This story is about the anceint tribes of Dirka. They occupied the territories between the two great rivers, which were one, of the world. The rivers had the same origin and the same end, but in the middle they strayed from each other. Like two lovers matched in heaven and then set on their separate paths at birth until their destinies brought them together.
But that was not what was peculiar about the rivers. Legend has it that one, Gurchak, flowed upstream while the other, Gurcham, flowed downstream. The land between them was called Dirka or 'The eye of a Whirlpool'.
Each river served a divine purpose. Gurchak, the river that flowed upstream, was used for fishing or fish hunting. The fish, swimming against the current, was strong and was good meat. It is what these tribes of warriors fed on.
It was forbidden to fish-hunt in Gurcham, for the fish flowing harmlessly with the current were considered innocent. Gurcham was for disposing the head-less dead.
Dirka spread far and wide. With mountains, forests and gorges abundant. The people of this tranquil though, did not lead a tranquil lifestyle. They were warrior tribes who seldom made peace. During peace they prepared for war.
This story is about one such war between the Dun and the Hur and Mok tribes. Tribal custom had it that the daughter of the Chief was heir to the throne in Dirka. She was the law maker and law enforcer. Any man could aspire to be Chief. But in order to become Chief, he would have to bring to the Queen the head of the Chief of another tribe after having killed him a hand battle.
It ensured that the best warrior was always leading the army. And it provided the Queen with a man more manly than the last. This practice did not usually result in war. But not always.
The daughter of the Queen of the Mok tribe was probably the most beautiful woman in the land. It seemed as if the heavens had conspired to mock the earth by sending to earth a woman whose grace far outgraced the mountains, whose eyes would make the sun blink, whose face the lakes would be reflected in, whose voice the winds would fall silent for. And for whose hand, the Chiefs of all other tribes had doubled their ration of fish from Gurchak.
Her mother, the Queen, was old and would not last another two moons. And so the tribe of Mok would soon need a new Chief.
Rumours of her beauty spread throughout the land. Many men came to confirm these rumours and to win her hand. But the Chiefs of all the other tribes had been eating alot of the fish.
One young man, son of the Queen of Hur, though was resolute.
On the day of her crowning, a young man brought to the (to-be) Queen of Mok the head of the Chief of Hur, his own father. The tribe of Mok had gained a Queen and a Chief in one day after loosing her mother the night before.
The Queen of Hur, though aware of the peculiarity of the situation had embraced her new position of seeking-Chief and at the same time, due to the inter-marriage between the ruling households of the Mok and Hur tribes, she declared a treaty and an alliance between the two. History was made in Dirka.
How, then, did the war begin between Dun and the Mok-Hur alliance?
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Friday, January 08, 2010
Bread, Cloth and Shelter.
To be content as a peasant is to lead an honest living with the void of wanting more. But what is it that man wants more of? More of house, cars, money, electronic gadgets etc. So, if there were no palaces to begin with, would man still desire a palace?
What dreams would a man, who all day dreams of a huge palace, dream?
The peasantry serves the man in the castle. So if there are no castles, the peasantry serves no one.
His ideas, naturally, appealed only to the peasants. In a world where there were only two kinds of people, those who were with the Nobleman and those who were victims of his tyranny, this was a dangerous development. For the peasants outnumbered the Nobleman and his cohort of sophisticated employees.
One of these sophisticated employees termed this peasant and his followers as outlaws and enemies of the state. But this fool was too blind to see that the laws of nature override the laws of man. And the laws of nature clearly state that all men are equal. The peasants no longer considered themselves peasants and they no longer considered the nobleman noble.
Once the mind becomes aware of this truth, the laws of man can throw no veil over it. Such was the state of affairs and it was rumored in the courts that a rebellion was at hand.
And so from the laws of man, life was transitioning towards the laws of nature. A state of equilibrium was being achieved where peasants no longer considered the nobility of Noblemen and the Noblemen no longer tried to subjugate the peasantry.
But as it so often happens in life; it moves in circles, from disparity to equilibrium to disparity. Tis almost a man-made phenomenon 'the circle of life'. There is an addition to the Nobleman's cohort of sophisticated employees, and at the same time, there is a subtraction from the peasantry. This returns to how things were balanced in disparity. The rebellion is no more. But the peasants remain peasants and the Noblemen keep their nobility intact. Only the fate of one peasant changes. The peasant who started it all. The one that stopped dreaming of palaces and started dreaming of something else.
What dreams would a man, who all day dreams of a huge palace, dream?
The peasantry serves the man in the castle. So if there are no castles, the peasantry serves no one.
His ideas, naturally, appealed only to the peasants. In a world where there were only two kinds of people, those who were with the Nobleman and those who were victims of his tyranny, this was a dangerous development. For the peasants outnumbered the Nobleman and his cohort of sophisticated employees.
One of these sophisticated employees termed this peasant and his followers as outlaws and enemies of the state. But this fool was too blind to see that the laws of nature override the laws of man. And the laws of nature clearly state that all men are equal. The peasants no longer considered themselves peasants and they no longer considered the nobleman noble.
Once the mind becomes aware of this truth, the laws of man can throw no veil over it. Such was the state of affairs and it was rumored in the courts that a rebellion was at hand.
And so from the laws of man, life was transitioning towards the laws of nature. A state of equilibrium was being achieved where peasants no longer considered the nobility of Noblemen and the Noblemen no longer tried to subjugate the peasantry.
But as it so often happens in life; it moves in circles, from disparity to equilibrium to disparity. Tis almost a man-made phenomenon 'the circle of life'. There is an addition to the Nobleman's cohort of sophisticated employees, and at the same time, there is a subtraction from the peasantry. This returns to how things were balanced in disparity. The rebellion is no more. But the peasants remain peasants and the Noblemen keep their nobility intact. Only the fate of one peasant changes. The peasant who started it all. The one that stopped dreaming of palaces and started dreaming of something else.
Monday, January 04, 2010
This Charming Man
I would go out tonight
But I haven't got a stitch to wear
This man said "It's gruesome that someone so handsome should care"
But I haven't got a stitch to wear
This man said "It's gruesome that someone so handsome should care"
Friday, December 11, 2009
Sattire Attire part XI: Be aware of the ides of October
‘Some men are so great that they can be unmade only by themselves.’ Shame - Salman Rushdie.
And he sat there, preoccupied with damage control. A date with Fate was unlikely, thanks to Dmitri.
"You are close?"
Sylvester turned around to see who'd said that. He'd been too distracted by the tense atmosphere in his head to be even minutely aware of his surroundings. The man seemed innocent, mild mannered and... well he was a stranger and it's okay to tell strangers anything and everything because you may never meet them again.
There is annual gathering in town in which people conceal themselves under white sheets with two holes for the eyes, much like ghosts in pop-culture. They gather around the oldest tree in the oldest park and read out their most intimate secrets in a slow droning voice. Each year their numbers increase, the secrets increase the secrets become less and less articulate among the horde of voices. Secrets mingle and intertwine into one loud, undecipherable mumble. They all know that if they cannot keep their secret to themselves, that if they have to say it out loud, they wait for that day. For they know that on that day anything that will be said aloud will be lost in the wind.
Some people like to listen. They stand around trying to listen to the secrets of one white sheet or another. They keep moving on until they find an interesting story, or one that has just begun. It is their way of keeping secrets for people they do not know. An hour before midnight on the ides of October the people of the town know where to go if their thoughts are stifling them. In the whole year there is one hour of honesty and trust. People come and they confess, profess, listen and understand. They empty their hearts and begin filling them up again until the next year.
To their more difficult patients, Psychiatrists recommended the ritual.
Sylvester was one of the whispering ghosts. Years and years of standing in front of the old tree and revealing his most inner-self had emboldened him, and he began to trust strangers. He began to trust strangers more than his friends. It was not because he did not trust his friends. It was because he knew that his fears could never be used against him if they were not known to be his.
And so, there he was without his white sheets with holes and he was talking to a stranger.
"You are close?", he had asked. Almost in a way that depicted doubt.
"No, we just met a couple of minutes ago. I don't even know her last name" said Sylvester in a dejected voice. He was looking at his shoes now.
"Oh but I wasn't talking about her. I was talking about him."
"Oh! Yes, I would say so." As he said that he looked up in the direction of Dmitri and Fate. But they were not there anymore. He then turned to look at the man next to him. He was not there anymore either.
Sylvester felt uneasy. Not because it had not worked out with Fate. Not because Dmitri had ridiculed him in front of Fate. Not because the strange stranger had doubted the friendship between Dmitri and him. But because, for the first time, Dmitri had parted ways and not him.
Dmitri was too bitter a man to feign pleasantness with Fate. Sylvester's mind was going where he did not want it to go. But there was nothing he could do to stop it and October was three months away.
"You are close?"
Sylvester turned around to see who'd said that. He'd been too distracted by the tense atmosphere in his head to be even minutely aware of his surroundings. The man seemed innocent, mild mannered and... well he was a stranger and it's okay to tell strangers anything and everything because you may never meet them again.
There is annual gathering in town in which people conceal themselves under white sheets with two holes for the eyes, much like ghosts in pop-culture. They gather around the oldest tree in the oldest park and read out their most intimate secrets in a slow droning voice. Each year their numbers increase, the secrets increase the secrets become less and less articulate among the horde of voices. Secrets mingle and intertwine into one loud, undecipherable mumble. They all know that if they cannot keep their secret to themselves, that if they have to say it out loud, they wait for that day. For they know that on that day anything that will be said aloud will be lost in the wind.
Some people like to listen. They stand around trying to listen to the secrets of one white sheet or another. They keep moving on until they find an interesting story, or one that has just begun. It is their way of keeping secrets for people they do not know. An hour before midnight on the ides of October the people of the town know where to go if their thoughts are stifling them. In the whole year there is one hour of honesty and trust. People come and they confess, profess, listen and understand. They empty their hearts and begin filling them up again until the next year.
To their more difficult patients, Psychiatrists recommended the ritual.
Sylvester was one of the whispering ghosts. Years and years of standing in front of the old tree and revealing his most inner-self had emboldened him, and he began to trust strangers. He began to trust strangers more than his friends. It was not because he did not trust his friends. It was because he knew that his fears could never be used against him if they were not known to be his.
And so, there he was without his white sheets with holes and he was talking to a stranger.
"You are close?", he had asked. Almost in a way that depicted doubt.
"No, we just met a couple of minutes ago. I don't even know her last name" said Sylvester in a dejected voice. He was looking at his shoes now.
"Oh but I wasn't talking about her. I was talking about him."
"Oh! Yes, I would say so." As he said that he looked up in the direction of Dmitri and Fate. But they were not there anymore. He then turned to look at the man next to him. He was not there anymore either.
Sylvester felt uneasy. Not because it had not worked out with Fate. Not because Dmitri had ridiculed him in front of Fate. Not because the strange stranger had doubted the friendship between Dmitri and him. But because, for the first time, Dmitri had parted ways and not him.
Dmitri was too bitter a man to feign pleasantness with Fate. Sylvester's mind was going where he did not want it to go. But there was nothing he could do to stop it and October was three months away.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
On Bakra Eid by the Poet (with takhalus) 'afsos'
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
aur guzar jata hai din baghair peeyay paani
magar afsos! saalon ki baat aur hai
keh saal mein aik hi din milti hai biryani
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.