Wednesday, May 2, 2012
The Innocent and The Beautiful (short story)
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
In The Beginning Was The Word (fiction)
In The Beginning Was The Word
(click above for fiction)
I have argued elsewhere that 'freedom' is an empty word without meaning in Asia because Asia lacks the experience of large-scale slavery. Zafar Shah tries to teach that words have meaning only in context but doesn't stand a chance against the tide of media indoctrination, historical defeat and the flood of dosh from the west.
Excerpt:
General Haroon-ur-Rashid came to my flat, all pips and gongs.
"Well, Zafar, do you think the students will overthrow me?"
"No, not the students." I put my cold mango juice down. "The donors. By means of the students."
"And why’s that?"
"They don’t need any anti-communist bulwark, anymore."
"But I’m popular."
"I know. They know that, too. But they want free and fair elections. Something they call freedom."
"What can I do?"
"If we had had enough time, we could have fought one idea with another idea. Rather, one word with an idea."
"What are you going on about, Zafar?"
"The idea of freedom has gripped the students: they don’t understand the word, but they like the sound. And who can blame them? The entire western media have indoctrinated them. A few years ago, we could have countered the word with a Perso-Arabic expression: zel Allah."
"Eh?"
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Coconut Island (short story)
(click above for story)
A young girl dies while attending a school for the uber-wealthy of Bangladesh on St.Martin's Island. Did she kill herself? Zafar Shah travels down there at her mother's request and uncovers the unexpected, to say the least.
Excerpt:
"The silence lay like a blanket, and the heat emanated from the hills in waves. We forget that sound and light are substances and that they beat on our bodies like any other substance. The quiet of the place affected the body: only a few crickets could be heard, and sometimes the bark of a dog or the call of a child from the village nearby. A plume of smoke rose from between the areca and coconut palms, indicating cooking. Otherwise there was hardly any sign of human activity. The quiet of the place affected the body: there seemed a sudden oneness between mind and body. At night, the darkness affected me similarly. And the moonlight – for it was full moon – clothed the hills and forest in silver. All stress seemed to escape the body: only the heat remained to affect it strangely. The heat of the hills was different; it was an enveloping, ambient heat; it did not descend from above, or rise from below, but embraced one from all sides; it was an erotic heat, suffusing – with the darkness and the silence and the moonlight - the entire personality; it reminded me of an elephant in must."
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
How many million make millions?
Barefeet (sic), wearing black ribbons and clutching bouquets of flowers, thousands of people from all walks of life approached the Central Shaheed Minar in the capital to pay homage to the martyrs of the language movement, observing International Mother Language Day.
The entire Dhaka University campus and its surrounding areas turned into a human sea as youths, freedom fighters, politicians, foreigners and others walked towards the memorial with due reverence in queues, many of them singing in chorus 'Amar Bhaiyer Rokte Rangano Ekushey February Ami Ki Bhulite Pari.'" http://thedailystar.net/story.php?nid=76967 )
This is a description of the yearly ritual held on 21st February in Bangladesh. It is a nationalist ritual.
How many people attended?
In the first paragraph, we read about "millions with flowers": if millions moved across Bangladesh, how is it that we haven't seen any signs of this?
And what the "millions of flowers" – where's the stench? Surely, such a large number of flowers must leave an awful pong behind, and, indeed, where did so many flowers come from?
And what kinds of flowers were they: roses, tulips, China roses....or water hyacinths? Only if the latter, could there have been "millions with flowers".
Then the number shrinks when we reach Dhaka: " thousands of people".
That's much better: but I personally don't know anyone who went.
And since I don't have a TV set, I couldn't analyze the pictures to see what the class composition of the "thousands" was: how many rickshaw pullers were there, garment-factory girls, street vendors, farmers....?
We are only told: " thousands of people from all walks of life ", and that's all. But the writer gives himself away in the next paragraph: " youths, freedom fighters, politicians, foreigners and others". Where were the sans-culottes? The "others'? These sound like a residue, a substratum, a scum, an afterthought...surely not the people? More like the 'cetera' after 'et'!
And this furtive nocturnal gathering is supposed to be a national festival: who is the nation, then? A couple of thousand insomniacs?
It has been estimated that 7% of the French participated in the French Revolution, and 11% Iranians in the Iranian one.
Suppose even 1% of our people came out at midnight on 21st February: that would be an impressive army – no, a veritable horde – of 1,500,000 (the size of roughly China's army). But the Daily Star article clearly said "millions with flowers". How many make "millions"? 5 million? 10 million? That would mean an astounding 3 to 6% of the population! Half a French revolution 56 years after the event! Surely every satellite would have picked out such a migration? Surely every newspaper and TV channel would have broadcast the mass of humanity? Not to mention all those flowers.
So it seems even the middle classes didn't come out – they were snoring.
Not only that, I haven't heard of any other country or people who celebrated a so-called International Day – it seems that neither the national, nor the international, turned up for the International Mother Language Day.
The chap who penned that piece should take up fiction – clearly his forte. Not reportage.
In a novel perhaps he can answer the question: who is the nation (and in a sequel, he can delineate the 'International")?
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
The Conversion of Asoka (fiction)
Bangladesh has devils to exorcise: this is the story of Lalla Rookh, a distraught mother, whose son enters the sinister world of student politics. Not even the well-meaning Zafar Shah can help her, as evil seemingly triumphs over good.
click below to read:
http://unlikelystories.org/sayeed1107.shtml