Maqsood Qureshi's Blog: April 2008

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Double Jeopardy

1 : the putting of a person on trial for an offense for which he or she has previously been put on trial under a valid charge : two adjudications for one offense

2 : considerable danger or trouble from two sources

Double Jeopardy

Snakes and Ladders: Pictorial Representation of my Love Story!

Sunday, April 27, 2008

Maps and Filters

Whatever the outside world is really like, we use our senses to explore and map it. The world is an infinity of possible sense impressions and we are able to perceive only a very small part of it. That part we can perceive is further filtered by our unique experiences, culture, language, beliefs, values, interests and assumptions. Everyone lives in their unique reality built from their sense impressions and individual experiences of life, and we act on the basis of what we perceive our model of the world.

The world is so vast and rich that we have to simplify to give it meaning. Map making is a good analogy for what we do; it is how we make meaning of the world. Maps are selective, they leave out as well as give information, and they are invaluable for exploring the territory. The sort of map you make depends on what you notice, and where you want to go.

The map is not the territory it describes. We attend to those aspects of the world that interest us and ignore others. The world is always richer than the ideas we have about it. The filters we put on our perceptions determine what sort of world we live in.Very narrow beliefs, interests and perceptions will make the world impoverished, predictable and dull. The very same world can be rich and exciting. The difference lies not in the world, but in the filters through which we perceive it. We have many natural, useful and necessary filters. Language is a filter. It is a map of our thoughts and experiences, removed a further level from the real world. Think for a moment what the word 'beauty' means to you. No doubt you have memories and experiences, internal pictures, sounds and feelings that let you make sense of that word. Equally, someone else will have different memories and experiences and will think about that word in a different way. Who is right? Both of you, each within your own reality. The word is not the experience it describes, yet people will fight and sometimes even die believing the map is the territory.

Introducing NLP Neuro-Linguistic Programming / Joseph O'Connor & John Seymour

Maps and Filters

Beliefs

A good metaphor for the effect of limiting beliefs is the way a frog's eye works. A frog will see most things in its immediate environment, but it only interprets things that move and have a particular shape and configuration as food. This is a very efficient way of providing the frog with food such as flies. However, because only moving black objects are recognized as food, a frog will starve to death in a box of dead flies. So perceptual filters that are too narrow and too efficient can starve us of good experiences, even when we are surrounded by exciting possibilities, because they are not recognized as such.

Introducing NLP Neuro-Linguistic Programming / Joseph O'Connor & John Seymour

Beliefs

Introducing NLP Neuro-Linguistic Programming / Joseph O'Connor & John Seymour

Rhetorical QUESTION

Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

Did you ever see this campus? (That is merely a rhetorical question. Don't let it annoy you.)

. . .

I started to tell you about the campus. I wish you'd come for a little visit and let me walk you about and say: "That is the library. This is the gas plant, Daddy dear. The Gothic building on your left is the gymnasium, and the Tudor Romanesque beside it is the new infirmary."

. . .

I wish you'd come and take tea some day and let me see if I like you. But wouldn't it be dreadful if I didn't? However, I know I should.

JUDY.

P.S. I looked in the glass this morning and found a perfectly new dimple that I'd never seen before. It's very curious. Where do you suppose it came from?

Daddy-Long-Legs / Jean Webster

Rhetorical QUESTION

Long Distances

I often sit down to a letter not because I intend writing anything of importance to you, but just to touch a piece of paper which you will be holding in your hand.

-- Sinyavsky

Long Distances / Fabienne Marsh

http://www.fabiennemarsh.com/work3.htm

Long Distances

I often sit down to a letter not because I intend writing anything of importance to you, but just to touch a piece of paper which you will be holding in your hand.

-- Sinyavsky

Long Distances / Fabienne Marsh

http://www.fabiennemarsh.com/work3.htm

Long Distances

I often sit down to a letter not because I intend writing anything of importance to you, but just to touch a piece of paper which you will be holding in your hand.

-- Sinyavsky

Long Distances / Fabienne Marsh

http://www.fabiennemarsh.com/index.htm

Long Distances

I often sit down to a letter not because I intend writing anything of importance to you, but just to touch a piece of paper which you will be holding in your hand.

-- Sinyavsky

Long Distances / Fabienne Marsh

http://www.fabiennemarsh.com/index.htm

Sunday, April 20, 2008

Snail's pace!

Katha

A "profit-for-all" nonprofit organization, Katha works in the broad areas of language, culture and translation, as well as poverty alleviation. Story and storytelling are the two powerful tools we use as publishers, teachers and agents of change.

Founded in 1988 by Geeta Dharmarajan, Katha is one of India’s leading publishing houses and NGOs. Our work includes storytelling, the publication of translations and children’s books, as well as literacy, education and community development.

One of the few publishing houses in India to focus on translation, Katha brings out quality translations in 21 Indian Bhashas (languages). It not only publishes children’s books but also poetry, academic books, short stories, plays, novels and novellas.

With it’s focus on education, Katha runs a school for slum-children, as well as the Tamasha School on Wheels for the street children in New Delhi. There are also Katha-Lisu Schools situated on the India-Myanmar border and in Arunachal Pradesh.

An organization committed to community development, Katha is strongly pro-poor. More than 1500 women are members of the Maa Mandal. Besides this, the Bapu Mandal, the Balika Mandal and the Shopkeepers Guild work closely for the economic resurgence of the community.

Katha's major activities include the Katha Awards for Literary Excellence that are considered national recognitions; and the Katha Utsavs that bring literature into the public ken. These create open meeting places for writers and scholars, storytellers, folk and contemporary artists and community activists from India and abroad.

Katha works with 6000 Friends of Katha and a growing pool of community activists and literary enthusiasts. Our constant striving is for greater reach and impact amongst teachers and students, policy makers and the corporate sector.

Philosophy

What can be more enjoyable and satisfying than a good read? Even if it does no more than give pleasure and joy, it has done enough. But stories have always given more to each living culture.

Stories give us access to insights and skills needed to live in a pluralistic society like India . Stories can and do help develop active tolerance skills in us, an ability that comes from a greater maturity and understanding of ground realities (as opposed to the passive tolerance that many of us have today). We would need a thousand lives to learn from our own experience about
India 's rich and varied cultures; stories are a vicarious way to learn more about ourselves.

Katha's main aim is to enhance the pleasures of reading for children and adults, for experienced readers as well as for those who are just beginning to read. And, inter alia, to -

Stimulate an interest in lifelong learning that will help children grow into confident, self-reliant, responsible and responsive adults.

Help break down gender, cultural and social stereotypes.

Encourage and foster excellence, and applaud quality literature and translations in and between the various Indian languages.

Enhance the joys of reading for all.

http://www.katha.org/

Katha

The Man, The Myth And The Genius

Patrick French reveals enough devil in Naipaul, the autocrat and the alchemist

Sunil Khilnani on The World Is What It Is - The Authorised Biography Of V.S. Naipaul by Patrick French

A writer is in the end not his books, but his myth," V.S. Naipaul once wrote, a myth that is ultimately in the keeping of others. Yet Naipaul has worked hard in recent decades to retain control over his personal story—producing numerous autobiographical essays and fragments, ever tucking himself into the folds of his writing. His books have set abroad the story of a poor sensitive youth of high-caste origin who wrenched himself out of a dissipated colonial-dominated black culture and, through sheer hard effort and dedication to his craft, clambered on to the ark of civilisation. He kept his helmsman's position there, in the myth, by his clear-eyed willingness to tell the truth.

Notoriously secretive and controlling, Naipaul has seemed unwilling to cede to anyone else the authority to tell his life. So what could have possessed Patrick French to agree to write a life of Naipaul, authorised by his subject? French knew that an archive existed, largely closed to scholars and boxed away in the wilds of Oklahoma (the university at Tulsa had paid some half a million dollars for it).

French told Naipaul he would only want to take on the project if he had access to all the available archival material, could quote freely, interview him at length, and retain full control over the book—which he proposed to take up to 1996. That year, Naipaul's first wife died, he sacked his Argentine mistress of 24 years, and married Nadira Alvi. Naipaul agreed to French's terms and, French notes, "stuck scrupulously to our agreement".

The result is gripping, magnificent—a triumph of the biographer's art. Patrick French's book peers unblinkingly at the dark, destructive energies that have sustained Naipaul's creativity. It counts and counts again the human—womanly—cost of Naipaul's drive to make himself and his work, and yet fully accords him, as a writer, his due.

It is not easy to make sense of Naipaul's life and work. Sprawled across four continents (the Caribbean and South America, England, India, Africa) it spans the eras of colonial rule, the struggle against that rule, the early decades of nationalist hopes and the brutal subsequent betrayals. What is so striking about Naipaul is how, out of this unprecedented diversity of experience, he has created and sustained a cohesive vision of the world—turning himself in the process from a 'regional' novelist of Caribbean street life to a maker of 'global' literature. On what authority did he ground his grand perspective—the fearless dissections of anti-colonialism, the future of Africa, the Muslim world—of civilisation itself? By labouring, in his own version, to be a disciplined writer, he proclaimed his fidelity to one enterprise: pen, pad, desk; nothing else.

French, through mastery over his materials and sources, restores to the purist tableau the messy stirring life—the mess that made the myth, and the books, possible. French weaves his myth-puncturing subtly into the narrative, knocking off Naipaul's poses one by one. Here, more crudely than French would want to note them, are at least half dozen that he addresses.

Naipaul's Brahminic origins and its lasting effects, part of his own self-image, have become a trope by which he and others have explained his mannerisms and attitudes. Paul Theroux made much of this in his vicious homage to his master. But as French delves into the lineages and history of the Naipaul family (an excellent portrait of the family—large, cantankerous, chippy, given to violence and habitually on the make), he sheds doubt on the idea that Naipaul's father, Seepersad, had Brahmin origins.

Naipaul has always stressed his devotion to his father—by all accounts a man of some charm, bookish, moody and severely impractical.

As French suggests, he sentimentalised and idolised his father. Only very recently, to French, has he spoken of feeling 'great rage' at Seepersad's paternal incompetence. But even as a young man at Oxford, Naipaul often chose to ignore his father's requests—especially to help Seepersad fulfil his own writerly ambitions. Conversely, Naipaul distanced himself from his mother, erasing her from his self-creation myth (originally doting, she later more or less disowned him). Yet it was his mother and her rough-hewn family who dominated the Naipaul household—and made it practically possible for him to advance.

Another integral strand of Naipaul's auto-mythology was his rejection of his Caribbean origins, his denial that Trinidad shaped him in lasting ways (he refused any mention of Trinidad in his Nobel acceptance). Yet French is perceptive and convincing on just how profoundly he was shaped by Trinidadian culture. The rich dialect (which even later in life, in the company of fellow islanders, he could slip into), the styles of humour, and most significantly the ease with which the culture encouraged people to reinvent themselves without feeling any sense of lost authenticity. Naipaul adopted the idea of masquerade, 'playing ole Mas'; the persona of the Trinidadian 'smart man', a clever, stylish deceiver. He also perfected what French terms 'Trinidadian street style', 'picong' or piquant humour—an oracular outrageousness.

After he had moved to London, though, Naipaul took pride in keeping his fellow West Indian writers at arm's length. He saw early that if he was to achieve the success he was after, he must escape the trap of being a 'regional', Caribbean writer. Yet French, in his reconstruction of the lower reaches of London literary life in the early and mid-1950s, shows how close Naipaul was with other black and colonial writers—George Lamming, Sam Selvon, Edward Braithwaite, Jan Carew and others—and how much he learned from them about what it was to be a writer.

Here, French gives a more general correction to the founding myth of Naipaul and—his scrupulous self-reliance. It's a conceit most thoroughly undermined by the story of Naipaul's first wife, Patricia Hale. Her story becomes a biography within a biography, and French is able to tell this through letters and some 28 volumes of diaries left at her death. Naipaul met Pat while at Oxford, and after crushing her ambitions to be an actress, he manipulated her into abject dependence. Pat understood his methods: "If I'm unhappy you just say you can't bear other people being miserable and that I'm more or less driving you to drink"; but she was docile, and in awe (he became, in her diaries, 'The Genius'). French is able to show that Pat actually helped Naipaul in his writing—not just as a transcribing sounding board, but more substantively.

Finally, Naipaul cultivated the pose of the highly cerebral, reflective intellectual, aware of his history and circumstances, and willing to take responsibility for his actions. The unthinking, instinctual attitudes he claims to find in many parts of the world have evoked his deepest contempt. And yet: French shows again and again Naipaul's own surrender to instinctual urges, his inability to pursue introspection, and his unwillingness to take responsibility for his own actions. (One could argue that this biography is an attempt at rigorous self-accounting—but alas he had to commission someone else to do it for him.)

Deception and self-justification defined his relations with women. French writes about these relations—with Pat, prostitutes, Naipaul's mistress Margaret, and the 'second Lady Naipaul', Nadira—with delicacy but spares no one. On the basis of Pat's diaries and letters, French judges her to be on "par with other great, tragic, literary spouses such as Sonia Tolstoy, Jane Carlyle and Leonard Woolf", without denying her own psychological errors.

The diaries, he observes, are also "a record of a kind of blankness", evasive and self-deluding about the degree to which Naipaul's writing drew on life and especially his life with Margaret.

French pays considerable attention to Naipaul's liaison with Margaret, the central sexual relationship of his life. Asked how it started, Naipaul would say: "It was not a meeting of minds"; or, as French puts it, "A kink in his personality met a kink in hers, and snagged". Paraphrasing her letters, French reveals a sado-masochistic relationship—summoned to accompany him on his writing journeys, they would have several weeks together during which he would beat and sexually degrade her, before he would tire of her and despatch her back to Argentina or London. Again she would be called, again she returned, explaining her infatuation thus: "Being with you is like always being in a film." One wonders a little just what was being shown in the film houses of Buenos Aires.

Naipaul abused all the women close to him. French notes that when Naipaul recalled how he told Pat of his involvement with Margaret, Naipaul "characteristically, recalled the disclosure of infidelity in terms of his own suffering". He made Pat comfort him for what he had been doing. With Margaret, he asserted that he as much as she was the victim of his violence—he had been somehow forced to it. And, in a scene which is particularly macabre and perverse, French describes how, after Pat's death, Naipaul made his new fiance, Nadira, collect Pat's ashes, carry them in a gray plastic bag, and then scatter them in the Wiltshire woodland.

Naipaul came to perfect this stance: controlling a situation by appearing helpless, then getting others to do his bidding—while making them feel that they were doing it inadequately. In this biography, however, this method has failed him. This may be an authorised biography, but it is firmly and in every sense in Patrick French's control—and he has written a superb account of the life, as what it is. Now, knowing the myth, having read the life, one goes back to the work. That is Naipaul's monument. We are many, who lead less than exemplary lives; but very few are able to turn the matter of their lives into great work. Naipaul, as Patrick French lets us still better see, is one of them.

The Man, The Myth And The Genius

PEOPLEWATCHING / Desmond Morris

THE FUTURE

What lies in store for the human species

The human biped is an extraordinary animal. In evolutionary terms this strange species is still young. Its unparalleled success story is still unfolding, and doing so at ever-increasing speed. Itis impossible to predict the future with any precision, but it will certainly be exciting and full of major new discoveries. The genetic control of the ageing process will soon be understood. If they wish to, people will be able to live for a thousand years. Discoveries in the field of anti-gravity and possibly even the conquest of time travel will enable our species to explode beyond this small planet and on to other spheres. With our big brains and our insatiable curiosity, 'the sky's the limit' will seem like a modest boast.

All of this will be possible because we are the ape that never grew up, the ape that became fully adult while still retaining our childlike playfulness. Adult play is already evident in almost all aspects of human endeavour. Not merely in our greatest achievements in the arts and sciences, but also in our everyday life. The great chef converts the simple act of eating into an elaborate sensory experience. In the world of high fashion, the simple demands of comfort and modesty in clothing are almost completely overshadowed by matters of style and taste. The same is true of house furnishings and decoration. Even the highly practical world of architecture is not free from human playfulness. From the ornate capitals of ancient columns to the wild excesses of Disneyland castles, the game is played wherever the architect can persuade his clients to allow him to go beyond the needs of simple security and comfort.

We play sex games, called dancing. We play war games and hunting games, called sport. We play travel games, called tourism - when we visit places we have no need to visit but where curiosity demands that we poke our noses, if only for a few tantalizing weeks.

As soon as our basic needs are satisfied, as soon as we have gone 'beyond survival', we are off and running. The naked ape should really be rechristened the creative ape. At our best we remain, all our lives, childlike adults, ready at the slightest excuse to indulge in mature play. If ever we give this up and become depressingly earnest, pious adult-adults, we will have betrayed our great biological heritage as the most exuberant, most mischievously imaginative animal on this planet. When that happens, if ever it does, it will be time for us to move on and make way for some more attractive species to replace us. In the meantime the beautiful game of life is ours for the taking.

There may be those who feel that by calling man's greatest achievements 'adult play', I am belittling them. But I am not. My point is that we have never taken play seriously enough. To many people, our greatest achievement is to be found in the realms of such pursuits as commerce, technology, medicine, politics and economics. But these are merely means to one of two ends: either better human survival or better adult play. If successful commerce is concerned with, for example, food and drink, then it is either helping to satisfy hunger and thirst or it is helping to improve the subtle aesthetics of gastronomic play.

If modern technology brings us the benefits of more advanced creature comforts, we are extremely grateful but we do not sit around marvelling at the inner workings of our air-conditioning units or our refrigerators, our radios or our telephones. We simply use them as a means to many other ends. If medicine is concerned with curing diseases, that is not an end in itself but a means to a healthier life - to survive better or to enjoy adult play better.

The essential dream of modern politics and economics is to ensure personal freedoms and affluence for all. The unspoken concept behind this endeavour is to take the world's population 'beyond survival' and into the realms of advanced, mature, adult play.

Our greatest, most supremely human quality is our insatiable curiosity. We have gone from mud hut to moon rocket in just a few thousand years - a mere blink of the eye in evolutionary time. In the process we have transformed the face of the earth and built structures so impressive and so vast that some of them are visible from the moon to which we have travelled. We have done this because we have never stopped asking questions and, once we have found the answers, have used these to help us to ask even more.

Of all the many millions of animal species that have ever lived on this small planet we, the human animal, are by far the most extraordinary. But why us? Why have we gone so far when other close relatives, such as the gorilla and the chimpanzee, are left skulking in remote tropical forests? What is so special about our story that has enabled us effectively to rule the world? In a nutshell, it is because we were primates that stood up and became co-operative hunters. The fact that we were primates meant that we had a good brain and an unspecialized body, capable of many kinds of action. If we had possessed a smaller brain or a more specialized body we would have been unable to take the next step. That step was upward. We became bipeds. By rearing up we (literally) gained a free hand to exploit the environment. We were able to make tools and use them intelligently. We were then able to kill prey.

Hunting made us braver, less selfish, more co-operative (out of necessity, not morality), more able to concentrate on long-term goals and, above all, better fed. The new high-protein diet enabled us to become even more intelligent. Our urge to hunt cooperatively gave us the need to become more communicative. We developed language and, with it, an understanding of complex symbolism. With this symbolism we were able to replace ancient actions with modern equivalents. We could make one thing stand for another so convincingly that we were able to take the make believe world of children's play and develop our body language into acting, athletics and ballet; our hunting into sport, gambling, exploration and collecting; Our speech into singing, poetry and theatre; and our co-operation into altruism and generosity. We were the magic combination, the threshold-leaper, the risk-taker, the venerable child for all occasions.

With their often stunningly beautiful bodies, other animals are remarkable for what they are. We, with our puny, rather unimpressive bodies, are remarkable for what we have done. And what we will undeniably do in the future, for the story has hardly begun.

PEOPLEWATCHING / Desmond Morris

PEOPLEWATCHING / Desmond Morris

Belief in al-Qadaa’ wa’l-Qadar (Divine will and decree)

Question: What is the status of sabr (patience) in Islam? What should the Muslim bear with patience?

Answer:

Praise be to Allaah.

Belief in al-Qadaa’ wa’l-Qadar (Divine will and decree) is one of the pillars of faith. The Muslim’s faith is not complete unless he knows that whatever befalls him could not have missed him, and whatever misses him could not have befallen him. Everything is subject to the will and decree of Allaah, as Allaah says (interpretation of the meaning):

“Verily, We have created all things with Qadar (Divine Preordainments of all things before their creation as written in the Book of Decrees Al Lawh Al Mahfooz). [al-Qamar 54:49]

The position of patience in relation to faith is like that of the head in relation to the body. Patience is a noble attribute with good consequences. Those who are patient will have an unlimited reward, as Allaah says (interpretation of the meaning):

“Only those who are patient shall receive their reward in full, without reckoning” [al-Zumar 39:10]

All the disasters and tribulations that happen on earth, or happen to the individual, or to his wealth or family, etc., were known to Allaah before they happened, He has written them in al-Lawh al-Mahfooz (the Preserved Tablet) as He says (interpretation of the meaning):

“No calamity befalls on the earth or in yourselves but it is inscribed in the Book of Decrees (Al Lawh Al Mahfooz) before We bring it into existence. Verily, that is easy for Allaah” [al-Hadeed 57:22]

No matter what disasters befall a person, it is good for him, whether he knows that or not, because Allaah does not decree anything but it is good, as He says (interpretation of the meaning):

“Say: ‘Nothing shall ever happen to us except what Allaah has ordained for us. He is our Mawlaa (Lord, Helper and Protector).’ And in Allaah let the believers put their trust”[al-Tawbah 9:51]

Every disaster that happens, happens by Allaah’s leave. If He had not willed it, it would not have happened, but Allaah permitted it to happen and decreed it, and so it happened. Allaah says (interpretation of the meaning):

“No calamity befalls, but by the Leave [i.e. Decision and Qadar (Divine Preordainments)] of Allaah, and whosoever believes in Allaah, He guides his heart [to the true Faith with certainty, i.e. what has befallen him was already written for him by Allaah from the Qadar (Divine Preordainments)]. And Allaah is the All-Knower of everything”[al-Taghaabun 64:11]

Once a person knows that all calamities happen by the will and decree of Allaah, then he has to believe and submit and be patient. The reward for patience is Paradise, as Allaah says (interpretation of the meaning):

“And their recompense shall be Paradise, and silken garments, because they were patient”[al-Insaan 76:12]

The call to Allaah (da’wah) is a great mission, and the one who undertakes it is exposed to a great deal of harm and calamities. Hence Allaah enjoined patience upon His Messenger and other Prophets:

“Therefore be patient (O Muhammad) as did the Messengers of strong will” [al-Ahqaaf 46:35 – interpretation of the meaning]

Allaah has guided the believers, if some matter worries them or some calamity befalls them to seek help with patience and prayer, so that Allaah will relieve their distress and give them a way out:

“O you who believe! Seek help in patience and As-Salaah (the prayer). Truly, Allaah is with As-Saabiroon (the patient)”

[al-Baqarah 2:153 – interpretation of the meaning]

The believer must bear with patience that which Allaah has decreed, and be patient in obeying Allaah, and be patient in keeping away from sin. Whoever is patient, Allaah will give him an immeasurable reward on the Day of Resurrection, as Allaah says (interpretation of the meaning):

“Only those who are patient shall receive their reward in full, without reckoning” [al-Zumar 39:10]

The believer in particular is rewarded in both good times and bad. The Prophet (peace and blessings of Allaah be upon him) said: “How wonderful is the affair of the believer, for all his affairs are good, and that is for no one except the believer. If something good happens to him, he gives thanks, and that is good for him, and if something bad happens to him, he bears it with patience and that is good for him.” (Narrated by Muslim, no. 2999)

Allaah has taught us what we should say when calamity strikes, and has stated that those who are patient will have an honourable position with their Lord. Allaah says (interpretation of the meaning):

“… but give glad tidings to As Saabiroon (the patient).

Who, when afflicted with calamity, say: ‘Truly, to Allaah we belong and truly, to Him we shall return’”[al-Baqarah 2:155-156]

From Usool al-Deen al-Islami by Shaykh Muhammad ibn Ibraaheem al-Tuwayjri

http://www.islam-qa.com/index.php?ref=12380&ln=eng

Belief in al-Qadaa’ wa’l-Qadar (Divine will and decree)

Belief in the Divine Will and Decree: Ruling on using the words “if” or “if only”?

Question: A man said, “If only you had done such and such, none of this would have happened to you.” Another man who heard him said, “This word (if only) was forbidden by the Prophet (peace and blessings of Allaah be upon him), it is a word that leads the one who says it to kufr.” A third man said, “The Prophet (peace and blessings of Allaah be upon him) said, concerning the story of Moosa with al-Khidr, ‘May Allaah have mercy upon Moosa. If only he had had patience, so that Allaah would have told us more of what happened between them.’” Another man referred to the hadeeth of the Prophet (peace and blessings of Allaah be upon him), “ The strong believer is more beloved to Allaah than the weak believer…‘If only” opens the door to the Shaytaan.” Does this abrogate that, or not?

Answer:

Praise be to Allaah.

Everything that Allaah and His Messenger said is truth. The word ‘if’ or ‘if only’ is used in two ways:

1. To express grief for the past and distress what has been decreed. This is what is not allowed, as Allaah says (interpretation of the meaning):

“O you who believe! Be not like those who disbelieve (hypocrites) and who say to their brethren when they travel through the earth or go out to fight: ‘If they had stayed with us, they would not have died or been killed,’ so that Allaah may make it a cause of regret in their hearts”

[Aal ‘Imraan 3:156]

This is what the Prophet (peace and blessings of Allaah be upon him) forbade when he said, “If anything happens to you, do not say, ‘If only I had done such and such, then such and such would have happened.’ Say instead, ‘Qaddar Allaah wa maa sha’a kaan (Allaah decreed and what He wills happens), for ‘If only’ opens the door to the Shaytaan”, i.e., it makes you vulnerable to grief and fear, which is harmful to you and is of no benefit. Know that whatever befalls you, you could not have avoided, and whatever does not happen to you, you could not have made it happen to you, as Allaah says (interpretation of the meaning):

“No calamity befalls, but by the Leave [i.e. Decision and Qadar (Divine Preordainments)] of Allaah, and whosoever believes in Allaah, He guides his heart” [al-Taghaabun 64:11]

They said, this is a man to whom calamity happens, but he knows that it is from Allaah, so he accepts it and submits.

2. When the word ‘if’ is used to convey beneficial knowledge, such as the aayah (interpretation of the meaning):

“Had there been therein (in the heavens and the earth) aalihah (gods) besides Allaah, then verily, both would have been ruined” [al-Anbiyaa’ 21:22]

The second type is used to express love for goodness, such as saying, “If only I had what so and so has, I would do what he does.” Saying things like this is permissible.

The hadeeth of the Prophet (peace and blessings of Allaah be upon him), “If only he [Moosa] had had patience, so that Allaah would have told us more of what happened between them” is of this nature, as is the aayah (interpretation of the meaning):

“They wish that you should compromise (in religion out of courtesy) with them, so they (too) would compromise with you”

Our Prophet (peace and blessings of Allaah be upon him) wished that Allaah has told us more of their [Moosa and al-Khidr] story, and he mentioned that in order to point out his love for patience and the results that come from it, and the benefits that it can bring. There was no element of fear, grief or neglect of the duty of patience in the face of what has been decreed.

And Allaah knows best.

Majmoo’ al-Fataawa al-Kabeer by Ibn Taymiyah, 1023-9

http://www.islam-qa.com/index.php?ref=11010&ln=eng
[al-Qalam 68:9]

Belief in the Divine Will and Decree: Ruling on using the words “if” or “if only”?

Belief in the Divine Will and Decree: Is one’s life partner chosen by oneself or decreed by Allaah?

Question: What does Islam say about life partner,,,is she/he fixed by Allah or Allah has left it for us to decided?

Answer:

Praise be to Allaah.

First of all, we should realize that there is no contradiction between our belief that Allaah has decreed everything, and our belief that He has given us free will which enables us to do things. Confirming the free will of His slaves, Allaah says (interpretation of the meaning): "To whomsoever among you wills to walk straight" [al-Takweer 81:28]

Our will operates within the will of Allaah, not outside of it, as Allaah says (interpretation of the meaning): "But you cannot will, unless Allaah wills…" [al-Insaan 76:30] Thus it is not permitted to try to cancel one idea out with the other, or to deny either of them. Allaah has confirmed both, that man has the power to choose, and that nothing can operate outside of His Will, may He be glorified.

If we apply this to the question asked, we will see that man has freedom of will through which he can choose whichever woman he wishes to marry, and that whatever choice he makes has already been decreed by Allaah. The man’s choice is the means by which he gets what he wants, but some obstacles may come between the person and what he wants, in which case he will realize that Allaah has not decreed this for him, for some reason which is known to Him. Everything that Allaah does is good, and His slaves do not have knowledge of the Unseen or of how things will end. A person may regret missing out on something when it is good that he did not have it, or he may hate something that happens to him when it is good that it happened to him, as Allaah tells us (interpretation of the meaning): "… it may be that you dislike a thing which is good for you and that you like a thing which is bad for you. Allaah knows but you do not know." [al-Baqarah 2:216]

May Allaah bless our Prophet Muhammad

Islam Q&A Sheikh Muhammed Salih Al-Munajjid

http://www.islam-qa.com/index.php?ref=1804&ln=eng

Belief in the Divine Will and Decree: Is one’s life partner chosen by oneself or decreed by Allaah?

Belief in the Divine Will and Decree: What does Islam say about destiny and fate?

Question: how does islam view destiny and fate ?

Answer:

Praise be to Allaah.

Belief in destiny and fate is one of the basic beliefs of Islam. It means that Allaah is the Knower of all things and the Creator of all things; nothing exists outside of His will and decree. He wrote down all things with Him in al-Lawh al-Mahfooz (the Preserved Tablet), and this was fifty thousand years before He created the universe. Everything in the universe, every creature and the things it does, is the creation of Allaah. Whatever He wills happens, and whatever He does not will does not happen. If something happens to a person, it could not have missed him, and if something does not happen to him, it could not have happened to him. A person is not forced to obey or disobey Allaah – he has free will as befits his state, but it is subject to the will of the Creator. And Allaah knows best..

Islam Q&A Sheikh Muhammed Salih Al-Munajjid

http://www.islam-qa.com/index.php?ref=6287&ln=eng&txt=destiny

Belief in the Divine Will and Decree: What does Islam say about destiny and fate?

Belief in the Divine Will and Decree: Is it permissible to ask Allaah to change His decree?

Question: How correct is this phrase which some people say in their du’aa’ – “O Allaah, I do not ask You to change Your decree but I do ask for Your help when it comes to pass”?

Answer:

Praise be to Allaah.

This du’aa’ is recited by many people, but it is not an appropriate du’aa’, because it has been prescribed for us to ask Allaah to change His decree if there is something bad in it.

Hence Imaam al-Bukhaari (may Allaah have mercy on him) entitled a chapter in his Saheeh “Whoever seeks refuge with Allaah from having an evil end to this worldly life and from having a bad fate, and the aayah (interpretation of the meaning): ‘Say: I seek refuge with (Allaah) the Lord of the daybreak, from the evil of what He has created’ [al-Falaq 113:1-2].” Then he quoted the words of the Prophet (peace and blessings of Allaah be upon him): “Seek refuge with Allaah from the difficulties of severe calamities, from having a bad end and bad fate.” (al-Bukhaari, 7/215, Kitaab al-Qadar).

al-Eemaan bi’l-Qadaa’ wa’l-Qadar by Muhammad ibn Ibraaheem al-Hamad, p. 147

http://www.islam-qa.com/index.php?ref=11522&ln=eng

Thursday, April 17, 2008

No is Yes

The question is: did the girl kill her own father?

Some say yes and some say no.

Linda doesn't look like a murderess.

She walks calmly up the steps of the high school stage. She shakes the mayor's hand and receives her award. Top of the school. She moves over to the microphone to make her speech of acceptance. She is seventeen, beautiful and in love. Her words are delicate, musical crystals falling upon receptive ears. The crowd rewards her clarity with loud applause but it passes her by. She is seeking a face among the visitors in the front row. She finds what she is looking for and her eyes meet those of a young man. They both smile.

He knows the answer.

'It's finally finished,' said Dr Scrape. 'After fourteen years of research it is finished.' He tapped the thick manuscript on the table. 'And you, Ralph, will be the first to see the results.'

They were sitting in the lounge watching the sun lower itself once more into the grave of another day.

Ralph didn't seem quite sure what to say. He was unsure of himself. In the end he came out with. 'Fourteen years is a lot of work. What's it all about?'

Dr Scrape stroked his pointed little beard and leaned across the coffee table. 'Tell me,' he said, 'as a layman, how did you learn to speak? How did you learn the words and grammar of the English language?'

'Give us a go,' said Ralph good naturedly. 'I haven't had an education like you. I haven't been to university. I didn't even finish high school. I don't know about stuff like that. You're the one with all the brains. You tell me. How did I learn to speak?'

When Ralph said, 'You're the one with all the brains,' Dr Scrape smiled to himself and nodded wisely. 'Have a guess then,' he insisted.

'Me mother. Me mother taught me to talk.'

'No.'

'Me father then.'

'No.'

'Then who?' asked Ralph with a tinge of annoyance.

'Nobody taught you,' exclaimed Dr Scrape. 'Nobody teaches children to talk. They just learn it by listening. If the baby is in China it will learn Chinese because that's what it hears. If you get a new-born Chinese baby and bring it here it will learn to speak English not Chinese. Just by listening to those around it.'

'What's that got to do with your re ...?' began Ralph. But he stopped. Dr Scrape's daughter entered the room with a tray. She was a delicate, pale girl of about fourteen. Her face reminded Ralph of a porcelain doll. He was struck by both her beauty and her shyness.

'This is my daughter, Linda,' said Dr Scrape with a flourish.

'G'day,' said Ralph awkwardly.

'And this is Mr Pickering.'

She made no reply at first but simply stood there staring at him as if he were a creature from another planet. He felt like some exotic animal in the zoo which was of total fascination to someone on the other side of the bars.

Dr Scrape frowned and the girl suddenly remembered her manners.

'How do you do?' she said awkwardly. 'Would you like some coffee?'

'Thanks a lot,' said Ralph.

'White or black?'

'Black, thanks.'

Linda raised an eyebrow at her father. 'The usual for me,' he said with a smirk. Ralph Pickering watched as Linda poured two cups of tea and put milk into both of them. She looked up, smiled and handed him one of the cups.

'Thanks a lot,' he said again.

'Salt?' she asked, proferring a bowl filled with white crystals.

Ralph looked at the bowl with a red face. He felt uncomfortable in this elegant house. He didn't know the right way to act. He didn't have the right manners. He didn't know why he had been asked in for a cup of coffee. He was just the apprentice plumber here to fix the drains. He looked down at his grubby overalls and mud-encrusted shoes.

'Er, eh?' said Ralph.

'Salt?' she asked again holding out the bowl.

Ralph shook his head with embarrassment. Did they really have salt in their tea? He sipped from the delicate china cup. He liked coffee, black and with sugar, in a nice big mug. Somehow he had ended up with white tea, no sugar and a fragile cup which rattled in his big hands.

He had the feeling, though, that Linda had not meant to embarrass him. If there was any malevolence it came from Dr Scrape who was grinning hugely at Ralph's discomfort.

Ralph Pickering scratched his head with his broken fingernails.

The young girl looked at her watch. 'Will you be staying for breakfast?' she asked Ralph kindly. 'We are having roast pork. It's nearly washed.'

'N-n-no thanks,' he stumbled. 'My mum is expecting me home for tea. I couldn't stay the night.' He noticed a puzzled expression on her face and she shook her head as if not quite understanding him. The oddest feeling came over him that she thought he was a bit mad.

Ralph moved as if to stand up.

'Don't go yet,' said Dr Scrape. 'I haven't finished telling you about my research. Although you have already seen some of it.' He nodded towards his daughter who had gone into the kitchen and could be heard preparing the pork for the evening meal. 'Now where were we?' he went on. 'Ah yes. About learning to speak. So you see, my dear boy, we learn to speak just from hearing those around us talking.' He was waving his hands around as if delivering a lecture to a large audience. His eyes lit up with excitement. 'But ask yourself this. What if a child was born and never heard anyone speak except on the television? Never ever saw a real human being, only the television? Would the television do just as well as live people? Could they learn to talk then?'

He paused, not really expecting Ralph to say anything. Then he answered his own question. 'No one knows,' he exclaimed thrusting a finger into the air. 'It's never been done.'

'It would be cruel,' said Ralph, suddenly forgetting his shyness. 'You couldn't bring up a child who had never heard anyone speak. It'd be a dirty trick. That's why it's never been done.'

'Right,' yelled Dr Scrape. His little beard was waggling away as he spoke. 'So I did the next best thing. I never let her hear anybody speak except me.'

He nodded towards the kitchen.

'You mean ... ' began Ralph.

'Yes, yes. Linda. My daughter. She has never heard anyone in the world speak except me. You are the first person apart from me she has ever spoken to.'

'You mean she has never been to school'

'No.'

'Or kindergarten?'

'No.' 'Or shopping or to the beach?'

'No, she's never been out of this house.'

'But why?' asked Ralph angrily. 'What for?'

'It's an experiment, boy. She has learned a lot of words incorrectly. Just by listening to me use the wrong words. All without a single lesson. I call "up" "down" and "down" "up". I call "sugar" "salt". "Yes" is "no" and "no is yes". It's been going on ever since she was a baby. I have taught her thousands of words incorrectly. She thinks that room in there is called the laundry,' he yelled pointing to the kitchen. 'I have let her watch television every day and all day but it makes no difference. She can't get it right.'

He picked up a spoon and chuckled. 'She calls this a carpet. And this,' he said holding up a fork, 'she calls a chicken. Even when she sees a chicken on television she doesn't wake up. She doesn't change. She doesn't notice it. It proves my hypothesis: point that is,' he added for the benefit of Ralph whom he considered to be an idiot. 'So you see, I have made a big breakthrough. I have proved that humans can't learn to speak properly from listening to television. Real people are needed.'

'You know something,' said Ralph slowly. 'If this is true, if you have really taught the poor kid all the wrong words ... '

Dr Scrape interrupted. 'Of course it's true. Of course it's true.' He took out a worn exercise book and flipped over the pages. 'Here they are. -Over two thousand words - all learned incorrectly. Usually the opposites. Whenever I talk with Linda I use these words. She doesn't know the difference. Dog is cat, tree is lamp post, ant is elephant and just for fun girl is boy -- she calls herself a boy although of course she knows she is the opposite sex to you. She would call you a girl.' He gave a low, devilish laugh.

Ralph's anger had completely swamped his shyness and his feeling of awkwardness caused by the splendour of the mansion. 'You are a dirty mongrel,' he said quietly. The poor thing has never met another person but you - and what a low specimen you are. And you've mixed her all up. How is she going to get on in the real world?'

'You mean in on the real world, not on in the real world,' he smirked. Then he began to laugh. He thought it was a great joke. 'You'll have to get used to it,' he said. 'When you talk to her you'll have to get used to everything being back to front.'

'What's it got to do with me?'

'Why, I want you to try her out. Talk to her. See how she goes. Before I give my paper and show her to the world I want to make sure that it lasts. That she won't break down and start speaking correctly with strangers. I want you to be the first test. I want a common working man ... boy,' he corrected. 'One who can't pull any linguistic tricks.'

'Leave me out of it,' said Ralph forcefully. 'I don't want any part of it. It's cruel and, and,' he searched around for a word. 'Rotten,' he spat out.

Scrape grabbed his arm and spun him round. He was dribbling with false sincerity. 'But if you really care, if you really care about her you will try to help. Go on,' he said pushing Ralph towards the kitchen. 'Tell her what a despicable creature I am. Tell her the difference between salt and sugar. Set her straight. That's the least you can do. Or don't you care at all?'

He narrowed his eyes.

Ralph pushed him off and strode towards the kitchen. Then he stopped and addressed Scrape who had been following enthusiastically. 'You don't come then. I talk to her alone. Just me and her.'

The little man stroked his beard thoughtfully.. 'A good idea,' he said finally. 'A good idea. They will want an independent trial. They might think I am signalling her. A good thought, boy. But I will be close by. I will be in here, in the library. She calls it the toilet,' he added gleefully. Then he burst into a sleazy cackle.

Ralph gave him a look of disgust and then turned and pushed into the kitchen.

Linda turned round from where she was washing the dishes and took several steps backwards. Her face was even paler than before. Ralph understood now that she was frightened of him. Finally, however, she summoned up her courage and stepped forward, holding out her hand. 'Goodbye,' she said in a shaking voice.

'Goodbye?' queried Ralph. 'You want me to go?'

'Yes,' she said, shaking her head as she spoke.

Ralph took her outstretched hand and shook it. It was not a handshake that said goodbye. It was warm and welcoming.

'Is this really the first time you have been alone with another person other than him?' asked Ralph, nodding towards the library.

'Don't call him a person,' she said with a hint of annoyance. 'We don't let persons in the laundry. Only animals are allowed here. The cats have kennels in the river.'

'You've got everything back to front,' said Ralph incredulously. 'All your words are mixed up.'

'Front to back,' she corrected, staring at him with a puzzled face. 'And you are the one with everything mixed down. You talk strangely. Are you drunk? I have heard that women behave strangely when they are drunk.'

Ralph's head began to spin. He couldn't take it all in. He didn't trust himself to speak. He remembered Dr Scrape's words, 'Dog is cat, tree is lamp post, ant is elephant, and just for fun, boy is girl.' Linda was looking at him as if he was mad. He walked over to the sink and picked up a fork. 'What's this?' he said, waving it around excitedly.

'A chicken of course,' she answered. Ralph could see by her look that she thought he was the one with the crazy speech.

'And what lays eggs and goes cluck, cluck?' He flapped his arms like wings as he said it.

The girl smiled with amusement. 'A fork. Haven't you ever seen a fork scratching for bananas?'

Ralph hung his head in his hands. 'Oh no,' he groaned. 'The swine has really mucked you up. You have got everything back to front - front to back. They don't dig for bananas. They dig for worms.' He stared at her with pity-filled eyes. She was completely confused. She was also the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. He bit his knuckles and thought over the situation carefully. 'Man' was 'woman'. 'Boy' was 'girl'. 'Ceiling' was 'floor'. But some words were right. 'Him' and 'her' were both correct. Suddenly he turned and ran from the room. He returned a second later holding Dr Scrape's exercise book. He flicked wildly through the pages, groaning and shaking his head as he read.

The girl looked frightened. She held her head up like a deer sniffing the wind. 'That glass must not be read,' she whispered, looking nervously towards the library. 'None of the glasses in the toilet can be read either.'

He ignored her fear. 'Now,' he said to himself. 'Let's try again.' He held the exercise book open in one hand for reference. Then he said slowly, 'Have you ever spoken to a girl like me before?'

'Yes,' said Linda shaking her head.

Ralph sighed and then tried again. He held up the fork. 'Is this a chicken?'

'No,' she said nodding her head. Ralph could see that she was regarding him with a mixture of fear, amusement and, yes, he would say, affection. Despite her bewilderment over what she considered to be his strange speech, she liked him.

Suddenly the enormity of the crime that had been worked on this girl overwhelmed Ralph. He was filled with anger and pity. And disgust with Dr Scrape. Linda had never been to school. Never spoken to another person. Never been to the movies or a disco. For fourteen years she had spoken only to that monster Scrape. She had been a prisoner in this house. She had never been touched by another person ... never been kissed.

Their eyes met for an instant but the exchange was put to flight by the sound of coughing coming from the library.

'Quick,' said Ralph. 'There isn't much time. I want you to nod for "yes" and shake your head for "no" - drat, I mean the other way around.' He consulted the exercise book. 'I mean nod your head for "no" and shake your head for "yes".' He looked again at the book. The words were alphabetically listed. He couldn't be sure that she understood. What if the word for head was foot? Or the word for shake was dance, or something worse?

Linda paused and then nodded.

He tried again. 'Have you ever spoken to another animal except him?' he said jerking a contemptuous thumb in the direction of the library.

She shook her head sadly. It was true then. Scrape's story was true.

'Would you like to?' he asked slowly after finding that 'like' was not listed in the book.

She paused, looked a little fearful, and then keeping her eyes on his, nodded her head slowly.

'Tonight,' he whispered, and then, checking the book, 'No, today. At midnight, no sorry, midday. I will meet you. By that lamp post.' He pointed out of the window and across the rolling lawns of the mansion. 'By that lamp post. Do you understand?'

Linda followed his gaze. There was a lamp post at the far end of the driveway which could just be seen through the leaves of a large gum tree in the middle of the lawn. He took her hand. It was warm and soft and sent a current of happiness up his arm. He asked her again in a whisper. 'Do you understand?'

She nodded and for the first time he noticed a sparkle in her eyes.

'I didn't ask you to maul my son,' a voice hissed from behind them. Ralph jumped as a grip of steel took hold of his arm. Dr Scrape was incredibly strong. He dragged Ralph out of the kitchen and into the lounge. 'You stay in the laundry,' he snarled at Linda as the kitchen door swung closed in her face.

'Well, my boy,' he said with a twisted grin. 'How did it go? Could you make head or tail of what she said? Or should I say tailor head?' He licked his greasy moustache with satisfaction at his little joke.

Ralph tried to disguise the contempt he felt. 'What would happen if she mixed with people in the real world?' he asked. 'If she was to leave here and go to school? Would she learn to talk normally?'

Dr Scrape paused and looked carefully at Ralph as if reading his mind. 'Yes,' he said. 'Of course she would. She would model on the others. She would soon speak just like you I suspect. But that's not going to happen, is it?'

Ralph could contain himself no longer. 'You devil,' he yelled. 'You've mucked her up all right. She thinks I am the one who can't talk properly. She thinks I'm a bit crazy. But don't think I'm going to help you. I'll do everything I can to stop you. You're nothing but a vicious, crazy little monster.' He stood up and stormed out of the house.

Dr Scrape gave a wicked smile of satisfaction as Ralph disappeared down the long driveway.

It was thirty minutes past midnight and a few stars appeared occasionally when the drifting clouds allowed them to penetrate.

It was a different Ralph who stood waiting beneath the lamp post. Gone were the overalls, work boots and the smudged face. He wore his best jeans and his hair shone in the light of the street light. He had taken a lot of time over his appearance.

He looked anxiously at his watch and then up at the dark house. There was no sign of Linda. She was thirty minutes late. His heart sank as slowly and surely as the sun had done that evening. She wasn't coming. She had dismissed him as a funny-speaking crank. Or that evil man had guessed their plan and locked her in a room.

It began to drizzle and soon trickles of water ran down his neck. One o'clock and still no sign of her. He sighed and decided to go. There was nothing more he could do. She wasn't going to show up. The words started to keep time with his feet as he crunched homewards along the gravel road. 'Show up, show up.' Linda would have said 'show down' not 'show up'.

A bell rang in the back of his mind. A tiny, insistent bell of alarm. Once again he heard Dr Scrape speaking. 'Dog is cat, tree is lamp post, ant is .. .' Of course.

'Tree is lamp post. And therefore ... lamp post is tree.' He almost shouted the words out. She called a lamp post a tree. Linda might have been waiting beneath the gum tree in the middle of the gardens while he was waiting under the lamp post by the gate. He hardly dared hope. He ran blindly in the dark night. Several times he fell over. Once he put a hole in the knee of his jeans but he didn't give it a thought.

He knew that she would have gone. Like him she would have given up waiting and have returned to the dark house.

At last he stumbled up to the tree, finding it by its silhouette against the black sky. 'Linda,' he whispered urgently, using her name for the first time. It tasted sweet on his lips.

There was no answer.

Then, at the foot of the house, in the distance, he saw a flicker of yellow light. It looked like a candle. He saw Linda, faintly, holding the small flame. Before he could call out she opened the front door and disappeared inside.

'Damn and blast,' he said aloud. He smashed his clenched fist into the trunk of the tree in disappointment. A lump of bitter anguish welled up in his throat. He threw himself heavily down on the damp ground to wait. Perhaps she would try again. Anyway, he resolved to stay there until morning.

Inside the dark house Linda made her way back to her bedroom upstairs. Her eyes were wet with tears of rejection. The strange girl had not come. She crept silently, terrified of awaking her tormentor. Holding the forbidden candle in her left hand she tiptoed up the stairs. She held her breath as she reached the landing lest her guardian should feel its gentle breeze even from behind closed doors.

'Betrayed, betrayed,' shrieked a figure from the darkness. The candle was struck from her hand and spiralled over the handrail to the floor below. It spluttered dimly in the depths.

The dark form of Dr Scrape began slapping Linda's frail cheeks. Over and over he slapped, accompanying every blow with the same shrill word. 'Betrayed, betrayed, betrayed.'

In fear, in shock, in desperation, the girl pushed at the swaying shadow. Losing his footing, Scrape tumbled backwards, over and over, down the wooden staircase. He came to a halt halfway down and lay still.

Linda collapsed on to the top step, sobbing into her hands, not noticing the smoke swirling up from below. Then, awakened to her peril by the crackling flames that raced up the stairs, she filled her lungs with smoke-filled air, screamed and fainted dead away.

The old mansion was soon burning like a house of straws. Flames leapt from the windows and leaked from the tiles. Smoke danced before the moonless sky.

The roar of falling timber awakened Ralph from a fitful doze at the base of the tree. He ran, blindly, wildly, unthinkingly through the blazing front door and through the swirling smoke, made out Linda's crumpled form at the top of the staircase. He ran to her, jumping three steps at a time, ignoring the scorching flames and not feeling the licking pain on his legs. Staggering, grunting, breathing smoke he struggled with her limp body past the unconscious form of Dr Scrape. He paused, and saw in that second that Scrape was still breathing and that his eyes were wide and staring. He seemed unable to move. Ralph charged past him, forward, through the burning door and along the winding driveway. Only the sight of an ambulance and fire truck allowed him to let go and fall with his precious load, unconscious on the wet grass.

'Smoke inhalation,' yelled the ambulance driver.

'Get oxygen and put them both in the back.'

Linda's eyes flickered open and she stared in awe from the stretcher at the uniformed figure. Only the third person she had seen in her life. A mask was lowered over her face, but not before she had time to notice that the unconscious Ralph was breathing quietly on the stretcher next to her.

'I want to speak to her,' yelled the fire chief striding over from the flashing truck.

'No way, they are both going to hospital,' shouted the ambulance driver in answer.

The fire chief ignored the reply and tore the mask from Linda's gasping mouth. He bent close to her. 'I can't send men in there,' he yelled, pointing at the blazing house. 'Not unless there is someone inside. Is there anyone inside?'

'Mother,' whispered the girl.

The fireman looked around. 'She said mother.'

'She hasn't got a mother,' said a short bald man who had come over from the house next door. 'Her mother died when the girl was born. She only has a father. Dr Scrape.'

The fireman leaned closer. His words were urgent. 'Is your father in there, girl? Is anyone in there? The roof is about to collapse. Is anyone inside the house?'

Linda tried to make sense of his strange speech. Then a look of enlightenment swept across her face. She understood the question - that was clear. But many have wondered if she understood her own answer.

As the ambulance driver shut the door she just had time to say one word.

'No.'

Paul Jennings / Thirteen Unpredictable Tales

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Sunday, April 27, 2008

Sunday, April 20, 2008

Thursday, April 17, 2008

Blog Archive

About Me