(This is the Part Two of the three-part series write-up. Read the Part One here)

The following is a work of fiction and satire and any resemblance to any person or thing would be utterly shocking

 Please do not proceed if you are easily offended

After ‘engineering’ my own break-up I confined myself to my room regretting the TRATH– the thunderbolt- I had brought upon myself. My gaze fixed on the J&K Bank calendar pegged on the wall- the silhouette image of a shikara afloat on a Dal lake, the sun sliding behind the mountains, with words My Sun Sets to Rise Again written against it. I contemplated the words well aware that my sun has set forever leaving me in perpetual darkness.

After the episode, I had become a recluse: I didn’t talk to anyone for days; deactivated all my social networking accounts; took to smoking and listened to the British Band Coldplay’s melancholic songs on loop. Their newest album Ghost Stories had hit the stands after a tragic split of its lead vocalist with his wife (Iron Man babe Gwyneth Paltrow) of ten years. So I could easily relate with the soulful lyrics penned by the writer. Always in My Head was my favorite number.

It wasn’t working though. She was too ingrained in my heart and mind to forget.

I had even tried watching Sunny Leone’s exceedingly popular “How to bust stress” videos on Ted Talks. But it was all futile. The more I tried to banish her thoughts from my mind, the more it aggravated my plight.  Meanwhile sleep eluded me for many nights and I felt a sharp pang in my heart that soon permeated my very being.

I knew my self-destructive behavior wouldn’t lead me to anywhere so I put on an all-is-well fake smiling facade and resumed my normal day-to-day activities. But all my efforts came to a naught as my friends could easily see-through my veneer of normalcy. They could easily guess what had afflicted me and offered their sympathetic advises to help me extricate from my tight spot.

One of the pitying friends advised masturbation ‘exercise’ as the panacea to all my problems. I am a fitness freak since late teens and have worked hard to chisel my physique using the most advanced exercises in gym. But I was quite new to this ‘exercise’ and, frankly, even quite skeptic about its effectiveness. Nevertheless, I tried my ‘hand’ (congress ka haath…) at it and derived immense pleasure from the proceedings. I indulged myself wholly until my lower back cursed the heaven out of me.

I do not doubt the sincere intentions of my friend, who wanted to alleviate my suffering, but I was pushing myself in the throes of another problem where from even Hakim Balwant Singh and Dr Pritpal Singh (two faces that are displayed prominently everyday in the inside pages of local Urdu Dailies. These two have been raking in the moolah by treating Kashmir’s erectile dysfunction and malfunction since the eruption of militancy) couldn’t have saved my grace.

Another friend who had always played the mediator and aide between me and “her” and often brokered the truce whenever we fought was now too busy to offer his advice. He was now obsessed with a wicked plan that would have immortalized his name (for all the wrong reasons).

His “dream project” was to annihilate all the so-called mallas of Kashmir. He harbored a deep contempt for Mallas (Syeds, Qadris, Qureshis and yes Shahs) as he believed they derived undue advantage of their supposed superior lineage.

The care-takers of all the shrines across Kashmir were these “wretched creatures” who for their personal gains had commercialized the religion of Allah. They sought hefty ‘donations’ outside the entrances of revered shrines from the naive people- who are too deluded to think all their wishes will come true and their sins will be purged through this ‘noble’ deed. But alas!

I was a Shah so that made me a potential enemy. No, I was an open enemy. But my friend had promised to kill me last for following reasons: He wanted to write a book detailing the reasons for his deep-rooted hatred for Mallas; and glorifying his cause, ala Hitler. The book was aptly titled Mein Kampf against Mallas.

The catch: My friend was very poor with English language and only I could “edit” (read rewrite) his book which might otherwise sound German. In the past I had rewritten a number of his horrible write-ups which ended up earning him a lot of praise (which in their normal “unedited” forms would have ended up in the Recycle bins of the computers of Editors, with a few hairs pulled out and buttons snapped in rage and disbelief).

I want to remind my readers here that I loved “her” to distraction so another reason to part with her was to protect her (she was Khar) from being the “collateral damage” in this epic confrontation of Mallas with the Hitler reincarnate .

I had often debated with my friend (who was a Bhat) with evidence that non-mallas were an even bigger scourge on the planet earth and needed to be dealt with an iron-fist, brickbats, bamboo sticks, hammers, sickles and machetes. Gulzar ‘Peer’ (fake godman) was actually a Bhat, Mushtaq ‘Peer’ (MBBS scam accused) was a Bhat, Akbar Lone (who while delivering a marathon lecture for six non-stop hours, on morality, in United Nations Security Council had inadvertently waved a middle finger at Ban-ki-Moon) was a non-malla. Bloody Misbah-ul-Haq was a non-malla as well. But my argument was always greeted with stony silence and if I tried to be too vociferous, he threatened to kill me first.

Yet another of my friends was outright cynical about this “love business”. He explicitly opined: “Love is lust.” My answer was categorical as well. I assured him that my love for “her” was platonic but that didn’t do much to convince him to change his harsh stance towards love. He called me a “shur”- a kid- and boasted about his affairs, with countless girls, with great relish.

And just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, a new deadly disease hit Kashmir. Khoon rayzi virus was spreading fast throughout the valley, making men infertile and causing unceasing irritation up their posteriors.

It was time to save one’s ass and what lies at its other end.

Mumbai was calling.

(To be continued…)