The Fast

He looks at it for a while when it is passed on to him. He can relate to the smoldering paper, dying a quick death. The thick mush of smoke that is witness to this short-lived existence. He brings it to his mouth, and breathes in as hard and as long as he can. The smoke fills his lungs, and he tries to keep it there; a tear trickles down his left eye. He needs the smoke to find the nesting place it needed in his lungs. In a bout of coughing, he loses it all. It dissipates with the thicker mush. He does, however, note that the colors are different, as they merge.

...

He swims deep beneath rolling waves. He is lost in the labyrinths of coral caves. He is also hunted by the echo of the distant times. In his case it isn't just a singular echo. He is the tyrant, the abused. He is what is, and what will ever be. He is beyond all his quantified failures, but also beyond reprieve. He is both master and slave. His focus drifts to the music. He grabs on to his favorite note. Holds on to it for dear life. The note plays on repeat in his head. The song moves on. He has finally held on to something.

...

His pants are unzipped. He looks around and he is castled in white marble. He looks down, and he sees the commode. He is in the toilet. He closes his eyes to get his bearings. He can hear Jimi violently strumming his guitar. Yes, it's a jam. A jam back at the house. He wants to be in his house. He wants to be at Woodstock. He needs to be among the few who never made it out. He wants to be the rain that nearly ruined everything. He comes back to the moment. Flush. Wash hands. Dry hands. No towel. His friend's mother's bath robe would do. Shirt tucked in. Belt buckled. He walks out.

...

He passes it along again. The symmetry maintained. Like the two-part circus. Puff. Puff. Pass. He looks at her now, and he can hear the cracks in the perfect facade. She's wearing too much makeup. Her perfume suddenly suffocates him. The jasmine smell is a thick cloud of Nitrogen around him. Chilled to the bone. He needs to get out.

"Where are they?"

"They're looking for the toad."

"The toad?"

"Yes, it jumped off the marble slab, and into the rose bushes."

"Should I go help them?"

"They'll be back soon. They've already uprooted most of the bushes."

"Yeah, I guess it can't hide for much longer."

...

He mind drifts back to the note. The realization that he let it slip away. Again. It's all sand. It's all getting out now. He needs to let it all out. He needs to throw up. He tries to get up. His knees buckle. He grabs on the waste basket. Kneeling into it, he let's it all go. Wipes his face with the palm of his hand. His mouth tastes of vomit. He collapses back on to the futon. His insides hurt. He needs to prepare for the Chem ATP. What was supposed to happen to the litmus paper? How do you control the production of ammonia? How is she preparing for the exam right now? What is she wearing right now. This was a bad idea.

...

His throat is dry. He can feel cracks opening up. He will never be able to talk again. They will find him. They will take him. When they take him, he won't be able to call for help. Who would he call for help. Behind the cap of music, he can hear something. A distant call for prayer. It keeps knocking down his silent wails. He can even make out the words.

Assalat-u-khairum minnan naar

Assalat-u-khairum minnan naar

...

He needs a drink of water before it's too late. There are bodies scattered about him on the futon. Deep, oblivious slumber. The human stench overpowers him for a moment. He is almost thrown off balance with an urge to hurl. He already did that. He manages to get up. He looks around in the illuminated darkness. The bottle in the corner of the room. He uncorks it. He takes in a large gulp. He needs to quench his thirst once and for all. The dry gin burns up everything inside him. He feels it ripping through. It is his Barium meal. The Barium meal you could feel, but not see. It's not a Barium meal at all. It is his last meal. Supper. He collapses.

...

Slowly, his eyes creak open. Like the back door to the havaili. His head feels heavier then usual. His clothes stick to his body. He can't feel his arm. Slowly he flips around. He can feel a million needles sticking into his arm. He likes it. He feels alive. Taking support from the wall, he slowly gets up. His legs don't give way. They are good legs. They are true to him. He thinks of the old man. He thinks of his sea. Cursing his left arm for not being as true as his right arm. A smile works its way across his face. He walks up the stairs.

...

"Sleeping Beauty finally got up! Come on, we got breakfast from Niazi's."

"You guys go on ahead...I'm fasting..."

The man and his dog, and rose sunglasses...

[A distant shot of a man wearing a fedora, walking his dog on a pier, in black and white, the sea merging with the coast somewhere in the background]

Woman: Beautiful, that man and his dog.
Man: Hmm..
Woman: They walk alike
Man: Yes, they do. Do you know Giacometti, the sculptor?
Woman: Oh, yes. He was hansome.
Man: Well, Giacometti once said: "If caught in a fire and I had to choose between a Rembrandt and a cat...I'd choose the cat.
Woman: "..and then I'd let it go."
Man: Did he say that too?
Woman: That's what's so wonderful.
Man: Yes, it is. Between art and life, he said he'd choose life.
Woman: Beautiful.
Man: Yes.
Woman: Why did you ask me that?
Man: About Giacometti?
Woman: Yes.
Man: Because of the man and his dog.

It's amazing how most men remember things that sound good, but it is the women who remember what makes them so beautiful. And yet, somehow, both of them get the point!

A perfect end to a perfect day...I am a big sap for lush romances...so "Un homme et une femme" was a perfect ending to my day yet again. Now I will go to sleep, and all I have to do after I wake up is to buy rose colored glasses! :) They remind me of John Lennon (Beatles, not the commie) somehow, and I don't know why!

Mr. Plant, Ms. Krauss, please wait for me...

Concerts I've always wanted to attend, but probably (in most cases definitely) won't:

Led Zeppelin
Pink Floyd
Jimi Hendrix
Joni Mitchell
The Beatles
Nirvana
The Who
Janice Joplin
Guns N' Roses

Led Zeppelin didn't happen, but I was able to get a ticket for the Robert Plant and Alison Krauss concert coming to the RBC center. Now I just hope he sings "Going to California", even though it is a Zeppelin song. And I know "Kashmir" will be a bit much for the kind of concert it would be.

Now all I have to do is to wait for July 11th...and that is going to be tough!

Who Dies...

The place of my childhood
The place of my birth
Long quiet roads shaded by trees
The city surrounded by the cool comfort;
Of the ever-green Margalla Hills
The quiet evenings and bustling mornings
The emptiness and calm over the holidays
Serene paths and long walkways
Ice-cream cones and cappuccinos
Afghani jewelery and old book shops
Long strolls in the night
For nothing ever did go wrong

Peace and quiet
Love and warmth
Of friendships and love
Of family and friends
The feeling to belong
That urge to evolve
Jokes told; laughters shared
Memories made and passions exchanged
Mango parties and Aabpara karahi

Rock pools and QAU huts
Friend eggs and boiling tea
Hiking up Track 4 and sprinting down
That cool milkshake and paani-poori
Lying on the roof, feeling the rain
Nothing could go wrong
Nothing would go wrong

Bomb-blasts and shattered limbs
Extreme thoughts and broken hearts
Feeling scared and eating in
Curfews and genocide
Army actions and suicide
Promise of heaven to create hell
Show card illusions and lost souls
Lost lives, wives and kids...
Lost wills, smiles and now just chills

Who dies but the security guard
On minimum wage with his smelly feet
Four or five kids
And family back home
Making 4000 a month
Eating left-overs to send all the money home
Still singing songs in the evening
Telling stories of a freedom fighter grandpa

Who dies but the stories that were told
Memories that were shared
Jokes that were made
One dead and four or five to follow
More left-overs for the ones left over
That surely has to be good

Who dies but the good wife
Prostitute yourself woman to support your kids
Living in perdition, perdition awaits
No promises of heaven for you either, my dear
Swallow your grief and make small talk
Don't tell your story it would only kill the mood
Do what you can until you are strangled by the righteous neighbor
Or the honorable brother
And the kids of the whore, well they can go fuck themselves

Who dies but this illusion of peace
Hope and joy
Laughter too, shall run its course
Blank stares and muted thoughts
Don't say too much, for you too, maybe next
Say you believe, even though you don't
For saying otherwise shall get you death
But live on in this dead world
No hereafter for you my friend

Who dies but this city of dreams
For she too was just a dream
I hear she was a nice young girl
Born in the 60s she was just learning to run
Ice-creams and milkshakes
Paani-poori and cappuccinos
Aabpaara karahi and old book shops
They're all still there
Barely alive inside her belly
But you shouldn't go, better stay inside
For all this was always just fluff...

Go on you fuck
You militant man
Strap on yourself
And give us another pop
There's another security guard
That miserable sod
Working for the devil
Stick a fork in him, he's done
The nerve on him to hope for a good life
A full life...
To marry, have kids and sometimes smile
That stupid stupid, audacious prick
Singing songs in foreign tongues
No heaven for him either, not even hell
For this was his heaven, which turned into hell
That stupid grandpa
That freedom fighter
He should have known better
For he never, did really matter

Who dies...but a little of me
With all my limbs
And all my thoughts

Who dies...but a little of you
My sweet little girl
For you never belonged