constellations – S. Taufeequddin Azher

April 22, 2026

1997.
The desert highway, as it was. He still sees the stars. He breathes the air, the cold air. His own shadow whips around him when the cars rush past. A receding flash of red in the coursing autowind when it cracks upon his back. The mourners in Bombay. One would think their word for elegy is cognate with martyr, he thinks.
The night sky. All it’s reflecting’s ultraviolet..
There’s buildings up ahead, rising from where the road seems to converge at the horizon. Riekelian. But he doesn’t see the buildings. He sees the windows. The lit windows. Scattered, variously warm. Incandescence, fluorescence: yellows and whites and blues.
But before the buildings, much closer, interrupting the dark horizon, there’s a filling station. He approaches.
He’s in his special sandals. The sandgrains mingle between his toes. He brings the desert in with him where’er he goes. The woman at the register, she says, Come, with your dusty feet an’ footwear. No petrol fo’you sir. But double chocolate milk and Reds you can have. If you pay in cash. And don’t worry: I know you’re a camelboy. That’s how I know you’re gonna live, sir. It won’t kill you.
He leaves.
The Anglo-Oriental world. Shame. Thirty years. He gives it that much time. And it’ll take time. As the night does to pass. It isn’t for the sun to overtake the moon.

2017.
She leaves the room. The devil appears a blink after.
Camelboy does not tremble when he appears, and nor does he call upon his Lord. And he does not thrust his fingers into his ears by reason of the thunder-claps.

2009.
He was afraid then. Overhead the whales flew. He was afraid. The inevitable calamity, the breaking of the glass, the fish in his mouth.

2017.
Camelboy says, You look awfully like my grandfaher’s eldest brother. Anyway. I have a thing for women like her, women that hold a grudge. I always have. Something about their gaze beckons me. Into heresy almost. Almost. But I’m scared. Sometimes I dream. That she meets God. And she can’t let go of the past. Or the various horrid presents. She voices her concerns, says she doesn’t want His mercy in the hereafter, not if she couldn’t have it in the here. We, she’ll say We. But anyway, a last mercy upon her: He allows her to descend into the fire. Where her fate is an eternal sodomizing at your hands, etc.
The devil says, What the hell is sodomy?
Camelboy laughs, looking away.
What’ll you do about her?
Camelboy’s gaze is upon the floor. The rain.
Man is verily a wrong-doer, an ingrate.
Camelboy looks up. He is silent, and then he speaks: No laden soul can bear another’s load.

1997.
Unto him is a token: the dead earth. His heart as air. He stops. The wind through his clothes. What load? His heart as a polythene bag fluttering in the wind. Plastic moth. Up up up up, down down down. His command over the wind.
Man is verily a wrong-doer, an ingrate. He is still, standing. He closes his eyes to the world. He sits down. He remembers: The pretty blue above him. The whales overhead, the fishschools following their spiralling courses. He lights up as he rises, the groaning of his knees.
Two hemispheres in the desert. The smoke rises, the wind blows.

2019.
From here on out, I have to be the toughest fifteen year old in the world.
It’s raining outside, Chet Baker’s playing. A textbook is spread out before me. In the margins: my notes from a week ago, now undecipharable to me.
I’m writing poetry about a girl I will never see again, except by coincidence. When we pray, we pray for coincidences. But her memory’s fading, her significance. I will never find myself in her presence ever again.
And she won’t notice my absence either. How do I pray for something I’m ashamed of wanting? And even if, by coincidence, of course, I find her again in some corner of the world, I doubt the sorrow of our separation (my separation, from her, more like) will ever subside. It’s a dull aching in my spine she’s left me. Not quite comparable to the untallyable hurt of the world, but it’s enough. Enough to get me writing poetry about a girl I’ll never see again.

1997.
He stops by a pharmacy. The red crescent. Not the cross. But the bowl of Hygeia. Pagan and not.
The unforgivable sin of association. Us, thinks Camelboy. He enters.
Bringing in with him the sand . . .
The cold xylenolic odour. The quiet. The wind outside.

2009.
He thought the world was much larger than it was. And it was. He ate grapes and cucumbers, thinking about the large buildings of the world, and all the various peoples of the world, linking their arms across the circumference of Earth.
He knew the taste of dust. The smell of rain.

2026.
Consumption. Colours. Experience.

1997.
A chemist & druggist enters a bar, Camelboy thinks, and then gives his head a shake.
Leaning on the counter’s a man in a white coat. His pink checkered shirt. Camelboy remembers this pattern from thirty years ago.
I need to purchase melisadine. For a friend, says Camelboy.
Do you have a prescription?
You got a pen and paper?

2024.
Camelboy hates high school romances, butterflies, and sand. Camelboy hates public gardens, high school washrooms, and twinkling eyes. Camelboy hates constellations. Camelboy hates munchkins and letters of apology, Camelboy hates the playful smearing of clay on faces during pottery class. Camelboy hates ticklish jabs to another’s ribs, Camelboy hates expos, Camelboy hates social media. Camelboy hates the role he’s chosen to play and the sort of pain he has to portray. The other kind would’ve been nicer, he thinks from time to time.

1997.
He approaches the buildings. But first, another stop. The large yellow sign, the warm yellow. The blocky bold black text: a stationery store, the BOOKSHOP, as we used to call it.
He needs a diary and he needs a map of the world.

2004.
My grandfather woud sometimes take me outside and point at airplanes dragging across the cloudy night sky, as if to say, Get used to it.

2006.
My grandfather would play football with me.

2010.
Grandpa and I.
Airplane on the beach. Oddly shaped watermelons.
He points at a cashier who resembles a Niō.
Walking along the road: we see the beach, an abandoned airplane on the shore. Someone lives there.

2034.
Camelboy’s rushing down the road, putt-putt-putt-putt-putt.

2025.
Softly, as in a morning sunrise, she dances. She looks at me as she slips off her jacket. The mole beside her peach-seed eyes and the slight winedark smile, her slender neck, the swaying of her bare shoulders. Her hair bouncing with each step. Shadows playing across her face in warm lamplight. The contour her trousers form about her hips . . .
She reaches out. I hold her warm hand and get up.

1996.
Despite having no affinity towards politics and being from well-off enough a family that I didn’t need to care about it, I was miserably standng in the foggy cold of a December morning, having been dragged to a political rally by a cousin of mine. I’d tried to refuse, but he was quite insistent. Having no other choice, I had to go.
No sane human is particularly fond of waking up to purposelessly stand about in the 6 a.m. cold of a Hyderabadi winter. There were about two hundred people gathered there, despite this.
Politics requires cunning. And charisma. Of course. I envied politicians for their charisma. And wealth. And influence. But it was beyond the very boundaries of my understanding that one could be so persuasive that his admirers would stand around in the windy, frigid, post-Fajr dawn just to show their support for him. At the absolute zenith of winter. Standing around I decided my cousin owed me a cup of tea every week for the next couple of months. I wasn’t one to suffer. Anything I do for other people, I do for something in return.

2018.
Bye, dumbass! she yells out over her shoulder as her friend drags her off.

2020.
I’m drawing a penis on my answer sheet. There’s a pool of snot gathering in my N95. The man at the exam center gate grabbed my balls too tight while patting me down. In a week I will see my friends again. I’m colouring in the penis on my answer sheet. Rete testis, vas deferens, prostate gland . . .

2022.
We sincerely hope you enjoy this beautiful little thing entitled Ugetsu. . . . Japanese, it means fantasy.
. . .
I can hear everything. The Jazz Messengers. This is what jazz is. People recommend Miles Davis or like Chet Baker or Bill Evans to people who want to get into jazz (does such a thing even exist? people who want to get into jazz?), but this is it. This beautiful little thing that contains everything you need to know about jazz. If you don’t like this song, you won’t like any other.

2023.
In exile. The motley mountains.
The door to the balcony is open, it’s raining, and we’re eating chocolate. Really we have nothing else to eat. It’s been a long day, we’re tired from our fasts. I bought a bar of chocolate for the three of us to share on our way back from class. The dorm’s bustling. People entering and exiting the kitchen, coming up and down the stairs.

2030.
Sun weds moth, the banner reads.

2026.
A CONVERSATION BETWEEN TWO FRIENDS IN A BEDROOM IN URBAN INDIA ON A RAINY EVENING DURING THE SUMMER OF 2026, ONE OF WHOM HAS JUST COME OUT OF EXILE

i’d like to write a comic, you know. i’d like to write a comic
Thats nice
Do you have an idea of what you want to write or
i have an idea, i guess
the atmosphere. i have a sense of the atmosphere.
the tradition, if you will
Tradition?
i want to draw in a tradition that doesn’t exist
Why do you always act like I know what youre talking about
so like
there’s these movements of art, right? distinct movements of art
that you can tell where they’re from, when they’re from
Yeah
I guess
I dont really know if I can tell when an artwork is from. Or where it’s from
But I know what you mean
Like manga and Marvel comics
exactly.
i want to draw in this tradition that doesn’t quite exist, the tradition of the comic book art of india, this imagined tradition in my head. imagine if
imagine if, like, artists in india were producing artwork, illustrations, that have as much a cultural impact on poular art as like disney or superhero comics or manga
the way that people ape the style of anime and manga. i envy it
but anyway. i want to draw in a way that feels both fresh and also as tough i am continuing in the manner of a long chain of indian comic artists before me. in a tradition that doesn’t exist.
Surely that must exist
what?
This style or whatever that youre talking about
it does. two years ago i didn’t think so. but now i know it does. but it’s still lacking, it’s underdeveloped.
Is it like anything you imagined?
yes. and more, and less in some ways.
Wtf lol
So basically youre asking for a developed tradition to continue in?
no.
look
i can’t explain very well.
but
hmm
okay. imagine a parallel universe.
Uhuh
where popular art and illustration and comic book drawing and animation are bigger things in india. where the industries have the funding and the support, where they enjoy the popularity that comic books have enjoyed in japan.
Uhuh.
imagine that universe. imagine the history of those art forms in india. imagine how they must have begun, where they must have originated, what motifs, what characteristics, what visual language, et cetera.
Did you just say et cetera?
et cetera et cetera.
Lmfao
fuck you. anyway
imagine that.
Uhuh.
how would that style look?
I get it.
it would be beautiful.
That shit already exists though, dog
you don’t get it. i know it does
Feels like youre disregarding? Or discounting? The work that these other artists have done over the years.
i’m not.
i’m just disssatisfied.
i want to see what that world would look like. where comics had the time to develop. the more people working within a medium, the faster it develops, the more it develops. does that make sense?
Yeah no I get it
yeah.
So when will we see this?
soon.

2034.
Camelboy’s talking to an old friend, a schoolteacher.
Camelboy’s talking to an old friend, a psychologist.
Camelboy’s talking to an old friend, a consultant.
Camelboy’s talking to an old friend, a web developer.
Camelboy’s talking to an old friend, an architect.
Camelboy’s talking to an old friend, a physician.

2034.
Oh, here comes the sun. In a cupbearer’s hands, Camelboy says, his gaze upon the waiter.

2023.
The rain continues to fall. Heavy warm rain. Dust and insects residing in slotted girders. I wander about. A flash photograph of me in front of a pink-doored, pink-walled building. Eyes red and sunken. Is this. As they will see me?
Pressure cookers. The rain in the lamplight. The sunny days are mine no longer.

2024.
Camelboy’s watching YouTube videos.
Mishimamaxxing in the big ’24 as a computer science student who’s also a gymrat:
Today is upper body day, and I’m going to be reading Confessions of a Mask between sets. I’m sorry I’ve been inactive. I was taking a break from working out as I waited for the pain in my spine to subside, but now I’m getting back into it. Hopefully all that rest helps me get another PR. I’m praying to Daddy Mentzer. Just stay safe while you guys are working out. Anyway, let’s get into my routine for if you want to get that lean, ripped, samurai physique that Mishima is so famous for. But before that, the playlist for today’s routine is linked in my bio. Follow me on Spotify for more playlists if you like listening to jazz while you’re lifting. Okay. So first of all, Mishima had a really developed lower chest, I’d say probably the focus of his physique, as you can see in the photos here, and for that he prefered the decline dumbbell press. So I’m going to do two sets of that, aiming to fail between six to eight reps on each one. We’re keeping it high intensity, low volume, guys. Mishima wasn’t a huge fan of the regular benchpress, but he did it anyway, so another two sets of that, focusing on high intensity again. Next, Mishima’s abs are absolutely shredded. A lot of definition, very prominent, as you can see on screen right now. For this, he used to do this exercise called the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Lie down on a bench, grab it by the edges, like by your head, and lift your legs and entire torso up, keeping a straight line. If this is too hard, you can do just your legs. But remember to keep overloading as you progress, guys. Now. So for the Leaning Tower I’m going to do three sets of ten to twelve reps each, keeping the volume a little higher here. He did a lot of isometric work for his abs, so planks, holds, everything you can do, include in your routine. For tricep development I’d say do push ups and weighted dips. If you can’t do a regular dip, then try using resistance bands or just reps of negatives until you can overload. Push ups will help strengthen your core as well, so don’t skip out on them. As for the biceps, well, Mishima loved all sorts of curls: dumbbell curls, barbell curls, lying preacher curls: so I’m going to do all of those between the other exercises I mentioned here, spacing everything out for maximum recovery between exercises. I’m starting with the bench press, moving on to dumbbell curls, then the Leaning Tower, then decline dumbbell presses, then some planks as I recover, then barbell curls, then a set of push-ups, and finally end it with lying preacher curls. I was absolutely exhausted after this, guys, check out the pump! Now I got into Confessions of a Mask a little bit, and so far I think this book is about Mishima as a kid, admiring men’s bodies around him, and I’m theorizing that it’s going to talk about how that was what drove him to go the gym and get absolutely shredded! That is inspiring, and I can’t wait to read more and find out what happens next.
Camelboy throws his phone aside and goes to sleep.

2020.
I’m squirming. Still in the throes of envy. I feel like my life is over already.

2023.
I decide to head back into the dorm. I’m dripping, my red jacket is soaked wet. A group of girls regards me strangely. They know my name. I don’t know their faces. I’m like a rain bug, my mother’s birba-boti. I drip up the stairs. I hang my jacket up to dry and leave my room without so much as a word to my cohabitants.

2011.
Camelboy understands enmity and conflict. He understands anger and hatred. He understands violence and he understands agony.

2018.
He doesn’t understand jack shit.

2019.
Camelboy understands that getting slapped by an attractive woman turns him on.

2022.
The glass is cold and dusty upon my itching forehead, and I know this smell. If I were to jump, there’s a chance that I’d survive. And so I won’t.

1997.
Camelboy hums to himself. The moon beams upon the old musicmaker. The moon, pale behind the rainclouds. Fantasy. He hums on. He breathes, licks his lips, and lifts his trumpet to his mouth.

1991.
Camelboy stands in an office overlooking Business Bay watching a young man go through financial records concerning Fujitsu Limited to prepare a demonstration for his new employers.

1995.
The hair on my arms is standing. He sings:
waqt achchha bhi aayega, ‘nasir’
waqt achchha bhi aayega, ‘nasir’
gham na kar, zindagi padhi hai abhi
My life is before me.

1998.
Camelboy watches an infant who has never met her father point at a photograph of him and babble: ‘Bu.

2003.
Camelboy is born.

2009.
And he was afraid. That the earth would consume him. That he would be in the dark. Unaccompanied.

2026.
And he was afraid he’d fuck up a note on the cadenza.

1997.
But there are no wrong notes here, so blow on, Camelboy, and show us how you swing.