Monday, August 10, 2015

A Tale of Chandu-Land

Tale of ChanduLand
A (well …) hero’s tale
By Azly Rahman

And so as the story well-known well-told
In a place below the wind where Sumatran gorillas don’t grow old
A place way, way, way far away near Thailand, a place called ChanduLand
A paradise for gangs of Colonial Shanghai opium smokers and emerging indie Bangkok heavy metal bands

Enter the hero we shall call Aji-Boros
An incarnation of an automatic-teller machine made of tin cans
Prophecy had it that he would one fine day be an emperor
Who would create in his tribal land so much terror, laced nonetheless, with pleasure

A hero he shall be, always giving his people bread and circuses and freebies
Conceived in a bank vault powered by New Jersey solar energy
Aji-Boros the Man the greatest anti-hero he was predestined to be
His life set off as mundane as Sisyphus’s rock, but ended up as exciting as a deadly spinning Californian frisbee

Yes, our hero Aji--Boros the Man enters the scene
Pushed into the Indie Jones adventures littered along the way with spilled Mexican beans
Born in a bank vault he wanted to be anything but an emperor
Until he was fully-charged with New Jersey solar power

Aji-Boros the Man knew life was Bora Bora Island easy
He was born with so much Zimbabwe money
He need not get into the game of power crazy and gangsta Bombay chicken curry
But the voice kept on coming back to haunt his groovy insanity

“You shall be emperor with lots of Park Avenue clothes,”
And you wife will be adorned with lots of deBeers jewellery
But I shall tell you what the story shall be
From beginning to end you will achieve fantasmagoric-gory glory

I have done this to the chosen one so many
Said Mata-Tuli the nicely-Noah-aged-Merlin and Zulu-like Oracle of ChanduLand
You are the chosen one and will be born out of a planet run on solar energy
Your karma will be that of an emperor run on Shanghai opium and plenty of sleazy slushy Zimbabwe money

Thus haunts the voice of Mata-Tuli, the author of the epic Hindu-Javanese poem nogorikertagama,  the guide of a thousand incarnations
King of the best of Shanghai Opium and Master of vintage  Balinese concoctions
In the bank vault of Aji-Boros the Man
Who will one day say, “Into my bank account, please” as he rule the country with so much Kiekargaardian dread and reluctant Bismarkian glory

Okay, okay, Ajib-Boros the Man said, I have no choice do I?
As he smoked the Shanghai opium furiously and recharged his shiny head with the golf cap-full of New Jersey solar energy
Into my bank account, please ….” he mumbled
As the voice from the vault disappeared slowly

Aji-Boros the Man woke up from the deep sleep
He was born again, from a previous life of the prodigal son of Dolly the British sheep
I have to get his karma right, Aji-Boros said
I have to be born gain and rule this land with all the might of a wise man with a shiny head

Into my bank account, please 
Into my bank account please
Was the mantra Aji-Boros the man said with ease
As he was rolled out of the bank vault as the wise man Mata-Tuli pleased

And the sun continues to shine
Like Wordsworth’s daffodils the people danced and wine and dine
Smoking Shanghai opium and feasting on Marcos’s caviar
As Aji-Boros the Man was born to run, like the CanduLand’s national car Protozoa Saga

But as in Carl Jung’s mangled mythical dreams and nightmare
And Joseph Campbell’s archetypical gaze and stare
There will be challenges and these will be strategically laid bare
As Aji-Boros the hero searches for another tomorrow
In a story filled with sorrow and lots of subplots and storyline no one could follow
A story worse than Arthur Anderson’s ENRON’s mystery
Or a UFO landing in Roswell’s vicinity
Unrivaled only by the story of the missing Malaysian Airline Flight MH 370

Into my bank account
Into my bank account
Sang the chorus-line of opium smokers
As the man, the hero, the chosen one born out of an Outhouse bank vault traverse his difficult journey in search of drama of multiple countdown with an anti-hero

And so the story goes
As an ordinary Hollywood plot, if you follow
Aji-Boros the Man borne out of the womb of the famed OutHouse commercial bank
Had to go through these thresholds of adventures that stink, stunk, and stank: an epic poem conceived in a shark’s tank

Like a knight in shining armor
Guided by the master opium smoker
Aji-Boros the man crossed the Rubicorn of this dangerous adventure
By first buying off Chandu-land’s tribal leaders
Not an easy task, as it takes years to appease these cigar-smoking gold-diggers
But hey, what can we say: Aji-Boros our man had this secret energizer: solar power
And the battle by the River Styx was not easy for our hero
As his first test was not only buying off of the tribal leaders
But battle the groundhogs and hummingbirds and turtles with only his bow and a single arrow
That was the first threshold for our hero
As he comes of age in a story that seems to have no tomorrow
Aji-Boros the man, our hero, had only one voice to follow; that of Mata-Tuli the Guide of Untold Sorrows

Into my bank account
Into my bank account
Was the war cry of Aji-Boros’s political jihad
As he crossed into another battle field
Across the Straits of Jabal-Tariq into an open field densely-populated with opium smoking Death Metal-loving head-banging gangsters

And this certainly is an original first-edition East Philly gangsta territory
Worse than a Paquia-Hollyfield eye-popping boxing battleground  of the much rigged-Round Three
Indeed this realm is totally unknown to the hero as well as to the author of the story
A total mystery. A total mystery
A world of MAD Magazine’s spy versus spy and bouncing and back-breaking humpty dumpties
A world testing our hero’s manhood and his need for the blue pill and if he need candies and Snickers and Smarties
Yes, a dangerous world heroes of ancient stories were plunged into
Of Gilgamesh’s alter-ego Enkedu and John Rambo and Sir Gawain and those chronicled in Toy Story
Total mystery Total mystery
This is when he needs the greatest dose of solar energy

Into my bank account
Into my bank account
Was his mantra of pain and pleasure
He repeated endlessly in iambic pentameter
In all the complexities of poetic ambiguities
In all the glory of a Shinto-istic mantra  of limited vocabulary
Of an Osaka yo! moment
And a Bronx gangsta yo! that torments
In all the exhilarating moment of prose and poetry
In all the intensity of solar energy shining onto his bald head glazed with gangsta kandaq-chicken curry
This is to be the greatest Ozmandias of a battle ground of an Eliotian wasteland of his battle for uncertainty
Aji-Boros the Man’s moment of a sense of story

Yes, into the belly of the whale
Or the belly of the beast, whichever comes first after the mystery of this hero’s journey shall Aji-Boros the Man’s story will be crafted with certainty
And Mata-Tuli the voice was nowhere to be heard
Disappeared like the silent squirm of a beaten-up class nerd
The moment of separation has begun
Can Aji-Boros the chosen one of the Kingdom of Candu-Land survive this ordeal?
Will his own master one day spill the great Gobanzo beans?
Will he, from a bank vault, metamorphosized into Kafka’s vermin?
We shall see … we shall see

Into my bank account please
Into my bank account please
A voice from the source of solar power came
Descending like an Andrea Bocelli symphony
“Time to say goodbye “ – these words shattered the sky with no shame

And years  went by and the power game got even crazy
Aji-Boros was faced with the biggest challenge; how to keep in power as long as ever
How much Zimbabwe money will be enough to last him forever and ever
And how to eliminate those little tribal leaders clamoring to jump on him all over

The seasoned emperor knew the trick well
Things he learned from the mentor Maha-Tuli the every politician knows and fear as hell
Little did Aji-Boros know what the grand scheme was about
As he kept on feeding the tribal sharks with more money day in day out

Into my bank account
Into my bank account
The mantra keeping him alive
As he sits on the throne and master the art of destroying beehives

His greatest challenge has now come
The next biggest national elections is more than just a ho hum of humpty dumps
He is to feed the hungry beasts: gorillas in his midst,
and to engage in a deadly Kung-Fu battle with a political opponent whose secret weapon is a deadly kiss

He needed the money
In this Chandu-land of depleting milk and honey
And how is he to do this?
To become an emperor with no worries

And lo and behold
Into my bank account
Into my bank account
He said to his clan eager to lend multiple hands

And so seventy trillion Zimbabwe money channeled into his personal account
Into my bank account
Into my bank account
He secretly roared
As he channeled the  people’s money
As they snoozed and siesta and snored

As years gone by when Aji-Boros’s enemies wanted more
As old ones came back to settle political scores
As the kingdom became all heated up with great battles
As Chandu-land was plagued with opium smokers and Rasta gangsters and wannabe dictators with tin pots and kettles, lo and behold

Aji-Boros the Man felt a deep yearning for his Master Opium Smoker
Who came back and wanted to wag his dog and kick him out of power
And therein lies the story of Chandu-Land’s Machiavellian complexity
When the guide of the hero
became a devil whose revenge knows no tomorrow

Aji-Boros had no choice but to sit under a Bodhgaya tree
And did extreme yoga with a Master Sadhu complexity
And mediated for three long years chanting
a million times, a million times daily: as if each mantra is a-dollar-a-day Zimbabwe money
So that he could tap the energy from the ancient goddess of mercy and plenty
And beam the rays right into his head, always bald and shiny

Into my bank account
Into my bank account
What me worry?
Our hero chant for three years
In a yogic position of utmost mind-blowing complexity

And the hero came out of his three-year mantra
With so much energy to shame the Great Goddess of Tantra
Turning him into a powerhouse of smokeless opium smoking political original gangsta
Ready to take on Mata-Tuli his old master

And with the immense power of a million X-men and a Zulu warrior
He battled all the temptations like a Buddhist monk in an infinite battle with the Demon Mara
He was offered women of paradise and white grapes and flowing rivers of milk and honey
And opium and orangutans and anchovies and all the rewards in a Monty Python movie
But like a wise chief editor of a college literary magazine he said NO! NO! NO! to all these temptations and settled for the cheapest dowry

The biggest battle has now begun
Mata-Tuli his master came back with a Wak Disney-water gun
The battle was arranged under a bonsai tree
In a terrarium
All live on Candu-Land cable TV

The battle was quick, really
Mata-Tuli saw Aji-Boros’s shining head
And got blinded momentarily
And instead shot himself in the head
(With that Disney water gun of course)
And died instantaneously
That was it: the story
A micro-fiction on minimalist complexity
LOL and behold – that was the story
Of our hero and anti-heroes and vice versa whose plot nobody knows
Of Aji-Boros and the great Mata-Tuli.


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