Appointment in Samarra

Today while reading Maureen Dowd's hilarious take on Mitt Romney's disastrous London visit, in the run up to the Olympics, a particular line made me pause. Afterwards, I went to that line again and then went to the fount of all knowledge - google. Suffice to say that my li'l exploration led me to this wonderful short story by Somerset Maugham.

First, the line:

It’s like the epigraph in John O’Hara’s “Appointment at Samarra.” You can run from fate, but fate will be waiting in the next town, at the next marketplace.

The story is so brilliant - like a finely crafted jewel - that I thought to share it here. Let's see what you make of it.


There was a merchant in Bagdad who sent his servant to market to buy provisions and in a little while the servant came back, white and trembling, and said “Master, just now when I was in the market-place I was jostled by a woman in the crowd and when I turned I saw it was Death that jostled me. She looked at me and made a threatening gesture; now, lend me your horse, and I will ride away from this city and avoid my fate. I will go to Samarra and there Death will not find me.” The merchant lent him his horse, and the servant mounted it, and he dug his spurs in its flanks and as fast as the horse could gallop he went. Then the merchant went down to the market-place and he saw me standing in the crowd and he came to me and said, “Why did you make a threatening gesture to my servant when you saw him this morning? “That was not a threatening gesture,” I said, “It was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Bagdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.” 
-Somerset Maugham- 


What I loved in Maugham's story is the manner in which Fate is depicted: like another worker with a job, only his is ferrying people from this world to the next. This day jobber is in the market shopping for his wares/daily needs and is surprised to sight the servant there - a bit like bumping into a colleague whom one had fixed to meet later in the day.

And yes, the fact that Fate is a woman!

The Honourable Killing

My award-winning short story, The Honourable Killing, is now available on Kindle at a special promotion price of 99 cents only.

The Honourable Killing is a powerful 1500-word short story, an edited version of which won a Commonwealth Broadcasting Association prize in 2005.

A rape victim in arid Balochistan struggles to bring her culprits to Court - until she realizes justice might well be in her hands.

So, if you're the lucky possessor of an ipad or a Kindle or any other electronic reading device, what better time to read it than now?!

And here's a sneak peek to get you started.

The Honourable Killing

Mukhtar rose early, surprising her rooster as she slipped outdoors. The air, rested by a night’s sleep, was crisp and light. She paused for a moment to breathe it in, her thin shoulders squaring. Later, the fierce warrior of the Plains, the Sun, would toast it and send everybody scurrying – from Alexander’s mighty army hundreds of years back to the burly tribal bullies of today. Pre-dawn was precious time. Hunching forward, she picked her way through the unlit bramble.


The steel pipe rose from the shrubbery, an eerily glistening python aloft concrete stumps. She looked back and surveyed the brush in which stood her two-room abode – a juniper shrub caught her eye. The concrete stump directly in line with the shrub would do – depositing her hammer on it she pulled herself up. The cool steel made her shiver; its massive girth unsettled her. Momentarily. She steadied herself with the left hand, and with the right, started to chip at the solid steel. The tinny sound made a din in the quiet but Mukhtar knew the sound wouldn’t carry far enough. She worked slowly, each blow unflagging in its force. The claw hammer was not ideal for the job but there had been little time for preparation. The warning had come late. She continued to chisel until the dense steel dented. By the time the faint notes of Azan floated from the village, she had managed a thin rupture. Not a minute too soon. The first call for prayer from the muezzin would stir the entire village, including them.


Back in her room Mukhtar kept the light bulb switched off. Noiselessly, she slipped out of her salwaar-kameez, sat on a wooden slat and began her bathing ritual: little water, much scrubbing. In the arid Baloch region water was a luxury, yet she inflicted twice-daily baths on herself. Her skin, scrawny, callused in parts, did not whimper – Mukhtar had been moulting for five years. Today though, she scoured with extra fervour.



So once you are done reading the entire story, let me know what you think.

Cheers!