The Second Coming - Yeats
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Sunday, June 05, 2005
"No man is an island
entire of itself, every man is a piece of the continent..." said John Donne.
And we pondered over it. Like everything else we ponder upon. From the detestable to the sublime, everything is under scrutiny. As we ponder, we preach of Orwell and the inevitable order and worship Eris and discord.
"Not morons, not at all, sir, oxymorons. Propah oxymorons. Will you change the sign-boards to 'Indians and oxymorons not allowed', now, sir? Our motherland is still England, sir. We'll walk en masee, sir, from Gujranwala to Manchester and Lancashire. We don't gyrate our hips to the beats of the filthy fifties, Sir, we earn our bread and return to our Poonjab."
But I'm no Poonjabi. Otherwise, I would spell it as Punjab. But the indigenous imbecile continued:
"It's the land of the five rivers. What if the horrendous Hindoos turn off the tap. There will be no water, then, Sir, and we will be forced to use toilet paper."
And then he was told to shut up by Shamyl. And he did shut up, like everyone else who expressed his concerns in the mother tongue. The mother tongue is Urdu, incase you're confused. I'm not.
Shamyl was the rich one. The richest one, to be specific. He was a bandwagon of luxuries. And all the opportunists need is a ride. He loved saying stupid things because he could get away with it. Not with the girls, though. Not all the times, atleast.
He had spent 6 years in London. And returned with liquor chocolates and the white man's burden. Which is a pain. If you've a conscience. Najeeb believed he had it. He had spent two years in Wales. Shamyl said the Scottish and the Welsh were crude, and the Irish barbaric.
And Najeeb retorted, "All you've is patronizing vibes. Thats all you can give, you shallow prick."
Shamyl, with the poise of a serial killer claiming innocence on accounts of schizophrenia, replied swiftly, "What of the liquor chocolates, you queer? You always seem to forget that."
Shamyl had made a point. But so did Najeeb. But he was a queer, afterall. He had to be discriminated against. Anyone going aginst the natural order of things has to be discriminated against or Shamyl, for that matter.
"You fruity-fucker, all you did was frequent gay bars in Soho. Fuck men for all I care, but why black men, Imam Shamyl?" While the rest pondered over the relevance of the statement and pondering over what to anticipate in response from Shamyl, Yasir continued with the blunt. He always crossed the line, but then someone has to cross the line. Someone always does. As long as you know when to circumvent. Yasir knew that, but he learned after having his jaw broken twice.
Najeeb retorted, "Someone wants to bet that Yasir will have his jaw broken the third time?"
It was always a match of wits - but Najeeb always turned into one of endurance. But the Qoran says everything happens for a reason, and everyone is part of the grand scheme of things. That's what Ganja is.
"Enduring Najeeb is an art. You could easily be a Scouser if you get the accent."
He is the hairless hopper, and no globetrotter. Everyone called him ganja. His folks called him Misbah. Everyone said he was called Misbah because his parents were unsure whether he had the requisite testosterone level to achieve manhood. And he was reminded that everytime. And it proved, beyond doubt, Sameer's philosophy, 'everything becomes funny after being repeated enough times." Sameer like philosophizing. He had read Will Durrant and considered his theories avant-garde. He had memorized Nirvana's lyrics, too. And he giggled everytime someone called Ganja Misbah. Any slur or masculine potency does that. But everyone laughed while Sameer giggled. Najeeb thought he was a queer, too.
"Ganjay ko kangi la kar do. Bhoosri ka chootya hogaya hay. Pakistan say nikla naheen, aur liverpuddlians pay shot," said Najeeb, with the impertinence of a queer.
"Aur vibration wala phone?" And everybody laughed. Crudeness and aplomb always whets the appetitite. Ganja had a knack for that. Just Saim sat silently, smugly. Saim was wild and safe when driving. Very rare. He handled wild chicks safely, too. Crude insinuations that made the world blush made Saim smirk. He always saw envy - even when faced with contempt. And he continued to smirk. Not plotting revenge. That was the difference between Najeeb and Saim. Najeeb always plotted revenge.
"Fuck them idiots, Chutto, tell me, is Mourinho God?" asked Yasir, with the usual swiftness, marginalizing the undesired.
Chutto was smoking in a corner, not trying to make headway into the conversation. He hated being dragged into such conversations. He liked being in the limelight, even if it meant personal-ridicule, but he preffered it when surrounded by those he had been intimiate with. He wasn't a queer, incase you're confused again. He had a truckload of insecurities, and he didn't mind ditching them in the nearest garbage pile. It made breathing easier. And it also gave him the leverage to mock his uptight feudal room-mate.
"Football is the opiate of the masses, innit? Aray baba sayeen, main bhee lund-unnn gaya hoon."
He always said things with an impish twinkle. In stark contrast to Shamyl. Who always said things with an autocratic despair. He wanted to be obeyed. Chutto just wanted to share a few laughs. And for his efforts, he was called Chutto.
Yasir always consoled him, "Boxer died for the sins of Napoleon." He liked Orwell. He liked Chutto, too. They had been friends since grade school. What he didn't realize was that Chutto didn't like Orwell, but Chutto knew Yasir was incapable of such realizations. That's what Yasir liked about Chutto. Chutto always understood. When he did, he would pretend.
"Abay Chutto, teri Chelski ko to Russian roubles nay jitaya," chimed in Shamyl. He didn't like being left out of a conversations. He always took the bait, too. Everyone knew Shamyl didn't like being left out of the conversations, and no one talked about things that Shamyl didn't know about. But the new friends didn't care. They diverted it into territories not know to this modern-day Cortes. This plunderer of words.
"London main 6 saal guzar diyee, aik dafa bhee match naheen dekha koi, aur hamay ko football par analysi. Chootya kisi aur ko banana, hamay bata 'pata tikka' kitnay ka hay?" Najeeb had to say something, afterall.
"Lo urta teer gand main tum," said Silent Bob with his usual ambiguity. Everyone turned. Silent Bob was always silent. Like Silent Bob from "Jay and Silent Bob strike back" and "Dogma". If you haven't watched them, then you should.
Everyone laughed. Silent Bob's words were a rarity. Shamyl and Najeeb looked at each other. Neither of them liked ambiguity. Or being ridiculed.
"What fucking teer?" mumbled Shamyl. Silent Bob's words always made him nervous. Silent Bob's silence and ability to consume copious amounts of hashish befuddled him. He honestly tried to understand Silent Bob, and never understood why he would always choose to stay at a dignified distance.
"Acha, firangi mat bano, yeh batao, 1992 kay final main kis nay akhri catch pakra thaa?" asked Silent Bob, exuding nonchalance.
"Rameez Raja!" was the gleeful response. Silent Bob smirked like he always did. He knew that his silence carried a foreboding judgement - and compelled people to constantly attempt proving their worth in front of him. He was glad that Shamyl was still under the power. He would think sometimes, those sinister thoughts, where he would use his power for nefarious ends. And then he would remember his younbger brother's jibes when they would imitate WWF stars, "You're the diet coke of evil. Only one calorie. You can't pin me, bro."
And we pondered over it. Like everything else we ponder upon. From the detestable to the sublime, everything is under scrutiny. As we ponder, we preach of Orwell and the inevitable order and worship Eris and discord.
"Not morons, not at all, sir, oxymorons. Propah oxymorons. Will you change the sign-boards to 'Indians and oxymorons not allowed', now, sir? Our motherland is still England, sir. We'll walk en masee, sir, from Gujranwala to Manchester and Lancashire. We don't gyrate our hips to the beats of the filthy fifties, Sir, we earn our bread and return to our Poonjab."
But I'm no Poonjabi. Otherwise, I would spell it as Punjab. But the indigenous imbecile continued:
"It's the land of the five rivers. What if the horrendous Hindoos turn off the tap. There will be no water, then, Sir, and we will be forced to use toilet paper."
And then he was told to shut up by Shamyl. And he did shut up, like everyone else who expressed his concerns in the mother tongue. The mother tongue is Urdu, incase you're confused. I'm not.
Shamyl was the rich one. The richest one, to be specific. He was a bandwagon of luxuries. And all the opportunists need is a ride. He loved saying stupid things because he could get away with it. Not with the girls, though. Not all the times, atleast.
He had spent 6 years in London. And returned with liquor chocolates and the white man's burden. Which is a pain. If you've a conscience. Najeeb believed he had it. He had spent two years in Wales. Shamyl said the Scottish and the Welsh were crude, and the Irish barbaric.
And Najeeb retorted, "All you've is patronizing vibes. Thats all you can give, you shallow prick."
Shamyl, with the poise of a serial killer claiming innocence on accounts of schizophrenia, replied swiftly, "What of the liquor chocolates, you queer? You always seem to forget that."
Shamyl had made a point. But so did Najeeb. But he was a queer, afterall. He had to be discriminated against. Anyone going aginst the natural order of things has to be discriminated against or Shamyl, for that matter.
"You fruity-fucker, all you did was frequent gay bars in Soho. Fuck men for all I care, but why black men, Imam Shamyl?" While the rest pondered over the relevance of the statement and pondering over what to anticipate in response from Shamyl, Yasir continued with the blunt. He always crossed the line, but then someone has to cross the line. Someone always does. As long as you know when to circumvent. Yasir knew that, but he learned after having his jaw broken twice.
Najeeb retorted, "Someone wants to bet that Yasir will have his jaw broken the third time?"
It was always a match of wits - but Najeeb always turned into one of endurance. But the Qoran says everything happens for a reason, and everyone is part of the grand scheme of things. That's what Ganja is.
"Enduring Najeeb is an art. You could easily be a Scouser if you get the accent."
He is the hairless hopper, and no globetrotter. Everyone called him ganja. His folks called him Misbah. Everyone said he was called Misbah because his parents were unsure whether he had the requisite testosterone level to achieve manhood. And he was reminded that everytime. And it proved, beyond doubt, Sameer's philosophy, 'everything becomes funny after being repeated enough times." Sameer like philosophizing. He had read Will Durrant and considered his theories avant-garde. He had memorized Nirvana's lyrics, too. And he giggled everytime someone called Ganja Misbah. Any slur or masculine potency does that. But everyone laughed while Sameer giggled. Najeeb thought he was a queer, too.
"Ganjay ko kangi la kar do. Bhoosri ka chootya hogaya hay. Pakistan say nikla naheen, aur liverpuddlians pay shot," said Najeeb, with the impertinence of a queer.
"Aur vibration wala phone?" And everybody laughed. Crudeness and aplomb always whets the appetitite. Ganja had a knack for that. Just Saim sat silently, smugly. Saim was wild and safe when driving. Very rare. He handled wild chicks safely, too. Crude insinuations that made the world blush made Saim smirk. He always saw envy - even when faced with contempt. And he continued to smirk. Not plotting revenge. That was the difference between Najeeb and Saim. Najeeb always plotted revenge.
"Fuck them idiots, Chutto, tell me, is Mourinho God?" asked Yasir, with the usual swiftness, marginalizing the undesired.
Chutto was smoking in a corner, not trying to make headway into the conversation. He hated being dragged into such conversations. He liked being in the limelight, even if it meant personal-ridicule, but he preffered it when surrounded by those he had been intimiate with. He wasn't a queer, incase you're confused again. He had a truckload of insecurities, and he didn't mind ditching them in the nearest garbage pile. It made breathing easier. And it also gave him the leverage to mock his uptight feudal room-mate.
"Football is the opiate of the masses, innit? Aray baba sayeen, main bhee lund-unnn gaya hoon."
He always said things with an impish twinkle. In stark contrast to Shamyl. Who always said things with an autocratic despair. He wanted to be obeyed. Chutto just wanted to share a few laughs. And for his efforts, he was called Chutto.
Yasir always consoled him, "Boxer died for the sins of Napoleon." He liked Orwell. He liked Chutto, too. They had been friends since grade school. What he didn't realize was that Chutto didn't like Orwell, but Chutto knew Yasir was incapable of such realizations. That's what Yasir liked about Chutto. Chutto always understood. When he did, he would pretend.
"Abay Chutto, teri Chelski ko to Russian roubles nay jitaya," chimed in Shamyl. He didn't like being left out of a conversations. He always took the bait, too. Everyone knew Shamyl didn't like being left out of the conversations, and no one talked about things that Shamyl didn't know about. But the new friends didn't care. They diverted it into territories not know to this modern-day Cortes. This plunderer of words.
"London main 6 saal guzar diyee, aik dafa bhee match naheen dekha koi, aur hamay ko football par analysi. Chootya kisi aur ko banana, hamay bata 'pata tikka' kitnay ka hay?" Najeeb had to say something, afterall.
"Lo urta teer gand main tum," said Silent Bob with his usual ambiguity. Everyone turned. Silent Bob was always silent. Like Silent Bob from "Jay and Silent Bob strike back" and "Dogma". If you haven't watched them, then you should.
Everyone laughed. Silent Bob's words were a rarity. Shamyl and Najeeb looked at each other. Neither of them liked ambiguity. Or being ridiculed.
"What fucking teer?" mumbled Shamyl. Silent Bob's words always made him nervous. Silent Bob's silence and ability to consume copious amounts of hashish befuddled him. He honestly tried to understand Silent Bob, and never understood why he would always choose to stay at a dignified distance.
"Acha, firangi mat bano, yeh batao, 1992 kay final main kis nay akhri catch pakra thaa?" asked Silent Bob, exuding nonchalance.
"Rameez Raja!" was the gleeful response. Silent Bob smirked like he always did. He knew that his silence carried a foreboding judgement - and compelled people to constantly attempt proving their worth in front of him. He was glad that Shamyl was still under the power. He would think sometimes, those sinister thoughts, where he would use his power for nefarious ends. And then he would remember his younbger brother's jibes when they would imitate WWF stars, "You're the diet coke of evil. Only one calorie. You can't pin me, bro."
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