"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time..." - Macbeth (William Shakespeare)
The faint knock on the door breaks the loudness of silence again. All the imaginary hue and cry in Sylvester's head grows faint, the pictures become colourless and vivid, and the sound that emanates when bone hits wood completes its journey from an echo to a crisp, sharp and articulate call to attention.
"What is it!" barks Sylvester to the anonymous skeleton behind the door.
The knocking stops. And for a few moments it appears as if the prepetrator is contemplating returning at a more agreeable time.
But before conscience can hold sway of judgement, a less irate voice speaks: "Can't you see that the indoors is unlit? That implies that either no one is present or whoever is present wants the wanderer to assume that they're not!"
"In times like these one cannot rely on accustomed norms. The indoors is unlit but outside is as alive as daybreak, with the conflagrations outshining a full moon past midnight. Should that be taken as an invitation to stray into the streets and pay respects to the banquet of the god of pillaging?"
What is this voice? Cloaked behind a door propagating words with a message slightly hidden.
"Your god is not my god..."
"When divinity is the reason we hate each other, how are our beliefs any different? You burn my tent in your god's name. I burn your's in mine. We both bow to the god of pillaging..." The sound of a thousand steps interrupts the outsider, "And there's the call to prayer..."
There's some chanting in the streets. Mischief is afoot. To bear witness to the mob action would be to allow sorrow to seek refuge in the deepest confines of your conscience where it would forever cast a shadow on every emotion felt henceforth. Like a forgotten bad memory, all thoughts would start with dread and even pleasantness would be remembered with a frown. The scene outside is a sick reminder that evil always seeks to outdo itself; murder is not enough now, mutilation is.
The identity of the voice is of little concern to him now, the safety of the unknown person behind the wall spurs him to change the topic.
"You are not safe out there. If they find you... come inside, the door is not secured."
"I do fear the streets but there are dark corners that may protect me. You might disagree but is your abode secure? You lit the match that set these flames ablaze. Why should I trust when you believe our gods are not one, that we are not one?"
"The air that we breathe, though separated by these walls, is one. It will carry your words as it carries mine, as it carries both our lives in its tight fist. The air that instills fear in you, must rally me to cower as well. Therefore, come in and keep your mind at peace!"
"But it is not fear that governs your countenance, it is madness and rage. And while we share this air, let us not share our rage - let us separate our madness; let these walls remain..." said a voice that he knew; a young voice but with an old message. A young body but an aging soul. Was it her?
Moments, unaccustomed to the routine march of time, pass by where a long time is not measured by minutes but by the degree of uneasiness that only the wall of silence nourishes. That wall of silence, now more tangible than before becomes more potent than that wall of brick and dirt that only separates the physical. The wall of silence disconnects two sides more completely than any other. Making one unaware of the presence of the other, and in love and in hate one's existence depends on the existance of the counterpart.
Wednesday, December 05, 2012
Monday, April 09, 2012
Sattire Attire - Worlds Apart
"May the living let us in before the dead tear us apart" - Springtseen
Embroiled in the hysteria that was Sylvester's own creation, we forgot about Fate. To a casual observer, she might be the root cause of the conflict of mild undertones between two friends and maddening frenzy between communities.
We do not have the heart to paint a picture of the riots. And there is not enough life in language and in words to share the horrors of what happened.
Words do not get wet; "agonizing sorrow" does not get moist with tears and "butcher" does not bleed. "Flames" do not burn, keep warm or cook. "Hate" is just a four-letter word that does not spread. Words are a transparent cloak on reality.
Words can be exchanged for another, but tears cannot without more sorrow. Blood cannot be redeemed save without more slaughter.
Though words do get wet, in ink, they remain mere words; they can remain unsaid and unread.
Unfortunately, the casual observer only had words to hang on to - excluding the words that were never said. It would be monstrous to use words to describe Fate. She deserves more than just words; a poem or a song in the least. But she compromises; her heart is grander than a cave full of treasure.
She was not the cause of it all. She could not be. It is the men who are weak of will...
But we digress; words on Fate. We would be foulmouthed to suggest that even if the sun eclipsed, the moon would shine when she'd glance at it. But words fail me, let's not linger on words: She wore a veil. She was an enigma, the missing piece to an unassembeled puzzle. The word that would rhyme all poems. The elixir that would quench all thirsts. The key would unlock all doors. The idea that would possess all
minds.
To understand Fate, one would need to understand fate and fate is never fully understood until it is fate no more. It is a vicious cycle and so it is with Fate as well. When death lingers, life waits and they both are part of fate.
Where were we then? Oh yes, there was a knock on the door...
Embroiled in the hysteria that was Sylvester's own creation, we forgot about Fate. To a casual observer, she might be the root cause of the conflict of mild undertones between two friends and maddening frenzy between communities.
We do not have the heart to paint a picture of the riots. And there is not enough life in language and in words to share the horrors of what happened.
Words do not get wet; "agonizing sorrow" does not get moist with tears and "butcher" does not bleed. "Flames" do not burn, keep warm or cook. "Hate" is just a four-letter word that does not spread. Words are a transparent cloak on reality.
Words can be exchanged for another, but tears cannot without more sorrow. Blood cannot be redeemed save without more slaughter.
Though words do get wet, in ink, they remain mere words; they can remain unsaid and unread.
Unfortunately, the casual observer only had words to hang on to - excluding the words that were never said. It would be monstrous to use words to describe Fate. She deserves more than just words; a poem or a song in the least. But she compromises; her heart is grander than a cave full of treasure.
She was not the cause of it all. She could not be. It is the men who are weak of will...
But we digress; words on Fate. We would be foulmouthed to suggest that even if the sun eclipsed, the moon would shine when she'd glance at it. But words fail me, let's not linger on words: She wore a veil. She was an enigma, the missing piece to an unassembeled puzzle. The word that would rhyme all poems. The elixir that would quench all thirsts. The key would unlock all doors. The idea that would possess all
minds.
To understand Fate, one would need to understand fate and fate is never fully understood until it is fate no more. It is a vicious cycle and so it is with Fate as well. When death lingers, life waits and they both are part of fate.
Where were we then? Oh yes, there was a knock on the door...
Sunday, October 02, 2011
Sattire Attire part XVI - A day in the life of...
"How can you expect a man who's warm to understand a man who's cold?" - Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
How can you expect a man who has love to understand the barrenness of life; a body without a soul. A purpose without passion. To wake up each morning with depleting hope. When "living life" becomes an irony. Would a man who was not as marooned be able to understand and be an impartial judge and jury?
A trial must be fair and it would not be so in his case. He had considered revealing himself and bringing an end to all the madness that ensued.
But would that be fair?
No.
Should the future be held hostage by the past?
Maybe.
Was he in prison?
In a way he was. And he had been all his life. He thought that with an act of madness might break free from his confines.
So let the world go on by embroiled in love and its half-brother, hate. He was not part of that world and consequently beyond the jurisdiction of its laws of love and hate.
His actions were driven by madness derived from love but not love. And certainly not by hate. Sylvester had acquitted himself.
And so he asks and wonders:
" Where do we go from here?
How will I reconcile to a lifetime without you?
My mind is fogged. If there were one thing that I could forsake, would it be love?
- its joys and its eternal pain.
This deciet-amour has cost me more than my breath; I will never smile again."
The city still burned. He could smell that fiery serpent; hate. Hate slithered through the cluttered streets of the city, making its way into citizens' dwellings through crack, window, pipe, gutter and door. Leaving behind a bitter trail of venom, fatality and revenge. It spared no one. The poison was spreading, the pupils dillating and the tempratures were rising in the middle of the coldest winter. Life and its ironys; associated with living and death.
Sylvester had his eyes closed but he could see everything through his pulse as it beat faster than a dragonfly's wings. It only slowed down when he heard a faint knock on his door...
How can you expect a man who has love to understand the barrenness of life; a body without a soul. A purpose without passion. To wake up each morning with depleting hope. When "living life" becomes an irony. Would a man who was not as marooned be able to understand and be an impartial judge and jury?
A trial must be fair and it would not be so in his case. He had considered revealing himself and bringing an end to all the madness that ensued.
But would that be fair?
No.
Should the future be held hostage by the past?
Maybe.
Was he in prison?
In a way he was. And he had been all his life. He thought that with an act of madness might break free from his confines.
So let the world go on by embroiled in love and its half-brother, hate. He was not part of that world and consequently beyond the jurisdiction of its laws of love and hate.
His actions were driven by madness derived from love but not love. And certainly not by hate. Sylvester had acquitted himself.
And so he asks and wonders:
" Where do we go from here?
How will I reconcile to a lifetime without you?
My mind is fogged. If there were one thing that I could forsake, would it be love?
- its joys and its eternal pain.
This deciet-amour has cost me more than my breath; I will never smile again."
The city still burned. He could smell that fiery serpent; hate. Hate slithered through the cluttered streets of the city, making its way into citizens' dwellings through crack, window, pipe, gutter and door. Leaving behind a bitter trail of venom, fatality and revenge. It spared no one. The poison was spreading, the pupils dillating and the tempratures were rising in the middle of the coldest winter. Life and its ironys; associated with living and death.
Sylvester had his eyes closed but he could see everything through his pulse as it beat faster than a dragonfly's wings. It only slowed down when he heard a faint knock on his door...
Thursday, February 24, 2011
The answer of sensitive souls to an insensitive society (2003)
In a dark corner of a tiny room lies Amjad on the bare floor. Only a beam of moonlight illuminates the room, or whatever is left of it. The walls are falling apart, piece-by-piece, brick by brick, just like the Mughal regime in India. The water pipes are leaking, revealing the perpetual cracks in the ceiling. The door is hardly a barrier, being held up by a series of cobwebs indicating it's seldom use and lack of visitors in Amjad's life.
Except, perhaps, for one man called Rungoo, who would visit him every fortnight to replenish Amjad's supply of heroine. He was oblivious to his surroundings and the state he was living in or maybe the state that he was dieing in. He was oblivious because his mind was not in his head, in fact it was not even in the room.
It was amazing that how even a pinch of white powder could take him far away, further than America. He would bend over a scrap of foil, light a match, and then using a half-cut straw suck in sharply as the white dust disappeared. And then he would sit back and relax and watch the world float by. A single word spoken would sound like a faint echo. He would feel no pain. He would feel no feelings. He would continue this activity for another year.
Many fortnights later Amjad sits and stares at the door patched up by cobwebs. He is waiting for Rungoo's next visit, who is now his only acquaintance, his only friend. At least the drug dealer was honest in his dealings.
Amjad closes his eyes and opens his mind to go back, years back to the time when he had many friends and none of them were drug dealers. None of them were honest either. Amjad could still remember them discussing what they would do when they all would grow up: Run a business, cure patients, provide justice and much more. Taking and getting addicted to drugs was not one of them.
Amjad is not living the life he had dreamed of in his childhood. Things have not turned out the way he had planned them. This was not the life he had hoped and worked for. He had felt weak when he was betrayed by the insensitive society. Now he enervates even more with the very air he breathes, every particle that he inhales, every white particle that is. He had hoped for opulence in his schooldays but now he was facing the worst of indigence.
Amjad had completed his education when his father and mother both were alive. He had been a top student all his life. Coming from humble origins, Amjad had worked night and day to change his stars, to make the wheel of fortune spin his way. And he had been well on his way had it not been for the rules of society. Rules that make the world go round and rules that made the wheel of fortune spin away from Amjad over the horizon never to be seen again, not even in his dreams.
Amjad realized that being hardworking, holding a respectable degree and possessing an enviable Curriculum Vitae were not the means that would enable him to change his stars, that could take him to America. There were other things, other more important means. Means like powerful and influential relatives, social status, the weight of your wallet and the list could go on and on...
Degrees that were bought were considered to be more authentic than degrees that had bene rightfully earned because anybody could work hard but not everybody could pay hard cash. He could have handled all that. What he could not bear was the fact that nobody in Lahore would want to work under a talented Christian. Amjad Jacob was another vitim of discrimination, he was just another 'choora' of the society.
Amjad's parents were dreaming of grandchildren when he had graduated. They saw neither job nor wife as these blessings were not to be a part of Amjad's fate. He loved life when he had started; all races and all creeds. Now he was a mindless misanthrope. Hating the very sound created by human feet, except maybe the sound created by Rungoo's oversized, hairy and blistered feet.
Amjad's parents could not bear to see the dejected state of their son's life. 'Junior choora' his father would say to himself, remembering the hard times he had to face. At least he had achieved surviving in the society. They both passed away after seeing their son perpetually having all doors closed to him.
Amjad's battered ship of life had lost the only buoys in its vicinity and it hit the iceberg when Amjad met Rungoo. Amjad started sinking and now he has lost everything to heroine.
Rungoo is late again as Amjad waits in his dilapidated apartment located in the red-light district of Lahore. The apartment is an accurate description of Amjad's life. It is a work of art, the potential is there but it is left to rot; he is left to rot. "He should be here any second with some heroine" Amjad calms himself. Some heroine for Junior choora.
Life had lost meaning for him just like it does for a suicide bomber. Amjad had thought about that, his face next to the picture of an injured building. But that was just one of the many thoughts that came to him as he entered his utopia while staring through the thick white smoke.
There are many addicts in Lahore. Amjad is just one of them, his is just one story. Like him there are many. There are many sensitive souls in this insensitive society.
Except, perhaps, for one man called Rungoo, who would visit him every fortnight to replenish Amjad's supply of heroine. He was oblivious to his surroundings and the state he was living in or maybe the state that he was dieing in. He was oblivious because his mind was not in his head, in fact it was not even in the room.
It was amazing that how even a pinch of white powder could take him far away, further than America. He would bend over a scrap of foil, light a match, and then using a half-cut straw suck in sharply as the white dust disappeared. And then he would sit back and relax and watch the world float by. A single word spoken would sound like a faint echo. He would feel no pain. He would feel no feelings. He would continue this activity for another year.
Many fortnights later Amjad sits and stares at the door patched up by cobwebs. He is waiting for Rungoo's next visit, who is now his only acquaintance, his only friend. At least the drug dealer was honest in his dealings.
Amjad closes his eyes and opens his mind to go back, years back to the time when he had many friends and none of them were drug dealers. None of them were honest either. Amjad could still remember them discussing what they would do when they all would grow up: Run a business, cure patients, provide justice and much more. Taking and getting addicted to drugs was not one of them.
Amjad is not living the life he had dreamed of in his childhood. Things have not turned out the way he had planned them. This was not the life he had hoped and worked for. He had felt weak when he was betrayed by the insensitive society. Now he enervates even more with the very air he breathes, every particle that he inhales, every white particle that is. He had hoped for opulence in his schooldays but now he was facing the worst of indigence.
Amjad had completed his education when his father and mother both were alive. He had been a top student all his life. Coming from humble origins, Amjad had worked night and day to change his stars, to make the wheel of fortune spin his way. And he had been well on his way had it not been for the rules of society. Rules that make the world go round and rules that made the wheel of fortune spin away from Amjad over the horizon never to be seen again, not even in his dreams.
Amjad realized that being hardworking, holding a respectable degree and possessing an enviable Curriculum Vitae were not the means that would enable him to change his stars, that could take him to America. There were other things, other more important means. Means like powerful and influential relatives, social status, the weight of your wallet and the list could go on and on...
Degrees that were bought were considered to be more authentic than degrees that had bene rightfully earned because anybody could work hard but not everybody could pay hard cash. He could have handled all that. What he could not bear was the fact that nobody in Lahore would want to work under a talented Christian. Amjad Jacob was another vitim of discrimination, he was just another 'choora' of the society.
Amjad's parents were dreaming of grandchildren when he had graduated. They saw neither job nor wife as these blessings were not to be a part of Amjad's fate. He loved life when he had started; all races and all creeds. Now he was a mindless misanthrope. Hating the very sound created by human feet, except maybe the sound created by Rungoo's oversized, hairy and blistered feet.
Amjad's parents could not bear to see the dejected state of their son's life. 'Junior choora' his father would say to himself, remembering the hard times he had to face. At least he had achieved surviving in the society. They both passed away after seeing their son perpetually having all doors closed to him.
Amjad's battered ship of life had lost the only buoys in its vicinity and it hit the iceberg when Amjad met Rungoo. Amjad started sinking and now he has lost everything to heroine.
Rungoo is late again as Amjad waits in his dilapidated apartment located in the red-light district of Lahore. The apartment is an accurate description of Amjad's life. It is a work of art, the potential is there but it is left to rot; he is left to rot. "He should be here any second with some heroine" Amjad calms himself. Some heroine for Junior choora.
Life had lost meaning for him just like it does for a suicide bomber. Amjad had thought about that, his face next to the picture of an injured building. But that was just one of the many thoughts that came to him as he entered his utopia while staring through the thick white smoke.
There are many addicts in Lahore. Amjad is just one of them, his is just one story. Like him there are many. There are many sensitive souls in this insensitive society.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Sattire Attire part XV - Troubled Minutes & Dark Thoughts part III
And so it had come to this. Blinded by rage, maddened by jealousy, distraught by the abandonment of all hope, Sylvester, the hero of this dramatic odyssey, had turned villian. Every morning he would wake up with his world and state in shambles, his mind racing faster than his emotions like a train being chased by a passenger that is unable to catch up. Each passing moment in conciousness was torture; he had to spread the chaos that was consuming him around him.
The silent rioter loitering in the dark was somber, calm and methodic for the first time in days. He walked at a brisk pace, with a presence of mind that enabled him to avoid the puddles left behind by the rain earlier in the day. The rain had cleansed the city. Apt for the deed at hand and a new begining.
The delicate fabric of society that inhabited this city was made up of numerous threads of various races and religions, each as ancient as the other. It was a tightly woven fabric in which the threads were all fading into a single colour, so much so that it would be hard to distinguish one from the other; the fabric had a shade of its own.
But (there is always a "But") the threads are mere metaphors and the fabric was actually made up of men. Men who have darkness in them and an animal lurking inside that is caged. And it waits for that cage to be unlocked; when all social barriers and customs are suspended. When there is chaos. There is an animal in all men. And one just has to pull at one string to undo the whole fabric and let the beast go loose.
Sylvester knew that Dmitri and Fate were not the same creed...
The fog thickened all around Sylvester and he stopped walking. This was it. This was the meeting place. The curtain of grey parted for another figure who approach Sylvester.
"Is the deed done?"
"It is done. And you? Have you taken care of your end?"
"Yes... In a few hours the city will take to the streets. By noon the society's elite and intellectuals will have been lynched by the mob. There will be a curfew by dusk and each neighbourhood will begin 'cleansing' itself."
Good. How will they reconcile with each other after their friends and families murder each other's? Is the notion of love thicker than blood? No. Nothing can be thicker than blood.
"Thank you my friend. I did not realize that it would come to this when we first met each other at the diner."
"Strange as it may seem, but it was your friend who wanted us to be acquainted with each other. I wonder why he was not part of this noble cause?"
"Who? Dmitri?" Sylvester hid the shock in his voice as fog hid his expression.
"Yes."
"Well we must not loiter around here any longer."
And as they turned their backs to each other, they disappeared into each other's past.
Sylvester's walk back wasn't as calm as his walk to the meeting.
"Dmitri's sure to know who's behind this. This idiot will surely boast his doings all over" He argued with himself. An apology was in order then?
"Apologize?! Are you mad? You fully well knew who you were offending and how much. It's not really an apology if before commiting the fault you are aware that you will have to apologize for it after. And the magnitude of it all! You are beyond pardon from mortals, you fool. Your only choice is to finish what you started."
Sylvester half thinking sheathed his bloody dagger and tossed it to the side, and he walked home with moisture in his eyes and mist in his head.
The silent rioter loitering in the dark was somber, calm and methodic for the first time in days. He walked at a brisk pace, with a presence of mind that enabled him to avoid the puddles left behind by the rain earlier in the day. The rain had cleansed the city. Apt for the deed at hand and a new begining.
The delicate fabric of society that inhabited this city was made up of numerous threads of various races and religions, each as ancient as the other. It was a tightly woven fabric in which the threads were all fading into a single colour, so much so that it would be hard to distinguish one from the other; the fabric had a shade of its own.
But (there is always a "But") the threads are mere metaphors and the fabric was actually made up of men. Men who have darkness in them and an animal lurking inside that is caged. And it waits for that cage to be unlocked; when all social barriers and customs are suspended. When there is chaos. There is an animal in all men. And one just has to pull at one string to undo the whole fabric and let the beast go loose.
Sylvester knew that Dmitri and Fate were not the same creed...
The fog thickened all around Sylvester and he stopped walking. This was it. This was the meeting place. The curtain of grey parted for another figure who approach Sylvester.
"Is the deed done?"
"It is done. And you? Have you taken care of your end?"
"Yes... In a few hours the city will take to the streets. By noon the society's elite and intellectuals will have been lynched by the mob. There will be a curfew by dusk and each neighbourhood will begin 'cleansing' itself."
Good. How will they reconcile with each other after their friends and families murder each other's? Is the notion of love thicker than blood? No. Nothing can be thicker than blood.
"Thank you my friend. I did not realize that it would come to this when we first met each other at the diner."
"Strange as it may seem, but it was your friend who wanted us to be acquainted with each other. I wonder why he was not part of this noble cause?"
"Who? Dmitri?" Sylvester hid the shock in his voice as fog hid his expression.
"Yes."
"Well we must not loiter around here any longer."
And as they turned their backs to each other, they disappeared into each other's past.
Sylvester's walk back wasn't as calm as his walk to the meeting.
"Dmitri's sure to know who's behind this. This idiot will surely boast his doings all over" He argued with himself. An apology was in order then?
"Apologize?! Are you mad? You fully well knew who you were offending and how much. It's not really an apology if before commiting the fault you are aware that you will have to apologize for it after. And the magnitude of it all! You are beyond pardon from mortals, you fool. Your only choice is to finish what you started."
Sylvester half thinking sheathed his bloody dagger and tossed it to the side, and he walked home with moisture in his eyes and mist in his head.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Sattire Attire - More?
There is a story that I have to tell,
A story is only a story if it doesn't end well,
Time is not a healer - truth be told,
Time is just the cost of getting old.
A story is only a story if it doesn't end well,
Time is not a healer - truth be told,
Time is just the cost of getting old.
Saturday, November 06, 2010
Eat. Pray. Sing.
Pakistan today is not just the victim of the worst flood of the century, it is the victim of a flood of miseries. This nation of God-fearing, pious worshippers is faced with a fresh string of tragedies regularly. The cruel reality of irony could not point its finger and laugh any harder. A question is begging to be asked; why does God not answer their prayers? For even in their worst of times, they seek shelter from Him and beg for His mercy.
After great deliberation, I came to the natural conclusion of the fact that there is a language barrier; God does not speak Urdu. Which automatically leads us to the next conclusion; God speaks English and Arabic. One need only glance over indicators like the Human-Developement-Index, the Unemployment Rate, the GDP etc. of the English-speaking West and the Arabic-speaking Middle-East to be assured of the validity of the hypothesis. The statistics speak for themselves; a R-squared value in the high 60th percentiles if AnsweredPrayeres were regressed to these variables/indicators. Plead from your Lord in another tongue (and try to conceal your accent).
The obsession with religion reaches its peak in the matter of government-issued IDs and the category of 'Religion'. Being the drawing-room rebel that I am, I resolved to take a stab at this ludicrousness the next time I went to renew my passport. But being the drawing-room philosopher that I am, I was lost in my own thoughts and forgot to take the matter up when I recently got that bit of paperwork out of the way without filling out certain categories as I had planned to; "Religion: Pagan". But then again since I can speak English and since I just renewd my license to pray to God, I might as well make the most of it and ask of Him some big favours, comfortable in the knowledge that my requests will be heard and granted.
After great deliberation, I came to the natural conclusion of the fact that there is a language barrier; God does not speak Urdu. Which automatically leads us to the next conclusion; God speaks English and Arabic. One need only glance over indicators like the Human-Developement-Index, the Unemployment Rate, the GDP etc. of the English-speaking West and the Arabic-speaking Middle-East to be assured of the validity of the hypothesis. The statistics speak for themselves; a R-squared value in the high 60th percentiles if AnsweredPrayeres were regressed to these variables/indicators. Plead from your Lord in another tongue (and try to conceal your accent).
The obsession with religion reaches its peak in the matter of government-issued IDs and the category of 'Religion'. Being the drawing-room rebel that I am, I resolved to take a stab at this ludicrousness the next time I went to renew my passport. But being the drawing-room philosopher that I am, I was lost in my own thoughts and forgot to take the matter up when I recently got that bit of paperwork out of the way without filling out certain categories as I had planned to; "Religion: Pagan". But then again since I can speak English and since I just renewd my license to pray to God, I might as well make the most of it and ask of Him some big favours, comfortable in the knowledge that my requests will be heard and granted.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Sattire Attire part XIV - Do or Dye (it red)
"Some ships are made of gold - goldships. Some ships are made of silver - silverships. But the best ships are made of friends - friendships." - Nonsense from Class IV
"We used to be best friends" Sylvester protested.
"But we ARE best friends! What has gotten into you?" Dmitri said,as if the current state of events were the usual.
"What's gotten into me?! It's YOU who is never here. It's YOU who is no where to be found. It's YOU who never tries to make contact or respond to any efforts of mine either" Sylvester kept his voice low, so as to not attract any attention but the message was clear.
"I think we both know what has changed between now and before..." Sylvester continued, eyeing Fate from over Dmitri's shoulder. Dmitri did not need to turn around to get the message. He understood the problem; Sylvester was jealous.
But he only understood half the problem. Yes, Sylvester was jealous but of whom? In Dmitri's mind everything was nice and dandy; his best friend was jealous of his better half. But in reality and in Sylvester's mind it was not so simple. Sylvester was torn because of the lack of attention his best friend was bestowing upon him and he was distraught because the girl of his dreams was now a girl he would never know amourously.
Sylvester would take a bullet for Dmitri and he quell a storm for Fate (or any endeavour which would involve perishing) but he only has one life to give. So when asked to do both at the same time, would he start questioning his beliefs? Who would he choose and who would he choose to lose?
He had decided,prior to entering the diner, walking up to Dmitri and pulling him aside for a talk, what he would do. He could start a war with his friend or he could start a war with himself. And now that he stood in front of Dmitri, with Fate visible from over his shoulder, his decision appeared to be clouded with doubt.
"What's going on? You look like you haven't slept a wink?" Dmitri enquired out of genuine concern and out of a genuine attempt at changing the subject. It settled well with Sylvester; he needed some more time to think and he actually had not slept well or at all over the past few days. "Yea.. I'm sorry... I'll catch you later"
"Why don't you come join us?"
"I really shouldn't. I need to go." And he left.
"We used to be best friends" Sylvester protested.
"But we ARE best friends! What has gotten into you?" Dmitri said,as if the current state of events were the usual.
"What's gotten into me?! It's YOU who is never here. It's YOU who is no where to be found. It's YOU who never tries to make contact or respond to any efforts of mine either" Sylvester kept his voice low, so as to not attract any attention but the message was clear.
"I think we both know what has changed between now and before..." Sylvester continued, eyeing Fate from over Dmitri's shoulder. Dmitri did not need to turn around to get the message. He understood the problem; Sylvester was jealous.
But he only understood half the problem. Yes, Sylvester was jealous but of whom? In Dmitri's mind everything was nice and dandy; his best friend was jealous of his better half. But in reality and in Sylvester's mind it was not so simple. Sylvester was torn because of the lack of attention his best friend was bestowing upon him and he was distraught because the girl of his dreams was now a girl he would never know amourously.
Sylvester would take a bullet for Dmitri and he quell a storm for Fate (or any endeavour which would involve perishing) but he only has one life to give. So when asked to do both at the same time, would he start questioning his beliefs? Who would he choose and who would he choose to lose?
He had decided,prior to entering the diner, walking up to Dmitri and pulling him aside for a talk, what he would do. He could start a war with his friend or he could start a war with himself. And now that he stood in front of Dmitri, with Fate visible from over his shoulder, his decision appeared to be clouded with doubt.
"What's going on? You look like you haven't slept a wink?" Dmitri enquired out of genuine concern and out of a genuine attempt at changing the subject. It settled well with Sylvester; he needed some more time to think and he actually had not slept well or at all over the past few days. "Yea.. I'm sorry... I'll catch you later"
"Why don't you come join us?"
"I really shouldn't. I need to go." And he left.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Mere Dil Mere Musafir - Faiz Ahmed Faiz
My Heart, My Traveler*
My heart, my fellow traveler. It has been decreed again That you and I be exiled.
Go calling out in every street, Turn to every town,To search for a clue of a messenger from our Beloved.
To ask every stranger the way back to our home. In this town of unfamiliar folk we drudge the day into the night, Talk to this stranger at times,to that one at others.
How can I convey to you, how horrible is a night of lonliness? It would suffice to me if there were just some count, I would gladly welcome death if it were to come but once.
*Translation by Hamid Rahim Sheikh
My heart, my fellow traveler. It has been decreed again That you and I be exiled.
Go calling out in every street, Turn to every town,To search for a clue of a messenger from our Beloved.
To ask every stranger the way back to our home. In this town of unfamiliar folk we drudge the day into the night, Talk to this stranger at times,to that one at others.
How can I convey to you, how horrible is a night of lonliness? It would suffice to me if there were just some count, I would gladly welcome death if it were to come but once.
*Translation by Hamid Rahim Sheikh
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Latest Addition
As suggested, I have 'moved' the Pengu Suicides series to blogspot.
http://www.pengusuicide.blogspot.com/
Enjoy
http://www.pengusuicide.blogspot.com/
Enjoy
Friday, June 18, 2010
Sattire Attire part XIII Angel of dreams & Dreams of deaths
“...dying, in short, continues for a long time after death.” Midnight’s Children – Salman Rushdie
The greatest fear of great men is to cross a path and not change its course; to wither away unnoticed, uncelebrated and unchampioned. But then, in the deepest confines of their hearts, all men consider themselves great. Why, then, only so few can live up to their heart’s greatest desire?
The greater the longing for greatness, the greater the pain after death; it is hard to forget perceived failure when reconciliation is no longer a possibility. So that even after death their souls are unable to come to terms with the finality of death and the eventual exhaustion of all their chances to become mythical and legendary. Indeed, even in death they are bound by chains of failure; failure to live again. But in life chances are aplenty in each breathing moment. And Sylvester was still breathing.
But death lingered close by. Overwhelmed by an emotion so potent, he did not know whether it was grief, guilt, anger or jealousy, Sylvester was unable to let his mind rest. And since his body was always in sync with his mind, it refused to rest as well. Sylvester had trouble sleeping. He had trouble sleeping because he feared it. Aspiring-great-men are permitted other fears besides the failure to fulfill their desire for greatness, and Sylvester feared sleep.
To be more precise, he feared what transpired after his eyelids curtained reality from his senses. He feared what he dreamt. He dreamt falling in an endless, dark pit. He dreamt drowning in the ominous depths of an unwelcoming ocean. He dreamt being torn apart by wild animals (big and small). He dreamt being consumed by an enormous conflagration, its origins unknown. He dreamt being stranded in a deserted town and left starving for days.
He dreamt many painful situations, but he failed to dream their end. He suffered relentlessly in his dreams but his sufferings never ended; he never achieved death in his dreams. And I wonder, if any of us can? But what a strange turn of events: a setting of a pseudo-alternate reality and the aspiring-great-man’s fear is no longer his Fear. His fear is now the opposite of his Fear. He fears the inability to die, irrespective of how ceremonious it would be. How must it feel to face death and know that you will live through the endeavour to eventually face it again? Sylvester, though a great-man-to-be, was struggling where both reality and imagination were concerned.
So, unconsciously he feared not dying, and when in his senses he feared an underachieved ending. But of late another thought had plagued his reality and imagination; the fateful woman, Fate.
Why was his longing for Fate so great? He had come across many a dame that had numbed his senses for a few fleeting moments. And having procured the cure to numbness, he had scurried along without any excess baggage of guilt or shame. The fate with Fate would have surely been no different. Was it just the desiring the unattainable syndrome or was it something more? Was it the making of a great love story, which would permit him to play the bereaved lover’s part who has to make the great sacrifice? Only time would be able to tell.
The greatest fear of great men is to cross a path and not change its course; to wither away unnoticed, uncelebrated and unchampioned. But then, in the deepest confines of their hearts, all men consider themselves great. Why, then, only so few can live up to their heart’s greatest desire?
The greater the longing for greatness, the greater the pain after death; it is hard to forget perceived failure when reconciliation is no longer a possibility. So that even after death their souls are unable to come to terms with the finality of death and the eventual exhaustion of all their chances to become mythical and legendary. Indeed, even in death they are bound by chains of failure; failure to live again. But in life chances are aplenty in each breathing moment. And Sylvester was still breathing.
But death lingered close by. Overwhelmed by an emotion so potent, he did not know whether it was grief, guilt, anger or jealousy, Sylvester was unable to let his mind rest. And since his body was always in sync with his mind, it refused to rest as well. Sylvester had trouble sleeping. He had trouble sleeping because he feared it. Aspiring-great-men are permitted other fears besides the failure to fulfill their desire for greatness, and Sylvester feared sleep.
To be more precise, he feared what transpired after his eyelids curtained reality from his senses. He feared what he dreamt. He dreamt falling in an endless, dark pit. He dreamt drowning in the ominous depths of an unwelcoming ocean. He dreamt being torn apart by wild animals (big and small). He dreamt being consumed by an enormous conflagration, its origins unknown. He dreamt being stranded in a deserted town and left starving for days.
He dreamt many painful situations, but he failed to dream their end. He suffered relentlessly in his dreams but his sufferings never ended; he never achieved death in his dreams. And I wonder, if any of us can? But what a strange turn of events: a setting of a pseudo-alternate reality and the aspiring-great-man’s fear is no longer his Fear. His fear is now the opposite of his Fear. He fears the inability to die, irrespective of how ceremonious it would be. How must it feel to face death and know that you will live through the endeavour to eventually face it again? Sylvester, though a great-man-to-be, was struggling where both reality and imagination were concerned.
So, unconsciously he feared not dying, and when in his senses he feared an underachieved ending. But of late another thought had plagued his reality and imagination; the fateful woman, Fate.
Why was his longing for Fate so great? He had come across many a dame that had numbed his senses for a few fleeting moments. And having procured the cure to numbness, he had scurried along without any excess baggage of guilt or shame. The fate with Fate would have surely been no different. Was it just the desiring the unattainable syndrome or was it something more? Was it the making of a great love story, which would permit him to play the bereaved lover’s part who has to make the great sacrifice? Only time would be able to tell.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Sattire Attire part XII - Lionhearted, Birdbrained
"We all owe death a life" Salman Rushdie - Midnight's Children
A seed is a remarkable... existance; microscopic in size, weightless in weight, a withered past and a future unknown. Every birth can trace itself to its seed. Seeds bloom into flowers, they are fed to birds, reach the heights of great tall oaks, they transform into lions and men - lionhearted and otherwise.
But we humans are sometimes so clever that we manage to defeat imagination and arbitrariness. We have classified seeds so as to predict their pattern; an apple-tree seed will grow into an apple tree, a rose-seed will blossom into a rose and a human seed will take the form of either man or woman - in most cases. But we humans, like apple trees and roses, are not perfect; we did not manage to completely annihilate all arbitrariness and imagination.
Can we fathom whether the apple-tree from the apple-tree seed will bear sweet fruit - or will the apple from the tree descend upon the head of an unsuspecting imaginist, changing the course of human history and thought, and leading to the very murder of arbitrariness and imaginiation that we so adore?
Can we, then, fathom whether the rose from the rose-seed will smell as sweet as its parent -or will it find itself strangled between the clasping hands of two lovers under the shadow of a winged midget fidgeting with its bow and missing arrow?
Or can we even fathom whether the man - assuming that the imagination of the arbitrariness of gender has been murdered - from the human seed be a poet? A warrior? A tyrant? A beggar?
At last we have salvaged some arbitrariness and some imagination, but also something else... some doubt, perhaps? Doubt. yes, some doubt. There always has to be some doubt to strike balance in these matters, as in all matters equilibrium is what settles things.
But the seed of doubt? Oh what a monsterous abomination! A curse of the worst kind; a small doubt that grows day by day, feeding itself on anything that comes in its course. A small growing doubt that spreads into branches, many twigs and branches, and it spreads and grows - and grows and spreads; assidious in its growing and spreading, till in the end it bears fruit; an accusation!
Fed and brought up on truths, half-truths, hearsay, lies and doubt, the accusation is a poisonous fruit that when ripe can kill any relationship the moment it is emitted from the serpent's glands; it kills right before the moment it finds itself on its prey.
It is a poison that eats away the insides of the tree that nourishes it until it is spat out onto its victim; expunging either the bearer or the victim from the relationship, depending on whether it manages to eat away the bearer before it is served to the victim. And sadly there is no antidote for it.
Seated there on table 8 Sylvester had finally gained some composure after the day's extraordinary happenings. He was trying to make sense of it all. But something bothered him, as he revised the course of the day in his head. Something had happened near the end of the day that left him a little unsettled and gloomy; doubt had impregnated him. That mysterious man, who only talked in question-marks, had planted the seed of doubt in his mind.
And I am sure that by now we all know that the narrative from here can only take an ugly course. But it is a beautiful cloudless night and I do not have the heart to pursue such a noctural endeavour on such a starlit night. Call it a travesty of justice and abuse of patience if you must but bear with my absence for a little while longer.
A seed is a remarkable... existance; microscopic in size, weightless in weight, a withered past and a future unknown. Every birth can trace itself to its seed. Seeds bloom into flowers, they are fed to birds, reach the heights of great tall oaks, they transform into lions and men - lionhearted and otherwise.
But we humans are sometimes so clever that we manage to defeat imagination and arbitrariness. We have classified seeds so as to predict their pattern; an apple-tree seed will grow into an apple tree, a rose-seed will blossom into a rose and a human seed will take the form of either man or woman - in most cases. But we humans, like apple trees and roses, are not perfect; we did not manage to completely annihilate all arbitrariness and imagination.
Can we fathom whether the apple-tree from the apple-tree seed will bear sweet fruit - or will the apple from the tree descend upon the head of an unsuspecting imaginist, changing the course of human history and thought, and leading to the very murder of arbitrariness and imaginiation that we so adore?
Can we, then, fathom whether the rose from the rose-seed will smell as sweet as its parent -or will it find itself strangled between the clasping hands of two lovers under the shadow of a winged midget fidgeting with its bow and missing arrow?
Or can we even fathom whether the man - assuming that the imagination of the arbitrariness of gender has been murdered - from the human seed be a poet? A warrior? A tyrant? A beggar?
At last we have salvaged some arbitrariness and some imagination, but also something else... some doubt, perhaps? Doubt. yes, some doubt. There always has to be some doubt to strike balance in these matters, as in all matters equilibrium is what settles things.
But the seed of doubt? Oh what a monsterous abomination! A curse of the worst kind; a small doubt that grows day by day, feeding itself on anything that comes in its course. A small growing doubt that spreads into branches, many twigs and branches, and it spreads and grows - and grows and spreads; assidious in its growing and spreading, till in the end it bears fruit; an accusation!
Fed and brought up on truths, half-truths, hearsay, lies and doubt, the accusation is a poisonous fruit that when ripe can kill any relationship the moment it is emitted from the serpent's glands; it kills right before the moment it finds itself on its prey.
It is a poison that eats away the insides of the tree that nourishes it until it is spat out onto its victim; expunging either the bearer or the victim from the relationship, depending on whether it manages to eat away the bearer before it is served to the victim. And sadly there is no antidote for it.
Seated there on table 8 Sylvester had finally gained some composure after the day's extraordinary happenings. He was trying to make sense of it all. But something bothered him, as he revised the course of the day in his head. Something had happened near the end of the day that left him a little unsettled and gloomy; doubt had impregnated him. That mysterious man, who only talked in question-marks, had planted the seed of doubt in his mind.
And I am sure that by now we all know that the narrative from here can only take an ugly course. But it is a beautiful cloudless night and I do not have the heart to pursue such a noctural endeavour on such a starlit night. Call it a travesty of justice and abuse of patience if you must but bear with my absence for a little while longer.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Friday, May 07, 2010
Stab the dog
MMM: The dog snores
Me: stab it
MMM: All in good time. I just need to win over its trust first. Then 'meat infront of a car on the road' will come in play. But zk says you need to chill and get a gf with a dog and then you will fall in love with the dog more than the gf. And then she will stab you.
Me: always count on zk to give the wrong advice. but then again you could stab the gf and throw her infront of the car and then you'll have your 'meat in front of a car on the road' play.
The hate for dogs is not without good reason. Let's say that there was a dog called snuffles. Snuffles was a bitch by definition and otherwise. I was asleep on a sofa-bed, at peace with the fact that the dog was locked outside and did not possess the physical means of rising to the height of the door handle and opening the door. I was wrong.
Oblivious to the cruel prospects that would potentially await me, I was blissfully relaxing under the shade of an apple tree with warm waters wetting my feet. I quickly realized that my feet were a bit too wet for my liking, so I pulled them out of the water. But the water followed my feet whereever they went. The level of discomfort forced me out of my slumber only to be shocked by the sight of Snuffles on the sofa-bed licking away at my feet as if it were a piece of t-bone steak that she would soon devour.
As a result of the shock my impulsive reaction was kick the dog as hard as I could. Realizing that such an act would prompt a retaliation from the beast, I jumped up and threw my blanket on the animal and kicked it a few more times so as to immobilize it. By now I was a sure shot mortal enemy; no reconcialation would be possible. After my sporadic attack on Snuffles I ran out of the room and closed the door behind, only to realized that I had locked myself out. The other two doors that faced me were locked too. I had to spend the rest of the night in the gallery, as amidst all the excitement and shock I had left my cellphone by the sofa-bed side. I was cold and without a means of communication. Stupid bitch!
Me: stab it
MMM: All in good time. I just need to win over its trust first. Then 'meat infront of a car on the road' will come in play. But zk says you need to chill and get a gf with a dog and then you will fall in love with the dog more than the gf. And then she will stab you.
Me: always count on zk to give the wrong advice. but then again you could stab the gf and throw her infront of the car and then you'll have your 'meat in front of a car on the road' play.
The hate for dogs is not without good reason. Let's say that there was a dog called snuffles. Snuffles was a bitch by definition and otherwise. I was asleep on a sofa-bed, at peace with the fact that the dog was locked outside and did not possess the physical means of rising to the height of the door handle and opening the door. I was wrong.
Oblivious to the cruel prospects that would potentially await me, I was blissfully relaxing under the shade of an apple tree with warm waters wetting my feet. I quickly realized that my feet were a bit too wet for my liking, so I pulled them out of the water. But the water followed my feet whereever they went. The level of discomfort forced me out of my slumber only to be shocked by the sight of Snuffles on the sofa-bed licking away at my feet as if it were a piece of t-bone steak that she would soon devour.
As a result of the shock my impulsive reaction was kick the dog as hard as I could. Realizing that such an act would prompt a retaliation from the beast, I jumped up and threw my blanket on the animal and kicked it a few more times so as to immobilize it. By now I was a sure shot mortal enemy; no reconcialation would be possible. After my sporadic attack on Snuffles I ran out of the room and closed the door behind, only to realized that I had locked myself out. The other two doors that faced me were locked too. I had to spend the rest of the night in the gallery, as amidst all the excitement and shock I had left my cellphone by the sofa-bed side. I was cold and without a means of communication. Stupid bitch!
Sunday, May 02, 2010
What's the capital of...
Another one of those nights; sitting senza fine (without aim) on the floor and surrounded by clowns. Usually most things in life should have a purpose, but then such a blatant waste of time would never be.
"What's the capital of Kuwait?" asked Feeqs
"Kuwait, that was sooo easy" answered Tinu, "Ok. What's the capital of China?"
"Sooo easy. Beijing." Feeqs said with overconfidence "I bet you don't know the capital of South Africa"
"Oh it's so easy... I watch cricket you know!" Tinu said as he went deep into meditation.
I knew every single one of the capitals but this game of trying to prove each other dumb was entertaining at first, but now they were naming countries they both didn't know capitals of.
"Pretoria!" exclaimed Tinu to Feeqs smug look. Tinu was obviously the smarter of the two. But I already knew that.
"Ok what's the capital of Argentina?"
"OOOoooh I KNOW this!!! Just give me a minute!" Feeqs said, to my great surprise. He was acting like he really knew the answer.
"Just give me a minute, it's on the tip of my tongue" he said as he started to whispering to himself some indiscernable words.
Tinu stole a look towards me which said 'This is going to be so entertaining'. And so I got ready to brace myself.
"OK ok ok! It's uhhh...San something... uhh.. Sannn... Saannnnn.... uhh.. San Marino!!" Feeqs really did put a lot of thought into it. But really, where on earth is San Marino?
Tinu acted shocked, like we do when Pakistan looses a cricket game that they've seemingly won.
"How did you know?!" said Tinu, almost acting frustrated.
Here I must admit, it was my fault for I could not contain myself any longer. I burst out laughing like a maniac that's broken out of a mental asylum.
"eff you Tinu. I bet you don't know it yourself." A summary of what Feeqs said to Tinu but in a less colourful language.
"Ok ok Feeqs I'll give you another one so you can prove yourself. What's the capital of Tanzania?"
"I Don't Know and I bet you don't either!"
"Oh but I do"
"Yea? What is it?"
"Dodoma"
"HAHA! Dodoma?! You expect me to buy that?"
We didn't even have to look at each other to know that the other hugging the floor and struggling to breathe because sometimes, and often times, Feeqs just manages to get himself into the most hilarious conversational traps. Feeqs stormed out of the room.
"What's the capital of Kuwait?" asked Feeqs
"Kuwait, that was sooo easy" answered Tinu, "Ok. What's the capital of China?"
"Sooo easy. Beijing." Feeqs said with overconfidence "I bet you don't know the capital of South Africa"
"Oh it's so easy... I watch cricket you know!" Tinu said as he went deep into meditation.
I knew every single one of the capitals but this game of trying to prove each other dumb was entertaining at first, but now they were naming countries they both didn't know capitals of.
"Pretoria!" exclaimed Tinu to Feeqs smug look. Tinu was obviously the smarter of the two. But I already knew that.
"Ok what's the capital of Argentina?"
"OOOoooh I KNOW this!!! Just give me a minute!" Feeqs said, to my great surprise. He was acting like he really knew the answer.
"Just give me a minute, it's on the tip of my tongue" he said as he started to whispering to himself some indiscernable words.
Tinu stole a look towards me which said 'This is going to be so entertaining'. And so I got ready to brace myself.
"OK ok ok! It's uhhh...San something... uhh.. Sannn... Saannnnn.... uhh.. San Marino!!" Feeqs really did put a lot of thought into it. But really, where on earth is San Marino?
Tinu acted shocked, like we do when Pakistan looses a cricket game that they've seemingly won.
"How did you know?!" said Tinu, almost acting frustrated.
Here I must admit, it was my fault for I could not contain myself any longer. I burst out laughing like a maniac that's broken out of a mental asylum.
"eff you Tinu. I bet you don't know it yourself." A summary of what Feeqs said to Tinu but in a less colourful language.
"Ok ok Feeqs I'll give you another one so you can prove yourself. What's the capital of Tanzania?"
"I Don't Know and I bet you don't either!"
"Oh but I do"
"Yea? What is it?"
"Dodoma"
"HAHA! Dodoma?! You expect me to buy that?"
We didn't even have to look at each other to know that the other hugging the floor and struggling to breathe because sometimes, and often times, Feeqs just manages to get himself into the most hilarious conversational traps. Feeqs stormed out of the room.
Friday, April 09, 2010
The Solitude of Emprors
The one who stays within the limits assigned to him is a man
The one who roams beyond these limits is a saint
To reject both limits and their absence:
That's a thought with immeasurable depths.
- Kabir
The one who roams beyond these limits is a saint
To reject both limits and their absence:
That's a thought with immeasurable depths.
- Kabir
Monday, March 29, 2010
Quotes of the day
It was late at night, at an hour which the simple Suzies consider ungodly, when roads are devoid of cars and the scenery devoid of pedestrians. Contrary to popular belief, it is the most spiritual time of day. But for some reason the McDonald's drive-thru had a line up. That did not bother the characters in our story though; Tinu, Feeq and Biro.
After much debate they had finalized their order. A big mac meal, a big mac meal and a big mac meal. Oh and there was an apple pie.
They had finalized their order far too early though; they were still 3 cars and 10 mins of service behind.
"Don't forget my apple pie!" Feeq reminded Biro in his usual irate tone.
Feeq can be summed up in three simple words: Angry Young Man. Angry with life, money, women, friends, friends (the tv sitcom), the Tunisian government, any government... he was angry with coffee and he was angry with tea.
When Feeq wasn't angry he was staring women down. They didn't have to be pretty. He would just stare them down. It's not as creepy as it sounds; like an alarm clock that rings every morning even if it's a Saturday, Feeq would stare at women, even those that looked like men.
As fate would have it Feeq turned around to look inside the McDonald's and he saw a couple of girls of African origin. And then he decided to bestow on his friends some great insight: "You know these Nigerians, Kenyans, Sudanians..."
"Feeq, it's Sudanese" corrected Tinu.
"What? Yea, I know. Anyways, these Sudanians.."
"Its Sudanese, not Sudanians. Say it after me: Soo-Daa-Knees"
"Sudanese. There! Anyways these Sudanians..."
"Man, what's wrong with you?"
"What? So, these Sudanians..."
(Tinu to himself) "WHY do I bother?"
"...are SOOO Fucking Dumb!"
After much debate they had finalized their order. A big mac meal, a big mac meal and a big mac meal. Oh and there was an apple pie.
They had finalized their order far too early though; they were still 3 cars and 10 mins of service behind.
"Don't forget my apple pie!" Feeq reminded Biro in his usual irate tone.
Feeq can be summed up in three simple words: Angry Young Man. Angry with life, money, women, friends, friends (the tv sitcom), the Tunisian government, any government... he was angry with coffee and he was angry with tea.
When Feeq wasn't angry he was staring women down. They didn't have to be pretty. He would just stare them down. It's not as creepy as it sounds; like an alarm clock that rings every morning even if it's a Saturday, Feeq would stare at women, even those that looked like men.
As fate would have it Feeq turned around to look inside the McDonald's and he saw a couple of girls of African origin. And then he decided to bestow on his friends some great insight: "You know these Nigerians, Kenyans, Sudanians..."
"Feeq, it's Sudanese" corrected Tinu.
"What? Yea, I know. Anyways, these Sudanians.."
"Its Sudanese, not Sudanians. Say it after me: Soo-Daa-Knees"
"Sudanese. There! Anyways these Sudanians..."
"Man, what's wrong with you?"
"What? So, these Sudanians..."
(Tinu to himself) "WHY do I bother?"
"...are SOOO Fucking Dumb!"
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
we don't need no Valetination
Pick up lines courtesy our heros, Beavis, Butthead and me
"Why don't you get out of my dreams and into my car, baby?"
That didn't really work. It didn't work because the girl did not have a sense of humour. She was blonde, so I did not expect her to have any common sense either. All she had was nonsense. Which is exactly why I was drawn towards her. But I think the reason why it did not work was because I did not have a car and I don't think she thought the car was a metaphor. Which is what I was hoping for.
A metaphor for what though? On second thought, I think this was as far as I could have gotten with that line. Thank God she wasn't mildly smart enough to assume a metaphorical car.
"You need a man in your life, baby. And like, I need a woman. Let's like get into each other's life or whatever"
She said that she already had a man in her life. I told her that my life's pretty much free and she can step in whenever she wants. Her man ended up stepping ON it.
"I'm not trying to pick you up. You're like too heavy"
Some words kill a girl's sense of humour. They are heavy, fat, huge, big, twilight, bradd pit and 'that bitch'
"If you're really hot, I bet I can cool you down.."
This is where being cool comes in handy. But if you're not cool and if you're hot then you're screwed because 'If you're really cool, I bet I can hot you up' is not correct English.
"Hey that burka/niqab/shuttlecock looks great on you"
This is great because you're telling her that you appreciate her inner beauty. But when her outer beauty is under a bukra, it becomes the inner beauty. And when the inner beauty is under the burka, it becomes the inner-inner beauty. In fact, all you're really appreciating is the work of the burka-maker. But you don't really need to worry about that, they haven't really figured that out yet.
"I would like, do homework or something, for your love"
She's probably done her homework. Or doesn't plan to do it. She'll always have second thoughts about YOU doing her homework. Anyways, is it really worth it?
"Hey, are you one of those chicks who goes out with guys right off the bat? Because that's what I'm looking for.."
You've got to keep using this one till someone says 'yes' and then it will work automatically. The premise just sets it up so nicely for you.
"I wish I was in the bomb-squad, then I could defuse you... cause you're a sex-bomb"
extra chees-E. But we have a winner if you ever want to commit suicide.
"Why don't you get out of my dreams and into my car, baby?"
That didn't really work. It didn't work because the girl did not have a sense of humour. She was blonde, so I did not expect her to have any common sense either. All she had was nonsense. Which is exactly why I was drawn towards her. But I think the reason why it did not work was because I did not have a car and I don't think she thought the car was a metaphor. Which is what I was hoping for.
A metaphor for what though? On second thought, I think this was as far as I could have gotten with that line. Thank God she wasn't mildly smart enough to assume a metaphorical car.
"You need a man in your life, baby. And like, I need a woman. Let's like get into each other's life or whatever"
She said that she already had a man in her life. I told her that my life's pretty much free and she can step in whenever she wants. Her man ended up stepping ON it.
"I'm not trying to pick you up. You're like too heavy"
Some words kill a girl's sense of humour. They are heavy, fat, huge, big, twilight, bradd pit and 'that bitch'
"If you're really hot, I bet I can cool you down.."
This is where being cool comes in handy. But if you're not cool and if you're hot then you're screwed because 'If you're really cool, I bet I can hot you up' is not correct English.
"Hey that burka/niqab/shuttlecock looks great on you"
This is great because you're telling her that you appreciate her inner beauty. But when her outer beauty is under a bukra, it becomes the inner beauty. And when the inner beauty is under the burka, it becomes the inner-inner beauty. In fact, all you're really appreciating is the work of the burka-maker. But you don't really need to worry about that, they haven't really figured that out yet.
"I would like, do homework or something, for your love"
She's probably done her homework. Or doesn't plan to do it. She'll always have second thoughts about YOU doing her homework. Anyways, is it really worth it?
"Hey, are you one of those chicks who goes out with guys right off the bat? Because that's what I'm looking for.."
You've got to keep using this one till someone says 'yes' and then it will work automatically. The premise just sets it up so nicely for you.
"I wish I was in the bomb-squad, then I could defuse you... cause you're a sex-bomb"
extra chees-E. But we have a winner if you ever want to commit suicide.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
A fable of old (1)
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?
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?