1.
Rajan. That’s what my alcoholic father used to scream every time the pathetic man wanted his trembling drags tensely inhaled from dry Gold Leaf fags. He was born in a small dust-bowl village in the west of the country’s second largest province in the year of the hip Christian Lord, Jesus Christ whose rock-star birth hundreds of years ago gave us the planet’s most used calendar and which stood at the year 1966 AD at the time of my father’s suzerain exit from my grandmother’s belly.
The belly, as my mother always reminded me, actually went bust even before the doctors had sliced it open to pop daddy out.
The village’s mothers and mothers-to-be used to whisper among their peasant selves and into the sweaty, erect hard-ons of their sweaty bonded husband slaves that, grandfather was actually a faggot landlord (“gandu sain”
and thus, his wife, in utter vaginal frustration and typical feudal woman vulva fear, had actually started to eat ****-loads of half-baked dung from her pregnant cow, Raani.
That’s what went around the muddy lil’ village. The bloated “fact” that it was really dung in grandmother’s tummy when she was cart-wheeled to the town’s lil’ hospital, screaming “save my baby, save my baby!”
But if all was dung, what was he made of?
In the year 2004 AD, when I was just eight years old, I asked this question from my grandmother, who, by the way, had become a vengeful vegetarian after my father’s birth, eating only extra-dried hey, juicy grass and raw sugar-cane … she always replied that even though she was a good Muslim, she, however, also believed in the Buddhist and Hindu concepts of reincarnation.
She believed that in a previous life she was a cow owned by an ancient Hindu Brahman woman who loved her very much, but her husband had abandoned the cow, when she failed to give birth to calves in late 1857 AD.
But how can a Hindu Brahman abandon his sacred Brahman cow?
Because she had started to eat meat, my grandmother told me with utter conviction and in a rather convincing tone.
But cows don’t eat meat.
Grandmother used to laugh at this regimented (but unfortunately) true observation of mine.
In her heavy feudal accent of an old traditional language of our ancestors, she told me that I having such an inquisitive mind would one day understand this myself when I grow older, taller and even more inquisitive.
One evening in the year of 2012 AD, while humping a fat Hindu hooker in Banglore’s infamous (but legal) silicon valley brothel called Meaty Digital Bang Inn, I asked the question from the plump middle-aged *****, after releasing my sticky over one of her shinny, shaven rumps.
“Your grandmother must’ve been a lesbian”, she said, matter of factly.
And as soon as I started to think about granny’s pregnancy, she at once joined her first statement with …“Being a Thakurani, I’m sure she had no guts and ***** for another woman, and so she went for the cow in the way you tell me she did. She pretty desperately wanted to get pregnant and, especially have a son.” What the **** was she urinating about?
“Don’t get me wrong, kid”, she continued, after watching my blackish brown eyeballs pop away from the boing-boing tons sagging from her upper front-loads and into her tired pig-like eyes. “What I meant to say was that she was more concerned about her and her family’s feudal future than her husband. She needed a man who was man enough to enslave and/or kill peasants, make more male babies, **** a few teenaged gandus, **** up a few women, and so on.”
This fat Bangalorian knock-about rump sure was amazing. At times I even wished she were my grandmother. Or mother.
Ah, yes, mother. Around the same time I finally managed to gather the courage to put the question in front of her as well, even though it was she who first told me about the elusive dung factor.
I needed courage because being a squeaky shimmering feudal tart, she never ever blabbered the rationale behind the darn done dung thing.
“Your father is made of dung!” She was right down to the point as always.
“Then why the feudal **** did you marry him?”
“You said it!” She said smugly, not bothered an iota about the “feudal ****” outpour. And why should she. Because as she said it herself, “FF” was it.
“Then how come I’m so unlike you … and father …and grandfather … and our ancestors … and maybe grandmother?”
“By “FF” my meaning was not literal, you teenaged haramie!” She screamed, her big, gold earrings going back and forth. “And what do you mean “maybe?”
“Because grandmother, she’s kind of different … weird … and yet a typical feudal wife” I told her, and really meaning it.
“Tell me”, I continued. “How can dung in a woman’s stomach make a goddamn baby?”
Mother remained silent, other than only muttering “different, my shoe” (“mayri jhootie!”
. “She’s a cow and has always been a cow, understand?”
“Well” said I, “a cow is at least better than a *****.”
Now that really got mother going: “Really? Ha! These gold earrings are heavier than both your grandmother and that cow, Rani, she so dearly loves … Rani the purani, the real mother of your father!”
Her parents gave the earrings to her. I told her they must have been having well-done dog steaks shortly before planning to have their fifth child and which, of course, was mom.
“Slap!” My mother had big, hard palms.
She screamed, wept and howled: “They are your grandparents too, you pig!”
Then how come they never, ever visit my father’s parents?
“Because your father’s mother ate dung!”
Then why did they get you married to him?
“Land, bachah, land. All of theirs will be yours, my child. Stop being so hard on me. I’m your mother.”
“Must be all the alcohol in dad’s … you know”, said I, though toned down now, and obviously, because …
“Slap!” And “Haramie!”
Clutching my left cheek, I still managed to ask two more questions: “By the way, mother, what do the earrings got to do with all this? And anyway, aren’t grandfather and father’s lands 7000032 times more expensive than these obnoxious pieces of a bygone status?”
Mother looked a bit out of it. Like a goldfish plopped in a brand new pond of water full of hyperactive yellow, green and purple tadpoles.
“Status?” She murmured. “What’s that?” the murmur turned into a reflective whisper. And then: “Slap! … Haramie.”
Well, looking back, I guess she could have gotten away by ripping out one of those rhetorical, clichéd and brutally pretentious “our culture” monologues regarding the earrings. But then, since she was a huge fan of ‘60s and ‘70s Urdu and Hindi films, the slap & haramie bit had more cultural roots in mother’s tiny brain’s emotional sides than anything a bit more complex. I remember how and whenever she was red-shot pissed-off at my father’s post-Vodka binge bull and puking, she used to scream just like Shahsi Kapoor did in his late-‘70s flicks: “You bastaaaaaaa!”
I wonder why he never added the “…tered?”
One time in the summer of 2002 AD, when I as a six-year-old little pink penis accompanied my mother to that glorified rot spot called Mumbai, and later to a high-flying party of slick Indian dicks and cunts (though most of them well and truly limped and pimped by 300ml Pepsi bottles), we met Shashi and I was asked by mother to smile, drool and take his autograph.
I requested “uncle Shashi” to please scribble “you bastaaaaaaa!” on my autograph book. Mother was obviously embarrassed.
So back at the hotel: “Slap!” And “You bastaaaaaa!”
The confused me just kept thinking: Why Shahsi uncle and mom kept calling people pasta? In fact, why did they keep calling pasta, basta?
“Slap!”
My mother was not a very patient woman.
After all, the poor woman’s husband was a gandu, no?”
The only thing that used to save grandfather from being raped by dacoits and pervert bourgeoisie traders ( seths ) of the village, was him being the most powerful feudal lord of the dust bowl town. Well, he used to get “raped” anyway, if you know what I mean. In fact, he sometimes used to pay to get humped by the dacoits who visited him as his guests. Yup. The cocksucker may have been a super gandu but he sure was a 100% typical feudal sonofabitch!
I never did ask daddy about the dung factor. But one time, aged six, I did ask my rapidly wrinkling grandfather. Unfortunately, even at the age of 74, the bastard was more keen to talk about the twinkling growth chart of my lil’ pink pecker (lullie), than anything else. “So what’s my darling grandson’s cute little lullie up to”?
Man, such a frivolous old gandu was he.
I’m sure my father’s childhood and youth must have been such a trauma. My father may have been a Vodka-head, but he wasn’t such a bad guy as such. Just imagine growing up around talk of him being created out of a womb full of cow dung and having a father who was a known gandu.
To escape it all, father started to drink quite early in life. He had his first taste of Vodka when he was only four years old! He had sipped the remains left behind by one of his father’s feudal-politician friends in the summer of 1970 AD.
The friend had come to persuade granddad to join the ‘king’s party’ being supported by the then military dictator of the land, Gen. Yahoo. Com Khan. So as and when granddad and his friend went inside another room to chalk out granddad’s political career (over a few quick ****-fucks), father experienced his first alcohol buzz. And in no time he was sitting on granny’s lap asking about the infamous damn dung done thing.
“Mother, did you really eat dung and shat me out?” he asked, point ******* blank.
Granny’, as cool as ever, said absolutely nothing. Instead, she carefully changed the topic:” Has daddy been talking about your lullie again?”
Atish, my friend, guru and alter-ego, given birth by a gray, wild-eyed unicorn, hallucinated by my head while unabashedly being rotated and accelerated by that rare and powerful Central Thar cactus, Sooar Matho (Swine Head) in the summer of 2017 AD, said: “Dying Hussein … cat-scan … faggot Jews … truth moves … macho **** … Arrrgh!
Always hurts … always nuts … exploding stars … nova lust … Christ’s dead … Hitler’s mad …Karballa cat … off!
Psychotic storm … hear it come … vulva mom … orgasm! Might is right … what the **** … cyanide renegade … flushing down … chunks of meat parades … Too much **** … locked and docked … wrong sock … peel it off!”
Atish, as you might have noticed, was a complete mad man, and thus a genius. And this is precisely why by the year 2039 AD, he would ultimately and triumphantly lead massive numbers of confused and stoned youth into a political and social revolution, the type which had either been a pleasant dream during a bad LSD-25 trip in the kaleidoscopic 1960’s, and/or an hallucinatory ambition of tripping old writers like Aldous Huxley and enigmatic eastern madcap jesters of the ‘70s like the elusive “Maullana Hippie” of Pakistan.
Actually my father claimed to have met the weird Maullana back in early 1975 AD when he was just 9 years old.
How old was the Maullana then, I had asked him, back in 2009 AD when I was thirteen years old.
“Well, I’m not sure … maybe 35, 36 … he was a Punjaby!”
“I wasn’t asking about his ethnic make-up, father”
“Why not?”
“That’s such a 20th century thing, y’know”, said I.
“So we are talking about a man of the 20th century, aren’t we?”
He was right. We were.
“So”, I continued. “Being a Sindhi, did you hate Punjabis as well?”
“Not me. But your grandfather did”
“Him!” I half-barked. “That malicious, Machiavellian gandu!”
“Slap!” And “Haramie!”
“Father, you are turning out to be so much like mother”, said I, clutching my swollen right cheek.
Father went quiet. Then suddenly called out for mother: “Heer dear, where’s that new Vodka I bought last night?”
There was a two-minute silence. Which was eventually broken by mother’s breaking-the-sound-barrier reply: “You bastaaaaa!!”
Although now well into my awkward teen beans, and having a humping affair with a Banglorian *****, I decided a grand finale in this respect by visiting the raunchy rump for one last time in the fall of 2014 AD. The idea was not just to have my regular doggy-style rides on her, but more so, to finally get some solid insights regarding that dodgy dung factor which hadn’t stopped farting in my compulsive-obsessive narcotics-friendly head.
After the come, I told her I found her rather attractive.
She cynically shrugged the compliment off, saying all men say this when they are about to dump a favorite *****.
Wow! She did have what is called a great sixth sense. And I told her so: “Wow! You do have what is called a great sixth sense.”
“You know, this was also said to me by the customer who was humping me before you came along.”
“Really? Who?”
“Ramnaam Wickeramasinghe”
“Oh boy. That psychotic Hindu fundo?”
“Why. Why can’t a Hindu fundo have a ***** friend when a Muslim fundo can have two?”
“That’s not the point”, said I. “What I meant to say is how can an intelligent, insightful ***** have a fundo friend?? Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, Jain, Animist … whatever!”
“It’s alright having an atheist friend, right?” she asked sarcastically.
“I’m an agnostic.”
“A what? What’s that? Never mind. Whatever it or you are, the bottom line is that you are sick of me and this is certainly your last humping with a fat ***** of Bangalore!”
I just didn’t know what to say. That day the raunchy fatso was behaving quite *****-like. And why the **** not. She was so right. I was about to dump her. But I never was her boyfriend, or a guy who had planned to marry her. I was just a teenaged dick that enjoyed humping her and enlightening my post-post-modern mind with her raw insights about life. And, of course, about the damn, darn done dung thing.
So what the hell was I feeling so guilty about then? Maybe it was too much of that supreme quality Northern Afghanistan hashish I’d been on so much that year. It was making me all paranoid, soft and guilty.
“I’m sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings”, I said. “But you see, I have to move on.”
She was furious: “Move on to another *****, right?”
Man. She was sounding as if she’s my wife! And I told her so: “Man. You’re sounding as if you’re my wife!”
She suddenly went sad: “Please leave. I need to be alone … on the phone.”
She turned towards her purple Nokia set and started to whisper out the number she wanted. And what do you know. It was Ramnaam Wikeramasinge on her six-inch phone screen.
“ Ram, Ram”, said Ramnaam, as if saying (sarcastically), “well hello, you fat heartbreaking cow.”
The rump started weeping: “ I was deceived and raped by a Pakistani spy.”
Ramnaam: “Who!”
Me: Hey!”
Cow: “Enjoy.”
The weeping was suddenly over. The cow was now smiling. Viciously.
“Who is this Pakistani bastard?!” Ramnaam screamed, at the top of his speed-metal voice.
“Should I tell him?” she asked me, smilingly.
I was **** scared. Should I run? But where to? Couldn’t get out of Banglore before midnight that day.
“Well?” she asked me again, and still smiling.
“Well?” screamed Ramnaam.
“Well …”, said I. “**** you!” And moved in front of the screen myself.
“Ah”, ahhed Ramnaam. “So you are that Pakistani snake”
“Snake?” I shouted, while unzipping my denims and shacking my **** in front of the screen: “Here’s your snake, you Ram farm!”
“I’d love to chop that off, y’know”, said him.
“Well not before it humps your dear cow … nay, your SACRED COW!”, I screamed back.
From Brahman brown Ramnaam turned ketchup red. And then he was no more. Obviously on his way to the cow’s silicon ranch.
Shaken a bit, I turned to look towards the rump. She was glaring at my exposed dick: “So”, she said. “What has your lullie been up to?”
“I can’t say” I replied. “But it sure would be on the very next Maruti Laser Shuttle out of Banglore.”
“When will you return?” She asked.
“Hopefully never!”
“Not even to meet your soon-to-be-born-child … honey?”
I was shocked-knocked. From Karachite cola tan, I turned Amazon tadpole purple.
“Now that’s what your lullie’s been up to … punk!” Calmly saying this she left the room.
Before I could sit down and drown myself with a few tough glasses of neat Indian whisky, sounds outside told me it was time to get the hell out. Sounded like a very angry Ramnaam: “You bastaaaaaaa ….!”
