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by Hana Ibrahim

It isn't something I do often. I mean, introspective contemplation. Hold on a second, isn't introspective supposed to be contemplative... a sort of meditative examination of one's thoughts. I wonder, does using one with the other negate the meaning of both. Like two positives leading to a negative. Or does it overlap, complement and super emphasise the intent?

I am beginning to sound like Buckley's hero Blackford Oakes wondering whether hara-kiri has to be committed or performed, self inflicted or inflicted by others and whether it is a transitive verb, a reflexive verb or a mere noun.

William F. Buckley, for the uninitiated and for those with a penchant for trivia, used to be for the West coast Republicans what Kennedy used to be for the East coast Democrats, and is one of the very few authors who speak the way they write.

And his hero's dilemma comes to mind as I listen to those purported to be proficient on the psyche of Osama bin Laden, America's Public Enemy No. 1, contemplate his options, in the event he decides to take matters to hand and cheat the US off their God given right to vengeance.

What will he do, the experts muse, ticking off every vague avenue of possible self-annihilation. Would he, for instance shoot himself, resort to some potent poison, swallow a mugfull of valium, go for self immolation... or would he slit his wrist, his jugular, or disembowel himself with a ceremonial sword, as did the Samurai warriors of ancient Japan when their reputation was impugned? Hara-kiri in other words. Which brings me back to Oakes' dilemma as to whether it should be committed, performed or executed by someone else.

Knowing the vacuity of such contemplation, I would have told both Oakes and the contemplators of bin Laden's self-determined demise, that Seppuki would have been a worthy option. At least in terms of exotic lexicography. But to get back to my initial thought... philosophical introspection isn't something I do very often. But life's little whirligigs do sometimes make me wonder at the unfathomables, mostly the meaning of life, its purpose and the reason for us being here.

The most recent whirligig that sent me into a contemplative stupor (apart from the often asked questions: is bin Laden guilty and when is America going to strike, as though being in the media makes one privy to the thoughts of crook, cur and champion alike) was the query 'What do I do?"

Often this is a question that gives me perverse pleasure, for I love to watch the expression of the supercilious enquirers when I tell them that I am a 'housemaid'. The looks were especially comical when I was living in Dubai and conventional misconception ruled that a Lankan woman couldn't possibly be anything else, but a housemaid. And yet they couldn't fit me into that perceived slot.

I recall a custom official asking with grave concern how I could demean myself by going to work as a housemaid.

Sometimes I tell the inquisitive enquirer I am a litter cleaner. For, in essence I am both a housemaid and litter cleaner. I am a housemaid when I wash, clean, vacuum, dust and put the house in order and I am a litter cleaner when I empty the reeking trays and make things comfortable to my schizo cat who wouldn't deign to even pass by my soiled tray, let alone use it. I am also a driver, cook, trolley pusher and lots of things in between.

But the recent query has me looking at my life with a new perspective. Not so much the question what I do, as what I have done in these decades of existence in relation to what I should call myself.

I mean I've breathed for 800,400 odd minutes, slept for something like 28,809 hours, been awake for 345,6000 minutes, spent a maximum of 2,888 - give or take a few hundred hours - eating, spent 200,736 minutes reading, driving, partying, worrying, working, talking to a cat that looks like it knows all the answers, making friends, making enemies out of friends, laughing, and coping with odds and ends....

All this, I guess, should say something about what I do. And since breathing is what I do most, should I, like Marcel Duchamp, call myself 'a breather'? But then, breathing is not something one endeavours, is it, unless of course one is suffering from some sort of respiratory disease or is prone to asthma attacks. So should I, instead, call myself a liver, and I do not mean the organ.

Then again, to call oneself a liver, one should know something about why a person lives and where she is heading. This again brings me back to square one, the unfathomable.... the meaning of life. I know I am beginning to sound like Oakes on the hara-kiri trial. Or is it Buckley taking Oakes on that specific trial?

Anyway to get back to my initial pondering, have I in all these hours of breathing, sleeping, crying, laughing, and living come any close to discovering the meaning of life, than when I woke up to the realisation that life did indeed have some meaning?

Think not. And probably will not. So, as a means of self preservation, from this day onwards, I've decided to leave the heavy stuff to those who are on a foreign substance stimulised high and am just concerning myself with the meaning in life instead the meaning of life. And in case you are wondering, there is a big difference.

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