A part of my flooded basement. In the far corner resting against the wall is one of the many cut-up pieces of a soaked carpet. The fizzed out pink balloon has been left there deliberately to add some color to the concrete floor.
For those of you who doubt my commitment to this blog, I am writing this in the midst of a flooded basement. An intense storm that began enveloping us yesterday morning has dumped at least five inches of rain as of this morning. The sump pump in my basement is groaning. I think I even heard it say “WTF, Man!” The “flood” stopped at the edge of my desk’s legs as if reducing my ordeal once I managed to cross the sea from the staircase to the other end of the basement.
However, compared to my personal hardship, which is really nothing other than cheap carpet remnants being made even more useless by some water, I am concerned about Pervez Musharraf. (Sarcasm) Pakistan’s comic political folklore has a brand new character– Pervez Musharrun. The former military dictator, who recently returned home from exile in the hope of gaining power again, literally fled from the Islamabad high court to avoid arrest.
Facing charges of treason, among other things, Musharraf was at the high court in anticipation of his bail being maintained but it was revoked. Soon after that he practically fled from the court premises in his black Toyota Highlander SUV with his security detail hanging on the side. At least three security men were seen running behind it.
Reports out of Islamabad say that Musharraf was now at his farmhouse in Chak Shahzad, which I presume is an exclusive enclave on the outskirts of Pakistan’s capital where retired generals ponder and plot. As he awaits his lawyers to file an appeal in the country’s Supreme Court against the bail revocation and possibly fear his arrest, he must wonder, “If only I had not screwed the judiciary when I was the president.” Karma has a way of creeping up one’s life edifice. There is no pest control for this termite.
What I like the most about Pakistan above all else is that its politicians’ unique knack to, in a manner of speaking, swing their dicks and then step on them. Swing and step, swing and step is the routine.
It is obvious that the forces that he antagonized so deeply when the going was good for him are circling around him menacingly now that they smell blood. I am sure being who he is and having run the way he ran Pakistan, he must have known the consequences of returning from exile. Perhaps he has a plan that would eventually fortify him against the final downfall. I don’t know. Sitting in my flooded basement I am hardly in a position to tell. (Did you notice my clever segue from Musharraf’s plight to my own?)
Speaking of the flooded basement, as I began systematically cutting up the soaked carpet, in one corner of the room I notice these letters etched in the concrete: “k ou.” I knew instantly what was hidden under the last piece of the carpet. As I rolled it up, the letters revealed themselves fully. Inevitably, they said, “Fuck You.” I believe it is a tradition with some people to leave something lasting in the concrete floor while homes are being constructed. I suppose in the case of my home, the original owner, or perhaps the contractor, was feeling particularly articulate.
Come to think of it, it is quite appropriate, both for me and Musharrun. Wow! I did manage to bring it home.