Skip to main content

A Ship, A Ship


 Under my bed is Omar’s treasure trove. It is an odd assortment of a few planks of wood, a handle of some discarded racket, a few iron rods, a gigantic nail that serves the purpose of a hammer, and the miraculous scotch tape that can join a few unlikely objects to make dreams come true.

The cave under my bed is considered an ideal repository not just of Omar’s property but his trust as well.

“I know you will never throw it away. Everybody thinks it’s junk, but you will not let anyone touch it, right?” he asks me with no trace of doubt in his eyes about my unflinching loyalty.

“I won’t,” I reiterate my trustworthiness. Don’t we all have treasure troves that can well be junkyards for others? Who knows why something is treasured by someone and for what reason.

“And if you do so….,” here he rolls his eyes, puts his hands on his hips and makes a face depicting all the anger that a six-year-old can muster up. “I will be very angry.” Omar likes to assert his authority from time to time by assuming this eye-rolling-mock-anger pose to make sure that I don’t forget who’s is really the boss.

“Now, don’t scare me. Nobody will be allowed even to sneak a peek at it,” I say.

“Good.” Omar is reassured. I know he believes not only in my allegiance to his cause but my docility as well.

Actually, this preparation against any untoward invasion of his property is driven by an assault on the ship that Omar made using Saif’s wickets as the keel of the ship. And as long as the wickets served as the keel of Omar’s ship, cricket would have been in limbo and a cricket-less world is a major calamity in Saif’s scheme of things. So he dismantled Omar’s ship.

After a decisive waterloo that ensued the dismantling of the ship, Omar collected a few more items and decided to start again. And he selected the cave under my bed to house his building material.

“I will build a ship. And we will go to Karachi,” he decides to reward my loyalty by taking me on a cruise.

Perhaps this is what our intensely personal treasures are meant for: to make a ship for charting the turbulent and exciting waters of life.

Comments

  1. omar can never go to karachi or anywhere else.




    from zainab








    ReplyDelete
  2. I am sure he can go everywhere he wants to...just like Sindbaad :)

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How Selfishia got Rid of Her Feathery Moustache

Selfihsia the selfish hen was unhappy. And understandably so. After all, having a feathery moustache is not the same thing as having a new hairdo or a brand new dress from a well-known boutique. She couldn’t flaunt it.     It didn’t make her feel beautiful. It didn’t even make her feel like an ordinary hen with a few feathers missing. She felt feathery at the wrong places and this made her sad. One day when she was crying and looking at her reflection in the puddle of water near the grapefruit tree, Kayseria strutted toward her. “Selfhisha, I have clucked at the thought and have finally come up with a solution,” she said. All the hens had been thinking about Selfishia’s moustache for a while now. There had been five meetings under the grape fruit tree to get Selfishia out of her predicament. “Really!” Selfisha clucked loudly with hope. Hearing Selfishia’s loud cluck the others came trotting and gathered around her. When the cluck cluck of exci...

Napoleon and His Family in the Land of Lilliputians

As Napoleon the rooster traveled in the white Suzuki pickup van that was taking him to the Land of Lilliputians, he wondered. Yesterday, he along with the five hens who now cackled in the van were put in a separate basket.  They were sold to the Lilliputians. Napoleon looked at the five hens who were now under his guardianship. “What a diversified lot,” he thought. Somebody cackled in soft purring tones. He knew it must be Chandni , the eldest, the prettiest of the hens. She was snowy white with black dots.  Yes, there she was, sitting snugly near the window; oblivious to the world around her except the warm egg which she had just laid. Chandni was good at it: laying eggs day after day. “The ever maternal Chandni,” thought Napoleon and smiled indulgently at her. However, at times it irritated him that Chandi treated her eggs as if they merited a pride of performance award. “As if this is the only act of creativity in the world! But then this is a hen...

Lessons in a Yellow Scarf

A yellow strip of cloth, with mauve ribbons sewn at the ends, hangs on my computer table.  No, I have not draped my table to ward off some ancient or present demons.  Much as I believe in charms, I have found them impotent when it comes to demons. Demons, whether ancient or newly befriended, are here to stay. So I might as well make peace with them. The yellow strip of cloth, which gently sways as I grope my way through words, is a scarf that is supposed to drape my neck and not my computer table. It’s a scarf even if it doesn’t look like one. It’s a scarf because Omar says it is; he would know because he designed it. It was after much cajoling that I was allowed to hang the scarf on the table instead of adorning my neck with it. I had to rest my case on a built-in engineering defect: that of having too thick a neck on which such a beautiful scarf wouldn’t look becoming. The cutting, sewing and designing business is the latest craze sweeping the Land of Li...