Death and the heavens

A sleeply little hamlet a little west of Islamabad. It's six in the morning and life in all its present forms wakes up to a new dawn. Ayesha nudges her husband -it's time to go to work. Abdul hesitates, yawns, hesitates again, and forces himself up. Ayesha was late today - she should know better. Abdul needs to go to the city to apply for a job as a security guard in one of Islamabad's swanky new residential complexes. He curses, rubs his eyes, and hurries to take in a cold shower. Water - the essence of life. Heat - what he does not have. Bloody Americans. They keep resources from Muslims. Pakistan struggles because America is consuming all of the oil. The water runs, soothing his mind. A silent patter. A shimmering puddle. A cool drop. Let the water wash away the anger.

The newspaper man brings in the latest from around the world. "More Iraqis killed!", "Americans negociate a billion dollar military deal with Israel!", "Arab woman killed in New York City!", "United States forms nuclear defence pact with India". Abdul scans the first few pages - he cannot read. He can see. Pictures. Everywhere. Iraqi children being beaten by American forces. Women walking around Iraq with no veil to keep away inquisitive eyes. The greed for oil. The hatred in the west. And the pictures are always the same. The cleric told him of the hate. The cleric knows all. The cleric believes American deaths will cause peace. Abdul believes him. The cleric cannot lie - he is the learned one. He can read the Quran and he is true. He has to meet the cleric. The interview can wait- Abbas will understand. The front door opens to a soothing breeze but an angry man. Ayesha looks longingly at the man she loved, watching him dissapear into the valley.

Chaos! The cleric must be having a rally this afternoon. Abdul looks up in astonishment as hundreds of people raise their arms and scream. Allah's soldiers. That's what the cleric calls them. He brushes past and demands to speak to the all-knowing one. The cleric is speaking to someone - calm as ever. Abdul patiently waits and soon enough, the cleric motions him in. "They have pulled out the final straw, my son." This is the final battle and Abdul knows it. He is prepared but he must know more. What did the straw signify? The cleric peers deep into Abdul's dark brown eyes. "They have humiliated our prophet. They are laughing at our religion. The religion we live for. The religion we promised Allah we would die for." Abdul's eyes well up - A picture of the prophet? The prophet must not be idolized! And especially not humiliated! The cleric grabs Abdul's head and tells him his time is near. Ayesha must not know and Ayesha need not know. There will be maidens with fruit and tea in the heavens. He will not miss Ayesha. God needs him and God knows all.

Abdul's job is simple. Put himself in the firing line so the guards at the consulate will be distracted. Rahman and his all-conquering troop can then plant the explosives at the specified locations. He will die. So will Rahman. The cleric knows all. Abdul walks with his fellow soldiers into the city. There will be innocent Muslim men, women, and children who will be killed by the blast. They will also go to heaven and will be thankful to Abdul for taking them away from this world. The cleric knows all. Abdul walks past posters depicting Jews as the cursed ones. American flags being burnt. It does not matter that his fellow muslims are satirizing other religions. It does not matter that his fellow citizens are burning soveriegn flags of other nations. What does matter is that when Islam is humiliated, the world must pay. The cleric knows all.

Gunshots. People running everywhere. Abdul runs too - he follows Rahman upto the consulate gate. Who told the Americans? Who betrayed us? A sniper bullet travels through Rahman's brain and takes away his feelings, his emotions, his life. Abdul runs. "Abdul! Stop right there!". Abdul's stomach turns upside down. A familiar voice, a voice that he used to love. Fury. Rage. Betrayal. "Ayesha! How could you!". Gunshots. Three bullets take away Abdul's life. Three bullets for a cleric. Three bullets for Islam. Three bullets for the heavens.

The cleric grabs another man's head and tells him of the heavens. The cleric knows all.

©Govind Mohan – http://govindmika.blogspot.com. All rights reserved.

The Anatomy of Weather

Very strange things have been happening in the recent past. I look up at the bleak dark sky through my window in the morning. The trees have lost their bloom. There are no joggers on the street. The roads look slippery. The air is still and then the wind rattles my window. The air is still again. I get out of bed, brush my teeth, bundle up in three layers, and walk down the termite-ridden wooden steps to take out the trash. I open the door cautiously expecting a surge of cold air and an immediate self retreat. I walk outside to warmth. Sunshine. The smell of spring but the sight of winter. The touch of summer but the sound of fall. Not entirely unexpected. It was sixty degrees fahrenheit today in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Just like yesterday. And the day before. Tomorrow promises more of the same.

[Zoom out into a wide shot of the "city of brotherly love". Zoom out so we watch our cold blue earth from a distance. Pan camera across the globe, around it, until it rests on Northen India. Zoom in to the city of Delhi - the capital city, the metropolis of a zealous nation]

A baby wakes up to screams that scare him. So little, so fragile, but so very peaceful. Papa's been drinking again. But this time the screams are not of a mother facing an abusive wrath. The screams are of a mother who has lost her husband. An abusive husband but bound by religion and her newborn's needs, a necessary husband. He had been walking the streets after a daily shift at the shoe factory down the road. Walking with the bottle that kept him company on every night including this one. This night was special - he had his paycheck. He could pay a prostitute for what his wife would not give. Not because she did not want to. But because her body was in a torrid mess after nights of incessant beating. Sadly, the building is closed - severe weather alert. Zero degrees centigrade. Bah! These officials. With a single t-shirt clinging to his skinny body, he walks the frigid streets with his bottle. He shivers. Maybe a little rest before he walks a little further. His eyelids give up and hugging himself to keep warm, he lies down on the open road. Rest in peace while the cold breeze takes your life. Slowly. Just like you did your daughter's. A baby cries. A mother weeps. A nation carries on.

Unusual temperatures everywhere. I'm not a greenpeace liberal but I can see things are going wrong. And unless something is done soon, the earth will take what we have destroyed. And give back death..and eternal sleep.

©Govind Mohan – http://govindmika.blogspot.com. All rights reserved.

Oh Mother, My Mother

The last few days have been hectic. We travelled to Tirupur, Clothes Kingdom of India to pick up clothes for myself. It's dirt cheap yeah? But the journey proved to be my mother's undoing. It all started on a fateful September 1999 evening. My dad had gone on one of his religious piligrimages (thankfully, on my mother's insistence, he has realized that the God is within and it's no use praying to sullen stone idols that represent "God") and I was studying for my tenth grade National Board Examinations. My mother had complained of acute pains in her joints and fingers a year or so prior to this incident but let it be and ignored it (owing to her philosophy of ignoring ailments and thus curing them - the mind affects the body). On that day however, all hell broke loose. My mother started bloating up like a balloon filling up with water and soon she couldn't breathe. She was retaining all the water as her kidneys were failing - rapidly and alarmingly. I immediately called relatives but until my dad came back, she wasn't shifted to emergency (I'm not sure why). She was soon diagnosed however with S.L.E (Systemic Lupus Erythematosus), a chronic, usually life-long, potentially fatal autoimmune disease, just like the dreaded AIDS [Edit: AIDS is *NOT* an auto-immune disease. It is an acquired immune disease. Therefore, unlike AIDS, Lupus cannot be transmitted and has to do with the body's own malfunctioning immune system. Sorry Mom!]. It isn't easily diagnosed because signs and symptoms are so often seen with other diseases - fever, malaise, joint pains, myalgias and fatigue. The body creates anitbodies against its own DNA - therefore it's autoimmunity characteristics! Women get it on a 9-1 ratio but it's uncommon in Asia. My mother has it however and for a year after the diagnosis, she was in significant pain and suffering.

My mother is an astounding woman however. Her illness is one of the worst. But she is the bravest woman I know. Ever smiling, ever positive, ever wonderful. She did not complain an iota and she stuck to her guns - the illness wasn't going to affect her, it would't affect her family. She openly confronted doctors about high steroid doses (she is well versed in British flower/herbal medication - Homoepathy and Bach Flower Remedies) and without regard to incessant outbursts from her mother, she treated herself with eastern techniques. And my mother got better. She proved to the world that natural remedies work and that being negative was simply foolish. And she greeted me with that same beautiful smile on my trip to India this winter.

However, the last few days has seen the re-emergence of that selfish, sinister disease named SLE. It's been three years since the last "re-emergence". When I came to India last. And it's come back again - on my return. Strange but true. My mother currently has high fever too. And I leave India in a couple of days. The days frighten me and the nights are worse. I only pray she gets better tomorrow. And blogging about it has it's sense of prayer.

To my mother.