring out what it was.
I tried and I tried and then I concluded: Not Australian. Definitely not Australian. And definitely not ..."Chicken Souvlaki!". I was lost in my own thoughts, I did not realize that the policemen had left and I was next in line. Well, after the policemen I was the only one in line.
I gave the girl who was about to manufacture my pita a look of recognition; yea, chicken souvlaki... that's me.
"What would like on it?", she asked. I knew what I wanted, the same as everytime. So I said
"Some ta-mate-Os..." and out came an Australian accent.
"Some what?" She asked, a little taken aback.
"Tah-Mate-Os" I tried to hide the obvious shock that ought to have been registered on my face. I guess I managed to do so as she took it in stride and filled my pita with ta-mate-os.
Then she looked up to see what else I wanted on there.
Now I was in a bit of a pickle. I am not known for mimicking accents. I now had to tailor my pita according to the skill-level of my accent-mimicking skill. So, I pictured Shane Warne. And then, in my mind, I asked him to say onions... "un-yuns". And the girl was kind enough to oblige. So far so good, she probably thinks I'm from Australia and not just ordering in an accented speech for no reason. Which is exactly what I was doing, by the way.
Ok, next... come on Shane. "Sum cue-cambers". Haha! I was getting the hang of it. Just a couple more I thought.
But unfortunately that was it. I was looking at the deli and I couldn't pronounce anything else. Shane Warne had walked away. Finally, I cleverly managed with some finger pointing and "sum o that an sum o that..." .
I had pulled it off. I was so proud of myself.
"Would you like it for here or to go?", she asked.
"To gow please". Oh yeah. Confident. Cocky. Australian. I don't know how, I'm not even 6 feet tall.
While she was packaging my Pita in the Pita Factory, my phone rang. I answered it and spoke in fluent Urdu: "Yaar, abhee bari mushkil mein hoon. Meiney ghalti se Australian accent mein khana order kar deeya hai. Yaar, I'll call you back in 5 mins".
So much for covering up for my initial accented slip of tongue. But I didn't even realize it. Nor did my brilliant friend who had called me.
I didn't realize it even when she handed me my Pita to-gow with a look on her face that suggested that she'd just heard a joke. And then I said, "Thanks mate" and she almost burst out laughing.
And then as I slipped my phone back into my pocket, it hit me. After having painfully ordered in an accented speech, I had just blown it with that phone call. And then I almost burst out laughing. The place was pretty much empty because at 2 a.m., people usually get their pitas to-gow. Which was a good thing if any one of us was going to laugh out loud. Anyways by 2:15 am I had something to eat. Or so to say. I hail from Lahore, I like eating things that taste good.
But eating the pita was like digging a hole in the ground. You kept looking at it and hoped that it would end soon. Here's the thing with the pita, if Frank Sinatra ever writes a song about a Pita Factory pita, it would be called "One bite of warm, two bites of cold". Because the vegetables were very very cold and the meat was a little hot. It is awful. Moral of the story: Try doing it some time. Ye'll laav it mate.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The President's Speech.
"Countrymen,
Lend me your ears no more. Do not listen to any lies or, for that matter, any truths and I bestow upon you. I do not want to make false promises. For I cannot promise you better days. I do not want to be your excuse for poverty and immorality. For I cannot earn you money and change your ways. I am merely one man, you are the nation.
Countrymen, lend me, instead, your arms and legs. Your minds and bodies. Do not listen for gathering hope but create hope. For I cannot change your fortunes for you. But you can. Hence, lend me yourselves.
We are at war. So do not listen to me when I say we need to show solidarity. Lend me yourselves. Show me solidarity. You are the nation. Fight this evil, do no wait to be rescued. For Nations fight, only the helpless wait to be rescued. When a group of people is united no more, it is like a cripple; waiting for help or like a king, waiting for service. You are not a cripple and you are not a king. And you have no destiny lest you make it. And this fight beckons you forward to rise and do so.
You are the nation and your fortunes are tied with what you do. So, lend me not your ears. You should know better. Show me that there is indeed a people and not a cripple nor a king that misfortune has fallen upon. Because people overcome their misfortunes by their own hands, their own destiny. Kings and cripples wait. They wait for help and aid. And they are forever unable to change what may be.
So, do not listen to me. For I will deliver no sermon and you will learn nothing. Remember, if there is no lesson, then it is not worth listening and not worth mentioning.
We have suffered so far, and for what? And no matter what we do, we will inevitably suffer more. Let's face this hardship. Let's bring it upon ourselves. Let's work longer, study harder, spend less, donate more, fight braver. So that if nothing else, in the end we will, at least, be holding our heads up. Not our hands held open. So that in end, we will at least be a people and not a cripple or a king.
Countrymen, lend me yourselves."
Lend me your ears no more. Do not listen to any lies or, for that matter, any truths and I bestow upon you. I do not want to make false promises. For I cannot promise you better days. I do not want to be your excuse for poverty and immorality. For I cannot earn you money and change your ways. I am merely one man, you are the nation.
Countrymen, lend me, instead, your arms and legs. Your minds and bodies. Do not listen for gathering hope but create hope. For I cannot change your fortunes for you. But you can. Hence, lend me yourselves.
We are at war. So do not listen to me when I say we need to show solidarity. Lend me yourselves. Show me solidarity. You are the nation. Fight this evil, do no wait to be rescued. For Nations fight, only the helpless wait to be rescued. When a group of people is united no more, it is like a cripple; waiting for help or like a king, waiting for service. You are not a cripple and you are not a king. And you have no destiny lest you make it. And this fight beckons you forward to rise and do so.
You are the nation and your fortunes are tied with what you do. So, lend me not your ears. You should know better. Show me that there is indeed a people and not a cripple nor a king that misfortune has fallen upon. Because people overcome their misfortunes by their own hands, their own destiny. Kings and cripples wait. They wait for help and aid. And they are forever unable to change what may be.
So, do not listen to me. For I will deliver no sermon and you will learn nothing. Remember, if there is no lesson, then it is not worth listening and not worth mentioning.
We have suffered so far, and for what? And no matter what we do, we will inevitably suffer more. Let's face this hardship. Let's bring it upon ourselves. Let's work longer, study harder, spend less, donate more, fight braver. So that if nothing else, in the end we will, at least, be holding our heads up. Not our hands held open. So that in end, we will at least be a people and not a cripple or a king.
Countrymen, lend me yourselves."
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Sattire Attire part VIII; illegally Blonde
False face must hide what the false heart doth know. - William Shakespeare
"Dmitri, my friend, it was like magic". Sylvester had started his narration before Dmitri could do anything to prevent it. They were interesting at first, his stories, but now... well, it was the same story. The same beginning, the same ending and whatever was in the middle was irrelevant.
"...she was like a breath of fresh air in the depths of a coal mine, like a sea-shell with the secrets of its voyage. She was like the answer to the question of mortal life, like unwritten poetry she has me obsessed..."
Still in the middle. How long before he finishes? wondered Dmitri.
"...what is it Dmitri? It seems like you have something on your mind. The only problems that you usually have on your mind are mine! and let me assure you, I have been through worse. Then what is it that troubles you?"
Dmitri was looking at the table, he never had the heart to say it before but enough was enough. "Sylvester, you are a poodle-faker and that saddens me."
"A poodle-faker?!" said Sylvester, more alarmed and amused than upset.
"Yes, Sylvester, a poodle-faker. An aspiring ladies' man. Though all you do is... well whatever you do, you do it wrong and it doesn't work. They're all frippets, the lot you chase, and you're a man-frippet."
"A frippet? Now don't go on calling them that. Me, well I can imagine, but they're not all..."
"Well what would have me call them? They're all quite pre-disposed to showing off and I'm being generous when I call you a man-frippet."
"That's not fair. I mean you can't..." and Sylvester was interrupted, not by Dmitri, but by a frippet who had just made her way into the diner.
Dmitri demanded attention. He half got up from his seat, bent over the table and grabbed Sylvester by his collars, "You listen to me!"
The frustration, quite understandable for us, was not so obvious to the rest of the diner. As a result, the many lights that were dispersed around the diner had all focused on table 8; Dmitri and Sylvester's table. The fine blond frippet too had turned around, a little confused.
Sylvester made use of this opportunity, "He means me, not you". To that she giggled and took her seat to see Dmitri let go of Sylvester's collar.
"Stop showing your teeth, she's not for you; you'll regret it" Dmitri told Sylvester with a little less acrimony and a little more authority.
"What do you mean? Just look at her. If I could..." Sylvester was about to go on a 10 minute monologue about a woman he didn't even know, but for his sake and ours, Dmitri cut him off, "Blah blah blah. You listen to me now. That is a dumb blonde."
"But not all blondes are dumb!!" a hurt Sylvester said in defense of the blonde-hood.
"Don't tell me that you don't know?" asked Dmitri, a little surprised.
"Know what?"
This explained a little but not all of Sylvester's foolish behaviour in the past. Dmitri explained:
"You are right. Not all blondes are dumb. Some are actually very smart. This applies to all natural blondes. However, the term dumb-blonde I use for the unnatural or illegally blonde."
"But but but how can you tell the difference?!" This was news for Sylvester.
"It's quite simple. Just look at your dumb-blonde frippet there...sorry there was no need for me to say that. You haven't taken your eyes off her still, therefore, keep looking at her. Her head is blonde. Her eyebrows are not. Connect the dots..."
"But it can't be true. Can't she be smart and want to be blonde?" Dmitri didn't need to answer that one. The blonde was overheard:
"...so I gave him my cell-phone instead of my home-phone. You know, since my home-phone does not have caller ID. Now I know when he's calling and so I can ignore him..."
And for once, Sylvester had nothing to say.
"Dmitri, my friend, it was like magic". Sylvester had started his narration before Dmitri could do anything to prevent it. They were interesting at first, his stories, but now... well, it was the same story. The same beginning, the same ending and whatever was in the middle was irrelevant.
"...she was like a breath of fresh air in the depths of a coal mine, like a sea-shell with the secrets of its voyage. She was like the answer to the question of mortal life, like unwritten poetry she has me obsessed..."
Still in the middle. How long before he finishes? wondered Dmitri.
"...what is it Dmitri? It seems like you have something on your mind. The only problems that you usually have on your mind are mine! and let me assure you, I have been through worse. Then what is it that troubles you?"
Dmitri was looking at the table, he never had the heart to say it before but enough was enough. "Sylvester, you are a poodle-faker and that saddens me."
"A poodle-faker?!" said Sylvester, more alarmed and amused than upset.
"Yes, Sylvester, a poodle-faker. An aspiring ladies' man. Though all you do is... well whatever you do, you do it wrong and it doesn't work. They're all frippets, the lot you chase, and you're a man-frippet."
"A frippet? Now don't go on calling them that. Me, well I can imagine, but they're not all..."
"Well what would have me call them? They're all quite pre-disposed to showing off and I'm being generous when I call you a man-frippet."
"That's not fair. I mean you can't..." and Sylvester was interrupted, not by Dmitri, but by a frippet who had just made her way into the diner.
Dmitri demanded attention. He half got up from his seat, bent over the table and grabbed Sylvester by his collars, "You listen to me!"
The frustration, quite understandable for us, was not so obvious to the rest of the diner. As a result, the many lights that were dispersed around the diner had all focused on table 8; Dmitri and Sylvester's table. The fine blond frippet too had turned around, a little confused.
Sylvester made use of this opportunity, "He means me, not you". To that she giggled and took her seat to see Dmitri let go of Sylvester's collar.
"Stop showing your teeth, she's not for you; you'll regret it" Dmitri told Sylvester with a little less acrimony and a little more authority.
"What do you mean? Just look at her. If I could..." Sylvester was about to go on a 10 minute monologue about a woman he didn't even know, but for his sake and ours, Dmitri cut him off, "Blah blah blah. You listen to me now. That is a dumb blonde."
"But not all blondes are dumb!!" a hurt Sylvester said in defense of the blonde-hood.
"Don't tell me that you don't know?" asked Dmitri, a little surprised.
"Know what?"
This explained a little but not all of Sylvester's foolish behaviour in the past. Dmitri explained:
"You are right. Not all blondes are dumb. Some are actually very smart. This applies to all natural blondes. However, the term dumb-blonde I use for the unnatural or illegally blonde."
"But but but how can you tell the difference?!" This was news for Sylvester.
"It's quite simple. Just look at your dumb-blonde frippet there...sorry there was no need for me to say that. You haven't taken your eyes off her still, therefore, keep looking at her. Her head is blonde. Her eyebrows are not. Connect the dots..."
"But it can't be true. Can't she be smart and want to be blonde?" Dmitri didn't need to answer that one. The blonde was overheard:
"...so I gave him my cell-phone instead of my home-phone. You know, since my home-phone does not have caller ID. Now I know when he's calling and so I can ignore him..."
And for once, Sylvester had nothing to say.
Monday, November 03, 2008
Moral of the story part III : Goals in Life
The mood is gloomy. Dark clouds approach. And to make it worse, there's no cricket to take our minds off of all that's going wrong. Whenever we get thrashed by Australia, it makes us all sad; all ethnicities and all religious sects. Whenever Shahid Afridi lasts for more than fifteen minutes on pitch it makes us all happy. The same can be said for when Shoaib Akhtar lasts for more than 15 minutes on the field. Such a touchy topic, Shahid Afridi and Shoaib Akhtar. Today, we talk about Shahid Afridi, or rather we recall an interview once conducted by a sports channel. (translated)
"So, Shahid, you are making your big comeback against India?"
"Yes, of course, I had to come back in the team. Whenever the team needs me, I'm there. And right now the team needs me"
"But after such a big lay off, are you ready to make a come-back?"
"I wouldn't really call it a lay-off, I just took a break you know, spend some time with the family"
"We heard rumours that you were retiring from cricket?"
"Well yes, I was thinking about it. But now that I'm married and now that I have children, I have achieved everything that I wanted to do in life, so now I can think about playing cricket."
Clearly, anybody that makes any overtures about Shahid Afridi desiring the captaincy is not familiar with Shahid's goals in life. Regardless, our worlds come to a halt for the 15 minutes when this man walks out of the pavillion. And they only resume when he walks back towards it. Cricket is dead. All we get to watch is India churning out success stories like sodomized (commercialized) music records.
"So, Shahid, you are making your big comeback against India?"
"Yes, of course, I had to come back in the team. Whenever the team needs me, I'm there. And right now the team needs me"
"But after such a big lay off, are you ready to make a come-back?"
"I wouldn't really call it a lay-off, I just took a break you know, spend some time with the family"
"We heard rumours that you were retiring from cricket?"
"Well yes, I was thinking about it. But now that I'm married and now that I have children, I have achieved everything that I wanted to do in life, so now I can think about playing cricket."
Clearly, anybody that makes any overtures about Shahid Afridi desiring the captaincy is not familiar with Shahid's goals in life. Regardless, our worlds come to a halt for the 15 minutes when this man walks out of the pavillion. And they only resume when he walks back towards it. Cricket is dead. All we get to watch is India churning out success stories like sodomized (commercialized) music records.
Friday, October 31, 2008
The Tribesman
Sickly. That's how he felt. Sick in the head, more to the point. His allegiance torn between himself and his land. He had betrayed his land, like his land had betrayed him. Could they ever be at peace again, the land and himself? Could he? He had caused much harm. Maybe enough. He had thought about bringing it all to halt on more than one occasion. Only to betray and be betrayed again.
Freedom, they called it. Freedom, which had cost him his brother, nephew and had amputated his son. And yet what was he fighting for? Freedom again? This fight had been fought already, this hatchet had long been buried.
In a war where there were only two sides, he wondered what side he was on. Especially, since he was in the cross-fire. Behind enemy lines, beyond them and between them. When hot lead pierces flesh, there's only one outcome and a mother's wail needs no language to be understood. Then it matters not where the bullet came from. From friend or foe.
There was a third side in the war; a side that was losing. It had no enemy, yet it suffered. It had lost half its men, with no honour bestowed upon them. Just criticism. The war, that was not its own but was being fought on its land, had not just taunted but insulted its existence. He heard the explosions and he took his position.
He was an excellent shot. Almost every bullet hit home and every one that did was a shot through the heart. His own more than the others'. It was an unfair war which did not allow him to pick sides; he had to fight all of them. Lacking all elements of fear he got ready to face the storm, embrace it and then make it turn away, and he wondered whether today would be the end of it all. For if all good things come to an end, then they must first begin with the ending of a bad thing.
Freedom, they called it. Freedom, which had cost him his brother, nephew and had amputated his son. And yet what was he fighting for? Freedom again? This fight had been fought already, this hatchet had long been buried.
In a war where there were only two sides, he wondered what side he was on. Especially, since he was in the cross-fire. Behind enemy lines, beyond them and between them. When hot lead pierces flesh, there's only one outcome and a mother's wail needs no language to be understood. Then it matters not where the bullet came from. From friend or foe.
There was a third side in the war; a side that was losing. It had no enemy, yet it suffered. It had lost half its men, with no honour bestowed upon them. Just criticism. The war, that was not its own but was being fought on its land, had not just taunted but insulted its existence. He heard the explosions and he took his position.
He was an excellent shot. Almost every bullet hit home and every one that did was a shot through the heart. His own more than the others'. It was an unfair war which did not allow him to pick sides; he had to fight all of them. Lacking all elements of fear he got ready to face the storm, embrace it and then make it turn away, and he wondered whether today would be the end of it all. For if all good things come to an end, then they must first begin with the ending of a bad thing.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Before Aqaba. A-Lawrence, Auda Abu Tayi and Shrefi Ali.
In Auda Abu Tayi's tent.
Lawrence: They are a tribe of slaves, they serve the Turks.
Auda: Well they are nothing to me, my tribe is the Howeitat.
Sherif Ali: Who work only for profit.
Auda: Who work at Auda's pleasure.
Lawrence: And Auda's pleasure is to serve the Turks.
Auda: Serve? I Serve?
Lawrence: It is the servant who takes money.
Auda gets up and faces his tribesmen.
Auda: I am Auda abu Tayi!!! Does Auda serve?
Tribesmen: NO!
Auda: Does Auda abu Tayi serve?
Tribesmen: NO!
Auda : I carry twenty-three great wounds, all got in battle. Seventy-five men have I killed with my own hands in battle. I Scatter, I burn my enemies' tents. I take away their flocks and herds. The Turks pay me a golden treasure. Yet I am poor... because I am a river to my people!! Is that service??
Lawrence: No.
Lawrence: They are a tribe of slaves, they serve the Turks.
Auda: Well they are nothing to me, my tribe is the Howeitat.
Sherif Ali: Who work only for profit.
Auda: Who work at Auda's pleasure.
Lawrence: And Auda's pleasure is to serve the Turks.
Auda: Serve? I Serve?
Lawrence: It is the servant who takes money.
Auda gets up and faces his tribesmen.
Auda: I am Auda abu Tayi!!! Does Auda serve?
Tribesmen: NO!
Auda: Does Auda abu Tayi serve?
Tribesmen: NO!
Auda : I carry twenty-three great wounds, all got in battle. Seventy-five men have I killed with my own hands in battle. I Scatter, I burn my enemies' tents. I take away their flocks and herds. The Turks pay me a golden treasure. Yet I am poor... because I am a river to my people!! Is that service??
Lawrence: No.
Monday, October 06, 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
Moral of the story part II
Are you fasting? I'm slowing. This year I've only slowed, not fasted. I guess I'll have to quick later on in the year sometime to make up for all the slowing I've done so far. But I'm very lazy. It's hard enough for me as it is. I put off everything till tomorrow whenever possible. And it's not a pleasant thought to be putting the fasting off to the afterlife. I mean if it's possible tomorrow, then I'll do it tomorrow. If it's possible much much later... well you get the picture.
Sinner!! They say.
I hear, I try. I try to obey.
Strength and Honour, and Courage they say.
Mighty words they are, but maybe not today.
If not, then tomorrow will you pay?
Would you rather take on the world in haste and gamble your life away?
Je suis tres faime, je veux manger une grande petite dejeuner.
Frog Racing. That's what I was trying to get to. But somehow I drifted away from the desired topic. Maybe it's because frogs are frowned upon (are they?).
Today's lesson will be on Frog Racing. What you will need:
(i) Frog I
(ii)Frog II
(..)............
(n) Frog N
(n+1) A big pot for N number of Frogs
Instructions:
(-) Fill pot with water.
(-) Catch Frog I and put it in the pot
(-) Catch Frog II upto Frog N and put them in the pot also.
(-) Make sure each frog is differentiable or has a limit which exists when x approaches infinity(math joke)
(-) Find N-1 friends or partners in crime. Each person picks a Frog. Remember to pick first.
(-)Pick the smallest Frog. The big ones don't like to move.
(-)The race track should be straight and not meandering. A non-straight race track will result in chaos and confusion and an inevitable Frog death.
(-) Line up with Frogs in hand. On the signal put the Frog down.
(-) This is where it gets tricky. Guide the Frog (make it hop in a straight line) by stepping on either side of the Frog. This technique fulfills two purposes. The Frog does not deviate from the path and the Frog is too scared shitless to deviate from the path so it makes a real dash for it.
(-) Please do not deviate from the path yourself. There may be casualties.
(-) First to reach finish-line wins.
(-) [optional] If you loose, bitch about the track being too soft.
(-) Let the winner go free. Toss the rest back in the pot with water.
(-) Make Frog soup.
(-) Realize half-way that Frog is not Halal meat.
(-) If any Frogs are still alive, toss them into the pond.
(-) If any Frogs are dead then.... inalillahi wa inalillahi rajioun.
(-) Practice makes perfect. Do it as often as possible.
Moral of the story is, don't go too fast or you'll get a speeding ticket.
Sinner!! They say.
I hear, I try. I try to obey.
Strength and Honour, and Courage they say.
Mighty words they are, but maybe not today.
If not, then tomorrow will you pay?
Would you rather take on the world in haste and gamble your life away?
Je suis tres faime, je veux manger une grande petite dejeuner.
Frog Racing. That's what I was trying to get to. But somehow I drifted away from the desired topic. Maybe it's because frogs are frowned upon (are they?).
Today's lesson will be on Frog Racing. What you will need:
(i) Frog I
(ii)Frog II
(..)............
(n) Frog N
(n+1) A big pot for N number of Frogs
Instructions:
(-) Fill pot with water.
(-) Catch Frog I and put it in the pot
(-) Catch Frog II upto Frog N and put them in the pot also.
(-) Make sure each frog is differentiable or has a limit which exists when x approaches infinity(math joke)
(-) Find N-1 friends or partners in crime. Each person picks a Frog. Remember to pick first.
(-)Pick the smallest Frog. The big ones don't like to move.
(-)The race track should be straight and not meandering. A non-straight race track will result in chaos and confusion and an inevitable Frog death.
(-) Line up with Frogs in hand. On the signal put the Frog down.
(-) This is where it gets tricky. Guide the Frog (make it hop in a straight line) by stepping on either side of the Frog. This technique fulfills two purposes. The Frog does not deviate from the path and the Frog is too scared shitless to deviate from the path so it makes a real dash for it.
(-) Please do not deviate from the path yourself. There may be casualties.
(-) First to reach finish-line wins.
(-) [optional] If you loose, bitch about the track being too soft.
(-) Let the winner go free. Toss the rest back in the pot with water.
(-) Make Frog soup.
(-) Realize half-way that Frog is not Halal meat.
(-) If any Frogs are still alive, toss them into the pond.
(-) If any Frogs are dead then.... inalillahi wa inalillahi rajioun.
(-) Practice makes perfect. Do it as often as possible.
Moral of the story is, don't go too fast or you'll get a speeding ticket.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Zoo Tv
It was not a starry night. The moon was out, all whole and all white. Its presence overwhelming that of any other star. The rat could understand how the stars felt that night. Everyday, his tiny presence was overshadowed by the roars of the lions, the theatricals of the monkeys and, strangely enough, even by the lazy saunter of the giraffes. Even on the days that the lions only moaned and the monkeys only scratched each other, (giraffes always had their lazy saunter) the rat was as prominent as a drop of rainwater in the ocean. He had lived his whole life at the zoo and in the shadows of other animals.
It is a depressing thought, but the rat was never depressed. He had the company of so many animals of different nationalities. And he was friends with them all. All except the elephant.
This has nothing to do with the folly notion that elephants are afraid of mice. While we're on the subject, elephants would not die for peanuts.
No, the rat and the elephant were not friends. They were not enemies either. The elephant was the star of the zoo; the main attraction. He was actually a runaway from a circus, who was later captured and delivered to the zoo. As show-business had always been part of his nature, at the site of even a small group of people the elephant would perform his tricks and display his skill. Eventually, he became very popular and the success got to his head. He only ever spoke with the lion or the zebras or some other exotic animals or birds. It is ironic that the elephant was the only American at the zoo. He had been at the circus for as long as he could remember. And he had always been very haughty.
"What are you looking at?" The turtle asked the rat. The turtle was considered one of the wisest animals of the zoo. But he mostly kept to himself (inside his shell). Legend had it that he had once beaten the rabbit in a race. Some animals believed the story, some did not. But the rabbit or the turtle never spoke of it. Ever. They did not speak to each other either. So the rat had and inkling that the legend might be true, but he would never really know for sure.
"There are no stars tonight, turtle". The rat never had frame a question for the turtle. Because the turtle would always give an answer. Even if you did not ask a question.
"But that is only because the moon is too bright and the stars are not bright enough. They are still there, the stars, but they are not bright enough" And sure enough it made sense and the rat believed him.
Silence ensued. The most valuable of silences; the one right before a lesson.
"You think the stars are too small and that is why they do not shine bright enough. But you are wrong. The stars, though they appear to be much smaller than the moon, are actually infinitely larger than the moon. But they are so far away from us that they appear to be small. Just like the giraffes appear to be smaller than the turtles from where we are because their dwelling is towards the other end of the zoo. So you see my friend, rat, that all that appears to be small is sometimes the biggest thing of all". And after that little sermon the turtle retired to his shell, leaving the rat to ponder on what he had said.
The rat made his way back home, towards the food-court. It was a long walk but it seemed short. Just like the stars.
And when he thought about what the turtle had said and looked up at the sky again, he could relate to the stars even more. For he too appeared to be small, but he was probably bigger than all the other animals in depth and kindness. Even though everyday all that the people would notice would be the full brunt of the other animals and just a small flicker of himself, he knew that if anyone looked hard enough, they would see him for how big he is. How much bigger he is than the elephant.
It is a depressing thought, but the rat was never depressed. He had the company of so many animals of different nationalities. And he was friends with them all. All except the elephant.
This has nothing to do with the folly notion that elephants are afraid of mice. While we're on the subject, elephants would not die for peanuts.
No, the rat and the elephant were not friends. They were not enemies either. The elephant was the star of the zoo; the main attraction. He was actually a runaway from a circus, who was later captured and delivered to the zoo. As show-business had always been part of his nature, at the site of even a small group of people the elephant would perform his tricks and display his skill. Eventually, he became very popular and the success got to his head. He only ever spoke with the lion or the zebras or some other exotic animals or birds. It is ironic that the elephant was the only American at the zoo. He had been at the circus for as long as he could remember. And he had always been very haughty.
"What are you looking at?" The turtle asked the rat. The turtle was considered one of the wisest animals of the zoo. But he mostly kept to himself (inside his shell). Legend had it that he had once beaten the rabbit in a race. Some animals believed the story, some did not. But the rabbit or the turtle never spoke of it. Ever. They did not speak to each other either. So the rat had and inkling that the legend might be true, but he would never really know for sure.
"There are no stars tonight, turtle". The rat never had frame a question for the turtle. Because the turtle would always give an answer. Even if you did not ask a question.
"But that is only because the moon is too bright and the stars are not bright enough. They are still there, the stars, but they are not bright enough" And sure enough it made sense and the rat believed him.
Silence ensued. The most valuable of silences; the one right before a lesson.
"You think the stars are too small and that is why they do not shine bright enough. But you are wrong. The stars, though they appear to be much smaller than the moon, are actually infinitely larger than the moon. But they are so far away from us that they appear to be small. Just like the giraffes appear to be smaller than the turtles from where we are because their dwelling is towards the other end of the zoo. So you see my friend, rat, that all that appears to be small is sometimes the biggest thing of all". And after that little sermon the turtle retired to his shell, leaving the rat to ponder on what he had said.
The rat made his way back home, towards the food-court. It was a long walk but it seemed short. Just like the stars.
And when he thought about what the turtle had said and looked up at the sky again, he could relate to the stars even more. For he too appeared to be small, but he was probably bigger than all the other animals in depth and kindness. Even though everyday all that the people would notice would be the full brunt of the other animals and just a small flicker of himself, he knew that if anyone looked hard enough, they would see him for how big he is. How much bigger he is than the elephant.