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Sunshine would be a welcome reality; the cyclic dawn of morality. That is, if it didn’t rain cats and dogs, beef and mutton.
The TV weatherman said it wouldn’t. But nobody gives a flying tosh anymore about what the weatherman says – in spite of the fact that he is usually a bit too apocalyptic about his forecasts these days.
However, he was always waiting for that “great flood” to pour in and all over. He said it wont be a metrological phenomenon, but a miracle ordained by those who paid his salary.
But the New Agers of the land always seemed to be at peace. With themselves, themselves and themselves.
The land’s hyperbolic Aryans and their messiahs too waited in their rocky canoes of faith for the “great flood” so that they wouldn’t have to water their imaginary magic gardens so often.
They could then just float around and do a lot of nothing. Fantasizing to perhaps just meditate and reincarnate themselves back as carrots, peaches, chicken-feed and lamb in the hanging gardens around Minar-e-Pakistan and the new McDonalds joint near it.
They had started to take the morbid, melancholic weatherman’s non-metrological forecast rather seriously. As seriously as they did revolution, yoga and facebook’s new apps. There was no time, really, for anyone to notice the rugged Psychotic Bomb Machines exploding in and over mosques, shrines and the marketplaces.
“We too are apocalyptic,” they told the weatherman. They had started to believe the weatherman’s mapped ranting about the great flood as well. So much so that the words ‘great flood’ were no more being written with inverted commas.
“It shall rain today,” said the weatherman.
It didn’t.
“A conspiracy!” said the skinnies.
“Doom, death and destruction are just round the corner!” screamed the weatherman. Actually he was not talking about the great floods but the land’s leper leaders’ possible willingness to unblock a tube that wasn’t his. “The tube is not me, but you,” he warned.
“Great day to slaughter a few more lambs then,” rattled the Psycho Bomb Machines. “And to attack a few whateverthatfrickenmoves”.
“Soup, anyone?” asked the New Agers.
“Has to be the Americans,” said the skinnies.
“The tube! The tube!” screamed the weatherman.
“No, the rain, the rain!” the skinnies screamed back.
“Great day to behead some more goats,” beamed the Psycho Bomb Machines.
“Pickle, anyone?” asked the Aryans.
“Kya scene hai! ” said one of them.
“ Cute,” said his 21st century schizoid girlfriend.
“Who’s sponsoring it?” asked daddy. He was obviously concerned about foreign investment in the land where he was a running capitalist dog. He also handed out miracle salaries and inspired to be exactly like the power brokers that he so hated.
Mom really didn’t give a damn as such. She was too busy making Maggie Noodles on Mesala TV and scrubbing her new French silverware with Extra Power Lemon Max while waiting for the paradise above that to her was a certainty to good folk like her.
“RAW agents!” grumbled the skinnies.
“Breaking News! Roman cesarean doom!” said the weatherman. “Ban the tube! Paradise for all!”
“Hmmm ..” hummed the Psycho Bomb Machines. “Great day to flog some geese then!”
“Baked tomatoes, anyone?” asked the New Agers.
A great flood soon followed the heavy rain of inverted commas. It came gushing in. Everybody saw it on TV. The event sponsored by McDonalds, Nike, MRF Tires and Gaye Soap made the New Agers and the Aryans so very happy.
“Doom!” said the crusading weatherman. “The tube, the tube!”. Actually he too wanted to get sponsored.
“Change! Revolution! Red Bull! It gives you wings, ” said the Aryans and the New Agers. They’d already been sponsored.
Switch, click and boom went the Psycho Bomb Machines.
“Doom!” Said the Aryans. “No more hope for any foreign investment! Downsize it, right-size it, do something, please!”
“Ammmiii!! ” the confines of Minar-e-Pakistan echoed with the shrill screams of their children. “No, go ask your Abbuuuuuu!” all the Amis screamed back.
“Great day to say great day” said the New Agers. They were safe, they thought. They had painted their tinds with Robbialac Weather Shield paint. Green.
“The tube, the tube!” moaned the weatherman still unaware about the rain or the flood.
“We need food and medicine,” pleaded the skinnies.
“Don’t worry,” said the leper leaders of the land. “Our nuclear assets are safe.”
“We need food and medicine,” pleaded the skinnies again.
“The tube, the tube!” The weatherman shouted.
“We need food and medicine, please!” pleaded the skinnies again and again. And again.
“Look. Polio drops!” rumbled the Psycho Bomb Machines.
Switch, flick, boom!
The views expressed by this blogger and in the following reader comments do not necessarily reflect the views and policies of the Dawn Media Group.
Nadeem F. Paracha is a cultural critic and senior columnist for Dawn Newspaper and Dawn.com. He is also the author of two books on the social history of Pakistan, End of the Past and The Pakistan Anti-Hero.
He tweets @NadeemfParacha
