by A. A. Jafri
‘Do you want to see my new house?’ Joseph asked.
‘That’s not your house, you thief of Baghdad!’
‘I am not talking about this house, but my house in Bhangi Para.’
‘Is it finished?’ Mehrun asked.
‘Almost. I can take you both today, on my bicycle.’
‘Where did you steal the bicycle from?’ Mehrun continued.
Joseph laughed. ‘I stole it from my uncle, who stole it from Pappu, the dalla.’ Mehrun did not believe him, but she did not pursue the matter any further. Mansoor, however, squirmed on hearing Joseph use the word ‘dalla’, which was the Urdu word for a pimp, so easily, and that too in front of Mehrun, not that she seemed to mind it.
‘So, what do you say, boss?’ Joseph asked Mansoor.
Mansoor wanted to go, but he still wasn’t feeling well. Besides, what if Amma discovered that he was hanging out with Mehrun and Joseph at Bhangi Para? What a scene she would create! He could see her standing there, grinding her teeth, flaring her nostrils and furrowing her eyebrows in anger, and he knew exactly what she would say: ‘Not only did you play with them, but you also went to his house!’
‘You two go ahead; I have a cold,’ Mansoor said, sniffling.
But Mehrun saw that wimpy look, the look that he had whenever he heard his parents calling him back inside. Yep. She knew it all too well, the puckered face, the knitted brows and the bowed head.
‘Nobody will know! And we will be back before Begum Sahiba returns,’ Mehrun coaxed him.
‘Come on, Mansoor Babu, I’ll show you a world that you have never seen before. You will never want to go back to your house,’ Joseph said, snickering.
‘Okay,’ Mansoor said weakly, giving in.
Joseph brought in the dilapidated bicycle that he had parked outside the Kashana and told Mansoor to sit on the crossbar, and Mehrun on the back rack. Once everyone was seated, Joseph pedalled the rusty bike without any exertion, singing a lewd Punjabi song as they went:
Main kasai nu bitya vikhia
Usana mota keema liaia
Usana kolhi nala maria
Aur chhati nala dabaia
(I saw the butcher’s daughter
She brought the fatty minced meat
Whacked me with her hips
And minced me with her chest)
*
The way to Joseph’s new house seemed to stretch on for an eternity, and throughout the journey, Mansoor’s heart throbbed rapidly. He had been up to the railway lines, but never had he ventured beyond that vast expanse of empty space that formed a cordon sanitaire between opulence and indigence, between touchable and untouchable. Joseph pedalled vigorously through the narrow, muddy path, dodging semi-naked children with bloated bellies. Mansoor saw little boys and girls in dirty rags, one of them pushing a spoke-less bicycle tyre. He saw two boys defecating in the open, engaged in an animated conversation, unmindful of their surroundings and undisturbed by the people around. The smell of faeces mixed with the odour of rotting garbage made Mansoor dizzy. He saw a woman, not unlike Pyaro, thrash her bawling child on his bare bottom. He spotted an old, dark-complexioned man in a turban urinate in front of a burnt half-demolished wall. Nearby, the rotting carcass of a dog attracted hungry crows that hovered above it in the air, waiting for their chance to feast. From every corner of Joseph’s neighbourhood, poverty glared and screamed at the smartly dressed Mansoor. It was a frigid day, but little beads of salty sweat trickled from his brows, reaching his eyes and dripping to his lips. He felt as if someone had put a dagger in his heart. Suddenly, Joseph swerved into a blind alley and tried to stop the bike by dragging his feet along the ground. As it came to a halt in front of a hovel, Mansoor realized that the bicycle had no brakes.
‘Welcome to Bhangi Para,’ Joseph announced to his fellow riders with a flourish.
As Mansoor jumped off the crossbar, his feet landed in a pile of fresh cow dung. He felt something from his stomach move up and threaten to come out of his mouth.
‘This, my friends, is my Taj Mahal,’ Joseph announced, smiling proudly. He was pointing towards a little place that was a study in the architecture of absurdity. Hundreds of loosely compressed cement bricks formed a crudely built cabin, and in place of a door, hung a curtain made from patches of gunnysack.
‘I feel like throwing up,’ Mansoor said, trying really hard to clamp down on the vomit rising up his throat.
Joseph laughed and replied, ‘Come on, Mansoor Babu! It’s not that bad.’
But the smell and the sight of cow dung on his shoes had overtaxed Mansoor’s ability to control his vomit. He took out his handkerchief from his pocket and whiffed the faint but clean smell of washing detergent. That seemed to have a settling effect on him.
Joseph, meanwhile, insisted on taking them to the back of the house, where the rusting front frame of a Volkswagen Beetle jutted out like the nose of a proboscis monkey. Two semi-naked boys chasing a squealing pig ran right past them as they stood staring at the house. Mansoor had never seen a pig before; he did not even know that there were pigs in Karachi, despite his father’s frequent allusions to the ruling elite as such.
Mansoor had had enough; he could not take it any more. So, he told Joseph that he wanted to go home.
‘But we just arrived! Have a sherbet, it will cool you down,’ Joseph tried to pacify Mansoor.
‘No, I want to go home.’
‘Mansoor Babu, you are my guest. You should eat or drink something.’
‘No, I am not hungry. I just want to go home!’ Mansoor shouted.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll give you the food in a Muslim plate.’
‘No, it’s not that. My mother will be back and if she doesn’t find me at home, she will be very angry with me.’
‘I think he is right, Joseph. If Begum Sahiba finds out that we kidnapped Mansoor Babu, we’ll both get such a thrashing that we will remember our nanis, our grandmothers,’ Mehrun intervened, noticing the crimson hue on Mansoor’s face. Joseph’s face changed, too, the hurt all too obvious to hide. Without another word, all three of them hopped back on the bike and prepared for their return trip, which seemed even longer now. This time, Joseph sang a mournful song:
Dil torney waley dekh ke chal
Hum bhi to parey hain rahon mein
(O heartbreaker, tread carefully
For I am also lying in the path)
*
When he returned home, Mansoor was glad to find that his mother was still at her father’s house. He bolted straight to the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat, puked into the commode and immediately felt better. After flushing the toilet, Mansoor rinsed his mouth, washed his face and went into his room. As he collapsed on his bed, a baby lizard, glued to the ceiling, caught his eyes, its translucent glassy body more beautiful than anything he had seen at Bhangi Para. Mansoor closed his eyes and soon began dreaming.
In his dream, he felt light-headed and found himself falling down a pit, about to crash headfirst. Then, he noticed his feet. They were big.
‘Oh, God! What is happening to me?’ he roared.
‘How are you, Djinn Sahib?’ He saw Mehrun dressed in her tattered sweater.
‘Have a Muslim plate, Sahib.’ It was Joseph, holding the carcass of a cat in a deep plate.
‘Mansoor, wake up! Wake up!’
Mansoor woke up with a start and saw his mother’s worried face looming over him.
‘Are you okay, beta? You were mumbling in your dream.’ She felt his forehead. ‘You are burning! You have a fever.’
Mansoor, shivering and delirious, remained like that until Sikander brought Dr Minwalla. After doing a detailed check-up, she told Farhat that Mansoor had double pneumonia and prescribed some antibiotics.
Was it the simple cold that he had from before that had turned into this acute illness? Or was it the sight of the unforgettable Bhangi Para that had caused it? Whatever it was, Mansoor remained confined to his bed for two weeks. It was the worst two weeks of his young life. The
first week and a half, his fever disoriented him, bringing with it chills and delirium. At night, he hallucinated and whimpered and cried. Things improved dramatically after that, and by the time his father returned from the capital, Mansoor had almost recovered. It was as if he was waiting for his father’s return so that he could get better.
Nine
Ramadan, the month of fasting, arrived with great anticipation. Everyone in Mansoor’s class fasted, except him, but he pretended otherwise. It was not that his father had prohibited him from doing so, or that Mansoor did not want to fast; it was just his mother who had scared him. ‘Your father will get angry if he learns about it, but if you really want to, you can fast one or two days without telling him. I will cover for you.’
Noor never forbade Mansoor or Farhat from fasting, but somehow, she had assumed that he would get angry with them if they did. As for Mansoor, he had once heard him argue with Haider on that matter.
‘Forcing children to fast at such a tender age is a cruel and unusual punishment.’
That settled things for Mansoor.
After Mansoor recovered from his illness, his tutor came back to continue his lessons. Mansoor reminded Mehrun to ask Zaidi about tutoring her. At first, Mehrun remained steadfastly reluctant; she did not know how to approach Zaidi. Deep down, she felt that Zaidi would turn her down and it would all come to nothing. But when Mansoor kept prodding her, Mehrun finally agreed to do it. He convinced her that she was sharp and intelligent, and that with Zaidi’s help, she could be transformed. Who knew just how many more opportunities might open up if she could read, write and speak even a bit of English? She could get a job as a full-time ayah, or she could perhaps be employed in some capacity in some school. At least she wouldn’t have to wash dirty laundry at other people’s houses like her mother.
When Zaidi came to the Kashana that day, Mehrun hesitantly came and sat near them. Since it was Mehrun’s habit to flit around in the vicinity whenever their lessons where in progress, Zaidi did not even notice her at first. A poker-faced man in his late twenties, the young tutor had an air of inscrutability about him. His body appeared pulled down by the enormity of some unknown burden, but it could be that the fasting had sapped his energy. Whenever he sat on the wicker chair in the verandah, his posture stooped and his shoulders slumped; often, Mansoor found him looking into empty space. But when his attention returned to the lesson of the day, he became an engrossing teacher, expounding thoughtfully on how good literature was equivalent to a book of life that taught self-discovery.
That afternoon, as Zaidi prepared to start the day’s lesson, Mansoor signalled Mehrun with his eyes to approach the tutor. Just then, a wasp flew by and landed on the arm of the chair next to Zaidi’s, making him flinch. He picked up Mansoor’s open textbook and tried to squash the wasp with it. But the wasp flew off towards the rose bush in the garden. The distraction gave Mehrun the perfect opportunity to come as close to Zaidi as possible. But when he noticed her right next to him, his expression changed. What was this lowly interloper doing standing in his face? His bushy eyebrows furrowed as he held his chin with his left hand, and then he looked Mehrun up and down. Mehrun recoiled a bit, wavering in her resolution. Then she looked at Mansoor, who moved his eyes quickly in code language, telling her to put her question to the tutor.
‘Zaidi Sahib, um . . . can you . . . um . . . teach me . . . um . . . English?’
From deep inside his gut, Zaidi sucked up a glob of sputum and spat it out disgustingly into a potted plant behind his chair before he replied, ‘I don’t give lessons to haramis.’
The word impaled Mansoor’s heart; he hoped that Mehrun had not heard the tutor, and that she would just go away, but there she stood firm, unfazed and undeterred, as if the man had said something routine, a fact, a run-of-the mill idiom. And then Mansoor heard her again.
‘My father will pay you.’
‘You filthy insect from a stinking gutter, I don’t need your ill-begotten money!’
From the corner of his eyes, Mansoor saw Mehrun, her face now ignited by the dark flush of rage. She moved away from Zaidi and slowly started to walk back towards the servants’ quarters, but then she stopped, turned back towards him and calmly said, ‘You stupid shit-faced man, your mother is harami; your father is harami; your entire household is harami.’
Mansoor’s face turned ashen. He saw his tutor kick his chair back and lunge towards Mehrun, his jaws snapping, his face trembling with anger. Anticipating the impending assault, Mehrun sprinted towards the servants’ quarters where her father was taking a siesta. Zaidi chased her with full speed and within minutes, caught her shirt from the back, causing it to tear along the side seams. He then pushed her with all his strength. Mansoor saw Mehrun fall flat on the concrete surface and started screaming hysterically. Zaidi pulled her up, turned her around and began slapping and punching her mercilessly. The man was an absolute savage, overtaken by madness. Mansoor thought that he would kill Mehrun, so he started screaming as well. The commotion brought Jumman out of the servants’ quarters. Shocked to see his daughter getting pummelled, he leapt at the tutor, pulled him away from her and began hammering him. The ruckus brought Noor and Farhat out.
‘What’s going on? What’s going on here?’ Noor yelled.
‘Noor Sahib, she gave me a dirty gaali, a dirty swear word, for nothing,’ Zaidi lied.
‘No, Sahib, he called me harami first. Ask Mansoor Babu,’ Mehrun replied, still sobbing, a trickle of blood flowing from her nose.
‘All of you get out of my property and never come back,’ Noor yelled. ‘This is the house of decent people. Don’t you ever use language like that!’
Mehrun got up, wiping her bloodied nose with the back of her hand, her face covered with tears and dirt. In between convulsive sobs, she begged her father to take her home. Jumman pleaded with Noor about her innocence, but to no effect. The order had been issued; the edict had been given. There was no backtracking.
*
When things settled down a little, Noor summoned Mansoor, who had gone into hiding in his room. He came and stood at the door of his father’s study, his mouth drooping, his head bowed down, a confusing jumble of emotions. Noor asked him, ‘Tell me exactly what happened.’
But the exact words betrayed Mansoor at that moment and he began to sob. Noor went towards him and hugged him. ‘Take your time, beta. But I want you to slowly tell me what exactly happened this afternoon, all right?’ he said gently.
Mansoor told him the entire story then, hesitatingly at first, but with great confidence gradually, and ended up amplifying Zaidi’s offences and minimizing Mehrun’s.
‘All these obscenities hurled at the poor girl, just because she wanted to learn English?’ Noor asked.
S.M. Zaidi was a graduate of the Aligarh university. He was a teacher of English language and literature, someone who was supposed to nurture civility in speech and promote the sanctity of the spoken word, especially in front of his pupils. How could he, a supposed idealist, have stooped to such vileness? His behaviour was absolutely unacceptable. His service must be terminated, and Jumman must be rehired.
So, the next day, Noor sent Sikander first to Zaidi’s house with a letter of termination and one month’s salary in an envelope, and then to Jumman’s home to entreat him to come back; but Jumman had his pride too. He felt hurt and betrayed and sent Sikander back empty-handed. Mansoor blamed himself for the unfortunate fracas, but there was nothing he could do. The die was cast, and the lots were sealed. He resigned himself to the thought of never seeing Mehrun again. When Kaneez heard about the whole incident, she said, ‘That djinn did this to my daughter,’ and then she flogged Mehrun for associating with Mansoor in spite of her warnings.
*
Afternoons at the Kashana became too painful for Mansoor after the incident with Zaidi and Mehrun. The sense of estrangement with Mehrun, the blighted hope, the deep hurt, the utter guilt, all of it made him miserable. The precious time that he would have spent pla
ying with Mehrun was now wasted in either sulking in his room or sitting under the guava tree, hoping to hear her voice, wishing to see her do her antics. To make matters worse, his favourite uncle, Zahid Mamoo, left for Germany for his studies soon after Eid. His week-long stay in Karachi had cheered Mansoor up a little, but what had truly lifted his spirits was the puppy his uncle had left behind as a parting gift. The Scottish terrier was nothing but a furry ball of utter mischief. Farhat was adamantly opposed to having an unclean animal in the house. But Mansoor manipulated her by insisting that Zahid Mamoo would be deeply hurt if he gave the puppy away. Farhat agreed to Mansoor keeping the puppy, but on one condition: the animal shall never enter the house. Mansoor promised. Because of the spirited nature of the puppy, he began calling him Chaos.
*
After Jumman was dismissed from the Kashana, his family’s income came down by a third. But for him, it was a question of honour. His entire life had been devoted to the Haq family. He was not going to put up with slogging for any other aira gaira nathoo khaira’s family; working for any Tom, Dick and Harry was entirely out of the question. So, Jumman withdrew from being part of the labour force altogether and ordered Kaneez to find extra work to supplement the lost income. She obeyed and began toiling at several other odd jobs. But with only twenty-four hours in a day, someone else had to pull her weight, too. Intense pressure was put on Mehrun to quit school and find work. But Mehrun shrewdly convinced her parents that she could do both. So, she stayed in school and began looking for a job.
However, as the days passed, Jumman began to sorely miss his garden at the Kashana, and so, he eventually found it expedient to forgive Noor, without insisting on an apology. He returned to the Kashana as if what had happened was just a horrible dream. With Jumman’s return, Mansoor knew it was but a matter of time before he would find Mehrun sitting under the guava tree, singing some meaningless Urdu ditty or the other. But when days passed and Mansoor got tired of seeing Jumman at the Kashana without Mehrun, he finally went up to him and asked when she would return.