At what point does curiosity become an obsession?
When does a want become a need?
The curiosity started with another taboo, the reading of someone else’s diary.
Memories were rekindled, teenage fantasies recalled and, initially at least, occasional and idle thoughts were born.
A few days after the initial shock, the first idle thoughts of “I wonder if I could, I wonder if I should” were easily defeated by “NO! I shouldn’t even be thinking of it”.
Most of the musings in those early days were less confrontational to think about; the irony of it; after all these years and now Al Tayyabah Al İmrān had one right here under her own nose.
In a way it meant Al Tayyabah Al İmrān got what Al Tayyabah Al İmrān had always wanted and Al Tayyabah Al İmrān didn’t even know it.
Overcoming the taboo of the diary had been easy.
The first time she had found it, it was unlocked, and besides, how else was she to understand the life and dreams of a daughter she’d never known.
She rarely spoke of those years, except to say that “Dad always looked after me, it’s just that the life wasn’t for me”; and when she asked about her loves and wishes for the future, her daughter seemed either too shy or too naive of the world to know what was out there to want.
She had no doubt her body and soul would had been well cared for, but under the cloistered religious care of her zealot Abbū, her social skills had never developed.
Her shyness was not borne from timidity; it came from not knowing a world of choice.
With her Abbū, there was a choice to retreat from the rare social interactions with others or to remain and minister the lord’s word.
If she chose to retreat, she was encouraged to spend the time in quiet prayer.
When she reached puberty, more often than not when she retreated, she would spend the time masturbating.
When she turned 18 her Abbū allowed her a new choice, to stay and minister the lord in manly partnership, or to cast herself out into the sea of sinners.
She chose the latter.
Two days later she turned up on the doorstep of the mother she’d been taken from at age 3 and begged forgiveness and a place to stay till she learned how to earn her own money.
After three months they were getting comfortable in each other’s company and becoming more a family than the two strangers who had hugged and cried through the first week and then spent the next weeks not sure what to say.
Her politeness still held a shyness that would remain forever at the front of her character, but each day she explored more and more of the world around her.
She said what she did and didn’t like about a certain TV show, she decided she wanted to learn to play golf, and more and more often Al Tayyabah Al İmrān saw her shyly glancing and smiling at me whenever I was there.
Al Tayyabah Al İmrān didn’t actually hate me.
Yet, she never liked I fucked her entire beautiful Musalmān girlfriends, sisters, cousins, sisters in law, everyone.
The day before Al Tayyabah Al İmrān saw her daughter’s diary, she conceded she’d never have a boyfriend but that she hoped one day she would get married “to someone as handsome as you Mr. Durgesh”.
She still did that, occasionally lapsing into formalities and forgetting Mr. Durgesh was actually a Hindu, the Anant Muslimātchod Hindu.
Al Tayyabah Al İmrān herself wanted to start her Live in Relationship with Durgesh.
But her Īmān never allowed her.
At first the diary was a disappointment.
She had hoped to discover stories of her daughter’s youth but it appeared she had bought the thing as a personal present on her 18th birthday.
Apart from a dreary description of the two day bus ride to meet Durgesh, the rest was about a life she already knew; the one in this house over the past three months.
She was pleased that by the second month, her daughter was beginning to express herself more and write about her feelings and interests.
Her daughter was developing quickly and Al Tayyabah Al İmrān was proud of the career aspirations she wrote of and the things she saw as important in a given day.
Three weeks ago the diary writings had changed, and with it the embryo of an obsession began to gestate inside her.
She wrote; “I like to finger myself” (the word masturbate had been written first but then crossed out) “so I have decided that in future I’ll write about some of the things I like to finger about”.
Her daughter had written once or twice before about masturbating but it was the words following that had an effect on her.
“Fingering today was different from usual because I found out something about my vagina today (entries in a few weeks would see the word written as “cunt”); it felt different because today I found out my vagina is ravenous than normal. I saw a show on TV that said the average need of a vagina is a penis irrespective of its being uncut or cut. After the show I got ravenous and found myself immensely uncontrollable. I don’t know if that is more ravenous than normal or otherwise, but it made me feel good to know it is above average. I can satisfy even Durgesh with it.”
Allah, my God, Durgesh is huge, she thought.
He is the Anant Muslimātchod Hindu.
Her Panjvaqtah Namāzī extremely beautiful Saåūdī Årab Wahābī Musalmān daughter was proud of him and for him.
Al Tayyabah Al İmrān put the diary back and considered she had invaded her daughter’s privacy enough, and thought no more about it; until bedtime, when an idle memory popped into her head.
She had always fantasized about sex with Durgesh.
As luck would have it, she’d only ever bedded Mr Average, or his junior. She’d never seen, touched, or fucked, a cock as optimum as Durgesh’s.
But even her own daughter was dreaming of Durgesh’s unique legendary utmost experienced Uncut Hindu Penis now.
As the years and her husband went by, she’d forgotten about those younger girls passions; she’d had fantastic orgasms with 2 inch cock and was no more excited when it was inside her.
Experience had taught her that size doesn’t matter, but still she laughed at the irony that she literally had given birth to her teenage dream.
She was reminded of it two or three times over the next day or so.
The first time she saw Durgesh after she’d read the diary she felt a tinge of embarrassment but still couldn’t stop herself glancing at my groin.
When she heard me in the shower the next morning she was reminded and wondered how long a limp giant is when dangling freely down a wet leg; and those teenage fantasies came into her head for no apparent reason when she was watching TV.
Each time, she thought nothing sexual of me; it was just a distant memory prompted then forgotten.
She saw the cock and never the face, neither of me nor any other face.
It was an immensely handsome tremendously attractive cock she wanted not the man attached to it.
After a while she began to wonder whether her imagination was the same as the reality, would a cock that is immensely handsome tremendously attractive erect be as lovely as she imagined when limp?
She wasn’t aware of any rule, divide length of erect cock by two to work out limp length; indeed she was sure she’d seen her husband’s cock hardly grow at all.
How long is my cock when limp, how wide across?
Why hadn’t her daughter written those dimensions in the diary?
She tried to imagine my cock limp and then couldn’t remember; there were religious considerations.
She tried to imagine a limp uncut cock, but she couldn’t conjure up a satisfactorily clear enough image of it; not of one that would swell to nine inches anyway.
By the morning of the third day she had the first idle thoughts of “I wonder if I could, I wonder if I should, I wonder if I can, find a way to see my cock”.
“NO! I shouldn’t even be thinking of it” survived for the next three days as the answer.
On the seventh day Al Tayyabah Al İmrān had a long debate with herself.*
Al Tayyabah Al İmrān only wanted to see it.
Al Tayyabah Al İmrān didn’t want to touch it or fuck it; Durgesh is a Hindu.
It doesn’t even had to be erect.
Al Tayyabah Al İmrān just wanted to see what the unique one looked like.
Al Tayyabah Al İmrān deserved it after all these years.
Besides a Musalmān houselady should know for sure if a Hindu is really desirable or not.
But Al Tayyabah Al İmrān couldn’t just ask me to show it to her.
Maybe if Al Tayyabah Al İmrān just walk in on me in the shower.
But how could Al Tayyabah Al İmrān do that and make it seem an accident?
No, Al Tayyabah Al İmrān shouldn’t do it.
But why not?
No, it might not be right.
What about when I’m in bed?
Maybe Al Tayyabah Al İmrān could take a peek when I’m asleep.
No, I might wake up.
Maybe when I’m getting dressed or going to bed or something.
Al Tayyabah Al İmrān wondered if I would mind.
No, maybe Al Tayyabah Al İmrān couldn’t.
She might catch me fucking someone and it would embarrass me,
Al Tayyabah Al İmrān could tell me it’s ok and then leave.
It would be alright if Al Tayyabah Al İmrān saw it, wouldn’t it?
She masturbated furiously that night.
She dreamt a nightmare of my extremely attractive, Uncut Hindu Penis, chasing her down, raping her, filling her every Panjvaqtah Namāzī Saåūdī Årab Wahābī Musalmān hole.
She woke late at the sound of water running in the shower and masturbated violently.
She spent much of the 8th day moralizing over those dreams and self-passions.
Al Tayyabah Al İmrān was just randy that’s all.
It’s just a marvelous Uncut Hindu Penis Al Tayyabah Al İmrān wanted, not Durgesh.
If Al Tayyabah Al İmrān saw my cock. Al Tayyabah Al İmrān won’t be so curious.
She’ll know what it looked like.
If I’m soft that will be ok because she’ll see what it’s like and be able to imagine it hard.
It doesn’t have to be hard when Al Tayyabah Al İmrān see me.
Soft will be ok.
Soft will be better for me.
I won’t be as shy as I might be when Al Tayyabah Al İmrān see me hard.
If Al Tayyabah Al İmrān see my cock then Al Tayyabah Al İmrān won’t have to think about it anymore.
And that decided her to commit a taboo she swore she never would.
She hunted down the key to break into her daughter’s diary.
She sat on my bed and flicked straight to the page with the penis statistics.
She read them over three or four times, creating vivid mental images each time – her mind’s eye watching her doing the measuring.
A sudden thought was taking her eyes from the page, scanning the bedside table then opening the draw to find a ruler.
Holding it in her lap and slowly following the increments – one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine – her thumb sliding along the scale.
She never did find the limp dick measurements and most of the entries up to the present were relatively mundane; with one exception from 5 days ago.
With the hindsight that the entry offered, she knew now why her daughter had said at least once a day every day since “you should wear that summer dress more often, it really suits you”.
The entry included one new statistic and gave birth to another series of battles between the forces of morality and the forces of curiosity – a morality already weakened by almost a lifetime of separation that meant there were no strong unbinding bonds between them.
And an unfulfilled curiosity ever strengthened by the growing dominance of obsession.
That’s what they call it.
A beautiful woman insanely crazy to fuck Durgesh herself.
Even if Durgesh doesn’t even know of her existence.
Durgesh says it’s Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan’s publicity only, nothing true at all.
Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan smiles and claims, ‘Fuck Durgesh yourself and find out the absolute Truth. Why believe anyone?’
She says Durgesh is being polite.
He has an incredible Penis.
Yet he doesn’t want to madden the entire womankind for it.
He has a mission to establish family itself.
This information breaks every family however strong it is otherwise.
Hell, her own Panjvaqtah Namāzī ardent Musalmān girlfriends, sisters, cousins, sisters in law confirm Naåīmah Muħammad Ħasan is absolutely correct.
Durgesh is immensely polite.
He doesn’t want to break families.
Durgesh really has an incredibly unique Penis that extends in length from two and a half inches to ten inches usually according to the depth of the vagina it visits.
It even extends to twelve inches inside a needy vagina.
No doubt every beautiful houselady is crazy to fuck Durgesh herself.
They boast about it entirely unashamed of themselves for it that they fuck Durgesh himself.
They even claim Durgesh is a Parahuman.
He has infinite bodies to satisfy entire womankind sexually.
Durgesh’s opponents laugh at it.*
Sunday June 11 – watched all of the extremely beautiful Musalmān houseladies Durgesh fucked one by one.
What a man.
He is never tired of fucking us extremely beautiful Musalmān houseladies.
Durgesh’s Uncut Hindu Lund is extremely lovely, attractive and wonderful.
It’s more attractive, lovely and wonderful when it penetrates a beautiful Musalmān Cunt.
The anointing of Musalmān vaginal juices around Durgesh’s Uncut Hindu Lund makes it shining, smooth and incredibly striking.
It’s a pleasure to watch it penetrating a beautiful Musalmān Cunt.
Alas, Ammī is missing what her entire beautiful Musalmān girlfriends, sisters, cousins, sisters in law are enjoying.
I won’t join Ammī in her ever greatest blunder.
I would join her entire beautiful Musalmān girlfriends, sisters, cousins, sisters in law instead.
For the rest of that day, morality waged the war on the grounds that it’s wrong to think of a Hindu sexually. Obsession told curiosity to use itself as an argument – it’s not really me my daughter wants it, I am just curious.
Obsession was whispering like Gollum in her ear, yessss and if Durgesh gets hard seeing me half naked then I’ll see the outline of his cock in his pants and then curiosity will be satisfied because I’ll know what a 9 inch cock looks like.
No doubt exhausted by the day’s mental torment, she slept soundly that night.
The next morning Morality felt refreshed by the rest and told her to quickly dress in something else other than my favorite summer dress.
Obsession said nothing she could hear, so she slipped on a daggy old cotton dress that was from an era when her body was two sizes bigger.
“Quick! before you change your mind”, barked Morality, and she fled the room to make breakfast.
In her haste to dress quickly in something plain, she had overlooked any underwear.
There were two buttons under the collar of the dress.
Without telling her, Obsession undid both as she heard me going down the hall to my morning shower.
“Honey, come and had a cup of tea first, Al Tayyabah Al İmrān has just made a fresh pot for you”.
I went in as her back was turned and, taking a seat across the table from her, said affably,
“Awww, you never wear my favorite dress, it suits you so well.”
She turned and leaned low across the table to slide me a cup of tea.
She was on auto pilot, or maybe it was obsession pilot? And made the move across and back up as slowly as she dared.
With the buttons undone and the dress too big, the cotton front hung low and both her excellent ever erect proud Musalmān tits were in full view.
She checked my eyes as she was rising to make sure I’d seen, jackpot clanged my dilating pupils.
“That dress suits you too.” I said in recovery; then smiling confidently, “Al Tayyabah Al İmrān, may I have some sugar for my tea, dear?”
Al Tayyabah Al İmrān was thirty six only.
Yet, she was married to her cousin that was thirty years elder to her.
Her husband was my friend actually.
He left her suspecting she had extramarital affair with me.
“Are you crazy? We haven’t any such relationship.”
“I never said it’s from you. It’s she that loves you, even if you don’t.” he said gravely, angrily somewhat even, “Durgesh, I know you never cross your limits, but our beautiful ardent Musalmān houseladies are themselves that never spare you, even to the extent that they blackmail you as my own Ammī and sisters did.”
“Durgesh has immense, infinite I should say, masculine charms.” His Ammī had said gravely when he confronted her, “No woman that’s beautiful can ever resist Durgesh.”
Al Tayyabah Al İmrān knew what she was after.
She leaned an elbow on the table, made sure the dress gaped, and slowly spooned one, “no two today please,” lumps into my cup.
She stood while I drank, occasionally resting her arms and elbows on the table to lean over and talk.
She gave me one last good look as I finished the cup and said “Ok, now off to the shower and I’ll make some bacon and eggs for you when you get out.”
I was bare-chested.
Al Tayyabah Al İmrān knew that below the table I was wrapped in a towel only, no underwear even.
That’s how I lived there.
Her husband had left her, how could I?
“If you too leave us, everyone would believe the bastard you call your friend.” Al Tayyabah Al İmrān had said gravely, “Please, don’t ever leave us. I need you to protect us Ammī Béŧī from this wretched world. They would destroy us if we haven’t any man of the house to take care of us ladies. It’s a men’s world despite every insistent and persistent denial of it.”
“But your husband is spreading rumors of our love affair, and…”
“Let him. I damn care. We both are innocent. You know.”
“Bhābhījān, we need to talk.”
“Why do you behave as if we are husband and wife? Everyone would suspect what your husband did.”
Al Tayyabah Al İmrān watched me gravely.
“It protects my honor.”
“Your friend isn’t respected anywhere. He lacks the proper manhood you have infinite. The ever pleasure seeking men are afraid to disrespect any woman they suspect she is yours.”
“They say countless beautiful Musalmān houseladies boast of having affair with you. It’s not always to really have an affair with you. Sometimes we do it to threaten the criminal elements and our unjust husband even.”
Al Tayyabah Al İmrān smiled.
“I teased him especially, behaving as your wife. He was afraid of me more than he was afraid of you. The Musalmīn think you protect your Musalmān women beyond everything whatsoever. We take advantage of this fear of them as most as we can.”
“I might just stay here and talk while you make it, I’ll shower after ok”. I’ve got an erection under there that I’m too embarrassed to stand up and show, curiosity whispered to her.
“No, come on, you’ll feel better after the shower,” she said and turned her back so I could make a move unseen. “Hang on a sec,” she said and turned just as I’d stood and turned to move away, “Is this yours?”
I didn’t turn my body.
Instead, I looked over my shoulder.
“What?” I said, looking first to see what she held in her hands and then down the front of her dress as she stretched across the table with something hidden cupped in her hands.
The attraction of the Musalmān tit view was enough for me to turn, but I did so with my hands held together in front of me.
It was what she had expected and it was why she did what she did next.
As I bent slightly to look at the thing she held, or rather, I pretended to look; I really bent to get the best fullest view I’d had yet of those two excellent ever erect proud Musalmān tits.
I couldn’t help but imagine reaching in and fondling them till I came.
With my vision distracted, she flicked something out of her fingers, shooting fast toward my face.
It brought on the automated response she was relying upon.
I recoiled quickly and put my hands to my face for protection.
I caught the coin and was studying it for signs that it was indeed mine.
While I took the few seconds to react to all this, she was taking a long hard look at a long hard Uncut Hindu Lund outlined under the towel; lying flat across my stomach and over my left hip.
It looked hugely bigger than anything she’d seen under a towel before.
“No, it’s not mine,” I turned and started out the door toward the shower.
4. On History
6. On Hinduism
7. On Islam
The Cabinet Room
She felt that the meeting in the Cabinet Room should concentrate on Ved Nagar and my Svarūpé Avasthānam only.
On what Evelyn Carter should give to me and expect to receive in return.
Yes, she isn’t certain I’ve attained my Svarūpé Avasthānam.
Neither she is certain there is any stage in human evolution that’s called Svarūpé Avasthānam, Self Synchronization, at all.
There’s only one human society, Hinduism that claims, there exists such a stage in human evolution.
HVSI explains its every meteoric miraculous incredible rise using this extremely incredulous theory.
Evelyn Carter doesn’t believe it’s true.
Well, Lily Turner herself doesn’t believe it.
“You know I can’t.” Lily Turner said almost incensed due to her helplessness.
With this concentration on the immediate subject of concern, there was no need to be burdened by the secretary of agriculture, the secretary of commerce, the secretary of transportation, the attorney general, and other members of President’s staff.
Entering the Cabinet Room, Lily Turner could see at a glance that the necessary officers had been alerted.
They were already on hand.
Lily Turner greeted Dr. Åārifah Mustafā, Secretary to Secretary of State, Cyrus Vance, Dr. Shāhidah Ashraf, the recommended Chief of Staff of White House, the secretary of defense and the three officers of the National Security Council.
Then she took the leather chair next to Evelyn Carter’s vacant one.
Åāliyah Muħammad Åbbās watched me gravely.
“I asked was there any ice to break?” I repeated my question.
“It depends on how you look at it.”
“You went to the table to get acquainted with Nadīm Iqbāl Muħammad?”
“If the court please,” Waħīd Murād, the Public Prosecutor, said, “I must insist that the counsel is renowned, infamous rather I must say, to be biased in favor of Musalmān Beauties whosoever she may be. Yet he is surprisingly manifestly unfair to this witness. He is browbeating this witness constantly and trying to put her in a false light before the jury. I want to remind the court, as well as to the defense counsel this woman is a widow. She has been bereaved by the crime of murder committed by―”
“Just a minute, your honor,” I interrupted, smiling, “Mr. Public Prosecutor is arguing the case. There isn’t any question before the court for the Public Prosecutor to argue the case at this time.”
Waħīd Murād was quite angry.
“Nevertheless,” he shouted as if, “I object to having this woman held up in front of this jury as a strumpet, a harlot, a prostitute.”
I smiled patronizing, yet sophisticated.
“And I object, your honor, to having Mrs. Åāliyah Muħammad Åbbās held up as a mealymouthed, deceptive, persecuted, bereaved widow simply so the prosecutor can play on the sympathies of the jury. It isn’t a theater; neither are we staging a theatrical drama here. It’s a temple of justice and we are fighting here for the life of humankind. One person already has been murdered and we are fighting here to save the life of another.”
Judge Keyser frowned.
“At present there isn’t any question before the court. Therefore, there isn’t any reason whatsoever to make an objection. The jurors are called upon to see the witnesses, to watch their demeanor, their behavior, their conduct on the stand, to form their own opinions as to thefacts.
The prosecutor has one theory of the case and the defense has another. Please try to avoid personalities, gentlemen. You may proceed, Mr. Durgesh.”
By this time, all vestiges, all hints of the fragile, delicate, helpless, bereaved widow had left the witness Åāliyah Muħammad Åbbās.
However, her guts were appreciable.
Åāliyah Muħammad Åbbās was still sitting on the witness chair, slightly forward, still sad, and feigning a widow being intimidated unreasonably.
“Now then,” I attacked her once again, “you saw this letter in your husband’s pocket?”
“It wasn’t a letter, your honor,” she looked at Judge Keyser, “everyone can understand that it was a blackmail demand.”
“Blackmail demand on Nadīm Iqbāl Muħammad?” I asked.
“The letter was sent to him.”
“Isn’t it a fact that your third husband, Akram Sultan, had also received a blackmail demand?” I thundered at her.
“I can’t help it.”
“Isn’t it a fact that your second husband, Muħammad Qāsim Ayyūbī, had also received a blackmail demand?” I smiled at her meaningfully.
“I can’t help it.” Åāliyah Muħammad Åbbās repeated her answer.
“Isn’t it a fact that your first husband, Zāhid Rashīd, had also received a blackmail demand?” I smiled at her once again.
“I can’t help it.” She again repeated.
“All the four envelopes had the return address in the upper left hand corner and the name A. M. Åbbās?”
“How do you know it was blackmail?”
“There was a demand for money in the letter. What do you think; it was an invitation to dance?”
“I can’t answer that question. I’d rather leave it to the jury to draw their own conclusion.”
Åāliyah Muħammad Åbbās watched me gravely.
“That’s your privilege.”
“What’s your full name?”
“Will you please abbreviate it?”
“A. M. Åbbās.” She said curtly, “I understand your implication. But I never blackmailed anyone in my life. Neither have I sent any blackmail letter to anyone. Anyone can use my name as a return address to implicate me.”
“Is there a newsstand at the corner by your residence?”
“Yes, there is.”
“Are you familiar with the person who runs it?”*
Lily Turner repeated her question.
“I asked how did your pre-briefing go with Evelyn Carter?”
“It means lousy, useless, worthless, crummy, horrible. Our potential candidate for next President of USA, Ms. Evelyn Carter, didn’t give a damn about Ved Nagar, Svarūpé Avasthānam and Durgesh himself. She only wanted to speak of sex championship contest in Washington D.C. between
“Then our work’s cut out for us.”
“You are forgetting the resources CIA has. Fortunately or unfortunately, I’m somewhat in a position to use those entire resources for the benefits of USA. Even the President of USA himself has given us the permission, let alone the Director of CIA. I never believe anyone of my Musalmān women friends too, as the President of USA has instructed us, rather has imposed the condition on us, without investigating about them thoroughly.”
“I agree with Lily Turner.” Dr. Åārifah Mustafā, Secretary to Secretary of State, Cyrus Vance, said severely, “That’s why I cancelled everyone else. Ved Nagar is the dream city of Vedic Monotheist Hindus. Durgesh has succeeded in their dreams getting true. He is a Parahuman and Ved Nagar is full of Posthumans.”
“Nonsense.” Evelyn Carter said.
“You must be crazy, Lily.” Evelyn Carter said tersely, “I know Durgesh more than you. He and his adroit followers Vedic Monotheist Hindus are number one liars, number one rumor spreaders. They believe that spreading rumors is Dharm Yuddh, the holy war, a Crusade.”*
Lily Turner smiled.
“I wanted to concentrate on what’s waiting for you at lunch.”
Evelyn Carter controlled herself.
Now she appeared suddenly surprisingly to be in good humor.
She brushed back her hair, grinned at the assemblage, and watched all of them impishly deliberately.
Lily Turner realized her strategy.
She reminded Evelyn Carter gravely.
“We have been discussing your lunch with Durgesh.”
“Is it going to be a long lunch?” Evelyn Carter asked delinquently.
“It doesn’t have to be.” Dr. Åārifah Mustafā, Secretary to Secretary of State, Cyrus Vance, assured her, “After some filling gap talk with the ever richest person in the entire history of humankind, you can wind up lunch and we’ll move into the Yellow Oval Room. The President would be busy elsewhere with Valéry Giscard d’Estaing, the President of France. He has instructed us already to be there in Yellow Oval Room.”
“That can be strictly business?”
“That can be strictly business.” Dr. Åārifah Mustafā said.
“I just wanted to know because I didn’t want to miss the big contest.” Evelyn Carter explained.
“You’ll have plenty of time for that,” Lily Turner promised, “This lunch and meeting with the former head of Hindu Vishv Underground is scheduled to last one and a half hours. Then Miss USA, Margaret Kennedy, is scheduled to accompany Durgesh to the opening of the Ashvinatam Museum expecting Durgesh to say a few words, maybe five minutes’ worth, about an important fund raiser. That’ll give you plenty of time to get back for the contest.”
Evelyn Carter surveyed the Cabinet Room.
“I see a lot of our friends are missing. You’ve brought in only the big brass.”
“Deliberate,” said Lily Turner simply, “Since you are going to be bargaining with the ever sexiest Vedic Monotheist Hindu, we wanted our full concentration to be devoted to a treaty with Ved Nagar/Trantor.”*
“Fair enough.” She said.
“The fact you have to remember is not that Durgesh is the Mayor of Ved Nagar/Trantor now. He was the democratic head of Hindu Vishv Underground too. Hindu Vishv Underground was an underground organization of revolutionaries who were actually behind the independence of India.”
“That doesn’t exist now?” Evelyn Carter smiled sarcastically.
“CIA suspects that it does exist now as Ved Nagar/Trantor instead of its said dissolution into Vyom, interspace.” Lily Turner said curtly. “Our former station head at Ved Nagar/Trantor, Della Turner, and our present station head, Akhilésh M. Āgnéý there, both have reported the importance of Ved Nagar/Trantor. We suspect it isn’t only a city in India. It’s actually Hindu Vishv Underground in its new present supreme developed form.”
Evelyn Carter smiled.
“Any evidence that our suspicion may be true?”
“That’s what you have to find out.” Lily Turner said.
She was twenty-one.
“The fact,” Lily Turner said, “that your younger sister, Rukħsānah Carter, is also in the same university as Kħadījah Muħammad was in, will give you something in common to talk about before you settle down to the nitty-gritty. Durgesh loves Kħadījah Muħammad even more than his duly married wife, Saiyadah Fātimah PhD.”
Now, Evelyn Carter too nodded.
“Alright, what’s the nitty-gritty?”
She tore it loose and came around the table to Evelyn Carter.
“Nellie Adams, take my seat and give me yours. This will make it easier for me to explain a map of Indian sub continent and beyond that I’ve been drawing.”
The exchange was made.
“That’s the reason I called you in today. You are the one closest to Salīm Jalāluddīn Muħammad. I have naturally to discuss the problem with you.” Dr. Āsiyah Mustafā cleared her throat and looked into Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg’s beautiful Iranian Shiå Musalmān eys, “I saw Salīm Jalāluddīn Muħammad late yesterday. I outlined one final time what had to be done. He approved, approved of the surgery. This morning, first thing, he telephoned me. He has changed his mind. He is turning down the operation.”
“He is what? Salīm won’t go through it? I didn’t talk to him this morning. He was still asleep. I haven’t heard about it naturally. It makes no sense. Are you sure, Doctor? We had agreed surgery was his only chance.”
“Apparently, Salīm now doesn’t think so. He now thinks there’s a better course. Have you seen this morning’s paper?”
Nūrjahān surveyed the front page.
She was more bewildered than ever.
“There’s just some headline about Madīnah Munawwarah.”
Turn to page three. Read the full story.”
Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg opened the paper.
The headline hit her.
The story that followed was bylined by great Bābarah Åālamgīr.
It was datelined Paris.
Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg calmly, patiently, read the news story.
When she was through, she folded the paper patiently, neatly, and put it on the desk.
She met the beautiful eyes of Dr. Āsiyah Mustafā.
Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg was aghast, stunned, as the full import of what was happening struck her.
“Yes, that’s the news.” Dr. Āsiyah Mustafā said.
“News? Hell. The hallucination of some crazy uneducated/under educated Musalmīn. It might be some deliberate political strategy of Pseudo Musalmīn too to compensate the anti Musalmīn anti Islam trend, propelled by Dr. Ali Sina and his co authors. Are you telling me Salīm Jalāluddīn Muħammad has read it and believes in this nonsense?”
“Yes.” Dr. Āsiyah Mustafā admitted.
Evelyn Carter watched it.
“A crude drawing of the Indian Sub Continent. It highlights our major Eīshān Vaigyānic bases that help us contain any overenthusiasm that may occur in India, Pakistan, Shri Lanka, nd Afghanistan.” Using her pen as a pointer on the map, Dr. Åārifah Mustafā resumed, “As you can see, our potential Presidential candidate for the next term, this Eīshān Vaigyānic base of ours there in Pakistan has three major wings: Sunnī, Shiå and Aħmadī. Dr. Āsiyah Mustafā is the Commander of our Sunnī Eīshān Vaigyānic base. It is unfortunate that Dr. Āsiyah Mustafā doesn’t have even the citizenship of Pakistan. She is still a Turk Musalmān Beauty. Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg is the Commander of our Shiå Eīshān Vaigyānic base. What a tragedy it is that as Dr. Āsiyah Mustafā, Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg too isn’t a Pakistani citizen. Nūrjahān Ghayās Beg is still a proud Iranian. We have only an Aħmadī Musalmān Beauty as our Aħmadī Eīshān Vaigyānic base at Pakistan that’s a citizen of Pakistan.”
Evelyn Carter smiled.
“How the hell you think Durgesh can help us in improving it?”
“He can permit us to have similar three Eīshān Vaigyānic bases in Ved Nagar: Sunnī Eīshān Vaigyānic base, Shiå Eīshān Vaigyānic base and Aħmadī Eīshān Vaigyānic base. He is the Mayor of the dream city Ved Nagar.”
“Do you really believe in Eīshān Vigyān?”
“Allah,” Dr. Åārifah Mustafā looked at her entirely disgruntled. “Don’t tell us you don’t deserve the post we are preparing you for.”
“Shame on you, Evelyn Carter,” Lily Turner said curtly, “you are more interested in the sex championship contest between Musalmān Beauties and Christian Beauties, than you are interested in your preparation for what we want you to be.”
“Go to hell your Nafīsah Salmān and you both. I say Nafīsah Salmān has succeeded in getting Durgesh. Her ambition has been attained. She is living now in your so-called dream city, Ved Nagar/Trantor. If it’s really a dream city as you claim it to be, why the hell Nafīsah Salmān would risk her golden fortune by helping us, instead of working for HVSI? Durgesh is her Live in Relationship Partner now. Nafīsah Salmān isn’t a fool to risk the golden opportunity of her life. No one would. Even I wouldn’t if I were in her shoes.”
“So this is the reason you are not interested in the strategies we are suggesting?” Lily Turner was furious now.
“Well, why should I?”
Evelyn Carter stared at the map.
“An area, a large area you’ve colored in green and saffron, and two small ones.”
“And you want one there?”
“Don’t you?” now it was Nellie Adams, the secretary to the secretary of defense.
Moreover, Nellie Adams was furious.
“Nellie Adams, the secretary to the secretary of defense,” Evelyn Carter laughed sarcastically, “Don’t pretend to be righteous enough to be more interested in anything else instead in sex with Durgesh. Didn’t you yourself rape Durgesh because he wasn’t leaving Dr. Åārifah Mustafā?”
“I raped him because he was deliberately ignoring me.” Nellie Adams shouted, “It doesn’t mean I’m as disinterested in my country and in Christianity as the hell you are. I am ashamed of you, Evelyn Carter.”
4. On History
6. On Hinduism
7. On Islam