Platform Antiques: Mr Ant & I

A verbatim account lifted off from my recent entries in my travel journal:

The modern serpent, a rushing taut declaration of uncatchable steel, sent my gypsy locks into an electrical streak-burst of anarchy. I felt beyond myself. That is when I saw the little chap whizzing towards the vast canyon of my shadow. In my mind I imagined that Mr Ant, who was now scurrying bravely across the baked concrete platform, pausing for breath, and then by chance looking up, discovering that the orb of the sun had mysteriously blacked out. All of it gone. My form elevated to a sheltering eclipse from the heatwave that had for days clinched the English landscape to a halt. To think that a passing train was invested with that level of casual power so as to unleash noble service from my untied hair made me tickle with laughter, and my toes, forever leaning towards the horizon, skipped up and down on the earth. What huge fun this is! I have yet to step foot onto the mat of my destination and already I have offered myself up as an unfathomable adventure for a creature no one else cares to see, likewise he has unknowingly proportioned the same benevolence of magic into the preface of my journey…  ♥♥♥   

Words:  © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | In between cities | UK 2016

The Dreaming Chapter 13: I, River

Mr Penton sat back in his leatherback black chair. His calm, scrutinising eyes were trained on his team of agents who were all busily punching away at their complicated keyboards, their faces lit up by the twitching graffiti of ghostly lights emanating from their screens in front. Mr Penton was present, and yet was not present in the room, for his mind, a vast cave-like realm as secret as the museum itself, toiled and twisted in thoughts that he had not spoken of to anyone. So lost was he in a wisp of memories that it took him away from the room, to somewhere else, a place peacefully absent from the raging kaleidoscope of blinking lights and clattering twirls of recording reels of tape.

A part of him must have somehow latched back onto the present, and he realised again where he was. Closing his eyes shut so that he may open them again and renew his focus on the task that lay before him, Mr Penton slowly, but deeply, rubbed his neck down with his hand, a discreet effort to keep haunting worries buried beneath him where no one would find them. Then he opened his eyes again with a sigh that sounded as if it were a breeze that had escaped from the centre of the earth. He tried to conceal his surprise at finding that he was not alone in his space. The assistant was stood facing him, expressionless, his hands behind his back. Mr Penton sat himself up straighter.

I am deeply sorry to disturb you, Sir.

Mr Penton found it highly amusing that his assistant should say that. “And what do you think you had disturbed?

The assistant did not bargain on having such an awkward question thrown at him and he stammered for an answer. “Erm, well, I th-thought, erm, you were, you….. 

Mr Penton shook his head in feigned exhaustion and smiled. “At ease, for goodness sake, man!” To that the assistant jolted his back straight and he became as straight as a ruler. “At ease does not mean tensing yourself up more than you were before.” Mr Penton gave up and leaned back on his chair again. The assistant loosened up, but only slightly. “So, what of the mission so far?

Agent King Kong –

Ah, yes, always was a fan of his work!” Suddenly Mr Penton remembered the time he trained the little monkey how to securely operate headset technology whilst swinging through trees of extraordinary height.

Yes, well, erm, Agent King Kong has been successful in diverting The Froggies away from the girl, however, based on the latest satellite imagery it appears that the enemy quartet has not only encountered a violent fall down a vertical terrain of significant gradient, but that they are now closer to two branches of the Krishna Gandaki River. This does not look good, Sir.

Mr Penton did not seem to be irritated or unnerved by the news. Instead, a slight curl rose at the end of his lips, an embryonic smile tinged with joy that was as elusive and untouchable as the floating mesh of fresh dawn fog. “At least the girl is safe”.

But, Sir – and I do beg your pardon if I seem to be talking out of turns here – but our priority is The Shaligram Ammonite!” Although the assistant had plenty more to add to his bubbling protest, he was stopped short by Mr Penton’s immediate change of expression, the old man’s eyes now chiselled into a piercing and questioning stare. The assistant frowned and briskly backed off. He was not sure what he had said and something told him that he would not be receiving a straightforward answer either. “I am, erm, I am sor-sorry, Sir.

Remembering where he was again, Mr Penton relaxed his eyes and face, and flexing his hands and fingers before interlocking them, the two index fingers like pillars pointing into his chin, he spoke with a measured authority that was spectacularly effective. “Let me be the one to worry about our priorities. You may return to your workstation, and keep me informed.

The assistant could not tell whether the old man was cross with him, or was he being reassuring. Either way, no words would come to him and he simply nodded before turning around and quietly gliding back to his seat.

For the next few minutes Mr Penton watched his crew attentively. He had to get up from his seat and wished not to distract anyone or arouse unhelpful interest in his movements. Relieved that all eyes were glued to the screens, Mr Penton carefully slid away from his seat and stood up. Once again he scanned around. No one was onto him. He crept towards the back of the room where the towering columns of mainframe computers whirred away, the huge rotating wheels gaped at him as if they were the eyes of mechanical spies, and a faint quiver shuddered across his shoulders. Undeterred, he remained to walk over to the back corner of the room. A mundane intersection of two walls, the heat of the machines had accumulated here to form an eerie micro-climate, an ignored and muggy and shadowy spot haired by thick, snaky wires trailing around, keen to trip anyone over. Peering out from behind the mainframe tower, taking care not to topple the ominous structure, he checked to see if everyone was working. All was well. He turned away and stepped backwards until his back was against the wall. He sighed, and then put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small, white envelope. He turned it in his fingers, over and over again. He debated with himself whether he should open it here or not. At last his indecisiveness came to a stop, not out of will, but out of the tiredness from overthinking. The envelope hung expectantly in the charged air, its sides firmly clipped between the fingers of each hand, and in his head he read the typed words on the front, his silent voice as crisp as when walking on thick snow. It read “The Shaligram Ammonite”. Mr Penton flipped the envelope over, opened the unsealed flap and gently pulled out a glossy, monochrome photograph. The cool surface reminded him of hopeful mornings. He could not tell how many times he had looked at her, and of how many times she had smiled back at him.

Under the photograph was a caption strung in tiny, neat typewritten letters.

Her name in full read, ‘Arundhati Mehta Penton’.

As if she were hidden in between the letters, Mr Penton smiled down tenderly. A grandfather’s smile.

*

Leaving the dense, forested worlds of the hills behind her, Arundhati trudged down the slope towards the village. The roar of the great rivers growing louder with her every step it was, however, when she was about half-way down the slope that she realised that the sound of the waters churning and lapping and breaking against the banks rang out not from the world outside. Power beyond power, more earthly than earth itself, the watery drum was beating against her own flesh, it came from inside her, from deep within the spiral canals of her ears. ♥♥♥  

The Dreaming Chapter 13

“… Mr Penton flipped the envelope over, opened the unsealed flap and gently pulled out a glossy, monochrome photograph. The cool surface reminded him of hopeful mornings. He could not tell how many times he had looked at her, and of how many times she had smiled back at him…”

Photography & Words:  © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Hampshire | UK 2016

 

Jen’s Graduation Day – In Pictures & Words! Yeeehaaaaaa!

This is the only life we know, what comes before and after is obviously a debatable topic, but whilst keeping to the present and what I have known of this life thus far, I am happy to let myself be flogged by conservative ridicule while stating with utter joyous boldness, that there are potentially two births to our name. As we depart from the maternal tunnel into this waterless and breathing world of air, no recollection of the journey is allowed to be engraved, our memories simply refuse to reach back that far, and so it is that our most momentous time is also one that is cocooned in rebellious mystery, a giant gravity of vagueness and void, it the one root adventure we cannot remember, as hard as we may try.

The second birth is a rare one and not all will be fortunate enough to have the means or desire to navigate through its convoluted procession of trials and triumphs. A path that demands solid guts of steel, a fearless disposition that rises against and thrusts through the tide of social conformity, to follow one’s dreams is a battle that teases us to the point of agony and tests us to the death. If pursued with integrity, the reward is always great, for every pace achieved and that takes us forward cries out a new growth of aliveness, a vibrant shout of ascension pushing through the old fabric of living. It is this rebirthing that we have the means, the honour, to remember.

It gives me tremendous pleasure to share tonight the second birthing of my little sister, Jen, as she, today, against many thwarting odds and hefty sacrifices, became a shining and proud graduate of Southampton Solent University. I should have taken more tissues with me, her joy forced us all to let open the waterworks of our eyes, our faces reduced to leaky taps with no intention to close!

Of course, I did not just arrive there with a dress and dotty shoes! Beaming and bouncing around Southampton Guildhall with my trusty camera, a task slightly complicated by my dreadfully disobedient shawl which I then stuffed into my bag to my astounding relief, I caught up with Jen and her fabulous troop of mates, together with the rest of the hobbits of my own family, to create a photographic chronicle of an unforgettable day that swelled and swayed in lively celebrations, a roaring dawn chorus blessed with soaring tasselled hats and loud cheers of rebirthing, and hearty smooches on cheeks that have made me seriously wonder whether Jen and I will ever need a blusher brush again! Ah, yes, I suppose they can be rather handy for dusting off loose, unruly crumbs of bread from inside the toaster! Giggle, twiggle!

Your 158cm Dreamer of all hours,
Mazzy ♥♥♥

Jen's Graduation

My sister’s shoes are manufactured out of a clever mixture of Dark Matter and Lord Vader’s helmet! I know, seriously cool, right?!

Jen's Graduation

Ever wondered what a disco for ravens would look like? Check out this conspiracy of flighty hats!

Jen's Graduation

Jen stood on the shoulders of giants to reach her goal. There was no stepladder in the art department and she could not get to the paint tub on top of the wardrobe. In stepped human resources!

Jen's Graduation

Emotions ran high and tears welled out of eyes and ears and nose with an intensity yet unmatched in the natural world. Here, Ab, seeks cover from a pair of trendy shades!

Jen's Graduation

There are some exceptional people in this world, like my Jen, who can make sinister capes and cloaks that seem to belong to a certain Professor Snape appear as though they are the latest hip trend in street fashion! Girl, what gives?

Jen's Graduation

I cannot tell whether my brother, Sam, is restrainig himself from crying or holding down a burp! Any advances?

Jen's Graduation

Mumsy is everyone’s Mumsy. That is an unquestionable fact! ♥

Jen's Graduation

Once again Sam throws conundrums our way: Is his tummy rumbling for food because he has gone without it for so long, or, is he the first man ever to be expecting with child? Oh boy, that is a toughie!

Photography & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Southampton Solent University |Southampton | UK 2016

The Dreaming Chapter 12: When A Picture Spoke & Smelled Louder Than Words!

Arundhati spun her head round to face the monkey. She had figured she had no other way out, and therefore rested all her hopes of a swift and safe escape on the little creature, hoping that he would help her out in some way unknown to her. Her raised spirits were, unfortunately, quickly dashed as she saw before her was an empty spot, a dreary nothingness that made her gulp hard, and she suddenly became aware that she was horribly alone, a solitary seeker of a profound treasure limply canvassed against the whispering and watchful green leaves of the sal tree. Meanwhile, a sinister gathering assembled directly beneath her now unsteady feet. Arundhati bent down a little to hear better of their feverish banter.

I am so, so sure that I saw that weakling walk this way, she has to be here, somewhere! I’ll be damned if she gets her wormy fingers on what is rightfully ours!” grunted Tall Froggy.

I second to that!” cheered maliciously the youngest of the devilish clan, Baby Froggy.

She can’t outsmart us, four against one, c’,mon!” Papa Froggy spoke and yet he was far more concerned about the structural stability of his newly oiled quiff, smoothing it upwards as if he were negotiating with the terms of gravity itself.

Mama Froggy let out a disciplinary cough to hush everyone up and then stepped in front and locked eyes with her accomplices with a stern and steely stare before pacing up and down, her hands authoritatively locked behind her, which signalled that all ears were to come up on deck. She made it perfectly known that if anyone were to so as much fidget she would gladly release a whack to the nape of the neck of the culprit. A strict regime of silence descended and everyone, Arundhati included, waited with bated breath. She was sure the birds in the sky had frozen up there, too, wings half way between opening and closing.

Mama Froggy had hardly opened her mouth to speak when, by one of the bushes, a monkey jumped out in front at awesome ninja speed! It wore a headset around his head.

WHAT THE – ?!” cried out Mama Froggy and she stumbled and staggered backwards, falling hard on her massive, padded bottom. Dust flew out from all sides of the crash, causing the remaining Froggies to choke and their eyes immediately began to sting.

Aaarghhhh!!! My eyes, I can’t see a bloody thing!” screamed Baby Froggy.

My hair, my hair, how will I live now?!” Papa Froggy was frantically running on the spot, scrubbing his hair up repeatedly to save it from a premature collapse, although it would have been wise to sort his eyes out first, they were completely enveloped in sandy dust.

Arundhati’s heart leapt to her mouth and she smiled and giggled and even brought her hands out to clap, but thought the better of it, she did not wish to give away her location.

Tall Froggy was tall enough to have been spared the dust attack. She was the first one to notice that things were about to get worse for them. “Hey guys, it’s doing something and I don’t like it…

Though it was painful to see anything with their faces and eyes smothered to the rafters in grime of irritating dust, it was obvious to even the dullest of minds that what the monkey had up his sleeves next would be a formidable challenge to any nose of standard biology. The monkey bent his knees and assumed the position of one who was about to sit on the toilet. There was no doubt about it, his face was gleaming in the most marvellous mischievous grin ever observed in the animal kingdom. Very quickly, without The Froggies ever noticing it, the monkey shot a conspiratorial wink at Arundhati to which she flinched, and then it dawned on her of what he had deviously concocted in his tiny little genius brain. She carefully raised her right hand and pinched her nose and confirmed her understanding with a gentle nod.

Stand back…”, said Mama Froggy, her hands shaking. The others obeyed and took a step back.

It was nothing less than a monumental explosion of pure smelliness! The universe was introduced to the second Big Bang, and it came in the form of an ejective bubble of gas comprising of 1% Sulphur, straight out from a monkey’s hairless bottom! A superior module of farting glory! The monkey let out a yawn followed by a smirk of satisfaction, relieved that he had at last disengaged from his system this most annoying baggage of deadweight.

AAAARGGGGHHHHHH!!!!” screamed all four Froggies and they all fell to making the most contorted and screwed-up faces they had ever been forced to express as the odious odour unleashed its terror deep inside the delicate olfactory centres of their brain. Arundhati, on the other hand, was nearly knocked off from her perch, saved only by her fast reflexes.

The Dreaming Chapter 12

“… Arundhati, on the other hand, was nearly knocked off from her perch, saved only by her fast reflexes...”

The monkey knew this was the golden mean of moments, it had to be archived for posterity, so from his side pouch he whipped out his 19th Century foldout camera and, like a gunslinger from the Wild West, he pointed it with precision at the four wobbling figures before him. Pressing down the shutter button was second nature to him, he did it before anyone had realised what had just happened. Arundhati could not resist, she drew her hands together, and quietly clapped from above the branches of the tree. She did get a quick whiff of the smell in that brief moment and knew instantly that she would never be able to articulate to anyone the magnitude of its toxic scent. She speedily clasped onto her nose again.

The Dreaming Chapter 12

“… he whipped out his 19th Century foldout camera and, like a gunslinger from the Wild West, he pointed it with precision at the four wobbling figures before him. Pressing down the shutter button was second nature to him...”

Frogmarched out of the way by the worst sort of bad luck ever befallen on them, The Froggies ran down the hill, or so they tried, for the sting in their eyes had only just settled that their faces now itched terribly, and huge sore lumps began to bulge out like burnt cheese on pizza. Papa Froggy began to sob when he discovered that he had lost a patch of hair from the back of his head. In all this pain they could no longer see where they were going and they tumbled against each other before all four violently rolled down the hill, collecting dust and grass along the way, so that by the time they reached the base each one resembled a Chinese spring roll made out of messy tufts of hairy seaweed!

As if the camera was a juggling ball, the monkey casually threw up his box of light magic into the air, its lens joyfully caught the warm beam of afternoon sunshine, and then it fell down and he caught it in one hand. He turned to face Arundhati and she, in turn, took away her fingers from her nose. The air was clear again. The monkey slipped the foldout camera back into its inconspicuous pouch and stood up to its full height. He was ready to leave. She did not wish to forget his face, never, and without thinking, brought her binoculars up to her eyes to see his face properly. It showed her nothing, only the monotony of black discs. A little saddened, she slowly slid the camera away from her face and as she did so, she raised her right hand to her forehead and sent her little hero the proudest salute she had ever done to anyone. The monkey bowed down, with grace and humility and saluted back at her. It made her feel like a hero for something that she had yet to do. A boat-shaped dimple stretched and shone out from inside the trees to which a white cloud of whiskers fanned outwards from below ground. He skipped backwards and made a short wave before he vanished behind the bushes. Arundhati caught herself wishing that she saw him again, perhaps in another story.

If an ancient scribe of Nepal were to cross oceans of time and had sat and watched the spectacle that had just passed, he or she would have taken note that today was the day that saw four beastly frogs be blown way off course, and all thanks to the joining of two forces, two unlikeliest of friends, Hanuman and Saraswathi…  ♥♥♥     

 

Photography & Words:  © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Hampshire | UK 2016
Photography & Words:  © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Roald Dahl Museum & Story Centre |Great Missenden | Buckinghamshire | UK 2016

In 400 Words: When I Went To The Toy Maker

A literary response to the unresolved hostage crisis taking place right now in my Motherland’s capital, Dhaka:

There was terrible, terrible gunfire that night. The bullets, angry droplets of metal, shrieked through the air like offending fireworks worked by the clawed hands of Voldemort himself. Outside the building where the hostages were kept, people scrambled for safety, rushing back and forth, gripped by the demon of hurried madness, tripping over trivial objects of the day, like scrapped newspapers, now orphaned on the streets along with the dirt and rotting peels of fruit and vegetables. I saw one man losing a sandal in the panic, he did not return for it, and in another, a woman’s hand was momentarily ripped apart from her child to which she screamed as if it were the end of the world, until an officer dashed in and reunited the child to its mother.

I had no shoes on my feet. Dhaka was stifling hot in July, and it was perfectly acceptable in these parts to walk without putting anything on one’s feet. Now I wished that I had worn something, because where my unacquainted soles touched the ground there it was callously pricked and spiked by sharp splinters of glass. When doused in mortal flesh, as I was that night, the pain became an excruciating torment.

A very still body of an officer was dragged from the frontlines of the firing. I knew he was no more, and another hole punched into my heart, this time it went all the way through to my spine and out the other end. It hurt being disguised as a human. I did not stay long enough to see what happened next, my time was up. The voice of my Creator ordained me to return to Him and tell Him of what I saw.

The main stem of my wings, a blend of lotus and moonlight, shoved out from beneath the skin of my shoulder blades and I rose off from the level of the street. When the country had shrunk as minuscule in size as an ant, my nose stroked against the first watery webs of clouds and everything vanished. An oceanic blackness was my only reality.

Then Light was returned to me. I was stood outside a shop that bore no name. The Great Old Artisan, a Toy Maker, was inside, chiselling away to bring forth a brand new planet.

I had so many questions to ask Him of his great and terrible Creations…   ♥♥♥    

Click on this link to open the door to the Toy Maker’s shop: https://www.facebook.com/ajplusenglish/videos/754163648058478/

Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Winchester | UK 2016