03/08/2014 by Siddiqui Fayesal
What was that thing that he had forgotten about that girl? He kept asking himself the question, again and again, all the way till he crossed the smooth river. The answer was sitting in his throat (some might use the noun ‘tongue’, but he didn’t like ‘tongue’ as much as he liked ‘throat’) but refused to travel up the throat, across his tongue (here he didn’t mind the usage. Nobody bothered to ask why) and into the dense puff of air that he exhaled 30 times every minute. That was an average of 1 puff every 2 seconds.
How absurd, some might say.
That meant that if the answer was really sitting in his throat it would have been out in the first 6 seconds AFTER he asked himself the question the very first time. It took 5 seconds to ask the question. His thought traveled at a speed of around 1 average thought every 1 seconds; average being something that could be spoken out after a second that his thought lasted in his head. So, he spoke the question, which lasted 5 seconds; the thought (it was of an average length) was inside for the next second and it should’ve, should have, been out with the puff of exhaled air in the 7th second.
There were too many assumptions into the validity of this exercise and he could rebut every argument.
At the rate of 1 annihilation per half a minute.
Even he was stupified with the absurdity of the speed!
But he was worried now, so he didn’t start on that trajectory yet. He was worrying about the answer that wasn’t in his throat. He had seen something wrong with the girl’s papers. It should’ve hit him immediately (at the aforementioned speed) but it hadn’t. She was holding the dead rattle snake by the tail and was swinging it in anti-clockwise arcs through the air. The snake was making the usual sound that a dead snake might make when swirled in an anti-clockwise direction. She was smiling suggestively and was walking with a provocative gait towards him. At least he thought it was him. The dream wasn’t very clear about that one thing. But since no one had ever walked like that towards him he thought it best not go on that trajectory yet.
All the time she walked, he was busy staring at the papers. He didn’t care then about her gait. He cared only in hindsight. The papers were obviously botched up to the degree that a 2 year prison sentence was assured. Perhaps that’s why she was using her femininity.
How absurd, he thought. Never had he a thing for a girl with a sensual gait. He only had a thing for a raspy voice and twice baked potatoes. But, he acquiesced, that it would be unfair to judge her for not having those on her person.
He was just thinking of twice baked potatoes when he rammed into a truck from the opposite end. He hadn’t realised that he had crossed over and was riding on a one way street. He didn’t die immediately.
He lay there breathing heavily and cursing the truck driver for having painted his fenders a violent shade of purple. “What an arse!” he exclaimed. Then he got up and walked a distance and fell in a heap.
It is a fine thing to have ability, but the ability to discover ability in others is the true test.
The above quote has nothing to do with the write up. As a matter of fact I wrote the story with the quote in mind but half way through I quite forgot about it. With the nuances and subtleties of language and the peculiarity of the value addition by metaphors, I am hoping that in some universe there will be a connection between the story and the quote. Until I find that out keep in mind that it is a fine thing to have ability, but the ability to discover ability in others is the true test.