Stories from Baghdad, Tibet and Siberia

Maalik kaun hai?

Sufi fakir Junnaid of Baghdad was walking across a village with his disciples. They came across a farmer leading his cow, possibly taking it to the market to be sold.

Not the one to miss out on a learning opportunity, Junnaid requested the farmer to stop. Graciously he agreed; eager to drop-in on a nugget or two of wisdom himself.

Junnaid turned to his disciples and asked.

fJoB: You see what you see here. Maalik kaun hai? (Who is the owner?)

One chirpy little fellow, Chatur, volunteered.

Chatur: That’s quite a no-brainer Sir. The man is the owner. The cow is his property. He is possibly taking it to be sold at the cattle-fair.

fJoB: A no-brainer hmm.?!? Fakir Junnaid has asked a no-brainer! From his bag, he pulled-out a pair of scissors and cut the cow lose. The cow made a run for it. The farmer dashed to recover it, swearing at Junnaid and his troop of loonies.

fJoB (thundering now): Maalik kaun hai, andhoN!! (Who is the owner? O ignorant ones!!)

Sotto voce he continued.

'The matter to ponder my dear ones is, whether you own ‘your’ Blackberry or the Blackberry owns you? Whether you have an account in Facebook or Facebook has created an account in you?'

Haah!! Laughing, cursing and dancing like a madman, Junnaid moved on.

*

Unse ab wapas khareedoon khud ko main,

Log jo maangein, woh apne daam doon.. – Javed Akhtar.

**

The Mosquito King

A Tibetan Buddhist story

In the tropical-monsoon jungles of Tibet, there lived a community of mosquitoes. Their leader was His Royal Highness (hereforth referred to as HRH) Mosqopold III, of the lineage of the Great Mosqxander VII.

We condescend but only because the story is told by men. Mosqopold III had no such misgivings. He was the Atlas of his reality. He knew it was not so much the size but the sting that mattered!

Mosquito colonies were located in shallow marshes by the lake and in nearby bushes. Soft piles of dung, that chequered the lake-side, were reserved for mosquito aristocracy and the biggest load of bison dropping was the palace of HRH King Mosqopold III himself.

One afternoon, HRH briefed his senior staff that he was bored with his current quarters and set them the task of looking for an accommodation of befitting grandeur and additional perks.

That very evening two battalions of the Royal Culex Army were mobilized, the Malarial Parasites and the DDT Resistors, each about 120-mosquito strong. The elite commando unit, Spirit Anopheles was put on ‘Full Prep and Arm Ready’ mode to neutralize any threats arising during reconnaissance operations.

Hollows of trees, backs of buffaloes and abandoned or inhabited bird-nests were scoped-out. None deemed exciting enough, mosquitoes were called in at 0400 hours and Day O signed off.

The next day at 1300 hours, a passing elephant piqued the interest of a Colonel of the Malarial Parasites. Post further exploration he zeroed-in on the aural cavity. 

It was roomy, airy and well lit on the outside while the insides, offered discreet private chambers for His Majesty. There was ample space to hold a full court on the back. The soft undulations were a pleasant novelty and the view, a delight!

Col. Zanzara dutifully reported this to his seniors. The incident stoked his long-nursed hope of a Medal-of-Honor for commendable service rendered in the line-of-duty during times of peace.

To tell you the truth, that night in the barracks, he shined his shoes, put on a full-uniform, wing-suit and all, and received the Medal from HRH himself. He bowed and kissed the tip of his wing, as HRH pinned the twinkling piece of insignia to his chest.

Later he drowned himself in the finest blended Scotch in the history of the world. A malady shared by the Libyan dictators, the leaders of the Palestinian People’s Revolution, the Saudi Royals and the deceased Iraqi Baath Socialists,

Johnny Walker Black

Breakfast of Champions! Mortar of Winners! Accept no substitutes!

And every once in a while, feel free to enjoy Irresponsibly!

Nevertheless, the superiors saw value in his suggestion. They codenamed it ‘HkK-326-13-16’ and after a thorough security appraisal by the CO, Spirit Anopheles, HRH Mosqopold III was briefed of the development and invited for a visit.

Prima facie, HRH was quite enthused about the prospect of living in an elephant’s ear. It brought a smile to his face.

*

Mosqopold III arrived at HkK-326-13-16 with his entourage; service chiefs, administrative heads and a motley crew of architects, designers etc. The site was okayed in about five minutes. HRH specially loved the soft undulations!

Mindful of trespassing private property and knowing ‘a kind word’ to be the best first move, HRH announced,

‘O elephant, I am Mosqopold III, the King of Mosquitoes, of the lineage of the Great Mosqxander VII. I have chosen to make your left ear my home and to hold court on your back. This is my great benefaction and must be a matter of immense pride for you.’

There was no response.

So, Mosqopold III, repeated himself, louder this time.

Still, no response.

‘Very well then, Maunam sammati lakshanam’, said Mosqopold III, ‘the elephant’s silence is the mark of polite acquiescence. Begin preparations. I will move-in by early next week.’

The elephant’s ear was a flurry of activity.

*

A week later, HRH Mosqopold III made HkK-326-13-16 his home. It was official christened, ‘The Grey Dome’.

A platoon of Spirit Anopheles commandos, specializing in personnel security, was stationed on the nape, camouflaged in the creases. And life moved on.

*

{Like the Godly gooey brownie that becomes nauseating by the fourth helping or the peppy dance number that refuses to excite on Day 3, the novelty of ‘The Grey Dome’ too wore off and HRH was looking for a change of scenery. He mentioned it to his staff and the State machinery was set in motion once over, greased with tax-payer dollars. A suitable venue was soon found.}

*

When vacating The Grey Dome, never one to shy-off chivalry, Mosqopold III called out,

‘O elephant, I am Mosqopold III, the King of Mosquitoes, of the lineage of the Great Mosqxander VII. I made your ear my home. It was my great benefaction and an immense privilege for you. I am moving out now and you have my best wishes.’

There was no response.

Raising his voice, Mosqopold III, repeated himself.

Still, no response.

This was mildly embarrassing for HRH. It could not be brushed aside as Maunam sammati lakshanam this time. How could the elephant not bother?

So Mosqopold III, repeated himself, shouting at the top of his voice.

The elephant thought he heard something, maybe a small animal in the grass? Or someone whisper? He strained to listen and noticed this tiny mosquito putting itself through enormous travail.

‘Can I help you Sir?’ the elephant wondered.

Finally Mosqopold III had its attention. At his cue, in unison, his staff introduced HRH and explained the current situation.

The elephant listened patiently and said,

‘My dear Sirs, accept my apologies but I don’t know about you. I don’t know when you came, when you made my ear your home or held court on my back. If I have been of some service to you, I am pleased to know. And, I did not realize you were leaving. I wish you the best and you are welcome if you’d ever like to come back again.’

‘What did he say?? Ahh.. whatever. All right, all right, you have my blessings!’ Glazed Mosqopold III and HRH, the King of Mosquitoes, of the lineage of the Great Mosqxander VII, buzzed away with his entourage.

**

'This is the story of man', the Buddhist say. 'Talking up a big game, putting-up facades all over the bloody place.'

Whether it’s,

Hunt protected for animals for kicks; get sloshed, mow-down a few pavement-dwellers and seek absolution in ‘Being Human’.

*

Or on an entirely different scale,

‘We’re moving in to establish democracy in Iraq and while we do that, we’ll engage more private contractors than the number of US Marines! (That's a fact.) And make Halliburton richer by 20 billion dollars, costs extra.’

Question: Excusez-moi Monsieur Rumsfeld! Would we be as interested in ‘demon-crazy’ in ‘I-rack’ if their national product was onions.. yaa fuck-head?

*

Or Friedman and his Chicago-boys tooting the free-market capitalism horn, 

MF: Okay, this is how we do it. Steal from the ‘School Mid-day Milk scheme’ and give tax-breaks to private enterprise.

novice Chicago-boy: Wow! Are we promoting young Chilean entrepreneurs Sir?

MF: No, you idiot. I meant our American billion-dollar multinational corporations.

‘Why, that sure sounds elegant Mr. Friedman!’ said the Nobel prize committee!

*

Or Marx, pandering the utopian goodness of Communism, urging to abolish all private property. Failing to take into consideration the little voice in everyone's head that says ‘You could have it all, if only..’

The result,

Stalin, a 5’-4’’ tall, abused son of an alcoholic Georgian cobbler, with a withered arm, a clubbed foot and a face scarred by small-pox.

And, by the most conservative estimate, 20 million peace-time deaths.





*
And there were the Freuds, the Jungs, the behaviorist, humanists, ethicists, the Hegels, Kants, Heidegers, Schopenhauers, not to mention the Potemkins, Goebbels, Barneys and Ms of the world.

‘Aur Astitv shaant hai,’ Buddhists say. That’s a tough one to translate.

‘If only you would shut up and listen. If only you’d pay some God-damned attention!!’

**

The Story of the Sparrow

The Story of the Sparrow is a deceptively simple Siberian tale. It has a legacy of being well-received and passed-on by remarkable dissidents, subverts and members of the espionage community of erstwhile Soviet Union and Eastern Europe.

I adapted it to an Indian-setting by a nuanced tweak of a character’s persona. The spirit however remains uncorrupted.

*

It was a crisp, sunny morning. A tweety sparrow went about  picking twigs for its nest.

The frantic activity attracted the attention of a foxy fox.

A perceptive cow, sensing the undertones, covered the tweety sparrow with a large dollop of soft dung, providing a veritable safe-house.

Settled in its blinkered perspective, it protested vehemently, compromising its location.

The foxy fox offered to help clean-up.

FF: There’s an India Mark II hand-pump just south of the big Banyan tree.

TS: Ohh.. sure. Thanks!

Getting every bit of dung off, its wings still soaking wet, the foxy fox finished-off the tweety sparrow in one bite.

* 

Moral von der Geschichte? Nicht nur eine, sondern drei.

• Not everyone who covers you in crap is an enemy!
• Not everyone who cleans you up is a friend!
• And most importantly, when you are deep in crap, quit tweeting to the whole wide world about it!

**