Literary Diarrhoea

It was white in colour, carelessly painted. The canvas of this art was in fact the side panel of an orange phone booth, situated right beside the Rukun Tetangga operations office (which doubles as our Art Class in the daytime). The ink, probably from a spray paint, had dribbled a little before drying up; creating an effect usually reserved for posters of B-grade horror films. I stood for a while, checking with my memory, of this very unusual but hauntingly familiar image I saw in front of my 9-year-old eyes. After a while, impatience got the better of me, and I tugged on my brother’s sleeves and inquired, as would every obedient younger brother.

“It’s a bad word, the gangsters in my school use it,” my 12 year-old elder brother explained.

I stared again.

FUCK.

It looked too simple, too harmless to be a bad word. It was just 4 letters, but it looked like so much more, being sprayed across a public facility, staring out at me with stealth. I needed to probe further.

“How do you pronounce it?” I asked innocently. My brother was evidently annoyed.

“I’ll tell you, only if you promise not to use it ever. And don’t tell Appa I taught you,” he looked almost like my dad when he warned me like this.

“Of course, I promise!”

“Fuck”

“Fuck? Isn’t it FOOOK? Like in Cook?”

“No it’s fuck, now shut up and don’t say that word again. It’s a bad word”

I remember clearly, that was the only word in my mind the whole trip back home.

This really is a true story; I think my brother would vouch for me. But I wouldn’t blame him if he had forgotten about this whole incident. It wasn’t much of an eventful day in his life. But to me, it was a beginning of a great discovery.

I don’t think I need to explain about that experience, involving dictionaries and uncomfortable conversations with elders. My point lies not in that. On the other hand, allow me to concentrate on the matter of bad words and my point of view.

For me personally, fuck is not a bad word at all. In fact, I would say fuck is a really convenient word in casual conversations. For example, I will never be able to tell you how difficult my exam was. Except if I use fuck.

IT WAS FUCKING DIFFICULT.

Or

IT WAS FUCKED UP.

The point is right there, there need be no further inquiry on the level of difficulty. It was just fucking difficult. If I had said it was very difficult, I can bet my ass some idiot would ask me,

“How difficult, can you still pass?”

But when I say it’s fucking difficult, you know what the fuck I mean. Period.

Same goes to post-examination dialogues.

“IM FUCKED”

Same goes to describing how much I studied.

“I STUDIED UP TO 5 IN THE FUCKING MORNING”

Or how much I have yet to study.

“I HAVE 7 FUCKING CHAPTERS LEFT”

No one word has done so much for the English Language than the word Fuck. You either fucking acknowledge that fact or just fuck off.

Now, I have a list of bad words I would like to share with you.

INCOMPETENCE

FEAR

DEPRESSION

MELANCHOLY

DESPAIR

JEALOUSY

MISERY

ANGER

I think you get the picture. All the word Fuck does, is help us paint a better picture, in times when conventional language fails us. But the words above; they represent the growing trend of using big terms to mark ones ineptitude. Those are bad words. Those are words abused by incompetent humans to blame their lack of ability on something external, something out of the reach of their control.

And, what’s more, we have gold-digging, money-spinning doctors, dieticians, psychologists and psychiatrists who jump into the opportunity of making the best out of these bad words. And they pay, for sitting in a fucking shrink’s office and telling him how much the burden of life weighs on their feeble fucking shoulders. It’s ridiculous, for a grown human to blame a break-off in a relationship, for example, for the way his life has turned out. Your girlfriend cheats on you, fucking pick yourself up and move on, bitch! Don’t become an alcoholic or a drug addict! That’s fucking brainless, retard!

And I don’t want to write further, for fear of accidentally using any fucking bad words that might fucking offend the reader.

Fuck, man!

(This is a story my father wrote in his blog on 2nd March, 6 days before polling day. How true it sounds now! Haha, i bet even he didnt think it would become a reality.)

The PM looked exhausted. It had been a grueling campaign, and last night as the results came in, the news had not been good all the time. Expectations and disappointments.

His advisors had been with him since early that morning. How should he look. How should he project himself. What should he say. What questions should he expect and how should he answer them. He was sleepy and just wanted to hit the bed.

He stood and faced the reporters and all who had assembled in the room, and smiled weakly.

“ Asalumualaikum, and a very good morning. I am your PM again this morning (scattered laughter). Yes, last night the results of the election came in, and Narisan Basional has been given a strong mandate to govern this country yet again. We thank the people for the confidence in us, and we promise we will not disappoint you.”

Those present looked at each other. They did not look convinced.

“But it is also a fact that we have not done as well as we hoped. We no longer have the 2/3 majority in Parliament, which we have had all along. Also all the MDC candidates lost. We are deeply disappointed. The Dinnian community now has no representation in the Government now. Even their leader, Masylevu who was the sole minister in our Government lost. But all these will not weaken our resolve to be the Government for the people, of the people, and by the people”, he stopped, swallowing on realizing how hollow this sounded.

“The people have spoken. It is their decision. But we will not forsake the entire Dinnian community just because some of them let us down. We will appoint someone to take care of them. We will make sure they get what they deserve”.

One of the Dinnian reporters present looked up. Was it his imagination, that this sounded rather ominous?

Those present applauded half heartedly. The reporters were ready to ask their questions. But the PM’s eyes were half closed. “No questions”, announced the official. And that was it.

At his palatial mansion, Masylevu sat around in sullen silence with his oversized companions. Several bottles were on the table in front of them. In their alcoholic stupor, each was plotting his own revenge on those who had brought their idyllic existence crashing down.

On the vast lawn of the ex-MP, the group of Mubis sat, sipping their sickeningly sweet syrup. How could this happen ? This was their country, and these lowly Dinnian coolies, who had come here to escape their wretched country, who deserved nothing but the lowest contempt, had thrown this glorious reign into disarray. They fumed within themselves, inconsolable at their loss.

Government office canteen. The Government staff , all coincidentally Mubis as usual, looked thoughtful. What did the PM mean when he said he will make sure the Dinnians will get what they deserve? Did he really intend to reward the Dinnians for what they had done ? In their minds they knew exactly what the Dinnians deserved. And the Government machinery will ensure this.

The group of Dinnian friends were at the Temple. They were all smiles. At last, they had made a statement. Everyone recognised them. Life looked rosy. They looked up at their dilapidated Temple. And the pathetic School next to it. Soon these could look very different. Soon, their lives would be transformed. Their future was assured. We are Lamaysians, they thought proudly.