Fifteen Minutes

The pale girl with dewy eyes, dressed in a black frayed evening dress stood in the doorway, smiling weakly. The greasy-nosed man with grimy nails who had met her fifteen minutes ago stepped aside to let her in. She lowered her gaze and entered the strange yet familiar room. After all, it was just like all the other rooms; four walls, a roof, a window or two, scattered cheap furniture, all of it flavored with sickly orange-yellow light.

The man looked at the girl critically, and once satisfied with her natural beauty, sat down on a chair next to the bed and felt his wallet press against him in the back pocket of his pants. She seated herself gingerly on a corner of the bed and with her right hand smoothed a crease in the sheets out of habit, then turned her head up and addressed no one in particular.

“This is just a means to an end.” she said. The man’s face did not show any sign of having listened. She considered for a moment whether an explanation was even worth the effort, then realized that it always was; it always made her feel as if life were leading up to something more; as if there were some truth in what she thought and hoped for.

He noticed how her shapely fingers removed the crease then continued to draw random shapes on the bed sheet like a child does in the sand. Watching her graceful hand following a course laid down by another unseen hand excited the man. This was his life being observed by a silently vigilant, indifferent god, he thought. The woman would steal a glance, trying to get a good image of the man’s face in her head but did not stare at him directly. Sometimes it was not such a good idea to do so.

“A means to an end,” she repeated, “yes, someday, they will all know my name.” she said and noticed in the way he had suddenly blinked that at least some of what she had said had crossed over.

“They…?” questioned the man in a husky voice that was not really his own but a made-up one. His affected voice was for her, quite possibly, a good sign: he must be a man of family perhaps, she thought, or on the other hand, he could be some sunken man whose soul had buckled under the pressure of misguided morals and had driven him to this act of desperation; such men were more dangerous for they intended to come only once.

“‘They’…you know…the world!” She exclaimed with much animation. “The whole world will know my name and sing my songs and worship me like a goddess! I will be famous and I will be adored and loved by all.”

The man looked into her eyes and saw that they had already begun to lose their whites to yellow. This was perfect he thought. This was exactly what he had hoped for. The Lord works in mysterious ways he thought to himself and silently laughed the cruel laugh of a tired man.

“No.” he said, much pleased and almost reverting to his normal voice in his pleasure but checking himself instantly.

“No?” she asked, looking confused and worried.

“No one will ever know you; you will die, anonymous.” said the man with such prophetic finality that the girl’s eyes filled with tears that had long since been forgotten.

She had always known her dreams to be foolish and absurd but to have somebody state them to be so was somehow more coldly effective. The indifference in this disintegrating man’s voice made it seem inevitable. The greasy-nosed man with dirty nails who had no life behind or ahead of him had spoken the truth from experience and so she knew it. She saw her life end quietly, pointlessly and she knew fully and without the slightest hint of doubt that her grave, if she had one, would have no flowers placed on it. Her grave would be just as uncomfortable as life had been. And then suddenly she was all tears and smiles. The man, who had silently been watching her weep and then smile like a hysteric, stood up and proceeded to unbutton the collar of his threadbare shirt and as he did so, he quietly ordered her to take off her clothes.

A Brief Discourse On Reclusive Writing

There was a young boy standing next to me as I thought of the waves crashing in my ears like breaking dishes in the sink. And suddenly everything just went blank. My fingers kept moving. Faster and faster as they scurried along playfully up and down and sideways everywhichways to type these words. And then a strange noise ruined everything. It was a rocket taking off in hell when suddenly as it tore silently through the atmosphere and entered space; there was absolutely nothing like the silence of deep space staring at you with its great gaping hole of a mouth beckoning you forward into the land without directions or end. A faint music from somewhere melted slowly in and everything began to glitter. Luminous rose petals and lilies standing far but close enough to be not that far. The voice of the moon as it shone in borrowed light spoke softly, whispered, oh let it shine this borrowed light of mine for it reminds me of you.
I was squeezed tight sitting in a cave with two narrow walls and too shallow roof. There was not much space. The young boy standing next to me was a stranger to time and space, of course I knew he would be leaving soon.
We waited with bated breath. Something new was going to happen. Violins and cellos shook the air in time with the single note of bass that led the drum around. Long live the king!
And then mountains exploded, and the earth shook by the sheer force of the explosion. Half the world bled as the other half rained back down in shattered bits that would never be healed again much like me on a sunny day in my life right before the bad part sends choirs upon choirs of light bred shining fireflies with flames trailing behind them through the sky of the sea like fish that fly through the fields of the drowned continent.
How dare you boy?
What satan fool led you here?
What crippled mind could provoke such thought?
What? Answer could stop my hand?

I apologize. I don’t understand these words you speak.
I have tripped on my shoelaces and can’t find my way.
I have slipped and lost my wallet and my heart and soul
Move. Quietly. Like the slow trance of a feline spirit caught
Be careful. They’ve stolen everything. Have fear, take care.
Through the web of pulsating bass. Through the heart of a comatose mind.
Through the trap, tear slid down the white wonder, the only dessert
Where water looks like a crime against nature.
I knew this place. I’d been here before.
Somebody sang cried wept then died here.
I could hear a golden memory from the childhood
Out there, yes here, this is where I wept cried sang and died.
Suddenly there in the dead cold steel factory assembly line,
A sound much like the trees you make guitars out of. Fine wine
Something contradictory and made of unidirectional time and limited intelligence that increased as you got closer to the end. It was a cruel trick I played on myself I said politically. Correct. Came the answer.
My face was warm. I felt suspicious. Isn’t this winter tonight? Did somebody just call me up and tell me that I’m a worthless idiot in need of help? Excuse me? Me? I am the fastest trigger in the east. That’s right, friend, my name is quietly escaping my mind and oops with a great yell for freedom the old superhero escaped wearing torn inmate bespoke uniform. What? Am I destined for just about anything? What a horrible prediction. How am I supposed to live with knowledge of this sort? What ruthless animals haunt this world. I have no idea who you are man. And I think I’m going to sit back here on this bench just far enough to be away from any splashes of blood and other residue from your bashed head which might fly out as these gentleman here, both of them jump on your face wearing these here spiked shoes…then I’ll watch them do it.
This guy really knows how to channel his energies in the most absurd fashion. I think It’s over. Nothing is happening. Oh quiet down you’re being silly. There’s going to be no such thing. You will not lose your mind. You won’t start laughing pointlessly or anything like voices at night or a fear of the dark that leaves you pointlessly laughing. Yes very nice that’s exactly the progression we expected in this damp brain of his. Doctor what say you to a total choppage? Perhaps we should remove from the neck up this time?
Son, did you just experience an epiphany in my presence?
Sorry dad. It’s not that I don’t respect you, I just…well I left earlier.
That’s ok son. I’ll let you off on this technical note but next time there’ll be no excuse good enough.
Fair enough old chap!
The oddest strange music came out of long past bent and curling chipped pieces of wood that used to be stringed instruments men played to one another to steal each other’s women. In their eyes was the magic of a thousand Arabian nights spent underneath an urban sky next to a mossy wall beneath dimly visible stars that kept close watch on the world of nothing ever happens to make sure no one stepped out of character or horsed around. The niceness of the warmth on the four legged naked old instruments’ odd strange music was worth a strip of memory reel.
Ok I think that’s good enough.
But then there was this one song we just had to experience properly. Although I couldn’t really be sure if I were feeling anything much. No nothing. Practically a failed experience. A no experience. Anti experience. But then the beat. Is something being asked? Are they rousing the inner eye? Are they philosophy and magic? Let go. The snake hissed. The beat stepped up. A gradual step. Lets savor this shall we? They asked. Another request fell on deaf ears. And then a scream. And then the beat stepped up. This time it was going all out. This time it was personal. This will be a very clichéd ending. But the beat will be so appealing that in spite of yourself you’ll feel your foot tap. And you’ll get up and yell for freedom like I said you would a thousand miles ago. You waste so much time. This is not a request. This is far too loud and anguished. This is pain screaming at the top of your lungs. I beg of you please understand this is not a request.
This is a good number. Let’s discuss this new friend who will cause us such embarrassments in the not so distant future. Quickly. Never turn around keep walking. Faster. Walking. Out there where the there is far and far away; the best set sun you’ll ever get to see. Lock jaw. Promise. Hard candy. Purely falling on soft grass. Like dew, like another conspiracy against conspirers. This must be the solo. It’s not very good. Oh I’m sorry. You’re adequate I must say. Adequate indeed. Maternity wards will burn for forty years before delivering you again. Indeed we delivered you but who will deliver us? Isn’t that a good joke or are your eyes like vacuum cleaners that suck everything in without taking in anything but desolation. Bloody sentient beings of civilization. Here another guy who thinks he’s so smart acting like a lover and a hater and somewhere in between all at the same time. You’re a bloody good sentient act of random chance!
That’s what you think. We planned everything. Now project yourself out of this.
What shit.
How many words is this?
we had a lot to say we'll miss him. <--- wish you well.
not all martyrs tried.
good bye.

Memory shroud

The little boy ran back into the house after spying on a man, standing outside smoking. Being brought up in Chicago but having to spend a few days, every now and then, in Lahore posed quite a dilemma: The rules of the game were surprisingly different here.

“Dad a bald man is smoking a cigarette in the garden!” said the boy, looking scandalized. Smokers were given a really tough time in America, and the boy was raised almost exclusively in the new anti-smoking lifestyle.

“Oye donkey! That is not a bald man; that is Mushtaak Chachoo!” the boy’s father reproached him in case he called Mushtaak ‘bald’ in front of him; the poor man had lost his hair far too early and felt really conscious of his appearance. He picked his son up in his arms and took him out to introduce him to his –as of yet unknown- ‘Chachoo’

Meanwhile, inside the living room, the environment was more sober: Sidra baji had come back from the hospital and sat with her sister, Marwa. Marwa’s three years old daughter kept herself busy in a corner, playing with a half-chewed dinosaur and a fake mobile phone for children; every time she pressed a button, a barely decipherable recording of an Indian song issued from the tiny speaker. Sidra baji spoke in fragments and scarcely meant to be heard. She seemed tired and distant and as she spoke she watched the little girl play in the corner.
“The doctor said everything was fine; that’s what they kept telling me except the last time I went: my blood pressure had shot up...too high." said Sidra baji with much regret. "He said the baby’s heart-beat was down to sixty, said an emergency operation was the only chance.” Sidra baji fell silent, staring at a spot in the air, thinking. Marwa could not really come up with much to say but she knew she did not really have to say anything at all. "What does one do when there is no one to blame?" asked Sidra baji; her question posed more to herself than to Marwa.

“Say Salaam to your Chachoo, boy,” said the father as he stood with his son in his arms, next to the smoking bald man. Mushtaak Chachoo smiled at the little boy but the smile died before it reached his eyes and the boy sensed an odd multiplicity of emotions lurking behind Mushtaak Chachoo’s sad eyes. The boy said ‘hello’ rather awkwardly and then squirmed and struggled to be let go of. His father set him free on his feet and the boy ran away farther into the little garden, jumping around in the grass for a bit before settling down to inspect an Ant’s nest in one of the flower beds.

Mushtaak looked at his friend -who was looking at his son- before he spoke: “Javed, do you remember that time when Gohar Sial’s sister died? Back when we were in school? We used to be such idiots back then. Professor Salim had organized a Quran Khwani in the common room?”

“Yes I remember. It was a sad time then. Gohar was a mess. His sister was very young right?”

“He saw me laughing outside the common room. He looked away when I caught his eye. Yaar…I felt like a complete heel and a traitor.”

“Oh come on, you were a kid back then…” said Javed, trying to comfort his friend.

“Yes…well so was he.” said Mushtaak and lit another cigarette.



The little girl threw the chewed up dinosaur behind a sofa and then climbed into Marwa’s lap.
“She’s a gentle creature isn’t she?” inquired Sidra baji with much fondness.

“Yes…but only when she wants to be; she knows how to torture me very well.” answered Marwa affectionately as she pulled her daughter into a soft embrace.

“How is Abba ji? He was too sad. I could tell. Has he said anything?”

“Yes, yes he’s perfectly fine. You know how it is with him; his sorrow is intense but short lived. He’s fine now…”

“That’s because he becomes too involved; coming up with names, buying diapers…for heaven’s sake! All of that, emotional investment…he didn’t even know the gender…just assumed it would be a boy!”

“He’s ok now.” said Marwa and patted her sister’s hand. The little girl slid out of her mother’s lap and ran out. Stepping, as she ran, on the fake mobile phone and immersing the whole room in a fresh wave of unrecognizable Indian music. Sidra baji’s eyes followed her niece out of the room before she spoke again: “Marwa, it was a girl.”




Mushtaak talked in an almost carefree tone now; in his usual way of talking, but something was not quite the same. “You know, a stillborn child doesn’t require a funeral? No name and no funeral. Sinless you see…so it’s unnecessary. Very lucky souls, they say, that leave this place blameless.”

“Yes, ‘how happy is the blameless vestal’s lot…’”

“'The world forgetting by the world forgot.' indeed. I was thinking of Gohar when I went to the graveyard. It was all very strange. I had my child in my hands; such a small child. Very pretty you know, light hair, very fair and proper fingers and toes." Mushtaak sighed deep, "It felt like so much waste."

“How’s Sidra?”

“Hmmm…? She’s doing fine." he paused for a thought and then continued, "I couldn’t look her in the eyes at first you know? I don’t know why. She was fine initially; I mean, then suddenly they said she’s got really high blood pressure. The baby died before they could operate. So it had to be removed…naturally. I mean she had to give birth to a dead child. No, I couldn’t look her in the eyes at first. It was just too much. It’s ok now but it’s too much. But at the time I felt ashamed…as if I had wronged her.”

“I’m really sorry Mushtaak…”

“I was thinking of Gohar. Professor Salim had asked a couple of naat khwaan to come. They were really good and all. Perhaps more interested in outdoing each other and impressing the ‘audience’ than maintaining a sense of sobriety, befitting the gravity of the situation, but really good. You know how they are...these singers…inside; they don’t really care…just another gig for them to perform at.”

“Well…they were kids too…don’t think too much about such things Mushtaak.”

“Yeah you’re right….I carried my child in my own hands and then watched as they buried it, nameless. I felt rather odd. My mind had been utterly blank and numb before that. On my way back home, for some reason, I thought of Gohar and how he had seen me laughing. I remembered his face, the look in his eyes a millisecond before he looked away. I felt the shame all over again. That was when I stopped the car and wept for the first time, like a mad child.”