The stage was set. Microphones were functional. It was a gathering that stubble-land had never heard of before and so they had called it STUBBLEBURN of the unbathed stubble group. They were all there with all their attention. Some were in black achkans and others in sedate grey or even white sherwanis. After all, their owner was not getting any less in age and the human race called these grey and white sherwani stubble folk a symbol of ageing.
So Stubbleburn was happening… and there was excitement all around. The little stubble mites were busy serving fresh flakes with cream, baked epidermal rolls, and sandwiches of trapped dust. There were exclamations of ‘tasty preparations’ and ‘superb food’ everywhere.
The head of stubbleland got up and clearing his throat, announced, ‘This song and dance fest will go on throughout the night. But first we have our celebrated stubble-philosopher with his autobiographical note. Listen to him.’
The philosopher began after the applause had died. He said, ‘I was the first to be born here. When I opened my eyes there were vast expanses of nothingness all around. So I can say we are born from nothing.’
The crowd applauded.
He went on, ‘We are born from nothing and to nothing shall we return. This is the inevitable cycle of destiny. But we shall have unclean fun so long as we live! Hail, stubbleland!’
‘Is that all,’ said one small voice.
‘Yes, unless you have a question.’
‘Why were we born?’
The philosopher was silent and spoke after some thought, ‘We came into being because she did not let our owner spend money on a new razor. Then on seeing us, said “I hate that unclean stubble” and left him. Our real birth started after she left.’
Everyone applauded and broke into an impromptu jig!
My series of 10 posts on smelly stubbles:
The stubble debate
The tricky twins!
Men in pursuit
Part and parcel
Twenty-four years later
25 December 2013