Every Indian Muslim has a dream……
He wants to take his parents for Hajj. He has to get his younger sister married. Then maybe one day he will live for himself. One day (Sigh…).
With this hope and the promise given to his loved ones he packs his bag and goes away far to a place with unfulfilled desires in his heart.
This pack of young guns can be divided into three groups
One of them is what I call the “weak hearted”. After reaching a foreign country, they get a culture shock, they don’t know how to manage their lives, they crave for their homes, cry in their blankets. In a years time, they come running back into their arms of their mothers giving reasons like loneliness, depression, frustration etc etc.
.Then they lie to their friends saying “hey I went there for the experience, I love my country, I really so much missed India that’s why I am back”. But then they just sell their dreams for cheap for not being tough enough.
The second group is what I call the “Where do I belong?” group.
When they go abroad they realize that this life is much better than the one they left behind. Good money, less people, lesser competition, high standard of living, instant gratification of all those material things one desired, so different from the harsh realities of life which one had to face at home. They don’t have to see the worried faces, the half smiles; the indelible marks on their forehead deepening with concern on their future.
In fact when one of them goes back, people would be welcoming, loving, kissing hugging as if they knew this person would do something in life. So this set of expatriate only return when they have money in their pockets and the ability to make at least make some dreams true. But then there is big minus to this. Big Minus.
They can never really belong to their city again. Never.
And I am not even talking of this now sudden realization that their city really sucks. The heat, the dirt, the rush, the poverty, the travelling, the traffic bothering them. Not even talking about the ugly faces they make at people spitting, shitting, standing in lines. I am not discussing that.
They can never really belong to their city again even if they are planning to settle back for good. They can’t imagine seeing their salary drop ten times from what they were getting abroad. Most try to do a business with the money they earned over a period of time. And most of them fail. After 2-3 such ventures they return back disheartened to their now so called “Sasuraal”. So they live in this confused state of mind, of identifying themselves with one place. Just one where they really belong
The last group is the “No looking back” group. They have burnt the ships after reaching the foreign shores. They consider India their second home now. They don’t want to come back unless there is a wedding or a funeral. They have adopted this alien culture and just want to move on. They invest in the stock markets and buy flats in some posh places. They plan vacations every year & get the best of their cities. They love India but just about.
Now I don’t know which group I belong to. It’s only been a year I have stayed abroad and there are days when I feel like running back home. There are days when I feel like crying.But I am tough. I need to spend more years to get my dreams fulfilled. And there is a long list…
Do I fit in the second group?
Hmm…No maybe the third pack. The No looking back group.
No I can’t.
I miss my country too much.
I miss Bombay my city the most.
Time will tell me and its ticking…..
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
“Gulf War-A Safe in Kuwait”
It was 2nd of August 1990. The Iraqi tanks swerved towards Kuwait in the early hours of the morning. Surrounding them were trucks full of sleepy Iraqi soldiers from the “Popular Army”. Though they were not really popular in Iraq nor would they be accepted by Kuwaitis in the near future. At best, they were a bunch of poorly trained soldiers who had been handed a few weapons and were commanded to loot, plunder, rape and kill.
Colonel Moosa was handed one such division of rogues. Looking at the heavy eyed lethargic asses in the slow moving trucks, he cursed his bad luck to be assigned to command them. He was not sure what Saddam Hussein had in his mind but believed completely in the reasons behind the upcoming assault. The bastards had it coming. Lowering oil prices like that and then disrupting our weak economy. If that was not enough the Kuwaities had the audacity to demand for their money spent in saving them from the Iranian steam roller. And any ways was not Kuwait once a part of Iraq. We are just about to take over what is rightly ours, Moosa convinced himself.
ZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM………….the deafening sound of the first Iraqi fighter planes passed above the trucks, which would initiate the seven months of agony and destruction on the now resting Kuwaitis.
And Destruction it was. The whole city was bombed. The buildings destroyed. The airports shattered. Parliamentary institutions burnt. The monuments ravaged. Play grounds and recreational centers were ransacked. International phone lines were cut. Those that did not suit their purposes were torched. Even mosques and places of worship were not spared. The economy was in doldrums as Iraqis went about burning oil wells and turning one of the most prosperous nations into tatters.
Some locals escaped the torture and ran for their lives to neighboring countries. Dejected expatriates came back home to their families losing out on every penny they saved. Some stayed back seeing their rights being abused every single day. Women raped. Children killed. Men grief-stricken with the burning images of their loved ones. The methods used to torture Kuwaities were devilish. They included fracturing limbs and ribs, administration of electric shocks, burning naked body parts, pouring acid into the eyes eventually leading to blindness, subjecting victims to mock trials and no medical attention to the ailing Kuwaities. All these outrageous acts occurred in a span of 7 months but it took the Iraqis only 4 hours to take over the whole of Kuwait. The weak Kuwaiti army could not pose any resistance to the mighty Iraqi one.
In four hours, Colonel Moosa and his bunch of thugs had reached Shuwaikh, an industrial area wherein all major ports as well as offices are located. It contained a Friday market at Al-Rai place which used to start on Thursday in the afternoon and went on till Friday.
As the trucks took a groaning halt, the soldiers jumped out of them and started shooting haphazardly at the well furnished offices. The whole area had been vacated by the locals after the news of the defeat had reached them. After realizing that there was almost no one in the area to be shot, the soldiers started searching for any valuable object they could get their hands on. And they found cash, artifacts, new and used goods, clothes, material, furniture, carpets, animals, antiques and souvenirs which were put into the trucks. They busted each and every shop and then burned it.
At the far end of the area stood a lavish Car Showroom in the name of Osman Rahmani. A dealer in automobiles and also an agent for companies like Ferrari, Jaguar, Dahitsu and BMW. The swanky cars could be seen from far, standing neatly in order, waiting to be taken. Some of the soldiers broke it open and were amazed to see a humongous showroom with at least 50 high class adrenalin-pumping beauties.
“Is this all for us?” asked an amazed Saqib, one from the popular Army.
“Yes, you ass, this one for you, that one for me and Rameez you can take this…”Sohel laughed hysterically at their fortune.
Rameez,a sly young boy stood silently at a corner ,his eyes on the beautiful spectacle but his mind elsewhere, “Don’t you think we should check for cash here, a man having so many babies must have plenty of cash piled in his office”.
So the search started. They walked around the cars and broke open one by one all the doors to find the safe. Sohel entered a cabin which was left in hurry with papers all around and a messed up wooden desk with photos and desk toys all lying unattended. A motivational poster in the cabin said “Winners Never Cheat” in Arabic which Sohel promptly tore off. The grand desk was ably matched by a grander chair all made of Rosewood, the finest wood in the world. A look of the cabin indicated that it belonged to a person who believed in conventional products as opposed to the latest technology gadgets.
And there behind the chair was the old harmless looking Safe.
“Here it is ,here it is”, Sohel called others as they came running to find a grey colored rectangular strongbox cast from steel. The door and the body of the safe were clung tightly to each other. Sohel first tried to push the door open with its handle when Rameez called on “Donkey, first look for the key”
Sohel, though hurt by his own stupidity, shot back, “You are a donkey, and do you think the bastard would leave the key here for us to open”.
“Shot it then, Himaar”, said Rameez.And all the three soldiers started pumping bullets on the poor safe. Nothing Happened. So, they tried shooting it from different angles, aiming at the key-hole. The safe had turned black with smoke emitting from its exterior but refused to budge.
“This is not the right way; let’s hit it hard with a sharp object, an axe or something”, Sohel spoke, looking everywhere to find something.
“Are u crazy? Saqib staggered, replied, “Where in the world will we find that? Look at the time. The Colonel would be waiting for us. Any ways this safe looks too old to have anything in it”.
“Grapes are sour, you go if you want but I am going to open up this devil”, a determined Sohel answered.
=================================================================
Colonel Moosa looked at his watch, it was 4.30 p.m. The instructions were to be at the Dasman palace by 6.00. The journey had tired him. He ordered all the soldiers to stop the looting and start sitting back in the army trucks with all that they had garnered.
=================================================================
Meanwhile the three soldiers started hammering the safe with sharp and heavy objects, which they found in a hardware shop nearby. Two more joined in to help but the bloody safe was resolute. “Fuck…Fuck..Fuck” sweared Rameez in rage, pounding the safe blow after blow with a very heavy axe.
“Stop it”,Sohel said finally, “This is not working. There is a shayataan in this, we need welding equipment. I will get it”. And he ran from the cabin.
Welding is used to join two metals but as there were dents on the safe due to repeated blows; Sohel wanted to burn and melt it for ease in breaking through. The soldiers found a Gas Metal Arc welder, a heavy equipment which required four of them to pick up. They brought the machine to the far end office and amidst the cars to finally the cabin, entirely exhausted.
Sohel who had received moderate training in welding when he was fifteen started burning the dent with the flame. “This will take 10 minutes” he claimed as the sparks flew from the Safe.
=================================================================
Meanwhile, Moosa checked the trucks one by one filled with looted artifacts. But he saw one truck’s driver seat vacant. He walked to it to find some soldiers sitting behind.
“Where is the driver, we have to leave”
“Don’t know sir, infact there are five missing”
“Find them, you have 5 minutes” as he checked his watch showing 4.50 p.m.
=================================================================
“Sohel, leave it. This is not taking us anywhere”, Saqib spoke finally after 10 minutes of welding dint melt a single dent.
Sohel stopped the welding and could not believe that after an hour they could not come even close to opening it.
Rameez was quiet sitting in a corner but dint speak a word.
“Are you saying that we took over the whole of Kuwait but could not open a single fucking safe”
“So what the fuck can we do, we are just wasting time here.Fuckin wasted an hour on this fuckin safe.”,Saqib retorted.
Sohel containing his anger, spoke “Let me try once. Just once.”
He Looked at Rameez who was fuming with anger “Rameez,Can u just keep hammering the safe while I try to melt it” =================================================================
Moosa finally gave the orders to move the trucks to Dasman palace. But it pissed him to see one lonely truck still standing without the driver in the seat. A soldier came running from the truck.
“Where is the fucking driver?”
“There, the soldier pointed to Osman Rahmanis Office,”They are opening a safe”.
“A safe? What is in it?”
“They don’t know, but they think its going to be valuable”
“And who came to told them that, how much time they were in there”
“One hour, I think”
“One fucking hour and they could not open a safe”
Moosa started marching with fury towards the office with the lone soldier following him helplessly. What he saw pissed him more. Amidst the smoke, the sparks, the frustrated soldiers, and an unfortunate safe being the target of their aggression, he could sense defeat.
“What the fuck do you think you all are doing?”
All of them stopped their work and stood in a line. One managed to speak.
“Sir, we are opening the safe”
“For the last one hour. If you could not open it why didn’t you just leave it”.
“Sir, it would be matter of shame, we take the whole country in few hours but can’t open a simple safe”
That’s irked Moosa.He had not thought of it this way. “Did you shoot at it?”
“Yes, sir”
“You even tried the hammering?”
“Yes”
“You tried welding also as I can see?”
“No positive result, Sir”.
“When u can’t break it, fuckin burn it and leave”.Moosa declared and left the cabin.
As per orders petrol was splashed at the safe and was burned. The soldiers left for the waiting truck one by one but not before giving one glance to the unconquerable safe.
Sohel, the last one to leave scowled and said, “Shayataan”
Colonel Moosa was handed one such division of rogues. Looking at the heavy eyed lethargic asses in the slow moving trucks, he cursed his bad luck to be assigned to command them. He was not sure what Saddam Hussein had in his mind but believed completely in the reasons behind the upcoming assault. The bastards had it coming. Lowering oil prices like that and then disrupting our weak economy. If that was not enough the Kuwaities had the audacity to demand for their money spent in saving them from the Iranian steam roller. And any ways was not Kuwait once a part of Iraq. We are just about to take over what is rightly ours, Moosa convinced himself.
ZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM………….the deafening sound of the first Iraqi fighter planes passed above the trucks, which would initiate the seven months of agony and destruction on the now resting Kuwaitis.
And Destruction it was. The whole city was bombed. The buildings destroyed. The airports shattered. Parliamentary institutions burnt. The monuments ravaged. Play grounds and recreational centers were ransacked. International phone lines were cut. Those that did not suit their purposes were torched. Even mosques and places of worship were not spared. The economy was in doldrums as Iraqis went about burning oil wells and turning one of the most prosperous nations into tatters.
Some locals escaped the torture and ran for their lives to neighboring countries. Dejected expatriates came back home to their families losing out on every penny they saved. Some stayed back seeing their rights being abused every single day. Women raped. Children killed. Men grief-stricken with the burning images of their loved ones. The methods used to torture Kuwaities were devilish. They included fracturing limbs and ribs, administration of electric shocks, burning naked body parts, pouring acid into the eyes eventually leading to blindness, subjecting victims to mock trials and no medical attention to the ailing Kuwaities. All these outrageous acts occurred in a span of 7 months but it took the Iraqis only 4 hours to take over the whole of Kuwait. The weak Kuwaiti army could not pose any resistance to the mighty Iraqi one.
In four hours, Colonel Moosa and his bunch of thugs had reached Shuwaikh, an industrial area wherein all major ports as well as offices are located. It contained a Friday market at Al-Rai place which used to start on Thursday in the afternoon and went on till Friday.
As the trucks took a groaning halt, the soldiers jumped out of them and started shooting haphazardly at the well furnished offices. The whole area had been vacated by the locals after the news of the defeat had reached them. After realizing that there was almost no one in the area to be shot, the soldiers started searching for any valuable object they could get their hands on. And they found cash, artifacts, new and used goods, clothes, material, furniture, carpets, animals, antiques and souvenirs which were put into the trucks. They busted each and every shop and then burned it.
At the far end of the area stood a lavish Car Showroom in the name of Osman Rahmani. A dealer in automobiles and also an agent for companies like Ferrari, Jaguar, Dahitsu and BMW. The swanky cars could be seen from far, standing neatly in order, waiting to be taken. Some of the soldiers broke it open and were amazed to see a humongous showroom with at least 50 high class adrenalin-pumping beauties.
“Is this all for us?” asked an amazed Saqib, one from the popular Army.
“Yes, you ass, this one for you, that one for me and Rameez you can take this…”Sohel laughed hysterically at their fortune.
Rameez,a sly young boy stood silently at a corner ,his eyes on the beautiful spectacle but his mind elsewhere, “Don’t you think we should check for cash here, a man having so many babies must have plenty of cash piled in his office”.
So the search started. They walked around the cars and broke open one by one all the doors to find the safe. Sohel entered a cabin which was left in hurry with papers all around and a messed up wooden desk with photos and desk toys all lying unattended. A motivational poster in the cabin said “Winners Never Cheat” in Arabic which Sohel promptly tore off. The grand desk was ably matched by a grander chair all made of Rosewood, the finest wood in the world. A look of the cabin indicated that it belonged to a person who believed in conventional products as opposed to the latest technology gadgets.
And there behind the chair was the old harmless looking Safe.
“Here it is ,here it is”, Sohel called others as they came running to find a grey colored rectangular strongbox cast from steel. The door and the body of the safe were clung tightly to each other. Sohel first tried to push the door open with its handle when Rameez called on “Donkey, first look for the key”
Sohel, though hurt by his own stupidity, shot back, “You are a donkey, and do you think the bastard would leave the key here for us to open”.
“Shot it then, Himaar”, said Rameez.And all the three soldiers started pumping bullets on the poor safe. Nothing Happened. So, they tried shooting it from different angles, aiming at the key-hole. The safe had turned black with smoke emitting from its exterior but refused to budge.
“This is not the right way; let’s hit it hard with a sharp object, an axe or something”, Sohel spoke, looking everywhere to find something.
“Are u crazy? Saqib staggered, replied, “Where in the world will we find that? Look at the time. The Colonel would be waiting for us. Any ways this safe looks too old to have anything in it”.
“Grapes are sour, you go if you want but I am going to open up this devil”, a determined Sohel answered.
=================================================================
Colonel Moosa looked at his watch, it was 4.30 p.m. The instructions were to be at the Dasman palace by 6.00. The journey had tired him. He ordered all the soldiers to stop the looting and start sitting back in the army trucks with all that they had garnered.
=================================================================
Meanwhile the three soldiers started hammering the safe with sharp and heavy objects, which they found in a hardware shop nearby. Two more joined in to help but the bloody safe was resolute. “Fuck…Fuck..Fuck” sweared Rameez in rage, pounding the safe blow after blow with a very heavy axe.
“Stop it”,Sohel said finally, “This is not working. There is a shayataan in this, we need welding equipment. I will get it”. And he ran from the cabin.
Welding is used to join two metals but as there were dents on the safe due to repeated blows; Sohel wanted to burn and melt it for ease in breaking through. The soldiers found a Gas Metal Arc welder, a heavy equipment which required four of them to pick up. They brought the machine to the far end office and amidst the cars to finally the cabin, entirely exhausted.
Sohel who had received moderate training in welding when he was fifteen started burning the dent with the flame. “This will take 10 minutes” he claimed as the sparks flew from the Safe.
=================================================================
Meanwhile, Moosa checked the trucks one by one filled with looted artifacts. But he saw one truck’s driver seat vacant. He walked to it to find some soldiers sitting behind.
“Where is the driver, we have to leave”
“Don’t know sir, infact there are five missing”
“Find them, you have 5 minutes” as he checked his watch showing 4.50 p.m.
=================================================================
“Sohel, leave it. This is not taking us anywhere”, Saqib spoke finally after 10 minutes of welding dint melt a single dent.
Sohel stopped the welding and could not believe that after an hour they could not come even close to opening it.
Rameez was quiet sitting in a corner but dint speak a word.
“Are you saying that we took over the whole of Kuwait but could not open a single fucking safe”
“So what the fuck can we do, we are just wasting time here.Fuckin wasted an hour on this fuckin safe.”,Saqib retorted.
Sohel containing his anger, spoke “Let me try once. Just once.”
He Looked at Rameez who was fuming with anger “Rameez,Can u just keep hammering the safe while I try to melt it” =================================================================
Moosa finally gave the orders to move the trucks to Dasman palace. But it pissed him to see one lonely truck still standing without the driver in the seat. A soldier came running from the truck.
“Where is the fucking driver?”
“There, the soldier pointed to Osman Rahmanis Office,”They are opening a safe”.
“A safe? What is in it?”
“They don’t know, but they think its going to be valuable”
“And who came to told them that, how much time they were in there”
“One hour, I think”
“One fucking hour and they could not open a safe”
Moosa started marching with fury towards the office with the lone soldier following him helplessly. What he saw pissed him more. Amidst the smoke, the sparks, the frustrated soldiers, and an unfortunate safe being the target of their aggression, he could sense defeat.
“What the fuck do you think you all are doing?”
All of them stopped their work and stood in a line. One managed to speak.
“Sir, we are opening the safe”
“For the last one hour. If you could not open it why didn’t you just leave it”.
“Sir, it would be matter of shame, we take the whole country in few hours but can’t open a simple safe”
That’s irked Moosa.He had not thought of it this way. “Did you shoot at it?”
“Yes, sir”
“You even tried the hammering?”
“Yes”
“You tried welding also as I can see?”
“No positive result, Sir”.
“When u can’t break it, fuckin burn it and leave”.Moosa declared and left the cabin.
As per orders petrol was splashed at the safe and was burned. The soldiers left for the waiting truck one by one but not before giving one glance to the unconquerable safe.
Sohel, the last one to leave scowled and said, “Shayataan”
Part 2
It was only on February 26 1991, the Iraqi occupation of Kuwait ended. The Desert Storm unleashed by the American forces routed the Iraqis within 42 days. On that day, a new life emerged in Kuwait. The flag of free Kuwait was raised in a celebration. Overjoyed groups of people gathered in suburbs and city ecstatically, congratulating each other with tears of happiness and relief. Portraits of Saddam Hussein were torn; Iraqi flags were ripped down from public buildings and replaced with Kuwaiti ones. By the next day, the celebrations had reached a fever pitch. The delighted residents thronged the streets, cheering, clapping, blowing car horns, waving flags and carrying large posters of the Amir and the Crown Prince .Kuwaitis danced in the streets in gay abandon, thanking the allies.
Osman Rahmani, the Dealer of Cars had narrowly escaped capture by the Iraqis and had returned to his country as soon as semblance of normalcy was reestablished.
Overcome by emotion, he dropped to his knees and thanked Allah Taala as his forehead touched the precious soil. The worst lay behind him and now he only had to look up. He walked through the streets of Shuwaikh only to find almost every shop burnt and destroyed. He could not distinguish his office from far and was scared to think about the damage done there. As he entered his showroom, he found it to be absolutely vacant, minus his beautiful cars. The Iraqis had used his cars till the time they were in Kuwait. Some must have been taken to Iraq, some left abandoned on the streets, Osman pondered as he ascertained the loss.
Dejected, he walked to his cabin and was appalled to see it completely burned. These Bastards, Osman imprecated in his breath. He had spent a huge amount of money to make this cabin and had sat for hours till the construction was complete to his satisfaction. All that was in vain. Tears in his eyes, he walked to his safe which had been burnt completely. He tried to open it with its handle, sure to find it empty. But what is this? The safe was tightly shut. He could not believe it. The safe had bullets lodged in its body, it showed dents which could only happen from heavy hammering, it was totally black in the front due to burning but it had not given in.Osman could not believe his luck. He almost laughed sensing the frustration the Iraqi assholes must have gone through.
“So you were in my country for seven months but could not open my safe, so much for your arrogance you bastards, as he shoved the key into the safe.
Click…. Click….then Osman with an awaited breath held the handle as the safe opened gently.
The contents in the safe were unharmed and oblivious of the assault on them.Osman picked up the daily collection money of the last days of the month and important documents of his office
He still could not believe it. He checked the Safe again. Wanting to know where he bought this safe from and its country of origin, he moved his hands all over the safe searching for the make. And he was surprised.
He never thought products made by this country were so reliable though he loved the culture, cuisine and the people.
You know what country the safe was from???
Yes, it was our very own INDIA.
You know who manufactured that product???
Yes, It was our very own GODREJ.
Osman smiled as he shut the locker again. He had to replace it but already knew where he will go to buy the safe. Being a frequent traveler, he also decided which country he will visit the next time after sorting out things here, the country he started respecting, which was India. Finally he had a reason to smile after a long long time.
(A true story though the characters are fictitious for the sake of dramatization. But the safe was owned by a car dealer and some Iraqis did try a lot to open it up. For us Indians, I guess this is one more story which should make us proud. We may not have a Microsoft or a Toyota but we sure have a Godrej.)
Saturday, November 3, 2007
A Traveler’s Guide from VT to Nariman Point-Part 2
Towards Nariman Point
I pass by the bus depot surrounded by more people, but this time sober than they were in the trains. As if suddenly the unruly beasts have changed into serene beings. At times the queue to get in the bus is so long that it reaches the VT Station itself. This serpentine line grows by the second. So even if the double deckers reach the depot after a trip with remarkable regularity, it doesn’t really help. Indicating that no matter how efficient our systems are going to be, Bombay will finally burst, that is if it hasn’t yet.
What amazes me more is the patience shown by the office goers who don’t mind waiting for another 10 minutes for their chance to get in these gentle buses.
I really don’t have the patience for the bus.Infact after the terrible torment I go through everyday I think I deserve a ride in the taxi.
Hence I move towards the unofficial taxi stand ahead of the depot.
So the crowd which has come out from the latest train gets divided into two, the patient go for the buses and the impatient go for the taxis. To reach that unofficial stand where you can see the taxiwalas calling “point, point, point”, one has to pass through a road which connects the Ballard estate and VT.
No other road can give you a proof of what mob mentality is. I mean a second earlier people were waiting obediently for the traffic lights to turn green and suddenly they start walking showing absolute disregard to the traffic norms. Speeding cars, giant buses or gigantic trucks…. all be damned! When the crowd marches, the driver has to take the weight off his feet from the accelerator, exhaling in exasperation.
These Taxis are made for 4 but they push in 5 people for that extra 10 ruppees.And no, it doesn’t come for free. These Taxi walas have to pay the “Maamas” 200 every day collectively.Infact what’s amusing is that they know every Maamaa and where he is posted for the week.
But one should see them driving. They are our very own Micheal Schumacher’s. One lap means leaving the commuters to Nariman Point and be back to VT for another round. Well they can’t afford a pit stop. Even though they really need one, most of the cars are in pretty bad shape. At times one has to hold the door as it can’t be closed.
But they rule the roads there. No one messes with them. Red is just a color, doesn’t mean anything more. Maamaas have been paid to look the other way. They also treat the passengers as if they are doing a favour on them. They demand their ten rupees and frown at you if you ask them to stop midway.
And when u start going regularly with them they know u by face, some ask you why dint you come on a certain Thursday. If you see them most look from the underworld, shabbily dressed, chest hair dirtier than that of Anil Kapoor, chewing paan ,their beetle stained teeth can be seen when they growl “Kya Hai Be?” to the one who stares at their boldness. Zero chivalry to the opposite sex and more affection to their kind and there is a reason behind it.
Aashik, one I befriended says “Nakhra Karti Hai, Yeh Officewali”.
The taxi passes through D.N. Road, a very important arterial road of the city. This one road has so many beautiful buildings that you sense an architectural rhythm in them, the beats given by the hawkers and the cadence provided by the honking cars. And it’s the Flora Fountain which acts as the Chief Conductor. For you it may only be a work of art but for me it’s a symphony being created everyday.
At D.N. road one can find everything, right from books to cd’s to belts to toys to umbrellas to cameras to sophisticated electronic goods ….trust me EVERYTHING.
It’s like a small treasure hunt you are having in those ground floor alleys and the stalls lining them.
Usually on a Saturday afternoon I take a walk through this street to check on some books and DVD’s.
The DVD guy takes a look at me and whispers “Do u want this?”, flaunting a Dvd of scantily dress women. “There is more to it” he chuckles. A smile from me tells him that my theory is over. So we get down to business, searching for some meaningful movies packed in three.Dont expect all the movies to work. They won’t. But it’s still worth the money (50 rupees) u r paying. And never never buy games from them. They never work. These guys are paid 200 everyday and a bonus if the selling is good. Moreover they have to pay to the Policemen, the BMC and surprisingly even to some NGOs for the blatant piracy.
The books are definitely a better bargain. But again some pages would be missing. Your bad luck if they are at the end of the book. If you are tired of the walk, have the sugarcane juice there. Trust me it’s the best I have had in whole of Bombay.
The car whizzes past a no of banks and a lot of shopping stores like Globus (check the ties there, good for less), Fab India (the only problem with Fab India is that everyone knows it’s a Fab India Kurta you are wearing) .What I don’t want you to miss is an Agiary on the way where they have two bearded men carved on the stone having the lower body of a horse with wings and facing each other. And for a date in Town, buy fresh flowers from Prakash Florist.
Now we finally reach Flora Fountain which I told you about.
It’s a Stone Fountain erected in 1964 for the then Governor of Bombay. Made at a princely sum of 47000 rupees. What is disheartening is the state of this beautiful structure. The pretty ladies carved on the marble are smiling unaware of the stains on their white fabric and oblivious of the fact that the fountain doesn’t work.
Now the Taxi takes a road between the incompetent High court and inept University of Bombay.
One can see the Rajabai tower, at a height of 280 feet, located in the confines of the university. Do you know that the entire cost of Rajabai Tower was paid by Premchand Roychand, a prosperous broker who also founded the Bombay Stock Exchange, on the condition that the tower is named after his mother Rajabai? Rajabai was blind and a staunch follower of Jain religion. She was supposed to consume her dinner before evening. The evening bell of the tower helped her to know the time without anyone’s help.
About the High Court, well its 562 feet long and 189 feet wide so it’s real huge with 60 sanctioned judges and a record of 3-4 lakhs cases judged every year and more than that pending.
Right opposite is the Oval ground where one can see budding youngsters vying for a place in the Indian cricket team. Till 1997, Oval ground was poorly maintained and visited by drug peddlers, prostitutes and beggars. Then a group called ORCA (Oval Residents Cooperage Association) won the case against the government, took over the charge, build a fence, a jogging course along the periphery and most importantly a concrete lane through the ground for smooth thoroughfare.
On the far end of the Oval Ground once stood The Vengsarkar Elf Club. I still remember I had come back disappointed after not being selected. You know in Bombay at one point in time there are 50000 cricketers who dream of playing in the national team. (I heard my coach saying that figure after a net practice session).
Then some turn to B.Com.Some to B.SC.Some realize they aren’t really that good. Finally left are a few boys who study cricket.
Every year even their hope diminishes a little, their bones creak a little, the girlfriends who shared the dream of being there till the end leave them, their friends pat the backs but also shrug their own shoulders while smoking, the families who had pushed them into cricket beg them to leave the bats at home and finally they themselves raise their finger to indicate they are Out. In the process they kill their dreams and live another life.
But now when one sees the Dhoni and his boys winning the T20….the feeling of “what-could-it-have-been” does play in their mind, the dream still runs in their sleeps.I again look at those innocent beings practising so religiously and ponder over their future.
The Taxi has reached the intersection where we see a huge line of people waiting for the UAE embassy to open. I see the frustration in the eyes of every Indian as he shields himself from the sun with a newspaper or a plastic bag. I mean to be treated that way in your own country is sad but maybe its just a foretell as to what will happen to them in Gulf .This is the closest you can feel to what Indians felt in British Rule. So if you want to undergo that.”Saala, Mere Desh Mein Mujhe Khada Rakha Hai”feeling, please join the queue.
Some are waiting from 8 am for the embassy to open. One can see two policemen trying to keep this line in order and also looking for someone who would be eager to grease their palms to go ahead .I see one fair Arab watchman holding an umbrella, watching each and every Indian in the line with disdain.
At exactly 9, a tiny window opens of the embassy to accept the certificates and charge the to-be-rich-in dirham-public 1500 per certificate for endorsement. Some have to go back for another round of attestation which they missed. First the ladies would get a chance even if they just happened to know where the embassy is (how unfair!) and then maybe the poorer sex would be lucky.
The taxi takes a jerk as the signal turns green. I pass by Mantralaya.The less said about this place the better. I have walked through the corridors of Mantralaya and it reeks of power but also mixed with it is the stench of corruption. The security is real tight and again poor people are harassed who may want to visit the various departments for help. To enter it first you have to stand in a long line with a chit mentioning your name and whom you want to meet. After that you join another long line where you are checked briskly by some gruff hands before you go in. so it may take almost an hour before you actually enter the gates.
The Peons and Staff Members are real Bastards.They stare at you for a while, and then leisurely come to you, take you to a corner ,their dirty hands on your back, tell you the deal like a good salesman also mentioning that’s the only way it can be done, smile at you waiting for your response. If you show no interest, they may make your life difficult but then that’s a price to pay for being honest. Infact most of the systems are such that you have to end up shelling out something because you just can’t afford to abide by the rules.
When you come out of the Mantralaya robbed not only of money but also a little self respect for having ended up bribing (when you really did not want to ),don’t forget to look at our Flag fluttering on the Building to complete the irony of the situation.
My taxi passes through the Shipping Corporation of India indicating we have reached the first lane of the place I love the most. I heave a sigh of relief. I can breathe the fresh corporate air. I can see the ties flowing in the soft wind,i can see the Merc’s and the Bmw’s and the powerful men inside it with a folded Economic times by thier arms.
Nariman Point is Here, Folks…..
(To be Continued).....
I pass by the bus depot surrounded by more people, but this time sober than they were in the trains. As if suddenly the unruly beasts have changed into serene beings. At times the queue to get in the bus is so long that it reaches the VT Station itself. This serpentine line grows by the second. So even if the double deckers reach the depot after a trip with remarkable regularity, it doesn’t really help. Indicating that no matter how efficient our systems are going to be, Bombay will finally burst, that is if it hasn’t yet.
What amazes me more is the patience shown by the office goers who don’t mind waiting for another 10 minutes for their chance to get in these gentle buses.
I really don’t have the patience for the bus.Infact after the terrible torment I go through everyday I think I deserve a ride in the taxi.
Hence I move towards the unofficial taxi stand ahead of the depot.
So the crowd which has come out from the latest train gets divided into two, the patient go for the buses and the impatient go for the taxis. To reach that unofficial stand where you can see the taxiwalas calling “point, point, point”, one has to pass through a road which connects the Ballard estate and VT.
No other road can give you a proof of what mob mentality is. I mean a second earlier people were waiting obediently for the traffic lights to turn green and suddenly they start walking showing absolute disregard to the traffic norms. Speeding cars, giant buses or gigantic trucks…. all be damned! When the crowd marches, the driver has to take the weight off his feet from the accelerator, exhaling in exasperation.
These Taxis are made for 4 but they push in 5 people for that extra 10 ruppees.And no, it doesn’t come for free. These Taxi walas have to pay the “Maamas” 200 every day collectively.Infact what’s amusing is that they know every Maamaa and where he is posted for the week.
But one should see them driving. They are our very own Micheal Schumacher’s. One lap means leaving the commuters to Nariman Point and be back to VT for another round. Well they can’t afford a pit stop. Even though they really need one, most of the cars are in pretty bad shape. At times one has to hold the door as it can’t be closed.
But they rule the roads there. No one messes with them. Red is just a color, doesn’t mean anything more. Maamaas have been paid to look the other way. They also treat the passengers as if they are doing a favour on them. They demand their ten rupees and frown at you if you ask them to stop midway.
And when u start going regularly with them they know u by face, some ask you why dint you come on a certain Thursday. If you see them most look from the underworld, shabbily dressed, chest hair dirtier than that of Anil Kapoor, chewing paan ,their beetle stained teeth can be seen when they growl “Kya Hai Be?” to the one who stares at their boldness. Zero chivalry to the opposite sex and more affection to their kind and there is a reason behind it.
Aashik, one I befriended says “Nakhra Karti Hai, Yeh Officewali”.
The taxi passes through D.N. Road, a very important arterial road of the city. This one road has so many beautiful buildings that you sense an architectural rhythm in them, the beats given by the hawkers and the cadence provided by the honking cars. And it’s the Flora Fountain which acts as the Chief Conductor. For you it may only be a work of art but for me it’s a symphony being created everyday.
At D.N. road one can find everything, right from books to cd’s to belts to toys to umbrellas to cameras to sophisticated electronic goods ….trust me EVERYTHING.
It’s like a small treasure hunt you are having in those ground floor alleys and the stalls lining them.
Usually on a Saturday afternoon I take a walk through this street to check on some books and DVD’s.
The DVD guy takes a look at me and whispers “Do u want this?”, flaunting a Dvd of scantily dress women. “There is more to it” he chuckles. A smile from me tells him that my theory is over. So we get down to business, searching for some meaningful movies packed in three.Dont expect all the movies to work. They won’t. But it’s still worth the money (50 rupees) u r paying. And never never buy games from them. They never work. These guys are paid 200 everyday and a bonus if the selling is good. Moreover they have to pay to the Policemen, the BMC and surprisingly even to some NGOs for the blatant piracy.
The books are definitely a better bargain. But again some pages would be missing. Your bad luck if they are at the end of the book. If you are tired of the walk, have the sugarcane juice there. Trust me it’s the best I have had in whole of Bombay.
The car whizzes past a no of banks and a lot of shopping stores like Globus (check the ties there, good for less), Fab India (the only problem with Fab India is that everyone knows it’s a Fab India Kurta you are wearing) .What I don’t want you to miss is an Agiary on the way where they have two bearded men carved on the stone having the lower body of a horse with wings and facing each other. And for a date in Town, buy fresh flowers from Prakash Florist.
Now we finally reach Flora Fountain which I told you about.
It’s a Stone Fountain erected in 1964 for the then Governor of Bombay. Made at a princely sum of 47000 rupees. What is disheartening is the state of this beautiful structure. The pretty ladies carved on the marble are smiling unaware of the stains on their white fabric and oblivious of the fact that the fountain doesn’t work.
Now the Taxi takes a road between the incompetent High court and inept University of Bombay.
One can see the Rajabai tower, at a height of 280 feet, located in the confines of the university. Do you know that the entire cost of Rajabai Tower was paid by Premchand Roychand, a prosperous broker who also founded the Bombay Stock Exchange, on the condition that the tower is named after his mother Rajabai? Rajabai was blind and a staunch follower of Jain religion. She was supposed to consume her dinner before evening. The evening bell of the tower helped her to know the time without anyone’s help.
About the High Court, well its 562 feet long and 189 feet wide so it’s real huge with 60 sanctioned judges and a record of 3-4 lakhs cases judged every year and more than that pending.
Right opposite is the Oval ground where one can see budding youngsters vying for a place in the Indian cricket team. Till 1997, Oval ground was poorly maintained and visited by drug peddlers, prostitutes and beggars. Then a group called ORCA (Oval Residents Cooperage Association) won the case against the government, took over the charge, build a fence, a jogging course along the periphery and most importantly a concrete lane through the ground for smooth thoroughfare.
On the far end of the Oval Ground once stood The Vengsarkar Elf Club. I still remember I had come back disappointed after not being selected. You know in Bombay at one point in time there are 50000 cricketers who dream of playing in the national team. (I heard my coach saying that figure after a net practice session).
Then some turn to B.Com.Some to B.SC.Some realize they aren’t really that good. Finally left are a few boys who study cricket.
Every year even their hope diminishes a little, their bones creak a little, the girlfriends who shared the dream of being there till the end leave them, their friends pat the backs but also shrug their own shoulders while smoking, the families who had pushed them into cricket beg them to leave the bats at home and finally they themselves raise their finger to indicate they are Out. In the process they kill their dreams and live another life.
But now when one sees the Dhoni and his boys winning the T20….the feeling of “what-could-it-have-been” does play in their mind, the dream still runs in their sleeps.I again look at those innocent beings practising so religiously and ponder over their future.
The Taxi has reached the intersection where we see a huge line of people waiting for the UAE embassy to open. I see the frustration in the eyes of every Indian as he shields himself from the sun with a newspaper or a plastic bag. I mean to be treated that way in your own country is sad but maybe its just a foretell as to what will happen to them in Gulf .This is the closest you can feel to what Indians felt in British Rule. So if you want to undergo that.”Saala, Mere Desh Mein Mujhe Khada Rakha Hai”feeling, please join the queue.
Some are waiting from 8 am for the embassy to open. One can see two policemen trying to keep this line in order and also looking for someone who would be eager to grease their palms to go ahead .I see one fair Arab watchman holding an umbrella, watching each and every Indian in the line with disdain.
At exactly 9, a tiny window opens of the embassy to accept the certificates and charge the to-be-rich-in dirham-public 1500 per certificate for endorsement. Some have to go back for another round of attestation which they missed. First the ladies would get a chance even if they just happened to know where the embassy is (how unfair!) and then maybe the poorer sex would be lucky.
The taxi takes a jerk as the signal turns green. I pass by Mantralaya.The less said about this place the better. I have walked through the corridors of Mantralaya and it reeks of power but also mixed with it is the stench of corruption. The security is real tight and again poor people are harassed who may want to visit the various departments for help. To enter it first you have to stand in a long line with a chit mentioning your name and whom you want to meet. After that you join another long line where you are checked briskly by some gruff hands before you go in. so it may take almost an hour before you actually enter the gates.
The Peons and Staff Members are real Bastards.They stare at you for a while, and then leisurely come to you, take you to a corner ,their dirty hands on your back, tell you the deal like a good salesman also mentioning that’s the only way it can be done, smile at you waiting for your response. If you show no interest, they may make your life difficult but then that’s a price to pay for being honest. Infact most of the systems are such that you have to end up shelling out something because you just can’t afford to abide by the rules.
When you come out of the Mantralaya robbed not only of money but also a little self respect for having ended up bribing (when you really did not want to ),don’t forget to look at our Flag fluttering on the Building to complete the irony of the situation.
My taxi passes through the Shipping Corporation of India indicating we have reached the first lane of the place I love the most. I heave a sigh of relief. I can breathe the fresh corporate air. I can see the ties flowing in the soft wind,i can see the Merc’s and the Bmw’s and the powerful men inside it with a folded Economic times by thier arms.
Nariman Point is Here, Folks…..
(To be Continued).....
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Haji Deen Mohammed
My mom is an amazingly good storyteller. When I was a kid she used to put me on her lap and tell me a lot of stories. I can still hear her voice laced with the cling of her bangles as she used to ruffle my hair. My eyes would move from her to the dark ceiling where I could visualize every minute detail happening.
Different stories had different ways of storytelling…
For a horror story….I could see her eyes becoming large with fear. Her hands clawing at me and then stopping me from biting my nail.
A fairy tale ….would mean a soft voice with a seemingly happy atmosphere where everything is Hunky-Dory but suddenly the problem arises in the tale and my eyebrows meet in concern for the usual damsel in distress. Such was the effect of these stories that once I actually put a pea beneath the mattress of my elder sister to prove she is not a princess when she dint realize it.
Some stories had mom saying in the end “To Dekho Beta , Kabhi Jhoot Nahi
Bolna…Bado Ki Izzat karna …Nahi to Allah Miya Gussa Karenge (something my sis still uses to tell her kids)
Or “kya samjha tumko?” where I had to tell the moral of the story.
I am a big boy now so no more stories for me. But I sure do remember most of them and today would like to share one of the stories from the “potli” of my Mom. One which is so relevant for all the youth today.
Mom tells me it’s from the Arabian nights. But I dint remove the book of Arabian nights which I possess, to check it….what you will read is my understanding of the narrative. What visuals I saw on the ceiling one night when mom was telling me this lovely story.
Chapter 1
Haji Deen Mohammed was a unique man. No it’s not that he was not normal. He was. But he was just too optimistic in nature. Never did anyone in the village see him in anger or in despair. He used to smile constantly and laugh at times showing his front tooth which was half broken. Not that he did not have worries. He had. And his optimism had no real ground to exist. He could hardly provide for his wife and two children. Craftsmen by nature he makes decorative items with the help of simple tools. His friend and helper, Mairaj used to buy it from him to sell them in the larger markets of Dilli and Bambai but he had not come back for long. Money was running out. In desperation he had started stitching handmade carpets for a small businessman but with no orders forthcoming from the cities even the businessmen had asked Haji to leave.
So now he is sitting on the thick ground in the hot afternoon watching kids play Gilli Danda with glee.
“ Haji…Haji” …someone was shouting.
Haji stood up cleaning his kurta from behind to remove the dust and see who was calling him.
It was Ali, Haji’s dear friend running towards him brandishing his dirty gamcha.
“Is Mairaj Back. That’s good. I knew he would .Its Friday. He always does” Haji shouted back as his buddy reached him, panting.
“How many Fridays have passed by, Haji. And you have just sat there on this muddy ground waiting for him” his finger pointing to the place where Haji had just been sitting.
“You just can’t kill time like this waiting for him. I have got a job for you. Kishen Lal wants to paint his house. He is paying Ek Paisa.
Kishan is a nice man”Haji smiled,
“Is he looking for me?”
“Yes, he is, because you are the only fool to work for so less and that miser doesn’t want to give what others are asking for. But good for you. At least you can have a meal in the night with your wife and kids”.
Haji put on his hand on his friends shoulder and started preaching him while walking towards Kishan’s unpainted home
“Allah is the Greatest, Ali. See how he has provided sustenance for me. I will come to your house after I am done. We can eat Sattu* then”.
* Sattu-a mixture of Rice,Jowar,Bajra and Channa. (CONTINUED--- CHAPTER 2)
Different stories had different ways of storytelling…
For a horror story….I could see her eyes becoming large with fear. Her hands clawing at me and then stopping me from biting my nail.
A fairy tale ….would mean a soft voice with a seemingly happy atmosphere where everything is Hunky-Dory but suddenly the problem arises in the tale and my eyebrows meet in concern for the usual damsel in distress. Such was the effect of these stories that once I actually put a pea beneath the mattress of my elder sister to prove she is not a princess when she dint realize it.
Some stories had mom saying in the end “To Dekho Beta , Kabhi Jhoot Nahi
Bolna…Bado Ki Izzat karna …Nahi to Allah Miya Gussa Karenge (something my sis still uses to tell her kids)
Or “kya samjha tumko?” where I had to tell the moral of the story.
I am a big boy now so no more stories for me. But I sure do remember most of them and today would like to share one of the stories from the “potli” of my Mom. One which is so relevant for all the youth today.
Mom tells me it’s from the Arabian nights. But I dint remove the book of Arabian nights which I possess, to check it….what you will read is my understanding of the narrative. What visuals I saw on the ceiling one night when mom was telling me this lovely story.
Chapter 1
Haji Deen Mohammed was a unique man. No it’s not that he was not normal. He was. But he was just too optimistic in nature. Never did anyone in the village see him in anger or in despair. He used to smile constantly and laugh at times showing his front tooth which was half broken. Not that he did not have worries. He had. And his optimism had no real ground to exist. He could hardly provide for his wife and two children. Craftsmen by nature he makes decorative items with the help of simple tools. His friend and helper, Mairaj used to buy it from him to sell them in the larger markets of Dilli and Bambai but he had not come back for long. Money was running out. In desperation he had started stitching handmade carpets for a small businessman but with no orders forthcoming from the cities even the businessmen had asked Haji to leave.
So now he is sitting on the thick ground in the hot afternoon watching kids play Gilli Danda with glee.
“ Haji…Haji” …someone was shouting.
Haji stood up cleaning his kurta from behind to remove the dust and see who was calling him.
It was Ali, Haji’s dear friend running towards him brandishing his dirty gamcha.
“Is Mairaj Back. That’s good. I knew he would .Its Friday. He always does” Haji shouted back as his buddy reached him, panting.
“How many Fridays have passed by, Haji. And you have just sat there on this muddy ground waiting for him” his finger pointing to the place where Haji had just been sitting.
“You just can’t kill time like this waiting for him. I have got a job for you. Kishen Lal wants to paint his house. He is paying Ek Paisa.
Kishan is a nice man”Haji smiled,
“Is he looking for me?”
“Yes, he is, because you are the only fool to work for so less and that miser doesn’t want to give what others are asking for. But good for you. At least you can have a meal in the night with your wife and kids”.
Haji put on his hand on his friends shoulder and started preaching him while walking towards Kishan’s unpainted home
“Allah is the Greatest, Ali. See how he has provided sustenance for me. I will come to your house after I am done. We can eat Sattu* then”.
* Sattu-a mixture of Rice,Jowar,Bajra and Channa. (CONTINUED--- CHAPTER 2)
Chapter 2
Haji stayed in a small hut in the farthest part of his village. He hurriedly walked towards his house eager to show the one paisa tightly clutched in his fist to his wife.
Kulsum Bi was the apple of his eye, his life.Haji had seen her once in a wedding and he knew she was the one. He had pushed his mother a lot to get married to her. Kulsum was the only reason for Haji to be alive and no matter what befalls them he was aware that she would always be there to support and comfort him. The only thing he disliked and feared was her shrill voice which could even make Lajjo, his goat stop from may bleating.
Kulsum was a fine young lady. But lately she had become impatient as hope was diminishing and she could see no further respite from her misery till Mairaj came.
What irritated her more was Haji’s laidback attitude. With every night her kids sleeping empty stomach, the mother in her had become more vocal.
Tonight she had fed her kids with some dal and roti and as they wanted some more she kept an empty pot on the fire till the kids slept.
“Asalamwalaikum”, said Haji as he entered his hut which was illuminated by a single lamp.
“Walaikumasalaam” the pain in her greeting was noticeable
“Meri Jaan, look what I have got” showing her the coin which Kishan Lal gave him reluctantly after a strenuous session of coloring.
Kulsum though relieved to know that the next two days her kids wont go unfed still dint react.
She said plainly “Have your food. I have cooked something, and what have u done to your kurta, it’s all dirty. Where have you been”.
Haji told her everything while eating whatever little Kulsum could keep for him.
“You know this is not enough Haji, We must do something”
“Have Faith in Allah Taala, my dear, Things will get better” Haji said softly while kissing his sleeping kids.
“Chand Bi is giving me five paisa for selling off Lajjo”
“Kulsum”, after a long pause Haji said “You can’t possibly do that. She is family. How could you even think of it? Will you sell of your kids too”.
This comment angered her and she started shouting “Yes I will. It’s better to sell than to see their faces every Morning & Night asking for food.
“They clutch this all the time telling me Maa khaana do Maa khanaa do” showing him the Pallo of her tattered sari.
“It’s a Test from Allah. He wants to see if we still remember him and worship him in this time of ordeal. And does He not say In the Holy Quran that No man would be burdened more than that which he can’t handle.”Haji was trying hard to make her understand.
Kulsum started crying “you don’t understand my suffering. What do I do when I see the eager look in their eyes, their gulping throats, their sighs and how much do I lie?”
Haji came forward to comfort her.
Wiping her tears he said“Kulsum you are my life. If you start losing hope I will be shattered. You think it is easy for me. Its not. But I am patient”.
Hours passed. Haji, lying down was looking at a lizard walking on the roof of his hut as it tried to catch a fly. It was Kulsum’s time to soothe her husband. She lied down beside him and kissed the noble mark on his forehead and said sorry
“You can go to your mother’s house for some time”
“I am not going anywhere”Kulsum whispered back, nuzzling his neck
Haji took her in her arms and tried to sleep again.
After a long time he whispered “I see a dream”
“What?”Kulsum, half asleep murmured.
“I see a dream every night. For the last three four days”
“What dream? Different dreams or the same dream?”
“The same dream, everynight”
Kulsum moved him from her arms and got up, now interested “what do you see? Why did you not tell me?”
Haji now lying back looked at the lizard which had gulped down the fly and said “Because it doesn’t make sense”
“What do u see? Tell me. Tell Me now”
Kulsum Bi was the apple of his eye, his life.Haji had seen her once in a wedding and he knew she was the one. He had pushed his mother a lot to get married to her. Kulsum was the only reason for Haji to be alive and no matter what befalls them he was aware that she would always be there to support and comfort him. The only thing he disliked and feared was her shrill voice which could even make Lajjo, his goat stop from may bleating.
Kulsum was a fine young lady. But lately she had become impatient as hope was diminishing and she could see no further respite from her misery till Mairaj came.
What irritated her more was Haji’s laidback attitude. With every night her kids sleeping empty stomach, the mother in her had become more vocal.
Tonight she had fed her kids with some dal and roti and as they wanted some more she kept an empty pot on the fire till the kids slept.
“Asalamwalaikum”, said Haji as he entered his hut which was illuminated by a single lamp.
“Walaikumasalaam” the pain in her greeting was noticeable
“Meri Jaan, look what I have got” showing her the coin which Kishan Lal gave him reluctantly after a strenuous session of coloring.
Kulsum though relieved to know that the next two days her kids wont go unfed still dint react.
She said plainly “Have your food. I have cooked something, and what have u done to your kurta, it’s all dirty. Where have you been”.
Haji told her everything while eating whatever little Kulsum could keep for him.
“You know this is not enough Haji, We must do something”
“Have Faith in Allah Taala, my dear, Things will get better” Haji said softly while kissing his sleeping kids.
“Chand Bi is giving me five paisa for selling off Lajjo”
“Kulsum”, after a long pause Haji said “You can’t possibly do that. She is family. How could you even think of it? Will you sell of your kids too”.
This comment angered her and she started shouting “Yes I will. It’s better to sell than to see their faces every Morning & Night asking for food.
“They clutch this all the time telling me Maa khaana do Maa khanaa do” showing him the Pallo of her tattered sari.
“It’s a Test from Allah. He wants to see if we still remember him and worship him in this time of ordeal. And does He not say In the Holy Quran that No man would be burdened more than that which he can’t handle.”Haji was trying hard to make her understand.
Kulsum started crying “you don’t understand my suffering. What do I do when I see the eager look in their eyes, their gulping throats, their sighs and how much do I lie?”
Haji came forward to comfort her.
Wiping her tears he said“Kulsum you are my life. If you start losing hope I will be shattered. You think it is easy for me. Its not. But I am patient”.
Hours passed. Haji, lying down was looking at a lizard walking on the roof of his hut as it tried to catch a fly. It was Kulsum’s time to soothe her husband. She lied down beside him and kissed the noble mark on his forehead and said sorry
“You can go to your mother’s house for some time”
“I am not going anywhere”Kulsum whispered back, nuzzling his neck
Haji took her in her arms and tried to sleep again.
After a long time he whispered “I see a dream”
“What?”Kulsum, half asleep murmured.
“I see a dream every night. For the last three four days”
“What dream? Different dreams or the same dream?”
“The same dream, everynight”
Kulsum moved him from her arms and got up, now interested “what do you see? Why did you not tell me?”
Haji now lying back looked at the lizard which had gulped down the fly and said “Because it doesn’t make sense”
“What do u see? Tell me. Tell Me now”
Chapter 3
“I see that I am walking and walking and I see the sun setting and I see the river flowing by and then I see a bridge on the river. I walk to the other side. On the other side I see a white cottage. Completely white. I walked towards it and see an old man wearing a sparkling white kurta pajama sitting there in deep contemplation. He looks at me and asks me to come towards him. His eyes tell me that he was waiting for me. This old man has a large white beard flowing in the heavy wind. and then I walk towards him and as I come close to him he suddenly holds my hand tight and asks me “Have you come for the treasure” I try to release my hand from his clutches but this old man doesn’t budge. I try hard and hard and then I wake up”
Tears were running from Haji’s eyes as he told his dream.
“And you have been seeing this every night”
“Yes every night. I want to go and search for this place. But I thought you won’t allow me too. That’s the reason why I did not tell you. You will think of it as foolish which I know you are thinking. But this dream kept coming again and again. I feared that I if I see it tonight I will walk out of the house in the morning and look for the old man waiting for me. And with the problems we are going through it’s just not possible.”
Kulsum had no words to express her confusion.
“I don’t want to sleep kulsum. I don’t want to sleep”
Kulsum moved her hand on his beard and said “if you see it tonight, you go. I won’t stop you.”
And Haji did see it again. The river, the bridge, the cottage, the old man, his hoarse voice saying “have you come for the treasure” and the firm grip of the old man on his hand. And Haji did get up. It was the Fajr time as the Muezzin called for morning namaaz.
Tears were running from Haji’s eyes as he told his dream.
“And you have been seeing this every night”
“Yes every night. I want to go and search for this place. But I thought you won’t allow me too. That’s the reason why I did not tell you. You will think of it as foolish which I know you are thinking. But this dream kept coming again and again. I feared that I if I see it tonight I will walk out of the house in the morning and look for the old man waiting for me. And with the problems we are going through it’s just not possible.”
Kulsum had no words to express her confusion.
“I don’t want to sleep kulsum. I don’t want to sleep”
Kulsum moved her hand on his beard and said “if you see it tonight, you go. I won’t stop you.”
And Haji did see it again. The river, the bridge, the cottage, the old man, his hoarse voice saying “have you come for the treasure” and the firm grip of the old man on his hand. And Haji did get up. It was the Fajr time as the Muezzin called for morning namaaz.
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