Renaissance: Deluxe Edition

At the close of everything, everything began.

Cixin Liu, "The Time Migration"

I felt like lighting a ciggy in there. A hot, wet and oozy place like this wasn’t for a bravado like me. I needed a quick shot of caffeine as well – the activist in me loved it. Outside, I could hear hurried Arabic and English in muffled tones. And a female voice speaking some Bangla. Answers in Arabic & Malayalam followed. Didn’t know who these people were but the female Bangla voice sounded like home.

There was some lurching and thuds. My ass took a beat here and there. Few times my ciggy met my wiggy too – yeah it was that bad. Whoa – the female Bangla voice was now screaming – WTF! A male Bangla voice joined in – he was consoling and not screaming with her – thank God. The Arabics & Englishes replied some shit but hey, the female Bangla voice was still screaming – the softies in my ear wobbled and hurt – someone shut her up!

The walls around my crib caged in suddenly. Something invisible was pushing me and I felt my being sliding down a watery slide – it was like the Six Flags water park in mucus. I quickly put out my ciggy and made sure my wiggy was intact down there – they say you need that thing for a lot of shit on the other side. The wiggy gets you the respect – they said. I looked at my wallet – didn’t have much in there but a few Indian coins and a rubber for some unexpected action – I was a safe guy. My head took a hit as my entire being was being turned about and fixed in position for the launch. As the inner sides rounded in and my hands weren’t going to be movable for the next few minutes, I scratched my ass for the final time. I was locked in.

The female Bangla voice screamed like murder and plop! Out I flew in amazing speed and landed on the pad. Apparently, the Arabic voice (dressed in dark green overalls, I saw now) had predetermined my landing point and was standing there to get a hold of me – complete with cricket gloves on. But the blood and mucus-covered body that I was – my being slipped through the smooth leather gloves and hit his apron pouch – the Arabic voice caught hold of me just in time. I could have smashed that bumbo’s head if I had bigger hands!

Oh, I forgot. I was supposed to cry out like crazy – like all new babies do – it’s a test to check if your lungs are OK with the earthly temperatures. I had written that down as a reminder on my Blackberry Curve – which sadly got stuck in the cervical nook when I was being turned about in the uterus before ejection. Bah! No worries, man. My postpaid bill was way too high and my Blackberry was a package add-on with the cellular connection. Good thing I lost it. They can’t track me down for bills now :D

Anyways, I looked around at the female Bangla voice. Mommy was cool. The male voice was ecstatic next to her. The Arabics took out the umbilical cord with a snipper and got me into the bath. It wasn’t as great as the Turkish steam bath I got in my crib but was refreshing nevertheless – though I would have preferred Palmolive soap instead of the kiddish Johnson & Johnson ‘No Tears’ crap they used on me.

I was getting passed from lap to lap like a bloody handball and all the swirling made me want a ciggy – bloody Marlboros – I left them in the crib – arrrgh! The Arabic voice had a pack of Rothmans in his side-pocket but my short friggin’ hands couldn’t reach them. Damn, I needed a smoke so bad. Also no one made a point of putting any clothes on me. They had a blanket on but there were some female Arabics around and that wasn’t a good enough idea.

I had a ciggy back in mouth and looked out at the sun-lit Sharjah streets as our car passed on. I know I was just born but what the hell – a guy needs his own time getting to know the ways of the world. The female Bangla voice kept tickling me and saying some real moronic chant that went like ‘Oh Amar Shonamoni….ooooh!’ – I had the urge to ask her to shut up but let it be thinking she must be real excited to see me out there.

The male – I saw – had a better-looking ciggy than me and he could make smoke circles outta’ his drags. Man! I spent like ages trying that shit out in my crib but never made it happen. Sad times, brother. I was quiet as the car egged on. We were near the Expo Centre and I checked out some hot Filipinos outside the entrance. Hey, I wasn’t supposed to be attracted to women yet but somehow things clicked for me. I wondered what else I was capable of given that I was just outta the womb.

That is when the front car seat punched into me and a large piece of soft human brain and a pair of eyeballs landed on my tummy as I reclined myself against the backseat in order to minimize the impact of the accident on my little body. When the smoke cleared out I saw the female Bangla voice was crushed beyond recognition – her entire being flattened like early morning aloo paratha – blood all over while her eyes stared out at me – her first-born. The eyes were pressed beads now – something to make coat buttons out of.

The male’s head lay on one side – severed from the rest of the body, which was still intact on the driver’s seat and the hands trying to drive the wheel. The eyeballs in the severed head still moved about trying to locate the female Bangla voice before they rested on me – his first-born.

I thought I saw large brown furry wings outside my window – where people were beginning to gather on the street and an ambulance had just arrived. When I looked again – a man with strange humongous wings disappeared into the crowd and a few minutes later I believe I saw him ascend into the sky all the while looking at me.

My side of the door opened and I momentarily lost balance. For the first time the heat of the desert country hit me on the face.

I opened my eyes and was still in the delivery room. The doctor hit me on the back real tight and before I knew it I was crying. I looked around and made out the female Bangla voice lying on the bed and a male Bangla voice was shouting excitedly as nurses tried to calm him down. The female Bangla voice looked like the happiest woman in the world.

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Published by Mizanur Rahman, in the United States of America.