i s h t a r r i a........

Assaying to ease up the aggravating tension, my splendidly thoughtful friend Fury instantaneously assumed the role of Sherlock Holmes and plunged fervidly into the action of verifying the identity of the ‘alien’ voice. Fifteen minutes of artful chitchat with Martin’s assistant and she was back holding the banner of triumphal success. If she had persisted with her ‘research’ a bit longer, she would have, I reckon, traced the woman’s roots several antecedents back. She joyfully gave me the facts in a nutshell: ‘She’s the housemaid. Her name is Jocelyn. She’s Assyrian and goes there twice a week’. Well, the name and ethnicity of the alleged housemaid seemed to make a perfectly logical match. Apart from Christian names shared by both denominations, Iraqi Assyrians tended to favour Western names, unlike their fellow Chaldeans who were inclined towards Arabic names. I had, yet, one more reason for accepting Fury’s anecdote. The majority of Iraqi Assyrians spoke English adequately enough to ...

While the cigarette functioned as a discreet cover for expressing my bashful love, jealousy, in its turn, scooted zealously into action, trumpeting it. Thinking of Fattin ? No, no, it wasn’t Fattin. For she had altogether melted into the background once I stepped into Martin’s life. Back then, however, I was still on shore, and hadn’t waded as deeply yet in the stormy sea of love. Who was it then this time? Well, who else would it be other than Jocelyn? The most ‘wonderful’ Jocelyn, who, while she truly wrecked my nerves, inadvertently did Martin a great favour. It started during one of Martin’s rare mid-week absences. Early morning, on the way down to the office, I was surprised to find that his car wasn’t in its usual parking spot. A sweeping glance around the parking lot obliterated my fervent hope that such vanishing was a mere shift of location compelled by someone having taken prior possession of his customary parking spot. An immediate sensation of dispiritedness and disquiet s...

I mustered enough courage to take up the gauntlet in anticipation of yet another test of strength. It was one of those hectic days that Martin was having. He was lighting up frequently, his entrances invariably preceded by a miasma of smoke as if he were a walking chimney. This time, though, I contemplated finding the middle ground. He would usually have a packet of cigarette in the pocket of his shirt or in his hand. He was making himself a cup of coffee when I approached him with a proffer. ‘Why don’t you leave this packet with me, and every time you come over I will give you one cigarette’, I said in a placid, persuasive manner. His leaving the packet with me, I believed, would reduce the number of cigarettes he smoked during the whole working day down to just the number of visits he made to my office. Busy making his coffee, he met my suggestion with little, if any, interest, and he acted as if he didn’t hear me. His nonchalance incited my tenacity, ‘Martin? You heard what I said?...

My dislike for the cigarette underwent a change. Ulterior motives led me to view it as an ally. It became my darling vehicle, which gave tongue to emotions that my bashfulness had hitherto kept suppressed. It also proved to be an instrument that Martin would use to lure into the open my feelings for him whenever he wished. Cigarettes were no longer lit to appease an addiction but only to be extinguished purposefully. Our romance advanced splendidly with a burning intensity with every cigarette killed. Having enticed him like a temptress for years, the cigarette seemed like a dangerously seductive Delilah who avenged her zealously extinguished light by fanning the flame in Martin’s heart. Not only his love seemed to be escalating wildly in intensity, but his respect and admiration for my innocence also mounted. I was no longer unattainable simply because of the obstacles posed by tradition, religion, or my own ingrained Puritanism. My artless innocence, which surfaced in the impeccant ...

Having been brought up in a family that never hid its aversion for the cigarette, it would never have occurred to me that this tiny object for which I bore a vehement dislike, and which my parents had strictly forbidden in our house, with interminable warnings about its detrimental effects, would play such a fortuitous role in reinforcing the bond between Martin and myself, and intensifying our love. Martin smoked, not heavily, but it was the only thing about him that I wished had been otherwise. Seeking to circumscribe his affection for the cigarette, my diffident endeavours, in the first two or three months of our romance, would not have exceeded a few pieces of well-cloaked affectionate advice such as, ‘Smoking is not good for your health’, or ‘Why don’t you quit?’ Feminine coquettishness, however, came into play in due course in order to produce the desired effect. Once I started my mannered cough, he would extinguish his cigarette in the nearest ashtray with a warm, affectionate ...

I got tagged by Nancy of "Welcome to Beth Narain". Thanks Nancy, hope you and my readers won't find this too boring. Seven things I plan to do: 1. Carry on with the recounting of my autobiography 2. Sponsor one more international child 3. Take my dear mother on a pilgrim's journey to the holy land in Israel 4. Go on a spiritual retreat early next year 5. Visit Iraq hopefully soon 6. learn to fly small aeroplanes 7. Learn to play the piano Seven things I can do: 1. Speak forthrightly irrespective of consquences 2. Hide my personal sadness from everyone save my mother and my friend Doreen 3. Maintain my lifelong habit to pray everynight before I go to sleep 4. Sustain hope and faith in difficult times 5. Forgive always and forget 6. Live without coffee or tea for years 7. Sleep for ten hours continuously Seven things I can’t do: 1. Not feel bad for all the abuse inflicted upon mother Nature 2. Resist smiling at babies wherever and whenever I see them; my smiles, though...

I am profoundly thankful to all the readers of Ishtarria, particularly to those who sent me their marvellous emails or who left comments on the pages of Ishtarria or in its guest book. My deep appreciation also goes to all the sites that have recently blogrolled or linked to Ishtarria. Disappointing as it may be, particularly to those readers who have never ceased to express their encouraging eagerness for and anticipation of each instalment of my autobiography, I am afraid that a second intermission has become unavoidable. I have reached depletion point and one look at my August's and September’s publishing dates would reveal how hard I have been struggling to meet publishing deadlines. This intermission, however, may last longer than the first one, as I will be away for three weeks. I will hopefully resume publishing sometime towards the end of October. I finally leave you with the first post that I published on 12 Jan 2005 in didecation to: My Fellow Iraqis, In These Grievous D...