Seeing a taxi, he waved it to stop, and the driver helped him into the taxi. As he neared his destination, Sher Khan remembered that he had not written to his friend to tell them he was visiting them. He hoped that they didn’t mind his coming out of the blue, like this, but they never wrote to him when they came. He recalled his own and his family’s pleasure at receiving guests no matter on which day or at what time they arrived, so he assumed that his friend and his family were the same. As the taxi wove through the maze of small streets and bazaars, exuding different smells of the city, Sher Khan almost felt nostalgic. He missed the clean, fresh air of his village fields. Here it was a crowded scene, verging on almost a slum. Houses and living quarters were packed into one another. He wasn’t sure where one accommodation started and another ended. The lanes were teeming with life, with people and traffic. Eventually, the taxi drew to a halt and the driver pointed to a small building. It was a shop. Sher Khan looked at it, confused. His friend hadn’t told him that it was a shop.
“Are you sure, young man, that this is the right place?”
“Oh yes,” replied the taxi driver, “there is the number. The people you want probably live above that shop. You go up those stairs.” Sher Khan spotted the two concrete steps leading to a door, and with the driver helping him with his parcels, he stepped out.
As the taxi drove away, Sher Khan looked around helplessly. How was he going to take his parcels up? He summoned the courage to call to the shop vendor, nearby, selling make-up and toiletries, and asked if he would allow his young assistant to help him? The man obliged quickly.
“Yes, of course, Baba-ji.” He answered using the respectful term of ‘Baba-ji’, for an old man. Sher Khan’s face brightened at the man’s answer. The young man came and lifted the three parcels effortlessly.
Together they climbed the steps, and went through the door to find more stairs, which they climbed to the top to find themselves in a dark hallway. Sher Khan knocked on the door.
“You should have rung the bell, Baba-ji”, the young man said.
The door opened and a young woman stood in front of them. She stared blankly at them both with no words of greeting from her mouth. Her head remained prominently uncovered. Sher Khan’s facial muscles faltered into a semblance of a smile.
“Salam Alaikum, my daughter. You must be Noor Ali’s daughter?”
“Wa laikum Salam, yes.” She answered. Her face didn’t light up in the way his own daughters and daughter-in-laws did when they faced a guest. Without a further word, she disappeared inside, leaving both standing outside. Sher Khan found this an unpleasant and a novel experience to be left standing at the door. He was used to being treated with pomp and ceremony, whenever he deigned to visit any household or relatives in the village.
“Mum, there is a buddha, an old man, standing at the front door and talking about dad.” Sher Khan heard her distinctly say, although it was in a hushed tone. His cheeks coloured in indignation. He had never been referred to in such an offensive term as buddha - ‘old man’. He was always called uncle, father-figure, or the respectable term busurgh, but never buddha. The girl hadn’t quite endeared herself to Sher Khan. Sher Khan, of course, made allowances that they had lived in the city for a long time, and therefore they wouldn’t remember him.
Then Noor Ali’s wife appeared. She was pleased to see him and recognised him. She bade them to go into their bathek, their guest room. Sher Khan turned to the young man and thanked and tipped him for his help.
“Bismillah, come in, come in!” Noor Ali’s wife beckoned. Sher Khan looked around at the dwelling, as he stood in the darkness of a small central courtyard. There were probably just four rooms around the central courtyard. It was a small place compared to the one they had owned in the village, which had the huge open courtyard and a large pasars, the living rooms. He entered the bathek and asked for his friend, Noor Ali, and was told that he had gone out shopping and would be back later.
Sher Khan sat perched on the high-back chair, unsure whether he ought to recline on the palang, a chaise longue. The woman, as was the Muslim custom, left him alone. It wasn’t right for a woman to entertain a man, without the presence of her husband. Sher Khan looked around the room with interest.
He must have dozed off on the chair, for suddenly he heard voices. His ears pricked up as he heard his friend’s voice. Through the crack, between the wall and the door, he caught a glimpse of his old friend. His wife was talking to him, apparently telling him about their guest.
Sher Khan watched his friend’s face with interest. He noted with dismay and humiliation that his friends face didn’t light up as he expected, at being told of his arrival. It was a bitter pill for Sher Khan to swallow. When Noor Ali, walked into the room, a few seconds later, Sher Khan found it difficult to look his friend in the eye. His body worked mechanically as he got up and greeted his friend with an embrace, in the normal fashion. Sher Khan marvelled at the change in his friend, and his greeting. It didn’t tally with the glimpse he had earlier of him - now everything was suspect. Again he recalled that look, that naked raw look, without the urbane veneer and polish. The week of expectations of exchanging news and marvelling in each other’s company seemed a dream. It was almost as if they were strangers. They exchanged news and pleasantries, yet they weren’t on the same wavelength; the mutual rapport was missing.
After years and years of being worshipped as a village elder, whose every word and sigh was a law and command onto itself and whose ideas and wishes were respected, here, Sher Khan felt as if he had been robbed of his identity. It all came as a crushing blow to Sher Khan; firstly there was the attitude of the young daughter, then the manner in which he had been abandoned with just a cup of tea and dry biscuits, and finally the reaction of his own friend.
His friend asked if he’d eaten; Sher Khan replied that he wasn’t hungry. Noor Ali almost shouted to his wife to find out if dinner was ready. She replied from the kitchen that it was on its way.
“It’s alright, my friend. I had a heavy meal before I left the village.” Sher Khan said, trying to make light of the matter. “Your wife didn’t know I was coming.”
“You should have written. I would have gone to pick you up from the coach station.”
“I know that I should have, but it was no problem in getting to your home.”
“How long have you come for? I hope you are going to stay a week with us, at least.” His friend volunteered.
“I think that I can only spare a day.” Sher Khan heard himself saying. He didn’t know what made him say that, but it just came out. Perhaps it was due to his friend’s lack of enthusiasm on hearing that he was here, or perhaps it was his pride that hadn’t let him say otherwise or to tell the truth that he had indeed come to spend a week in Lahore with him, and to see the city. His friend had often stayed for weeks.
“Ah, that’s a pity.” Noor Ali replied, not bothering to ask why Sher Khan could only ‘spare a day’, and the matter was closed.
Sher Khan dropped his gaze from his friend’s. Disappointment and humiliation vying with each other, was mirrored in his eyes. His friend hadn’t pressed him to stay. Apparently he was the unwanted guest. Sher Khan moved awkwardly on his chair.
Noor Ali kindly asked him to sit on the palang and put up his legs, as he must be tired from the long journey. Sher Khan did so, but as a shy awkward guest, and not as a lifelong friend. A few minutes later, mother and daughter brought in the dinner. It all fitted on one tray: there was one curry casserole, some chapattis and a small plate of salad and water. Sher Khan noted that his friend hadn’t expected anything else. As he shifted the potato cubes around his plate with his chapatti, Sher Khan recalled bitterly how his daughter and daughter-in-law waited hand and foot on their guests, cooking up different dishes and sweets, including those things that were not as widely available in the village, as in the city, where everything was accessible round the corner in the small bazaars. His daughter-in-law looked after their guests, even to the e
xtent of bringing a bowl of water for him to wash his hand, and preparing a smoke pipe, a hookah, for him to smoke. There was no bowl of water here for him to wash his hands.
Early next morning Sher Khan arose and didn’t know what to do with himself. Should he make it known to his hosts that he was awake? Normally, in the village, he arose with the call of the muezzin from the central mosque. Here, he had heard the mosques ringing with calls at about six o’clock, but nobody had stirred in the household. Not knowing where the local mosque was, he decided to say his prayers at home, on the prayer mat provided by his host the previous night, after his ablutions.
Sitting on his bed, cuddled up in his quilt, and missing his morning hookah, Sher Khan timed them. The first sound he heard was at eight o’clock, much too late, according to his village standards. Outside, the traffic was in full swing. By this time, his daughter and daughter-in-law would have finished the household chores, as well as serving breakfast. How he missed them and his early morning breakfast.
Here, in Lahore, in his friend’s house he had breakfast at about nine o’clock. The parathas, buttered hot chapattis, were cooked at home, the rest of the halwa, the breakfast, and the chana curry were brought from a local breakfast take-away in the bazaar.
After some more small talk, Sher Khan decided it was time to leave. His friend and wife pressed him to stay, saying that they would show him around the bazaars and some sightseeing to some museums and the Shalamar Gardens. Sher Khan, still doubting their sincerity, told them that he must leave. They didn’t press him further. As well as the parcel of presents for his friend and his family, Sher Khan also gave money to Noor Ali’s daughter.
Sher Khan reached his next destination before eleven o’clock. He had taken a taxi from his friend’s home. The hustle and bustle of the crowded scenes of the inner city ebbed away, as Sher Khan’s taxi ploughed through the clean, leafy almost deserted outer suburbs of Lahore.
There were very few houses or shops. There were definitely no bazaars, but shopping plazas. He now saw only large and well-spaced-out beautiful khoties, villas. Sher Khan marvelled at the elegance and the splendour of these beautiful buildings. At the same time, he began to feel the stirrings of unease in the pit of his stomach. The second friend, unlike Noor Ali, who lived in humble surroundings in the inner city, had certainly progressed well in the world. Sher Khan had heard how well his friend had done. How he had opened a factory with the help of his three sons, since he had left the village.
The reality of the gulf between his own standard of living and the way of life of his second friend, washed over him, in wave after wave. As he paid the driver, he stood outside the gigantic elegant villa of his friend. The taxi disappeared and he found himself standing outside the white filigree wrought iron gate. There wasn’t a soul to be seen in the wide street.
Sher Khan peered through the large gates, and saw a beautifully kept lawn and flower beds and the elegant alabaster pillars of the large porch with its marble chipped floor. He tried to open the gates, but they wouldn’t open. He shook them hard and suddenly a large dog bounded out from somewhere from the back of the villa. It stopped on the other side of the gates and bared its teeth. Sher Khan stepped back in fear, his heart beginning to thud inside his chest. A middle-aged man appeared and stood near the dog. From his clothing and general demeanour, Sher Khan guessed this man to be one of his friend’s home helpers or servants.
“Assalama-Alaikum, Aba-ji. Did you want to see anybody?”
“Yes. I have come to see my friend Mohammed. Does he live here?”
“Yes. He has gone to the factory, but he will be here soon. I’ll take the dog away first and I’ll open the gates so that you can come inside and wait for Sahib. You should have rung the bell. It is over there on the pillar.”
“Oh, I didn’t see it.”
“Just wait there while I press the button to open the gates. You see they are electronically controlled.”
Sher Khan stood and watched, marvelling as the gates parted as if by magic. They disappeared behind the high walls, draped with shrubs and rose bushes.
Just at that moment a shiny, well-polished black saloon drew up at the villa and finding the gates open, went through. Sher Khan moved aside, and looked carefully into the car. He saw his friend Mohammed sitting in the front seat beside one of his sons. Mohammed stared back at him, blankly to Sher Khan’s dismay. There was no trace of recognition in that look, or if there was, it was well hidden. It was almost as if Mohammed had looked right through a wall, and not a lifelong friend, whom he had seen three years ago in the village.
The car disappeared from sight as it went round the back of the villa. Sher Khan remained standing outside; his mind and heart were in a whirl.
The manservant returned: “Baba-ji. Mohammed Sahib has returned. I’ll inform them about you.” Sher Khan noted the use of ‘them’ as he referred to his employer.
Sher Khan tried to swim out of the swamp of humiliation and claw back some of his own dignity and human respect.
“No. It’s O.K. Just give him this.” He passed the second parcel he had brought with him to the manservant.
“Who shall I say gave this?”
“It doesn’t matter. Say an old friend. He probably doesn’t remember me. I’ll be off then. Assalam Alaikum.”
“Walaikum Salam. Are you sure you won’t come in? Shall I call a taxi for you?”
“No, it’s alright; I’ll find one on the way.” Sher Khan didn’t want to bump into his friend, and therefore hastened away.
It was more easily said than done, Sher Khan thought as he walked forlornly from street to street, hoping to catch a glimpse of a taxi. In this area people had cars. They didn’t need taxis, he told himself, as he went into one khotie to ask if someone would call a taxi for him. In the end, one kind young man drove him to Lahore’s coach station where he caught the coach back to his village.
Mohammed was handed the parcel that Sher Khan had brought for him. He looked at the gauche parcel with distaste. He wanted to distance himself from his past life in the village.
“An old friend of yours came and left this, but he wouldn’t come to meet you.”
“Yes, yes, I understand.” Mohammed remembered the old man and the face, but didn’t want to be reminded of it. “You take it, Ali. It is probably some sag, some spinach. I’ve had my fill of it, in all those years I spent in that village.”
The servant took the parcel to his quarters, at the back of the villa, and gave it to his wife. She marvelled at the packet’s contents as she unwrapped it. As well as fresh vegetables, there was ghee, purified butter, home-made pastries and three hand-embroidered pillow cases, with crocheted lace edges.
At that moment, Sher Khan was deep in thought, in the coach, wrestling and debating with himself as to what plausible excuse he could gave to his family and fellow villages for returning after just one day, when he was supposed to be away for two weeks.
The only plausible reason he could come up with was that the city wasn’t for him, nor its people, the ‘sherries’.
THE DISCOVERY
In order to please his wife, Jamil had decided to clear up their spare bedroom. She was always reminding him of that room. It was a small room, which they hoped to set up as a baby’s room, for their forthcoming child in six month’s time.
Now as Jamil shifted himself around the contents of the room he found it hard work. Different types of boxes and bags had to be sorted, their contents rifled through, and quick decisions made as to what could be discarded and what ought to be kept.
Much of the stuff in this room belonged to his wife, Rubiya. There were magazines, books, clothes and bags of all sorts. There were three other carrier bags to sort out and then the room would be dusted and wiped clean. In fact, beautifully clean before his wife arrived home from her work. He looked at his watch. There was still an hour to go. He had plenty of time. In fact all of this would be finished in perhaps half an hour’s time, and he could then start with the
dinner. It was his occasional day off from work. He was definitely making the most of it in pleasing his wife. He’d vacuumed the entire house in the morning, Then he had worked on the bathroom later in the afternoon. And now for the last hour had been working in this room. Today the dinner would be ready for her for a change. He smiled to himself, imagining her look of pleasure as she surveyed the work he’d done.
The box finished he grabbed another carrier bag. He peeped inside and put his hand in. Dust flew out. There were a lot of very dusty papers and pamphlets. He flicked through the papers — reading quickly, to see what they were about. Here was another paper, but this time he recognised his wife’s writing. As his eyes followed the words on it, his mind froze.
Jamil threw the paper back in the bag as if it burned him, and stood up, his face set and his eyes glaring out of the window. He bent down and lifted the hag. Taking the piece of paper he’d just thrown in, he kicked the bag aside and left the room. He shoved the paper into his trouser pocket. He was going downstairs, and then he changed his mind and came up again. Pushing the door open, he entered his bedroom.
The first thing that caught his eyes was the framed picture of him and Rubiya as Bride and Bridegroom “Dhullan” and “Dhulla” on the dressing table. Jamil purposely walked to the dressing table and once there he flung the picture onto the floor. The glass frame broke into three pieces. He looked at them, but didn’t bother picking them up. Rubiya’s radiant, jewel-clad face stared back at him. He turned away.
He walked to the window and stared out in space, not seeing the green open field in front of him. He swore under his breath. He fumed. To think he had spent the entire day working away cleaning the house in order to please her. “The filthy hussy” - the words came out again under his suppressed breath. Moving away from the window he flopped down onto the bed. He switched on the bedside radio. Thoughts and anecdotes whizzed through his mind. He wanted a distraction. Madonna’s No. 1 hit didn’t mean anything to him. He switched the radio off and pushed his face into the pillow. All the hints and thoughts which had meant nothing to him earlier now fell into place like a jigsaw puzzle. Now he understood why she didn’t go to that wedding. The damned excuses she’d used. And he a blind fool, worshipping her for her gorgeous face, had played to her tune. He detested himself. Now he understood why she avoided some of her friends!
A Pair of Jeans and other stories Page 13