Normally when I come from Islamabad, I met with my Mushtaq and Irfan on the next day in high school Jamrud, where they are teachers. This is the same school I went to. Whenever I come to this school, it reminds those old days when I was a student. I was on PT team, a drill in which students exercise in unison. I was on this team since 5th grade. To look beautiful, we also tied colorful handkerchiefs to our fingers. My position was in one of the outer columns and in the second row. Our instructor was very strict. He hit us with stick when we were making errors. I didn’t it like much. The instructor told us that he would spare us as we advanced to 9th grade. In the 9th grade, I was not spared. I protested but the instructor hit me very badly saying that my height was short, and so I was still suitable for the drill.
There are several playing grounds in the premises of the school. The classrooms make an E-shape. In front of the classes are four beautiful lawns. In the east are the lower grades and higher grades are in the west.
Today when I enter the building, Irfan and other teachers are sitting under the shade of a tree in one of the lawns.
“Assalamu-alaikum.” I say.
“Please, come here. Sit here.” One of the teachers says.
“Thanks.” I sit next to Irfan, light a cigarette and put my wristwatch on the table.
“I like your style. As soon you sit, you keep your watch next to you. I observe you, you never forget it when leaving.” Irfan giggles.
“Yes, it is a kind of in my subconscious I never forget it.” “Where’s Mushtaq?” I look around.
“There he is. Speaking of the devil and he is here.” Irfan says
“Hey Shahid.” Mushtaq gives me hug. “Sorry, I was mailing my assignment to Alama Iqbal Open University.”
“I’m glad many teachers are benefiting from the distance learning of Alama Iqbal Open University.” I notice other teachers are also working on their assignments.
“I’m doing B.Ed.” One teacher says.
“I’m working on master’s in history.” Another says.
“I’m hot. Let’s sit in the staffroom under a fan.” Mushtaq wipes sweat from his forehead.
“It’s nice breeze here. Maybe, you’ve walked in the sun.” I say.
“Let’s go to the staffroom.” Irfan nudges me.
The staffroom is big but only few chairs are here because the staff likes to sit in the veranda or in the lawn.
“Congratulation Shahid on your engagement.” Irfan puts naswar – snuff – in his mouth.
“Thank you.”
“Congrats Shahid.” Mushtaq also wishes me.
“Does she go to college?” Irfan asks.
“Yes, she is a second year student in Home Economics College, Peshawar.” I say.
“You are lucky, your life partner is educated.” Mushtaq says.
“In fact, I was here for something else. Can we meet tonight? Maybe at our place. I have a new theory.” I say.
“Did you again challenge Einstein’s theory?” Irfan jokes.
“It’s not a daytime discussion. We need a night-long discussion with drinks.” I say.
“We’re curious to learn about your new theory. I think we’re free tonight. We can come.” Mushtaq says.
“Perfect. I’m going to go to Karkhano Market to bring lamb for Bar B Que. Let’s enjoy. I’m excited.” I say.
We have a big hujra. My brother, Abdur Rahim Afridi, is a political figure. He has held several political gatherings and musical concerts in the hujra. Hundreds of people have attended these gatherings. Attached to the hujra is an aluminum factory in which utensils are manufactured which are then supplied to various cities – Peshawar, Swat, Karak,…
It’s evening. Rauf, our servant, have just distilled Jamrud water. We also call it Jamrud water. I ask Rauf to reserve two bottles for us.
“Uncle, your friends are in the office” Israr comes over. Israr is the nephew of my sister-in-law. Not only my own nephews, but all youngsters call me uncle. Many people get offended when you them uncle. It means you are too old to be called an uncle. But, for respect, my youngsters call me the English word ‘uncle’, which means I’m educated. The actual words in Pashto are kaka – uncle on paternal side – and Mama – uncle on maternal side. There are two other interesting words troper – cousin on maternal side – and tarboor – cousin on paternal side. We Afridis call each other troper. It means we are friends. Tarboor is not used in a good way. Don’t be a tarboor. It means don’t be an enemy. A tarboor shares land with you but a troper doesn’t.
**
Next to the main room is an office used for the factory.
“Assalamu-alaikum.” I greet Irfan and Mushtaq.
Abdur is on phone.
“Let’s go to the other room.” I say.
The main guestroom is big. There are no chairs or beds in it. It’s fully carpeted. Mats are placed on the floor along the walls. A thookdaan – a spitting container for naswar – and an ashtray are put in front of each mat.
I leave Irfan and Mushtaq in the room and set the grill for Bar B Que, which is in the courtyard.
“Shahid leave it to me. You don’t know how to make tikka. You’ll burn it, haha.” Irfan joins me.
“Really, Thank you. Please, you take care of it. Let me go home to make salad.” I say.
“Slow down Shahid. Your gait is very fast.” Irfan shouts after me.
On the back of the hujra is our house. Inside the boundary wall of the main property are three houses and a barren garden which was once very green. Abdur Rahim; my other brother Gul Rahim; and my nephew, Hafiz Ur Rehman; and I live here. Hafiz father has passed away. My other brother Laiq Khan, and the family of Manan, who passed away too, live in our childhood home in Teddi Bazaar. Teddi bazaar is about a half-an-hour walk from here. Mother lives in Teddi Bazar and sometimes she stays with us here. My father has also passed away.
Abdur’s house is made of concrete, not like our childhood house which is made of mud. There is one living room. Three sofas are placed in U shape, a TV in front of it. A dish antenna is installed on the rooftop. Next to living room is a kitchen, then Abdur’s room, then is the room of his children. Next to the children room is my room. My room is in the east, facing the kitchen. By my room is a basement. Outside the rooms is a big veranda and a frontyard down the veranda.
**
“Shahid, you’re here. Mushtaq and Irfan were asking for you.” Abdur comes home.
I’m sitting in the living room.
“What are you watching? Are you crying? Anyone said something to you.” Abdur worries.
“I’m watching this show of an old man. I didn’t watch it from the beginning. I don’t know name of the show. It is an Indian channel. See this old man; he is kicked out of the house by his sons. He doesn’t say anything but quietly lives in the garage.” I wipe off my tears.
“But what made you so emotional.” Abdur laughs.
“The older one gets, the wiser one becomes.” I shake my finger. “Elderly people see everything, but they do not complain. God opens the treasure of knowledge on them the older they get, but they don’t show off.”
“Are you referring to mother? She’s very dear to me, but, you know, she loves Manan’s children more, and fights always with Sajida.”
I’m the youngest in my brothers and sisters. I don’t say anything, but it really hurts my feelings when I hear bad words about mother from my brothers. Mother has always fought for me with my brothers. She would take money from my brothers and give it to me, and I would buy books with that.
**
It’s 10 p.m. Perfect time for discussion. I take a pen and a clipboard and go to hujra.
Sadiq, our watchman, is in the veranda, making a cigarette of chars. Mushtaq is also sitting with him.
I go straight to room.
“Irfan, can I turn off the air-condition? The room is very cold. Or I may have a high fever.” I say.
“Let me feel your forehead. It’s cold. What’s the problem, you’re shivering?” Irfan notes.
“Never mind. Let’s start the discussion. The tonight topic is….”
“Shahid, why are you talking so rapidly? What’s wrong?” Irfan observes.
“What?” I pour whiskey in glass and swallow it. “Who brought the whisky?”
The hot spirit passes through my throat and then through my esophagus and then enters my stomach. It radiates all through my body. I take a deep breath, and recline on a pillow by the wall, putting my hands under my head.
“Abdur Rahim gifted us the whisky. He put away the tara.” Irfan says.
“Sorry, I was smoking with Sadiq.” Mushtaq enters.
“Shahid is very excited. The tonight topic, I think, is very special.” Irfan says.
I sit up, flip the Gold Leaf packet – my favorite brand – and light a cigarette.
“Are we ready?” I adjust my eyewear.
We sit in the corner away from air-condition. I’m still cold.
“What’s the topic?” Mushtaq leans back.
“It’s about the Theory of Everything. Rather it is more about who will discover such an exceptional theory.
“Who” Mushtaq raises his eyebrows.
“We’ll talk about the who part later. Let me first explain what a true ToE – the theory of everything – is. String theory and quantum gravity explore only physical aspects of the nature. They cannot be ToE. A true ToE works like a machine. Question in and answer out. No question will remain unanswered. No mystery will remain. No death. Forever life. A true ToE is key to paradise.” I sip from my glass and take a puff.
“No death. Is it possible?” Irfan surprises.
“In future, death will be used like anesthesia to treat patients during surgery.” I remark.
“Now the who part.” Mushtaq can’t wait.
“Did you hear the Einstein’s quote, ‘God does not play dice.’ God may not play dice, but he does play hide and seek. He appears and disappears – comes and goes.” I say.
“I smell something from your mouth. Tell us clearly, do you believe in God? Do not talk in codewords.?” Mushtaq says.
“Let’s go to that corner. Take your drinks.” I point to another corner in the room.
In the other corner, I continue. “No, I don’t believe in God. Let’s go back to the old corner.”
In the old corner, I say, “I’m a rider of two boats. I’m an atheist in one boat and a theist in the other one.” I say.
“Thanks for the clarification. Can you now explain the who part?” Mushtaq reminds me.
“Here is how it goes. Let me first tell you a joke of two philosophers. One philosopher is a theist and the other is an atheist. They are debating all night in favor of their ideologies, but they cannot convince each other. The hot discussion continues until next morning. Their arguments are so strong that by morning the theist becomes an atheist and the atheist turns a theist. They convince each other but lose their own faiths.”
Laughter.
“Something like this is happening here. I’m thinking how to make it simple. An atheist prophet will emerge. I prophet who denies God. A bad man but not a fake prophet. In past, God wanted to be praised and worshipped. For this, He sends prophets, who were people of good manners. People followed them. Now, God wants to be defied and not to be worshipped. For this, He sends a person, who preaches that God does not exist.” I bend down to take notes.
“What’s his name? Is that you.” Mushtaq quizzes.
“Monologue. Mr. Monologue.” I at once say.
“Mr. Monologue, hmm. This is his name?” Irfan says.
“An atheist prophet. A bad man but not a fake prophet. Can you break it up in parts? I don’t get it?” Mushtaq demands.
“Mr. Monologue is a super-genius person. Give him any problem, he’d solve it instantly. He also cures patients and raises the dead.”
“Is he Jesus?” Irfan guesses.
“But what makes him bad? So far he looks a good man.” Mushtaq notes.
“He does bad things so that he is not worshipped. He kills people. Rapes women in public. Walks naked. And in times he flies.”
“Wait a minute.” Irfan pauses me. “Your theory resembles the Imam Mehdi theory in Islam. Imam Mehdi will come before the Day of Judgment. He will be assisted by Jesus Christ to kill Dajaal.”
“Irfan, Shahid’s Mr. Monologue character is more than that. It is in fact an amalgamation of Einstein, Jesus, Imam Mehdi and Dajjal. It’s interesting.” Mushtaq draws the conclusion.
“It’s four in the morning. I think we should go to sleep. We may talk about this another time.” I say. The discussion with Mushtaq and Irfan fully charges me and more interesting ideas come to mind.
Mr. Monologue 
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