PART II

After the departure of the guests, the five of us sat in the lounge for a family chat. While Shabana occupied herself with making tea, Roxana attended to Papa's 'paan' and 'hukka'. With so many of her duties and domestic chores being attended to by her daughters, Mamma could afford to relax. Exhausted by the day long activity, she excused herself for her night prayers and went away. The room quickly filled up with the mellow aroma of tobacco coming from the 'hukka'. As usual, a swarm of mosquitoes invaded us from the windows and commenced their nocturnal persecution. Crickets squeaked in the grass, owls hooted, toads croaked, all sorts of weird noises festered the quiet night outside. A stream of cool breeze began to flow in, driving out the body heat left behind by the guests and altering the room temperatures. Fetching Papa's shawl from his room, I wrapped it around his shoulders and sat down.

"Who can tell me what's the difference between a sparrow's nest and a beehive?" he asked, settling down in the easy chair and looking at us turn by turn.

The question obviously puzzled me, but I knew there had to be a sensible answer to it and a sagacious reason for its being asked.

"One is made of straw and the other is made of wax? One contains chicks and the other bees? One is clumsy inside and the other symmetrical?" Rox fired the three questions at him like pebbles from a sling shot, as usual in a big rush to claim all the laurels for herself first.

Shabbu, on the other hand, in the habit of thinking twice before opening her mouth even to ask for a glass of water, did seem to formulate a suitable answer mentally, but failed to put it into words.

"You tell us, Papa," I said, playing safe and throwing the ball back in his side of the court, "What IS the difference between a sparrow's nest and a beehive?"

"Sparrows mate," he explained with a meaningful smile, "they lay eggs, they hatch them and they tend to their nests tenaciously. But once their fledglings grow their wings, they fly away, seldom to meet again. On the other hand, bees are born for the hive, they live for the hive and they die for the hive. Even when they part, they do not part to serve their own interests but only to serve another Queen in the making of a new hive, for which they live and for which they die. That's why our Prophet (saws) exhorted all good Muslims to follow the example of the beehive rather than of the sparrow's nest."

"How true!" Rox could not help endorsing, quick to absorb the context in which the analogy was drawn, her sparkling eyes dwelling upon me.

"Well, Roxana," Papa said, looking at his pet daughter with an accentuated smile, "Next year, it will be your turn to hold the scroll of honour in your hand and to wear the garlands. For now, you channel all your energies in only one direction, and you know which direction that is."

"Yes, Papa," she said, sobering up at once.

"As far as you're concerned, Shabana," he said, shifting his attention upon Shabbu, "I did not educate you to gather honey for this 'hive'; you can do it when you have a hive of your own, and only if those whom you serve require you to. For the time being, you head towards the kitchen where your skills are needed the most. As you know, too many people have started cheating your mamma, - the milk is being adulterated by the milkmaid, Patna Rice are being tampered with by the grocer, the guava tree is in full bloom and a Chambeli on her way! One pair of extra hands in the midst of it all would be most welcome!"

"Yes, Papa," agreed Shabbu, suppressing a smile.

"In your case, Yousuff," he said, looking at me, "A Degree is not just a scroll of honour in your hand but a MISSION on your shoulders, as it were. What I would like to see next are those strings of roses elevated from your neck to your forehead, - in the form of a bridegroom's 'SEHRA'."

"Yes Papa," I too said, agreeing with the obvious.

"Hear! Hear!" Rox added below her breath, surreptitiously poking her elbow into my ribs.

"Did you say something, Roxana?" Papa asked.

"No, Papa, I didn't," she replied, and then added as an afterthought, "But I might have something to say on the subject later on. I'll put my hand up when I do."

"So, as of tomorrow," he resumed his address to me, "we'll begin the task of looking for a bride for you, unless, of course, you have your own preferences. If you do, now is the time to speak up."

"No, Papa. Your choice is my choice."

"If it was up to us, we would have settled for a pretty and god fearing bride from within our own wider family, regardless of her financial status. But then, Shabana and Roxana's prospects are just as important, and there's no shortage of pretty brides amongst the upper crusts either."

At that stage, as threatened, Rox did put her hand up to say her piece.

"Yes, Roxana?" he asked her, his attention momentarily diverted.

"Besides," she said, her words addressed to him but her eyes raised in my direction, "What's in a face, Papa? Beauty, they say, lies in the eye of the beholder!"

"Indeed!" he applauded, looking at me once again.

"Indeed," I too agreed, if only to nip the issue in the bud.

"In which case," he carried on, relieved, "shall we move on to the next most important topic of a job and of employment prospects for you?"

"Yes, Papa, we can. Is there some news about it?"

"Yes, there is, though not particularly exciting."

"What is it?" I asked, quite excited nonetheless.

"A temporary clerical vacancy in the I. G. P.'s office, who happens to be a close friend of mine, just so you gain some work experience instead of wasting time. Not much of a salary, though, but then again, seven hundred Rupees is seven hundred Rupees, and you can buy a lot of postage stamps with it for sending off your job applications abroad."

"Yes Papa, you're right, that would come in quite handy. Besides, there are some people I know who are getting pretty desperate for a set of glass bangles from 'LAAD BAZAAR'!" I said, my second sentence addressed to him, but my eyes dwelling upon Rox.

"Well, that's settled then," he said, wrapping up the conversation, "I'll pass on the details to you in the morning. Let's call it a day now. I'm tired and my 'HUKKA' has also gone cold."

"I can get it going again," offered Rox from the goodness of her heart, but he said no, wished us all a good night and left.

As soon as his back turned, she pounced upon me for a fuller explanation of glass bangles at which I had hinted. But instead of elaborating upon it, I caught hold of one of her snake like plaits and gave it a hard tug.

"Ouch! It hurts!!" she complained.

"That's the idea," I said, without easing up the pressure.

"Let go! Let go! Or, I'll scream."

"Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder, eh?" I repeated her words without relaxing my hold on her plait, "If you think I'm going to settle for one of the ugly sisters just so you can find yourself a fancy Prince Charming, you're living in cuckoo land, Cinderella!"

"May you be lumbered for life with the ugliest of the ugly sisters," she cursed first, then bit her tongue and hugged me affectionately, saying, "I didn't mean that! Honest, I didn't! My dearest Bhaijan!....My sweetest Bhaijan! May Allah bless you with a 'pure companion', here on earth instead of up there in Paradise, a real HUR with large black eyes and eternal youth, ya? And for that, I won't even ask you for any bangles!"

"Ameen!" said Shabbu, gently releasing her plait from my grip out of sheer compassion.

The morning after the feast saw us all occupied with the priorities allocated to each one of us by Papa while he became absorbed on the phone, contacting marriage brokers in search of some decent proposals for me; Rox got dressed and dashed off to the college, Shabbu began her tireless struggle separating Patna rice from stones and Mamma commenced preparations for the arrival of CHAMBELI from the Narsinghi Fare. As for me, without any adequate experience in the complex field of career hunting, I needed solid guidance and went looking for it to the only person whose advice and judgement I trusted. He was Sal, - short for Saleem, - my childhood friend. We had gone to the same schools and colleges until Graduation, where our paths parted. The only son of a rich and successful Barrister, he had no need for jobs; his father's thriving Practice was large enough to absorb him as well. So, unlike me, he took a Degree in Law. In fact, he had done his utmost to persuade me to follow the same course, but since it meant going against Papa's 'dream', I had bowed out. He sorted out my C.V., got a professional correspondent to draft all my letters, showed me where to look for names and addresses of potential employers in the Oil Industry, not just in the Middle East, but on a global scale, and helped me launch my mission in every way he could.

In the mean time, the date for starting work at the I. G. P.'s Office caught up and I went there on tenterhooks. My battered desk was situated in a large room shared by nearly thirty clerks, working for various Departments but underneath the same roof. We had a common boss in the form of Mr Swami who sat like a king on his throne facing the entire team, watching, supervising, observing, sometimes helping us as well as doing his own work. He had no idea why and by whom I was chosen for the job nor was he aware of my fancy qualifications; and as there was no need for me to publicise either of these, I too kept quiet.

The job itself was not too difficult. Twice a day, stacks of mail arrived from the Post Office in special delivery vans, all of which came to me for sorting. After going through the letters, I despatched them to their respective destinations through the network of internal couriers known as CHAPRASIS. That aspect of the job was called 'inward mail'. And on its heels came the 'outward mail' which comprised letters going out. My duty was to make sure that the addresses on the letters matched the addresses on the envelops in which they were going, and that there were no mistakes made by the 'typing pool'. Neither of the tasks required brains, but just speed and presence of mind. There was no room in it for errors; one slip of the fingers could build up piles of brought forward mail. I did not like it and neither did the boss.

Getting accustomed to the work posed no problems. Being a quick learner, I soon gained the knack. By and large, I also picked up speed. Mr Swami, the Head clerk, was a reasonable man and a good guide. We got along quite well. The surroundings were fairly pleasant and most of my colleagues amiable chaps. We got to know each other during lunch breaks and had a few laughs. Time passed quickly. On the whole, it was not half as bad as I had initially expected it to be, - except, of course, for the boredom.

At home, Papa, Mamma and my sisters often asked me how I was getting along. There was not much to say; the quality of the job hardly mattered. Money at the end of the month was all I cared about. In fact, I eagerly looked forward to the first pay packet, as it would be my first salary, and hence my first opportunity to do something for those whom I loved dearly. I made all sorts of plans. Oft and on, lying in bed at night, I pictured Shabbu and Rox wearing new ‘gharara suits' and pure silk saris, as if the measly salary could buy all that! I even thought in terms of gold chains around their necks and gold bangles on their wrists. If it was silly, it was just as stimulating; the imagination itself brought me a great deal of comfort.

My toils became worthwhile when I got my first pay packet in hand. Retaining only one hundred Rupees out of it for charity and alms, Papa gave the rest of it back to me with his blessings. I knew exactly what to do with the 'dosh'; I knew Mamma and the girls had only one pair of decent clothes which they wore again and again on 'special occasions' and then locked them away in their wardrobes. I also knew that six hundred Rupees could easily add an extra pair to them, not to overlook the passionate subject of glass bangles from LAAD BAZAAR still waiting to be addressed. No doubt, as promised, Rox did not make any more references to it, but I could distinctly see the shimmer of hope light up in her eyes as soon as the words salary and shopping were mentioned. So, we made special plans for that Sunday, went to Chaar Minaar, then to ‘Lad bazaar‘, and blew away the whole lot on shopping as well as on some delicious Biryani at Medina Hotel. Thus I got value for money, hard earned but well spent, which sufficiently motivated me to slave away for one more month.

Frankly, I would have carried on working for as long as the job lasted, were it not for a funny incident which occurred at the office round about the middle of the fourth month. One fine morning, as I sat sorting the 'outward' mail, the boss approached me and, without uttering a word, began to go through the pile of envelops on my desk.

"Is there something you want, Mr Swami?" I asked him, trying to be helpful.

"Ah!" he replied, scratching his head and yielding to a distinctly guilty smile, "Somewhere in this mess there must be a letter addressed to one P.C. Habeeb. Find it and then ground it."

"You mean, you don't want me to despatch the letter?"

"Just obstruct its progress until further instructions, that's all."

Who was I to decline the boss? Wasting my entire lunch break in search of the aforementioned item, I finally tracked it down and, without even bothering to look at what was inside, put it away in the bottom draw of my desk.

For the next three to four days, no more reference was made to it; in fact, the level of indifference was such that I even forgot all about it, until another day when a burly stranger arrived at the office, looked around, found the 'monarch', rushed over to his 'throne' and had a surreptitious conversation with him. I also noticed some sort of a stealthy transaction take place between them, but as it was none of my business, I withdrew my attention and re-applied it to the job in hand.

Sometime later, as soon as the burly stranger stepped out of the office, Swami approached me once again, still wearing the smile, but no longer guilty. In fact, it was one heck of a smile of contentment, if I ever saw one!

"Boyo!" he said, choking with delight, "Where's it?"

"Where's what?" I asked him and then blinked my vacant eyes several times, pretending complete innocence.

"The envelop! Remember?"

"No. Which envelop?"

"You know? That one. Ha?"

"Sorry, I don't. Which one?"

"That one! The white one with a window."

I knew precisely what he was after, but deliberately played dumb. "Nope," I insisted, "I don't have the foggiest notion what the heck you're talking about...."

"Ayyayyo!" he mumbled, suddenly going pale in the face.

"Not this, by any chance, is it?" I asked him, producing the envelop after teasing him long enough.

"Ahaha!" he said with immense relief. "Fantastic! The addressee is waiting for you outside. I mean, P.C. Habeeb. Give him his letter and you keep this. This is yours."

So saying, he forced another envelop into my hands. Eyeing it with a frown, or to put it more accurately, with solid suspicion, I looked inside. Upon sighting the contents, a series of strange noises echoed inside my head. Flares dazzled my vision, a loud gasp came out my mouth, the Alna of my right hand suddenly refused to cooperate with the Radius, a dozen or so butterflies fluttered in my stomach, and finally my legs went to sleep. For, safely tucked inside the envelop were five crisp one hundred Rupee notes, all adding up to a cool five hundred 'bucks'!

Connecting P.C. Habeeb with the money, the money with the mislaid letter and the letter with the burly stranger was not difficult, but resisting the temptation to look inside it was. As a matter of sheer curiosity, I took a surreptitious peek.

To my extreme discomfiture, it turned out to be a Re-instatement Order from the I. G. P., addressed to Constable Habeeb, giving him a date to resume duties.

Usually, Re-instatement Orders presuppose suspension, and suspension in turn presupposes guilt. By and large, the suppositions became so alarming, I ran out of breath.

As Mr Swami was not there to shed some light on the matter, I came out of the Office and looked around. P.C. Habeeb, who was restlessly pacing the floor in the corridor, saw me and came running.

"ASSALAM ALAIKUM, Gumashtha saheb!" he said with a broad grin.

"WALAIKUM ASSALAAM," I replied, reciprocating the warm greetings equally warmly.

"I'm P.C. Habeeb, " he said, introducing himself first, and then asked, "Have you brought it?"

"Yes, I have, " I said.

"Wah! Wah!" he applauded, "I've given it to Mr Swami..."

"Given what to Mr Swami?"

"You know?...That!"

"No, I don't. 'That' what?"

"Ah!" he exclaimed after some figuring out, "You're new, aren't you?"

"So?"

Gulping a few sour lumps down his throat, he explained to me what it was all about. Apparently, three years ago, he was suspended from duty on grounds of graft and corruption. In my country, all corrupt policemen are usually tried and invariably exonerated. So was he, and the papers rustling in my hip pocket were his 'chapatti and daal', in the form of the Re-instatement Order.

"Well, Gumashtha Saheb, I've kept my end of the bargain," he declared with a great deal of pride.

"You gave Mr Swami some money?"

"Yes, I did. A deal is a deal."

"How much?"

"Two thousand Rupees."

 

Postage seemed to be getting pretty expensive! Such a heavy financial blow to a Police Constable suspended from duty without pay for three whole years could be crippling. Yet, he had managed to find the two thousand Rupees! No wonder Mr Swami looked like a fox smacking its lips after a succulent kill; if he gave me five hundred Rupees just to keep my 'trap ' shut, he must have helped himself to a good thousand for doing nothing.

"Do you have a family?" I asked him, just out of sympathy.

My prying into his private affairs seemed to puzzle Habeeb.

"Yes, I do," he replied with a deep dent on his brow. "But why? What's that got to do with you?

"Any kids?"

"Yes."

"How many kids?"

"B.....B....But..."

"How many?"

"Thirteen..."

"Good grief! That's a lot of kids!!"

"What? Between five wives? Some people seem to think it's a sad reflection upon my viri...."

"Five wives as well? All those mouths to feed and no job or salary for three whole years? Wasn't it tough, laying your hands on two thousand Rupees at a time like this?"

"No money, no Re-instatement Order. Do I have a choice?"

Maybe he was right. But I had no wish to soil my hands with such wages of sin. My share of the loot was still rustling in my other pocket. Giving him the Order first, to the delight of my conscience, I also returned him the money, to the dismay of my mind, none of which made any sense to P.C. Habeeb.

"But why?" he asked, absolutely baffled by my gesture, "If you're not happy with your share, just tell me. I'll give you some more."

"No, I don't want more. I don't want this, either. Buy some clothes for your wives and kids from LAAD BAZAAR. Give them a treat at the Medina Hotel too. They serve superb Biryani and don't charge a fortune for it."

 

I said so, remembering the extent of joy I had myself derived from doing precisely that. But instead of lifting his spirits, the recommendation seemed to plunge him into further confusion. After eyeing me for a while as though I was some kind of a freak, he worked things out in his mind.

"I get it!" he said, brightening up at long last, "You're feeling sorry for me, aren't you? You think I've been taken to the launderers by Mr. Swami? Thanks very much, but don't worry. When on duty, I can easily recover two thousand Rupees within a month or two. My beat happens to be exceptionally prosperous, crammed with unlicensed hawkers, fruit and vegetable stalls, sugar cane juice, bangles and what not. I let them make money and keep my cut, on a 'live and let live' basis."

 

Forcing the money back into my hand, he thanked me once again and left. For a long time after he was gone, I stood plunged in deep thought. The Police, doing precisely what they are employed to prevent; Mr Swami, himself an incorrigible corrupt, corrupting the others. What was a nice guy like me doing in a dump like that?

 

Frankly, it was all just a storm in the tea cup. By then, I had come to hate that office and the job so much, I was looking for a good excuse to jack it up. Quite by chance, P.C.Habeeb provided me with that excuse,

"Trouble, BARKHURDAR?" Mr Swami asked me, jumping me from the rear and breaking my chain of thoughts.

"No, Mr Swami," I replied, returning to reality. "By the way, how often does this sort of thing take place here?

"Getting greedy already, are we?" he replied with a curious glint in his eye, the raised eyebrows and the sarcastic smile well matched, "As often as you like. But why?"

"Just wondered. As far as I know, it has happened only once in four months."

"That's because you're only a Temp. But then, for another two grand, I can make you a Perm. Interested?"

"I'll think about it and let you know."

 

He nodded and went in. I too returned to my desk, my mind more or less made up. I had been working there for a worthy cause. I could not even think in terms of buying food for my family with that kind of dirty money. So, I decided to quit. Without making any reference to the unfortunate incident, I scribbled a brief note of resignation and handed it to Mr Swami, together with my share of PC Habeeb's bribe.

"Is anything the matter?" he asked, browsing through the note.

"Nothing, boss," I replied casually, "Just fed up, that's all."

"And what about this?" he asked next, pointing at the envelop which contained the money.

"You keep it, Mr Swami. I was only a Temp, anyway," I replied.

 

When I left him, he looked a bit uneasy. My timing of the resignation seemed to have scared him; The 'mob' does not like its 'hit-men' dropping out of sight on the heels of a 'hit'! But there was no need for him to worry; I had no intentions of taking the matter anywhere beyond that office. Such rubbish lay all around us and it was not my job to sweep it up.

Seeing me home unusually early, my folks were taken by surprise. I told Pappa what happened; I had to, because the job was his choice and the I. G. P. was his close friend. But after listening to me, and quite contrary to my fears, he burst into hysterical laughter. So did the rest of the others.

Having gained enough work experience in course of those few months to last me over an entire lifetime, I dug in for a long haul towards reaching my real goal. In a way, coming out of that dead end job did seem like a good move as it gave me plenty of free time to concentrate on finding one in my speciality, whether in my own country, in the Middle East, or any other part of the world for that matter. The importance of my getting a proper job quickly could not be stressed enough; for Pappa's strategy to succeed, for his squeaking 'train' to reach the crest of the hill, for his field of dreams to survive until the next harvest, for Mamma's garden to await the return of a new Spring, for Shabana and Roxana to repose on beds of roses, in short, for us to be able to live underneath the egregious shelter of our own house with self respect and dignity, I desperately needed a rich wife, and to be able to get a rich wife, I desperately needed a well paid job.

 

During the four months I was at work, response to my first round of applications was beginning to arrive in tiny trickles, mostly full of regrets for the present but hopes for the future. Without getting too despondent by those negative replies, I discovered fresh venues to explore, got more addresses of potential employers from Libraries and Embassies, gave a facelift to my c.v., had a new covering letter drafted by someone else and sent off a second round of probes. On that occasion, I also got in touch with some Recruitment Agencies in Bombay who specialised in the Middle East job market. My Professor at the University, who had banked a lot of his hopes on my success, gave me several leads to peruse, which I did, but without much luck. Even if I did not have worthwhile contacts of my own, Pappa knew quite a few big shots here and there and pulled all sorts of strings. That too did not work. No employer in the West was willing to consider making even a formal offer without an interview first, which was quite expensive as well as risky. Some Recruitment Agencies in Bombay did put forward a few proposals, but with too many strings attached : their offers stipulated enormous commissions, payable in advance, and assignments in the Middle East usually lasted for only three years, subject to extension, which put me off. In spite of shelling down such a lot of money in commissions and fares, I could still be back to square one if the employment contracts were not extended for any reason. Eager as he was to make a success out my life and recover at least some of the investment he had made in me, Papa tried to raise more money, even from 'loan sharks' if necessary, and give me another shot in my arm, but I did not let him. Whatever else I did, the one thing I was determined to avoid was to make him sink deeper into debts in order to finance for me such dodgy propositions.

 

Like the best laid plans of mice and men, Pappa's began to run aground once again. Without a sound career or a suitable job leading to it, my 'popularity ratings' in the 'marriage market' plummeted rapidly; the chances of my securing the sort of bride which he had envisaged for me became remote, and together with it, the future of the girls also turned bleak. Having already kissed good bye to the job at the I.G.P.' Office, and together with it, to the seven hundred Rupees I got at the end of each month, we were hand to mouth again. At such a critical juncture, as soon as the debt reached two hundred thousand Rupees, the Bank Manager abruptly introduced severe restraints on further borrowing. It hit us the hardest. The unfinished shops carried on gathering moss and cobwebs; the vineyard kept dying day by day from lack of irrigation and upkeep; there were no more silver linings in the clouds, no pretty brides for me, no Prince Charmings for the girls, no pennies left in anyone's piggy bank, no work, no earnings, not even as a porter at Nampally Railway Station!

At a time like that, after an unusually long gap, Sal phoned me from right out the blue and asked me if I could see him on a matter of some urgency. My time being completely free, I went to his house right away.

CONTINUES