by Roshan Ali
Mr Bagram noticed. He looked at me fiercely and indicated that I should get the box. Maybe giving my hands something to do would stop them from being nervous. I lifted the box and hurried towards the door, where the two of them were already being called inside.
It was warmer inside. Smoke from a wood fire tickled the inside of my nose, but it was a familiar warm smell and I was beginning to feel better, ready to tackle whatever the day was going to throw my way. ‘Settle down,’ whispered Mr Bagram from the side of his mouth. We were still standing when the politician came inside from a side room with two of his people. He was a small man, I later realized, but an accurate judgement of his size was made difficult by the sheer reach and liquidness of his stomach. I had never seen the front of a man move with such mobility and with such volume. When he walked, it was as if some being—an alien perhaps or a large baby—was attempting an escape from his stomach, using the opportunity of movement to create enough up-and-down momentum to rip a hole and finally be free.
I tried not to stare, but my eyes were glued. With all my will I forced my eyes to wander over his entire body. His face was rounded and pudgy, rounded but flat towards the bottom, and his skin was dark, an opaque kind of dark, but not the opaque shine of African people, rather an opaque matte colour. His eyes, too, had a hungry look and were small and beady, hidden between fleshy cheeks and tropical eyebrows. When he moved, there were flashes of gold. He wore a white shirt, white pants, and by the side of the room, I saw his white glittering shoes.
He came straight to Mr Bagram and shook his hand. ‘How are you?’ he said, ‘Have you eaten?’ Mr Bagram nodded. ‘Come, sir,’ he said. Mr Bagram followed him to the end of the hall and disappeared down a staircase. I looked at the quiet guy, but he only looked ahead with the kind of expression that suggested he had no problem with standing in that exact same position and spot till the boss was back, however long that might take. So I was alone almost and put the box down by the wall, and sat down on a nice cane-and-wood chair.
In an hour, Mr Bagram was back. ‘Get the box,’ he said. I picked it up and followed him down the same stairs. At the bottom, there was a large dim room with a few scattered people. ‘Put it here,’ someone said from the other end. I crossed the room quickly, holding the box out in front. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of spilt whisky. It was one of the servants who had called out; I could see by the way he was dressed. He signalled sharply and I set it down. As I turned back to leave, it just so happened that I glanced into another room. There was a woman there, naked above the waist, standing in front of a large man who sat on a sofa, with a greedy look on his face. When I turned, the woman turned and in her face I saw nothing.
I hurried upstairs, haunted by this look of nothingness. Mr Bagram waited by the stairs and we went up together—he sensed I had seen something. ‘Forget it, Ib,’ he said, ‘it’s business.’
On the drive back, nobody said a word except our silent companion who whistled at the trees.
So it was clear finally that Mr Bagram was involved in shady things, conducted in the dark and smoky corners of the world. And this brought me face-to-face with a situation I never thought I would face; that I was working for this person who conducted such activities. But I justified it by telling myself that he was only a small player in this grey game, and not the leader. ‘Like a soldier who must obey orders and play a small part in any war, just or unjust, cruel or kind, he too must make a living carrying some things back and forth,’ I told myself. But this smoothening out of jagged thoughts didn’t last long. Soon, I began to view Mr Bagram differently, without that friendly, humorous demeanour that had earlier helped me to fuzzy the bad parts. Now he was just a man in a dirty game.
He could see this change in me too, and seemed saddened by the situation. In others it might have brought out anger, embarrassment or just plain hatred, but Mr Bagram was only sad, and it was clear he thought it unfortunate that I had come upon a dirty secret, rather than troubled that he had one. ‘It’s business,’ he said one day, the day before I left, and it was the hundredth time.
* * *
‘If you are a stickler for the rules, you’re going to have a tough time finding work,’ said Major when I told him about Mr Bagram’s shady dealings, ‘especially in this glorious country’. He was on his way to the tailor for a new suit, because the old one was very last year in fashion and style.
This was a few weeks later, and I had taken to wandering again. Every evening, I visited Major at his new apartment and we had a drink, but that evening he was on his way out. ‘Why don’t you stay till I come back?’ he asked, putting on a plum red sweater, dark blue pants, mud brown shoes. I agreed. Before he left, he pointed out the booze. ‘Start without me,’ he said and closed the door.
There was an amber forest of booze in the cupboard, different ambers, different heights, different thicknesses, and below, a stack of cigar boxes, cigarettes and a packet of weed. He lived alone, but he liked to call friends over and pretend for a while that he had company. But these were the kind of friends who never showed up when it was inconvenient or when Major was in trouble. They were the party predators, the sex scavengers, and only played the game of pick up and drop.
He was back in an hour, sweater glistening with drops of rain. ‘Goddamn weather,’ he said, ‘Can’t tell these days.’
He sat down and poured himself a drink.
‘How’s work?’ I asked.
He adjusted his large frame on the chair and crossed one leg over the other. ‘Fuck work,’ he said, ‘I don’t like talking about work when I get off.’
I said OK, though I thought it was strange that he spent the largest part of his life on something he didn’t want to talk about. But that was the way of the world, and I didn’t want to probe lest I tear something delicate. And honestly, was it worse than being poor and unemployed, seeing things, observing things, but ultimately I was as miserable as the working people.
‘What about you?’ he asked after a minute when I didn’t say anything. ‘What do you plan to do?’
I told him I don’t plan, but that the eventual plan was to find another job.
‘Aren’t you being a little laid back about all this?’ he asked with sceptical concern. ‘How are you going to manage in the future? What about money?’
‘My mind doesn’t work that way,’ I said, but he wasn’t buying it and laughed.
‘If everyone said that, nothing would ever work.’
‘Thankfully everyone doesn’t.’
‘What about some secretary kind of work?’ he asked.
‘Where?’
‘There’s this guy, rich bugger, used to own a bunch of companies. He’s retired now and drives around fancy cars, throws parties.’
‘Is he straight?’
‘Of course, only girls around him.’ He laughed as if recalling something amusing.
‘No, I mean is he involved in anything shady, illegal?’
Major sighed and filled up his glass again, leaning forward and pouring it delicately.
‘Ib,’ he said sadly, ‘listen to me. You’re never going to get anywhere, never going to do anything without crossing a few grey lines here and there. And not because everyone is crooked, but because the system itself is crooked, man. You don’t see because you’re limited in your exposure.’
I prepared to counter his arguments, but quickly realized it wasn’t supposed to be an argument, only a kind of advice, help, guidance. I stayed silent and filled up my glass, this time a little hastily. A drop fell out and Major stopped my hand and poured the rest himself and handed it to me carefully.
‘It’s a good opportunity, Ib,’ he said, ‘he’s an interesting fellow. Has lots of nice cars. Didn’t you like cars in school? You told me something like that once, I think.’ He got up and walked to the window and took a deep breath. ‘Cigarette?’ he asked. I joined him and we smoked a cigarette each and listened to the sounds of the city in deep slumber, and the dogs were about, scrounging for food, howling
and barking.
‘On nights like these I feel strange,’ he said softly, almost to himself. ‘I feel a little distant and sad, melancholy, you could say. It’s a strange feeling.’
‘I know that feeling. It comes to me too.’
He put his hand around my shoulder. ‘Remember college? The kind of shit we did. Nothing to worry about.’
I nodded. For him a time had passed and his life had changed, like lives do, in short bursts, then long silences. The place he stood in now was vastly different from the streets we walked in college, the night sounded different from this high up. But for me, things were much the same, the mapless, wandering idiot, poor and alone, a life stagnated like a sourceless river, an unfed sea, a rotten tree.
‘I’ll go and see him,’ I said, ‘your rich guy.’
He slapped me on the back and pushed me around. ‘Great, Ib, great,’ he said, but in his eyes I thought I saw a hopelessness, a sadness for me, and they seemed to say, ‘I don’t think this is enough. I think he needs a lot more. Poor guy, poor little fucker.’
SEVEN
Forcing oneself is an unpleasant thing, much like pushing a rock that is wedged deep in antediluvian muck, or starting a car with a weak battery. It takes all your patience, all your strength, and sometimes this is not enough, and one requires the help of friends and nearby people. And so I recruited Abbas, who owned the cigarette shop below, to wake me up on Friday so I could visit the rich guy, who didn’t have any other time.
Friday morning, Abbas was at the door, 8 a.m. sharp, with tea and a cigarette. He came inside and sat down on the only chair, and I sat on the bed, and he stared at me for a few seconds. ‘Looking good, Abbas,’ I said. He grinned and thanked me.
‘Mosque day, sar,’ he said proudly, ‘must look neat.’ He wore a white skullcap with embroidered edges that fit well on his mild, clean-shaven face. His kurta and pyjama were pure white, and shocked the eyes in the morning light. ‘Shall I go, sar?’ he asked, looking concerned about whether he had done his job. ‘Ya, ya, go, sorry. Take the money from the desk,’ I said, pointing to the only desk. But he shook his head vigorously. ‘Not needed, sar,’ he explained, ‘You can give me later also, no problem.’ I protested but he left quickly, his footsteps clattering down the stairs, down, down and away, till they hit the tar outside and he was gone.
I caught a bus that was supposed to be the eleven o’ clock bus, but it was twelve and I was getting late. I sat squished to the side by an old meek man who was squashed by another old meek man who was squashed by the thick arm of a large rude-looking man. The old man next to me shook his head with great disappointment. ‘These buses are too crowded,’ he said, ‘When will they get new buses? Nobody knows. Am I right? These politicians . . .’ And it was the same old story about politicians eating up the money that was meant to be for the public. ‘That’s why they’re all so fat,’ he concluded. I agreed with him, and asked him how many years he had been taking buses. ‘Forty to forty-three years, I think so,’ he said after some thought. The wrinkles around his grey eyes danced as he remembered the old times when there were only two or three people on the bus. ‘I used to bring my son to the circus,’ he said, ‘but now my son is gone somewhere. I think Dubai or Qatar. But he calls often. Once or twice a year, he calls.’ He checked his watch and adjusted the worn leather strap. ‘Can you check the time, ma?’ he asked, embarrassed and tired. ‘My glasses are broken.’
I told him the time and he didn’t seem affected by it either way. If he was early, so be it, good; if he was late, so what? He had nothing to do.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked. I told him, and he showed great interest. Suddenly, he shouted at the conductor to stop the bus. ‘Get off, ma, get off here,’ he said urgently and pushed me so I could move quickly through the crowd. ‘It’s a better route. Walk towards the bank, and you’ll see his house.’ I thanked him and he waved as I jumped off the bus that was already beginning to move.
But of course I never went to see that rich guy, and instead went about avoiding Major as much as I could, stooping in corners, hurrying through daylight and staying in the shadows. I could not explain to him why I didn’t go and see the rich guy because I couldn’t explain it to myself. Something that was obviously good—Why, then, did I not do it? One of those stupid and terrible mysteries.
And so I sat around again. And then some more. And finally, when my legs began to hurt from not moving (that pins-and-needles feeling, as someone once said), I began to wander here and there. I saw the city heave and let loose clouds of colour; I saw the city cough and spit out smoke and lights; and always those jerking, jittering lines of cars and trucks, and slower but more troubled, the people between; their hands to their mouths, their eyes disbelieving, their feet moving.
The cold began to come, slithering between buildings and under the door, making the tap water unbearably cold. Mist rose from the warm streets (the streets were warm because they carried blood) and people huddled like monkeys, wearing monkey caps, assuming monkey poses, seeing nothing, saying nothing, hearing nothing.
Nobody came. For a month, I didn’t speak to a soul, and my throat and mouth felt clogged and tight, as though the cold, like a cement, had seeped into my skin. And not only my mouth, but all around me, a cement was forming and hardening. Suddenly I felt that if I didn’t move, I would be stuck like that forever.
So I ran from the city, to a school that Mr Bagram had once spoken about. He had said, ‘Because this school is a very good school, you must go and teach there, Ib, because the childrens will save your soul and mind.’
The school was forested, unlike its surroundings, and was admired and talked about as an oasis, water in a desert. There were no guards, no great big walls, no cameras even though the campus was hundreds of acres across. It was some time before I spotted another human being—a child walking all alone and reading a book—to whom I put the question, ‘Where is the academic block?’ and who replied, through serious spectacles, ‘straight,’ and went back to walking and reading. Straight probably meant ‘follow the road’, and so I did till the road ended in an open and shaded lot, canopied by large tamarind trees. By the car park, a brick-and-tiled building stood modestly.
Immediately I felt this wasn’t like the school I went to, in which there were so many kids that we didn’t know each other. Here, everyone knew each other, which could be a good thing or a bad thing, depending on your brain.
Inside the building, it was cool and smelt of wet earth. The receptionist said, ‘Mr Ib?’ I nodded. She looked at me with disappointment, and then gestured towards the low sofas. ‘Please wait,’ she said, sadly, ‘the principal will see you soon.’
The principal, a short man whose eyes always seemed to be looking sternly at his own nose, kept saying that he was a simple man, and I immediately knew he was far from simple. But he insisted. ‘Mr Ib, I’m a very simple man. I do not like to create problems between my staff and myself. I am very respected as the principal.’ I nodded.
‘Mr Ib, I’m a humble person. I don’t want to fight, I don’t want to show off also. I received an award last year for best management. But I don’t like talking about it.’
I kept nodding, wondering if he was ever going to ask about me, but I suspected he was the kind of man who didn’t really care about facts and history, and more about whether he liked a person immediately. Of course, it was also very easy to be liked by him: All you had to do was never contest anything he said or, even better, keep nodding to every word that came out of his simple mouth. He weaselled on, saying exactly the things he said he never said. Then he told me that I was the first person he was interviewing for a teaching position because vice-principal Mrs John was on holiday in the Maldives with her husband of twenty-three years, Mr John, who had a surgery last year, and he had told him to go for a check-up, and that was what had saved his life, although he never spoke about it. I was relieved. If he hadn’t interviewed other teachers, then nobody would have manipulated their way into the p
osition like I was doing. He was saying, ‘See, little things, I don’t like to make a big deal about. I’m a simple person. See, like when you entered, you did not say Sir to me. But all these small things are OK. You’re asking, so I’m telling you.’ I tried to interject and explain that I didn’t know the rules here, but he raised his hand in a ‘shut-up/bless you’ kind of way. ‘It’s OK, Ib, doesn’t matter.’
‘Sorry, Sir,’ I said again.
He smiled knowingly.
‘Please report to our office person, Ms Revati. She will get in touch.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ I said. He nodded, quite impressed with how he had conducted the interview.
A few days later, I received a plain white envelope informing me that I had been given the position of assistant English teacher at the White Berry International School with a starting salary of so and so and a reporting time of so and so. Please contact the admin department for confirmation within a maximum of two days, signed Mr Pacchhimani, principal. To celebrate, I chained smoke three cigarettes and drank a bottle of warm beer. Then I smoked a few more cigarettes, and in the middle of celebrating, I suddenly realized I was scared. I was no good as a teacher. I would ruin the lives of children and there was nothing more unforgivable—the fucking up was the parents’ job. But from me, those bright creatures would catch the dark flu, the black soot that I emitted everywhere I went, that low mist that hung around me. Like me, they would slow down and stoop. And in that strange way, I ignored these portentous heralds and went back to my day of smoking and drinking. Thinking of these dark things meant tension and anxiety, and I had no time for things like that.
I was to start immediately, but from some chink of luck, it turned out that they had their summer break. That meant the school would reopen in two months and what could I do but travel and celebrate my new job?
And so I made elaborate plans, multi-layered and detailed, and the plans were solid till the night before I left, when I went for a party with Major and got up too late to catch the bus. With a rare hangover, I struggled back home and made more plans. This time, I would catch the afternoon bus in case of another emergency situation.