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
“SOLAR
ENERGY SOLAR ENERGY SOLAR ENERGY “
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
SOLAR
ENERGY
SOLAR ENERGY
SOLAR ENERGY
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.
TO BE CONTINUED …
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