The old man’s dragon-shaped pipe held a secret about why diamonds only appear in frozen lava - a story about the two last dragons on earth.
A haunting mythological tale told by a mysterious old man smoking a dragon-shaped pipe, revealing the origin of diamonds in frozen lava. The story follows Agonious, a powerful but lonely dragon who discovers he’s not the last of his kind - somewhere across seven seas lives Miria, a golden dragoness equally isolated in her suffering.
‘God is sad, my son! And He has created a world in His very image. It is a sad, sad world.’ The old man said, while slowly opening his eyes. His blue-grey eyes looked at me with an amused curiosity.
‘And why is God sad?’ I had failed to grasp the image of a sad omnipotent being.
‘Why is God sad?’ The old man repeated my question, sounding perplexed.
‘Well, He is the only powerful being. The only one who deserves to be proud and arrogant. The only being which can create, and which can destroy.’ He answered slowly and deliberately.
‘Well, that should make Him happy. Don’t you agree?’ I questioned the blue-grey mist of his deep eyes.
‘Hmm! You are forgetting something, my son.’ The old man said with a smile. ‘God is lonely. Despite all the power and all the might, He is lonely. No one to talk to and no one to share his laughter with. His is the eternal loneliness and the never-ending sadness.’
When I remained quiet, he placed his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Remember, son, the more powerful you grow, the lonelier you become. Loneliness is the price you pay for power.’
I saw the white smoke rings billowing out of the old man’s nose and mouth. They floated up and drifted outside the cave. Then they rose until they joined the white, billowing summer clouds scattered across the blue sky.
I looked at him closely. He had a head full of silvery hair, which fell in cascades over his bent shoulders. His complexion was fair, and a broad forehead topped a square and intricately lined face. The eyes were deep and rarely opened to their actual width. In fact, I always saw them as amused slits, bordered by an ever-spreading network of fine lines. An almost deformed, wide nose sat in the exact centre of the face and was underlined by heavy, sensual lips. He was a wise man indeed, but unlike all the wise men I had ever come across, he did not have a beard.
There were other odd dissimilarities, too. There was a silver earring dangling from one of his earlobes. He wore a velvety, maroon-colored robe, bedecked with golden dragons. The dragons were surrounded by forgotten scripts and ancient symbols, and yes, he smoked a most wonderful pipe.
The pipe, gripped in his yellowing teeth and dangling out of the corner of his mouth, fascinated me the most. It was most probably carved out of some ancient mahogany root and was lovingly polished and curiously shaped like a dragon. The dragon’s mouth opened up wide to form the bowl, while the tail ended up between the old man’s lips. The exquisitely designed and gold, metallic work defined the scales on the dragon’s body.
‘It was once called Agonious, the Fire-starter, the last of all the majestic dragons.’ The old man said, noticing my interest in his pipe.
‘I have never heard of him.’ I expressed my ignorance.
‘That is indeed understandable.’ He nodded his head. ‘But surely, you have heard of diamonds in the frozen lava pits?’
‘No.’ I again shook my head.
‘Do you know why diamonds are only found in the old and frozen lava pits?’ He asked again, refusing to get irritated with my ignorance.
‘No, I don’t. I never knew diamonds were only found in old and frozen lava pits.’ I answered while peering beyond the fragrant smoke, into his misty eyes.
‘Then let me tell you the story of Agonious and Miria. Agonious was a big and powerful dragon. He could throw fire over tens and hundreds of feet. When he flew, the earth darkened under the spread of his dark, majestic wings. He was so powerful that none of the dragon slayers could kill him. They came from all over the world, desperate to claim the head of Agonious. They fought well, but Agonious was too powerful and too big to be defeated by their inflated egos.’
‘Agonious could kill them from afar, but he knew the human thirst for self-respect. He gave them a good fight. He even tolerated a few sword wounds — mere pin pricks to him but enough to quench the blood lust of the dragon slayers. Agonious had a heart made of pure fire, but it was a magnanimous heart. He therefore never killed any of the dragon slayers and instead, let them leave in peace.’
The old man stopped to refill the pipe. He picked up an old leather pouch, embroidered with gold. Loosening the binding string, he started filling up his pipe one pinch at a time. I loved the smell of his tobacco. The warm fragrance turned the cave into a cocoon — a womb of safety. It took me back to times when I thought I was happy.
‘A magnanimous dragon that let his enemies leave in peace?’ I smiled at the old man. ‘I am a fan of dragon lore myself, but I have never come across the myth of a kind dragon.’
‘You haven’t? Eh?’ the old man chuckled softly, his tobacco ritual completed.
‘Agonious was really a kind dragon. He never hurt the villagers and, sometimes, brought them gifts of wild goats and fruit. He also helped them mow the hard land. He built dams for the poor and lit their fires on cold winter nights.
His kindness made him popular. Children called him Papa Agonious, and the villagers called him Agonious, the Kind. But despite all the popularity and love, Agonious was a very sad dragon. Can you guess why?’ The old man peered at me inquisitively.
‘Yes!’ By then, I had become quite familiar with the old man’s line of thought. ‘He was sad because he was lonely.’
‘Aha!’ The old man flashed a satisfied smile. ‘Exactly!’
‘Despite all his power and all his might, Agonious was lonely. He believed he was the last of his kind, swimming across the river of sadness, which we call life. Until one day, a sparrow told him of Miria. She was a beautiful golden dragoness, living across the seven seas. She had wings made of silver and had the most wonderful grey eyes. When she spat flames, they were the loveliest shade of emerald.’
‘But like Agoneous, Miria was sad too. She was sad because she thought she was the last of all dragons.’
‘Hearing of Miria, Agonious laughed and danced and wept with joy. He begged the sparrow to make haste, fly to Miria, and tell her of Agonious’ existence.’
‘Soon after the sparrow left, Agonious collected the most precious of gems and the most brilliant of diamonds in all the land. He begged leave of all the villagers and the children. They all cried and requested him not to leave. But loneliness is a more powerful drive than kindness. So one day, when all preparations were in place, Agonious spread his powerful wings and left for Miria’s land.’
With these words, the old man fell into a deep reverie.
‘The sparrow never reached Miria. Wasn’t it so?’ I asked the old man hesitatingly. I knew his stories always had a dark ending.
‘Yes,’ the old man slowly raised his head. ‘The sparrow couldn’t make it. She was killed by an arrow and was slowly roasted over a hunter’s fire. But Agonious did not know that and kept on flying east — towards Miria and a lifetime of happiness.’
‘The sun dipped beyond the horizon and rose again many times in a row. But Agonious did not stop. His large dark wings kept beating the wind hard.
The moon observed the flight of this dark knight on a love quest, and shone more brightly to facilitate his passage.
The eastern wind sensed the anxiousness of the Agonious’ lonely heart and changed its direction to give a boost to the flying dragon.
The ancient dragon spirits made the stars and the constellations twinkle more brightly to guide the weary dragon.
But Agonious was oblivious to all help. The load of diamonds he carried for Miria was heavy, but he just flew on and on towards his destiny.’
‘One day, when the morning sun rose, Agonious could see land in the far distance. His heart trembling with excitement, Agonious flew all over the land and looked for Miria. He searched in the mountain caves and he searched in the forest glens. He searched the blistering hot deserts, and he searched the snowy mountain peaks. But he couldn’t find Miria.’
‘Everywhere, people talked of a beautiful dragoness with silver wings. All the birds whispered of her mysterious beauty. But Agonious couldn’t find Miria, no matter how hard he tried.’ The old man fell quiet again and got up to prod the dying embers.
I looked out of the cave. The sun was going down. Suddenly, a shadow flitted across the pale sunlit sky.
‘Agoneous?’ I suddenly jerked my head and then smiled at my own stupidity. It was just a wandering cloud. The old man was weaving a wonderful tale, and I was beginning to fall under its spell.
‘What happened then? Where was Miria?’ I couldn’t stay quiet for long.
‘Hmm! Where was Miria? That is indeed an important question.’ The old man smiled at my impatience.
‘This is the question that the dragon asked everybody, but was unable to find the answer. But then one day, he came across a unicorn drinking from a crystal-clear stream. Now unicorns and dragons are close. They both share a common ancestry — the ancestry of myth and magic.’
‘O! the noblest of all creatures, please help me, for I am weary in my quest.’ Agonious begged the unicorn.
‘You are looking for Miria. Aren’t you?’ The unicorn slowly raised its graceful head and asked him.
‘Yes…yes….Miria. I am looking for Miria. I have flown for months to reach her, but now that I am here, she is nowhere to be found.’ Agonious answered while anxiously rubbing his veiny wings together.
The unicorn grew sad and bent its noble head in silence.
‘Why don’t you say something? Why don’t you tell me? Where is Miria?’ Agonious asked furiously.
‘Come, follow me.’ The unicorn guided Agonious towards a long, winding path climbing up the mountains. They climbed on for hours and finally reached the rim of a smoking volcano.
‘What is this? Where is Miria?’ Agonious looked around.
‘Miria is dead.’ The unicorn told him sadly. ‘She grew tired of her eternal loneliness. She was heartbroken. So one day she just flew up, kissed the clouds for the last time and then dived into this volcano.’
‘No!’ Agonious cried in anguish and disbelief. ‘But, I sent the sparrow to tell her I was coming.’ The unicorn just shook his head in sadness and walked away. Agonious kept on peering inside the volcano, looking for Miria. Then he flew up, kissed the clouds one last time, and dived into the volcano along with the treasure he carried for Miria. The lava burnt him to ashes in seconds and engulfed his treasure. Since that day, whenever the volcano gets frustrated and spews out lava and ash, it rains diamonds.’
They fled Taliban Afghanistan for American freedom, but extremism followed through their son, who murdered his sister for ‘honor’ until his other sister taught him that honor cuts both ways.
A devastating narrative set in California about an Afghan refugee family torn apart by conflicting concepts of honor.
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Dawood’s home was a place of sorrow.
He was an old man, sitting on a couch in his living room. Deep lines of experience mapped his sun-beaten, brown, and haggard face. He had thick, grey hair cascading down on his shoulders, and his blue-grey eyes were clouded with age. But right then, his eyes could be seen brimming with confused tears, which were visible behind thick, pebbled glasses.
The room was wrapped in a thick blanket of dark gloom. The red and black, striped curtain covering the window, was drawn aside, letting some California sun in. But the dull rays of the early evening sun failed to lift off the gloom.
A few mediocre, monochrome photographs could be observed hung neatly on the pale walls. On closer scrutiny, most of the prints could be identified as from some mountainous Asian country, most probably the border regions of either Iran or Afghanistan.
Most of the photos showed tribesmen in baggy clothes, with automatic weapons held triumphantly across their chests, and heavy belts of ammunition hanging from their shoulders. Some stood in groups in front of burnt tanks, while the others stood either alone or in pairs. But the eyes of all subjects could be seen marked with a silently burning ferocity.
There were two floor lamps, one in each corner of the room. They were alight and throwing intersecting circles of light. The door to the small kitchen was half open, and the counter was visible. The ceiling fan was rotating slowly, throwing shadows across the ceiling.
A large LCD was nestled within the center of a large book cabinet. It was surrounded by thick, leather-bound volumes with their titles mostly in Persian or Arabic.
The floor was made of dark wood, polished and buffed to perfection, and a large, cream-colored, Persian rug marked its exact center. It was originally woven in beautiful, lustrous colors, but was now slowly darkening and caked with drying blood.
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There were two bodies on the floor, of a young man and a woman. They were in their early and late twenties, respectively. The girl was sprawled on her right side with dirty blond hair covering her face. Her wound was not visible, but blood soaked the rug under her stomach. She was dressed in a half-cut, white tank top and faded blue jeans. There was a black high-heeled shoe on her right foot, while the left was bare.
The boy was dressed in dark trousers and a blue shirt and was lying face down. A white skull cap half-covered his head, and was partially dyed with blood. His shoulder-length dark brown hair was also drenched in blood, and a gaping wound was visible right above his neck.
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Dawood turned his face and looked at Marjan. She was a beautiful and delicately built girl with dark eyes and dark hair, and was in her early twenties. Her face was passive, while she sat with her tightly clasped hands in her lap, and blankly stared at an invisible spot in the air. A blue-black and gleaming pistol could be seen nestled against her thigh. But she didn’t look like a murderer.
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There was a small ornamental table placed alongside the sofa. It was dark mahogany in color with intricate golden patterns. Dawood absentmindedly toyed with the few small picture frames placed on the table. He picked one at random and looked at it closely. The complete family was there - happy and smiling. Dawood, Guljaan, Parizeh, and Salman, with a young Marjaan smiling in the middle.
Dawood delicately caressed the image of his long-dead wife with his thumb, trying to extract some warmth and reassurance. He looked at the frozen faces of Parizeh and Salman, both in their teens and standing on each side of their parents, their eyes filled with mischief and fun. Dawood looked at their bodies on the floor, lifeless and ugly in death. Parizeh seemed to be sleeping calmly with one hand folded under the cheek, and the other spread outwards. Salman had both his arms spread outwards like he was diving down from a great height.
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Dawood picked up another frame and thought of a day in the distant past. It was Kabul, and the white pomegranate flowers were in full bloom. He was dressed in black and looked handsome in an embroidered black cap. Guljaan looked like a princess in a flowing, white dress. They were happy to be in love and lived in a small cottage on a hillock, on the outskirts of Kabul. Kabul was just a ghost of its former grandeur, but still beautiful after the Russians had left. Life seemed like a never-ending fairy story.
Soon after marriage, the young couple was gifted with children each year. First, Salman was born, and then Parizeh. Dawood and Guljaan looked at the two smiling angels and thanked God. Their lives were perfect.
Then their small piece of heaven turned into hell, and the pomegranate flowers went red with blood. The Taliban rose to power in Afghanistan, and all hell broke loose.
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Dawood was a prime target for the Taliban because of his moderate and liberal views. He did not want religion to further complicate the lives of the poor Afghans. He just wanted love, understanding, and tolerance. When the Taliban destroyed the Buddha statues in Bamiyan, Dawood vented his anger in full force. It was the wrong move, and the Taliban acted swiftly. With ten, publicly delivered lashes, Dawood went one step closer to realization.
The second blow came when the Taliban caught Guljaan walking in the bazaar without pardah. She also received ten lashes in the city square.
Dawood and Guljaan purchased truth at the price of twenty lashes. The truth was that Afghanistan was no more a place to live. It had turned into hell, and especially Kabul had truly become the city of Kane. The Taliban had brought religion and expelled God.
It took the last of Dawood’s considerable savings to get him and Guljaan out of the war-torn Afghanistan. They reached a refugee camp in Pakistan, and then Dawood used his contacts to immigrate to the USA - the land of dreams and opportunities, and a land far away from extremism and intolerance. It was a land where they could finally be free of oppression and the enforcement of a violent brand of their once peaceful religion.
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Dawood looked down at Salman’s body. He thought it strange how his son grew up to be his exact opposite. He was a decent kid and a teenager - a lively boy with a healthy interest in girls and sports. But then he fell under the spell of Laiba, a Moroccan girl with extremist beliefs.
Dawood always knew that Laiba was not the kind who married men and made their lives happier. Laiba was deranged and psychologically unstable. She had love in her heart, no doubt, but that love was for a God, terrible in His fury and anger. Laiba was not a lover. She was a recruiter, and she recruited Salman.
When Salman joined forces with religion, he lost his happiness and interest in all worldly things and activities. The country that had given him freedom and refuge and opportunities, became to him the country of heathens.
Salman became everything Dawood had ever stood against. When Laiba finally left for Afghanistan, Salman wanted to follow. It took the last ounces of strength in Guljaan to stop him. She was already sick - cancer was wreaking havoc through her body. Seeing his mother in pain, Salman did not leave.
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Parizeh was the exact opposite of Salman. She was shy and reserved as a child. But she grew into a fierce and independent girl. She had no interest in religion, and specifically its extremist version. She laughed at Salman when he grew a beard and laughed even more when he chose to wear a white skull cap at all times.
She deliberately brought her male friends home just to infuriate her brother. There were embarrassing incidents. Salman could not control his anger. It was a matter of male Muslim honor for him. He fought Parizeh every step of the way. Their relationship was characterized by black seething hatred.
Personality-wise, Marjaan was a moderate and reasonable girl. She was independent like Parizeh, but lacked her abnormal interest in sensual pleasure. She had an interest in religion like Salman, but lacked his passion for extremism. She believed in a religion of peace, love, and understanding. She viewed religion as an individual choice and not as an instrument of subjugation. Her approach brought her closer to Dawood. She was his prized child.
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Then one day Guljaan died - a silent end to her long suffering. Cancer took her away. But Dawood knew it was not cancer. It was her constant longing for the white pomegranate flowers and home, which finally killed her.
Following her death, the household disintegrated. Guljaan was the force holding the fabric of sanity together. She exercised a moderating influence upon both Salman and Parizeh and was the bonding agent between the two formidable forces. When she died, the bonding force departed with her. Dawood could only sit and watch while the world that he loved disintegrated into chaos and hatred.
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Dawood again looked at Marjaan. She had come a long way and was no longer the smiling child in the picture. She had grown into a young woman, and her cold, impassive face did not betray the calamity of the moment. It was the day when Dawood’s family ended up being a family.
Dawood looked at Marjaan and then at the two dead bodies, trying to make sense of what had happened. He remembered Salman coming home in a fury and confronting Parizeh.
‘You are a complete disgrace to this family. You have brought shame upon us.’ Salman shouted at Parizeh.
‘What have I done now?’ She asked indifferently, while calmly polishing her nails.
‘You……you have done this.’ Salman said and threw a magazine in front of her.
Parizeh glanced at the magazine out of the corner of her eyes but said nothing, choosing to focus again on her nails.
‘What’s the matter? Why are you fighting with Parizeh?’ Dawood opened up his eyes slowly and asked.
‘Just look at this, father.’ Salman picked up the magazine and shoved it in Dawood’s hands. ‘Rather don’t look at it. You can’t. Parizeh is all naked in there.’
‘I am not naked. I am wearing a swimming costume.’ Parizeh explained and laughed.
‘You look like a shameless whore.’ Salman shouted at her hoarsely. ‘May God’s curse be upon you.’
‘God’s curse be upon you.’ Parizeh mimicked her brother. ‘I don’t care about your God and his curses.’
Salman stood silently, raging for a moment, and then just left the room. Dawood closed his eyes again, praying that the matter ended right there and then. But only a few moments had passed when Parizeh’s screams jolted his eyes open. She was lying on the carpet, screaming with pain, and Salman stood over her with a cutting knife dripping with blood.
‘Oh God! What have you done? Dawood asked and tried to get up, but he could not. He watched helplessly while Parizeh breathed her last.
‘I have done what you should have done a long time ago.’ Salman shouted and seemed almost possessed by his inner demons. ‘She was a threat to this family’s honor. She was a threat to our religion’s honor, and she was a threat to my honor. Today I have removed this threat forever.’
Dawood saw Marjaan, silently approaching Salman with Dawood’s gleaming Colt in her hand. But before he could warn Salman, Marjaan raised the pistol and shot Salman in the neck, point-blank.
‘What have you done, Marjaan? He was your brother.’ Dawood stood up slowly. ‘Salman was mad. He had misconceived notions of his male and religious honor. But why did you kill him, child?’
‘I killed him for honor, too, Father.’ Marjaan said and slowly sat down on the sofa, and placed the pistol in her lap.
‘Honor? Whose honor?’ Dawood thought he had misheard her.
A colleague’s rage over someone’s after-hours drinking was so extreme that the author still checks his car for explosives months later - this is what zero tolerance looks like in practice.
A witty, autobiographical essay tracing the author’s evolving understanding of tolerance through three generations’ reactions to nude paintings - from his father’s diplomatic “cloak of feathers” explanation to his own honest conversation with his son, juxtaposed against moral outrage from visitors.
Throughout the late 1970s and early 1980s, there was a nude painting, which was my favorite. It was an expert rendering of a naked Native American girl, and was hung on one of the walls of our humble, middle-class abode.
The choice of mysteriously dark colors accentuated her well-proportioned figure. The result was an aura of subtle eroticism. I loved it and was infatuated by the sheer seduction of the study.
One day, my father caught me looking adoringly at the painting. I hesitatingly asked him if she was naked.
‘Certainly not.’ He answered with an amused glint in his eyes and then asked me, ‘Who says so?’
‘I believe this is the opinion of everyone who has seen this painting.’ I sheepishly offered.
‘I don’t think so.’ My father smiled and answered. ‘She is not naked. Instead, she is wearing an almost invisible cloak of feathers.’
Those few words of his, which were actually aimed at quashing my sensual curiosity, incited my wild imagination even more. From that day onwards, the painting became the focus of my pre-adolescent fantasies, and I grew quite over-protective of the anonymous, nude girl.
My protectiveness was duly challenged a few weeks later, when a young aunt of mine came visiting. She was considered to be a symbol of Pakistani modernity and liberalism, but her attitude that day shocked me.
Right after entering our living room, she found the painting and stood in front of it, completely dumbstruck.
‘Dear God in heaven!’ She exclaimed while reacting in her peculiar and irritatingly shrill voice, ‘This girl is not wearing anything.’
‘No.’ I stood beside her and considered it my duty to correct her observation. ‘She is not naked. She is wearing a cloak of feathers. You just can’t see it.’
She looked at me with obvious disdain and put an end to my valiant and protective efforts with an icy stare.
Decades passed, and I became a young and married man myself, with a lovely wife and two kids - a daughter aged 9, and a son aged 6.
History repeated itself one day, when I was almost finished hanging a newly painted nude. My son approached me with a shy grin, and I could feel the onset of déjà vu even before he started.
‘So, is she really…?’ My son’s shyness did not let him complete his question.
‘Yeah, buddy, she is really naked.’ I anticipated his question and answered while ruffling his hair. ‘But this is a piece of art. So we don’t call her naked. We call her a nude.’
‘What is a nude?’ He asked me, growing confident because of my amused smile.
‘Nude means she isn’t wearing any clothes.’ I explained. ‘And anyone who believes that she is wearing a cloak of invisible feathers is drastically wrong,’ I added for good measure.
‘Huh?’ My son looked confused, thought of commenting on something, but then dropped the idea and ran away.
Incidentally, the very next day, a friend of my wife came over. I never liked her company as she had the most annoying habit of poking her poisonous and thorny nose into everyone else’s business.
‘Well, well, well, what do we have here?’ She strutted like an overly inquisitive hen to my painting, which was displayed in full glory in our living room.
From where I was standing, I could exactly witness her transformation. Her moral anguish manifested into a shudder, which started at the tip of her impossibly high bun, vibrated down her spine, and ended in a decisive shake of her ample behind.
‘Goddammit, what are you people doing?’ She proclaimed loudly, ‘You must not hang such pictures (pictures?) in your house. Your kids are so young, and pictures like this can easily corrupt their young minds.’
‘Please don’t worry. This is only a nude.’ Suddenly, my son answered, while bouncing up and down excitedly, and his shocking words rendered that awful woman speechless. ‘And this is not a picture. It is a painting.’
‘Bravo!’ I silently admired his courage and tried to laugh off the incident. On a side note, thankfully, that honest and timely revelation by my son made it the last day of our not-so-beautiful acquaintance with that terrible woman.
All these incidents from the past make me think. Nudes aside, we, as a society of educated and globally aware Pakistanis, have zero tolerance. We cannot tolerate anything that is not consistent with our ideas on morality and appropriate social attitudes.
We walk around with rigid minds and stereotypes, and try to filter our world through these frameworks. This attitude is not restricted to any particular social group or religious sect. Each one of us is too self-important to see and respect a different perspective. Probably, our ability to accept others’ points of view has been successfully suppressed by decades of living within our own carapaces.
A veiled woman shies away from an uncovered woman and sees the devil in her. The modern woman, on the other hand, sees medieval tyranny and subjugation lurking within the dark folds of an abaya.
A religious zealot, and there are so many of them, cries to high heaven each time he comes across teens, dancing to popular tunes. And on the other end of the spectrum, our young generation sees a terrorist hiding behind each beard.
We are all self-appointed sheriffs, playing in a make-believe land of cowboys and Native Americans. But the land does not need so many sheriffs and a far more liberal sprinkling of cowboys.
This bizarre attitude has greatly disturbed our mental peace. It has also snatched away our ability to have guilt-free fun and enjoy the simple pleasures of life.
You might be window shopping with your better half and want to hold her hand in a rarely occurring tidal rush of romance. But you really don’t want to do that. Chances are that every Tom, Dick, and Harry will eye you suspiciously with wild dreams of skinning you alive. Not only men, but even women will look at you aghast. And if you are really unlucky, a policeman may approach and demand documentary proof of marriage. So at best, the romantic advances just have to be limited to occasional and secret brushing of fingers.
The other day, a ‘pious’ colleague dramatically entered my office, in an aura of scandalous excitement. Grabbing a seat and placing his elbows on the table, he leaned forward.
‘Here comes another conspiracy theory,’ I thought and sighed, desperately trying to avoid the overpowering gusts of his perfume and praying, ‘Please don’t make it another 9/11 conspiracy.’
‘Know what Mr. X is up to these days?’ He asked. Mr. X is a bachelor colleague of ours and is popularly believed to be a delinquent of sorts.
‘No. Has he joined Al Qaeda?’ I asked him, but my barely concealed attempt at sarcasm smoothly slipped past his one-track mind.
‘Nope. He has started drinking.’ He whispered.
‘So?’ I was already losing interest.
‘So?’ He repeated my question in barely suppressed rage.
‘I mean, I have never seen him drunk.’ I said, trying my best not to aggravate him.
‘Nah, he drinks after office hours.’ He revealed in another whisper.
‘So why does this concern us?’ I retaliated. ‘You are a member of an extremist, religious outfit, but I have never brought it up. Only once, when you made a miserable attempt at recruiting me.’
‘Are you equating drinking alcohol with my religious affiliations?’ He asked while chewing his words deliberately.
‘Yes.’ I offered innocently.
Thereafter, all hell broke loose, and only my solid oak table saved me from the blind rage and murderous fury of that maniac. By the way, even after the passage of a few months, I still check under my car before leaving the office for hidden explosives.
Pakistan, this wonderful land of ours, was created by our forefathers so that we could all live in peace and harmony irrespective of our religion and faith. Unfortunately, the mullahs digress, and the result of this digression has been a vicious circle.
An overdose of religion makes us judgmental and miserable. Therefore, we find so many faults with others around us. We cannot rectify those faults, and the circle completes when the frustration of failure fills our hearts with even more hateful misery. We are not living in a wonderful land. We are living in the ‘9th Circle of Hell’ and it is of our own making.
Each day, I observe hatred seeping into our society and poisoning our minds and those of our youngsters. In my humble opinion, we are not happy with what we are. Therefore, we are not happy with what others are. We are not comfortable with our tortured and twisted inner selves and thus we are not comfortable with our fellow beings.
Moreover, our peculiar brand of religion, coupled with the frustrations of a society rapidly going materialistic, has transformed us into being judgmental. Unfortunately, like a searchlight, our judgment illuminates only those around us, while leaving our own selves concealed in darkness. But luckily, it is not difficult to be happy.
We only have to replace critique with admiration. Learn to be comfortable with the naughty radical residing in our heart and appreciate his suggestions instead of stifling them. There is absolutely no need to notice what others are up to unless they are violating the boundaries of our personal freedom.
What is happening in Afghanistan under the Taliban is not only due to the constantly warring tribal factions and the absence of firm governmental control. Afghanistan is up in flames primarily because of the intolerance towards the centuries-old culture and a radical and forcibly imposed social change. The destruction of the Buddha statues in Bamyan and the killing of a large number of innocent women are not harbingers of an Islamic system of government, but are heralds of a dark age of intolerance.
Just like Afghanistan, Pakistan too is going through the most difficult time of its short history. We are badly confused about our national ideology. We cannot decide if we want to be religious or not. Our political system is inefficient. Our institutions are failing badly. We are in dire need of good governance, social justice, and improved literacy rates. And most importantly, our society definitely requires a revolution and a complete overhaul.
But before changing those around us, we need to change ourselves. We must transform our thinking and also our attitudes. Only tolerance can bring about this revolution, and nobody has explained tolerance better than Frederick Peris, who once said, ‘I do my thing and you do yours. I am not in this world to live up to your expectations, and you are not in this world to live up to mine.’
The grandfather clock ticked in the corner where three generations had died or gone mad, and Wiley realized his ‘quest’ to save his son from Alzheimer’s had only one possible ending.
Content Warning: This story contains infanticide and deals with severe mental illness, caregiver trauma, and the psychological deterioration caused by dementia. The ending is deeply disturbing and may be triggering for readers who have experienced loss of loved ones to Alzheimer’s or other degenerative diseases.
‘Tic toc…tic toc….tick toc!’ In a dark, lonely corner, the old grandfather clock was ticking its decades-old, sad mantra.
It was pouring outside, heavy drops streaking down the thick, plate-glass windows. The raindrops left twisting, abstract patterns on the glass, whose pearly contours seemed frozen in the random lightning flashes. Outside, the urban landscape was silhouetted against a dark purple sky - dark giants morbidly sparring with lightning.
Wylie stood at the window, watching the slowly moving lights of the late-night traffic below. He listened to the muffled bass of thunder and the unending symphony of the weeping skies. But inside, his heart was beating in perfect synchronization with the clock, aware of each passing second.
The sound of muffled snickering disturbed his reverie. He turned around and smelt the pungent stink of piss.
‘Shit! I forgot to change his diaper again.’ He silently cursed himself and looked at his dying father.
Aaron was secure within the cosy comfort of his bed and was lost in his own sad world. He was oblivious to the warm, wet pool between his legs and was looking through Wylie with rheumy eyes, while smiling at some amusing but rapidly fading memory.
Wylie stared back and was momentarily startled to see a small spark glowing in the depths of his father’s eyes. But then he sighed in hopelessness. There was no spark, and there was no light. The hotline connecting his father’s eyes with his grey matter was broken forever.
Over the last ten years or so, Wiley’s empathy for his father had gone rather stale. His gaze shifted from the pitiful figure in the bed to the gold, gleaming saxophone. It stood in the corner, almost graceful in its sad silence. To him, both his father and the saxophone belonged to the same era - once dazzlingly remarkable, but now dying and forgotten.
Pending the cleaning ritual for another five minutes, Wiley looked out again at the heavy storm clouds. Their ugly bellies were pregnant with rain. He thought of a similar evening in the far-off past. It was raining and his father always loved rain. Rains somehow inspired the musician hidden inside the heart of a common accountant.
‘Wiley, can you please bring her over here?’ By her, Aaron of course meant his saxophone.
‘Every beautiful thing is a woman to father,’ Wiley silently chuckled to himself.
He delicately picked up the saxophone and cradled it in his arms as small boys do when they are sometimes entrusted with a prized possession. He carefully brought the gleaming instrument to his father, who lovingly ruffled his hair and held the saxophone like a lovely waltz partner. Wiley still remembered the gleam in his father’s eyes. They were alight with the secret dreams of a yet undiscovered maestro.
Aaron cleaned the mouthpiece with a silk handkerchief and then started playing. His lips blew magic into the polished brass, and he became one with the instrument. The rain and music made love, while the clouds clapped thunder to the beat.
Wiley loved to think of those evenings and those magical moments from the past. He remembered very well his father’s immaculately pressed, black tuxedo, and the carefully brushed-back and gleaming, gelled hair. The dark aroma of Cuban cigars hung about his person like a warm and comforting aura. That was Aaron - a loving and caring father and a brilliant jazz musician. That was Aaron - enjoying the end of the age of sanity.
Then came Alzheimer’s. It was like Wiley’s father got possessed by some ancient evil spirit, who demanded more from its unwilling host with each passing moment. Slowly and gradually, the demonic spirit fed on the soul and body alike, draining them of each speck of intelligent awareness.
A fresh clap of thunder ended Wiley’s sojourn into the past. He flexed his tired shoulders and went to the cupboard to get a fresh diaper. He dipped the corner of a clean towel into warm water and lovingly cleaned up his father like a mother cleans a baby. Their roles had reversed. His father had become his child.
The warmth of the wet towel brought a kind smile to his father’s face. But Wiley knew it was his subconscious playing games. His father was an empty house playing host to a dark void. He no longer felt any emotion, yet his mind was alive. It was a playground of tired and disjointed pieces of memories. It was a puzzle that could never again be completed. Aaron, the accountant and the brilliant jazz musician, had left the house a long time ago.
Wiley gathered the wasted skeleton in his arms and carried him carefully to the rocking chair in the corner. While adjusting the blankets around his father’s frail shoulders, he sensed a movement and turned around. There stood John, his nine-year-old son, leaning against the doorway.
John was a beautiful boy with black, shining eyes, an almost perfect milk chocolate complexion, and a head full of the densest black fur. But his eyes were not shining as he silently looked at his grandfather. Instead, they were two deep pools of growing awareness. Looking into John’s eyes, Wiley felt the jarring onset of an unsettling déjà vu.
It was a hot and humid August afternoon. Wiley had just come back home from a baseball game - all sweaty and soiled. Ignoring his mom’s pleas for a quick shower, he bounded up the stairs, eager to tell his father about his home run. Passing his grandfather’s room, he heard his father singing softly. The door was slightly ajar, so Wiley managed to slip inside unnoticed. His father was wiping the sweat off the old man’s brow and softly singing his favourite lullaby:
‘The land is dark, the land is sleepy,
no time to be happy, no time to be weepy
Close your eyes and go to sleep,
beware of the shadows, dark and creepy’
Aaron murmured the last sentence with almost a sad acceptance and rearranged his father’s head on the pillow.
‘It is sad.’ Wiley couldn’t keep his mouth shut for long.
‘Yeah, indeed, it is sad, my boy.’ Aaron said while slowly turning his head. ‘Come here and give a kiss to your grandfather.’
Wiley hesitatingly stepped forward and planted a quick peck on his grandpa’s wasted cheek. He never liked the old man, who always stank and kept on staring blankly in space. His disgust changed to hatred one day when the old man knocked him down for touching his saxophone. Wiley ran crying to his father, expecting a quick retribution. But his father did nothing. He just wiped his tears and his bloody nose and said, ‘Look, Wiley, your grandpa is a very sick man and he deserves your sympathy. Just avoid going into his room more often. And please don’t touch his things.’
It was Wiley’s first meeting with the Alzheimer’s.
Shrugging off the bitter and unhappy memory, Wiley just gave a kind and tired smile to his son. He checked on Aaron one final time and then joined his wife and son at the dining table.
‘What’s up, John?’ Wiley asked the little boy, who was trying to avoid looking directly at him.
‘You again forgot to come to my game, Dad.’ John muttered angrily, and Wiley jolted with realization.
‘I forgot to put on the old man’s diaper, and I forgot to attend John’s game. Is this what I think it is?’ Wiley thought resignedly.
Cloe got up from her chair and stood behind John. ‘What’s wrong, little one?’ she asked while massaging his tiny shoulders.
‘No big deal.’ John shrugged in annoyance and ran to his room.
Cloe looked at Wiley concernedly.
‘Wiley baby, what’s happening to you? Yesterday, you forgot to pick up groceries, and last week you just skipped the old man’s appointment with the doctor.’
It was at that moment that Cloe saw fear jump into Wiley’s eyes. The fear reached out and its dark tentacles slithered out to grip her own heart.
‘Oh merciful God in heavens, not him please…..not my Wiley.’ She thought and ran into the solace of her husband’s arms.
‘Wiley, is it…..?’ She whispered against his strong chest, almost afraid to speak the name of the disease.
‘No, godammit no, I am ok, Cloe. I am really fine.’ But Wiley knew the reality. Alzheimer’s had come visiting again.
He tenderly caressed his wife’s head.
‘You love me now, darling, but wait for the time when I cease to be Wiley and then, you will turn as bitter as gall.’ Wiley thought sadly of his own dead mother.
It was 1978. Wiley had just returned from school and walked straight into a mom-dad confrontation.
‘For Christ’s sake! Why don’t you go to the doctor? You are forgetting things. You forgot our anniversary. You forgot Wiley’s birthday, and today you just forgot how to bang your own wife.’ Wiley’s mother went on with her frustrated bantering, but Aaron just kept on looking out the window.
‘Are you listening to me?’ She screamed.
‘Yes, I am,’ he answered while turning his head. ‘Nothing is wrong with me, baby. It’s just middle age creeping in.’
Wiley’s mother just stood there. She grabbed the back of the dining chair for much-needed support, her knuckles turning white with silent rage. Then she breathed deeply, walked to her husband, hugged him tightly, and cried.
Wiley loved both of them and wished with all the intensity of his six-year-old heart for his father to get better. But no matter how many times his mom cried, no matter how many times he prayed to God, Wiley’s father kept stepping away into oblivion. He kept walking towards a dark void and the impending doom.
Aaron was an accountant at the local bank. He was a brilliant accountant and not a single blemish marked his twenty-year-long record. People respected him. His colleagues did. The neighbours did. Even Mr. Patel, the Gujarati owner of the corner grocery store, who never respected his own father, respected Aaron. The people who knew him esteemed his honesty during the day and, when the sun went down, admired his talent with the saxophone.
The world seemed to be a perfectly happy place when a beaming Aaron entered the tiny apartment with his weekly paycheck in hand. They weren’t wealthy but respectably comfortable. The apartment was not luxurious but nice, clean, and comfy at all times. Wiley’s mom ensured it. To top it all, there were evenings in the jazz club across the street with Aaron in the spotlight.
Wiley loved the jazz club. He loved the red smoky atmosphere and the waves of beautiful and magical music. He intently watched his father performing on the stage, smiling at everybody, and especially his wife and Wiley. In those enchanted moments, Aaron’s sweaty face and the gleaming saxophone formed the centre of Wiley’s universe.
It was almost natural that Wiley was seduced by the saxophone. The instrument felt really smooth in his hands - almost an extension of his own body. After observing his father for a decade or so, the playing came naturally. He blew into the mouthpiece, and his fingers danced on the keys with an invisible life of their own. Aaron just silently watched Wiley, his heart brimming with pride. The legacy had been transferred.
On Wiley’s twelfth birthday, Aaron took a loan from the bank and presented him with a Yanagisawa King Super 20 - a most serious saxophone in sterling silver. It was the most beautiful thing Wiley had ever seen, but his heart still resided in his father’s old brass saxophone.
A day came when the father and the son played on the stage together for the first time. The loyal audience at the jazz club gave them a standing ovation. Wiley and Aaron looked at each other with eyes filled with tears. In their blissful ignorance, they believed that the good times would go on forever.
A month had passed since Wiley found his parents arguing in the kitchen. One day, when he came back from school, there was a police car parked in front of the apartment building.
‘Maybe there has been a burglary again.’ Wiley smilingly thought of the prospect. A burglary was an excuse for excitement in the otherwise drab and dreary daily routine.
The old elevator was out of order as usual. He bounded up the stairs, two at a time, heart thumping wildly, and almost crashed into his father at the last landing. Aaron was standing between two burly policemen, his hands cuffed at the back.
‘What happened? Where are you taking my father?’ Wiley’s desperate cries were falling on deaf ears. The policemen pushed his father into the back seat of their dark sedan and drove off.
Wiley ran back to the apartment. His mom was sobbing quietly at the kitchen counter. The unthinkable had happened. Aaron had been caught skimming off money at the bank. When confronted by the shocked Mr. Jefferson, the kindly and old bank manager, Aaron simply denied the accusation. The bank had no alternative but to hand him over to the police.
Those were some bad times. All the meagre savings went to the lawyer. Wiley’s mom even had to pawn his new silver saxophone. Food was more important than music.
Then one day, Aaron came back home. The manager had found the missing money. It was always there, hidden under the cashier’s drawers. Aaron had never touched a single dime. He just forgot to enter the amount in the proper register. The bank quietly retired his father with a small pension.
Wiley’s mother died a decade later. The diagnosis was of delayed, spotted lung cancer, but Wiley knew the truth. Her heart just got too tired and too broken to go on. She was in love with a man who was a pillar of strength and was energetic and bursting with enthusiasm to take life head-on. She had always admired Aaron’s resilience in the face of all odds. Aaron just had to smile at her, and poof, all her petty troubles vanished into thin air.
But Alzheimer’s changed all that. Her once towering and strong husband started to dissolve right in front of her eyes. The change was gradual and slow. Aaron still loved her, but didn’t know how to love her anymore. He still cared for her, but the disease made him selfish. This change was what killed his wife.
Wiley could still vividly recall that cruel, December evening, when his mother breathed her last in the hospital. Aaron was there too. He had brought white lilies to his dying wife. He sat with her for a long time, holding her pale, wasted hands in his big, brown ones and peering into her clouded eyes. Then Aaron kissed her forehead and asked her who she was. She just caressed his hand, sadly smiling at her long departed husband, and died. Wiley buried his mom and took his father home.
Those were dark days indeed - filled with sorrow and helplessness. Though his feeble mind was no longer rational, Aaron was still aware of the depth of his loss and searched for his dead wife all day long. Soon after the funeral, he started wandering off at will, visiting all the spots where he once took his wife. Fearing the worst, Wiley went to the police for help. It worked a few times, but then the overburdened policemen started to ignore him. So when Aaron got lost thereafter, Wiley roamed the city streets, checking each homeless man sleeping under a cardboard sheet.
Once, Wiley found Aaron all messed up and dead drunk with a bloody nose. He was lying amongst a pile of disused garbage cans, while stray cats were licking his face. Wiley took him home, cleaned and dressed up his wounds, and then just wept.
The disappearances increased in frequency, and Wiley had to collar his father like a dog. He wrote Aaron’s name and address on a laminated piece of cardboard and tied it around his neck. Thankfully, the strategy worked. Aaron never tried to remove it and always managed to get home, courtesy of some concerned citizen or the police.
Then the second stage of Alzheimer’s commenced and brought along hallucinations. Aaron started talking to his dead wife, like she was sitting on the rocking chair in the corner of his bedroom. It was so fucking realistic, it creeped Wiley out. Each time his father chose to address his long departed mother, he literally had to force himself not to look towards the empty chair. To top it all, Aaron not only chatted with his dead wife, but he shouted at her, sang to her, and even talked dirty to her. Wiley was going mad amidst the violent erotic fantasies of his father.
The worst came when Aaron started treating Wiley like an enemy. He abused him, degraded him, and constantly fought off his son’s attempts to clean his excrement. He reacted to each shower like water was burning, hot acid. Wiley was forced to wet sponge his thick stink away, while Aaron slept under the dense fog of sedatives.
Sometimes, Aaron just refused to be fed. Willy had to tie his hands and push porridge down his frail throat. This did almost no good. Aaron vomited on the clean bed sheets and then tried to lick back the foul contents of his stomach. He liked to pee on the bedroom floor and loved playing with his own shit. The apartment stank like a public toilet most of the time.
One day, Aaron mustered every ounce of strength in his emaciated body and kicked Wiley in the balls, while howling with devilish laughter. Wiley had to really stop himself from knocking down his own father and kicking the shit out of his skeletal excuse of a body. That day, Willy wished his father was dead, and then he cried at his own selfishness.
Wiley and his father were both saved by Cloe. Wiley met her at the hospital where he took his father for regular check-ups. She was a sweet little thing - all smiles and caring eyes, showering kindness and attention on everybody. Wiley fell in love the first time he saw her.
They started dating. He avoided bringing her home the first few times, but then Cloe guessed the real reason. She just laughed at Wiley. Having just buried a schizophrenic mom and being a nurse at a mental health facility, she was no stranger to Alzheimer’s.
Wiley and Cloe got married, and she smoothly slipped into the spot left vacant by Wiley’s mom. She was a good and strong woman and managed to calm down Wiley’s father. Aaron became her personal pet, waiting for her kind gestures and cooing voice to be soothed. The situation at home dramatically improved.
Two days after Wiley missed John’s game, Aaron died. His lungs were filled with mucus. He died because he couldn’t remember how to cough anymore. He suffocated in sleep.
Wiley played the saxophone at his father’s funeral, trying to remember the times when Aaron was kind and loving and warm. He started playing his father’s favourite piece, but could not go on after the first ten seconds or so. It was like he knew the composition but couldn’t somehow play the exact tune. Tears of helplessness and angry frustration clouded his vision.
Finally, he just threw the saxophone away, sat on the podium, his head in his hands, and cried. People thought the son was grieving his dead father, but only Cloe could understand what was really happening. Wiping her own misty eyes, she went to her husband and helped him back to his seat.
Wiley buried Aaron beside his mother, under the old oak. He looked at the vacant spot in the family plot and felt mutiny rising like bile in his throat.
‘No, I will not fall prey to this deadly disease. I will fight. I will fight for John’s sake and for Cloe’s sake.’ Wiley silently promised himself.
His personal quest had started - a quest for freedom from Alzheimer’s deadly clutches.
Soon, Wiley’s bedroom became the mission control centre. There were diet charts pinned to the walls, mental exercise regimens displayed on a makeshift notice board, and a glowing computer monitor in a corner.
Wiley read about the relationship between high cholesterol levels and Alzheimer’s and went on a crash diet programme. He found out about the possible advantages of brain stimulation and started doing crosswords and Sudoku every day, for hours at end. He surfed the internet all through the night, thanks to an Alzheimer-induced insomnia, looking for miraculous drugs and herbal cures.
Wiley got conned, he got robbed, and he even got sick because of the herbal trash he ordered online. He read a study linking coffee with a considerable reduction in the risk of dementia in late life, and increased his coffee intake to twenty or so cups a day. He was a possessed man, determined to fight a war which was probably already lost.
Wiley also started getting into trouble a lot. First, it was just altercations with the supermarket staff over the levels of nitrates in tinned food. Then he fought with his doctor as he thought the drugs weren’t having the requisite results. He also fought the assistant manager at his bank when he refused him a loan. Wiley badly needed this loan to order some medicinal herbs from India.
One day, when Cloe fought off his attempts to eat the gold fish in the living room aquarium, Wiley accused her of wishing him dead.
Wiley felt sanity dripping out of him, one drop at a time. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t plug the leakage. He knew he was getting paranoid. The insanity and paranoia made him listen in on Cloe’s telephonic conversations with the doctors and her friends. He perfectly understood the demons of the disease, but submitted to their dark power nevertheless.
Things took a turn from bad to worse when Wiley made John an equal partner in his quest. He knew the increased hereditary risk of Alzheimer’s for African Americans and hence wanted to shield John at all costs. But John was just a kid, fond of fried chicken and pizza. He just couldn’t come to terms with an all-vegetable diet and herbal concoctions. Once Wiley enforced this diet, John started falling sick frequently.
Cloe watched it all. She knew Wiley was going to die one day soon. But she wasn’t ready to accept him taking along John. They started having fights. They tried counselling and had to abandon it when Wiley tried to strangle the therapist for calling him sick. They tried to discuss the issue, but reasoning became arguments, and the arguments got violent. Soon her colleagues at the hospital started talking about her blackened and swollen eyes.
Thus passed five very long years. Wiley had entered the fifth stage of the disease. He started suffering from severe cognitive dysfunction. Once in the middle of a sentence, he forgot Cloe’s name. After repeatedly failing to recall it, he just placed his head in her lap and wept. But no matter how much his mental health declined, he still carried on with his quest.
Wiley still tried to walk a lot but had frequent falls and ultimately got his hip fractured. After recovery, he tried to enrol in an experimental drug trial but was rejected due to the advanced progression of the disease. He fought with the hospital staff where the trial was taking place. He also attacked a physician with his walking stick. The hospital authorities turned him in, and the Atlanta justice system took a long time turning him free. But the last blow was yet to come.
A few days after Wiley’s release from prison, Cloe got back from the hospital after a tiring night shift. She unlocked the apartment door and suddenly smelt something oddly familiar. It was a smell from the past, from her college days. Then realization suddenly dawned upon her.
‘Oh my God! Who is smoking weed in my house?’
She stormed into their bedroom, where Wiley sat on the bed, smoking weed. He looked up at her through the fumes, with an almost stupid smile on his wretched face. She looked around for John and then found him mercifully alive, but lying unconscious amidst a large pool of vomit.
‘Why Wiley….why? He is your son, and you were making him smoke this shit?’ Her voice got hoarse with pent-up emotions.
‘Just try to understand. Marijuana can help prevent Alzheimer’s.’ Wiley offered weakly.
That day, for the sake of their only son, Cloe decided to commit Wiley to a psychiatric institution. She just couldn’t go on. She just couldn’t take it anymore.
It was a rainy July afternoon. Cloe was away at the hospital finalizing arrangements for Wiley’s admission. He was alone at home with John, but Cloe trusted the sedatives.
It was probably thunder that woke up Wiley. After a few moments of disorientation, he got up and went to John’s room. The little boy was napping in the bed in which Aaron had died, while the old grandfather clock silently ticked away in the corner, ‘Tic toc…tic toc….tick toc!’
Wiley walked to the window. It was pouring outside. He watched the raindrops slithering down the glass panes. He tried to find meaning in their zigzag patterns but failed.
A sudden flash of lightning and the delayed drum roll of thunder broke Wiley’s trance. He looked back at John through the purple fog and smiled. He had found the way to end the vicious cycle of Alzheimer’s in his family and felt intoxicated with the power of realization.
He silently stepped forward and picked up a soft white pillow. He looked down at the sleeping child with gentle, fatherly love. Then he placed the pillow carefully but firmly over John’s face. The child struggled for a few minutes and then ceased moving. It was all quiet and peaceful. The quest was finally over.
Shehryar khawar 