by Omair Ahmad
‘Bitiya,’ Ismat said again, ‘I had no idea of the type of man he was.’
‘He seemed all right,’ Ahmad Saeed added, ‘educated and well spoken. But maybe he was just after the land.’
‘What?’ she asked.
‘You know he comes from a common family, and maybe he thought he would inherit the land.’
‘What land?’ she asked again, confused.
Ismat fidgeted, and Ahmad Saeed asked, ‘She doesn’t know?’
Ismat looked at him, then at his sister, and then back at Ahmad Saeed. ‘There was never a time to tell her.’ He turned to Shaista, looking like a man confused by a sudden turn a conversation has taken. ‘Bitiya, it never occurred to me to tell you, it was not important. You know the law. No one person can own more than twelve and a half acres of farmland. So in his will father left ten acres in your name.’
He hesitated, and continued, ‘And you know that is the law under Shariah. Daughters inherit a third, and sons, two-thirds.’
She closed her eyes then, to keep back the tears.
‘Bitiya?’
‘What about Jamaal?’ she asked without opening her eyes.
‘Precisely,’ Ismat said, ‘we thought Rafiq would use your son to lay claim to my land.’
‘You have the papers?’ she asked, scared now that her voice would give her away, that she would cry again and Ismat would reach out to comfort her when her skin crawled at the thought of his touch.
There was a pause, and there was strain in Ismat’s voice when he answered, ‘I had a lawyer draw them up.’
She opened her eyes, the anger burying her need to cry. ‘Give them to me.’
She signed them, quickly, clumsily, her handwriting legible despite the tubes and weakness. She signed away a birthright she had never known about, putting it in the name of Ismat’s wife. It was only when she was done that she spoke. ‘Send Rafiq in.’
‘Are you sure?’ Ismat asked.
She let all her contempt and pain colour her reply. ‘He never came to me with any papers, Bhaijaan.’
Ismat started, and she knew that he did love her, that it was not a lack of love that had destroyed what they had, but fear. Something had broken him in that long slide to a state of near poverty. Those long, hard years had depleted him, made him so much smaller than he should have been.
But she had no time for all that. She had no time to attempt forgiveness. She didn’t care.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please, just leave.’
Rafiq rushed in as soon as they had left, and found her weeping. Gently he reached his hands around the tubes and pulled her head as close to him as possible.
She put out her free arm and wrapped it around his waist, her head resting on his stomach. She could feel his heart thumping away from there, a little faster than normal, but steady, secure.
‘Don’t ever leave me again.’
‘Never,’ he promised. ‘Never.’
She died two hours later, her hand going limp in his grip as she slept. He called out for a nurse. They responded quickly, rushing to rescue her, but she was gone. One of the doctors started pounding on her chest to revive her, using all his strength as he brought down his fist hard, and that was too much for Rafiq.
‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘Stop. Just let her be.’
7
Shabbir Manzil acted quickly in the wake of Shaista’s death; quickly but not rashly. The first emissary was Ahmad Saeed, seeking rapprochement, or so it seemed. At her grave after the soil had been thrown in by her relatives, and then by all those who had come through ties of community, Ahmad Saeed said to Rafiq, ‘Where’s Jimmy?’
Rafiq took a moment to respond. He had forgotten the peculiar nickname; Ahmad Saeed had been conspicuous by his absence over the last few months.
‘He’s with my mother,’ Rafiq said. ‘There was no point in bringing him to the graveyard.’
Ahmad Saeed nodded, and then, after a few moments, said, ‘He must miss his mother.’
Rafiq was silent at that. What was there to say?
Ahmad Saeed cleared his throat and finally came to the point. ‘It would probably do Jimmy good if he spent time with his aunts in Shabbir Manzil. They’ll take care of him.’
Rafiq was already nodding absentmindedly when Ahmad Saeed rounded off the proposal by saying, ‘Anyway, they’ve seen so little of him since Shaista fell ill.’
It was stupid, and unnecessary, but maybe Ahmad Saeed felt the need to justify himself, or had just become garrulous for a lack of anything meaningful to say. But it reminded Rafiq of what had happened over the last few months. That the women of Shabbir Manzil had seen little of Jamaal of late was true, but it wasn’t because Shaista was ill. Her health had deteriorated only at the end; long before that she had stopped visiting the other women of Shabbir Manzil, coldly furious at the way they were treating her husband. She forbade Jamaal from going as well, explaining to Rafiq, ‘It’s wrong to send a child into a house that doesn’t respect his father. What can they teach him except disrespect for his own family?’
Rafiq had been uneasy about that, and had wanted to tell her the truth about his encounter with Ahmed Saeed, and maybe Jamaal could then have been the bridge to his reconciliation with Shabbir Manzil. That was what he had thought then. But now that Ahmad Saeed mentioned it, Rafiq felt a wave of revulsion rise up in his throat until it choked him. Why did they have to lie? What was the point? And if they cared so much, why had they waited to ask till she was dead?
Keeping his head bowed Rafiq said softly, ‘He’s all right where he is.’
His words were too soft for Ahmad Saeed, who leaned over to ask, ‘What?’
‘I said that Jamaal is all right where he is,’ Rafiq repeated forcefully. ‘My mother can teach him what he needs to know.’
Baffled, Ahmad Saeed could only ask, ‘Are you sure?’
Rafiq raised his eyes, furious, and said, ‘Yes.’
Three hours later when Rafiq arrived at Shabbir Manzil he found Rustam waiting for him. ‘Where should I take you?’ the servant asked.
‘What?’
‘You are no longer welcome in Shabbir Manzil,’ Rustam said. ‘Where shall I take you?’
Pushing the man aside Rafiq made his way into the house. Rustam recovered his balance and hurried after him. The door to what had been Rafiq’s and Shaista’s home stood open, and outside it were a stack of trunks and a few bundles tied together in bedsheets, like a dhobi’s washload.
‘What is this?’ Rafiq asked.
‘This is what I couldn’t fit into the jeep. The rest of your belongings are there,’ Rustam answered. And this time Rafiq didn’t try to assert himself. He didn’t even step inside the door. Instead he followed Rustam out of Shabbir Manzil, got into the jeep, and asked to be taken to his parents’ house. But during the drive his skin began to crawl and itch, and he turned to Rustam and asked, ‘Do you know where Ajmal Khan lives?’
‘The principal of Alvi College?’
‘Yes. Take me there.’
‘Now?’ Rustam asked, sounding impatient.
‘Yes, now, before you drop me home.’ Rafiq’s voice was shrill, and he shut up before it cracked. He crossed his arms and hugged them to himself as the jeep made its way across town.
Ajmal Khan lived in the newly built Rudrapur colony. Moazzamabad’s population had been expanding for decades, and old neighbourhoods like Rasoolpur had initially tried to cope by building on top of already existing structures, or by packing more people into already crowded rooms. But as new money appeared—with the owners of sugar factories, jewellery traders, cinema hall owners, and people who rented out their land as the railway lines running east from Delhi got busier—new colonies like Rudrapur were coming up. They were far from pretty, but at least they had covered drains, electricity poles and real roads, tarred and with two lanes, instead of the glorified alleys that criss-crossed the old parts of town.
And all the new colonies had Hindu names. They still do, as you would have n
oticed. Many more, in fact, than in the years I’m telling you about.
It was funny, but as the jeep wound its way out of the alleys of Rasoolpur, then Urdu Bazaar, into the main market of Narangi Chowk heading towards the railway station, and beyond the railway lines to Rudrapur, Rafiq was struck for the first time by the realization that Moazzamabad, despite its name gifted by a Mughal prince with more pomp than power, was a predominantly Hindu town. He had never thought about it before; in fact, he had never really thought about what was happening outside of Rasoolpur. Despite the supposedly learned discussions every evening at Shabbir Manzil, all that Rafiq knew about the wider world was from newspapers and gossip, maybe a little from the radio. He had never travelled very far from his mohalla, had never made friends with people from a different neighbourhood. The only time that he stepped out of Rasoolpur was when he went to teach at the college, and he was struck now by the thought that perhaps his students knew more about the world, certainly more about Moazzamabad, than he did.
He had only known Rasoolpur, and even here, he had only been interested in Shabbir Manzil. A dull anger with himself made his head and heart heavy, and his eyes smart. A wasted life.
And then they were at Rudrapur and Rafiq’s thoughts came back to the present. They had thrown him out of Shabbir Manzil, and he had decided that he would leave on his feet and not on his knees, but now, outside Ajmal Khan’s house, he found his courage faltering. He didn’t really know what he was doing. It was the presence of Rustam that decided things for him. Now that he had come all the way here, he couldn’t turn around without doing something.
‘Stay here,’ he told Rustam, his words more assertive than his tone. ‘I won’t be long.’
He pressed the doorbell but nothing happened. He tried again, and still there was no response. He knocked then, but it was a soft sound and summoned nobody. Frustrated, he pulled out a coin, and using the edge, knocked repeatedly on the metal door handle, finally making enough noise that he heard somebody say, ‘Who is it?’
‘Rafiq,’ he said loudly. ‘Rafiq Ansari.’
‘Wait a minute.’ And then Ajmal Khan opened the door.
‘As salaam aleikum, Rafiq,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m resigning from my job, Khan sahib,’ Rafiq blurted out. Then, because he had been rude, he mumbled, ‘Wa aleikum as salaam,’ wishing peace in reply to Ajmal Khan’s silence and look of mild confusion.
Ajmal Khan could hardly say he was surprised. Ahmad Saeed had phoned him an hour ago to say that he hadn’t realized Rafiq had only a second-class degree in his BEd, not a first, and maybe that wasn’t quite the required qualification for a teaching job at the college. Ajmal Khan had resisted, saying that there were few teachers with a BEd degree of whatever class in Moazzamabad, and even those few were either teaching at the old Halloway College or at H.D. Aggarwal College, where the pay was far better. But of course that wasn’t what Ahmad Saeed had called up to say, and certainly he wasn’t interested in what Ajmal Khan would have to say in Rafiq’s defence. Realizing this halfway into the conversation, Ajmal Khan had simply made soft, affirmative noises while Ahmad Saeed continued talking about the suitability, or really the lack thereof, of Rafiq continuing to teach in his current job. At the end, because he knew that Ahmad Saeed would never be so gauche as to suggest it himself, Ajmal Khan had said, ‘Maybe it would be best to review his case. In fact, although we had hired him, there is a clause in the contract that allows us to reconsider such cases, and if what you say is correct, which, since you are the person saying it, is not to be doubted, then Rafiq would have to be dismissed from his job by the end of this session, in a couple of months.’
‘A couple of months?’ Ahmad Saeed asked. ‘It will take that long?’
‘Procedures have to be followed,’ Ajmal Khan said. He was happy to bend with the wind but if he didn’t assert himself the managing committee would ride roughshod over him whenever they chose. ‘We wouldn’t want a court case against the college, would we?’
‘He would never dare,’ Ahmad Saeed exclaimed, but there was an edge of doubt in his voice.
‘We wouldn’t want to take that chance. The reputation of a college is its greatest asset. After all, that is why we are firing him, isn’t it?’
The silence that followed was too long, and Ajmal Khan feared he had gone too far. He had to be careful here. Despite having lived in Moazzamabad for seven years now he was still an outsider, his position never fully secure. He couldn’t afford sarcasm. Hurriedly he added, ‘And I think I have the perfect candidate to replace Rafiq.’
‘Do what you think is correct,’ Ahmad Saeed said, a little restrained now. ‘I will support you.’
‘Thank you, Ahmad Saeed sahib,’ Ajmal Khan gushed.
And now here was Rafiq, and he wanted to resign. Who was Ajmal Khan to refuse him?
Still he said, ‘It’s not so simple. There is paperwork.’
And when Rafiq said nothing, Ajmal Khan added, ‘And you have to give at least three months’ notice.’
Again Rafiq was quiet. He hadn’t thought this far ahead; he had just wanted to do something about this feeling within him, to tear the shadow of Shabbir Manzil off his life.
‘Let me speak to the managing committee,’ Ajmal Khan said at last, put out by Rafiq’s silence. ‘Maybe I can convince them to let you go by the end of the month.’
‘I’m willing to work to the end of the term,’ Rafiq said finally, thinking belatedly of his students.
‘Yes,’ Ajmal Khan nodded sagely, ‘yes, I think that might be for the best.’
‘Thank you, Khan sahib,’ Rafiq said, and because there was not a trace of gratitude in his voice, just relief at a bitter task done, and because Ajmal Khan resented the fact that Rafiq had been a good teacher, a far better teacher than his nephew would make, the principal replied bitterly, ‘You should be thankful, Rafiq, it’s a good habit to learn.’
Rafiq stiffened at the remark, and without saying a farewell, turned and left.
In reality, though, should he have expected anything more from Ajmal Khan? The man had treated him with condescension and sarcasm throughout the time they had known each other—a small man deeply conscious of being in a position of power. Why should that change because Shaista was dead and Rafiq was trying to recover a sense of honour that he had never had?
No, Ajmal Khan’s reaction was no surprise. The real surprise was still waiting for him.
He didn’t know what he had expected from his parents. Maybe some criticism of how he had cut off nearly all contact with them—criticism blunted by sympathy for his sudden loss. But he had no expectations. He wasn’t fully conscious of anything, and was working on instinct rather than thought.
‘You’re a fool,’ his father said. He said it softly, late at night, at the tail end of dinner when Rafiq’s mother had stopped serving the men and was sitting down to eat her own meal.
‘You’re a fool. Why fight with Ahmad Saeed sahib? Why throw away your job?’ his father asked. ‘You had a good place for yourself. Your mother could brag to her relatives that you lived in Shabbir Manzil and taught at a college, and you have thrown it all away.’
Rafiq’s mother raised her head at the end of that, and Rafiq, glancing her way, knew that she cared little about these things. It was his father who had gloried in his son’s newfound standing, and now, under the guise of practicality, was complaining that they had slipped down the social ladder once again. So I’m my father’s son after all, he thought to himself, and there was a touch of amusement in that.
‘It’s time for the isha prayers,’ Rafiq said, and excused himself.
‘Bowing to God is all well and good,’ his father grumbled, ‘but prayers don’t fill your stomach.’
But he was wrong about that.
After the late-night prayers Rafiq didn’t feel like returning to his parents’ house, at least not immediately. He could have read from one of the copies of the Quran set in the niches, instead he ju
st sat in a corner, counting the beads of a rosary but saying no prayer except Shaista’s name.
‘As salaam aleikum, beta,’ the imam’s greeting broke into his thoughts. ‘How are you?’
‘Wa aleikum as salaam, Maulana sahib,’ Rafiq replied. He should have answered, Alhamdulliallah—praise be to God, all is well—but he couldn’t. ‘I have lost my wife, Maulana sahib, and I have lost my job. I asked you to pray for me once, for a job, and God gave me more than that. Maybe I was ungrateful and I have lost them both.’
Rafiq found that he was weeping, and wiped his face with his free hand. He felt ashamed, but it had happened too suddenly for him to control himself. At least there was only Qayoom sahib here in the mosque. Everybody else had left.
The imam lowered himself to sit cross-legged in front of Rafiq. He didn’t reach out to touch Rafiq but said in his measured tones, ‘God will provide.’
‘Will He?’ Rafiq demanded. ‘Will He really provide?’
The imam shook his head at the anger, refusing to let the gentle smile slip from his face. ‘Tell me, what were the first words of the Quran revealed to the Prophet, peace be upon Him?’
Rafiq shook his head. He knew, but right now he couldn’t remember.
‘Recite. Recite, in the name of God who gave Man the pen and taught him what he knew not,’ the imam quoted, and Rafiq nodded.
‘Allah has commanded that mankind be taught,’ the imam continued. ‘Aren’t Muslims illiterate in today’s world? Don’t they want to be taught? Aren’t you a teacher? Isn’t what you do, why you do it, an act of providence? Isn’t the fact that there are thousands of poor who wish to be taught providence? Hasn’t God provided?’
At last the imam reached out and touched Rafiq’s hand, the one clutching the rosary. ‘There are other places to teach, not as prestigious as Alvi College perhaps, and they won’t pay you as much, but God has provided.’
‘And what about Shaista?’ Rafiq asked bitterly, the tears streaking his face. But to that the imam had no answer, or if he did, he kept it to himself.