“Azaadi! Azaadi!” A billion filthy critters waited at some distance from the palace. He hated when those animals shook the skies in unison. “Azaadi! Azaadi!” He hated when the beasts dared to live dignified lives. “Azaadi! Azaadi!” He simply abhorred the fact that those pests were getting adept in the dark arts of unity. “Azaadi! Azaadi!” How dare those vermin turn dirt and sweat into such majestic seedlings? What sorcery? What madness? “Azaadi! Azaadi!” How dare those witless worms demand money in return for their labour?
He needed to put those raging beasts back in their cages. Thanks to the god-emperor, the smiling lord of the cloud minār, a new sickness appeared from nowhere and his coffers had begun to overflow from a brisk trade. It was thinning the herd. “Azaadi! Azaadi!” He held the elixir, the only cure for the miasma, firmly in his hands. How ridiculous of those insects to demand this panacea for free?
Night had fallen on his kingdom and from his window he longingly looked at the dome of his new palace. “Azaadi! Azaadi!” Damned be these voices, damned be those fingers that turn mud greener than emerald. Hush! Something rustled near the window. A strange vine crept and slithered up, with nails for leaves and crimson cadavers for flowers.
Two moons rose outside his bay-window. One was the sickle of our banished Ramadān, the other a lone wheel of a tractor.
