Satire: I'm a Hindu and I Believe All Muslims are Terrorists (Blog post by Mayank Austen Soofi)
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Venugopalan K M
Apr 27, 2009, 7:31:10 AM4/27/09
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http://hindumuslimindia.blogspot.com/
Read here a beautiful fiction on how the politics of hate gets itself reproduced from insecure minds. and several other posts.
It is half-past seven in the morning. I have just woken up. I slither my hands under my briefs for my morning masturbation. What is this! I can not feel my foreskin! It is missing. It was there when I had gone to sleep last night. I look all over the bed, under the sheets, but it is nowhere. I climb down and feel the floor under the bed with my hands but there is only dust. Where is my foreskin? I open the cupboard but close it back since my foreskin could not have walked by itself.
Suddenly I see my face in the mirror. The reflection staring back at me does not look like me. I had no beard! Till yesterday! But now I have one - a wild bush of thick, long, wiry, black hairs, looking so filthy as if they have not been shampooed since a long time. I am looking ferocious and am scared of myself. I peer closer to the mirror. There is a half-moon mark on my forehead.
What is happening?
I am worried now. I take out my notepad to jot down my anxieties, as I always do in stressful situations. But my hands are not behaving like my hands! They are moving strangely. Instead from left side to the right, my hand is writing from right to left. Oh, my fingers! My fingers are forcing the pen to draw signs and symbols of sinister shapes - all slashes and swords. What script is it? It is Arabic! But how am I able to read it? How do I understand the language so perfectly? Oh, I'm even thinking in Arabic! But I had never read Arabic before. I had never studied it even.
I am shaken. I pick up the phone and dial my girlfriend's number. As she receives the call, 'Allah Ho Akbar' blabbers out of my tongue. I put off the phone.
Allah oh Akbar?
Oh Allah!
No! I mean 'Oh God'.
No! Oh Allah.
Have I become a Muslim?
Am I in a nightmare?
I go out. I know the people in this apartment complex. I had rented this one-room flat, with a kitchenette and a small balcony, around fifteen months back. But no one is recognizing me. The three school-going daughters of my first floor neighbor look strangely at me. I smile at the retired widower in Flat No. 121 but he scowls back at me. I do not know what to do. I decide to go and sit in the park which lies on the other side of the boundary wall.
•
A cop comes and nods his head at me. He asks my name and enquires why I am sitting on the bench. This makes me angry. I was never asked such a question before. I shoot back saying, "I bear witness that there is no god but Allah and I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger of Allah '. The cop stares hard at me, nods his head understandably, and leaves.
Feeling rejuvenated by a sudden rush of masculinity, I walk back into my apartment complex and choosing a flat randomly, knocks at its door. An old lady in a sari appears and glancing at my sight quickly shuts the door. She shouts in a panicked voice from behind the door informing that there is no one at home. Foolish, intolerable woman! I tell her to stop worshipping stone idols and bow to Allah instead.
As I turn, I see a young man formally dressed in a navy-blue tie, white full-sleeve shirt and grey trousers going out, presumably to his office. I know him. He is a Hindu, an engineer working in a software firm in the suburbs. We had passed many evenings together, drinking whiskey and discussing the Muslim problem and that how India should follow the Israeli method in combating Islamic terrorism.
I am now filled with rage thinking of my pre-Islam days. I go to him and ask if he knew me, or like everyone else can no longer recognize me. This Hindu man looks with unrestrained repulsion at me and shakes his head. Keeping a check on my emotions, I request him to give me five minutes of his time. The man is puzzled, appears irritated, checks the time at his wrist watch and wonders loudly how the guards allowed me inside the apartment. This infuriates me and I slap him. I tell him that Muslims are being killed everywhere, in Kashmir, in Iraq, in Chechnya, in Palestine, in Lebanon, and that one day we Muslims will have our revenge against the Zionist-Indian-American conspiracy that wants to destroy all the Muslim people.
The Hindu man, like all Hindus, is scared and quickly goes back to from where he was coming.
I climb up the stairs. My head is feeling hazy with confusion and my mind is full of hatred for all the non-Muslims of the world. But I'm also feeling thankful to Allah that he circumscribed me in the middle of the night and made me a Musslamaan. If only he would have circumscribed all these people, too.
But why did Allah only did it to me? I wonder. Could it be that he has some objective for me in his mind? Does he want to realize some noble purpose for the sake of Islam through me? Am I to be the instrument of the attainment of his holy purpose? Overwhelmed with gratitude, I am determined not to disappoint Allah. I love Allah. He is my master. I can do anything for him.
I can even kill for him.
My musings come to an abrupt death by the sound of footsteps from behind. I stop to give way to two young girls. They are in short skirts and sleeveless tops. The Satan flashing in the shameful flesh of their naked legs and arms is trying to tempt me. I shut my eyes close and turn my face to the other side. Prostitutes! I'm filled with contempt.
The girls have left me shaking. There are no Muslims in this complex. It is disgusting. It is a Jahilya world. They all are Kaafirs here. They have to die. Suddenly it is revealed to me. I am appointed to kill them all. This is the great task Allah has chosen for me.
But how will I proceed with it? I have not even killed a goat in my life? I comfort myself believing if Allah converted me to Islam (albeit late in life), he will also provide the means to carry out his task.
•
I walk back to my flat. I pick up a large Swiss knife, lying on the gas range in the kitchen, and turn it around repeatedly. I press the thumb of my right hand into its sharp edge. The blood seeps out. I lick it.
As I'm going out to kill all the Kaafirs living in this building, I am surprised to find a man sleeping on my bed. He looks familiar but I can not remember where I had seen him. He is stark naked. His foreskin, pitifully covering his penis, is the proof of his despicable unMuslimness. I quietly approach him. Bringing my knife close to his sleeping face, I murmur 'Allah Ho Akbar' and slit his throat.
I wake up in pain. There is a terrible sharp feeling in my neck. Blood is gashing out of it in spurts. I'm writhing in agony. My arms are flaring. I cry but no voice comes out. Suddenly there is darkness....
--
http://venukm.blogspot.com/
Read here a beautiful fiction on how the politics of hate gets itself reproduced from insecure minds. and several other posts.
posted by Mayank Austen Soofi at 1:01 AM
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Fiction: Satire: I'm a Hindu and I Believe All Muslims are Terrorists
I repeat: I'm a Hindu and I believe all Muslims are terrorists and murderers.It is half-past seven in the morning. I have just woken up. I slither my hands under my briefs for my morning masturbation. What is this! I can not feel my foreskin! It is missing. It was there when I had gone to sleep last night. I look all over the bed, under the sheets, but it is nowhere. I climb down and feel the floor under the bed with my hands but there is only dust. Where is my foreskin? I open the cupboard but close it back since my foreskin could not have walked by itself.
Suddenly I see my face in the mirror. The reflection staring back at me does not look like me. I had no beard! Till yesterday! But now I have one - a wild bush of thick, long, wiry, black hairs, looking so filthy as if they have not been shampooed since a long time. I am looking ferocious and am scared of myself. I peer closer to the mirror. There is a half-moon mark on my forehead.
What is happening?
I am worried now. I take out my notepad to jot down my anxieties, as I always do in stressful situations. But my hands are not behaving like my hands! They are moving strangely. Instead from left side to the right, my hand is writing from right to left. Oh, my fingers! My fingers are forcing the pen to draw signs and symbols of sinister shapes - all slashes and swords. What script is it? It is Arabic! But how am I able to read it? How do I understand the language so perfectly? Oh, I'm even thinking in Arabic! But I had never read Arabic before. I had never studied it even.
I am shaken. I pick up the phone and dial my girlfriend's number. As she receives the call, 'Allah Ho Akbar' blabbers out of my tongue. I put off the phone.
Allah oh Akbar?
Oh Allah!
No! I mean 'Oh God'.
No! Oh Allah.
Have I become a Muslim?
Am I in a nightmare?
I go out. I know the people in this apartment complex. I had rented this one-room flat, with a kitchenette and a small balcony, around fifteen months back. But no one is recognizing me. The three school-going daughters of my first floor neighbor look strangely at me. I smile at the retired widower in Flat No. 121 but he scowls back at me. I do not know what to do. I decide to go and sit in the park which lies on the other side of the boundary wall.
•
A cop comes and nods his head at me. He asks my name and enquires why I am sitting on the bench. This makes me angry. I was never asked such a question before. I shoot back saying, "I bear witness that there is no god but Allah and I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger of Allah '. The cop stares hard at me, nods his head understandably, and leaves.
Feeling rejuvenated by a sudden rush of masculinity, I walk back into my apartment complex and choosing a flat randomly, knocks at its door. An old lady in a sari appears and glancing at my sight quickly shuts the door. She shouts in a panicked voice from behind the door informing that there is no one at home. Foolish, intolerable woman! I tell her to stop worshipping stone idols and bow to Allah instead.
As I turn, I see a young man formally dressed in a navy-blue tie, white full-sleeve shirt and grey trousers going out, presumably to his office. I know him. He is a Hindu, an engineer working in a software firm in the suburbs. We had passed many evenings together, drinking whiskey and discussing the Muslim problem and that how India should follow the Israeli method in combating Islamic terrorism.
I am now filled with rage thinking of my pre-Islam days. I go to him and ask if he knew me, or like everyone else can no longer recognize me. This Hindu man looks with unrestrained repulsion at me and shakes his head. Keeping a check on my emotions, I request him to give me five minutes of his time. The man is puzzled, appears irritated, checks the time at his wrist watch and wonders loudly how the guards allowed me inside the apartment. This infuriates me and I slap him. I tell him that Muslims are being killed everywhere, in Kashmir, in Iraq, in Chechnya, in Palestine, in Lebanon, and that one day we Muslims will have our revenge against the Zionist-Indian-American conspiracy that wants to destroy all the Muslim people.
The Hindu man, like all Hindus, is scared and quickly goes back to from where he was coming.
I climb up the stairs. My head is feeling hazy with confusion and my mind is full of hatred for all the non-Muslims of the world. But I'm also feeling thankful to Allah that he circumscribed me in the middle of the night and made me a Musslamaan. If only he would have circumscribed all these people, too.
But why did Allah only did it to me? I wonder. Could it be that he has some objective for me in his mind? Does he want to realize some noble purpose for the sake of Islam through me? Am I to be the instrument of the attainment of his holy purpose? Overwhelmed with gratitude, I am determined not to disappoint Allah. I love Allah. He is my master. I can do anything for him.
I can even kill for him.
My musings come to an abrupt death by the sound of footsteps from behind. I stop to give way to two young girls. They are in short skirts and sleeveless tops. The Satan flashing in the shameful flesh of their naked legs and arms is trying to tempt me. I shut my eyes close and turn my face to the other side. Prostitutes! I'm filled with contempt.
The girls have left me shaking. There are no Muslims in this complex. It is disgusting. It is a Jahilya world. They all are Kaafirs here. They have to die. Suddenly it is revealed to me. I am appointed to kill them all. This is the great task Allah has chosen for me.
But how will I proceed with it? I have not even killed a goat in my life? I comfort myself believing if Allah converted me to Islam (albeit late in life), he will also provide the means to carry out his task.
•
I walk back to my flat. I pick up a large Swiss knife, lying on the gas range in the kitchen, and turn it around repeatedly. I press the thumb of my right hand into its sharp edge. The blood seeps out. I lick it.
As I'm going out to kill all the Kaafirs living in this building, I am surprised to find a man sleeping on my bed. He looks familiar but I can not remember where I had seen him. He is stark naked. His foreskin, pitifully covering his penis, is the proof of his despicable unMuslimness. I quietly approach him. Bringing my knife close to his sleeping face, I murmur 'Allah Ho Akbar' and slit his throat.
I wake up in pain. There is a terrible sharp feeling in my neck. Blood is gashing out of it in spurts. I'm writhing in agony. My arms are flaring. I cry but no voice comes out. Suddenly there is darkness....
--
http://venukm.blogspot.com/
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