Risalpur (had to write something...)

Risalpur, the unattainable, the unconquerable, the dream of every public-speaker who answers to the name of ‘Declaimer’, the most prestigious ‘All Pakistan Bi-lingual Declamation Tournament’ in the country, and apart from the AIBD, the last remaining fortress where the art of oratory has not yet fallen into the hands of chirpy Parliamentary-style debaters, and rhetoric has yet to breathe its last breath.
Ummar made it a point of honor or mission or something to represent GCU in Risalpur again and again, probably till such time as they would dedicate an academic block or perhaps the auditorium to him. “Only four times,” says he, but for all intents and purposes he’s as much a part of that Academy as he is of GCU.
He wanted to drag me along with him to Risalpur in 2007 but fortunately Dr. Farhan Ebadat –In charge Dramatics Club- needed my services -for which now I am truly glad.
So, while Ummar was being honored with a consolation prize in Risalpur, I was feeling ridiculous, performing “Amar Bail,” an Urdu play, in Delhi, India. I was supposed to act as if the suicide of my daughter had grieved me but I never could pull it off.
However, in any case, this is not how the story began; it began a long time ago…

It was in the year 2003 that Ummar Ziauddin and I were conned by our respective colleges into going to PAF Academy Risalpur for the first time; Ummar had come from Army Burn Hall College Abbottabad and I was representing Aitchison College Lahore. Ummar and I, we never met, heard, or even so much as saw each other back then.
We were both told that it was something we had to do, a competition we had to speak, as if we had no choice. Well, turns out we did have a choice and we were not really conned; it’s just that we are rather proud and possibly too sure of ourselves to ever say no to a challenge; we were warrior-poets in the making, you see, and, as such, we could never give in; we would refuse to lose…or well, at least he would. Inertia has always had too heavy a hold on my life and rarely can I be persuaded to make any efforts to break free; I enjoy sloth. But then again, lazy or not, we debaters are egotistical creatures; and we have good reason to be this way, for after all, we win not because the judges are biased; we win in spite of it.
Back then, we were young, ignorant, unaware of what was really happening around us, and we had both been sent as humorous speakers -which was fine in my case but Ummar?
As luck would have it, we were both disqualified that year and out of the competition in the very first round. The experience, however, was a wonderful one; we got to take ‘joyrides’ in the Super Mushaak -Courtesy of the Pak Air Force- and we got to experience what it is like to be disqualified; a novel occurrence, which later became a recurring theme in my life.
With no regrets at all, I returned back home from that tournament; I had enjoyed the good food, met with interesting people, delivered a well received Urdu humorous speech and had been patted on the back on account of my ‘tough luck’ for not having gone on to the final round. Yes, I was satisfied indeed. Ummar, on the other hand, came back home with the intention of going back someday and ‘winning that insufferable tournament once and for all.’ (He tried -a record- four times in all before he actually managed to do that.)
And so then one day we joined Government College University. I refrained from crossing the threshold of the Debating Society for a whole year; I had grown too tired of public speaking; it was too much of a hassle, and thus I joined the Dramatics Club to relax.

In the year 2007, after I’d acted in enough plays to last me a lifetime, I decided it was time to try my hand at debates once again. It had been quite a while since I had spoken -Risalpur having been my last tournament- and here in GCU, everyone was all praises for this boy called Ummar, who was the President of the Debating Society and, apparently, not a bad speaker. I didn’t know him at all, and I tend to be a bit skeptical but I realized fairly quickly that with Ummar, I was in the presence of greatness; the boy could put life into the most absurd and nonsensical conglomerations of words like a demi-god of oratory! Pure talent personified! And here I must also add that I know of no other person who works as hard as he did to gain and then maintain his much coveted place as a legendary public speaker.

We spoke as a team for the first time at a place called Government College Township in Lahore; he spoke as a serious English speaker and I as an Urdu humorous one.
We won Township and it was by far the most horrendous and, in retrospect, enlightening experience of my debating career, that is, until we spoke at Comsats Lahore, much later; I will never forgive Ummar for that or any one of the other tournaments we have been to because I am always forced against my will to accompany him. Personally, I prefer a peaceful, ambition-free life, but he tends to get bored fairly easily. This is precisely why I found myself, one fine day, staring at a gigantic flying fish made of camouflaged metal, stranded in the middle of a runway at the old Lahore airport. The C130 aircraft is designed to carry everything but fussy human beings, and as it tried to take us to our destination, one of the tires burst -or as I like to put it: the plane caught fire and nearly went up in flames. A second plane was promptly requested and eventually we boarded the substitute aircraft; hoping for the best, we were on our way. Dr. Haroon Qadir -In charge Debating Society- who simply refuses to remember who I am -General Secretary Debating Society- was with us on this expedition and proved himself, by far, the most agreeable chaperon anyone could ask for; he never interfered and was always kind enough to pretend to have faith in us! In spite of the fact that he had declared: “If Ummar goes to Risalpur again, I will quit my job!” he later agreed with Siddique Awan sahib -Co In charge Denating Society- on one condition: he would keep a spring-powered shoe-thrower, to shoot Ummar with during the tournament, if the occasion called for it.

So the second time Ummar and I went to Risalpur was in 2008. This gap of five years had completely changed us as individuals. I was taller and more confident; he was being solemnly requested by the organizers to stop coming back; it was noticeable how everyone seemed to know Ummar. He had spent more time in Risalpur than most of the cadets and this is not an exaggeration: the cumulative time he has spent in the Super Mushaak taking ‘joy rides’ exceeds that of almost all cadet pilots. We were sure that in the event that he did not win, he would definitely be given honorary wings! Apart from this, nearly all the contestants seemed naturally to want to seek out Ummar for advice and ask him about the schedule etc. since he had more experience in such matters than the Academy staff, who were clearly new at this.

As per our daily routine in Risalpur, it can only be said that both of us really like to sleep; we consider it a birthright and a perfectly unobjectionable and halal past time. The young boys from Fazaia Karachi, who were bunking in our room were rather disturbed by our extraordinarily deep slumber and would try to check our pulses at regular intervals, to see if we were still alive. Naturally this practice, although performed with the best of intents on their part, left us with the desire to rip their souls out and send them up to the Almighty. Every now and then a senior cadet would also feel compelled to confirm whether we had ‘passed on’, as it were, or not.
The initial round of the tournament went rather well in my opinion. One has to choose three topics and then pick one out of the three to speak on. Two hours or so are given to the speaker to prepare. This is a rather nerve wracking process and I hope I’ll never have to experience such a thing again. Although, considering how it makes you remember God quite frequently, it might be construed as a holy thing! After the initial round was over and we were informed that we had qualified for the final round, we went back to our rooms to continue our leisure pursuit of sleeping as best we could. The following day was a day for Super Mushaak ‘joy-rides’ -an aircraft about which Ummar knows more than the pilots who fly it- and of course, the final round.

The auditorium seemed less intimidating, but just as prestigious. The trophy seemed visibly different as well, mainly because the boys from EME NUST who had won it last year, had lost the original trophy, so a new one stood in its place –they say it cost Rs15000!- and was more beautiful than the previous one. A trophy’s beauty cannot be truly appreciated until it is seen through the eyes of a debater; the longing I felt when I saw this particular trophy was a spiritual experience in itself.
There we were Ummar and I, wearing our maroon GCU blazers –mine was borrowed- looking like joyous angels of death; our skins were pale and nerves taut beyond endurance: he had only just vomited blood in the toilet, a ritualistic pre-tournament habit of his, whilst I was feeling an urgent need to use the toilet: irritable bowel syndrome! Also, we are both afflicted by bouts of narcolepsy, brought on by stress; so, sitting on the stage, waiting for our turn, we both experienced moments of total, blank, darkness wherein other contestants tried to nudge us into waking up. In such a state of vulnerability I tend to be rather emotional and am easily moved by the emotive invocations of other serious speakers; at such times I can be observed as the only fool among contestants who nods his head in appreciation and claps passionately with tears in his eyes as a bewildered speaker blabs on about some Kashmiri mother, following it up with a couplet or two by Habib Jalib or Faiz Ahmed Faiz.

We were both rather nervous. Team GCU were favorites to win but one never knows how a speech might go till it has been delivered. The audience is an unpredictable organism to be sure; sometimes it can go out of control and on such an occasion you know very well that your goose is cooked. And many a speaker gets his cooked in Risalpur.
My turn came after Ummar had spoken, and he did a pretty good job. As a general rule I don’t listen to him when my speech has to follow his speech; I’m too busy trying to keep myself from falling to pieces, as my stomach fills up with lead and I begin to panic. I rehearse the speech in my head and despair. Then I start praying for a natural disaster or something to keep me from having to do this.
I was beyond panic in Risalpur; I wouldn’t say I was ‘comfortably numb’, more along the lines of ‘resigned to my fate.’ Ummar probably felt the same.
After he was done speaking, I swallowed spit, clapped for my team-mate, swallowed again, and then waited for the President to call my name. Then, under the force of some unknown spell I got up and moved over to the dais…

Ummar and I were the first team from GCU to have won Risalpur in four years. We received the Hero's welcome on our return to Lahore. Even the C130 seemed a lot more comfortable on the return trip and I don't know about Ummar but I fell asleep on the plane in spite of it not being sound proof or spacious.
The atmosphere itself seemed charged with a sense of victory and we were confident that if we never did anything again for the rest of our stay in GCU but sit and relax, it would go entirely unchallenged and nothing but indulgent smiles would be our share; Risalpur, after all, is a big deal. We spoke this tournament together, unknowingly and separately once, and were disqualified. We spoke as a team the second time and brought home the team-trophy. Ummar says it was fated and I don’t believe in coincidences either.

Ameerdin (another one of those stories)

For those who might be wondering wtf is wrong with me; why am I writing stupid ass shit hole stories ever since I started this goddamn blog, the reason is this: I am trying to fill a magazine. They won't let me print anything I would write under normal circumstances and I'm really keen on getting my name up on a board. I'm not the sort of chap who goes around asking people to write because that makes me uncomfortable; I am somewhat anti-social. So, I am technically a prostitute, I suppose, but wtf? I realized much too late that the crownless who must be king, must be king. Otherwise the shit would just simply hit the fan. Enjoy.




Ameerdin

A man sat watching from afar as a small boy with frozen cheeks and a pink runny nose went about begging for money at the traffic signal where rich people were bound to stop for long enough. This man was almost invisible to the general public. Not that he had any unusual powers; it was just that he was proficient in the art of being inconspicuous. On a busy street or amid a mass of pedestrians, he would be the last man anyone would notice; his ordinary features, clothes, appearance and seemingly inconsequential presence made no impact in the mind of the average person, as if the image of his corpus never registered, except, of course, when he wanted it to. On this chilly, winter morning in Lahore, the man sat watching from afar, invisible but tense. There was good reason for his squatting in the cold; he was determined to investigate into the matter personally. It was the only way to find glory.

The boy went from car to car as it waited for the traffic lights to turn green; he stopped at the more expensive cars and lingered only momentarily at the smaller, cheaper ones, leaving nothing but a misty smudge or two on the windows. It was all part of the training: don’t waste time on people who have nothing to offer; the bigger the car, the better the chances.
The man went in to have a closer look; he watched with interest, as if observing some pattern of traffic with care, except that he was dressed too shabbily to be a sociologist. Even now he managed to remain unnoticed. As the boy now stood next to a Honda Accord, the watcher’s gaze grew sharper. The driver, an effluent young father flicked his attention for half a second at the pitiful form of the beggar boy, but without any kind of acknowledgement, shifted his glance back to the road, and then to the rear view mirror wherein he checked up on the two kids sitting in the back. He smiled at his children as the boy tapped on the window.
The beggar boy -observed the watcher- was dressed in rags much different from the clean uniform of the children in the car; his face was filthy, covered with marks of freshly cried tears that had left narrow traces of relative cleanliness as they made their way across his features through acquired dirt and left the appearance of a dried riverbed. As the boy knocked again and mumbled random prayers and evoked his pity, the driver toed the accelerator just enough to move the car very slowly forwards so that the beggar boy would get the hint and leave. The boy got the hint and moved on to the next car.

This won’t do, thought the watcher, but he felt somewhat relaxed; he had a theory, and a plausible one, in his opinion. He would present his views in front of the committee tonight and be noticed. Indeed it was a good theory and he hoped that the elders would soon realize what a brilliant man he was. On the other hand, there are always those who move in like vultures to take the credit, he thought, but never mind, never mind…this could be the break he was looking for.

The Beggar-Mafia of Lahore, as it exists today, is an intricate network consisting of many semi-autonomous cells that function under the auspices of various influential men. The mafia is a vast band of untouchables, in that nobody can cause them any harm; separate parts of the network are actively involved in kidnapping, drug dealing, theft, prostitution and so on but to trace these crimes back to the Beggar Mafia itself is, although not impossible, reasonably inconvenient.
The city of Lahore is divided into twelve districts by the elders or sarkaars of each cell and within this area only ‘authorized’ beggars can operate. Old men, women and young children are and have traditionally been the biggest sources of income for the Mafia. Nearly everywhere that one might go in Lahore, one would find such fakirs on the roads, at traffic signals and outside market places, but of course this does not mean that every individual beggar that one comes across on the street is a part of this organization; some are independents, others are slaves bought by the Mafia and thereby acting not out of their own free will.
Though invisible to the public at large, an overseer is always present somewhere close by where a beggar operates. The reason why most beggar kids don’t try to run off is because firstly, if they get caught, the punishment would be unbearable and they do generally get caught; secondly, the mafia always has a ‘next of kin’ in custody to threaten the life of, and to scare potential runners from attempting such a thing; thirdly, the Mafia offers an endless supply of something for which the marginal utility falls extremely slowly: drugs.
As it were, in recent times the amount of wealth being amassed by the Mafia through their agents decreased exponentially and it was primarily to investigate this phenomenon that overseers all over the city were charged with the duty to observe their subjects’ activities. The average overseer, however, being a man of lesser wisdom than cunning, always comes to the same conclusion: “the beggar boy, girl, person, isn’t pleading hard enough; they’re not putting enough effort into the exercise” and so on. Their suggested solution? Severer punishments to encourage beggars to put their heart and soul into the job.

The man, who had sat and watched, spent the entire day roaming around the streets of Lahore, thinking of how to articulate his thoughts properly. He even left his charge –the beggar boy- to operate on his own; by now he was convinced that the kid would not even think of attempting to run or pocket anything; it’s not hard to read the face of a child and in any case, the kid in question was completely brainwashed into submission.
By sunset he reached the place where the elders met to collect the day’s earnings and confer with the overseers to see where things stood; naturally, they were interested in knowing how business was doing and why.

The elders were, in fact, six men, representatives of the higher ups. Of course nobody really knows for sure how many links there are in the chain of command in this particular set-up but as far as an overseer is concerned, an elder is just about as high as you can get if you’re lucky enough to not get knifed by a competitor. An overseer who has committed murder and has a warrant against him is always given preference because by now he is considered as loyal a subject as it is possible to become. Having such competitors is a major source of worry for anyone in this field who has yet to commit a felony that deserves a life sentence and/or capital punishment.

The elders sat on personal charpayis and neither would ever sit on any but his own. It was considered a transgression to do so. Each overseer would come and one by one touch the knee of every elder, starting with the head of his own particular area, and then the head of the nearest area and so on. After the preliminaries, the overseers would start speaking in order of seniority.
The overseers spoke and the watcher listened to all of them, growing lighter in mood with every speech. He felt assured that none of the seniors had quite hit the nail precisely on the head and with this assurance came the guarantee that he would probably get the chance to make a brilliant impression on the elders. His turn was to come at the very last and might not have come at all, had he not requested an audience. This was a bold step and his companions were all intrigued. He addressed the elder of his area: “I thank you, sarkaar, for your patience. Although my fellows have reported their findings and their insights have been heard, I believe they were all off the mark. I believe the crux of the matter lies not in the level of motivation of our subjects but in how we are packaging the product. Times have changed sarkaar. Our target audience has changed. In olden times, a rich man would look at a child begging and see in him his own children; this would evoke pity within him and force him to reach deep into his pockets. Now when a rich man looks at the child begging he sees nothing but an animal and feels no obligation to be charitable.”

“And what do you suggest my boy? How do we change the view of the rich man?” spoke the elder indulgently. His tone was jovial. Such a tone, thought the watcher, did not bode well in this business. He must get to the point quickly or be considered a mad fool. The elders were always very conscious of the behavior of the overseers in their charge. An impertinent overseer implied an impotent elder. Such a thing would be disastrous.

“Sarkaar, it is not in our power to change the sight of a man but we can change the appearance of the object he is seeing. The matter is this: the rich man sees an animal in place of a child because the beggar does not resemble his child anymore; he is dressed in rags that the rich man does not identify. This lack of recognition I have seen in his eyes myself. The appearance of the beggar child does not strike the same note on the chords of his heart as it used to because he does not recognize it. He simply averts his gaze, and by refusing to acknowledge the humanity of the beggar, feels no pity. We must dress these kids in somewhat better clothes, so that in the place of the beggar, the rich man can see the image of his own son and daughter. Once he sees a boy or a girl who is dressed in western clothes on the brink of decay, his pity will be roused. This is the age of the burger, sarkaar, and we can only be successful if we move with the times.” The elders heard this speech in silence, exchanged significant glances and then the one spoke to him.

“What is your name son?” he asked in a condescending tone.

“Ameerdin, sarkaar,” answered the watcher with affected humility. He was much pleased.

“You have done well Ameerdin. Be sure that we do not forget those who think of us.” said the elder and got up with the rest of his fellows. The conference was over; the crowd dispersed.

Ameerdin sat watching from afar as a small boy with frozen cheeks and a pink nose went about begging for money. This boy was dressed in reasonably patched and frayed modern clothing and to any observer would seem as if he belonged to a decent middle class family that had run into a patch of tough luck. The drivers passing took pity on him and felt the eye of God upon them. God can turn the fortunes of a man overnight if He so pleases, they would think and the thought would send a shiver down their spines. Car windows rolled down and eyes that beheld their children’s future in the face of the beggar boy glanced at him. Coins and notes were stuffed in his dirty hands as he moved from car to car; each car was waiting for the lights to turn green.
Ameerdin sat squatting in the cold for good reason; he wanted to bask in the faint light of the sun that washed over him. This was glory.

To You, with Contempt, My Forever Friend

To the Hypocrite.

I saw you sniveling, crawling, pawing at the door of my trust;
Your nails were dirty but painted and the paint scratched;
Your eyes were lustful and full of luster that shines white lies.
I'd reach out far for a conceit to do you merit but alas,
I feel exertion must be in proportion to the goal in mind.

When you sit in other’s living rooms and speak of me
As though dead, I feel the cold wind at the back of my neck;
Words you breathe against me are brought softly to my ear.
I feel like reaching out far to strangle your deceitful throat
But your fetid, feckless, fussy little face, forms in my mind

At times you come and look into my eyes, with shame lingering
In the corners of yours and I am sickened by your guilt
And I am angered because I know you know I know;
You know I reached out far to help you when you needed it;
I hope I get the chance -and know I will- to see you bleed.

The Interview

Mr. Malik got married in 1969 and was blessed with a daughter the following year. His mother thought it was a shame, a disgrace and entirely the fault of his son’s wife, who had seemed ‘no good’ from the ‘very beginning’. Mr. Malik was a reasonably well-educated man but he was also a devoted son to a very authoritarian mother. He took to chastising his wife in his mother's presence but would later try to set things right by telling his wife that ‘patience is a virtue.’
Because of her mother-in-law’s overt display of contempt for her and her daughter, Mrs. Malik felt alienated, unjustly targeted and unhappy with her situation. She suffered three miscarriages and subsequent phases of prolonged depression; by the end of her fifth year of marriage, she could hardly be recognized as the girl from her wedding photos.

By the time we got to speak to Mr. Malik, his daughter had been dead for two years. She had committed suicide by leaping out of her bedroom window where she had been kept captive, for most of the last three years of her life, owing to her ‘illness.’ Mrs. Malik refused to give an interview with her husband and mother-in-law but was available to us separately. The father and grandmother were more than willing to explain the situation as they saw it.

Malik: I don’t know –she was rather odd, maybe she was, perhaps delusional. Even as a child she expected too much out of life. We all tried to explain to her…certain things. Well, certainly there’s a way to do everything and she was never really properly interested in things a girl ought to be. But, of course, it got worse as her illness progressed.

Grandmother: indeed, we all know our place in society…it’s what maintains the delicate fabric of society. You can’t expect to live in society like an anarchist! I clearly remember that in spite of all our best efforts she would not listen to reason. The influence of the mother was not a positive one, I believe, it aggravated the problem. Genetics, you see, plays a vital role…I blame myself…I was too accepting; had I been more selective, it would never have happened. You can’t mix certain types of blood.

Malik: what mother means to say is that we tried our best to provide a good home to my child, of course; after all, I was her father and loved her. I knew what was best for her. But genetic predispositions can’t be countered with love and affection…

Grandmother: Stamps! She wanted to collect stamps! What sort of child does that? She had no regard for her elders. If we forbade her to do something, it was for her own good. Stamp collection is a useless waste of time…we did not want a potential wastrel in our house. My son can sometimes be a little accommodating; he was always too soft. Do you remember when she came home with that filthy animal?

Malik: yes…the dog…it was rather shocking. Mother is allergic you see. Dogs and cats and all such creatures…

Grandmother: of course I had no choice but to have her watch it put to sleep. A child needs to be disciplined. If we, the establishment, don’t mold the shape of the future, why this country would be desecrated by anarchists running amok!

Malik: I suppose it was a bit extreme, in some ways, but she was a happy child. Naturally, with all comforts provided for. School was out of the question, of course. Mother has always felt that a gentlewoman must be home tutored.

Grandmother: yes it is rather disgraceful to see how girls nowadays seem not to care about such things. In my day, it was unheard of. My master sahib used to sit at a distance of five feet behind a veil. Appropriate and moral, that was the way to bring up a girl and my son and I never hesitated when it came to my grand daughter’s education. It is extremely important. After all, not even China is too far in the path to knowledge.

Malik: she grew somewhat subdued by the time she was fifteen. A bit distant I would say. She seemed to have lost interest in any of the family activities.

Grandmother: utterly spoiled and a renegade. She lacked proper emotions. It’s the genetics at play as I pointed out earlier. You can’t blame the child if the mother is at fault. The child did not understand the concept of respect. Remember how she would move about with blank eyes? Scaring all potential suitors away!

Malik: mother believes in early marriages…

Grandmother: well yes. We will not have hysteria in this house! It’s a known fact…you can’t have a grown girl in the house without inviting hysteria. Of course, her illness crept up out of the blue and took us all by surprise. A full year in and out of the hospital, the girl drove us all crazy with fear; I could practically hear the neighbors talk.

Malik: and then she jumped…

Grandmother: yes.

Mother: my husband was too weak willed. My child was not as fortunate as I was; at least I had spent my youth in a normal house-hold. They never allowed…well she never allowed her breathing space. The girl was inherently freedom-loving, and wanted independence. What can I say? How can I explain how they were? It’s impossible to set into words a lifetime of discouragement. I mean her father would not touch her if his mother were present. The child naturally realized that his love was conditional, that he was not her ideal man. It is always disheartening to know your father lives in constant fear. There was nothing ‘wrong’ with her; there was no ‘illness’. No schizophrenia or anything, she was perfectly fine. She wanted to be a doctor and a lawyer just like everybody else. She was born, given a name and then she died. Sometimes, all you get to choose is how you die. Sometimes that’s the only thing people can’t take away from you. I don’t justify what she did, of course, but I understand it.

Would I blame him? Yes and no. Do I blame his mother? Yes and no. who knows what her parents did to her? I’m not even bitter. My child taught me something valuable…something that finally allowed me to leave that horrible house and get a life. I may have to spend hours at work horribly underpaid but it’s still better than that life. Yes that’s what I learned. You only live once and a life without freedom: worse than death. God have mercy on her soul.

For Sale

I am the famed Mercy of the World Civilized,
As invisible as the weapons never found in Iraq.
I am the ephemeral smile of the soldier’s boy,
I am a mine disguised like a shiny toy.

I am everywhere my murderers thrive.
And I kill myself to avenge my life.
I sing a song that yells: Despair!
Of winged hopes that never take to the air

I believe no more, nor wish to believe,
And if Hell will burn then I’ll burn to relieve.
Don't turn away or cast a blind eye on me.
I am free with a bang, quite a bargain you see...

I sit back and laugh for I know I won’t fail.
When They’ve bought all of you, I will not be for sale.

The Conjuror of MB4

A university is a place of wonder and mystery: such were my sentiments as I escaped the noxious fumes of the university toilets whilst trying to account for the mysterious shoe-prints I had just witnessed on a toilet seat. How they got to be there is not perhaps as mystifying as the frequency with which I seem to find them there. Why? Who?
With relevant questions in my mind I moved towards the Main Block when with a small ‘pop’ and a puff of smoke there appeared by my side a bearded gentleman whose lively countenance betrayed a noble nature and an almost lustful need to scamper about, interfering in everything.

“Well, well, and what might you be?” said the apparition, addressing me in courteous tones.

“Lost is what I am, old chap!” I answered in a surprisingly crisp British accent, which stymied my companion for half a second, but who regained composure almost instantly.

“Why don’t you join the Debating Society?” he asked me suspiciously as if I had committed a crime by trying to foil his impressive theatrical entrance with an unexpected accentual assault.

“And what, pray tell, would that entail?” I countered with a question of my own. I could sense it was to be a battle of wits.

“This university is a place of wonder and mystery; you will learn much!” answered the unknown specter with an air of grandeur and enigma that seemed to suggest that he had watched something odd when he was a child.

“Tempting…” thought I, but remained silent, expecting more.

“I offer you Glory!” he said and with a flourish, produced in his outstretched palm, a small transparent sphere within which I observed myself surrounded by vibrant rainbows. I further saw my miniature self to be swatting frantically at eight unusually large fireflies; seven of them were blinking their tail-lights on and off in sheer joy whilst the eighth looked frightened and was clearly signaling S.O.S. in Morse code...
With my old concept of ‘Glory’ in shambles, I looked up into the bearded gentleman’s face, whose eyes shone bright with manic energy.

“I offer you Fame!” he said and in his other outstretched palm I saw three monkeys playing in the mud.

“Right…” I said, feeling a bit awkward and unsure.

He spoke again: “I offer you Trophy!” this time I saw a clear image inside a third small sphere: The image was of an object upon which there shone a light, whiter than white. It stood majestic, upon a pedestal, bathed in all things silver and gold. Ephemeral but sufficient, the vision disappeared in a flash that left my soul yearning for more, my blood warmed at the sight, my heart desirous of that same experience, my perception irreversibly altered, my life, forever changed. In the second half of my second year in my second university, I joined the Debating Society, in search of Glory, Fame, and the ever elusive Trophy. Little did I know that I had sold my soul for something almost unattainable; little did I know that…


-Before the illusion of great power comes great suffering…

Contrary to popular belief, there is neither a mystical potato that reveals unto us the knowledge of all things rhetorical, nor are we ethereal mediums, channeling the spirits of a thousand failed writers, whose subjects were ever, and always, Karbalah and Kashmir. Our emblematic ramblings are not inspired after a healthy dose of any opiate whatsoever and our metaphoric allusions to all events grand yet bloody are not the result of a deranged mind. In truth: it’s all a consequence of extensive brainwashing or as the elders like to call it, Training.


My 'Taining' began in that most sacred of rooms, the MB4 and a grueling preparation it was indeed. The elders of the Society had devised a clever medium of instruction, primarily on a day-to-day basis of humiliation, suffering, and an almost unending chain of disappointments handed out in more or less equal measure to all the debutants.
The elders would usually stand in rows on either side of a red-hot coal pit, upon which a young trainee would have to jump about, practicing delivering his speech with a straight face whilst being repeatedly struck with fat strips of leather. This program of initiation also included feeding, massaging, and praising the elders endlessly. Doing odd jobs for them was not obligatory but saying ‘no’ meant a demotion to the exclusive post of Secretary of the Dustbin for months on end. Once a satisfactory amount of time had elapsed, a hooded elder called a meeting which lasted nearly four hours and achieved absolutely nothing. It was frustrating indeed but the illusion that something spectacular was just around the corner was very effectively maintained.
Many months were spent learning the art of not believing anything and then trying to justify everything. This may seem less painful than all the other mindless exercises conducted so far but in essence it was this skill in particular that truly robbed a man of his bearings in this world and restructured his perceptions entirely and thereby, ultimately resulted in a complete loss of faith on all frontiers of life. Eventually, with the aid of some method of evaluation with which I am entirely unfamiliar, it was decided that I was ready to learn the secret of writing an actual speech. I had been informed earlier that this might also help me understand the inexplicable presence of shoe-prints on toilet seats, but by this time I was ruthlessly cynical.

-History will always smack me hard, because somebody else intends to write it…

And then one day, stripped of my sense of self and utterly woe begotten, I lay panting at the threshold of the bearded gentleman’s lair. I had had enough! No more would I suffer for the sake of the much coveted fireflies or monkeys! The elusive trophy was just that, too elusive! It was over now, once and for all, and so I hitched up my pants and knocked at the door to the twelfth dimension, the entrance to the lair. But just as I was to hand in my resignation the bearded gentleman slapped me on the back and said, “Well young man? What say you if I offer you a post in the Society?” he was an accomplished prestidigitator: he could make food disappear before your very eyes! But I know how to keep my cool. I had brought a magic lamp of my own. I had been informed by a reliable source that the lamp contained Winston Churchill's ghost and it was said that he never failed to help the wronged by taking up their case against oppression by throwing his book quotable quotes at the enemy.

“Actually old chap I was thinking more along the lines of quitting…” I said quite calmly and noticed how my breath suddenly smelled of fish n’ chips as I nervously fingered the lamp in my pocket.

The conjuror of MB4 looked at me with an appraising glance, measuring the strength of my character perhaps or trying to see whether I had the will to defy him or not. “Ha-ha! You can’t leave! You can never leave!” announced the man of super strength as he grew in stature right in front of my eyes. Ten feet tall he grew and towered over me! I had anticipated this move; by now i had learnt enough in the DS to counter such smoke and mirror strategies; I took out the magic lamp and rubbed it! Winston Churchill appeared amidst us like a genie; he took one good look at the situation, weighed the pros and cons and then gave me a savage beating. Apparently the bearded chap and Churchill were old friends. It was clearly pointless to struggle now. With my soul gone and my will shattered there was not much I could do; after all, a university is a place of wonder and mystery...

...and we are all just prisoner's here, of our own device!

Blind Faith

I’d say he was right...
After a while...
If you're in the right head...
It won't be blind anymore...
Beneath the milky twilight...
Sickle shaped and weak...
Crumbling like old cheese...
Type scene...
Horses with wings and all...
Splitting the moon and meeting God
At the speed of light...
Coming back home
Beneath the milky twilight...
Like you never left...
But will never be the same...
After a while...
If you're still in the right head...
I’d say he was right.


-----------------------

Unanswered love

Oh yeah? aren't you radiant?
Why so glum my strange sad supernova gorgeous?
Green fresh grass trampled happily to death...
You walk mighty fine...you trace a line
Across my palm. i feign calm.
Tinkling bells, a feeling, love sells...
But aren't you the real thing?
Haven't you got eyebrows like an archer's dream?
Aren't you soft as a rain cloud inside whipped cream?
Oh man. it's hard to qualify.
You're the opposite of my brother's horrible singing
One touch...why was i so stupid?
Such a mess...but aren't you still radiant?
Then why so glum my strange sad supergorgeous nova?
I ask because it's clearly not about me...hahaha.
Distant lands, arms wide open
Mountains higher than the roof of the house where you live...d
Sparkled like the first stream
Of summer, full of free, flowing, ice-cold water; pure you love...d

Waiting for the Fall

sssSSSSsssSSSSsssSSSSsssSSSSsss

It starts low, somewhere down below
Creeps up. Surprise! Takes time but you’re fine
Tests your patience, spreads all over
This smile on your lips must be a woman

She averts her gaze, blue skies, all ablaze!
And you think to yourself. Tulips for two lips?
So I gave it all up; twice for two eyes!
Heaven smirks as my soul slips out in sighs

Ankles, wrists and her never ending tricks
Strange how the silliness seems to slip through
I will spend six years just looking at you
This smile on my lips will come true

------------------------------------
Madness is sadness in a loftier guise
Goodness is badness in a shabby disguise.
Honesty and truth are all a pack of lies.
If at first you don't succeed...how many tries?
If at last you don't succeed...nobody cries.
Heaven smirks as my soul slips out in sighs.
------------------------------------

A Clown

There’s a hidden beat between the notes.
There’s an ‘other side’ just beneath the tide.
There’s a song still afresh inside my mind..
But gradually the bass falls and gently the song halts
Heads sway, sober, drunk, just like mad monks.
An eye closed they reach out and seek out
And touch the sun. This life is but a test run.
The Centre bursts out and you are everywhere
Muffled notes recede and leave us right here
Ears still bleeding, fresh voices still in motion
Our names were erased. Sand swept by an ocean.
Uncut and twisted, the shattered diamond lost
String after string, thought after thought.
Alternating beats waiting forever and I am just...