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.

Passive Participle: Thunk October 25, 2008

For you – me – an impression of dehuman.

Freedom, please! Admit me.

Thunk me into a made-up plain.

Unimagine me! I may feel, then.

I may feel my way away, away.

some post-modern satire

ibadat – ibaadat – ibadah – ibaadah September 12, 2008

‘Take Two’ – Take One! September 3, 2008

Slumped over her worn white desk, resigned to the shifty incompetence of a few, she stares blandly at a page again for the first time ever. The summer of repetition. The ink has invisibled like the many pointed optical illusion that no longer remains an illusion when the entire field of dots, utterly offended by the constant, purpose-less ogling, vanishes before you, escaping presumably to an affair more worthy than this tiresome game. A sigh, she hears, she does. A bravely sluggish fly, conscious of the manic stillness, hovers down, yes – hovers unlike a fly ought to, and lands down heavily to her right atop a list of claimants and defendants, sweating beneath the glare of the lamp. Slow! Fat! Confusing! Why are you here?! She wonders if it is a congealment of the illusion dots and page letters, come to catch her attention with a new airplane of food strategy, as though she were a child. Or a spy sent by one with super-ordinary powers.

 

She remembers how Mr. Miyagi spoke in smooth undistracted breaks, explaining how one could (not really ever) catch a house fly with a pair of chop sticks. ‘An impossible task!’ Skinny brother had exclaimed, furiously, at Mr. Miyagi. Chubby brother had snorted. Unlike the tricky, clever children [‘it may be difficult to catch a fly that way'] she had thus concluded it was near impossible to catch one altogether. Skinny brother bought a Venus fly trap. Chubby brother snorted. In the market one day not long after, she stood a few yards back from a stall selling household stuffs and observed the sale of fly swats. Yes, people manufactured them. Yes, people purchased them. Was this luminous plastic stretch an instrument of fools’ hope? She pictured these purchasers thrashing around in their hoovered living rooms and spangly conservatories with their fly-swats, laughing as lunatics might as they, for the moment, believed they were on the verge of the impossible. The Hope of False danced around their skits (with utmost glee), hopping and limboing with each swing. Was this the purpose of flies? She pictured goblin men cashing in, on and up on all kinds of false hope tools whilst flies shrunk into vanishing like illusion dots.

It sat there and stared right at her, with her all the while blowing and shooing and threatening to do this and that to it. Eventually, she rolled up another list of claimants and defendants and held it high, waiting to hear the gulp. It didn’t come. She swung it down with Spartan precision and strength (it was) and watched in slow motion as it approached the back of the fly andFILUWIT! It glumly dodged and repositioned itself only inches away from where the now scrunched paper tube had struck, bent against the desk. These rolling up events continued until the next morning, even after the lights went out.

Somewhere, chubby brother knowingly snorted. In the background, Tchaikovsky brings the Sugar Plum Fairies. From time to time throughout his life, he would demonstrate his slow, slow, so slow it was hard to understand what he was doing, hand swipe that would quite simply knock his tiny zooming target sideways and unconscious – in one go! Or rather awfully, dragged by his palm and flattened and juiced against the nearest surface – also in one go. His hand was so large and the movement so lazily orchestrated that the prey, most certainly, had no idea what chubby brother might be about to do and probably gazed with a curious longing, unsuspecting, like its predecessors right into the Death Palm.

 

Spelling Changes Your Bio-Logical Make-Up. July 25, 2008

A Tattered File Wrapped in Silk March 18, 2008

 

An excitement for the offering of life dressed with a brave face and a weak but questioning smile – overwhelming and fantastically beautiful. The highest platform now may be a neatly cut stack of FT’s but this purpose, intangible by the human angle, kneels gratefully at His Throne. Reliance may deceive them but it is only with Him. May our burdens benefit His Beloved. The elegantly cloaked prospect of the truest of human loves collapses to the left, clutching at her side, whilst the foreboding of nightmares cutting their way into reality gently strokes the back. One sleeve is clipped to the side of this red building as pages ruffle before the door and the ticking pulses through each sense. If my teeth fall white and heavy among the snakes, brightly coloured and fanned, they will be glistening, stunning in Glory.

Jacqui Smith’s ‘New Language’? January 19, 2008

I’m not sure whose guise the anti-Christ is in nowadays as it’s all rather oxy-moronic. In any case, she’s decided to refer to ‘Islamists’/'Fanatics’/'Extremists’ (all the heavy words that have masses of lost meaning) as being involved in ‘anti-Islamic activity’.

On the face of it- I like. After years of trying to push poo up a hill, finally someone realised that they were trying to do it with a toothpick. ‘Talso suggests that such anti-social behaviour is equally rejected by all wholesome Hovis eating people as true Islamic ethics [note how I am forced to always prefix Islam with ‘true'/'genuine'/'proper'/etc] are akin with universally accepted principles of human interaction and, hence, everyone can understand why they are ‘anti-Islamic’. I may end up using this.

“We can’t offer you a training contract.” “Tut. That’s so anti-Islamic.” “There are no more Roasted Onion and Sweet Balsamic Vinegar crisps left.” “How anti-Islamic is that!” “You look fat.” “Anti-Islamic swipe…”

On the other hand. Directly linking terrorisers with Islam could act, somewhat, as a double pronged highlighter, which is what the previous choice of words did- and what the new choice of words also do! Once it was Islamists, now it is Anti-Islamic. It suggests that, whichever is the rule or the exception, only Moslemators can be tewwowists. We’ll need different anti-somethings for every kind of bad-fear-hurt-creator. Thugs in the street harassing Dot Cotton are anti’s. Menacing kids are anti’s (ASBOs are still anti’s). Bank robbers are anti’s. Fraudsters are anti’s. Wife beaters are anti’s. San Quentin inhabitants are ANTI’s. Husband bashers are anti’s. And Ariston. Let’s call them all Anti-Islamic and and and then that will mean everyone else is IslamIC.

There are so many possibilities to coin a new word here- a new word that describes this phenomenon of the pain-spreaders of our generation. We may have to resort to dystopian novel-ly language and it might make this an even more inflamed bottom era to be alive in. Sigh. I hope at least one person keeps a comprehensive personal journal that will not be published fifty years from now because history will only be kept in 50ft deep cellars and the rest of it will be gone.