Frontier Baby Blues

When asked what he wants to be as a grown-up, 10-year-old Masood was candid: “Suicide bomber!”

Mom’s eyes popped-out in utter disbelief, and daddy almost forgot his own cellular phone number.

“But why, child?” asked mom.

“Who taught you that?” asked dad.

Masood kept quiet. But then: “Mom, where do babies come from?” said he, with one of his fingers searching for tiny lil’ balls of gray waste-paste in his tiny lil’ nose.

“Stop that!” screamed mom. “Yes, stop it!” shouted dad.

“Bombs control infidel population growth!” said Masood, his finger now searching for tiny paste balls in dad’s scorning nose.

“I said stop it!” blasted dad pushing the tiny searching, probing hand away. “Tell me, what do you want to be when you grow up, Masood?”

Masood inflated his tiny, lil’ pink Frontier nostrils and stared deep into dad’s concerned brown eyes: “Doolha!”

“Oh, that’s cute”, said mom.

“Four times doolha!” said Masood.

“But why child, why?” asked a worried mom.

“Yes, why?” asked an equally worried dad.

Masood remained quiet. But then: “How are babies born?” asked Masood again, his finger now in Mom’s nose.

“What is wrong with you kid!” said mom. “Don’t you want to be a business man like daddy? A doctor. An engineer. Or at least a cricketer?”

“Where do babies come from?” asked Masood again.

“Okay! Okay!” said mom, fed-up. “They fall from the sky.”
“And daddy catches them!” added dad, with one of his toes in Masood’s nose.

“Hmmmm …” thought Masood. “In that case, I want to be a Catholic priest!”

“JESUS!” screamed mom. “But you are a Muslim, child!”

“In that case, I think I’ll stick to becoming a suicide bomber,” said Masood.

“No, no, no! You’ll become a business man like daddy!” screamed dad.

“No, no, no! I’ll convert to Catholicism and join the holy crusade in Serbia against the Bosnian Muslims!” screamed Masood.

“No, no, no! You’ll become just like daddy, only a little taller!” screamed mom.

“No, no, no! I’ll convert to Hinduism, join the Shiv Sina and bomb Shahrukh Khan’s house in Mumbai!” screamed Masood, now two of his fingers in his nose.

“Who have you been talking to?” asked dad, the antenna of his cell phone in mom’s nose.

“Myself!” announced Masood.

“Are you mad?” asked mom, with one her fingers in one of dad’s ears.

“If I say yes then will you allow me to become a painter, a poet, a writer, a musician, will you, will you, please, please, please with honey sugar candy?!” asked Masood, one of his toes in mom’s mouth.

Mom bit it hard: “NO! Absolutely not! You’ll be like daddy. Exactly like daddy, you hear!”

Daddy felt good. He kissed mom on the cheeks.

“Thank you deer” purred mom.

“Et tu darling” blurred dad.

“But what about I, me, myself?” asked Masood, the tiny toe now in one of his own ears.

“You are such a strange kid, Masood” said mom.

“Well then, a suicide bomber is it!” said Masood while opening a window.

“Have you been looking through and reading any of daddy’s … umm … adult magazines?” asked mom.

“Actually yes, but I still can’t figure out where do babies come from!” said Masood, staring outside the open window.

“Watching too much TV, ay?” said dad.

“Well at the moment I’m watching a few of your Caucasian business partners come this way.” Saying this Masood suddenly jumped out the window and BOOM! He exploded.

He died. So did mom and dad and his Caucasian friends.

“Shaheed!” said the local mullah.
“Shareef!” said the middle-classes.
“Sniper firing!” said the lower classes.
“Osama’s love child!” said the Americans.
“Conspiracy!” said the government.
“RAW!” said the ISI.
“Coke!” said Abrar-ul-Haq.

Masood became a hero in the NWFP and Balochistan. His posters were seen everywhere there.

But what was he really? A terrorist or an aspirant doolha?

“An angel” said the mullahs.
“Baychara. Poor lil’ kid. Awwwww …” said the middle-classes.
“Unemployed!” said the lower classes.
“Osama’s DNA” said the Americans.
“A conspiracy within a conspiracy!” said the government.
“RAW agent!” said the ISI.
“ISI agent posing as RAW agent” said RAW.
“Pepsi, Pepsi Pakistan!” said the Vital Signs.