You are a fool not to want it!

She knew that all she wanted was to be a musician.

Her heart had known her love for strings since she was twenty five. It was not a young heart, and it had taken numerous long troubled voyages to strange distant lands to discover that its true happiness lay in the confines of a box of piano and in the echoes of its own voice. It had not been a simple journey with simple fellows. On the contrary, it had been a path full of thorns that after years of searching had accidentally crossed over the golden land of roses.

Her heart kept shouting to her, day and night, begging to believe. It played tricks on the mind and forced her sleep out of the window. It jumped a hundred skies on the sound of a note and cried a million oceans on its absence. It went as far as conspiring with the universe to make her fall in love with the pianoman at the bar.

A love that was conspired was not to live long. It died as soon as it went outside the bar. It was love for music mistaken for the love for the man. She knew it from the start but still chose to blame it on his lack of sense of humor. She, afterall, had to have some explanation for her folks, whom she met every day at the church.

Her lies to the world and to herself grew bigger as she grew older.She alienated her inner voice to make friends with the world. She played with the kids and danced in the rain.She laughed with the crowd and talked with the masses. She was a dear friend to most and was known to be a perfectly normal human being.

One day a diamond merchant came to town. Besotted by her long fingers and deep voice, he asked her to marry him. Folks at the church congratulated her for being the luckiest girl in the world. Her heart revolted and vomited inside her. It cried and cried and cried to stop her.But she knew that any girl in town would trade places with her and that she should feel blessed for a diamond chance like this one. Her heart sank and sealed its voice forever.

And she lived a life of sadness ever after.

Summer shoes

I plead you to help me

those feet on the ground

you brought me in a new world

now incubate me till I survive 

 

Racing alongside the river

frozen, still, lacking in life

did you notice how I shiver

cold to the insides, to the skin of your sole

 

My only companions

those dead blades from the fall

green and red and violet and yellow

all color but no warmth

 

Indoors on the rack

nearby the fireplace

dancing with the sandals

is my place my friend  

 

On the sale of boxing

heal yourself with a boot

tall like the tree of pine 

shred the snow in style

 

or dress me in a sock or two

 bring those mysterious red ones

from the famous old man of this world

and ask for the wish of summer 

 

My winter

Christmas carols begin to choreograph
As the bridges over london thunder
The stars stay out longer
And the trees with naked arms baring
Hail the song of winter

I stand here, outside on the porch
Thinking about my winter
All this while when you were away
My darling across the river

Oh when I see you my sweetheart
The bridges will be shorter
The stars will be forgotten
And the grass will be greener

And when Christmas delivers
Its final concert
We will sing songs of summer
Cuddled up in Edinburgh
Lap dancing in a corner

The Veil of Maldivian Wives

“Do you want a man?”, she had asked quite matter-of-factly.

Tatianna and Shreya  had accidentally run into this ‘unorthodox’ Maldivian woman on their benign swimming trip to the island of Villingili. Never had it occurred to them that behind that conservative veil, which revealed nothing more than the-eyes-so-devoted and the-red painted-toenails-so-pedicured, was hidden a world so queer.

The encounter with a four year old falling from a swing while her mother was carelessly wandering around should have acted as a sufficient hint that she was not a woman to be trusted. How could they have been possibly led into a shoddy hotel room by a stranger? What were they thinking when they accepted her offer to use her place to change after a swim at the beach?

She sat by the window staring outside at nothing in particular. Her dark lips held the cigarette with an air of control uncommon to submissive housewives and warm-hearted mothers. Her veil was now lying crumpled on the floor and her new avatar was a modern woman in jeans and t-shirt, with long curly hair reaching up to her waist.

She started with “do you drink/smoke?” Tatianna knew not all was right with this woman, and wanted to digress the conversation, however, Shreya quickly answered, “we drink, but no smoking.” The woman scoffed at her, “Well then, I can arrange alcohol for you, its fairly easy in Male’. I do it all the time with my friends when my husband travels for work. He is okay with my smoking, but he goes crazy with the thought of my drinking alongside my male friends. My first husband was much better at these things, but this guy is so stuck-up. I should have never re-married. The last one used to take me out all the time, this one just wants to keep me locked up inside.”

She followed it up with. “Do you have a boyfriend?” Subsequent to a few minutes silence, she went on, “did you ever have a boyfriend?” Now this was going too far. Both Shreya and Tatianna exchanged tensed glances and started packing their snorkeling gear in the rucksack. “What are you doing in Maldives all alone? Now listen, I have a friend here who is very popular among foreigners . You will just adore him. He will not charge much and give you a great time.”

The woman had locked the room from inside. Shreya peeked through the window behind her and saw two tall dark Maldivian men looking up at them. The woman’s son was crying loudly outside in the verandah adding to the tension in the atmosphere. Tatianna couldn’t help thinking about the gigolos in Moscow, and Shreya recalled the various stories of sexual harassment that she had read were commonplace in Maldives.

They were about to shriek when suddenly the woman bent down next to them to pick her veil. She put it on quickly and opened the door. Showing them the way outside, she said, “I come to  Villingili every weekend because my husband has no time for me. You call me whenever you wish to come here and I will make very nice arrangements for you.”

Shreya, the innocent one, ran downstairs holding the rucksack tightly to her chest and Tatianna followed behind. The next time they caught their breath was when they were in the ferry on their way back to Male’.

Sitting next to them was a Maldivian woman, covered top-to-bottom in a veil. All they could see were her red-painted-hand-nails playing restlessly with a stylish i-pod.

Just Around the Corner

The strumming of the guitar brought back memories of her younger years when she had been crazy about rock and roll.

As she drew near the corner of the main street that turned towards her new apartment, she spotted a group of young Maldivian men jamming together. They wore long and curly black hair, which, she thought, were a metaphor for the wild spirit of the city itself.

She said to her colleague, “These brilliant hair of Maldivians reflect the mood of the young. I have seen them on various occasions – tied up meekly in pony tails at offices, hiding away faces in political parades, swaying with the wind on motorbikes,  and rolling in circles during rock concerts”. Her colleague replied, “The hair is just the beginning of the dream of these young musicians as they go on to become the next Jimi Hendrix and Robert Plant. Most end up wasting their lives playing on the street and few lucky ones get signed up by resorts for live shows.”

Everyday on her way back from work, she stopped by just around the corner of the street to hear the young Maldivians sing. Standing in the solitary corner, she enjoyed listening to the beautiful songs. On a backdrop of the ocean, the red-brick street for the stage, it looked like a picture out of  some music magazine.

The band soon started recognizing her- the Indian girl who stopped by everyday to hear them play. No words were exchanged. Only little smiles here and there. It was a special relationship – she was their one audience and they were her silent music companions.

With the arrival of May, the weather got stormy and the winds grew stronger. She had not been feeling particularly well on one day and decided to come back from work earlier than usual. Picking her medicines from a nearby store, she rushed back longing to be inside the dry interiors of her house.  Quickly crossing the street, she avoided meeting eyes with the band members. However, the thought of bypassing them did not feel right to her and she looked back at them and waved.

She began to tread faster towards her building. In almost an instant as if they sensed her uncertainty, the Maldivian strings that she had begun to recognize were overtaken by a popular English number. They had switched to playing Eric Clapton, “laylaaa….got me on my knees layla”. She looked back and smiled at them. They waved in return. “What better medicine than this”, she thought to herself and decided to stay for a few more songs.

They continued playing rock and roll the entire evening. She wanted to believe that they were playing for her. Few foreigners touring the city stopped by and called upon the band members to enquire about their names and whereabouts. “Metamorphosis”, she heard, was what they called themselves.

Tombstone of the Sultan

The celebrations were grand.

Magnificent African elephants with tusks of gold and robes of red satin marched forth on the brick-laden streets of the King’s island. Tamed crocodiles, smuggled especially from Thailand, crawled behind in a sequence choreographed exclusively by the Italian ballerinas. The Sultan, the man of the moment, entered with his torso submerged in water and resting on a gigantic blue whale. Following him were his numerous wives, each riding on a dolphin that matched her size. The kindom’s navy marched at last, loaded with wooden models of the naval ships that had marked the pride of the Kingdom of Maldives for centuries.

The atmosphere was heavenly with fireworks in the sky and music from the drums and trumpets enlivening the air. The crowd watched in awe. The Sultan was their awaited king after centuries of colonialism of the Kingdom by the Portuguese, Dutch and Britishers. After waiting over a hundreds years had arrived a Sultan whom the Maldivians could call their own.

The Sultan was not the one who lusted power but one who shared the hopes and dreams of his Kingdom. He stood for his principles and ideals, and was determined to build a model Nation. He built roads, hospitals, houses and schools, he initiated trade and industry, and he granted freedom and liberty.

The Britishers, however, had cleverly left a legacy behind that the Sultan was too late to recognize. The youth in his Nation were smitten by smoke and drugs, and instead of sharing the burden of building a home, were wasting themselves away in hideous hideouts which were popularly called as ‘cafes’.

Sultan swored to himself that he will end the culture prevelant in the cafes and save the youth of his Nation. The very next day, he ordered a raid of the hideouts and issued arrest warrants to their perpetrators. He urged the artists of his country to paint the city with illustrations of the harmful impact of drugs and to fill the air with songs of love for family. When the youth refused to yield to his efforts, he in his obsession and naivety went as far as ordering a complete ban on smoking in his kingdom.

A single unpopular step by the Sultan in a free nation caused more angst than years of killings and stamping by the colonialists. The Sultan had not expected that one banal step will have it coming for him.

The youth went berserk and organized mass revolts and turned into smugglers. There were gang wars and robberies. On the day of Sultan’s monthly discourse, more than fifteen bullets from different directions hit him from the crowd before he had even completed his first sentence. And there were many waiting to shoot him down in his subsequent speech. It was a mass murder of one person. It felt almost like a revolution, stronger than the struggle for freedom.

The king with the good intentions could not win the hearts of the addicted youth. It could have taken many kings to eradicate drugs from Maldives, if only they had dared. Ofcourse, no one ever did.

The Sultan’s body was taken to be buried in a nearby island. It had not been a long time since the procession of the sworing-in ceremony. Elephants and corocodiles and whales and dolphins – everyone appeared to pay their last dues at the funeral. 

The tombstone of the Sultan still resides beside a popular resort today. Tourists to this resort often complain about a mysterious disappearance of their cigarattes and lighters. Apparently, the Sultan’s soul is still not at peace.

Waiting for the Fish

Once upon a time there lived a six year old Maldivian boy known as Iqbal. Born to a fisherman father and a religious mother, he had grown up learning the virtues of hardwork and discipline.

After Iqbal had learnt the postures and prayers of the namaz, his father took him to the sea to teach him the art of fishing. Soon Iqbal learnt to lift the net up in the air, give it a long circular swirl over his head, and spread it into the ocean. Days went by after which one day his father said,”dear son Iqbal, the most difficult thing in fishing is not lifting, swirling or spreading the net to catch the fish, but it is the activity of resting and waiting for the fish to cross your way. The patience to sit-back while the fish surrenders itself to you, and to live each day joyously with what Allah has bestowed to come your way are the biggest virtues of a great fisherman.” Iqbal did not understand what could be so difficult about sitting and waiting for his prey. Still he said to his father, “Abbu, I will pray to Allah to bless me with the virtue to wait patiently for the fish.” His father said, “Amen, my son”.

In a few years, Iqbal matured into a very patient man - the calmness on his face coinciding with the depth of the ocean where he went everyday to help his father. In his daily school he learnt the daily school subjects, and by working hard as he always did, he got employed in one of the most respected and well-paid vocations in the country – a junior manager at the airport company. The fisherman father and religious mother were both very proud of Iqbal. His quiet charm won him trust and love from all around him and he won many friends and no enemies.

All was well until one day the Indians came home. The authority privatized the airport and Iqbal’s first official feedback described him as, “quiet, shy, recluse and unfit for the role of a manager’. Iqbal gradually realized that his eight hour work day was insufficient and he was now required to ‘hang-out’ till the Indians chose to go back home. Indians had mastered the ‘growth’ mantra, and were now setting ‘goals’ and ‘targets’ for him.

The hard working man that poor Iqbal was, he soon learnt the new lessons of the airport company. His life that once followed a discipline now followed the targets. He was no longer required to wait for his share of fish in the vast ocean, but to catch a large fish in a territory defined by the expert Indians in a defined span of time.

Iqbal stopped going to the ocean with his father. He had no time for unproductive activities and instead engrossed himself to chase the airport company’s targets. Competition and indiscipline overtook the calm in his life and he got rewarded as a true employee of  the airport company.

The Indians did not fail to recognize his sacrifice and rewarded him with ‘seniority’ and ‘perks’, which he traded joyously for ‘the few hours spent with his family’.

And life went on as if nothing ever happened.