by A tale of vanished donkeys, spicy scandals, and the taste of forgotten loyalty
A Saturday Whisper | Reflection 15
السلام عليكم ورحمة الله وبركاته
May this morning arrive at your doorstep wrapped in the fragrance of peace, joy, and a hot cup of chai that never gets cold. I pray that your day begins with barakah, your body stays healthy, your spirit dances a little, and life gives you more reasons to smile than to sigh. May Allah grant you a day that is healthy, happy, and happening – a hat trick of blessings we all need, especially on a Saturday.
Now, as you sip your morning brew and try to find socks that match (or don’t, let’s rebel), allow me to share a tale. A tale so steeped in irony, absurdity, and national flavours, it could only come from the glorious Republic of Phupistan.
Chronicle of a Donkey Death Foretold
Every Friday night, as predictably as unpaid electricity bills, Haji Sahab would shuffle into the velvet collapsing seats of Sultana Talkies, his Tasbeeh beads tucked discreetly beneath the folds of his kurta. He insisted, loudly and often, that he only came to inspect the theatre’s moral decay for religious research purposes. Yet no one missed the sparkle in his cataract clouded eyes when Gullabi Haseena took the stage, her hair backcombed like a 90s scandal, her lips painted with the blood of broken promises. That night, she performed to the infamous “My Silky Silky Body”, a mujra so raunchy that even the backup dancers blushed. Halfway through, as she teasingly lifted her kameez with the grace of a traffic warden waving down sin, Haji Sahab clutched his chest, not from shame, but nostalgia, and whispered, “Art is dying in this country.”
Then, the next morning, in the humid, half sleeping city of Mawhore, where dust danced with dignity and the scent of overcooked nostalgia floated through the alleys, the citizens woke up to find something unusually silent. The donkeys were gone. Not missing in the way socks or morals vanish but truly, spiritually, utterly gone.
And yet, no one panicked. In Phupistan, disappearances were a genre, not a crisis. Electricity, logic, and ethics frequently went missing, and the population simply adjusted. But this silence brayed of something deeper.
Children who once rode donkeys to tuition began walking. The milkman arrived on foot, gasping like a pensioner. Meanwhile, a new meat had taken the city by storm, succulent, dark, muscular, with a texture that felt… betrayed. It was sold under romantic pseudonyms: Heritage Beef, Mountain Mule, and most seductively, Organic Wild Biryani Cut.
No one asked questions in Mawhore. Especially not about meat.
But in Mazhababad, where sermons echoed louder than ambulance sirens and guilt was a garnish on every plate, a whistle blew, literally. A constable raiding an illegal currency den accidentally stumbled into a donkey slaughterhouse. The air reeked of turmeric and treachery.
Inside, two men were caught mid recipe, one stirring a cauldron large enough to baptize a calf, the other whispering into a walkie talkie, “Tell the Shakarpuri guests dinner is almost ready.”
Among those caught in the turmeric-scented chaos of Mazhababad was a well-moisturized Shakarpuri national who, authorities later discovered, owned not just the slaughterhouse but also a chain of suspiciously affordable biryani stalls named Mule Mood.
Before the Bureau of Inconvenient Truths could spell his name correctly for the exit control list, he had already vanished. Rumors say he boarded a one-way flight to Whobhai, that elusive land of discount dreams, zero extradition, and buy-one-get-one-free visa agents.
Some claim he now runs a camel ride experience in a shopping mall food court. Others say he opened a leather spa for stressed-out handbags.
Under questioning, the accused claimed innocence. “This is for our allies from the East. They like it lean and loyal,” they said, stroking a hide like it was a national flag.
Back in Buttkilo, the city of silent exports and scandalous imports, a warehouse filled with 4736 donkey hides was uncovered. Packed tight, perfumed with mothballs and ambition, each hide bore a shipping label to Shakarpur. Customs officers blinked. Then blinked again. “Why does yoga need this much leather?” one finally asked.
The investigation, if it could be called that, was handled by the Phupistan Bureau of Inconvenient Truths, a department known more for its tea than its tenacity. A press release was issued in Comic Sans: “We are aware of the meat mystery. We feel sad. That’s all for now.”
Social media erupted. Memes galloped across timelines:
A donkey in sunglasses with the caption: “Retired. But still in your biryani.”
Hashtag: #JusticeForJhola.
Talk shows buzzed. Poets wept. One TV host bit into a kebab on air and cried, “It tastes like betrayal and surprisingly… forgiveness.”
But no one stopped eating.
A month later, the donkeys returned, not in flesh, but in dreams. They visited children and elderly barbers. They whispered riddles, financial advice, and begged for vegan Mondays.
A mural appeared overnight on the grandest roundabout in Buttkilo. Twenty feet tall, painted in defiance and despair, a donkey wearing aviators, draped in a Phupistani flag, above the words: “I Fed You. You Forgot Me.”
Years later, meat prices soared. Imports were banned. And in dusty corners of Mawhore, people still whispered of the time when the kebabs were tender, the biryani emotional, and the donkeys though silent were everywhere.
But before anyone files a fatwa or reports me to the Ministry of National Emotions, please understand this tale is a product of my sleep-deprived brain, caffeine addiction, and a questionable relationship with reality. The characters, cities, and kebabs mentioned here exist only in the twisted neighbourhoods of my imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or food safety violations is purely coincidental… and extremely unfortunate for your digestive system. If you’ve seen these donkeys in real life, please contact a licensed therapist, or me, so we can hallucinate together.
And now as we wipe our tears of confused laughter and silent shame, let us raise our hearts in prayer once more.
O Allah, bless our intentions and protect our meals from mystery meats. Grant us clarity in chaos, honesty in dealings, and the courage to ask uncomfortable questions even at dinner tables. May our days be free of deceit and our nights be full of peace. Let our dreams be donkey free unless they’re offering tax advice or winning lottery numbers. Aameen Thuma Aameen.
Have a beautiful morning and a peaceful day ahead.
Mani
Saturday, 2nd August 2025