Catching up on other things

Has been quite a while since the last time I felt like ranting on about something in public. But, I am me, as I know already. I do not go out on walks, handing out sermons on what and what not I enjoyed doing over past few weeks.

And so I thought of resorting again to the ever reliant, if not inferior means of communicating with others. In any case I always was a better writer than an orator as I recount now. And this way, my audience (you) can choose their time of convenience to be bored/entertained by my rants on few things which I feel like sharing from time to time. Or you (my audience) may choose to skip entirely. So here goes.

I recently read three books in quick succession. Two in a single week infact and both were powerful enough for me to simply forget what the first one was even called. Written by the same author, Mohsin Hamid, yes, of Man Booker Prize nomination fame.

There is something so honest and truthful about Pakistani writers. I am forced to feel bad that majority of our country shrugs off our neighbour as a dead state. I do agree that as a politic and as a democratic entity Pakistan is as dead as roast meat. History speaks for itself that any country having religion at its base does not take long to transform from unpretentious autonomy to authoritarian tyranny. And so in a century’s time, or even less, perhaps the world will acknowledge collectively the green on their flags and the elegant half moon with the star in the middle on their uniforms to be wrongful. It may go on to be so or it may not. (I pray India does not go down a similar road.)

Yet I am forced to keep an unassuming view as far as the people there are concerned. Because, if I am truthful to myself, apart from fleeting glimpses of mobs burning effigies of Indian politicians and snob faced reporters narrating botched up stories of India, not Pakistan, being the source of terrorism, I know nothing about what goes on there day to day.

And it so happened that both times that I put down these books having read the last sentence off the last page of each one, I felt mesmerized by the fact that how something that many of us, as patriotic Indians, consider to be ugly as a country in totality still has such beautiful themes to offer in terms of literary art forms. And when I say this, I am not at all basing my conclusions on the work of a single person as it just so happens that a month back I had also finished reading another Pakistani novel by the name ‘A case of exploding mangoes’ by Mohammad Hanif, who has unofficially been bestowed with the title ‘Rockstar of Pakistan’- most befittingly- given the popularity this debut novel of his was able to garner in the short span since its publishing.

Hanif is utterly brilliant in his narrative and the book is what I would call a must read for any book lover who wishes to be enthralled at the same time with rib tickling wit and gut wrenching truth cum reality. ‘A case of. . .’ came as more of a shock to me than a surprise because even the synopsis at the back of the book conveyed so little about what the experience would be like while reading it. I had shown so much reluctance while taking it off the shelf and when I began reading I realized I just couldn’t afford to take even a single pause. I ended up literally living with the novel for one whole week before I could reach the end. I have to express again to you (my audience), the book is a must read, if not for its political correctness, then merely for the brilliant storyline (plot: the real/fictional story behind Pak president Zia ul Haq’s plane crash of 1988 that was surrounded by a dozen conspiracy theories)

Anyways, moving on.

 

‘Moth Smoke’ was the first of Hamid’s two that I began with. It is-like the other-a first person narrative of a young man named Darashikoh Shehzad’s spiraling downfall from the heights of academic genius and promise to drugs and ultimate imprisonment. The best way to describe it in one sentence would be- Imagine Dev D, but with a certain emotional undercurrent of flowing gloom that that film lacked in my view. The character portrayal and the narrative style utilized by the author are so subtle that it seeps into your blood and the gloom that lies in the form of words on paper and ink are suddenly inside you, surrounding you- you are breathing it.

 

A hundred pages into the book, I could barely feel any weight on my mind other than what weighed down the mind of the story’s protagonist. It is-I must add- also a deeply personal tale of love found and lost, as is ‘The Reluctant Fundamentalist’, of which I will speak in some time. I was most impressed by one thing and that is the simplicity with which the author conveys such grave issues like economic inequality as well as such intimate issues like personal independence, desire, lust and betrayal with equal prowess and grace. A good novel, as explained to me by an AVP who took me on in an interview at a Broking firm a year ago, is one which melts the words from before your eyes and only leaves you with the scenes in your imagination much like a film, only much closer to your senses. I recollect that now as I recollect the experience of having read this book.

 

Which brings me to the second of the two, The Reluctant Fundamentalist-the novel that is now a ‘Major Motion Picture’ as the front cover, bedecked with photos of semi-famed actors, shouts out proudly (The movie tanked and critics hated it, no doubt. I am seriously surprised at the choice of novels some people make to convert into films. first Midnight’s Children, which I still firmly believe is a story beyond the capacity of images, moving or still, to replicate because the entire book is based on smell as the binding force or ‘Sutradhar’ as some would call it. And now this! Where exactly is that big a story in this 184 paged book to be acted out by thespians, I am dumbfounded. Yes, agreed that if it is a monologue in a stage play that we are talking about, then it is quite possible to enact this story. But a film, not a chance!)

The book, again a first person narrative, speaks of the story of Changez, a Pakistani boy who moves to the States to pursue his dreams, the American Dream, to be more precise, and the effects that the events following 9/11 have on him. Again, at the crux of it all lies a love story and the manner in which the author manages to envelope the macro issues of a brown skinned man with a beard living in New York with the problems of a heart broken youth is surreal. Ideologies are not shaped in silo, as I interpret it, is the key moral of this tale for me. Events happen, people feel, people ponder, people think, and then people change in terms of beliefs and thoughts. 

Purpose of life is defined by events that transpire around us and not by the mere fact that we choose one befitting our skill-set. It may so happen that we embrace blindly what life has chosen by itself as our purpose and continue to believe that we were the driving force behind such decisions, but it is not so and even if it is, there is no saying that some event tomorrow or the day after shall transpire leaving a giant hole in our projections’ blueprint. Then we change accordingly. Life is governed by many things that are beyond us.

So is true in the case of Changez, the protagonist, as well. I reached the end of this novel, or rather novella, today evening. The end-as is the problem with many-a-brilliantly written story-was, I must say, underwhelming. But the content as compared to Moth Smoke was stronger and more pertinent to today’s global ambience of ever growing discrimination between blacks and whites. Still if you asked me to rank the two against each other, I would consider Moth Smoke as a better book in the same way that I consider ‘Between the assassinations’ as Aravind Adiga’s better one when compared with ‘White Tiger’. There is a certain depth that I like to see while reading which I have come to associate with debut novels. Hence, the bias for Moth Smoke.

Watched a few films recently, The Lunchbox being the last one. It is indeed a very good film but, surprisingly, I didn’t find it to be that moving a story. Now I don’t know whether that is a problem with the film or a problem with me and my preoccupation with Mohsin Hamid’s colossally impacting narratives. But one thing I can state with confidence that I vouch for A Separation which is an Iranian film by Asghar Farhadi to be one of the best films that I have watched till date. The treatment and the pacing of this movie, you will find once you’ve seen both, is quite similar to that of The Lunchbox.

Also worthy of a mention is a 2001 TV Movie that goes by the name Conspiracy that was recommended to me by another movie buff of a friend. If drama as a genre interests you, then this is THE film to watch. 

Taut, gripping, ace actors giving their honest best. Much like Sidney Lumet’s 12 Angry Men, only much more chilling in terms of its content and sheer reality of dialogue. (Plot: The meeting of 15 Nazi high ranking officers to find a permanent solution to the problem of growing number of Jews in Europe) 

Takes a while to adjust to watching English actors playing Nazis.

But once Colin Firth and Kenneth Branagh begin mouthing their lines, you will have sheer awe and nothing more on your mind.

Revival of the languid

Blatant, Naked, Basic

I am a forty year old man. I am God’s son. May His reign on this earth prolong until my heart ceases to beat and then beyond.

I speak no lie.

My religion forbids me from lying. It has taught me that God knows everything that there ever has been to know of me. For, as His messengers assure me each passing day, He has resided in every decision I have taken and every deed I have committed, since the beginning. I have nothing to conceal from any living creature as I am answerable to Him and only Him for all. And so I speak now, with neither veil on my thought nor falter in my voice. I speak with you as truthfully as I would have spoken, had I, by my good fortune, been asked by His self to speak.

I have blood on my hands.

I have killed. And for that I am honoured.

The hordes of lines, so coarse yet so innate; running scuttling scurrying  across the face of my hand, these Seers of Morrow, as other men I know consider them to be, offer me silence, solemnly definite, disturbingly grim silence when I ask them of the days, years and decades yet to come. They know nothing of the unknown; of the unhappened. 

Instead, unlike the ones drawn across other hands, mine speak of the past; of the known; of the truth. They are a mirror, not a projection.

I look down at them, watching them as a whole. And I know for sure that these lines, these Prophets of Destiny as other men call them, cannot hold more than what has already been etched into them in red. They are full.

For I have blood on my hands.

I have killed. And for that I am honoured.

It is here, tonight, now, at this very moment, with this starless sky gazing down on me, observing me so silently, with its one good eye, the pored dense goat milk white moon, that I sit down on my throne of rock, lay down my sword and rifle by my side, and speak with you as truthfully as I would have spoken, had I, by my good fortune, had God as my audience.

Truth.

Blatant truth.

I have waged countless wars. I have massacred hundreds and set their vile houses on fire. I have attacked villages and towns alike with a belligerence so strong that they may not be built again for decades to come. I have tortured, shot, beheaded and burnt men; men who praise a God other than mine; men who speak of my God, the one, the only real one, as if he were inanimate; as if he were a non entity; men who mock him and whisper amongst themselves that His life is a fable spawned from nothing but lies and fear; men who speak of peace and love in public and then go on to protest and debate, to challenge and question the idea of His existence; men who term His believers as fools and our beliefs as folly. Death is what they have received in my hands; a reply, as I am taught each day by His messengers, truly befitting the arrogance of the arrogant and the tyranny of the tyrant.                                                                                                     

I am God’s proudest son. For I have avenged His name.

And for that I am honoured.

Truth.

Blatant truth.

I see my hands now and my palms have turned into clenched fists. My veins throb. My fingers hug each other tight. The surge of rage that swells in me as I lay on my bed is back tonight, just like every other night. . . The cruelty. . . the injustice. . . the. . . suppression. . . the rejection. . . the mockings. . . the killings. . . the tortures. . . the rapes the abuses the murders. . . the rapes the abuses the murders. . .

My fists ache as my fingernails dig deeper into skin.

 . . . rapes abuses murders. . . rapes. . . abuses. . . murders. . . my own brothers and fathers. . . my own mothers and sisters. . . my own friends and mates. . . murders rapes and abuses. . . bleeding leg stumps. . . chopped off arms. . . orphans. . . widows. . . body strewn alleys. . . skull bone decked gutters. . . gut filled mudpits. . . wailing women . . . rasping laughing mocking hoods. . . apples and oranges. . . sticks and scythes. . . fluttering hoods . . . the hood. . . the one. . . the hood. . . 

Overpowering, overwhelming rage it is. And I feel tiny in it. I feel miniscule. I feel like a pawn with no medal on him, a lascar on deck with no seafaring sense other than of mopping floors and cleaning lavatories.

I feel guilty.

“Hundreds. . . thousands. . . millions of our brothers and sisters. . . our own brothers and sisters. . . His followers. . . rapes abuses murders. . . torture. . . humiliation. . . death. . .” I hear the recordings shout out each day as we are taught by His messengers, taught and trained to answer, to punish evil.

“. . . Disgrace. . .” they reveal to me about the happenings of the world, this pitiless, capitalist, perverted world.

I feel guilty. I feel angry.

I am God’s loyal soldier. For I have fought for the world that He once envisioned of, a world that He once dreamed and wished to build. A world purged of sin and sinners that His messengers speak of each passing day as I do what they have taught me to do so well.

I have killed for His name.

And for that I am honoured.

Truth.

Blatant truth.

The surface does not say it all. The facade does not say it all. The veil shows only as much as it wants to and hides the rest.

I open my fists, the fingernail scratches are bleeding crimson. Surfaces hold secrets inside. . . secrets hold surfaces together. . . surface secrets. . . secret surfaces. . .

No. The truth does not end there, here, now.

I have nothing to conceal as I am answerable to Him and only Him for all. I am unveiled to him. Naked.

And so I dig deeper.

“Apples and oranges. . . apples and oranges,” her gentle voice rocking up and down.

 Tukk, tukk, tukk. . . Tukk, tukk, tukk. . . her stick hitting the blackboard on each word scribbled across its surface in crude chalk.

“Two apples. . . four oranges. . . how many?”

“Tuuu appppulssss (Tukk Tukk) . . . Foore oorenges (Tukk tukk) . . . “

“Very good,” stick making a circle in the air above us. Biri and I sitting in front. . .  looking at each other. . . and then at her. . . stick still circling. . .

“Two apples (tukk tukk) and (tukk) four oranges (tukk tukk) . . . makes?”

“Siiiixsssssssss,” all ten of us answering, in tandem, not one willing to stop with the last syllable. . . “ssssssssssssssssss” . . .

“Ok ok. I got it. Shhhh now,” Her smile on me and Biri.

“Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” one syllable sacrificed for another sounding merrier.

Tukk tukk tukk tukk tukk tukk. . . the slaps on the board harder than before.

“Badmash bachche sab ke sab” (naughty children, all of you)

All ten of us giggling into our palms, Biri and I, I and Biri, looking at the teacher, her stick resting on the wooden desk now, her hands raised, tying her silken hair behind her oval head, face breaking into smiles now and then looking at each one of us. Biri and I, I and Biri, waiting. . . hearts beating. . . one more question. . . we want another question. . . only the two of us. . . best friends since birth want to answer the next. . . 

“Theek hai,” (Ok then) Her eyes narrowing at us, all ten of us, “Lets see how many of you can get this right.”

“Hmmmmm”

“ Prize. . . Prize. . . Prize. . . Prize. . .” the others shouting in unison. Biri and I joining them eagerly, “Prize. . . Prize. . .”

Tukk tukk tukk on the board again.

“Yes yes. Ok. QUIET now” Tukk tukk tukk tukk.

“You,” stick pointing at me, “go get my bag from there,” her eye lashes thin at the sides, thick in the middles, falling and lifting casually.

“Jaldi jaldi. . . quick quick,” all nine of the others urging me on as I run to the corner where she keeps her cloth bag and back to the front of the class.

“God bless you,” her fingers warm, ruffling my hair, taking the bag, taking out the square box of chocolates from it.

“Yummmmmm,” all ten of us.

“Not so fast you naughty little brats,” her.

“Ummmmm,” chalk scribbling on the board again.

“Ok, Ten apples aaannnd twelve oranges. . . how many?” Biri and I, I and Biri, hands shooting in the air even before her chalk has stopped scribbling, even before she has finished speaking.

Rest of the ten, quiet.

“Yes?” her.

“Twaaanti Tuuuu” Biri and I, I and Biri in unison, hands still in the air.

Dhukk dhukk dhukk dhukk dhukk. . . stick against the wooden surface. . . not hers, a different one, a bigger one, with bigger hands holding it.

All eleven of us turning to the right. All eleven of them standing at the door, black clothed, eyeing her in the front.

“Chalo bachcho, iskool choot gayi hai” (scram kids, school’s out) the man with the stick shouting at us. The hood. . . the one. . . dhukk dhukk dhukk dhukk again.

Twenty feet rising to the ground, ten half pant clad bottoms dusted, bags packed, chalks pocketed, teacher still sitting on her chair.

“I said beat it. . .“ the hood fluttering angrily, “Quick!”, stick hitting Biri on his back.

Running now. All ten of us.

Outside the room, into the ground. Ten children out, ten hooded men in. The eleventh entering last, door shutting behind him.

Silence, followed by voices.

Noise of sticks hitting wood and glass echoing from inside.

“What do we do?” Biri helpless.

“I don’t know” I even more.

Shouts and noises, noises and shouts. Sticks hitting wood, sticks breaking glass. . . .

Her wailing.

Biri and I, I and Biri, hugging each other, weeping.

Her screaming. . . Doors open now. . . Her. . . running towards us. . . hair torn, 

“HEELLPPPPP”. . . cheeks bleeding. . .

“HELLPPP MEE”

Biri and I, I and Biri. Rest of the ten gone already.

Shivering, helpless.

The hood. . . the one. . . catching up from behind her. The stick, his stick, the sturdy one breaking on her knee cap.

Her on the ground, face first. Tear in her gown.

Biri and I, hugging, shivering, weeping.

Five black clothes carrying her back to the classroom. Her. . . unconscious. . . leg crumpled. . . cheeks torn. . . gown ripped. . .

The hood. . . the one. . . “Shhhhhhhhhh” to Biri and I.

“Summer vacations have come early for you, maje lo,” the hood. . . the one, rasping, mocking, laughing. Turning back from Biri and I, walking towards the room, entering, shutting the door.

“Please do something” Biri.

“What do we do?” I.

“There’s a window at the back”

Biri beneath me now. My legs resting on his shoulders, us leaning against the stone wall, me peeping in.

Her. . . sprawled over the table. . . Surrounded. . . held. . . tied. Conscious. . . wailing. . . screeching. . .

The hood. . . the one. . . cloth fluttering again, rasping, mocking, laughing, the bulge beneath his waist-belt visible. Stick resting on the ground, scythe in his hand. . . the hood. . . the one, scythe in his hand moving over her trembling exposed belly.

“Oh,” Biri and I slipping against the moss-laden wall, falling to the ground.

“Who’s there?” the hood. . . the one shouting from within.

Running again, Biri and I, best friends since birth. 

Biri to the south.

I to the north.

Separate ways.

Home.

Here, now, the present once more. My fingers have formed into fists again.

The bleeding, cut skin does not bother me anymore. It soothes my rage instead. Balms it even.

“Apples and oranges”

My sweet gentle teacher; my lone recollection of kind and good. . .

We found her the next day on a dirt road. Sprawled naked, throat slit, blood trickling from a hundred pores on her. My sweet gentle teacher; my only memory of care and love. . . I retched at the sight of her mangled body, I threw up every morsel every drop of liquid that was lodged in my stomach. My eyes my nose my mouth became wrecked floodgates when I saw her that way. . . her. . . my loving, kind teacher. . . For hours I ran in the gullies of my village that day, my mind in frenzy, my eyes in tears, a rusty nail hidden between the webbing of my fingers. . . but found no one to hurt with it.

“Sticks and scythes”

"We are with you", I hear again the voice that made me stop running, my savior, my mentor, "He is with you" the firmness in it making the fumes of wrath inside my belly subside as he fed me with his own hand. The water that I drank from his goblet fed new life into me.

I am God’s proudest son. For He helped me avenge what they did to her.

I trained hard, I searched harder. . .

I learned hard, I hunted harder. . . 

I found the hood. . . the one. . . and many more of his kind.

Before my dagger sliced open their wretched organs, I ensured it was not mercy that they begged for. . . before the length of my blade was smeared with their vermin guts, I ensured it was not for pity that they pleaded . . . 

‘A quick death please’ they screeched into my ear with toothless mouths and watery eyes. . . every single one of them. . . 

But I took my time. 

And for that I am honoured.

Truth.

Blatant truth.

The red dripping from my palm has become an unbroken stream now. I feel no pain in these holes as my fingernails retract from them and straighten again. The reason is simple. Basic. Not the lying simplicity of the facade, the surface. No, not that.

Yet simple.

I have nothing to conceal as I am answerable to Him and only Him for all. My life’s truth is in his viewing and has been that way from the beginning. The truth, blatant truth, lies deeper.

And so I dig.

And so I come to the answer, the truth as I bare myself in all senses to Him and to you.

I feel no pain because I feel nothing now. 

The fury in me is a ruse. It is empty. The rage that surges into my veins each night has become a mere ritual now, a habitual doing on my part, albeit a part which cannot be, can never be undone.

The red on my hands is unwashable. The lines across my palm are full, these Seers of Morrow, these Prophets of my Destiny as called by other men whom I know, have become blind and obliging to my habits.

The voices in the tapes that are played by my mentors, His messengers, no longer enrage me. They are within me now. I have become the rage, the fury, the anger and in the most basic sense, a vessel of nothingness.

The deeper I dig, the greater I feel the absence of any true motive inside me. I see no purpose in hunting down hoods any more, I see no end to my quest.

But the fury in me will not subside tonight, I know, as I have known that it will not on every other night. It will not leave me, not now, not ever.

And so I know what lies in waiting for me tomorrow when I wake up from this night, this night just like every other where I am made to feel like I haven’t earned the right to taste sleep yet.

. . . the hood. . . the laughter. . . the bulge beneath. . . my own brothers and fathers. . . my own mothers and sisters. . .

I know what I will do tomorrow and the day after that and the days beyond even as these cluster of lines symbolizing my destiny remain silent.

I will kill. I will spill blood on my hands. I will kill in my God’s name. 

And for that I shall be honoured.

                                                                   * * *