A Jolly Good Easter Holiday In Paddington’s London [IV] Photograph

A Jolly Good Easter Holiday In Paddington’s London [IV] We are now at the propitiously flavoured fourth or ‘char’ chapter of my arboretum of tales from the city that continued to boon sticky marmalade sandwiches to a certain duffle-coated bear and, more crucially, of bestowing upon him a family whose extraordinary show of love and affection uplifted his spirits once more into believing that as long as hope is perched underneath your hat there is still the chance of a happy ending! Mind you, I may have to retract that promise of a cheery ending for you since I am forever tediously reminding you to click on the image so that a fattened version is available for your retinal consumption! I swear you pretend not to know, chuffed at watching me repeat myself like a broken record spinning on the wool cycle of the washing machine! I will ensure that the Fates send you the cutest party of little children to hug and kiss you – all of them bouncing up and down in joy because they have been evacuated from school. Why? A breakout of nits the size of burgers would lead any head teacher fearing for their life and with no other choice but to press the door release button! Happy infection! Giggle, giggle! For some bizarre reason for which I am embarrassingly without answer or credible explanation Nuha showed an instant liking for this stone statue of a travelling monk originating from the Far East. The stillness of his face, eyes closed and lips in slight smile, all take little time in lulling the onlooker into a relaxed state of tranquillity. I felt as though a bed of soft lotus flowers was slid under my bare feet and that all of what I am was sent gliding down a gentle river. I noticed, followed with a restrained chuckle, that our bald monk was not that much taller than both Nuha and myself and, as if a muse were playing the lyre over my head to bring tidings of good news, I received the revelation that there were no such things as ‘short people’. Ergo, the world’s lot can be divided into two distinct camps: you have the tall people and, well, the people who are substantially more…. grounded! You ought not to laugh so much, I fear sometimes that your non-committal wig may transmigrate onto my face! Oh my, what a ghastly predicament have I imagined, the very thought makes urgent for some remedial tea! Chop, chop, fetch me some! I wish to clean and rid my hands of complicity if what I hear you thinking right now is along the lines of ‘she has a morbid penchant for bald men’ because to have Rana Mama pop up in the next photo sharing a certain distinct feature as of the monk before is assuredly coincidental! What I do love about my uncle and which is crystal clear in his body language is that he is the sort of man who carries traditional gentlemanly manners that have become the thing of sad nostalgia these days. A man who goes out of his way, despite his macho outer exterior, and bend or bow down so as to be in line with his favourite ladies as a show of respect and reverence spreads a Mexican wave of cheer through my old bones – pardon me if their rattling grates your eardrums, it simply cannot be helped! You will be hard pressed to find the classy decorum of Astaire or Kelly or the lovable comics of the likes of Chaplin in today’s ‘young guns’. Most are far more obsessed with jingling the keys to their cars and blasting the music inside so that it no longer sounds like music at all, an installation of egoism showing off a power that is unfortunately only superficial. Oh, and the other ‘Devil’s Apple’ takes the form of the Smarty pants phone – when eyes are too busy scouring the screen below how can you possibly look at the stars? It is my belief that any man who bears a good heart and who pursues gentlemanly conduct in his endeavours to the dot, irrespective of intelligence or any other grounds on which he may be discriminated on, is such that he cannot spend a night without once letting his eyes search amongst the stars. He looks up because he wears humility in his heart… Yes, yes, I know you’re stamping your feet in livid protest as to why I failed to photograph what happened next after ‘King Tut’ revved The Red Elephant to maximum throttle and you’re quite right to be grumpy about it but, what am I to do, Lumiere enjoys playing hard-to-get so that in the most critical of moments he bails out on me! There is a strong chance I might have slacked when I charged Lumiere before setting off to London, not ensuring full capacity and for that act of short-changing him he thus took out his revenge with excruciating effect! WHAT? Why are you rolling your eyes like that? How dare of you to charge me – no pun intended - for presenting false information!! Please be as good as to approach the bench so that I may use the Judge’s gavel on your head – you’re in luck though, I only reserve the noose for lassoing packets of Haribos from the top shelves of the sweet shop!! Nuha diligently waited for the swings to be free from the clutches of a posse of the noisiest cheeky boys ever to have been invented by parents and who were using the seats to sit on and make horrible racket between themselves and nothing besides that! It was preposterous of course, the swings were designed for, duh, swinging or am I missing something vital here?! Like Maggie Thatcher herself, Nuha’s iron-reinforced patience paid off and as soon as one of their bottoms came off the seat Nuha leapt like a praying mantis and reshuffled the balance of territoriality! Just as she was edging backwards to initiate the first arc of momentum I captured this shot of her face, victorious but not in the slightest boastful – if that is not elegance then shiver me timbers! Khem-Choo!!! My beautiful Apeshka Aunty adoringly grabs the necks of my two cousins Samia and Tania and together their collective smiles, even now as I gaze at this photograph longingly, lifts my heart beyond the cage of my chest to fly through the air as birds do in the evening. What a blessing life is when you are gifted with a family that means the world to you! Now, I suppose you must be tormented by all manner of conjectural spectres right now as you wriggle to figure out what Samia is gesturing with her hands! Dear reader, it is a case most disastrous! Permit me to explain. Not that I am in the business of initiating the ignorant into the sweet joys of Haribos but, this time an anomalous lightning bolt of compassion struck my fingers that possessed them to extend the packet to the person next to me. Samia took one bite and the next minute I know I had created a monster! She is hooked and in the photograph that you see, her complete rejection for ladylike manners in favour of using her hand to relaying her desperation for a sweet even in the midst of a shoot is the most potent proof I can ever submit to you of the power of a Haribo! Nope, I shall never share a packet with you – unless of course if you…. [Injection of fatal doses of suspense is one of my specialities!] Spiffing presentation by my dearest Nuha of one of the most emblematic of British technological evolutions, the red telephone box! It is miniature in size because it is not the real thing but a tin of biscuits but what our little lady holds here has a story of its own that you ought to know of. Before the days of the smarty pants phone, the red telephone box was the stationary oasis for connecting to the world beyond. Coins went in and off you went, to whomever you wished to speak, the world was your oyster! Just pause and dwell on this: a little red box and infinite possibilities within it. The BBC simply could not resist their creative licence from walking into the world of the red box and, with a little ingenuity sprinkled from some fantastic scriptwriters, the T.A.R.D.I.S. was born! Albeit painted in blue and a specific sort of call box that enabled the occupants to travel through time and space, the skeleton concept was lifted from the good old red telephone box. The good Doctor, one of my heroes since a child, has steered his craft through countless dimensions, it has seen some of the most treacherous battles ever played out in the interstellar fields of dust and served as a confidante to the Doctor’s eternal inner turmoil. How is it possible? The T.A.R.D.I.S. is constructed of such advanced technology that its interior is hugely bigger than what is apparent on the outside so allowing numerous navigational apparatus and controls to be housed inside quite comfortably. The T.A.R.D.I.S. is a child of science-fiction but here is the great metaphor, borrowed from the blueprint of the red telephone box and I shall pose it you as a question – what other red engine can you think of that looks puny in size from the outside but is vast inside, beating in symphonies of mystery, complexity and beauty…? I cannot pretend to know about the principles of architecture or the ins and outs of the conceptual visions Mr Smirke harboured in his musty drawing room however, pillars are important structures in the responsibility they are assumed to avow and that is that they will never falter, forever in service of upholding the roof of any structure to which they are assigned. Love and Family are two of the most crucial pillars of my life. I deem not that I need to justify my philosophy with any degree of analysis, but, if you must, place your eyes on the goodness that emanates on the faces of my two little cousins and you shall feel the stirrings of my words come to life… Ah, our bald wandering monk reprises his role once more and this time he actually gave us all a little shock that swiftly snatched our breaths away! Do not jump out of your seat but – DRUM ROLL - he spoke! Yes, I repeat, he spoke! In a voice that came somewhere between the sound of sweet raindrops falling off the eaves of a straw hut and the first twinkle of starlight at dusk, the monk informed my cousins that he had only a right arm since the left one was badly injured in war that it had to be amputated to avoid the spread of gangrene. Nuha confused and bewildered, enquired whose hand and arm then was the left one? He smiled a little wider, a faint glow of red blushed on his cheeks and he said that she was mistaken, the arm and hand on the left was not his! Apparently a very short wild-haired wandering poetess is always walking beside him and the hand that can be seen on the left is hers, supporting his hand as like a cup of tea! Before Nuha could move his flowing robes aside to see if the lady in question was down there, the monk returned to stone. I wonder who she was… :)) Photography & Words: © Masufa Khatun | Mazzy Khatun Photo Stories | Spring Reunion Series | London | UK 2015

Photography:Color on Other

Original:One-of-a-kind Artwork

Size:39.4 W x 31.5 H x 0.4 D in

Delivery Time:Typically 5-7 business days for domestic shipments, 10-14 business days for international shipments.