Graffiti Christ

Valves
He was sick of it. Sick, sick, sick. So said he: “I’m sick of it! Sick, sick, sick!”
We heard him. But we already knew. Thus said we: “We heard you. But we already know.”
“Yes,” said he. “You already know. But what did you do?”
What did he expect us to do? So we asked him: “What did you expect us to do?”
“‘Help me out, that’s what!” said he, all agitated.
“How?” we asked.
“How? How? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He asked, still agitated.
We told him to calm down. To relax: “ Calm down. Relax.”
“ Calm down? Relax? What for? I’m sick of it. Sick, sick, sick!”
But we already knew that. So we told him so. Again: “We know, we know.”
“ So why don’t you help me?” he asked, now almost on the verge of weeping.
“Don’t cry” we told him. “ Men don’t cry.”
“ I’m not crying, damnit! I’m just commonly screaming.”
“Don’t scream” we told him. “Gentlemen don’t scream.”
“I’m no gentlemen”, he said, sadly. “I’m just sick. Sick of it. Sick, sick, sick.”
“We know, we know” and we told him so.
“I know, I know,” he said, all sad. “So will you help me now?”
We asked him how? “How can we help you now?”
“ How? How? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked, all agitated again.
“Calm down,” we told him. “ Relax.”
“I can’t damnit!”
“Try”
“I can’t damnit!”
“We know you’re sick. Sick of it. Sick, sick, sick. But do try.”
“Can’t!”
“Can.”

“Can’t, can’t, can’t.”
“Try.”
“I can’t damnit, I just can’t!”
“Relax. Calm down. Take it easy. Chill,” said we.
“Can’t, can’t, can’t! Can’t you hear me, you feeling less bastards?”
“Watch the language, sir.”
“You bastards. Bastards, bastards, bastards!”
“ You’re sick, you know,” and we told him so. “Beyond help.”
“What help?” he asked. “ Nobody helped.”
“We will, but only if you calm down, relax, chill...”
“You bastards!”
“...and watch your language.”
Suddenly he chilled. “Okay, okay. I’m relaxed now. All calm and gentlemanly. Now help.”
“Relax” we said. “We can’t”
“What? Why the fuck not?”
“We already told you why.”
“Why? What did you tell me?”
“That you’re beyond help.
“But ...but ... you said you’ll help me if I’m calm and chill.”
“And relaxed”
“Yes, yes, and relaxed.”
“But you’re not.”
“I...I..I am, okay. Here look. I’m not screaming. I’m not weeping. I’m not abusing. I’m like a true
gentleman. Now, would you please help me? Please.”
“We know you’re sick. But of what?” we asked.
“I thought you knew,” he said.
“Oh yes, we do. We told you we knew. We know you are sick. But of what?”
He covered his sweating face with his sweaty hands, and mumbled painfully: “Soooph, mumble
jumble, mumph, mumph”
“What? We can’t hear you.”
“I said I’m sick of living a life of sickness. Sick of my sickening self.”
“Did you try Panadol?”
“Panadol? But that’s for headaches.”
“It controls fever as well.
“But I have no fever.”
“Oh. Then what? High blood pressure? An upset stomach, perhaps?”
“No, you idiots. I’m suffering from depression. Can’t you tell?”
“Watch your language.”
“Sorry...I. ..I...I just ...y’know ...I’m sick...sick in the head...”
“But you just said you don’t have a headache.”
“I don’t! I mean I’m mentally sick.”
We had no answer. Didn’t know what to say. So we said nothing.
“Say something, please.” he pleaded. “Do something or I shall slash my wrists and die!”
We had no answer. Didn’t know what to say. So we said nothing.
“Please, please say something! Do something or I’ll shoot myself in the head!”
We thought a lot. And then said: “Relax. Chill. Calm down.”
“You bastards! You feeling less bastards!”
“Aspirin?” we asked.
“Fuck you!” screamed he, taking out a bottle of little yellow pills.
“Fuck you, fuck, fuck, fuck!”, shouting out this, he gulped down around two dozen of the little
yellow pills. “Fuck, fuck, fuck..mumph, sumph.gulp..gulp!”
We had no answer. Didn’t know what to say. So we said nothing.
He then started to turn blue. “Mumph..argh..gak!”
We had no answer. Didn’t know what to say. So we said nothing.
He then fell face-first on the floor with a rude thud: “Thud!”
We thought a lot. And then said: “Relax. Chill. Calm down.”
But he remained fallen. Quiet. Very quiet.
We thought a lot. And then said: “Gentlemen don’t fall.”
But he remained fallen. Quiet. Extremely quiet.
We thought a lot. And then asked: “Aspirin?”



Crowd Puller
Thought she: “Why am I dancing?”
“Stupid question”, said her boyfriend, Anu.
She was taken aback: “How did you know what I was thinking?”
“Because you suddenly stopped dancing”, said Anu, smilingly.
She looked at her feet and then her hips. Indeed, she had stopped dancing.
“Oh my God!” she laughed. “You’re right, Anu. I’m really not dancing anymore.”
Anu’s smile soon dissolved into a stressed frown: “Why not? Why aren’t you dancing?”
“I’m bored with it, Anu. All we do is dance and sing, dance and sing and then dance again.”
“So?”
“So can we do anything other than dancing and singing?”
Anu looked confused. Very puzzled. “Like what?”
“Like talking. Just like now,” said she.”
Anu was not impressed. “Come on honey, lagao thumka, let’s dance baby, eeeeverrybody, come on now, let’s dance, let’s masti, yahooo!!”
She wasn’t impressed. “No, let’s not”, she said coldly. And then yawned a Moby Dick sized yawn.
“Oh come on baby pie, sweet thooth, honey bunny, sugar ray, Brett Lee, eeeeevrybody,
let’s dance...a one, a two, a three ...” Anu was all over the place.
“Stop it Anu!” said she. “Enough!”
“You biT-ich!!” shouted Anu. “Eeeeeeeverybody loves to dance, why not you?”
“Because it’s getting stupid,” said she. Sick of dance, dance, dance. In the streets, on the roads, around trees, in clubs, in the bedroom, drawing room, dining room, eeeeevrywhere!
it’s getting absurd. Idiotic.”
“You biT-ich! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” screamed Anu, but still dancing away and attributing a thumka each for every “I hate you.”
“Anu, you’re looking ridiculous,” said she.
“Ridiculous? This is our culture. Eeeeeeveeerrrrybody does it! Eeeeeevvvvrybody is happy! A one, a two, a three, a four , come on baby, let’s do masti, let’s boogie...”
“Stop it!”, she said firmly. “I won’t dance. No, no, no! And if you don’t like the new me you can piss off!”
Anu was stunned. “What? We’re not from shanty town, baby pie.”
“ Big bloody deal! Even they’re dancing!” said she.
“What is so wrong with that?” asked Anu. “Better than weeping continuously about poverty, disease, pain, crime, rape ...”
“So the solution lies in break dancing?” asked she, sarcastically.
“ Finding no solution is the best solution, honey bunny. So...” Anu suddenly stopped talking and stared deeply and widely into her roller brown eyes, as if waiting for an answer he wanted to hear.
“So? So what?” she asked.
“SO ... a one, a two, a three”, he started to dance frantically again. “Oh you baby blue, namkeen chatni, Hollywood Bolly, eeeeeevrrybody, LET’S DANCE!!”
She clapped her ears with her hands and with a horrified expression, she screamed: “Nahinnnnnn!!”
But Anu kept dancing, and was now joined by a group of passersby’s, including not only men and women but a couple dogs and a few cows as well.
Shouting “Nahinnnnnn....!”, she ran towards the main road and smashed her body and face head-on into a fast approaching bus.
Her mutilated and proforsly bleeding body lay in the middle of the road and now surrounded by a curious, disgusted crowd of people. Anu reached the spot as well. And after looking at her dying body, he screamed: “Nahinnnnnnnnn! Call an ambulance, call an ambulance!”
In the mean time, a middle-aged man emerged from among the gathered crowd. “Move, move, I’m a doctor, I’m a doctor,”, saying this he shoved his way towards the dying, bleeding, mutilated body.
“You ... you ... you a doctor?” he asked, stricken with total emotion.
“Yes, I’m a doctor,” answered the man. “Is this the dying, bleeding, mutilated lady the patient?” he
asked.
“Yes, yes… Oh my baby pie, my love bug, my lifeline, my star plus”, said Anu.
“Hmmm ...” hmmmed, the doctor. “In that case...” he stared deeply into Anu’s watery walled eyes.
Anu waited for the doctor to complete the statement as the doctor waited for Anu to finish it for him.
“In that case, what, doctor sahib, what?” he asked.
“In that case ... a one, a two, a three, a four, come on eeeeevrybody...”



Cannabis Cinema
It was New Year’s Eve. It reminded Majid of his last year’s New Year resolution: “I resolve to quit smoking completely and forever,” he had said. And it had made Cyma so very happy. But four months afer the resolution, Majid had started to smoke again. That left Cyma so very unhappy.
He had promised her that his resolution this year shall be the same. He will resolve to quit smoking for good, and more so, stick to his resolve. That made Cyima so very happy.
One of the main reasons Cyma was so very happy at him quitting smoking was her lung cancer.
“She doesn’t have lung cancer, for heavens sakes!”, said Hamid.
Who was Hamid?
Don’t know.
“She doesn’t have lung cancer, for heavens sakes!”, said Majid.
“She doesn’t?”, asked I.
“No! What made you say that?” asked Majid, be musingly.
“You know, all that passive smoking may actually land her in the Shaukat Khanam Cancer Hospital”,
said I, lighting myself a fresh Gold Leaf.
“How can you say this while sitting here in my living room and smoking a cigarette?”, asked Majid,
shaking his head in disgust.
“I never resolved to quit smoking.” said I, while puffing lavishly my fresh Gold Leaf.
“So? How does that make smoking any less dangerous for you?” asked Majid.
“Not for me. But for Cyma.”
“What ... how? You’re talking rot!”, said Majid, pulling out a Marlboro Light from his pack of Dunhill Lights.
“That’s a Marlboro Light”, said I.
“Yes, so?”
“What is a Marlboro Light cig doing in a Dunhill Lights pack?” I asked.
“Who cares!” Majid shrugged his shoulders and lit his cigarette.
“Cyma does” said I.
“Of course she doesn’t!”, said Majid. “She just wants me to quit smoking. Any brand in any pack!”
Meanwhile Cyma entered the room with some tea for the two of us.
“Here, you guys, have some hot chocolate”, she said smilingly.
“Hot chocolate?” I asked. “But I thought you were bringing us some tea?”
“Oh, sorry, what I meant to say was, here you guys, have some tea”, said Cyma, half giggling.
“This tea sure tastes like coffee”, said Majid, taking a sip from his crimson cup.
“Oh, sorry, what I meant to say was, here you guys, have some coffee,” said Cyma, embarrassingly.
“Well, whatever”, said I, “I must tell you this is great coffee and Majid says you don’t care if he quits smoking or not!”
“Poooofhhh!!” A big gush of hot coffee exploded out from Majid’s shocked mouth. “What? I never said that!”
“Poooofhhh!!” A big gush of hot chocolate exploded out from my stunned mouth. “What?
Of course, you did!”
“Poooofhhh!!” A big gush of hot tea exploded out from Cyma’s surprised mouth. “What? This is TEA! I made coffee!”
“What? You are pregnant?”, asked a shocked Majid.
“Poooofhhh!!” A big gush of coffee exploded out from my stunned mouth. “Shit! This tastes like oil!”
“Poooofhhh!!” A big gush of hot tea exploded out from Cyma’s surprised mouth. “What?
I’m pregnant?”
“And have lung cancer”, said Hamid.
“Who the hell are you?” asked Majid.
“Ask HIM”, said Hamid, pointing towards me.
“Who the hell is he?” asked Cyma.
“Don’t know.” Said I.
“Poooofhhh!!” A big gush of hot chocolate exploded out from Majid’s shocked mouth. “What?
You’ve got lung cancer?” He howled and started to weep uncontrollably.
“I’m Hamid”, said Hamid.
“Hamid, who?” asked Cyma. “And why are you making my husband cry?”
“Poooofhhh!!” A big gush of hot, molten lava exploded out from Hamid’s stunned mouth. “ What?
You guys are married?”
“God!” exclaimed me. “That’s lava!”
“No, I’m Hamid!”, said Hamid.
“Hamid whooooo, who, who, whoooo .. weep, weep?”, asked Majid, still weeping.
“I am YOU!” said Hamid, with a grin.
“Oh, darling, I love you”, Cyma ran into Hamid’s arms, sat on his lap and started to purr. “I have
something to tell you, darling.”
“What, honey?” said Hamid, lovingly.
“Janu, I’m pregnant.” said she.
“This is getting rather absurd”, I groaned. And as soon as I said this I was at once and rapidly surrounded by nothing but thick white space and numbing silence. Looked around but found that thick white and silent space everywhere. What was happening?
Where was everybody? Where was everything? Where am I? Who am I?
An echoing but polite voice answered my racing thoughts: “Hamid.”
“I’m not Hamid!”, said I.
“Poooofhhh!!” A big gush of molten, wet mud exploded out from the white space. The mud started
to take shape of a man. A man I could recognize. “Hamid!”
“Eve?”, he asked.
“No, Nadeem” said I.
“Nadeem sahib, aslamualaikum”, he said, shaking my hand.
“Walaikumaslam.”
“Nadeem sahib have you made our new Citibank Clear Plastic Card?” he asked.
“What? What the hell will I do with a bloody Credit Card in this godforsaken place?”
“Well”, he said, it will really look good in your wallet.”
“Listen, who the hell are you and where the hell are we?” I asked.
“No, the question is who are YOU?” he said Have you ever asked this question? Have you ever
wondered where you came from? Who made you? What is life?”
“What life?” I asked. It’s just you and me here!” I said.
“No, sir, actually I was talking about life there”
“There? There where?” asked I.
He tapped my head with a finger: “Here, dear sir, here.”
As soon as he finished saying this I (as if) whizzed through space and time across starlit
skies and back where I had been. Sitting in Majid’s living room.
“She doesn’t have lung cancer, for heavens sakes!” said Majid.
“She doesn’t?”, asked I.
“No! What made you say that?” asked Majid, be musingly.
“You know, all that passive smoking may actually land her in the Shaukat Khanam Cancer Hospital”,
said I, lighting myself a fresh Gold Leaf.
“How can you say this while sitting here in my living room and smoking a cigarette?”, asked Majid,
shaking his head in disgust.
“I never resolved to quit smoking,” said I, while puffing lavishly my fresh Gold Leaf, and all
the while thinking all this has already taken place.
“So? How does that make smoking any less dangerous for you?” asked Majid.
“Wait a minute”, I said. “I didn’t say Cyma had lung cancer.”
“You didn’t? Then who did?” asked Majid.
“Hamid?” I pondered.
Majid scratched his head: “Hamid? Hamid who?”
“Not you, not me...maybe...you, maybe me...”
“What are you talking about?” asked Majid, taking a sip of Muree Larger.
I just shook my head and sighed: “God knows, man”
And as soon as I finished saying this, “Phooooph!!” A gush of wet mud exploded from Majid’s
shocked mouth: “Tastes like shit!”
The mud started to shape itself into a body of a man. A man we could not recognize.
“Who the fuck are you?” asked Majid.
“Marlboro Man!”, said the man.
“The guy who used to model in all those Marlbro ads?” I asked.
“Yes” said the man.
Meanwhile Suraiya came into the room with some coffee.
Suraiya who?
Don’t know.
“Where’s Cyma?”, I asked Majid.
“Cyima, who?” he asked, looking surprised at my question.
Suraiya looked at the Marlboro Man and all of a sudden slapped his face! This literally broke the man. He started to crumble, and soon the mud turned into black ash.
“See!” said Surayia. “This is what smoking does to you!”
Majid started to weep. “I repent, I repent!” A beard started to emerge on his face. It grew long and fast. His pants shrunk till they reached up six inches above his ankles.
Now Suraiya turned her attention on me: “And you!” she roared. “You and your stupid drugged out existentialist crap! You and your paranoid anti-capitalist rhetoric! You and your anti-relegion ways! I condemn you, I loath you, I BANISH YOU TO HELL!!”
A deadly silence followed this vicious outburst. Suraiya seemed surprised: “What? You’re supposed
to scream, burn and then vanish,” she said.
“What for?” I asked.
“Ferhath Hashmi told us one can get rid of satan this way,” said Suraiya.
“Mahshallah, mahshallah!” mumbled Majid, now in a full clad mullah beard.
“Waisay”, said Suraiya, “I just love your beard, Majid, I mean subhanallah, subhanallah!”
But Suraiya was soon shaken by a tight slap on her face by Majid: “Baysheram aurat! Shameless
cow! Where’s your hijab?” he shouted.
The slap reshaped Suraiya’s face. A face I could recognize. It was Cyma.
“Slap!” Cyma slaped Majid. And that reshaped his face. A face that was familiar. Hamid!
“Where’s Majid, where’s Suraiya?” I asked, in utter anxiety.
“There”, said Hamid.
“Where?”
Hamid and Cyma tapped their respective heads: “Here, dear boy, here.”