Spirits and Sauces

Surds

“People like you usually end up shooting themselves in the head,” said Saeed Jibran Khan to a sombre looking Khalil Nasir Achakzai.
“Really? What do people like YOU end up doing?” Asked Khalil, raising a thick sub-Mongolian eyebrow.
“We enjoy life,” said Saeed, smilingly. “Live a balanced life…”
“And then die!” Khalil interrupted.
“So what? Everyone dies,” said Saeed.
“That’s true. Such a balanced thing to do, right?’
“Sarcasm, sarcasm, sarcasm. Cheer up, already, Khalil.”
“Really? Should I? Shoot YOU in the head instead of myself?”
Saeed shook his head in mock disappointment: “What will become of you, Khalil? Such anger, sardonism, bleakness and bitterness. Why?”
“Oh, are you suggesting you are ‘happy?’ Content? ‘BALANCED?’ Groovy?” Asked Khalil.
“Groovy?” Said Saeed, smiling. “What do you mean groovy?”
Saeed shrugged his shoulders: “Oh, y’know, a guinea pig for all the experiments in ‘evolutionary’ social engineering conducted by an unmarked alliance of religious preachers, cults, the popular culture industry, capitalist economics, bourgoise politics and the anti-smoking lobby?”
“What?” Said Saeed all surprised. “You bonkers, or what?”
“And what might ‘or what’ denote?” Asked Khalil.
“You need to see a shrink, brother.” Said Saeed.
“But I really don’t want to feel groovy, you see.” Said Khalil, grinning.
“ Why not? What’s so wrong in feeling happy and…”
“And balanced?” Saeed interrupted.
“Yes, and balanced…”
“And healthy?”
“Yes, and healthy and…”
“Basically full of shit!”
“What the hell’s your problem?” Saeed shot back.
“Define happiness? Define balanced? Define healthy?” Asked Khalil.
“Well…”
“You can’t!” Said Khalil. “You can’t because to people like you these are just convenient, empty words peddled by preachers of God, consumer goods, bourgoise morality and, of course, the anti-smoking lobby! They help you hide from a world that is totally unhealthy, unholy and unwholesome. And it is so BECAUSE of these peddlers of God and consumer goods and, of course, the anti-smoking lobby!”
“Bullshit!” Said Saeed, all agitated now. “Our happiness is a scientific and social fact!”
“How can you be happy in a fucked up, filthy world such is this? It is unnatural. Almost a psychotic thing to do and be!”
“To be happy is psychotic?”
“Yes. In a world such as this, it sure is.” Saying this Khalil pulled out a massive .45 magnum from underneath his checkered, 100% cotton grunge shirt. “Here! Just put this to your head.”
“What? Keep that away from me, you freak!”
“Don’t pull the trigger. Just put it to your head. I do it all the time. Keeps me balanced and in touch with a reality beyond religious sermons, beyond MTV videos, beyond neon lights, beyond Dr. Phil, beyond budget speeches, beyond UN sessions, beyond FOX News, beyond self-help best-sellers, beyond Britney Spears plastic implants … ”
“Britney Spears doesn’t have any plastic implants!” Khalil shot back.
“Yes she does.”
“Does not!”
“Does”
“Does not.”
“Does”
“Does not.”
“Does”
“Does not.”
“Does.”
“Does not!”
“Yes she does, and she also has false teeth!”
“She does NOT!” Said Saeed.
“Ever notice every time she jumps her boobs remain still?” Asked Khalil.
“No they don’t!”
“Oh? That’s all you see in her don’t you? Her boobs?” Asked Khalil.
“No! I mean … shut the hell up you stupid freak!”
Khalil pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Here, have a smoke. Calm down. Relax.”
“Cigarettes are shit!” Said Saeed, shaking with anger.
“Okay, what else will cool you down? Tell me, I’ll get it for you. A bottle of Pepsi?”
Saeed nodded.
“But of course!” Said Khalil.
“What do you mean? What’s wrong with having a Pepsi?” Said Saeed.
“Oh, I just thought praying was supposed to be a better way to calm nerves?”
“So?”
“So, nothing! Just thinking aloud that’s all. Would you like to pray after you’ve had your Pepsi?” Asked Khalil.
“I would but not in YOUR house, freak!” Saeed was clearly pissed.
“I believe you’re loosing your balance,” said Khalil.
“And you’ve lost your MIND!” Said Saeed.
“Is that why you refuse to pray in my house?”
“I think I better go.”
Khalil shrugged his shoulders: “Okay. But you know, it is true that Britney Spears has plastic implants.”
“Why don’t YOU get a brain implant?” Said Saeed.
“I might if I too start to watch as much TV as you do,” said Khalil.
“Not all TV is as dumb as you believe it is, y’know,” said Saeed.
“Of course, it isn’t. It’s very balanced, “ said Khalil.
“Very funny. You think you’re funny? Well you’re not! You’re pathetic! A looser!”
“I know, I know. Bad for health. My own and others. Should watch more TV.”
“You should start praying as well. May give your soul and mind the peace it requires,” said Saeed.
“Are you at peace with yourself?” Asked Khalil.
“Yes. Very much.”
“And with others too?”
“Yes. I am a peaceful man.”
“But last week you and your fiancée wanted me shot for questioning the existence of God.”
“You have to learn to start being a bit more diplomatic about other people’s religious beliefs.”
“But what about other people being diplomatic about my beliefs?” Asked Khalil.
“You have none!”
“Excuse me? What would you say the following are? People like you hide behind words like happiness, balance, success, love, … words and statistics peddled by preachers of God, consumer goods, bourgoise morality and, of course, the anti-smoking lobby! They help you hide from a world that is totally unhealthy, unholy and unwholesome. And it is so fucked up BECAUSE of these peddlers of God and consumer goods and, of course, the anti-smoking lobby! These are beliefs aren’t they?”
“This is bullshit!” Said Saeed.
“These are truths. Truths beyond empty words and statistics. Keeps me beyond religious sermons, beyond MTV videos, beyond neon lights, beyond Dr. Phil, beyond budget speeches, beyond UN sessions, beyond FOX News’ ‘War on Terror,’ beyond self-help best-sellers, beyond Britney Spears plastic implants … ”!”
“Bullshit! Structuralist bullshit!”
“My beliefs. Please try to be more diplomatic.”
“ I think I better leave now.”
“Is this how you exhibit your diplomacy? By leaving in a puff of bourgoise anger?”
“What are you? You’re no great, struggling proletariat! You’re just a lazy, middle-class, Sartre worshipping, Camus sucking, Marx fucking, existentialist freak!” Said Saeed, again shaking with anger.
“Marx fucking?”
“Yes!”
“Marx fucking?”
“Yes!”
“Marx fucking?”
“Yes!”
“Marx fucking?”
“Yes!”
Khalil laughed out loud: “What the fuck do you mean by Marx fucking?”
“I don’t have to explain anything to you! You’re too dumb! Too full of yourself…!”
“Too much of a believer?” Khalil interrupted.
“Bullshit! A total non-believer. A nihilist. A loser.”
“A Marx fucking loser?”
“Yes!”
“Are you being diplomatic?”
“I’m being honest!”
“So one should be honest instead of diplomatic?”
“It depends. You don’t deserve any diplomacy.”
“So I deserve honesty then? Thank you.”
“You deserve to be shot!”
“Here,” said Khalil, handing the .45 to Saeed.
Saeed refused to take it: “No thank you. I’m not a violent man like you.”
“I know. You’re just confused.”
“Bullshit! I’m logical, intelligent and…
“And balanced.”
“Yes!”
Then how come you don’t know about Britney Spears plastic transplants?”

Slips

“I am Superman, I am Superman!” This was Ibrahim. Ibrahim thought he was Superman. Thought he could fly and lift trains. Thankfully he just thought and never did. Did that mean he was only pretending to be deluded?
“Who said he was deluded?” This was Seema. Seema was convinced Ibrahim was Superman. “Have you ever seen the way he lifts me? With such ease and grace.”
“Mashallah, mashallah!” This was Ibrahim’s dad. Ibrahim’s dad was a trader. He was also a very religious man. But most of his employees thought he was a major hypocrite.
“They’re just jealous,” said Seema. “Jealous of his wealth and piety and honesty and the fact that his son was Superman.”
“I’m Superman, I’m Superman!” This again was Ibrahim. So I asked him to prove it.
“What proof?” Asked Ibrahim’s dad. “Didn’t he just tell you he was Superman?”
“Is that so?” Said I. “If I say I am Spiderman, would you believe me?”
“No.” Said Ibrahim’s dad, excusing himself for Zohar prayers. “I’ll pray for you too.”
“Why pray when you have Superman for a son?” I asked.
“That’s me, that’s me, that’s me!” Jumped Ibrahim, up and down, up and down.
“Yes, that’s him,” said Seema, proudly. “That’s my Ibrahim. Oh, lift me up again, honey bunny.”
Seema was fat. She ate too much. Ibrahim was thin. He hardly ate. But his dad was the fattest.
“Like most hypocrites!” Said an employee. “You should see his wife.”
Seema was furious: “Illiterate people. Uncouth savages. Bloody ungrateful natives.”
“Natives?” I asked. “But they belong to the same country you belong. The same region, the same province.”
“Illiterate country, illiterate region, illiterate province!” Said Seema.
“Bilkul, bilkul,” added Ibrahim’s dad. They all need strict Shariat laws. A couple of whippings and beheadings should do the trick.”
“But why not use Superman, instead?” I asked.
“He doesn’t have time for illiterate natives.” Said he. “He has to save Afghanistan, Kashmir, Chechnya, Bosnia and California.”
“California?” I was taken aback.
“Yes,” said he, excusing himself for Maghrib prayers. “I’ll pray for you too.”
“But shouldn’t Superman be more concerned about the welfare of his own country’s people?” I asked.
“I am, I am, I am!” Said Ibrahim, jumping up and down, up and down.
“You are?”
“Yes I am. I am Superman!”
“Yes, that’s him,” said Seema, proudly. “That’s my Ibrahim. Oh, lift me up again, honey bunny.”
“For heaven’s sakes. He is no Superman!” Said me.
“Bhanchodh!” That was Ibrahim’s dad. “Iblees! Marx fucker!”
“Marx fucker?”
“Yes,” said he.
“Marx Fucker?”
“Yes”
“Marx Fucker?”
“Yes”
“Marx Fucker?”
“Yes”
“Well, then this might make YOU a Madoodi fucker!” Said I, with a nervous but firm grin.
“Madoodi fucker?
“Yes!” Said I.
“Madoodi fucker?
“Yes!”
“Madoodi fucker?
“Yes!”
“Madoodi fucker?
“Yes!”
“That’s me, that’s me, that’s me!” Said Ibrahim, jumping up and down, up and down.
“No you’re not, you fool,” roared Seema. “You are Superman!”
“No!” Said Ibrahim, all steady, sober and serious. “I’m Krishna.”
“Krishna?” Said his dad, shocked. “Krishna, the Hindu God?”
“That’s me, that’s me, that’s me”
“Krishna? That Hindu ass?” Said Seema.
“Krishna?” Said the employees. “Namastay, namastay. Ab hoi na baat!” Saying this they started kneeling and bowing in front of Ibrahim.
Ibrahim’s dad looked worried. He thought hard. “Hmmmm. Stay away from him. Only a Bhramin can come close and touch my Krishna. And what have you all to offer to your Lord … other than coconuts?”

Mints

Salima says … I forgot what Salima says. But I do remember what Jamshed said about what Salima says, and that is: “Salima says she does not like cows.”
I may not remember what Salima says but somehow I am sure this is not exactly what Salima says.
“Or has ALREADY said,” said Jamshed.
“Ah, that’s what YOU say,” said I.
But Jamshed insisted: “ I say what I say and I say the truth and that is, Salima says … and said … and will always say, she doesn’t like cows. Period.”
Intrigued and frustrated, I decided to ask Salima myself: Salima?
“This is Saleem,” said Jamshed.
“But she … I mean he looks so much like Salima,” said I.
“Perhaps. But this is Saleem and rest assured he’s a he,” said Jamshed, winking.
“Why are you winking?” I asked.
“Acting so innocent, aye?” Said Jamshed, winking again.
“Oh” said I. “You mean to say …”
“Yes, yes” said Jamshed. “Salim and …(he turned towards Saleem) … what was your name?”
“Saleem,” said Salim “… and that’s Saleem with a double ‘e’,’ mind you.”
“Oh, of course,” said I.
“Yes, yes,” said Jamshed, winking again. “He and I.”
“Didn’t know you were gay.” Said I.
“Is that a problem?” Asked Jamshed.
“No. Absolutely not. Why?” Said I.
“So, do you want to see us ..y’know .. do it?” Said Jamshed, winking.
“Do it?” I asked. “Here?”
But they were already doing it. Right there on the sofa. Jamshed was fucking Saleem’s pale pulp bums off!
Humping away, and sweating and humping and sweating, Jamshed asked: “Kya hooa? (Huff..huff..)… Are you embarrassed? Shocked? (Huff .. huff ..) … Scandalized?”
I didn’t answer. I was too busy watching Saleem being so ruthlessly poked and yet he had not an iota of an expression or sound. Just occasional, random undertones “Humm…humm..humm…”
“That’s rape!” I said.
“But he wants it!” Huffed Jamshed, humping away, and sweating and humping and sweating.
I suddenly moved in and threw a sweaty Jamshed off a jerking Saleem.
“What are you doing?” Asked Saleem, all surprised. “Jamshed uncle!” He ran towards a fallen, half-naked Jamshed.
“I..I..I can’t.” Said Jamshed, still out of breath. “I’ve lost my erection.”
Both started to weep and howl, beating their chests and oddly, each other’s butt-cheeks.
“This is ridiculous!” Said I. “Stop it!”
“You bastard!” Shouted Jamshed. “You sadistic, reactionary homophobic bastard!”
“I’m not!” I protested.
“You bastard!” Shouted Saleem. “You sadistic, reactionary homophobic bastard!”
“I’m not!” I protested. Again.
Entered Salima: “What the hell is going on? Why is my brother sitting half naked on the floor, shouting and weeping? Must be you?”
“Me?” Said I.
“Yes you, you psychotic, male chauvinistic piglet!”
I was shocked: “What? Why?”
“Because … because …Shit!”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Was Jamshed humping my brother?”
“Yes, yes he was!” Said I.
“Well why weren’t you?” Asked Salima.
“Because I’m not gay!” Said I.
“Such a homophobic bastard!” Said Salima.
“I’m not!” I protested.
“Yes, you are, you are, you are!” Echoed a resounding sound in my head.
“Who’s that?” I asked, looking around.
“It’s me. Salima. And that’s my brother, and that ….”
“I know, I know.” Said I. “Voices in my head, perhaps.”
“What?” Said Jamshed. “Who’s voices?”
“This .. this molvi sahib who used to teach us Islamic Law at school.” Said I.
“Of course!” Said Salima. “It isn’t him. It is YOU! You are just wanting to believe that it is him. It is YOU who is screaming inside your head!”
“He was gay too.” Said I.
“He was?” Asked Jamshed. “Jolly good fellow he must’ve been.”
“He was a sadistic bastard!” Said I. “A bloody pedophile who hated women!”
“He did?” Said Salima. “Did he have a wife? Daughters?”
“No ..yes…no..yes..!” The voice returned.
“Stop it!” Screamed I, clutching my ears.
“You’re going mad, sire.” Said Jamshed.
“Cows!” Said the voice.
“Cows!” Said I.
“Cows?” Asked Salima. “He called women cows?”
“He’s calling you a cow.” Said I.
“No!” Said Salima. “It is YOU who is calling me a cow!”
“And she hates cows.” Said Jamshed, all set and fresh to hump Saleem again.
“You hate women …I mean, cows?” I asked.
“Yes. Cows. Fashion models, actresses, Sex In The City, Bollywood, Hollywood, Lollywood … all cows!” Said Salima.
“I agree” Said I. “Cows all of them!”
“You bastard. You reactionary, homophobic, male chauvinistic piglet!” Snapped Salima.
“But …”
“No buts. Why haven’t you made any move towards me?” She asked.
“I thought you were a lesbian ..I mean a liberated woman ..you know a man-hater!”
Salima shook her head in disgust.
“Shit,” Said I. “That came out sounding pretty stupid, aye.”
Salima nodded. In that moment of silence we watched Jamshed humping Salim.
“Kick them! Kick them!” Said the voice inside my head.
“No! No!” I screamed. “I’m no homophobic!”
“Then maybe you’re a homo!” Said a sweating and humping, sweating and humping, Jamshed.
“Nope.” Said I.
“Celibate, perhaps?” Said Salima.
“No!”
“Then why haven’t you ever shown any interest in me?”
“Fuck her! Fuck her!” Said the voice.
“The voice is telling me to fuck you!”
“Ha!” Chuckled Salima. “Never thought I would agree with a filthy mullah like this. So, what are you waiting for? Come. Let’s fuck!”
“I don’t want to!” Said I, all pained and in utter existential anguish.
“Listen to your head,” said Salima.
“That’s not me!” I said. “That’s that bloody mullah!”
“And what the fuck is all this?” I shouted. “Is this what freedom means? Does it mean doing out in the public what the bloody mullahs, priests, sadhus and rabies did and do and will do in private? You guys are a product of retarded eugenics. Horny yuppies mated with perverted religionists!”
“Eugenics retarded by aliens, I suppose?” Said Salima, sarcastically.
“Yes!” Said I. And as I said this, everything and everyone around me vanished. There was nothing there but empty, dark space and an eerie voice.
“Greetings No. 78666.”
“Who are you? Where are you? And that’s not my name.” I said.
“I am he ..she..it ..who..that made Satan rebel against God and then be thrown down on Earth. I am he/she/it who/that made Mohammad recite the so-called satanic verses
and …”
“Bullshit!” Said I. “What God, what Satan? Crap. Utter crap!”
“But you believe in aliens, don’t you?” the voice asked.
“In a scientific way” Said I.
The voice laughed: “ You mean in a science fictional way.”
“Well” Said I. “In a way.”
“But you are here, aren’t you?” Asked the voice.
“Yes. Where am I? Where is this?” I asked.
“In your head…in a way.” Said the voice.
“But it’s so empty.” Said I.
“Like everybody else’s of your race,” said the voice.
“Really. And what race do you belong to?” I asked.
“Not the rat race, my friend.” Said I.
“Cheap shot, sir,” said I. “Reveal yourself if you have the balls.”
“Balls?” Asked the voice. “Satan had balls. God has balls. Your prophet had balls. Your leaders have balls. You have balls.”
“So?” I asked.
“So nothing.” Said the voice. “By the way, that religious teacher of yours, he had balls too.”
“No he didn’t!” Said I. “Not metaphorically.”
“Show your self,” said I.
“Like I showed myself to Moses? To Jesus? To Mohammad? To Charles Manson? To Bal Thakrey? To God?”
“What?” I interrupted. “To God?”
“Yes, him. He’s a Klingon!”
I laughed. “You think I’ll buy that? Klingons are a fictional race from Star Trek.”
“Oh, no, no, my friend,” said the voice. “Humans are fictional. Klingons wrote you for their entertainment.”
“Really?” I smiled cynically. “Who wrote you?”
“You!” roared the voice, and right away I was back in the room with Salima and a sweaty, humping Jamshed humping Saleem
“You didn’t answer my question,” said Salima. “You homophobic male chauvinist piglet!”
“Piss off!” Said I. “I’ve seen the light.”
“Tell me about it,” said Salima, yawning.
“I’d rather fight for a tree than die for God. Because there is nothing bolder than wisdom and nothing more cowardly than desperation. Especially wisdom that may make one seem and sound, act and react as “weird.” But how can wisdom make one seem “weird?”
“And you call us weird?” Said Salima.
“Absolutely not!” Said I. “You people are the new conformity. I am talking about the weird of which there is so little of left? But then, exactly when was it more than this little that is left?”
Said Jamshed: Oh no..(huff,huff..) ..he’s going all left-wing again.”
”Piss off faggot!” Said I. “I’m an astute student and fan of history and my scholastic experience in this respect suggests wisdom was always scarce. Sometimes even envied and threatening. Just like intelligence. But then intelligence has not always been wise. And neither have I. Not always. But I’m not threatened by it. But I am at times scared of intelligence. Especially my own. Particularly when it arrives in the mode and mould of what I call “intelligent anger.” It has made me burn buses, indulge in various narcotic addictions, break hearts and relish flows of insensitive, “irresponsible” sardonicism.”
“Give us a break!” Said Salima. “You fucking me or not?
“I can’t.” Said I.
“And why not?” Asked Salima.
“Because I’m running out of words.” Said I.
“Shit! That means we will cease to exist?” Said a panicky Salima.
“I’m afraid so,” said I.
“Oh, please carry on. What were you saying? I’m all ears!” Said Salima.
”Well,” said I. “I do wonder. Why am I ready to fight against the cutting down of a tree and refuse to die for God? Is it because I am an agnostic? Am I? But I can be wise, though. And that too without being shrewd or clever. Don’t believe one has to be these to be wise.
”But does one have to be dispassionate to be wise?” Asked Salima.
“ I can be that.” Said I. “And yet quite passionate.”
“ How is that possible?” Asked Salima.
“ I don’t know.”
“And what about narcissism?” Asked Salima, looking herself in a small mirror she took out from her designer purse.
“ Am I narcissistic?” I asked.
“Yes (huff..huff..)..” said Jamshed.
“Okay Sometimes,” said I. “A megalomaniac? Sometimes. Egoistic? Sometimes. Irrational? Sometimes. Wise? Sometimes. But what is it that I am all the time? Fragmented. But not scattered. Eccentric, but not erratic... Okay, maybe sometimes.”
“I thought you were running out of words,” said Salima.
“And I thought you hated cows!” Said I.
“Cheap shot, buster! Who said that? That mullah’s voice in your head? Doesn’t he ever tell you to fear God?” Said Salima, putting a purple shade of lipstick.
I’ve never been God-fearing” Said I. “Perhaps because I hate fearing. What about God-loving? How many Gods are there? Some to fear, some to love.
Sometimes the same God is to be loved and as well as feared.
What about God-hating? I don’t hate anything I do not know exists or not.”
“Cut that retro-Marx/Sartre/Manto/Dylan agnostic shit, man!” Said Jamshed.
“What the fuck for?” I asked.
“Because ..because ..because ..I’m COMMMMMMMINGGG!!!” And splash! He came.
“Boy.” I whispered. “So, from Marx to Sartre to Mato to Dylan to Sex In The City?”
“And Gucci!” Said Salima.
“And Pepsi!” Said Saleem, though still shaking from Jamshed’s humping.
“And God!” Said Jamshed.
“There is no place for me here anymore. I think I’ll kill myself. This time I plan to succeed.” Said I.
“Oh, so you’ve tried to kill yourself before?” Asked Salima.
“Yes. Many times over. This time I plan to succeed.” Said I.
“Oh, well, in that case, why don’t you let me hump you too,” said Jamshed.
“And how about you humping me,” Said Salima.
“What if I tell you that God is a Klingon?” I told Jamshed. “And I hate cows. Especially designer cows. They are worse than the cattle the mullahs keep,” I told Salima.
“Homophobic!” Said Jamshed.
“Yes.”
“Male chuvanist!” Said Salima.
“Yes.”
“Well, in that case there’s not much to say anymore, is there?” Said Saleem.
“Precisisely!” Said I.
“Okay then. Dad!”
“What?” I was shocked.
“You’re running out of words.” Said Salim.
I was. Salim says …I forgot what Salim says.