Author Archives: kinkminos

About kinkminos

Call me lazybones (ain't got no time to waste away)

First of all, thanks to Allah

another skewed perspective by kinkminos
__________

So Pakistan finally defeated Australia in a test match. “Hallelujah,” if you’re an ethnophobic Anglophiliac like myself. “Shukr alhamdolillah,” if your thot processes have more of an Urdu-medium bent.

The attendant frailties exposed during the match are immaterial to the majority of cricket-mad Pakistanis. The lack of commitment and self-belief; the absence of any sort of plan or an attacking approach; the insha’allah masha’allah subhanallah state of mind… kiss the ground as we bow to the heavens in gratitude to the only force we accept as relevant in any clash, confrontation, encounter or conflict.

So what? We’re Packies. We play (and follow) cricket the way we live our lives; with an unshakeable belief in the almighty and his Continue reading

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Filed under cricket, sport

Three cheers for the Pretorian Abdominal Guards

A globule view by one kinkminos

Call me pedantic, but am I the only one who sees the irony in staging the INDIAN Premier League in South Africa? Surely now that the new venue has been decided this megamegabuck event should be renamed. Perhaps something like the International Premier League (which, for one, would save significant amounts of money which would otherwise be spent on redesigning the logo) (not that cash is something the IPL syndicate is in any way short of).

On the other hand this move speaks volumes for the way in which globalisation has become an ineluctable part of the very fabric of Continue reading

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Filed under cricket, Humour, India

cadet bilawal at boot camp

some mournings were better than others
to get out of bed for
and some mornings
you couldn’t find a fella willing to wave
at fighter jets flying in formation

minos – feb 2009

 

 

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Filed under Pakistan, poetry, Politics

untitted poyum #159

serpentine along the wooded path
a groove laid down in time to you
and your inter-cendiary altercations
with ahmetergun and the man from la mancha
and his own man eeyore. legendary
altercations spun into ever
twining tailgating of threadbare impulses
frayed at the centres but not at the seam
and i a dull and muddle-headed curse upon
all and no one in particular
to look on it later in retrovian vanity
you might be excused your bad taste
but not your deplorable vulnerability to charm

me, noss! – nov 2008

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Filed under poetry

On the coronation of Good King Obama the First

cartwheeling along my merry way
to parts hitherto unknown, i paused
for a moment to collect my thots,
which had been jostling around my
half-fried bheja in all the
upside-down-and-all-arounding, happy
(my thots) to be allowed a chance to
go walkabout, instead of gathering dust
amongst the farther reaches of
my greying matter.

i had lost my bearings, which
in and of itself was not
a worrying thing, for as i told you
up above, i had started out by
putting on my explorer’s hat (lost
somewhere along the way, i have to say).

my thots, though free, stayed jumbled,
but my eyes were captivated by
the sight of mother T and chandragupta
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Death to Infielders, Chapter IV

a shortish story by kinkminos
—–

Hashim leaned back against the slimegreen wall of the Government hospital, straring blankly at the fluids flowing through the various IV-lines hooked up to his brother’s battered body, and this one line kept looping inside his head: “Well, here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into!”

He’d been trying and trying to remember where he’d heard that line. A childhood memory? For sure. A good memory, too. A happy one. And it sounded so… familiar. If his brother could speak right now, this may well be the first thing he would say to Hashim.

“Well, here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into, bhai jaan!”

And Hashim had to admit that he would have a point. After all, whatever the state of the cause-and-effect cycle in the broader scheme of things, it was, sensu stricto, Hashim’s fault that Khadim had been present, wrongtime-wrongplace, at the site of the blast. “Hashim bachha, we’re out of Marmite,” Ammi-ji had said. “Meri jaan, zara run down to Agha’s na, and get me small pot. Your father will be back from office soon.”

Hashim’s father had, post-Ramzan, taken to munching slices of buttered and Marmited bread with his post-office pre-dinner tea. Before that it had been buttered-scones-ooh-la-la, lathered with homemade raspberry jam and – before that – any one of Ammi-ji’s world-famous mixed-fruit chutneys with roghni roti. Ammi-ji was an enthusiastic preserver. Of jams and pickles and unhappy memories. And of the fragile sanity of a family loosely bound together by the tightest of lips.

Abba’s most notorious evening snack, the one they all remembered with wrinkled noses and wry smiles, had been sevruga caviar on melba toast. That menu item had lasted just three days (thank God). That is, for as long as the solitary tin presented to him with much fanfare by Basit Uncle on his return from Baku had lasted. Abba had offered to share it with them, but all had politely declined. “Heh, so much more for me then,” he had smiled, before gingerly taking a bite.

Ammi-ji later told Hashim and Khadim that Abba couldn’t really stand the stuff, and only ate it cos that’s what sophisticated English pipples ate, y’know, y’know. And so he could brag about it at the Marine Club, or whenever he met Basit Uncle and his cronies at some high-funty shaadi or other. “I’m telling you,” she had smiled, “your Abba heaved a sigh of relief when that foul stuff finally finished.”

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Filed under Islamism, Karachi, Pakistan, Terrorism

Death to Infielders, Take Five

typed by kinkminos sometime in octomber

“Woke up this morning and found myself dead” is the working title of a film treatment i’m working on at the moment. Hardly an original title, as hard core fans of the late Jimi Hendrix will testify. You have to admit, though, that as kitschy commentary on the state of affairs of the current affairs of state, it does have a certain moribund relevance to the vexatious theme of escalating puritanicalism. 

“Come on, let’s do it again,” sang Peter Frampton. 

The structure of the story conforms to the basic three-act action-flick formula. There is, of course, a mian hero, representing an heroic class of White-hatted folk. These are Good People. Kind people. The kind of people who help the old and the infirm and the respectable. Who give unstintingly of themselves and never forget to say “masha’allah” when admiring the cherubic cheeks of clear-skinned toddlers. They are not prone to prejudice, except towards the darker-complexioned, and one or two of the lesser ethnic groups of our purestate. But then that hardly counts, right? Let’s face it, you wouldn’t want your daughter marrying a Bengali, ya?

Our hero, a morally upright member of an uptight community, finds himself, as is often the case, unwittingly pitted against the forces of darkness, led by Continue reading

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Filed under Identity, Islamism, Pakistan, Religion, Terrorism