LEAVES

The Tree Man: I’m ready to fight against the cutting down of a tree than die for God. Because there is nothing bolder than wisdom and nothing more cowardly than desperation. Nothing bolder than wisdom. Yes. Especially wisdom that makes one seems and sound “weird.”
They say God is the wisest. But why do this God appeal to the most exploitative and the most stupid, and the most sadistic, and the most idiotic, and the shitiest?
No, not always? Sweeping assumption? Bombastic?
Yes. I used that word for a reason. Bombastic. I’m trying to be clever, even though I believe that cleverness has nothing to do with being wise. Because the clever exploit. They exploit the stupid. And the stupid remains stupid because they start enjoying their exploitation. Sometimes they see it as a relegious duty and sometimes as their “right to choose.” Sometimes they see it as God’s will and sometimes as a material necessity. That’s why religion and capitalism are the two most successful ideas and happenings on this planet. Both have clever people at the helm and a multitude of stupidity as followers. The wise is cleverly marginalised. Pronounced and pounded upon as being weird. A threat to “human nature.” Party-poopers.
The Martyr: Nonsense, sir, nonsense! I died for God. I lived for this. Who cares if they only found a few limbs of mine…
The Tree Man: Just a jaw that’s all…
The Martyr: Whatever! A jaw, an eye, an arm, a finger, it just doesn’t matter. They never will find my soul. My soul was always free. The soul is all that matters. The soul that now awaits its due place in God’s paradise. Where is your soul? Sold and resigned to cynicism, pessimism, dialectic materialism and to the tyranny of common bodily functions!
The Tree Man: So I should blow up my body to discover and free my soul? Stop eating, walking, chewing and taking a pee to escape the tyranny of common bodily functions? But wasn’t the body also made and given to you by the God you so much love? And if you want to fuck blow it up then blow the damn thing in your bedroom with no one around. Why blow it up where there are so many others who don’t want to be blown up?
That’s murder. And murder in the name of God makes it even more vicious. It’s psychotic. Unwise. Stupid. That makes you a warped bhanchodh!
The Martyr: Don’t you dare bring my sister in this, you bastard!
The Tree Man: Really? Then what about the dozens you murdered in your quest for paradise? They had sisters too. And mothers. And wives. And look at you now. Just a burnt out jaw!
The Martyr: You have closed your mind and heart. You refuse to listen to God. I am a just a burned jaw to you now. But to God Almighty I am a pure soul. A soul he will place in his glorious garden.
The Tree Man: What about the souls of the people you murdered? Some of them you believed were infidels.
The Martyr: Stupid question. The corrupted souls of the infidels will burn forever in hell. As for those who weren’t infidels are all martyrs like me. I’ve actually done them a divine favor.
The Tree Man: Bullshit! Who the fuck asked YOU to think for them?
The Martyr: God.
The Tree Man: And when did he do that?
The Martyr: Haven’t you ever read the holy book?
The Tree Man: Which one? There are so many.
The Martyr: There is only one, true holy book.
The Tree Man: But that one speaks of two other holy books as well.
The Martyr: All three talk about the same God. And that is the God who has promised me paradise.
The Tree Man: Than that means those fuckers mowing down your brothers and sisters in Iraq shall also land up in heaven? That means the many crusaders are already in paradise?
That means those fuckers firing missiles on Palestinians will also end up in heaven? After all, it’s the same God they are doing this for.
The Martyr: Those fuckers are killing Muslims. They have no place in paradise.
The Tree Man: But all those you killed were Muslims too, asshole!
The Martyr: I have already answered this question. And please don’t bring my ass in all this.
The Tree Man: What ass? It blew up. But I do wonder. Does a soul have an ass? A penis? An urge to fart? A need to fuck?
The Martyr: You fool. You little minded fool. You don’t even know what a soul is like?
The Tree Man: Do you? Where’s your soul now, right at this moment?
The Martyr: Waiting to be ushered into paradise.
The Tree Man: Then what are you now? Who am I talking to?
The Martyr: A part of my body that caged my soul.
The Tree Man: Well, I believe your soul too has similar ideas? Does it?
The Martyr: Of course! I speak for my soul.
The Tree Man: Then tell me, what if your post-blast remains only included your ass instead of the jaw? Then would your ass been speaking for your soul as well? And could one then called it farting?
The Martyr: Trying to be clever and funny? Ha! You’re pathetic! I pity you.
The Tree Man: Told you I hate being clever. Only exploiters are clever. The kind of people who encouraged you to think from your ass. People who sell God the same way they market a new Van Dam action flick. Osama is your Rambo in Eastman Color®.
The Martyr: If only I can make you blow up. You will thank me for it. You still have time. Talk straight, not strange. Believe, believe, and believe. Pukh pukhpata pukh, pukh pukh pukhtoon!
The Tree Man: Excuse me?
The Martyr: That was Pushtu.
The Tree Man: But why the fuck are you speaking in a language I do not understand?
The Martyr: It’s Pushtu. The language of our Afghan brothers.
The Tree Man: What about sohaili? The language of our Somali brothers. Or Bengali? The language of our Bengali brothers. Or…
The Martyr: No! Only Pushtu and Arabic.
The Tree Man: But we are speaking in English at the moment.
The Martyr: English, yes, but only as a necessary evil.
The Tree Man: But why Pushtu? Just because you were trained in Afghanistan? And anyway, Pushtu is not the only language of our “Afghan bothers” … or sisters.
The Martyr: Brothers.
The Tree Man: Why, why only brothers?
The Martyr: Just brothers, brothers, brothers, Pukh pukhpata pukh, pukh pukh pukhtoon!
The Tree Man: Go puckh yourself, asshole!
The Martyr: Oh you aap pukh off!
The Tree Man: This is getting childish. Isn’t it, sister?
The Martyr: Bhanchodh!
The Tree Man: Speaking for your paradise bound soul again?
The Martyr: Keep my soul out of this.
The Tree Man: But you’re the one who keeps talking about it. And why is the soul an “it?”
The Martyr: Stupid questions…
The Tree Man: And God a he?
The Martyr: Stupid question, stupid, stupid, stupid.. Pukh pukhpata pukh, pukh pukh pukhtoon!
The Tree Man: Okay tell me, why is your soul waiting to be put in heaven? Why wasn’t IT put there right away?
The Martyr: You won’t understand. Your heart and mind are closed. You go keelub and play badminton.. you baby, baby let’s dance, .. eating pork..hating Junoon .. alcoholic junkie rock star jeans Elvis Wrangler conspiracy TV cinema Hollywood Bollywood breast watching RAW CIA KGB why hating jihadi damn damn yahoodi long live Madoodi why you not wear shalwar 31/2 inches above your tukhnas its sunnat but what not this that them us and them pir fakir Berelvi shia modern sunni deobandi wahabi sufi and … and … and …
The Tree Man: And?
The Martyr: And atheist, communist, agnostic lover of women, satan, shaitan, al-dajjal, Bundu Khan, vegetarian, meat hater tree lover pot smoker * pant, pant, pant *
The Tree Man: You done?
The Martyr: Oh you done to hell man! Were my bomb, where my bomb? I blow you to kingdom gone!
The Tree Man: Kingdom come, you mean?
The Martyr: Come, yes, come, that is all you interested in you orgasm loving man animal!
The Tree Man: Why, you trying to say you didn’t like a good orgasm when you were alive?
The Martyr: I was a virgin and proud of it. Pure, pure, pure.
The Tree Man: Must have jerked off! Everyone jerks off.
The Martyr: Ye ..ye .. yes I DID, oh Lord forgives me, forgive me, lash me, lash me, bash me, slash me …
The Tree Man: Lash your soul, you mean?
The Martyr: No, no, the soul’s innocent.
The Tree Man: Then why isn’t it still in paradise. And it was an orgasm that made you in your mother’s womb, so relax!
The Martyr: Motherfucker!
The Tree Man: Yup. That would be your father.
The Martyr: I will kill you, mayhem you, mutilate your body, drain your blood and guts and spill them on the hard, dug up dusty roads of Karachi!
The Tree Man: Ah, a jihad against masturbation?
(Silence)
The Tree Man: What happened?
(Silence)
The Tree Man: Hello?
The Martyr: Shit.
The Tree Man: What?
The Martyr: Shit.
The Tree Man: What?
The Martyr: Shit, shit, shit!
The Tree Man: What? What?
The Martyr: My .. my .. my soul wasn’t allowed entry into paradise. As a matter of fact, there was NO paradise.
The Tree Man: And soul?
The Martyr: Will you please pick for me this little piece of meat in this tooth of mine?
The Tree Man: This one here?
The Martyr: Yes. Ah. Thank you. This feels good. Got a smoke?


LAPS

I quite loved her. But not that she did too. Maybe sometimes, but who knows when or why?
So I lit myself a cigarette. I didn’t want to but I had nothing better to do. I inhaled hard. So hard. No I did not cough. Not at all. But I did feel a bit sick. So I threw the cigarette away after about six strong puffs. I don’t hate smoking. However I sometimes do get irritated by people who do. I think she did too. She didn’t like cigarettes. So I asked her why?
“Why?”
“It’s sick!” Said she.
“Have you tried smoking yourself?”
“No. Never. Ugh!”
“Then how can you say it’s sick?”
“Of course it is,” said she, “everybody knows that”
“But not everybody is a non-smoker”
“This is a stupid argument,” said she.
“Oh? Then what else do you want to talk about?” I asked.
“Pringles. Onion flavored.”
“Pringles?”
“Yes. The famous chips brand. Haven’t you ever heard about them?”
“Don’t know. But I think I did try them out once.”
“How did you know they were Pringles?’
I scratched my head. Lit myself another cigarette. And thought hard.
“What’s so special about Pringles?” I asked.
“Get rid of that damn cigarette!” She said, annoyingly.
“They’re Gold Leaf. Rs. 2.50 each. Rs. 37 a pack.”
“So what?” She said. “Pringles are Rs. 120 a pack.”
“Really? What if I asked you to throw away a few?”
“Why would you?”
“And why shouldn’t I?”
“Because they’re Pringles!”
“Okay ... then these are Gold Leaf!”
“But cigarettes are bad for health”
“And Pringles aren’t? In fact what ISN’T bad for health?”
“True love”
It shouldn’t have but somehow it did. Give me a half hardon. And somewhat I told
her so: “Umm ..this is giving me a .. umm .. a ... like ..y’know ... a hard ... on.”
“I usually do give men hardons,” Said she arrogantly and totally unshocked. But
why should she be shocked?
“True love should not give hardons, should it?” I asked.
“And why not?”
“Because there just has to be a difference between love and lust ... isn’t it obvious?”
“A dead cliché” She said.
“Clichés are usually quite true” Said I.
“But they remain clichés”
“Clichés are usually quite true”
“But they remain clichés”
“Clichés are ...”
“SHUT UP!”
“ ... true … usually.”
“What do YOU know? You smoke, you drink, you take drugs!”
“So?”
R 20;What do you mean, so? You don’t even believe in God!”
“So?’
“Y ou’re a hopeless case”
“Maybe I’m just hopelessly in love with you?”
“I don’t believe you”
“Why not?”
“Kiss me.”
I moved my head forward to kiss her on the lips.
“No, not on the lips.” She said. Then putting a finger on one of her breasts (the right one) she whispered:
“Here.”
“Ami hazoor!” I suddenly said. “Is that you?”
“Get away,” she said, pushing me away. “You stink of nicotine!”
“Per Aim hazoor … main aap ka khoon hoon!”
“What are you babbling about? I’m not your mother! Why do you keep calling me
Ami?”
“I’m sorry. Just got carried away. It’s just your boobs … I mean breast.”
“You’re weird.” She said. “You’re making fun of my breasts aren’t you?”
“No, of course not! They’re great. Big, round, firm”
“No they’re not” she said coyly.
“Yes they are,” I said equally coyly.
“No they’re not”
“Yes they are,”
“No they’re not”
“Yes they are,”
“No they’re not”
“Yes they are,”
“No, they’re not”
“Okay, they’re not!”
“What? You pig! You’re so rude!”
“ Let’s kiss,” saying this I started to nibble wildly on and around her breasts as she held my head, pushing my face hard onto her bosom.
“Mumph, ummph, mummph, umph …” I mumphed.
“Wha .. wha .. what are you saying?” She asked. Her eyes now closed and her
breathe heavy.
I pulled my head back: “I said, you smell like popcorn.”
“You pig! You’re so rude!”
“Mom used to smell like popcorn.” I said.
“Why do you keep bringing in your mother?”
“Don’t know,” said I. “Do Pringles make popcorn as well.”
“No, they don’t. I hate popcorn!”
“Then why do you smell like popcorn?”
“I don’t! It’s Hash!”
“Hash??”
“Yes. The perfume brand I use.”
“Hash?”
“Yes, Hash.”
“Hash? As in H.A.S.H?”
“Yes, hash. Are you deaf?”
“Have you ever smoked any hash?” I asked.
“Hash, as in cannabis?”
“As in yes.”
“No! Never! Drugs are shit!”
“How can you say anything about something you haven’t even tried?”
“Listen druggie boy, don’t try to make me like yourself!”
“But I love you”
“You don’t need a lover, you need a mother.”
“Well, at the moment what I need is a great FUCK!”
“Gross. You’re such a one-dimensional male. I’m disappointed.”
“Okay, how about some popcorn then?”
“I hate popcorn. Don’t mind Pringles, though.”
“Gross. You’re such a one-dimensional woman. I’m turned on!”
“Piss off! Use your mind instead of your dick for a change.”
“Piss off! Have some popcorn instead of Pringles, instead.”
“You’re hopeless!”
“But I’m in love with you.” Hopelessly.”
“You’re just in love with yourself!”
“ Yes, and that too.”
“Piss off!”
“Per Aim hazoor … main aap ka khoon hoon!”
“Ami can fuck off! You can fuck off! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”
She started to shake and weep.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Forgive me. I’m just too much in love with
you.”
She stopped weeping, putting her head on my shoulder (left one).
“Waisay” Said I, “I noticed your boobs weren’t shaking much while you were
weeping. Kyoon?”
“You’re hopeless. Just like HIM!” She said, angrily.
“Like whom?” I asked.
“Him!”
“Whom?”
“My dad.”