Asalamualaikum,
Peace be upon you,
If you've stumbled upon this article by mistake, I suggest turning back immediately; as it contains some old, closeted tales I've rummaged out from my days in the English classroom. If you've reached this far, I hope this content inspires you to be a better writer (this doesn't imply that I am one myself) and more importantly, a better person.
Here are the first two stories in a series I've titled, "Saad's Short Stories for Solicitous Striplings".
Peace be upon you,
If you've stumbled upon this article by mistake, I suggest turning back immediately; as it contains some old, closeted tales I've rummaged out from my days in the English classroom. If you've reached this far, I hope this content inspires you to be a better writer (this doesn't imply that I am one myself) and more importantly, a better person.
Here are the first two stories in a series I've titled, "Saad's Short Stories for Solicitous Striplings".
GLOSSARY:
- Alina (May 2016)
- Chaplin (June 2016)
ALINA (inspired)
"Music today?" inquires Alina.
It is the third time she has repeated the question, and my wife gives a smile in exasperation. Yet I maintain a grinning face, not sighing out of exhaustion; that usually comes about the fifth or sixth time she asks.
"Not today, jaan. Today is Friday, your dear baba must go to work. Music is tomorrow, Saturday," I reply in the most comprehendible manner possible.
Alina gives a look of abjection, and turns away from me, as I tie my shoelaces, ready my leather guitar-case, and simultaneously crunch a butter-laden toast in my mouth. She leaves the room for an instance.
She returns hardly five minutes later.
"Music today?"
It was not that she could not remember my previous statement, but that between the fistful of pills every morning, and staring out of the window at the cacophony caused by callous construction workers and cackling schoolchildren crossing Iqbal Road, Alina only found solitude in the cadence and mesmerization of music. I had discovered this in her early years, after she was diagnosed with progessive neuro-transmitted disease, a rare mutational illness which arrogated her right to her tongue; she could not fit in amongst the myriad of children, whom she signed 'the different, noisy ones'. Her bubble of existence in the vast world of these 'different' people often terrified her, and we would often have to pick her up early from school, after the repetitive terror attacks, stage fright and tantrums, which only showed accretion as we changed her institutions. Her illness seemed insatiable, it only demanded quietness and peace - perhaps to counter the raging confusion, paranoia and pain which surrounded her cranial synapses. In her mind, music should be everyday; so why not today?
I sigh, and I look back at her. She is still standing at the doorway, signing back the same sentence. Or perhaps I had misjudged... She is actually trying to say, "Music alone?" and I nod, regret clouding over my face. I console myself. Bills have to be paid, after all.
Alina was surely a prodigy. Since the tender age of 7, she had appropriated the large, shiny-black, grand piano which had remained untouched since my own father's time. Her sleek, tender fingers glided over the keys like knife on butter, her petite back hunched over the front, her silky black hair camoflaged with the piano. I often accompanied her on the weekend on her endeavours, keeping up with her frail fingertips. A person would expect her to play sad sonatas, deathly notes, but no; a musical utopia of Beethoven's Minuets, Mozarts' Alla Turca, and whatnot... Meadows of grass were opened in front of my eyes, where the grass blades were the keys, and the princess prancing in them, my daughter's fingers. Alas, Alina was never to exceed the lifespan of these musical greats.
Months later, it is the December of 2015, and I sit beside the hospital bed. Alina's situation had atrophied since a few days, yet she carries my smartphone in her bed, and till the time her eyes remain open, she plays one-tone music. This draws smiles on the nearby patients' faces. Yet, my wife and I know situations would change in an instance. Cognitive dissonance. The doctor tells us she will soon wake up, it is only a temporary coma. I glance at the bed. The prancing of the fingers is replaced with vibrations on the oscilliscope, and her one-tone render of Fur Elise, by the whir of multiple machines attached to her. The pain is too great and I excuse myself. I assure myself, it's alright to cry. January 2016. Alina remains a memory. As I shuffle through pictures of her, desperately clasping on to the fading moments, I come across a note hidden in the photo album. I cry, even more than before, at this new discovery; my daughter had scribbled her first letter, or better yet, first word - the chord A.
"Music today?" inquires Alina.
It is the third time she has repeated the question, and my wife gives a smile in exasperation. Yet I maintain a grinning face, not sighing out of exhaustion; that usually comes about the fifth or sixth time she asks.
"Not today, jaan. Today is Friday, your dear baba must go to work. Music is tomorrow, Saturday," I reply in the most comprehendible manner possible.
Alina gives a look of abjection, and turns away from me, as I tie my shoelaces, ready my leather guitar-case, and simultaneously crunch a butter-laden toast in my mouth. She leaves the room for an instance.
She returns hardly five minutes later.
"Music today?"
It was not that she could not remember my previous statement, but that between the fistful of pills every morning, and staring out of the window at the cacophony caused by callous construction workers and cackling schoolchildren crossing Iqbal Road, Alina only found solitude in the cadence and mesmerization of music. I had discovered this in her early years, after she was diagnosed with progessive neuro-transmitted disease, a rare mutational illness which arrogated her right to her tongue; she could not fit in amongst the myriad of children, whom she signed 'the different, noisy ones'. Her bubble of existence in the vast world of these 'different' people often terrified her, and we would often have to pick her up early from school, after the repetitive terror attacks, stage fright and tantrums, which only showed accretion as we changed her institutions. Her illness seemed insatiable, it only demanded quietness and peace - perhaps to counter the raging confusion, paranoia and pain which surrounded her cranial synapses. In her mind, music should be everyday; so why not today?
I sigh, and I look back at her. She is still standing at the doorway, signing back the same sentence. Or perhaps I had misjudged... She is actually trying to say, "Music alone?" and I nod, regret clouding over my face. I console myself. Bills have to be paid, after all.
Alina was surely a prodigy. Since the tender age of 7, she had appropriated the large, shiny-black, grand piano which had remained untouched since my own father's time. Her sleek, tender fingers glided over the keys like knife on butter, her petite back hunched over the front, her silky black hair camoflaged with the piano. I often accompanied her on the weekend on her endeavours, keeping up with her frail fingertips. A person would expect her to play sad sonatas, deathly notes, but no; a musical utopia of Beethoven's Minuets, Mozarts' Alla Turca, and whatnot... Meadows of grass were opened in front of my eyes, where the grass blades were the keys, and the princess prancing in them, my daughter's fingers. Alas, Alina was never to exceed the lifespan of these musical greats.
Months later, it is the December of 2015, and I sit beside the hospital bed. Alina's situation had atrophied since a few days, yet she carries my smartphone in her bed, and till the time her eyes remain open, she plays one-tone music. This draws smiles on the nearby patients' faces. Yet, my wife and I know situations would change in an instance. Cognitive dissonance. The doctor tells us she will soon wake up, it is only a temporary coma. I glance at the bed. The prancing of the fingers is replaced with vibrations on the oscilliscope, and her one-tone render of Fur Elise, by the whir of multiple machines attached to her. The pain is too great and I excuse myself. I assure myself, it's alright to cry. January 2016. Alina remains a memory. As I shuffle through pictures of her, desperately clasping on to the fading moments, I come across a note hidden in the photo album. I cry, even more than before, at this new discovery; my daughter had scribbled her first letter, or better yet, first word - the chord A.
CHAPLIN
I glanced at my military-grade watch, and the hands pointed to twenty-two hundred hours. The train slowed down as it approached the curve. Chaplin grunted alongside me. It was time to move. We hoisted our khaki bags, donned black socks over our heads, with slits only for the nostrils and eyes, and flung ourselves out of the cab, landing on hard gravel. I stumbled a bit with the fall, and rolled around on the ground - but was soon picked up by the ever-ready Chaplin, his ardor radiating from his aura.
"You dropped your lucky charm," he murmured through the cloth, as he handed the item which mattered most to me, even more than the mission itself; my yellow rubber duck.
'Chaplin', or less preferably, Ayat Üllah, was perhaps the most bombastic, brazen, boisterous and generally "chill" boy to ever grace Aitchison University. I entered the University as an assiduous student, aiming to ace my four-year academic course, deliberately ignoring Chaplin, who had resided in the dreary habitat of First-Year for a solid nine year streak. I topped all my classes, paving through towards a well-deserved college degree. Ayat Üllah also topped the classes - from the bottom. He intended to set a record for the longest stay in Aitchison University, striving to beat the previous one of Sir Aitchison himself, who had built the honorable institute in Lahore in a time-span of thirty years.
Unlike poles attract. Lesson upon lesson, class after class, and project upon project, led to an unbreakable bond forming between us. The contrast in academics was neutralized in one common interest; pranking. From releasing cats into an allurophobic professor's classroom, to connecting the swimming pool pipes to the ones emerging from the restrooms, we left no stone of tom-foolery unturned. 'Chaplin' weaseled his way out of every sticky situation, and managed to dodge punishment from the stricken administration.
This was to be the biggest prank of the University's history. Chaplin had carefully calibrated the course, thus successfully led us into the campus's premises. Everything was in place; the fireworks just needed some tweaking. I marveled at Chaplin's ingenuity as he fumbled with timers and rockets, on the roof. All was done, thus we took refuge in the art storage room nearby. My heart pumped with adrenaline, as Chaplin held his finger over the trigger...
BOOM!
A firework deviated from its path and headed towards the art room, exploding into some cans of paint. Aesthetically drenched head-to-toe, we knew we were in deep water, thus took the chance and absconded into the darkness.
The next morning, the two of us sat in Head Master Rahim Dilyar's office.
"To begin with, the culprit misspelled my name. I know of only one student capable of such idiocy," he glared at Chaplin, "The police followed the trail of paint to the local circus, thus I narrowed it down, myself, to the two of you, since both of you were out of your dorms at the time. So, tell me honestly; which one of you was it?"
I fidgeted in my seat. The adrenaline seemed more prominent in the heated interrogation than it was in the night before.
"However, we did find one clue," he suddenly added, as he fished something out of his pocket which I dreaded to see; my yellow rubber duck. I could not handle the stress, and was about to speak out, until...
"That's mine!" shouted Chaplin, then he clapped his hands over his mouth as if he had let out a despicable secret. The professor flicked his head like a snake.
Chaplin truly was the greatest actor ever.
I glanced at my military-grade watch, and the hands pointed to twenty-two hundred hours. The train slowed down as it approached the curve. Chaplin grunted alongside me. It was time to move. We hoisted our khaki bags, donned black socks over our heads, with slits only for the nostrils and eyes, and flung ourselves out of the cab, landing on hard gravel. I stumbled a bit with the fall, and rolled around on the ground - but was soon picked up by the ever-ready Chaplin, his ardor radiating from his aura.
"You dropped your lucky charm," he murmured through the cloth, as he handed the item which mattered most to me, even more than the mission itself; my yellow rubber duck.
'Chaplin', or less preferably, Ayat Üllah, was perhaps the most bombastic, brazen, boisterous and generally "chill" boy to ever grace Aitchison University. I entered the University as an assiduous student, aiming to ace my four-year academic course, deliberately ignoring Chaplin, who had resided in the dreary habitat of First-Year for a solid nine year streak. I topped all my classes, paving through towards a well-deserved college degree. Ayat Üllah also topped the classes - from the bottom. He intended to set a record for the longest stay in Aitchison University, striving to beat the previous one of Sir Aitchison himself, who had built the honorable institute in Lahore in a time-span of thirty years.
Unlike poles attract. Lesson upon lesson, class after class, and project upon project, led to an unbreakable bond forming between us. The contrast in academics was neutralized in one common interest; pranking. From releasing cats into an allurophobic professor's classroom, to connecting the swimming pool pipes to the ones emerging from the restrooms, we left no stone of tom-foolery unturned. 'Chaplin' weaseled his way out of every sticky situation, and managed to dodge punishment from the stricken administration.
This was to be the biggest prank of the University's history. Chaplin had carefully calibrated the course, thus successfully led us into the campus's premises. Everything was in place; the fireworks just needed some tweaking. I marveled at Chaplin's ingenuity as he fumbled with timers and rockets, on the roof. All was done, thus we took refuge in the art storage room nearby. My heart pumped with adrenaline, as Chaplin held his finger over the trigger...
BOOM!
A firework deviated from its path and headed towards the art room, exploding into some cans of paint. Aesthetically drenched head-to-toe, we knew we were in deep water, thus took the chance and absconded into the darkness.
The next morning, the two of us sat in Head Master Rahim Dilyar's office.
"To begin with, the culprit misspelled my name. I know of only one student capable of such idiocy," he glared at Chaplin, "The police followed the trail of paint to the local circus, thus I narrowed it down, myself, to the two of you, since both of you were out of your dorms at the time. So, tell me honestly; which one of you was it?"
I fidgeted in my seat. The adrenaline seemed more prominent in the heated interrogation than it was in the night before.
"However, we did find one clue," he suddenly added, as he fished something out of his pocket which I dreaded to see; my yellow rubber duck. I could not handle the stress, and was about to speak out, until...
"That's mine!" shouted Chaplin, then he clapped his hands over his mouth as if he had let out a despicable secret. The professor flicked his head like a snake.
Chaplin truly was the greatest actor ever.
"You dropped your lucky charm," he murmured through the cloth, as he handed the item which mattered most to me, even more than the mission itself; my yellow rubber duck.
'Chaplin', or less preferably, Ayat Üllah, was perhaps the most bombastic, brazen, boisterous and generally "chill" boy to ever grace Aitchison University. I entered the University as an assiduous student, aiming to ace my four-year academic course, deliberately ignoring Chaplin, who had resided in the dreary habitat of First-Year for a solid nine year streak. I topped all my classes, paving through towards a well-deserved college degree. Ayat Üllah also topped the classes - from the bottom. He intended to set a record for the longest stay in Aitchison University, striving to beat the previous one of Sir Aitchison himself, who had built the honorable institute in Lahore in a time-span of thirty years.
Unlike poles attract. Lesson upon lesson, class after class, and project upon project, led to an unbreakable bond forming between us. The contrast in academics was neutralized in one common interest; pranking. From releasing cats into an allurophobic professor's classroom, to connecting the swimming pool pipes to the ones emerging from the restrooms, we left no stone of tom-foolery unturned. 'Chaplin' weaseled his way out of every sticky situation, and managed to dodge punishment from the stricken administration.
This was to be the biggest prank of the University's history. Chaplin had carefully calibrated the course, thus successfully led us into the campus's premises. Everything was in place; the fireworks just needed some tweaking. I marveled at Chaplin's ingenuity as he fumbled with timers and rockets, on the roof. All was done, thus we took refuge in the art storage room nearby. My heart pumped with adrenaline, as Chaplin held his finger over the trigger...
BOOM!
A firework deviated from its path and headed towards the art room, exploding into some cans of paint. Aesthetically drenched head-to-toe, we knew we were in deep water, thus took the chance and absconded into the darkness.
The next morning, the two of us sat in Head Master Rahim Dilyar's office.
"To begin with, the culprit misspelled my name. I know of only one student capable of such idiocy," he glared at Chaplin, "The police followed the trail of paint to the local circus, thus I narrowed it down, myself, to the two of you, since both of you were out of your dorms at the time. So, tell me honestly; which one of you was it?"
I fidgeted in my seat. The adrenaline seemed more prominent in the heated interrogation than it was in the night before.
"However, we did find one clue," he suddenly added, as he fished something out of his pocket which I dreaded to see; my yellow rubber duck. I could not handle the stress, and was about to speak out, until...
"That's mine!" shouted Chaplin, then he clapped his hands over his mouth as if he had let out a despicable secret. The professor flicked his head like a snake.
Chaplin truly was the greatest actor ever.
No comments:
Post a Comment