Sunday, February 2, 2014

RUMAYAN – The Tale of Lava and Quesha

A blasphemous, communist, fatherless satire on Ramayan and Sita's twin blues.

Scene I

Narrator: It is a dark morning in the studio apartment and Mrs. Rum is in the process of giving birth. Mr. Lard Rum is nowhere to be seen, and she seems to be the only person in the room. Mrs. Rum, on her back and on the floor, screams indecipherable words while she forces a child out of herself.

(A few moments later)

Mrs. Rum (frantically): Oh NOT AGAIN!

(Realising that she was not done yet, she begins to push the second child out of herself. When it’s finally done, she sits up straight and begins a wait, lighting a cigarette by the window-side.)

(Lard Rum enters, holding on to an envelope)

Mr. Rum:  What in the world is all this mess? Mrs. Rum (accusingly): Well, you did this to me.

Mr. Rum (pointing towards the new-born babies lying motionlessly in coloured fluids): What in the world did you eat to throw all that up?

(Mrs. Rum stares blankly and then sighs)

Mrs. Rum : These are your children, Lard. Remember the time you said latex condoms are too main-stream for your liking and that your Dad wouldn’t approve, so asking the forces of nature for protection was a better idea?
Mr. Rum: Uhum?
Mrs. Rum : Well it wasn’t.
Mr. Rum (shock, surprise, anxiety):  You are pregnant?
Mrs. Rum: I was.
Mr. Rum (sighs): Well thank fuck, you aren’t now.
Mrs. Rum: You don’t really get how this works do you?
Mr. Rum: Hmm?
Mrs. Rum (condescends): When mommy and daddy love each other very much, they hug each other in a very special way. And when they do that, a baby comes out from mommy’s tummy. And that is how babies are born.
Mr. Rum : Oh that’s delightful. I’m a father? I’m a father! We hugged each other in a special way and a baby is born! This is great news, Cytha!  We’ve got to tell people. In fact, I’m off right now to tell the guys.

(Hurries to the door. Stops mid-way abruptly and turns back. Walks slowly towards Mrs. Rum)

Mr. Rum (slowly and curiously): Wait a second there. Who’s the father of the other baby?
Mrs. Rum (evidently not bothered): Huh?
Mr. Rum : We hugged each other and a baby was born. Who the hell did you hug for the other child?
Mrs. Rum: Eh?
Mr. Rum: I am asking you this very clearly, Cytha. Who is it? Who is the other guy who dared to hug you? Who gave you the bastard child? It was Ravon, wasn’t it?I’ve seen the looks you give him. You’ve always wanted to hug him in a very special way!
Mrs. Rum (mumbles to self): I can’t believe this is happening. (louder) You are the father of both children goodarnit!
Mr. Rum: What the fuck do you take me for? We hugged once, so we have one child. Now what i want to know is who else did you hug, because cleaaaarly, you have a second child! Its mathematics, Cytha. Its mathe-fucking-matics!

(Mrs. Rum stares blankly at the sudden eruption)
Mrs. Rum: I see! If that is how things are, I’m leaving right now. You’ll never see me again and sure as hell, Lard, you crazy son of a bitch, you won’t see either of your children. (theatrically) I’m going to raise a goddarned family of my own and if they ever ask me who their father was, I’ll remember to say Ravon and that he sure gave me quite a few heads.
(grabs both kids and stomps out.)
(door slams shut)
(End of scene I)
Scene II

Narrator: A decade has passed since Cytha Rum infamously liberated herself from her ex-husband’s insanity. Now she has taken a step further into women empowerment, and this women’s day, she gets her all women fitness clinic inaugurated by a male movie-star, now popular for its discounted rates for married women. She has managed to keep both the children, Lava and Quesha, from turning homicidal, which is quite an achievement with bastard children with genetic disorders. More importantly, she has managed to love them, which too, is quite an achievement with bastard children with genetic disorders. She happily mothers perpetually depressed ten year olds in a suburban shack and is presently working on a poster for her clinic.
Mrs. Rum (frustrated evidently): I’ve told you a million times you cannot have a mutual identity crisis just because you’re twins. It is just not possible, Lava. You can only be one person!
Kid I: I’m telling you mother, I’m not Lava. I clearly remember I was Lava yesterday before you put me to sleep. I wake up, and I look into the mirror and realize “Holy Christ! It’s happened again.” Besides, why would I lie for a name like Quesha? It is almost like you WANTED him to be a stripper.
Mrs. Rum (dismissing): Where’s your brother?
Kid I (mutters): Where’s anyone anyway? What does it mean to be at a place? (muttering trails away while Kid I slowly walks away dejected)

(Mrs Rum gets back to the work, takes her time, seems satisfied and hangs it up)

(end of scene II)
Scene III
Narrator: Ten more years down the line, the mutual identity disorder has been identified and fancified, and the twins earn their living being researched upon. Needless to say, they have chosen to make life interesting for the researchers, who believe they’re onto something big. Meanwhile in the living room, Mrs. Rum has just received an envelope addressed to Mr. Rum, and she presently wonders if which one of the two Mr. Rum’s it is addressed to, and more importantly, did it matter which one.
(The Kids enter and stand apart from each other)
Mrs. Rum: There’s a letter addressed to Mr. Rum. I suggest you open it?
Kid II: You Who, Ma?

Mrs Rum: Alright Lava, it’s yours. (carefully holds out the envelope exactly in between the two kids)
Kid I: I’m Quesha.
Kid II: So am I.

(Mrs. Rum drops the envelope and walks away. Kid II picks it up and looks at it. )
(Impatient knocks on the door. Kid I walks up to the door and opens it. Lard Ram stumbles through.)
Mr. Rum: I’m sorry, but there’s an envelope addressed to me and I’m told it was delivered here. That must be it.
Kid II: Hold on. It says here it’s addressed to me. It’s says so right HERE.
Kid I (turning towards Kid I): Does it matter? The recipient is merely a proprietary object. It is the message within that’s of meta-physical significance.
Kid II: You’re right. It depends.

Kid I: It’s subjective.
Kid II (dryly): Tell me about it.

Mr. Rum: There must be a mistake, I’m sorry. I’m Lard Rum and you?
Kid I: I’m Quesha Rum. (points to Kid II). And this is me, Quesha.

(Mrs. Rum walks in and stops abruptly, noticing Lard. Mr. Rum continues to examine the envelope, and does not recognize her. Mrs. Rum watches them bond.)
(Conversation in background)
Mrs. Rum: Lard, you son of a bitch, you’re back.
Mr. Rum: Cytha?
Mrs. Rum: Indeed, and you’ve come at the right time too. My sons have all grown up, and they are nothing like their father.
Narrator: They were.
Mrs. Rum: I’ve brought them up, Lard. I’ve brought them up, and they are capable of keeping me company for the rest of my life, while you rot away like the piece of turd that you are.
Narrator: They weren’t.
Kid II:  Dad? That’s delightful. I’ve always wanted one of those.
Kid I: There is just so much to catch up on. Let’s head somewhere and maybe do that?
(Mr. Rum drops the envelope and heads towards the door with the kids on either side)
(Mrs. Rum walks to her cupboards, open a drawer and pulls out a shotgun)
Mrs. Rum: Delightful. (Cocks it)


-b9 said...

Lemme fill-you-up withe efficacious epiphany, the avant-gardness and necessary wisdom to achieve Heaven, girl, if ya desire Heaven (many dont, preferring to stay 'laissez-faire' [i dont care] till death).

If 'freedom lies in being bold' (Robert Frost), doesn't pushing-the-envelope also result in the Elysian Fields of Utopia? And if I'm the sower, we plant the Seed; if I'm an artist, we RITE the symphonies heard Upstairs ☆IF☆ we accept His lead withe orchestra...

Wanna find-out the fax, Jak, in a wurld fulla the 'power of cowards'? Wanna wiseabove to help a poor 'Plethora Of Wurdz' [POW!] which are look'n for a new home in thy novelty?? Yay!

Q: But [gulp] can anyone tell me the difference between K2/IQ? A: Nthn. In Heaven, we gitt'm both HA! Need a few more thots, ideers, wild wurdz (whoa, Nelly! easy, girl!) or ironclad iconoclasms?

VERBUM SAT SAPIENTI (Latin: words to [the] wise): As an ex-writer of the sassy, savvy, schizophenia we all go thro in this lifelong demise, I wanna help U.S. git past beavisNbutthed, o'er-the-Hillary, whorizontal more!ass! we're in and wiseabove to 'in fine sine fine' (Latin: in [the] End without End -Saint Augustine).

"This finite existence is only a test, son," God Almighty told me in my coma. "Far beyond thy earthly tempest you'll find tangible, corpulent eloquence". Lemme tella youse without d'New Joisey accent...

I actually saw Seventh-Heaven when we died: you couldn't GET!! any moe curly, party-hardy-endorphins, low-hanging-fruit of the Celestial Paradise, extravagantly-surplus-lush Upstairs (awww! baby kitties, too!!) when my beautifull, brilliant, bombastic girly passed-away due to those wry, sardonic satires...

"Those who are wise will shine as brightly as the expanse of the Heavens, and those who have instructed many in uprightousness as bright as stars for all eternity" -Daniel 12:3, NJB

Here's also what the prolific, exquisite GODy sed: 'the more you shall honor Me, the more I shall bless you' -the Infant Jesus of Prague.

Go gitt'm, girly. You're incredible. You're indelible. Cya Upstairs. I won't be joining'm in the nasty Abyss where Isis prowls
God blessa youse
-Fr. Sarducci, ol SNL

-b9 said...

Ha. The mighty Ph. What a treat. That's also Purity/humility. Let's pray to Jesus for one another so one day, we can be in the Great Beyond.

First, yummm, you must lemme kiss thy feets. Deal? Deal! Cya soon...

Love you... in His Name