Wednesday, 2 July 2025

The Fever of Being Viral

 


By Arshad Usmani


All of us live with our past. All of us allow it to shape our future. But some of us know how to shrug the past. I think that is who I am... 


Although I was not like this always until one day which changed my whole life. That was the day when I decided to die and even my parents would have totally supported it.They are that good and believed in me. And that actually keeps me going because I am not the usual. I am weird. Why not, normal is so boring. It's just about perception or any sane being would have looked at my life to gasp in horror and call it dull, miserable and monotonous. But I feel proud when my teachers made me stand in front of the class and said, "Look, this is the student you all should try to become. I am sure you can never be like her as she is one and only. She is the best, been student of the year every year, always topped the class and every competition and this year awaits wonders in inter school board exams for her." 


At noon I sat on my computer to check my results. Server down. It's obvious a rain of alumni must have hit the website like torrents and flooded it. Buzzing on their screens in nervousness like honeybees on a honeycomb. I waited and waited one hour, two and three, then frustrated, skipping lunch, lying on the floor tried to calm myself down. A spider crawled on the wall, I took a jar, caught it and closed the lid. I looked at it struggling inside the glass walls, I liked it and called it Ismat. At last in the evening I had access. 


Guess what, I got 496 marks out of 500, that it 99.2 percent, can I believe my eyes. My ambition was to become an All India Topper. Tried all those years to achieve it. And now I nailed it until in the evening...


Suddenly the phones started to rang, congratulations poured in. Nearly two hundred students and their parents arrived over a period of two hours. They brought cakes and gifts and celebrated. Congratulated my mother a lot for making their children pass this jungle of board exams. They rewarded her with money, offered benefits, tariffs and discounts in their respective professional services plus exemption of service charges. 


My mother is a premium quality, high yielding maths teacher. She conquers the kitchen with insane measurements. She has a balance scale and a lot of measurement utensils to not get anything go unmeasured into the cauldron. She taught more than 200 students not only maths but science and English too. She was a great help in upliftment of failures and losers to attain a level of art in tricking the examiners, hitting passing marks, self satisfaction and keeping the family honour. And in this endeavor I too was with her working as an advocate on this case against the Central Board of Secondary Education. 


These students who ranged from barely passed to passed with good marks, were so boisterous in telling me that they were going to get bikes, smart phones, scooty, sports gears, jewelry, suits, gown, increase in allowances, vacation trips, partnerships in family firms and what not on achieving these marks. It sounded so amazing to hear all this. They asked what I was getting on scoring so high. I said, "I am getting published in tomorrow's newspapers and my interview will be on every news channel. Everywhere in the country my parents will be honoured. That's the only gift I want. Everyone will see me. I'll be famous." 


One thing disturbed everyone and me, why no reporters have come to cover my story. Which left me in doubt. Soon everyone was gone. And it was 8 pm. And I asked my mother, "Where is daidoo?" 


When I miss my father real bad, I call him 'Daidoo' with numb in eyes and lump in throat. Thinking he would hear it in his heart. 


After one hour, he returned, asked if I was missing him and went in the kitchen in a hurry. I followed him and tried to peep from the door ajar. 


He kissed mother, took in his arms and held her tight. He said sadly, "They said Muntasha's marks are not the highest. There is some girl Gayatri Devi who got 497, just one mark more than our daughter. Gayatri will be the breaking news tomorrow, star of India, a watchman's daughter. She will get big pictures with her family on the front page." 


"And what about our daughter? Muntasha has done equal hard work, harder than her, than anyone!" 


"They will just mention her name in the corner with other two boys who got third rank. They said, nobody cares about second or third rank. Everyone only asks about the firsts like Neil Armstrong or Tenzing Norgay." 


That was a serious blow. All this for nothing. I was second. Nobody cared to know about me. I left to my room crying inwardly. Such pain.


I was lying on the floor with my results in my hand and a guilt. I couldn't have tried any more harder. How could she get one mark more? What extra did she do? 


My mother started explaining me the doctrine of determinism and how we have no control over fate. This realization of me being predestined is so self- refuting that maybe my mother is playing mind- tricks to brain- wash me to accept the harsh realities of life and live with it, abide, bear and endure silently.  


"I got 496 marks out of 500," I yelled at my mother, "that is 99.2 percent. And I am still here suicidal. Because there is some Gayatri Devi who got 497 marks out of 500 which is just one mark more than me. Now every newspaper and news channel will cover her and her family and everything but not me. Why should they? I have not done well. Can you believe that? Just a one line mention of me and those who are on third place. And that too in the corner. Such insult. 


"I always lived like a saint. Sacrificing all. Mugging and revising day and night all my life. Topped every class since nursery. And pulled my efforts to the extreme for board exams only to be defeated by one mark. I always dreamed to be an All India topper. But this Gayatri, shattered it. With one mark, the bitch banged it." 


"Look darling," my father consoled me, "Don't vex in despair on the shine and brilliance of someone else's diamond but rejoice in how blue is your own sapphire." 


My father thinks like me, understands me while my mother is more caring and always at what's right for me. Daidoo always admires my beauty and style and forces me to live cool like him while mamma regards me sensible and intelligent and forces me lady like manners and Madame Curie. I love them both so much. It's what they did to brought me into this world and raise against all odds. 


My father Salim met my mother Arina when he attended a Parents Teachers Meeting as his little sister's guardian. He was just twenty years old then. 


His sister's class teacher Miss Arina Zaidi explained the good behaviour of his sister to him. It seemed that Miss Arina was sitting there for hours tackling parents. Her mouth had become dry and her lips frothed with thick consistent saliva forming webs between the stalagmite and stalactites of her mouth. 


Her lips were of the shape of amoeba, regurgitating across the face with slimy sticky but dry secretions moving inside of its wall which lined a great black vacuole void. Out of the vacuole void came the voice not meant for understanding the meaning but to enjoy the feelings, their hum. And so he did. And so she chimed more. Those lips like a mill, those voices like a product and he as a consumer saw potential and future hence decided as a businessman to own it. But first he will had to hoard it so that no one could lay their hands on it. 


He gifted her a Banarasi Saree in next meeting, and she thought it was from a family who cared for their children's teachers. She liked it. Next time it was a box of luxury chocolates and she became doubtful but let it go. After that came a wrist watch and she hesitated. Then it was gold jewellery and she thought he was really serious. She wanted to meet and explain him. Dinner. They ate silently. 


He started, "I want to be with you forever." 


"I am 31 years old and a shia muslim, it's impossible, with you being a Sunni muslim and..." 


"It's love." 


They met whenever they got time. Soon they decided to make it sacred and legal. Their parents refused, totally. They had huge difference, Salim was 11 years younger than Arina. And Salim was a Sunni muslim while Arina a Shia. People say shia and sunni might marry a hindu but never each other.


One day Salim walked in his father's workshop and standing in front of him, took a pair of small scissors and stabbed it two times in his neck at two places. In hospital his parents agreed to marry him with Arina. He definitely knew where to stab without killing himself. 


Meanwhile Arina, after eating right amount of mosquito coil mixed with cake, twice she choked on ventilator as her parents were stubborn. They disowned her.  


After marriage they build a home of their own away from the cruel families and society and started a struggling life. My mother continued her teaching job and father joined a bank. Their whole clan looked down on them and disgraced. 


Everything was like a fairy tale until Salim met met his distant cousin Ismat, same age, colleagues and with same conviction and views.


Once he was in her apartment. After a warm coversation they kind of got lost in each other. He was hesitant, she was shy but eager and not wanted him to deter. He tried to get in with remorse and second thoughts and she cried in pain, excruciating but still feigned joyous first time over zeal. It had to happen so it happened. After the passion filled intimate moment, Ismat thought it was love. 


It went on, became more frequent and as an obvious thing evoked suspicion Arina who became vigilante to soon find them kissing each other and groping at a party in a corner of course where no one can see them. But she a brave wife. She did not fret and left. Such was the extent and purity of her love for Salim. And such was her trust on him. 


Next day Arina asked Salim that she wants a baby and let's do it today she told him. 


"You sure about this baby" he hesitated "Because you will have to leave your job and everything. So much pain, effort and your poor health. You are so weak." 


"Yes I will die, even then I want it. It's the right time. Why you married me?" 


Six times he masturbated until the evening when tried for seven but failed and felt happy. At night Arina was ready with cosmetic power and perfumes. Dressed in a hot teacher's attire according to his favourite fantasy she tried to teach him a lesson. Dominating she made every move but to no avail. All he felt was shame and guilt. 


"No baby," she tried to cheer him up, "we can try next day or some other day. Don't worry. It happens sometimes. It may be God's will." 


My father really cried that night on deceiving my mother for my aunt Ismat. Next day he told her his wrongdoings with Ismat, the teenage enchantress. 


"Why, she is a witch, with black magic and all things. It's no your fault. Under a spell you were, hypnotised, against your will. You only love me, I know. Our love is pure. We died for each other." 


And then after nine months I was born. 


I opened the lid of the jar and let Ismat crawl on my hand. It moved fast then stopped. It liked me or tried to figure out the situation. My life was like this spider, always in a corner surrounded by my own web created by me and be cut aloof. When my friends were in parties, movies and shopping, I was surrounded by books, reading and solving questions, and buying sample papers. When young girls were more susceptible to sexual objectification, as they were often taught that power, respect and wealth could be derived from one's outward appearance, I was susceptible to scholastic achievement pressures as my mamma taught me sensibility, intellect, brilliancy, and high grades. I never truly enjoyed my life. Why I cannot become a person like my father risking life, adventure, seizing the moment, never let go and shrugging the past. Double harrowing is the fact that I sacrificed so much to achieve this feat yet not achieved it. 


I would have to begin again. Whoever wishes to be born anew must prepare to die. 


At 10 O'clock night I took an auto rickshaw and went to the bridge. On the railing I looked down at the river, always flowing, never-ending. I called my parents from my cell phone and then I called police. I told them that I am going to die because I am second with just one mark, I will not be in the news, no recognition. 


I tried to see my reflection in the cold and dark water but couldn't see it. I jumped to find it and collided on my reflection, pierced it and lost. 


Next morning, when I opened my eyes, in a hospital, lying on bed with stiff neck and plaster in one hand, daidoo and mamma on either side of me, I felt relieved not being in heaven. 


After what I went through last night my father instead of making me feel ashamed and guilty decided to cheer me up. He put before me various morning newspapers which he just bought. I was everywhere in them, "Girl Got 99.2% Tried Committing Suicide Saved by Fishermen," etc. Interviews on TV, paparazzi to follow me, and I was to be in news for weeks.


"God bless those two fishermen" mamma gasped, "Who were fishing at the right moment in the river with a boat and a large fishing net sprawled through the water." 


I smiled as I remembered how I bribed those two fishermen for this trickery before jumping in the river. 


I took various newspapers in my hand and saw my big pictures and then Gayatri's small picture in the corner. 


By looking at them then I realized the true meaning of life. How much I want to tell that topper girl what my father always told me when he saw me sitting at my desk, studying for exams the whole syllabus again and again for nine to ten hours at a stretch daily. I never listened to him, he always quoted Franz Kafka:


“It is, after all, not necessary to fly right into the middle of the sun, but it is necessary to crawl to a clean little spot on earth where the sun sometimes shines and one can warm oneself a li

ttle.”   


                                    ---Franz Kafka




-----End-----






By Arshad Usmani








Sunday, 29 June 2025

Dear Diary #A Visit to Sarnath

June 27, 2025, Friday

Yesterday I went to Sarnath in Varanasi with a hypocrite book lover disguised in the hard binding of lukewarm Islamic fear with the sleeve of western forbidden clothing. I took cold water in a Sprite bottle (#GoGreen), double rolled it in two rug bags to maintain its chilliness. We rode a scooter to the Budhdha Temple, marvelled at the Gandhara Architecture, braved rain, fought for charges at Golambar (Roundabout) Parking and walked a long way to the convenience store cum café. I ate just ice cream. 

Many teenage girls were visiting the café part of the convenience store. One lonely woman came to the café and sat on the bench adjacent to me and ate spaghetti while I ate only ice-cream. As the sun started to slide down the horizon and the twilight ensued nightfall, we returned to our respective abodes.

Saturday, 12 April 2025

Family Love or Programming?

 Ques: 

I have a family, but they only seem to care when I have money.

When I'm without it, their concern disappears. Even if I haven't eaten for 3-4 days, it doesn't matter to them, and they never ask about it.

However, they are always sure to inquire about when the next payment will come in. 


Ans: 

This is the ultimate truth about family and parents.😆😂 

It's just not happening with you but all of us. My mother always kicks me out of the house shouting, "Get out of here, no place for sitting idle in this house. Either be outside earning money or just be out. Don't come until you have earned something. And if you are unable to earn something today then just be outside and come only at night for food and sleep. But don't stay idle in the house during the daytime. Now get lost." 

If you have 2 or 3 brothers, it's worse because the brother who earns more will get more respect. There is nothing like mom's love or father's love.😂 Everyone is just a distinct human. There is no divine or motherly connection between mother and son as we see in movies. In movies when a son gets hurt in another city the mother knows that my son got hurt. This is scientifically and medically not true. It's superstition. There is no connection between two people like love or bond. Love is inside our brain and not in our heart. We program ourselves to love someone. So we can reprogram ourselves to hate that same person and then again reprogram to love that same person. Where we do this we call it our home and our family. With our parents and siblings. Programming to love. Programming to hate. And then again reprogramming to love. And so on till death do us apart. 

Thank you! 

https://youtube.com/watch?v=ErO4nXvSVkI&lc=Ugw2B__tG-NLIe98gjN4AaABAg.AGlj7v7hSclAGoVlhG6VuB&si=j2nDFEHdvznLdg8o 


Saturday, 4 September 2021

Mobile Stores in Varanasi

Mobile stores are abundant near Sigra in my city Varanasi. I don't want to present an essay on the title I gave to this story. Because I want to ask a question. 


I visited some mobile shops at sigra region today as I needed a new phone of course. But I only analysed the prices and planned to buy later. 


I talked to some very interesting guys and to my surprise I found one of my childhood friend there, working in one of the mobile stores. 


We were delighted and talked at length. He offered me tea, milk one, over boiled and earthen pot served. He talked over the tea about Indian economy and Indian polity as if the media waited for his suggestions about how to grow market and boom economy.


Talking to those urban guys working in urban stores in urban areas felt kind of pilgrimage. Those stores, interiorly decorated by foreign phone companies, the work guys in uniforms or some in sharp casuals, lighting, tiles, glasses and air could swing anyone's mood and transform their inner attitudes to question their normal living. 


Though these epiphanies might not manifest to other cool living popular people (demanding and criticising everything God gave them); but it is likely a revelation for us poor people living in a ghetto, constitutionally characterised minority (Other Backward Class), who are not even qualified to be called as bourgeois. 


We earn though, we earn and we live well, we school and we entertain ourselves with TV and internet hence, we go to mobile stores to buy a phone. A smart phone around Rs. 20,000/-. But we won't call us middle class. 


Most of the Indian population is like me. Pray, earn, eat, entertain, love, sleep, freshen up and repeat. Pray just to earn, earn just to eat, eat just to live and love just that your loved ones don't run away or rebel. For us freshen up just means cleaning and not enjoyment, relaxation or calmness. 


Though normal Indian population is poor, they are the most religious and devoted yet none of their daily life activities is Zen in nature or follows it. 


I earn more than those guys in  those mobile stores, and have a bigger house or a house as contrary to some of them who don't have.Then why I look dull and unbathed, worked and drained, a patient and someone on break from his series of punishments while those guys looked really sharp, were well dressed and smelled good too. Their voices were clear and unwavering with language filled with posh words pleasing and motivating. I don't have an affinity for boys and this is not a romantic article. 


I am poor. But there are poorer. And they work in those mobile stores which are no less high class window shops of London. 


There in those mobile stores at Sigra, Varanasi, they did not look particular poorer but something else. From rich and big families, highly educated and philosophically advance. People, you wanna be friends with, hangout with them and travel. Why? 


Perhap, the manufacturers wanted them to be that, fake high class bartenders of phones. A marketing strategy. 


Thursday, 18 July 2019

Daily Struggle

That's right. I realize that only when I see my mother working, daily struggle.

When we were young we knew no problems. We thought our lives are so blissful. But when we are here all grown up, we see that it's not like that. Not at all. Why?

It's because now it's our turn to face the daily struggle. Earlier when we were young, our mother and father did everything. They absorbed all the problems in them so that we should see only brighter, greener and creamier.

Daily struggle... Keeps us busy. Takes us far from our loved one's. Snatches the free time, moments and memories yet to be made from us.

Daily struggle...  Puts tears in our eyes and longings in our loved ones who sit in the dark and wait for us.

Daily struggle... Chains us. Limits us. Takes our imaginations and makes us dumb. To forget dreams and look up.

Daily struggle... Same as our daily bread, breath and bath may brings prosperity and balance in our domestic life but it's a sacrifice of sort in itself.


                            -- Arshad Usmani

Wednesday, 27 August 2014

Death

How important is human life?

How death can be measured, the duration of the occurrence of death or duration of the process of the death. That how long death occurs in a person before he is a corpse?

If a person underwent extreme torture, unlimited tortures but still not died and got cured totally. Was it death or its part? Perhaps 'measurement of death' can give the answer?

We can identify death. But how to identify death?

Is death is a disease? A sudden occurring disease like heart attack or a long, bleak and enduring one like cancer and AIDS.

Death is not sudden to everyone. In some it starts occurring hours before or days before. Different durations and intervals in different people. 

Great Stories You Haven't read: The Trimmed Lamp by O. Henry

We usually pick anything to read which is famous and is on everybodies' tongue. But there are still a great deal of things which have been forgotten and archived. And hardly anyone refers them to you. Like this short story by O. Henry- The Trimmed Lamp. Lets guess how you know O. Henry, maybe by some of his few famous stories like, The Gift of Maggi and Red Ransom Thief. OK now note this in your mind that O. Henry is as much known for his good stories as much he is known for his excellent, complex, moving, and motivating writing skill. His every sentence seems to inform and inspire. So now you'll see why this story you should read despite of it being not popular. Here are a few lines from the story which will make you stop reading between them and ponder for a while and say 'O My...'

1. Of course there are two sides to the question. Let us look at the other. We often hear "shop-girls" spoken of. No such persons exist. There are girls who work in shops. They make their living that way. But why turn their occupation into an adjective? Let us be fair. We do not refer to the girls who live on Fifth Avenue as "marriage-girls."

2. I do not suppose that many look upon a great department store as an educational institution. But the one in which Nancy worked was something like that to her. She was surrounded by beautiful things that breathed of taste and refinement. If you live in an atmosphere of luxury, luxury is yours whether your money pays for it, or another's. The people she served were mostly women whose dress, manners, and position in the social world were quoted as criterions. From them Nancy began to take toll—the best from each according to her view. From one she would copy and practice a gesture, from another an eloquent lifting of an eyebrow, from others, a manner of walking, of carrying a purse, of smiling, of greeting a friend, of addressing "inferiors in station." From her best beloved model, Mrs. Van Alstyne Fisher, she made requisition for that excellent thing, a soft, low voice as clear as silver and as perfect in articulation as the notes of a thrush. Suffused in the aura of this high social refinement and good breeding, it was impossible for her to escape a deeper effect of it. As good habits are said to be better than good principles, so, perhaps, good manners are better than good habits. The teachings of your parents may not keep alive your New England conscience; but if you sit on a straight-back chair and repeat the words "prisms and pilgrims" forty times the devil will flee from you. And when Nancy spoke in the Van Alstyne Fisher tones she felt the thrill of noblesse oblige to her very bones. There was another source of learning in the great departmental school. Whenever you see three or four shop-girls gather in a bunch and jingle their wire bracelets as an accompaniment to apparently frivolous conversation, do not think that they are there for the purpose of criticizing the way Ethel does her back hair. The meeting may lack the dignity of the deliberative bodies of man; but it has all the importance of the occasion on which Eve and her first daughter first put their heads together to make Adam understand his proper place in the household. It is Woman's Conference for Common Defense and Exchange of Strategical Theories of Attack and Repulse upon and against the World, which is a Stage, and Man, its Audience who Persists in Throwing Bouquets Thereupon. Woman, the most helpless of the young of any animal—with the fawn's grace but without its fleetness; with the bird's beauty but without its power of flight; with the honey-bee's burden of sweetness but without its—Oh, let's drop that simile—some of us may have been stung. During this council of war they pass weapons one to another, and exchange stratagems that each has devised and formulated out of the tactics of life. "I says to 'im," says Sadie, "ain't you the fresh thing! Who do you suppose I am, to be addressing such a remark to me? And what do you think he says back to me?" The heads, brown, black, flaxen, red, and yellow bob together; the answer is given; and the parry to the thrust is decided upon, to be used by each thereafter in passages-at-arms with the common enemy, man. Thus Nancy learned the art of defense; and to women successful defense means victory. The curriculum of a department store is a wide one. Perhaps no other college could have fitted her as well for her life's ambition—the drawing of a matrimonial prize. Her station in the store was a favored one. The music room was near enough for her to hear and become familiar with the works of the best composers—at least to acquire the familiarity that passed for appreciation in the social world in which she was vaguely trying to set a tentative and aspiring foot. She absorbed the educating influence of art wares, of costly and dainty fabrics, of adornments that are almost culture to women.

3. and (He) wooed her across the counter with a King Cophetua air.

4. These high ideas, if not ideals—Nancy continued to cultivate on $8. per week. She bivouacked on the trail of the great unknown "catch," eating her dry bread and tightening her belt day by day. On her face was the faint, soldierly, sweet, grim smile of the preordained man-hunter. The store was her forest; and many times she raised her rifle at game that seemed broad-antlered and big; but always some deep unerring instinct—perhaps of the huntress, perhaps of the woman—made her hold her fire and take up the trail again.

5. To Nancy's superior taste the flavor of these ready-made pleasures was sometimes a little bitter: but she was young; and youth is a gourmand, when it cannot be a gourmet.

6. But, another lesson she learned, perhaps unconsciously. Her standard of values began to shift and change. Sometimes the dollar-mark grew blurred in her mind's eye, and shaped itself into letters that spelled such words as "truth" and "honor" and now and then just "kindness." Let us make a likeness of one who hunts the moose or elk in some mighty wood. He sees a little dell, mossy and embowered, where a rill trickles, babbling to him of rest and comfort. At these times the spear of Nimrod himself grows blunt. So, Nancy wondered sometimes if Persian lamb was always quoted at its market value by the hearts that it covered.

7. And then Lou looked, and saw that something better than prosperity had descended upon Nancy—something that shone brighter than gems in her eyes and redder than a rose in her cheeks, and that danced like electricity anxious to be loosed from the tip of her tongue.