Dorian Darcy July 4, 2009

Toobaa tried to draw Dorian Gray but it ended up looking like Mr. Darcy. There is no need to quote Oscar Wilde but I’d like to, anyway.

“But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face.”
- Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray Ch. 1

LOVE IN A FACE PLANT: DRIVE-BY LOSERS July 1, 2009

As outlined in my previous post:

Face plant n. a serious fall which culminates in one landing on his/her face; the involuntary act of plant impersonation with one’s face as its roots; from the colloquial = ‘when trying harder does not make you a winner, but makes it funnier for others to watch you lose’.

* * *

This particular episode occurred by no means near the beginning of her search, and it is impossible to say that it was nearer to the end, either.

Despite the fact that Toobaa’s front door was fitted with a camera which, when activated upon the Knights in Various Armour ringing the doorbell, would show in each room of the house who was at the front door, obviously including how they adjusted their clothes and if they muttered to one another unassumingly, she still preferred to get a pre-preview by peeking childishly through the window at the top-most room of the house.

For fear of being accused of hastiness, she wouldn’t admit that this trailer was where she pretty much made her preliminary assessment: who drove the car; who got out first; how many times did they drive up and down the road before identifying the correct number; did anybody assist the elder lady of the house out of the car; what was their expression upon first seeing her un-selfishly giant abode, etc, etc.

Anyway, on this particular day (the particular-ness of which hasn’t actually been outlined so, one day), having already seen pictures of a new collective from Kent and dramatised the compulsory (and somewhat genuine) reluctance, Toobaa awaited at her lookout point and, everything short of laying her hair out the window, Rapunzelled the time away.

So, she existed at the window for a quarter of an hour. Then she noticed the car. It slowed as it neared the top of the hill. Needless to mention, Toobaa had by now moved to a more discreet spy-point and even held her breath for good measure. Then, three wheatish-brown complexions peered from the windows of their blue car. Blue is the only description Toobaa was able to register before she saw, quite clearly, two of the three jaws drop, a self-conscious hand waving at the house and then at the driver (unconfirmed reports on which member of the family this was). Then there was a chortling engine sound and the car spluttered off down the other side of the hill.

It is said that Toobaa’s abode was perhaps too big for the Knight of Kent. Or maybe they were actually the royalty of a long lost empire that continues to exist under the English Channel and our home seemed to them a chunk of seaweed or a cracked sea-snail shell – of the two it cannot be said. What can be said with certainty, however, is that that is no way to behave. The misfortune of presuming the beautiful to be arrogant or air-headed; the ugly as incapable of passion or being loved; the poor as jealous and crafty and the rich of being miserly and haughty falls both ways. This is probably how we miss the precious, hidden gems we pray to find.

LOVE IN A FACE PLANT July 1, 2009

Face plant n. a serious fall which culminates in one landing on his/her face; the involuntary act of plant impersonation with one’s face as its roots; from the colloquial = ‘when trying harder does not make you a winner, but makes it funnier for others to watch you lose’.

What excited Toobaa about Shelina Zahra Janmohamed’s memoir, ‘Love in a Headscarf‘, was that she didn’t have to read it to know that it would be all the superb things it could be: witty, relevant and familiar. It was enough to know that an abundantly common experience and oft thought tedious process was being, by and large, universally acknowledged and celebrated. The story of many was being told – even a bit of hers.

Her own voyage was, however, hardly characterised by the austere head dress, although austerity was intended as a sort of obligatory form of transport from freedom to Freedom 2.0 (and a head dress was worn at all times). No, the prevailing flavour of her expedition was a fizzing in the nose, a scrunched up forehead and blotted out vision as she metaphorically, verbally and physically face planted her way (in an assortment of manners) through each and every alleged-able bachelor her Mother could filter through the customary barbed wire sieve. Until, of course, she ran out.

* * *

An unmistakable face plant.

The Infinite of Supplication June 28, 2009

Jaina June 28, 2009

JAINA

1971.

Perhaps her birth name was Zainab, but she was known in the dusty mohalla of Mohammad Iqbal’s Sialkot as Mai Jaina, or Masi Jaina. Jaina was a widow. She was also known, most respectfully, amongst the townspeople as a waliullah, or a ‘friend of God’. Every day, after Maghrib, the obligatory sunset prayers, she would humbly acquiesce to requests for her to heal her neighbours’ ailments, such as fevers and crying children, with holy incantations.

She had quite diligently raised her son alone and when he, tragically, departed from her world, he left his Mother with two small grandchildren, a boy and a girl, and his widow. In this account, Billu and Hajra’s mother is mentioned last and not as Jaina’s daughter-in-law because soon after her husband’s death, she flung the gleaming attire of widowhood from the window of carriage 4B of the Lahore Express, which reluctantly shuffled with nerves as it chugged out of Wazirabad railway junction and brazenly sped up, hurtling her toward the capital and a fellow named Abbas. She never returned.

Jaina was left alone to raise Billu and pretty Hajra.

One day, in a quiet pocket of this bustling city, a clan of four or five children, compelled to make mischief, decided to pull the string that rattled the doorknob of humble Jaina’s front door.

‘Kaun hai? Who is it?’ called out Jaina as she struggled with the door and trundled out. She saw nobody! Just around the corner of the next house, the boys stifled bits of silly laughter. They knew this could be so much more entertaining and so they did it again. They carried on doing this shaytani harkat nearly every day, sometimes more than once. Every time that Jaina came out they scattered.

Needless to say, with each knock, our good Jaina gradually became bewildered and again, with each day, more frustrated. One time, the children, rather than scampering to hide behind some wall or other stood not far from the door, appearing quite innocent, and asked if Masi Jaina was alright as she seemed troubled. Some days later, again, they stood outside and rather than ask what the matter was, one of the boys pointed and boldly proclaimed –

‘Jaina’s crazy!’

Some say that if you insist on labelling a person’s behaviour, or repeatedly call somebody a name, exalting or derogatory, that person embraces the energies in those words, good or bad, and becomes like those words. The boys continued to harass Jaina this way until she finally succumbed and lost her mind. She discarded her mild manner and, in her exasperated state, shouted and then swore. She began to chase people around, waving sticks at them. She forgot how to dress and sometimes to dress at all. Along with her sanity, those who had once approached her with requests for her advice, prayers and healing abandoned Jaina, too. Poor Jaina.

And, one day, she died.

This was a true story.

Trick or Treat! October 30, 2008

” furkid             noun  a domestic animal that is treated as if it is its owner’s child – There is a movement among some animal lovers to proscribe the use of ‘pet’ as it is demeaning to the animal. Preferred terms include ‘companion animal’ and ‘furkid’, the latter conferring on the animal a status equivalent to that of the owner’s child. Some pets might consider this a demotion in status. “ 

(Foyle’s Further Philavery – A Cornucopia of Lexical Delights collected by Christopher Foyle)

 

The ozone burst as snow smothered the falling rust flakes and firework shards cut through the world war smog, decapitating the Night. Terribly menacing yobjobs scoffed at egging and battering as worthy tricks in exchange for any lack of treat. Of course not – keys, cars, banging, doors, money, teenagers – as opposed to knocking for sweets at eight in cute troops of white sheets and Dracula teeth and ooOOooing being the only trick they could really muster in response to a bowl of tangerines at the door.

One pack, a yobjob short, sat bent over a wall rising up through the concoction of mist. Puffs of white carried through the pinned air their rolling mumbles and chuckles. A grey hooded head tipped back as its arms tugged at a leash and a colossal, snarling dribble face silhouetted against the mellow daunt…

Toobaa had never been allowed to go out and ‘beg’ for food and money, not even with a grown up. In another place, at a lighter hour:

“It keeps them happy doesn’t it?” Pretty scarecrow lady winked at Toobaa as they shuffled onto the 275, the three – no – four of them now stitched with the invisible thread available to strangers who venture into conversations at a bus stop.

Had she been Nily of the Land, Toobaa would have eagerly pasted the poor would-be-hooligan boy with the cross breed puppy with questions of its diet, lifestyle, place of birth and why’s. Instead, she simply smiled when his half-chain-leather lead pulled taut at her ankles as he knitted himself through bus-waiter’s legs trying to make for squashed chips on the dirt smeared ground.

“It won’t grow into one of those enormous… things, will it?” Brown boy’s innocence and patience, as unexpected as it was owing to the street garb, was becoming more apparent. Scarecrow lady’s questions and friendly verbal prods coaxed the little black (slightly dirty) creature back into brown boy’s arms and nuzzling forcefully at his pocket for treats.

Brown boy opened up slowly, shy at first by his display of affection and care for this thing not limb to him being so obvious. “Erm… My sister… paid £150 of the money… but I… paid most of it. …He’s a special cross breed… The only one.” His tone had a childish upturn at the break of every sentence and his nods went on to confirm to scarecrow lady that his entire routine must have now changed and must revolve around responsibly caring for his new friend.

Toobaa admired the undying sense of occasion as she greeted her canaries with peace and childish merriment at every coming and going. They twittered and chirruped loudly whenever she was around; they knew when treats and food were ahoy and hopped about at their treat dish; they created a rainforest of sweet song out of every call to prayer and always competed with the vacuum cleaner, talking guests and the X Factor. Snicket constantly serenaded Snoopy by sliding down his cage bars and unsuccessfully tweeting sweet nothings until he reached the bottom.

They were tiny, yellow, weightless bubbles of treasure. Like the vision of The Golden Compass, young people ought to be encouraged to have pets from as early as possible and treat them, somewhat, like their souls, save those who exhibit / transfer abusive behaviour patterns, in which case, they ought to have therapies first. Toobaa shook her head gravely at the Nintendo DS pet-a-dog/cat/other animal games dancing through the TV screen and, instead, basked in the compassion that her (and brown boy’s) furkids’ self professed and happy dependence cultivated.