Uncertain Ambiguities - (A Story)
posted October 1, 2009 - 7:14amTwitching a sharp 2B pencil in her hand, she asked me what's my single most fantasy in this world.
"Always go for a 2B, good for every shade", her old, rusty voice echoed in my head.
Hey!!! Where
are you? Fantasy? Tell me.
And I was looking her like a dumb. Short brown kurta, a pair of blue jeans, she always wear a simple V collar, half inch wide circular strip of fabric erected around the neck, what my mother call it ‘a kanthi collar’. Some designer designed this and some tailor tailored this attire just for herself.
My good heavens! Where the hell are you! I'm talking with you. What's your fantasy?
Err.... FANTASY??? MY FANTASY???
No the fantasy of that crazy writer of yours.
She held that book to strike my head. Near miss!
Hey! He is not crazy.
Yeah, yeah!!! He wrote about some crazy human-wolf, now don't start over again.
God!!! She's sharp. Have I ever said anything about those crazy painters of hers, neither a word for that weird Goya nor a phrase for that freaky Giovanni.
Ok baba! Now tell me please, what is your dearest fantasy?
Oh! Leave that fantasy thing; first tell me why you always aromatize this office whenever you get here?
That put a halt on everything, stammering of her legs, humming of the AC, those clamoring rickshaws outside on the road, everything just stopped for a moment. And then she smiled, and at last laughed.
Everything again set to motion and sound.
You dog! Why you always start discussing me?
No, by god! You smell really great.
And she again showed me those beautiful pearls of hers. What if I fantasize this moment for my whole life, a childish face with smiling curves, an aromatic, heavenly body, a kanthi collar, a studded kurta with tiny beads and sea like trousers…
Aroma, aroma everywhere! Smell of some sophisticated gardens!!!
Then something happened I gazed across a glass pane, my colleagues started hovering over a TV. I passed an intriguing glance to one of them and he said casually; “just another suicidal bomb blast”.
I said; “okay”.
She watched it too, the flashes of the breaking news, bricks, demolished buildings and then closed her eyes, shivering with a pale face; she lay down on a sofa. I was feeling some tidbits of bones knocked me, pieces of red fleshes filled the room, splattering dense blood making its ways down on the window panes. My fantasy had lost its aroma, smelling like ammunition. I told her that those beautiful gardens of yours and sophisticated words about fantasy have no place in this world. Your beauty and that aroma can do nothing, just useless perceptions for brains. I watched a tiny stream of red blood making its way down mixing with the soil, producing a reddish-brown substance, the very matter of my fantasy. And she lost her aroma.
----------
She met me the other day with her same vibrant face. The paleness had faded, leaving the reddish flow which is the most charming feature of her face.
“Nobody knows the real story behind every blast”, while turning a telephone wire with her fingers she told me; “but I know the story behind this one”.
Another imagination huh!
“No, not my imagination, I know it for sure”, she said it in such an affirmative tone that nobody can refuse that claim. But sometimes I think all of her stories ‘from her mother’s funny hairstyle to the local scandals of famous artists’ are some made up visions of her mind. But the innocence of her face made me believe in almost everything.
“So mind telling what is it?” Showing a least expression of interest I asked her. After that what she told me was some kind of junky words spitted under the hallucination of some junk. I’ll try to reproduce them with the possible chronology of events and rationale for the comprehension of the normal beings.
She was reporting about some weapons acquired from a terrorist group. Fortunately or just by chance the police fought well, arrested a man named Haroon Ali, found him guilty of terrorist activities. His undergarments included a belt manufactured for the explosion of 50 meters of surroundings including him. The Police was busy in the official proceedings, tired of all the beating and prosecuting sessions with the arrested terrorist. Deprived of his undergarments he was in a deep thought. Salty waters were trickling out of his body drop by drop and soaking up in those thready strips which were covering him in the name of dress. He gave a big nod to one of his thoughts, “it doesn’t matter if these black toadies have taken the belt; I can do even without it.” And he was pretty much sure about it.
The night overlapped the day. Haroon Ali had thought about every possible way of escaping from this godforsaken prison and rejected them in severe disappointment. Then he heard a noise in the station. It was sound like police men were beating someone.
Oops! A sudden darkness surrounded everything in the vicinity. Her speaking face with the dribbling words suddenly disappeared.
“Meer gee! Now what happened with your generator?” I yelled over the office boy.
“Sir gee! Out of diesel you know; petrol pumps are on strike”, his reply echoed from some corner.
We came out and started strolling over the green belt; a long, wide strip of green grass between a road and a footpath lined by the small trees. Annoyed by the consistent load shedding and due to unavailability of parks in this area public has made this green belt a kind of fun place. I was constantly seeing the small families, young buddies and even couples with orange shopping bags having snacks from a nearby confectioner, sitting over the thick grass enjoying a casual breeze with the rural view of the sun set.
She then told me that police men were not beating someone; actually they had become hostages by the brothers of Haroon Ali’s terrorist group. They had the weapons far better than the police, giving the ability of only five men to occupy the whole police station. They broke into his cell.
“Damn you! Lying here comfortably”, one of the brothers clinging his shoulder shouted into his ear, “what about our training, our mission, did you forget everything?”
“No, brother no, not at all, how can you even say that”, Haroon Ali replied straight away.
“Then get lost from here and complete your duty, nobody is waiting for your crazy tantrums”, Brother pushed him out of the cell.
For one moment he thought about the belt but a voice reverberated in his head; “it doesn’t matter I can do the job even without it.” He’s feeling explosions in every muscle. He ran and ran hard, finding his target but couldn’t been able to recall it. That portion of his memory had just elapsed. He was just running and running like hell, evaporating all the sweat which he produced in that godforsaken cell. Trying to figure out his next step, he forgot all about the target, now he just needed to collide with anything. And at last he had seen his paradise, a white ambulance with blinking red lights and clamoring loud sirens.
“That would be perfect”, he thought and leaped over it. Abbas Hussain, though he was a very experienced driver never encountered with such an event, brakes, hand brakes, clutches, steering nothing seemed to be working and Haroon Ali crashed over the front screen. With a big bang and a loud crushing metallic voice his body exploded right away without the aid of any belt. He was right about it, he just didn’t need any material ammunition for it; his soul was enough for all that. That blast had taken two lives.
“No they were three” someone shouted from the crowd which had gathered there out of curiosity, “one must be the bomber, another one is the driver and here lies the patient, dead too.”
She left me after narrating to this point, leaving me at the mercy of newspaper and news channels. I watched her go, her hands signaled to a rickshaw and her shoes jumped over it. The aroma again faded away.
----------
I tried to keep the track of the events happened after that blast and those events were also no less absurd and melodramatic than her narration. The bodies of Haroon Ali and Abbas Hussain never found. Those are believed to be melt and evaporated because of the extreme heat and momentum of the vibrations produced by the explosion. The only body found was the corpse of the patient lying alone in the back of the ambulance. Coming from an unknown place heading towards an unknown destination that patient was not just another common man; in fact he was the religious and spiritual leader of a great majority. Nobody knew how to overcome with that great loss but they wept hard. A will had been produced out of the pockets of the spiritual leader. A special committee had been made to understand and comprehend that will. According to the will the grave of the spiritual leader should be situated at the same place where he would give his soul to the Almighty God. The followers insisted on the same procedure. Government tried to intervene for ruining the joint of three major roads but on seeing the vigor of the public, they stepped back.
After the momentary reaction and exhibitions of grievance public start making a large tomb for the dead body of the spiritual leader. Fund had been raised to make it another piece of the art in the city. Speeches had been made over the grandeur of the loss. The buried personality had been discussed with the great respect and admiration. Everything was going normal and perfect then only one problem arose. What to write on the grave in the place of the name. Nobody knew the name of their spiritual leader. Everybody remembered the attributes like ‘Mentor for the generations’, ‘Holly of the Hollies’, ‘God’s distributor’ etc. But nobody exactly knew the real name. Again a committee had been made; topic was researched; subject specialists debated over the issue but all in vain. Nobody came with a real conclusion. At last the possible solution had been approved:
“After all we can afford a nameless burial place.”
---------
I saw three souls over the horizon, Haroon Ali, Abbas Hussain and the nameless mingled in each other. They were flying over the beings whose emotions cling over their heads like their flesh grip their bones. Nothing can be done to distinguish three of them, the wicked one, the good one and the spiritual one. They were shouting only three words again and again as some holly chant;
“God knows all.” “God knows all.”
They started flying high into the ocean of light leaving behind them nothing but just uncertain ambiguities.
[END]
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