The Tycoon

He was your run-of-the-mill tycoon- eccentric, greying and slightly stooped with a whiff of cabbage about him. His was the run-of-the-mill rags-to-riches story. He was a Jew. Run-of-the-mill rags-to-riches tycoons usually are. Which of course means that he was the only survivor of the gas chambers in his village and that he escaped to the US of A aboard a luxury liner as a stowaway. Which also obviously means he started off as a lowly stable boy in New York, but used his street smarts, Hebrew good looks and dog-like perseverance to become Brooklyn's finest horse whisperer. He had made his first million by 12 and lost his first billion by 12 and a half (What happens in Vegas...) And the rest, as they say, is a rip-off of Jeffery Archer's Cane and Abel. He was a 32^nd degree Freemason and Honorary Shriner. He had the world's top engineers and architects flown in to construct the world's highest skyscraper, just so he could live in a penthouse at the top complete with helipad, swimming pool and clap-on disco ball. Because he was a recluse and generally hated mankind, he decreed that all the other floors of his Tower of Babel were to be kept free of people. So the floors were fitted with lighting, elevators, offices and condos complete with furniture, the works (there was even a Burger King on the 13^th floor), but they were kept Homo-Sapien free and instead peopled by mannequins (which gave the place the appearance of that nuclear test site in 'Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull'). However, he forgot to apprise the top flown-in engineers and architects of his intentions. So they made their calculations assuming that the weight of all the human beings present in the building would stabilize it, shifting its centre of gravity to a fairly low point. Naturally, the building crumpled as fast as a pack of Made-in-China cards under the impact of the champagne bottle he smashed on one of its 4 walls at its grand opening ceremony (which was so grand, it made the Olympic opening ceremony look as exciting as the opening of an old-folk home).

At one point, he became acutely aware of the utter loneliness and lack of love and companionship in his life, so he went out and bought a dog. That didn't work out well for him, so he traded it with a 10 year old for her Tamagotchi. This Tamagotchi was the first and last love of his life. He would spend hours feeding it cake and taking it to its virtual bathroom to take a virtual dump, and he sobbed like a baby when its batteries ran out.

Keeping in line with the Run-of-the-mill Rags-to-riches Jewish Tycoon's manual, he was consumed with regret over how he had spent his life when he was diagnosed with Sammy Sosa's disease, an ailment where the core of your brain is gradually replaced with a substance not unlike cork (famous people tend to only suffer from diseases named after other famous people; they're pretty stuck up that way). So he set off on a journey of self actualization and discovery across many remote and exotic countries whose natives sang, danced, lived off the land and had lots of children. He hoped to learn their secret to happiness and Nirvana. He returned with a really bad case of malaria and an 'I went on a Journey of Self-actualization and Discovery and all I got was this Stupid T-shirt' T-shirt.

When he finally succumbed to his disease, his final words on Earth were 'Rosebud', which was the unlimited money cheat of his favourite people simulator computer game.

Cause and Effect

I've always had this obsession with everything World War II (and World War I too, to a lesser extent). It's right up there along with my passion for sharks, cetaceans (that's dolphins, porpoises and whales), dinosaurs, fruits and women, though not necessarily in that order. There's something of another era, when men were noble and women wore long frocks, about World War II. Yes, yes, I know Wilfred Owen said that the great lie is 'Dulce et Decorum est pro Patria Mori' (It is sweet and honorable to die for one's country) and that war is cruel etc. He was probably right too, but remember, I am part of a generation that was raised on movies like Saving Private Ryan, TV serials like Band of Brothers and video games like Call of Duty, so for me, World War II is a time in history of American Thompson-toting GIs screaming, 'Panzer! 9 o'clock!', 'Berlin, here we come!' and 'Damn Jerries/Limeys/Japs!', or square-jawed trenchcoat clad Russian snipers whispering, 'Da, Comrade Commissar'. It is a time of Kamikaze, Stukas, and glorious battles fought in the forests of Europe, the deserts of Africa and the jungles of Rangoon. I think you get the picture. Now THAT is how wars should be fought; brave men charging a bridge while Edith Piaf or L'Internazionale plays in the background. Quite pathetic I know. What's even more pathetic is the fact that I've always hoped I have an ancestor who fought in the war. After all, we were a British colony, and the British Indian army did fight in the war. Of course, an ancestor at Normandy, the Bulge or Market Garden would have really been the bee's knees, but a great grand uncle twice removed in Mesopotamia or Rangoon would do just fine as well. However, alhamdulillah, I descend from a family of businessmen (Memons) and  rich men of science and royalty (Hyderabadis), so the killing business isn't really our thing. Once my cousin, knowing what a sucker I was for all things World War II, told me her great grand uncle fought against the Japs. Hey, I thought, even a great grand uncle by virtue of marriage is good enough. On further grilling, however, she admitted she was only pulling my chain. The only relation they had to World War II was when they fled the part of India near Rangoon when it was thought the Japs were going to break through. So I supposed I had to accept the fact that my ancestors lived a pretty unexciting life during the period 1939-1945 (Alhamdulillah, of course). Until today.
I went over for Iftari to my maternal grandmother's house. It was about half an hour before Iftar time, so I thought I'd hang out in the garden, play with my kid cousin and talk with nani (that's my grandma). Since it is Ashura for the Shiaas these days, she told me about what Ashura was like in 1939 India. During her narrative, she mentioned in passing that her whole family had to leave Bombay (where they lived) and move to Surat, because it was feared the Japanese would attack Bombay, as opposed to the smaller and less economically vital Surat (which makes no sense as Bombay and Surat are on the west coast of India, far away from the warring Japs). My nani was only a few years old at the time. It was here that her uncle met the father of my grandfather, and they became great friends. When my nani grew older, the two families thought that a great way to cement ties between them would be the marriage of her and nana. What followed were 4 children and 9 grandchildren, I being the eldest.
Now, why all this rambling? Simply put, the Japanese are indirectly responsible for my nana meeting my nani, and ultimately, my existence. The Lord really does work in mysterious ways. If Allah SWT had not made the Japanese join World War II, my nani's uncle would not have met my great grand-dad, my nana and nani would not have tied the knot, and I would not have been born. Now think about it. I exist because of World War II. Forget a great grand daddy fighting the Germans, I EXIST because the Japs said, 'Hey, India? Nice place- We'll take it.' Cause and effect. They really can take you to the weirdest of places.
Now let's apply 'the bigger picture' model to my future. Thanks to World War II, a lucky super model is the mother of my children, the cure for cancer exists and Mount Everest has been climbed in a ridiculously short 2 hours, inshaAllah.
Well, now I don't feel like as insignificant and generic as a Chinaman in China. I am the product of a major world event. What I read awe-struck in books is not just something abstract about a bygone era, it is an integral part of who I am. I feel like I am part of the grand scheme of things. SubhanAllah, Allah SWT really is the best of Planners.