You are currently browsing the monthly archive for December 2006.
On another website where I whore myself, I found a very interesting little writing exercise, which I am giving all of us for the coming New Year’s and Eid holidays. It goes like this:
Below is a list of ten words. You must work these ten words in to a) a poem or b) a piece of short fiction. Neither can be longer than 500 words, although most poems are going to be far shorter than that. Each piece must be complete in and of itself, even if it has the ability to become part of something larger later on. It should stand alone.
The words:
tango
distil*
egg
master
blue
ardent*
whore
option
leaf*
death
*these words can be used in any conjugation of the root.
Have at it, writers all.
old piece – i’m quite fond of it for various reasons
DIRECTION
She said one day,
that you have to find direction –
in life, in love, in poetry.
Take the first right she said,
and keep going straight till you find your way home –
in life.
Be careful she said,
don’t falter, or pause to see all the amber turn red –
specially when in love.
I knew she was right
so I collected my thoughts, gathered my stuff
and left her – for poetry.
brand spankin’ new. gifted poem.
-
The Waters Next
You should fly the waters next -
I’ve laid them out for you like
clothes in the morning. Jump
the window and fly -
the delta opens out to
seven-sailing lovers in an archipelago
of silences. What you adore – what we
adore together, the move from land to land -
is freer there. And no passport
opens or closes
the sluice between this-one-a-laughter, this-one-
devoted-to-small-things. You should fly
because they let you in for the swell
in your breast, your tales and whether
you tell them with your eyes.
Or what covers the earth is wasted, love.
And we grew these wings.
This is a monologue masquerading as a short story. I tried using the “upload” feature this time, but the story just disappeared somewhere into the vast and confusing world of this blog site. Bilal, we need your superior organizational skills to save the day (see! the guild is already turning you into a superhero of sorts). Enjoy!
Men
Men. Those self-proclaimed saviors and sons of bitches.
I’m lying in a hospital bed, in a room with puke green walls, in a suburban New York hospital, alone for the first time in days. It was a man that put me here, had me convulsing in pain for twelve hours before I received any medical help. It was a man who operated on me, his hands wrapped in latex, his mouth masked in white tissue, the front half of his body hidden in a green cape with arms – an alien, for all I knew.
Lying on a mechanical bed that I seesaw at will by the press of a button, I’m in this half-conscious, half-paralyzed state. At peace, yes, but the thoughts in my head running, twirling, crashing into each other at random, confused, bruised, picking themselves up only to crash again into the outer walls of my brain, specifically at the spot above my ears and in line with my eyes, the corners of my forehead, my temples. They’re battling each other like male soldiers competing for my attention.
Talal had said my father called from Pakistan to see how I was doing and would try back later. My father fit many labels. A retired professor of English Literature, an immigrant who’d returned to his homeland, a divorcee, a recluse, living in a house too big for him on farmland, growing his own vegetables, spawning his own pond fish, cooking his own meals, and writing – I hope writing – in an Internet-free house because, of course, he refused to have anything to do with that modern day contraption that had taken all the dignity and charm out of writing: the computer. When I was five years old, my father would read Shakespeare to me in lieu of bedtime stories. As I grew up, he would discuss with me his philosophies of life, from everything to American and Pakistani politics, the approaching apocalypse, and the immigrant mentality in South Asian diasporic literature, to how to pick a good apple from a batch that are misshapen, too soft, too hard, pockmarked, riddled with holes, or even, just too damn perfect to be true. He was basically a good man, my father; not quite ambitious enough for my mom, not 21st century compatible enough for this world, and not nearly cool enough for me, with his leather elbow-patched blazers, the large tortoise shell eyeglasses that drowned half his face, and his Clarks loafers, the same ones he’d bought in London during his university days and kept alive for 30 years. I guess I should be grateful though. I was an only child, his son and his daughter, and he placed me on a sacred pedestal, high above, where I could see clearly his bald patch and the disapproving look on my mother’s face because, “You’re going to spoil her. She has to be made of tougher stuff to survive in this world. God knows, I am.” And with those words, and the sound of her heels clicking against the polished wooden floors, she left us. But now I’m getting ahead of myself; my mother left when I was in college, spewing hateful propaganda about the male species just for my benefit, all the while packing her life into the two suitcases allowed on the flight back to Pakistan.
When I was nine years old, I already had a boyfriend, Murtaza. Well, not exactly a boyfriend, more like, a friend who was a boy, but it was all so mixed up at that age. Murtaza was a lanky, brown-haired eleven-year-old, skinnier than me, his voice higher pitched than mine, love of my life that I constantly insulted and ignored unless we were playing Nintendo or pretending to be ghosts in the graveyard behind his house. Of course, I didn’t know I loved him till he was gone. Always at each other’s place, our parents, best friends, so close, laughing and joking all the time, until one of the men started flirting with the other’s wife (specifically his dad and my mom). Their family was conveniently transferred to another country and I never saw my Murtaza again. Afterwards, I’d replay the moment when we shared our last game of “Life” together; he’d asked for my hand and held it, inching it slowly closer to his face before I squealed and pulled it back. “What are you doing?” he asked. “I swear, I won’t hurt you. Just give me your hand.” So I gave it back to him and allowed him to hold it ten centimeters away from his lips before I squealed and pulled it back again. “Oh, forget it, you’re such a scaredy cat.” And I thought later, that could have been my first kiss. Kiss on the hand at least, but it would have been something to tell at slumber parties to my White schoolgirl friends who went to summer camps away from home and were already pretty qualified in the art of mouth-to-mouth. Then again, he might not have been planning to kiss me. Maybe he was going to plant a spider in my palm at the last minute and watch with malicious glee as I jerked around like a possessed spirit being exorcised.
Then came the string of White boys. Jordan, Jason, Jeremy, Jimmy. They were all Jewish, which I knew because they’d often gossip about the goings on at Hebrew School and I’d mentally compare this to the Sunday School lessons I was forced to attend at our local Islamic Center. No gossip there. Just me, squirming in my chair, surrounded by all these Brown kids of various shades and mother tongues, with the occasional White child of course, and the fear developing inside my loins (why my loins, I’d later wonder, during guilt-ridden episodes of “touching myself down there”?). The fear of God, literally. Of His Wrath on the Day of Judgement, of the Hellfire where I’d surely burn for eternity because I spent my time fantasizing about kissing Jewish boys. As the tallest girl in my class however – thanks to an early encounter with Mother Nature that made my stomach cramp and grew hair on my arms and legs – I started to shrink into myself. I spoke up less, I praised others often, I slouched, much to my mother’s chagrin, and just generally did everything in my power not to be noticed as different. The Brown thing had never bothered me before, but this was a whole new life experience I wasn’t prepared for.
Then there was The Teacher. College professor, actually, of creative writing. By that time, I’d learned to speak up just a tiny bit, but he offered me his arms and pulled me out further; he heard everything I said in class and probably all the things I didn’t say, too. I was writing. I was talking. I was happy. I guess, at some point, the adoration in my eyes must have gotten to him. He said to me one day: “You are a blessing.” It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to me. He was telling me I was a blessing. This man, who was young, passionate, and inspiring. Who was my blessing. That’s when the pedestal came back to haunt me, though, because he placed me so high on top, that the inevitable plummet down was cry-for-two-months painful. Hurtful. One day, he was sincere as can be, favorite teacher of the year, “We’ll stay in touch, right?” and the next, emails, phone calls, no reply. He vanished. He never got back in touch and, with his silence, in effect, he told me: “You hold no significance.” That jackass. I refused to martyr him as an angel who’d worked his magic on me and then, poof, disappeared, like the doctor who’d miraculously cured my mother of a mysterious illness a few months into her marriage and then vanished without a trace when she went to thank him. No, I refused. So when I saw him again after several years, at a literary festival in the city, I hid and stubbornly told myself to ignore him, to pretend like he was nothing more than dust from my past. When he finally saw me and smiled, with the warmth of a man being reunited with his long-lost friend, I forgave him. Just like that. Disappointed with myself for being so easily swayed, I realized I loved him too much to hate him, and felt my face glow in the angelic light of his smile.
My version of dealing with my post-graduation depressive slump was to lock myself in my room and explore the virtual world of online dating. It was meant as a joke at first, a way to make fun of desperate girls on the verge of becoming ‘old maids’ in their last ditch efforts to find husbands, until one day, I realized, I was one of those girls. I’d briefly chatted with the likes of PakiHunk420, LahoriLoverboy, and KashmiriStallion. With Omer, I’d gone to the next level, giving him my phone number and talking to him for hours about our romantic ideals, about God and rock’n’roll, my desire to honeymoon in Greece and become a writer, his determination to leave the corporate world for architecture, and our common loathing of all things fake – me referring to my ex-bestfriend who’d whored her way into a marriage of convenience, him referring to his ex-girlfriend’s sizable breasts. We were soul mates. We were perfectly in sync with each other and already considering what color to paint our bedroom walls once we got married, when we finally decided, it was time for us to meet. So he hopped on a plane from LA to NY and made all the right moves: dinner at a pricey Italian bistro, the most luscious, long-stemmed roses I’d ever seen, a solid gold pendant in the shape of a crab; he was Cancer. He was my soul mate. There was only one problem: I wasn’t attracted to him. I’d seen photographs before, yes, and it wasn’t that he was ugly, but still, nothing to get excited about. I tried, I really did. We kissed and made out, but I came away feeling disheartened, not because I’d indulged in the sin of pre-marital actions-that-might-possibly-lead-to-sex, but because his lips were constantly chapped and rough, his tongue too eager, his teeth crooked, and his body (gasp) flabby. I broke up with him after three days and knew, right then, that I was the lowest person in the world, unworthy of any decent man.
But decent man I still got – Talal, my husband, in whose path my mother pushed me at some random wedding, after whispering in my ear, “Investment banker.” We met several times before approving the match. And it was thus that I joined the ranks of those who turned to the age-old practice of arranged marriages, albeit the modern kind.
Talal and I bought an apartment in the heart of Manhattan; of course, I could afford these things now as the wife of a banker who I only got to see an hour a day. Out went all notions of newlywed romance, just long, lonely days of writing for me, and hurried early morning snatches of sex, or the sleepy languor of making love at midnight. Talal was a mother-in-law’s wet dream: high salaried with a handsome face and polite manners, eager to settle down and lead the typical life of an elite, second generation American family. His biggest challenge to attaining that goal was me. No babies, no peace, only melodrama and mood swings until he fulfilled the faintest whim of a man hopelessly in love. Enter an Exhausted Him presenting me with yellow roses (didn’t he know yellow roses signified friendship, not love?) and serenading me with a tuneless rendition of the love song, “More Than Words”. Picture a Jaded Me, taking all that he had to offer, pulling it close and wrapping myself around it, experiencing physical pleasure and emotional pain at the idea that, somehow, this was the end of my life.
As predicted, I soon became pregnant. I prayed for a girl and found out it was a boy. I vowed never to become one of those over-indulgent mothers who paid more attention to her son than her daughter, who had double standards, allowing her son to stay out late and go to the prom, while her daughter’s every move was restricted, her reputation daily at risk just because of her XX gene factor. I refused to be that woman.
And now. I’m here in this hospital bed, a stitched up whale with elephantine feet and hands, a circus freak after a C-section. They’re handing me a bundle wrapped in blue. This is it. The moment. I must be strong.
But he’s so tiny. I give him my finger; he wraps his reptilian clawlings around it. His eyes are open, awe-struck, gray. He looks just like Talal in his baby pictures. That’s when I realize, this creature, this thing, has bound me to my husband in an irreversible way. I can no longer deny the truth I’d been hiding from, for fear I’d find myself somehow content with life. I was attached to this man, this man with the God-awful obsessive-compulsive need to be clean at all times and live in orderly surroundings, who divided his morning excretory ritual into two parts, one before and one after his daily cup of tea, whose eyes welled up at the end of Indian movies, and who, even now, was looking at me with dewy eyes which held a secret message I could finally decipher: “I am yours. And his. Entirely.” And I knew, against my better judgment, that I was giving him the very same look.
I gazed down again at Faiz, our son, this real person that had erupted from within me like all the beauty and potential and love I’d been holding in all this time. I felt an overwhelming relief. “Thank you, Faiz,” I said. Thank you for saving me, for validating me, for being the love of my life. And the next thing I said was: “Fuck it.” Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it all. I will be the world’s worst mother who will probably fit all Freudian stereotypes and love her son with a ferocity, a purity, a humility and worship unknown to man. This was my son. I placed him before me on a pedestal made of crushed diamonds and gold, and cranked it up as high as it could go, until he could touch the clouds. I lay there beneath him, a boundaryless safety net, so that when he failed, when he realized that clouds were just visions without substance, when he reached too far and fell, I would be there to save him.
This isn’t technically fiction but it’s one of my favourites. It was meant to be a non-traditional obituary actually, written in a moment of extreme grief.
There are few people who have left me with memories that I will always recall fondly. Deep within these are hidden blessings and valuable life lessons delivered with exquisite humour. For these I thank you now. Although I shall never be able to tell you this in person, I need to put this down in writing for myself.
Memory, 7 years old, Lahore. I’m fascinated with a large golden key in our drawing room. It lies amongst all the usual decorations but it strikes out because of its size. Abbu and Ajji Chachu are sitting on the sofas chatting and I am constantly interrupting them because I want to know what the key is for. In my seven year old universe all keys have locks to go with them. It’s a law of nature. Yet I can’t figure out what this particular key unlocks.
Abbu and Ajji Chachu look at me solemnly and I know that they know. I know that if I pester enough I will get it out of them.
And I do.
“This key,” I am told by Ajji Chachu, “is for your mother.”
“I use it on her every morning,” Abbu reveals to me, “without it she won’t start.”
I believe them and guard the key. I can’t imagine a world where my mother won’t start. I become almost paranoid about the key, checking to see if it’s in its place numerous times a day.
I was convinced my mother had a secret lock in her back which was needed to start her.
Of course, months later, when I finally reveal to her that I know the secret of the key, she laughs at me.
I have been fooled.
Memory, 8 years old, Kuala Lumpur. Ajji Chachu’s new name for me is kukar phaar. I can’t stop eating chicken. I practically live on KFC, refusing to eat anything else that is offered to me.
Abbu and Ajji Chachu are in one of their moods. They’re my real life Laurel and Hardy. And I am usually the best victim because of my gullibility.
I wonder aloud how people grow. I can’t figure out why I’m always being cajoled into eating horrible green things, and why I am made to drink milk, which I hate even more than salad. How can they make me grow?
“You see child, you’re not normal,” Ajji Chachu tells me with a straight face.
I am informed by Laurel and Hardy that I require extra help to grow. Every night as I sleep they take me outside and hang me on the washing line. And then stretch me. That is the reason for my growth. If it wasn’t for them, I would never have grown. I would have remained baby sized.
I am thoroughly bewildered and remain convinced that they are right. That they are the reason why I grow at all. Later when I tell my mother what I have found out she laughs at me again. I fell for it again.
Memory, 17 years old, Lahore. I have just finished my O’ levels and am on my way to UWC in Wales. I’m terribly excited. Never in a million years did I think I would end up with a scholarship to college. Abbu and Ajji Chachu are in sitting in the drawing room and I am informed that my presence is required.
When I walk in both Abbu and Ajji Chachu look solemn. I am asked to take a seat. I am confused at their behaviour and the formal atmosphere that permeates the place.
“Nabiha Meher,” (pronounced Nabiya Mer in true Punjabi fashion) says Ajji Chachu, “we’re getting you married. You’re not going to Wales.”
My father agrees with him and I stare at them in shock wondering what came over the only two Pakistani men who I know that support feminism. I’m on the verge of tears. I know they’re joking but they look so serious. I ask them to stop messing with me but Ajji Chachu calmly tells me that it’s not a joke. He continues to tell me over and over again that I have to get married and that they’ve already consented on my behalf. The wedding is to take place in December.
I really lose it now. I’m screaming. But Ajji Chachu calmly persists. I have to get married.
I am convinced they’ve lost their minds. I am about to run crying to my mother when they crack and start laughing hysterically.
Again.
Memory, 20 years old, Lahore. Ajji Chachu comes over for dinner the night before I leave for Islamabad for two days.
“Why don’t you go in one of my trucks. You can ride with the rest of the animals!” he kindly offers.
You see, Ajji Chachu is doing something brilliant. He’s left his job at ICI and is now working with a Chinese company. They’re reusing the old silk route for trade. I am fascinated. I am in awe of my uncle for taking such a risk and for using a historically important trade line.
Months later Ammi calls me up in Toronto and tells me Ajji Chachu has been promoted to head of his company. I am excited but sad because he told me he would be moving to Beijing.
I express myself to mother who pisses herself laughing on the phone.
“CHINA,” she screams, “why on earth do you think he’s moving to China?”
“Because of the new Chinese company…”
“What new Chinese company?”
“The one he left his ICI job for.”
“Nabiha,” my mother is saying slowly as if talking to an idiot, “Ajji works for ICI.”
I insist that he doesn’t. I inform her he told me about the silk route etc.
She pauses to let it sink in before saying, “he never left ICI. He was just pulling your leg as usual.”
I am twenty years old and yet I believe anything Ajji Chachu says to me because he says it with a straight face.
It’s hard to believe that he’s gone. I know I won’t realise it fully until I go back to Pakistan and notice a large gaping hole in my universe. Ajji Chachu knew me from the minute I took my first breath. He was one of the first people to welcome me into this world in his large open arms. A silent promise to love and protect me was made. His love as the most fun man in the whole big world increased with each passing year. With the doll bigger than me given to me on my first birthday. With bear hugs and words of encouragement when I was unsure of myself. With support and kindness that reassured me of humanity, and lead me to believe that in myself and those around me. He put up with my temper tantrums, usually encouraging them so I let them all out. And he pulled my leg over and over again to cheer me up and make us all have a good laugh.
Now I see emptiness and all I am left with is a lifetime of memories to help me in my journey. Now I see darkness at the end of the tunnel instead of the light that emulated from Ajji Chachu. Now I wonder why. Now I question God again. Now I lose faith. Now I need him more than ever.
But he is gone.
I often lay awake at night and wonder about death. I’m grieving in a foreign land, like I have done before. Yet, never before have I felt a loss so deep, a loss so profound that it sucks life out of me as I howl with confusion over his death. Why! I remember screaming to my empty apartment when my mother’s calm voice declared “Ajji Chachu has died.” Why! I screamed over and over again while staring at the ceiling as if imploring God. How could you take him? I never had the chance to say goodbye. I never had the chance to tell you I love you. I never had the chance to tell you how much you mean to me, and how much I need someone like you around for the sake of my sanity.
Ajji Chachu is in China with a golden key holding a piece of KFC while interviewing my future husband.
I want him to knock on my door and tell me it was all a bad joke. I want to wake up from this nightmare and find him sitting next to me to comfort me.
I hold a purple amethyst bracelet made of gold. It’s the one Ajji Chachu and Lubna Khala sent me when I graduated from college in Wales. All of a sudden it has more power, more meaning, and more memory. All of a sudden it’s the only thing I have that reminds me of him materially. All of a sudden all I can think of is him.
Grieving in a foreign land that doesn’t acknowledge death and loss. Grieving in Toronto on Sentinel and Finch hoping that writing will ease my pain. Grieving away from everyone else. Crying alone desperately wanting a hug. Crying while hugging a stuffed cat.
I’m pickling my memories in foreign land. I’m placing them in a jar in my head, allowing them to change and gain more flavour with time.
Never will the death of any biological uncle affect me as much. Obligation and duty to family never touched my soul as much as Ajji Chachu’s love did. No “real” uncle ever believed in me. No real uncle ever took me seriously. No real uncles cares as much as Ajji Chachu did and I believe still does.
I can imagine the pain everyone else who knew him feels. He touched everyone just by his presence. Those of us who knew him love him unconditionally and we always will. From now until I see you again I know I will miss you and nothing will ever replace the hole in my heart. If I die tomorrow I hope you, Dada and Dado are there to welcome me. I hope you’re all stretching out your arms and leading me through the next life. You were all there when I was born. I know you will all be there when I die.
From now on… everything is in memory… Azhar Malik 1951-2003. On 11th June the world truly lost a great man.
I honour you and your life. I hope I can make you proud.
Love,
Nabiha Meher
This was inspired by Gloria Steinmen’s quote: “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle”.
There was a little fish swimming merrily in the corals. There he saw his best friend, Khaga, jumping up and down with excitement and screaming “Thank you! Thank you!” The little fish’s curiosity was roused. He quickly swam towards Khaga’s house to see what all the fuss was about.
“What’s going on Khaga?” he enquired as he rapidly approached Khaga’s house.
“Look look!” Khaga enthused, “my parents got me a bicycle for coming first in class!”
The little fish was a little bewildered at first but as soon as he saw the shiny new pink bike he also started to feel Khaga’s contagious excitement. It was beautiful, with colourful breaks. Both friends quickly jumped up on top of it and tried to ride it.
“What’s this for?” the little fish asked as he pointed to the pedals.
“This is what will make it work silly,” Khaga replied haughtily, “these are called pedals and the bicycle will move on them.”
So the two fish tried very hard to figure out how they could use their fins to pedal the bicycle. They tried by sitting on the bike and reaching down, but it proved to be very uncomfortable. Khaga was so disappointed that he started wailing. His mother came running out of their corralled house to see what all the fuss was about. When Khaga told her that he couldn’t reach the pedals she promptly went and got her tool kit and shortened the bar so that the pedals could reach Khaga’s fins. “There you go beta,” she said as she kissed him, “now you can ride your bike as much as you like.”
Khaga hastily climbed his bike again. This time his fins did indeed reach the pedals, but when he tried to move them he kept toppling over. The little fish held the bike for him until he got some balance, but he kept toppling over. Khaga was thoroughly disappointed by this point. His face displayed his utter sorrow. Khaga’s father came outside to call the fish in for dinner. He had slaved all evening in order to make some healthy food for his family. When he saw how upset Khaga was he said, “Don’t worry beta, I’m sure we can find someone to teach you”.
When the little fish got home he told his father that he wanted a bicycle. His father scoffed at the idea. “These things are for girls!” he said indignantly, “You need to learn more manly things like cooking, cleaning and taking care of babies!” The little fish got really upset. When his mother came home from work he held on to her and cried until she promised to get him a shiny new bicycle.
The next day the little fish and Khaga went around asking everyone if they knew how to ride a bike. Bicycles were new to the coral, and no one seemed to understand how they worked. The little fish and Khaga asked all their friends, their teachers and anyone else that crossed their path, however they did not succeed. By evening they were ready to give up. By the time Khaga’s mother got home from her job Khaga was on the verge of tears. When she saw how upset he was she promised him that she would figure out a way to make it work.
That weekend Khaga’s mother decided to figure out how the bicycle worked. She discovered that it relied on perfect balance, which was very tricky in the corals. Even a little bit of a gust would overturn the bike. Khaga’s mother finally paved a little area of flat land outside their house. There she helped Khaga learn how to balance himself on the bike. Finally, by the end of the weekend, Khaga was a master bicycler who could move up and down his paved path swiftly.
That Monday Khaga decided to take his bike to school so that he could show off to all his friends. Khaga bicycled to the little fish’s house with great difficulty in the morning. He didn’t realise that the uneven coral path would be so difficult to navigate on a bicycle. Despite the fact that the bike was slowing him down, he insisted upon riding on it. More than once he fell tumbling down and scraped himself. By the time he reached the little fish’s house he was battered and bruised and already late for school. The little fish’s mother, who was on her way to work, hurriedly got them to school without the bicycle and talked to the Principal so that they would not get into trouble. When the Principal saw Khaga’s cuts and scrapes he felt sorry for him and let the two fish go without causing any trouble for them. He also did not want to upset the little fish’s mother as she was the head of security for the coral.
The next morning Khaga decided that he absolutely had to take his bike to school. He was the only fish in the coral who even had a bike, thus he couldn’t resist the urge to show it off. Khaga had to depart from home very early in order to get to school on time. He left one hour before school started. The ride was arduous and vigorous. Khaga kept falling and had difficulty maintaining his balance. Not even half way through he gave up and swam with the bike but just before he reached school he got on it again in order to make his grand appearance.
The other fish gasped at the bike with great admiration. Everyone wanted to touch it and many wanted to ride it. Khaga loved the attention bestowed upon him and his bike, however he was scared that it might get stolen. He had to beg the school custodian to keep an eye on it despite the fact that he had chained it and locked it. The whole day Khaga and little fish took turns to check on the bike. They were both deathly scared that the school bully Raho would try and take it. She was notorious for stealing everyone’s new toys and everyone was wary of her. Even the teachers had a hard time disciplining her since her parents were also bullies. Her mother was known throughout the coral as “the Godmother” and she was the head of the mafia that everyone was deathly afraid of. The school was trying very hard to transfer her to another one, but until then they all lived with a sense of impending doom because of Raho. Luckily for Khaga he was male fish, and although Raho was a bully, she did not pick on the males. She often declared, “I don’t hit boys. They’re too delicate as it is.”
Soon weeks passed and many of the fish in the school had shiny new bikes of their own. Khaga may have been a pioneer but he was now no longer the only one who had a very unique toy. The bicycle craze also caught up with the adult fish, who were seen pedalling around in various different types of bicycles. Most of the adult females and the few adult males that worked bought expensive sport bikes. The females were especially boastful and loudly announced to everyone they met how much money they had spent on their new toy. Most of the adult females also bought their husbands bicycles with baskets so that they could easily bring home the groceries. The father fish took great pride in their bikes and soon one could see babies overflowing in baskets decorated with seaweed parked outside the beauty parlours that the father fish visited so often. And the clown fish bought unicycles of various sizes and colours of course.
As time went by the productivity of the coral deteriorated immensely. The coral government issued an alarm. The bikes were slowing everything down! Instead of ten minutes, fish were now taking half an hour to move around. All that excessive pedalling was also damaging many fins and the hospitals were overflowing with victims of bicycle accidents. Crimes such as thefts, mugging and robberies were also on the rise. The Prime Minister pleaded: “My dear fish. Please give up this ridiculous bicycle craze! These bicycles are causing too much trouble for us.” But no one listened to her and they continued as usual.
Little fish’s mother, who was the head of security, recognized that it was a problem. She banned the use of bicycles for her family members. Her husband became very upset and weepy because of her decision. Little fish was heart broken. She felt bad but she also felt that she was making the right decision. Soon, a few more sensible fish followed suit and also banned bicycles from their homes. Nevertheless the vast majority were still using bikes to get around. Some used excuses such as “my husband already does all the domestic work, the least I can do for him is allow him the use of his bike”. Khaga’s parents didn’t understand what the fuss was all about and they allowed him to continue using his bike.
For the next few weeks the coral police tried to come up with various tactics to deter fish from riding bicycles. They were largely ineffective and thefts and accidents continued to rise.
One night little fish sat near his window brooding. He was still angry at his mother because very few of his friends were made to give up their bikes. He did not understand why she was being cruel to her son, and decided that she was mean to him because he was male. In the distance he saw a lone fish pedalling his bike merrily; staggering and falling like all the other fish who rode bicycles. Soon little fish was screaming so loud his parents came rushing into his room in a panic. What he saw was truly horrifying. A shark was running after the fish on the bicycle. Because the bicycle was slowing the fish down, the shark caught the fish easily and swallowed the bicycle as well.
Within a day the shark had become very clever and had started targeting fish on bicycles. Little fish’s mother issued a security alert and many more fish joined the ranks of those who had banned the bicycle. The few stubborn ones that refused to discard their bikes either got eaten by the shark, or had to abandon their bicycles when the shark attacked them. Even Khaga voluntarily gave up his bike. The following month the entire coral was finally free of the menace of the bicycle. Years later little fish would recall the story of the bicycle mania with great pleasure for his little grand-fish. The era of the bicycle, or “the stupidest mania to ever sweep the coral” as it was known, became a legend that was passed down from generation to generation as a lesson in absurdity. Never again did a bicycle enter the coral and never again did fish ride bicycles.
Nabiha Meher Shaikh
How long a post can we stand, eh? I’m supposedly writing a novel. Since, oh, 2004 at least, perhaps earlier. And this is one part of that. One small part, of about two and a half thousand words. I’m posting it all here because we haven’t sorted out exactly how we will do this.
Every time I reread this bit, it makes me cringe, though usually at different bits every time. And before I write more disclaimers, I’m just going to bloody well post it.
from The Leaving Contract (working title)
Gongloo jumps off the curb and doesn’t look back, and doesn’t think of anything at all as she watches the trees blur by. She idly notices that the traffic has picked up since she started out. The driver of the bus she crosses rubs his eyes and begins to look alert. She runs the red light that turns into her street, dodging a few government school students. Her father is standing at the gate with a cigar in his mouth and his hands on his hips. Gongloo slows down and turns in.
“Where have you been?” he asks belligerently.
“Decided to go for a bike ride.”
“On that thing? It’s broken.”
“Just a little rusty.”
“Should have oiled it at least. I’ve taught you that much.”
“I know, but I didn’t want to be late,” she says before she can think to censor herself.
“Late? Late for what? Did you meet Fantsy there or something? He doesn’t wake up in the morning, I thought.”
“No, I mean later than I’m used to being.”
He eyes her suspiciously. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I don’t like to go for my morning traipse too late. It gets crowded and people get curious. I didn’t want to wait till this time. The bus drivers are waking up already.”
He grunts. “Eat now.”
“Anything special?”
“Special, you want special? For running around early in the morning on broken bicycles?”
“Just wondering, Abu.”
“Don’t Abu me. Nothing special. Eggs. Desi ones. They’re nice. From your uncle. The git who left us that piece of trash. Go eat.”
“Is he here too?”
“He’s coming. That’s why he sent the eggs, the bugger. So he can come eat them. Go make a cake of them or something. So the bastard misses them altogether.”
“Anything else happening, Abu?”
“Eat I said.”
She dumps the bike next to the front steps and walks into the house. That was brilliant, Gongloo, don’t want to be late for you date with Sohrab guy, tell your father that, that’s a good idea. She shakes herself free of the thought and runs to her room. Turns on the shower and steps inside, realizing as the hot water hits her T-shirt that the hot water is hitting her T-shirt and not her skin. “Fuck,” she mutters under her breath, but doesn’t move. She unties her hair, closes her eyes and stands there in her clothes, feels the water seep through the shirt and the bra, get in under the sweat pants, making splacky noises on the parachute material. Haven’t raced anyone since Fantsy. And that was when I was bigger than him. Long time since I was bigger than Fantsy. Well, anyway. Clothes. I’m wearing clothes.
She strips her wet, heavy clothes off and throw them on the floor, out of the direct stream of water, and pours some shampoo on them. That fixes that, she thinks. Instant laundry. She finishes showering and gets out, stands in front of the mirror. Five minutes go by. She can hear music outside, someone playing Indian songs from a bad sound system. There are dogs barking at each other. And the Walls ice cream truck has just swung into earshot. There’s no noise, she thinks. What’s wrong with me? Someone rings a bicycle bell. She turns and goes to her hanging canvas, takes a black pen and draws a bicycle in lines. She draws another one right next to it. She draws five in a row, all facing the same direction. What’s wrong with this picture? The wheels are wrong, how can the wheels be wrong, they’re just round with spokes in them. Well, at least there’s noise now. What’s wrong with the wheels? Oh. Right. She draws in mud-guards over the top of each wheels. It’s barely more than an arc above another arc, but it makes all the difference. The wheels are huge on Sohrabs, she thinks, they must splash up all kinds of crap. She draws more, all in a line, wheel to wheel, all facing the same direction, until she finds she’s run into the picture of the playground. The bottom of the slide now has a bicycle wheel on it. There’s a bicycle on the slide. In the playground. She keeps drawing, going all the way to the other side of the canvas.
When she comes to the dining room an hour later, her father spots her from the drawing room and yells, “How long does a shower take?”
“I’m a girl, Abu,” she replies distractedly as she tests the various fruits on the table for ripeness. After a moment or two, she becomes aware that her father is staring at her and she blinks a few times, and smiles.
“Don’t give me that,” he says.
“Don’t give you what?”
“You walked down here with a glazed look in your eyes. Like you’ve been smoking up.”
“I haven’t.”
“I know that, you silly twit.”
“I was drawing.”
He looks at her as she sits down across from him and bites into a peach.
“Still. Why are you looking drugged?”
“Maybe the bike ride wore me out.”
“No.”
“Abu.”
“Don’t Abu me.”
She sighs and chews. After staring at nothing for a while, she says, “I met a boy in the park yesterday.”
“That’s nice.”
“It is?”
“Was he nice?”
She shrugs. “Yeah, pretty much. Sort of annoying.”
“So, good.”
“Fantsy thinks I should run away.”
“Fantsy’s mother is a mean-spirited hag.”
Gongloo snorts. “Well, Daman is getting married,” she says, as if that explains everything.
“And?”
“I think I should spend more time in playgrounds.”
Her father takes off his glasses. Gongloo focuses on him for the first time. Abu looks old, she thinks to herself. His face, it’s like someone made him carry their luggage on his head. It’s all scrunched and wrinkly. She stares at him as he’s cleaning his glasses and his face disassembles in her imagination, turns into shapes and lines, folds of brown and browner. When he puts them on again, she has to blink several times to find his face again.
“Your mum always took you to playgrounds, I remember. You and Fantsy.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you remember?”
“In parts.”
“When we were young, when we’d first met, your mother and I used to go to playgrounds together.”
“Yeah. Mum told me.”
“We used to have fights there. A lot of fights.”
“I don’t remember you fighting.”
He smiles. “Not once you came, then we hardly fought at all.” He frowns. “Except about gripe water. That woman had the most unreasonable fear of gripe water.”
Gongloo cackles suddenly. “Gripe water? Really? That’s excellent.”
“She thought it was too desi.”
“But Nani swears by the stuff.”
“That might have something to do with it. She and your Nani used to fight about it too. Their fights were much bigger than ours. Anyway, I used to feed it to you on the sly. Told her it was my soothing voice that quieted you.”
“Abu.”
“What ‘Abu’?”
“Your voice isn’t really soothing.”
“My girl, you may be 23, but I can still crack you one.”
“Sorry, Abu. Anyway, you were talking about Nani.”
He looks up suddenly, straight into her eyes, and she has to look away. “I was talking about your mother.”
“Right.” She goes to fiddle with the curtains.
“And gripe water, for some reason,” says her father, kindly. “Why was I talking about gripe water, Gul?”
“I’m not sure. Fights.” Why do I have to be honest, she thinks idly. “You were talking about fights with Amma. In playgrounds.”
“Hm. Why was I saying that, I wonder.”
“I don’t know. Abu, Sonu Chacha’s going to be here soon. Should we be getting food ready?”
“He’ll have breakfast when he comes. That’s why he sent the eggs, I’m sure of it.”
She grins. “You weren’t kidding?”
“Sonu send eggs from the farm and not waddle up behind them? Gongloo.”
“Yes, I suppose.”
“Occasionally we fought about Sonu.”
“Really?” She sits down and pays attention for the first time.
“She said I was too mean to him.”
“Nonsense.”
“That’s what I said. I love the bastard, I said. She said I was harsh in my criticism.”
“Was that because of Nani, do you think?” she asks quietly.
He sighs a small sigh. “I think partly. She thought the reason Sonu never became a star was that his family was so verbally abusive.”
“But Sonu Chacha’s where you learned all your swear words.”
“Yes. Bastard. He’s four years younger, you know. Imagine my shame.”
“Abu.”
“All through school, I was so jealous.”
“Sonu Chacha doesn’t seem cowed to me. Not like Amma.”
“Amma wasn’t cowed, Gul.”
“I don’t buy it. Between Nani and Apiya – anyway. I think – I think if Apiya hadn’t been so derisive every time they came over, things would be different.”
He sighs again. “And the Catholicism?”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, everyone loves a Mother Theresa.”
“Gul. It’s serious for her. She means it.”
“How can she mean it? How? What could possibly make sense to her about it all?”
“Look, your mother’s penchant for abiding by historical continuity –“
“Bugger Amma’s penchants, Abu! Since when is life a story? Since when did you and I become a dot on a timeline?”
“I’d hope you and I each got our own dot.” He smiles up at her, but she doesn’t smile back. “And your penchant for drama. Look, I know you’ve gone and stood up with flare and hollered for effect, and I understand. And that breathing heavily and glaring thing is good too. But what I’m saying is, your mother needs to do this.”
“No she doesn’t, Abu!” Now I’m really yelling, some internal voice says. “Pakistanis don’t have issues!” I shouldn’t be yelling at my father. “And Fantsy going off to get an epiphany and marrying some bloody expat! I’m sick of these people.”
“Fantsy’s not going to leave, is he?” her father asks, aghast.
“No. I don’t know. He hasn’t said.”
“Did you ask?”
“I’m not going to, Abu. He should have sense enough to say.”
“That pride comes from your mother, too.”
“Yes, well, she’s not all bad.”
“Gul.”
“Yes, well. It’s been a very ‘Gul’-heavy day, Abu. I’ve had it with introspection. Bugger it all. Historical narrative my Alexandrian arse! What do you want for breakfast?”
“What breakfast?”
“I thought we were making him breakfast.”
“Sonu’s not here yet. Let him come and insinuate first.”
“Abu, I didn’t know I was this angry.”
“To be honest, Gongles, I didn’t know either.”
“I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“That’s what you’re worried about?”
“What else should I be worried about?”
“Never mind. I’ll worry instead. You’re forgiven for yelling. Remember that. Some other Pathan baap would whip you good.”
“Yes, Abu.”
“You don’t buy it?”
“Whatever you say Abu.”
“Don’t Abu me.”
“Okay. What will you –“
“If you ask me what I’m going to worry about, I really will give it to you, Gul.”
“Sorry. Okay. Anyway. Breakfast?”
“Just don’t come home one morning saying you want to be buried in a playground.”
She takes a deep breath. Okay, comic turn. Wind-down time. Good. “It has a romantic feel to it, I have to say.”
“Just what I need. Everyone saying, ‘Rehber Zaman, you know him. Buried his daughter in the park. Under a swing.”
“That does have an interesting ring to it, though. Very, I don’t know, very fairytale.”
“Your mother always thought so.”
Gongloo stares.
He continues, “She wanted to be buried in the park. Under the swings. I was flabbergasted first time I heard it. Then, when I didn’t know much about her or her weird ideas, it used to frighten me into having a shouting match. So we’d sit on the swings and shout. About whether or not she’d be buried under the swings. Can you believe that?”
“But – ” Gongloo has a look of complete horror and disgust on her face. “But everyone would scrape her as they swung!”
“It is a little ghastly.”
“With their feet all over her grave!”
“I know, bachay.”
“But she’s the one who taught me that you don’t walk on graves! That you don’t bury people without solemnity and visit them without a prayer! Every time we went to visit Nana, every time! Dupatta on the head, hands up front. Salam as you enter the gate. Flowers on the graves. Fatiha. People are buried facing Makka, you know that? I knew that when I was four because of Amma.”
Her father remains silent. Somewhere inside, Gongloo’s emergency system is saying, he tricked you. He wanted you to keep talking when you wanted to shut down. That’s why he mentioned the swings. You know that. Walk away. Make eggs.
But that voice is so tiny, she thinks to herself. It’s so tiny now. How?
“And you know, he came here to die,” she continues, pacing around the room now. “Nana came here and he knew he was dying. Amma denies it now, but she knew then. She told me that too. He came here to die, with us. Dragged Nani along and bloody Apiya – ”
“Gongloo!”
“Bloody stupid evil Apiya came along to fuck with all of us. But he didn’t care. He wanted to die here. Because he knew.”
“What did he know, Gongloo?”
She sits down suddenly, exhausted, and looks out the window. “It doesn’t matter.” After a while, she says, “I wish the pansies were growing still. Amma likes pansies.”
“Yes, Fantsy was always a favourite of hers.”
Gongloo guffaws involuntarily. “That’s why his mother’s so mean. Because he’s so floppy.”
“He’s got you to indulge him, though.”
“Epiphanizing bugger,” she mutters.
“True.”
“Someone ought to throw him out of the sky.”
“I’m sure some civic-minded person will someday.”
She stands up briskly and smoothes down the front of her kameez. “Well, if there is a God, then that person will be me.”
“I don’t think so.”
She stares into her father’s eyes for a moment, then says, “Abu, you’ve done enough sage Buddhist psychologist stuff for one morning, okay? Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I only do what you let me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Imagine how that horrifies me.”
“Don’t be disrespectful,” he says sharply.
“Sorry Abu. But don’t think you’ve deterred me from hanging out in playgrounds with that awful ghoulish story.”
“The day I deter you, the bloody trumpet sounds. Acha, eggs. What about the eggs? Are you making this cake or is he going to come eat them all?”
A voice booms from the doorway, “Listen, you ravisher of donkeys, I can eat whatever the fuck I want in my brother’s house!”
“Hi, Sonu Chacha. How are – ”
“Listen, you blighter,” interrupts her father, “why can’t you use the tried and true, why do you have to get creative with the language?”
“But if I cease and desist,” he says, grinning and winking at Gongloo, “how will the language grow?”
“Which language, ass?”
“Any language? I mean, isn’t this how speech evolves?”
“Spake the slime at the bottom of the gene pool.”
“Lala, how are you?”
“Just dandy till you trundled up. Come to eat my eggs, have you?”
“My eggs. With paratthas, please, Gongloo. And how are you? You’re all flushed. Is it a boy?”
“Is it ever?”
“If you were in the village, you’d be a mother of three by now.”
“Instead, I’ve decided to become a hag. Or a crone. Crone, do you think?”
“Breakfast,” he replies imperiously. “Now.”
As she walks away, she hears her uncle ask, “Why’s she all red in the face?”
“Yelling. Mother.”
“Has she called or something?”
Gongloo rummages loudly in the kitchen. She doesn’t really want to hear the conversation. Fantsy, Fantsy, Fantsy, she thinks to herself. Am I supposed to see him today? No, can’t be, I saw him last night, didn’t I? What am I doing today? It’s only ten. How could it only be ten, it’s already been such a long day. I’d be devastated if Fantsy fell out of the sky. Or got a divorce.
This is one of the shortest pieces I have. I’m wondering how feasible it would be for me to post 15-20 page stories here. Is it better to copy/paste onto this template, or upload? Sorry, I’m kind of new to this whole blogging thing! Anyway, enjoy…or not. But let me know what you think.
My Mother
My mother never stops talking. She doesn’t care if you’ve heard the story before, she’ll tell it a hundred times if she has to. Stories about her childhood, her numerous suitors, the downfall of being married and having in-laws, the thinning hair that comes with having two sons so close together in age, the scandals of middle-aged friends, the wisdom and forgiveness that comes with age, the triumph of finally giving birth to a girl. That would be me – child of her old age, younger but less beautiful, lying at her feet where, most definitely, Paradise lay.
A memory. I am lying at her feet, massaging them on a Saturday morning in her bedroom. My father is there, as are my two older brothers. All the usual suspects. My mother is crying, full of bitterness that turns her blue, a horned monster with boils all over her body. One boil erupts on her foot and burns me. I wriggle onto the floor like a scared caterpillar unable to weave her cocoon, and disappear into the hairy brown carpet below. Did I mention, my mother also tells stories about the Great Depression?
I’m sitting with her, an adult in my own right, married and so, entitled to my own slew of tales about how marriage, indeed, is a disappointment. Except I remain mute as ever, still listening to her. I’m tired; it’s late. “Why don’t you ever talk?” she asks. “You’re so secretive. Tell me something.”
How can I tell her when, for the moment, I have only happy stories and I guard those with my life? Happiness doesn’t make for good storytelling.
I have many memories of stories, though, but can no longer remember who or where I’ve heard them from. Fables, really, in which my mother plays the protagonist and everyone else, in turn, has a shot at playing the villain. The plotlines are usually simple, tragic. Her blaming my brothers for staying out late, causing her to worry, never appreciating all she does for them; her blaming me for not keeping my room clean, clearly a sign that I don’t love her enough; her blaming my father for ensnaring her in the first place, and taking her away from her family to live in isolation, in this most powerful and loneliest of countries. It hurt my ears, all those words of hate. The moral of the story was always the same – love mother till it hurts and only then will you both be happy – but as I grew, I discovered the cracks in even this system.
One Saturday morning, during story time, I finally decided to take matters into my own hands. I pinched the little pinky toe on my mother’s left foot, hoping to distract her or maybe even cause her pain. Suddenly, everyone froze. I was delighted at first because I thought we were all playing a game, but when I realized the clock had stopped ticking too, I was terrified at the prospect of having so much power. I could see words hanging in the air, between my mother’s mouth and my father’s ears. I climbed onto the bed and pushed the “Why?” back into her mouth. I put my two fists around the “hate” and “you”, and crushed them till they were nothing more than powder, shimmering in my hands, absorbed into my bloodstream.
“I don’t have anything to tell, Ma,” I say to her now. “Can we please go to sleep?”
But, suddenly recharged, she’s telling the one about the Big Choice: my father vs. the successful young man she was already engaged to. I know this story well, know it better than my own love story. The thing to note here is not the words coming out of her mouth, but the way her face glows, erasing thirty years off her face, transforming her into a girl with possibilities again, a chance to rewrite her life. I want to hug her now, to love her on my own terms, to embrace this aura of lost youth. But I remain still as ever, just watching her.
I retained the power for a long time, to freeze people at will and eat their words of resentment and inadequacy, my stomach grinding them into broken alphabets that would get carried into my intestines, pushed into a whirlwind, and sucked into an underground dungeon, exactly where they belonged. It was around the time I turned twenty that my powers started weakening, and instead of digesting the words, I’d chew on them a while till they were flying out of my mouth. I didn’t realize the extent of the damage until my better half told me I was turning blue and growing horns, and the boils on my sides were burning him alive.
“No!” I screamed. “This can’t be happening.”
Soon, only half of me remained.
I exiled myself into the dungeon below, full of dirty words, ominously incomplete sentences, and unhappy endings – only endings – where I lay amongst corpses and got stepped all over.
She’s winding down now, her eyelids heaving, her words dragging. I could tell her about my powers now, about how I lost them years ago, and have since found myself becoming more and more like her. She would tell me I’m being melodramatic, letting my imagination run away with me, ungrateful. She would cry, if it weren’t for the pills that, five years ago, had permanently glued shut her tear ducts. She would hurt.
It’s probably better to keep quiet. I don’t want to hurt her. In blue, horned ways, I don’t want to become her either, but, as the laws of nature and nurture have repeatedly proved, I probably will.
Nice to see that we have some traffic. I love our insecurity ridden threatening stance – well done Kyla. I have decided (since that is what my official post is – ‘deciding rambler’ – that i will post some of my reject stuff to kick start the ’sharing’. Here is something awfully old, fairly mediocre and wholly representative of what i am capable of (took your advice Kyla and pulled this one – one of my rejects – out of the proverbial basked).
“Speak Up”
I preach the secular
sugar cream coffee
butter toast regular
I demand the familiar
polka dotted boxers
and other things sillier
I advocate the ordinary
mind numbing rhetoric
spewed out in a hurry
I pen the prophetic
mediocre poetry
rhyme and verse pathetic
This is The Voice of the Guild. It is making itself known as the mechanism by which the Guild will speak, should it need to speak without assigning blame to any of the poor sods who are its constituent parts. Otherwise it will keep shut.
Or cuss. The Voice likes to cuss.
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