The Greatest Sin

The work terminal buzzed with a lush blue radiance illuminating the weary contours of his face and portrayed emotions Ahmed felt during the dreary hours in the company of machines.

There is a premonition as Ahmed suddenly stands up and shouts, ‘I shall commit a sin, a sin like no other, a grave sin!’ Repeatedly, over and over, ‘I shall sin! I shall sin!’ again and again until the city’s chaos stops and its members hasten to listen.

‘Yes! A grave sin, a sin of no comparison,’ Ahmed continues amid deep gasps for breath, ‘more horrible than the hegemony of all foreigners since the Aryans, as evil as the sins of the Pharaohs, much worst than the crucifixion, more vile than Yazid’s blasphemous deeds, more despicable than the assassinations after Holy Prophet’s demise, worst than the Mongol slaughter, as heinous as the colonial force in Delhi, worst than the massacres at Stalingrad, Nanking, Srebrenica, Kigali and Fallujah…And my sin shall be remembered, it shall be embodied and studied for generations to come, until mountains turn to cotton and skies boil into the heavens …’
The public ignores him but his cries continue, ‘Beware!’ he shouts again, ‘Beware brothers and sisters! Beware the sinner! For I shall sin, a sin undreamed of, a sin as abominable as suicide!’

People begin to gather around, surprised yet uncertain of how to respond.

A clever cigarette seller mocks, ‘Go ahead then! Commit your sin. What’s the wait?’

His faithful customers smoking in the afternoon heat join in. ‘Let’s see your horrible sin. We can’t wait!’

Ahmed pays them no heed, ‘A grave sin! Beware!’

A group of housewives, some grabbling little children, others clutching full plastic bags walk into the commotion and command to call his superiors immediately.

Ahmed’s coworkers and senior employees of the corporation rush to dissipate the scene but soon become active members of a now well bustling crowd of curious enthusiasts, all awaiting for the next anecdotal event to occur before the situation diminishes.

‘Yes! A sin to be forever mourned! Forever remembered but never understood! A sin like no other!’

The crowd begins to hinder the traffic on the streets and recruits hundreds more when frenzied motorists join them. Policemen, petty office clerks, blue-collar businessmen and women, nurses and teachers, uniformed boys and girls running from school, taxi and rickshaw drivers, tired laborers and the all famous and ever present scum of the city gather around to hear Ahmed’s declamations. The deepest anguish of a common nobody were rarely heard in this city even if it was the highlight of all political festivities and the main program of all national and private media networks. The sorrows and actions of the masses had become a commercialized salable product used selfishly by all concerned individuals and organizations to cash in from the target-market. Here, Ahmed was transgressing a cultural mould, his was a revolutionary cry.

But just as the crowd expects a mounting of Ahmed’s cries, to witness a climax of his collective misery, he suddenly falls quiet. He refuses to budge from the blue terminal and declines to answer any of the harassments from the public.
‘This boy is trying to fool us!’ An old man yells. ‘I think he has already committed a serious crime…’

‘Yes!’ A motorcyclist interrupts, ‘And he’s trying to punish himself by this public...’

‘What a pathetic creature!’ A housewife continues, ‘What do you think he has done?’

One of Ahmed’s coworker answers, ‘He always spoke of the stock market and how to make easy money.’

‘And he also lend money to anyone who asked...’

‘Maybe he does not have any money left…’

‘Or maybe he wanted the money back with interest…’

‘He might have stolen someone else’s cash….’

‘That’s what interested him in stocks, the usury and robbery of the common man...’

‘Yes! That’s what he was crying about.’

And now the radio of the crowd is attuned to a frequency pulsing static, for what had started out as a reasoning discussion to resolve Ahmed’s predicament, quickly reverts into an indistinguishable noise, a senseless brawl of personal notions and social presumptions.

Meanwhile, Ahmed opens a dusty drawer in the terminal.

‘He’s only a pessimist…’

‘No he is a coward…’

‘Yes! He has given up and despairs…’

‘I’m sure he has a heavy debt because of gambling…’

‘We can tell that he peddled drugs and alcohol, look at his
eyes…’

‘No, observe the silence.’

Ahmed has not uttered a single word since his cries had ceased. He stares with big brown eyes at the blue terminal and refrains from performing his daily duties with the machines present in front of him. At random intervals his limbs jerk and swing like broken cords of a tightly wound coil. To a professional eye, the patient sways somewhere between a comatose and a catatonic state, relishing both but accepting neither.

‘See his hands, how they twitch, I think he is involved in the dark arts…’

‘Yes, the practitioners of sihr usually become detached from the real world…’

‘He must be working with the devil…’

‘I think he has killed innocent people…’

‘Did you not hear of those dead children found near the refinery last week?’

‘He must have slaughtered them with his bare hands.’

‘Such a monster!’

‘And what of that gang war near the airport?’

‘Someone set off a fire cracker amidst the madrassah boys, which started the war…’

‘I once heard him say how he hated the gangs…’

‘It must be this sectarian’s work!’

‘Can you see his arrogance?’

‘He pays no attention to this crowd he has created, he’s a selfish…’

The drawer opened by Ahmed contains a small weapon: a gun of no particular value, its original green color stained with black and gray spots. However, the rusted firearm is still functional, able to perform its fatal purpose.

‘Hypocrite! He is a hypocrite! He intended to gather us and
is now making fun of us…’

‘He is definitely an evil member of our society, who lies and cheats and steals without remorse!’

‘I pity his dead brother, who must have no flesh left because of this liar’s backbiting!’

‘His neighbors and family must be so miserable of his…’

‘I think he has abandoned his parents…

‘No, he must have killed them, otherwise they would be here!’

‘Yes! He has buried them alive after severing all relations with his kindred, it is common…’

‘His type are scolded at home for their dirty habits.’

‘I know he was fornicating every week…’

‘I remember him expressing his love for men too!’

‘He always likes to see women in immodest clothes. He hated the shalwar kameez!’

‘I say those in power should take action!’

This last is seconded by the crowd. Policemen inform their superiors and the news reaches influential persons in the government by a stream of cell phones calls.

Mr. Bahadur, the cowardly imbecile elected by someone to manage the affairs of the nation complains bitterly for the interruption of his second evening meal. He jumps up and amongst the careless folds of his shalwar, broadcasts an ultimatum to Ahmed that he must complete his sin judiciously, within the confines of the constitution and must not, at any time today or in the future, join the opposition, protest or blame the government for human fallacies.

A team of cloned lawyers, all adorning trimmed moustaches and crisp three-piece-suits fly to the blue terminal and leave attested court papers for Ahmed to sign and reclaim any responsibility of the government for his actions.
However, since this is a sensitive matter and it relates to the psyche of the boy, the next group is comprised of grand muftis, elegant maulvis and other sparkling waist-coat wearing elders with well combed beards and fresh marble beads in their hands. They enter the terminal, look at Ahmed’s sweating face, his soiled white shirt and smile.

‘Another confused believer.’ They explain. ‘An easy case brothers and sisters. No need to worry.’

The leader of the religious gang smirks and hurriedly begins his interrogation.

Ahmed calmly picks up the gun from the drawer and holds it gently between his hands.

‘My son, what is troubling you? Is it a family problem? Are
you short of money? We have an answer for every problem in the world!’

Ahmed remains emotionless, neglecting the mullah’s inquiries.

‘Now tell me son, what have you done wrong? When did you last bow to the Almighty?’

Ahmed shakes his head negatively, raises the gun and points it in no definite direction.

‘O Allah! He is doing shirk!’ Infuriated and crazed, the maulvi shouts. ‘He is rebelling against the Almighty, he wants us to believe he is god!’

The crowd joins in.

‘Punish him! He is mocking our faith!’ A surge of beastly aggression breaks in the group. The persons nearest to Ahmed pull his shirt, punch and kick his silent body.

‘Look! He says that the salat is stupid! He is slandering saum and the zakat! He’s calling the hajj primitive!’

A riots ensues at the blue terminal. Nearby shops are smashed, offices looted and cars burned. The city scum mug passersby of their valuables. Police are unable to control the enraged masses and participate in the cathartic smashing and burning of the streets they are meant to serve and protect. Immediately, politicians demand extra funds for the protection of the nation’s precious assets. Grandiose residences in the capital and export industries by the coast are barricaded behind steel meshes and golden barbwires, while terrified flora and fauna are reprimanded to never dare approach their vicinity.

Rags’ sticking from his bloodstained body, viciously pounded by the crowd, Ahmed is no better than a condemned prisoner, in line for the death penalty.

‘Apostate! Apostate!’

’Hang him!’

‘Put him against the wall!’

‘Bury him alive!’

‘Sever his head!’

But in this incessant hustle of inhuman noise, quietly, almost mechanically, Ahmed utters, ‘I may be committing a grave sin,’ he positions the barrel of the weapon to his forehead, ‘but you have committed a greater sin’ and pulls the trigger.