15th
Relfections on Umar Akmal
One mild winter evening in Lahore, on a dirt walk-way before a two-story shopping plaza—as fluorescent tube lights muscled the dying sun, and traffic settled into rhythmic monotones—a stick of sugar cane found itself being gnawed on by Umar Akmal. Slackening his jaw, tilting his head, Umar hitched the blunt end of the stick on his lower canines. Then, the incisors descended—like the drum beat of industry, they scraped bits of cane-bark from the base. Dribbles of sweetness splashed onto the epileptic tongue. Bruised, but still whole, the cane felt itself being flung around, its wounds stinging from the rushing air. Respite there was none. From the other end, the assault was relentless—shards were ripped off the side and spit into the dirt; teeth and more teeth cut and pulled, gnashed and tore. The violence was directionless, an orchestra of pain. The cane was losing juice and losing it fast, a few more seconds and…
A final blow—it was over.
Night fell on the sugar cane. Now, discarded, dirt encrusted, a flickering tube light administering its last rights, the sugar cane lay calmy, a warm breeze skimming its fractured surface.
But before the Earth fades, and the ghosts of Lahore descend, an image flashes before the sugar cane: The Teeth. The horror, the horror.
