With Jeter, Nin and Harris’s lecture ending an hour earlier than the day before, it felt

as if we had the whole day set out for us…just waiting to be explored. While they

attended their lectures, I thought about going to meet Bashir and asking him if he was

able to send money to his family after all or not. Considering how rushed our trip to

Left Arrow was, we did not run into the postman like I had hoped, and planned on, in

doing my new friend a solid. But, just like the postman, there was no Bashir to be

seen anywhere.

So I began to stroll around. The notice board mentioned the new class timings for

the scientists and politicians. That got me interested in seeing how they operated and

what they looked like. But once more, before that was realised into reality too,

something rather unexpected took place instead.

As I was about to get into the lift, my shoulder was tapped three times. It was

Former Judge Firdous.

‘So, your daddy wants to be a part of our world, eh?’ she said in the most

patronizing manner humanly possible.

‘I think we all live in the same world because we breathe the same air,’ was my

nonchalant reply, ‘and we experience the same seasons, summer, autumn, winter,

spring…’ I depicted with each finger going up.

‘You think you possess wisdom, but really, you possess stupidity,’ she resumed

speaking in that scathing tone, ‘you run the risk of displeasing all our ancestors with

your….antics.’

Now this was rather odd. A judge who ought to resort to nothing but empirical facts

and figures, talked to me about displeasing ancestors? That was purely mythological

and superstitious. But, I had another point to grill her on.

‘So you acknowledge that we have the same ancestors,’ I began.

‘Precisely what I just said, you plebeian,’ she asserted back, ‘I would not expect you

to know the intricacies behind our history.’

‘When you use “our” do you mean your and the eliteratti’s combined history, or

“our” as in a double whammy against me to not know about the similar origin of our

species?’ I knew what I meant and was aware it got the message across. She just

admitted we had no separate history. Only one combined genesis. Although by the

look on Judge Firdous’s face it seemed I spoke in obfuscated metaphors.

Her lack of intimidation in person accounted for the candid conversation we were

inadvertently having.

‘Be as over smart as you possibly can…but with the new law I will pass, there will

be nothing stopping me from putting you behind bars,’ she complemented her bizarre

statement with a menacing twitch of the eyebrow.

‘Under the criminal constitution of Silverns Town, you are not permitted to take up

any such action against me unless I commit one of the three felonies, a) murder, b)

theft or c) unwarranted physical abuse. Unless, of course, I am framed,’ I remarked, to

her surprise at my specific knowledge regarding the town’s legal system.

‘Well, you never know with your kind. Truthfully, we would all feel much safer if

your entire lot was locked away. But then mutations are rare, with you being no

exception, lower than the miscellaneous, if it be so possible. A blotch on a near

perfect system, is what it is,’ she spoke in her sustained icy demeanour, ‘a constant

threat. You terrorist.’

Such neutrality, justice and righteousness of purpose this lady imbibes! It is no

mistake she was chosen to look the part. An outward façade. I am glad I heard Jeter

say this as I will hold on to it, because truly, Richard Golding was right when he said

man is both “heroic and sick.”

Man is and always will be an oxymoron. A moron.

‘You know in fact, I would like you to get a better image of history,’ she said,

breaking my mode of reflection, ‘consider yourself very lucky to be receiving free

education from me.’

‘I am giddy with joy,’ was my monotone, sarcastic reply.

‘As you should be. And they say the eliteratti do not indulge in charity work,

tabloids!’ she said while stroking her long red robe skin.

She motioned towards her personal bodyguard to accompany her as she was

travelling with me and that was dangerous. After all she was not as vacuous as her

brother to let me roam around freely like some unchecked dengue mosquito. I ought

to be put in observation.

We got into her car and were driven to the grand eliteratti museum. The sense of

grandeur that engulfed it was reminiscent of old British infrastructure in Anarkali

within the heart of the city of Lahore. Chalky white, with intricate patterned designs, I

could not help but think of richly elaborate meringue pies that all of us had heartily

devoured during the carnival. Perhaps, being randomly escorted to museums by an

elitist judge helped work up a random appetite.

As we ascended the steps, I could see several miscellaneous security guards

sporadically placed to maximise protection. It just seemed like a formality, but with

crazy rebels on the loose you could never be too careful, like the rebel by birth being

lead up the stairs to be “reminded” of inadequacy.

The inside of the museum was daunting. It was huge, hollow and empty. Though

rich in its attire, it had a dead spirit. Immediately, Judge Firdous told me to follow her

into a rather stifling narrow hallway. The hallway had a deep plum carpet trail that

was sandwiched between two walls full of pictures and portraits. It was dimly lit, and

had a very depressing stink in the barely there air.

‘See here,’ she said, ‘every single image on the left wall is full of the pioneers of

law, all the creative personas who were born to carry on this great legacy forward. It

is a monarchy, we are the blue bloods.’

She paused thinking her statements would incur some sort of reaction in me, but I

stayed quiet.

‘And as you can see on the right side, we have the eliteratti, responsible for founding

this great town.’

There was an uneven space towards the end of the wall after the three pictures, like a

portrait had been taken down. I knew exactly which one it was.

‘So you can see both these very important walls have one element in common, no

miscellaneous. Of course, I am not even counting where you fall,’ Judge Firdous said

triumphantly, ‘I feel like a wonderful service has been provided today. Reality is a

marvellous gift of nature.’

Once more, I just stayed silent, while the judge gave an appraising little snicker.

Though I was intrigued by how she could not really understand. The museum was

actually called Zindagi ke Mausam, in an ode to the conundrum of flavours and

vicissitudes life presented through its hard working and talented people. But there was

unnaturalness about the affair because there are never only three seasons. The failure

to recognise a fourth was a grave psychological error. That empty slot on the wall

represented so much more than mere elitist lauding. And like a sixth sense, there is a

fifth season: the monsoon. Kind of like the unsaid. So to discard my “type”

completely, also did not keep in line with the divisions of existence.

‘Come in here,’ she said, opening a little door.

The real reason behind Judge Firdous’s act of ‘kindness’ in ‘educating’ me about

history was revealed. It all made sense.