Arif Naqvi

Short Stories of Arif Naqvi
 

* A Carrom board * Bungalow Nr.1 * Journey to paradise * The Shoe Shine Boy * A Carrom Board

 

 

A Carrom board

 

by Arif naqvi

 

 

  "Scheisse"!

  The plate was broken into pieces. With a small  piece of cloth in her hand

she was drying the plate when it sliped down and broke into pieces. This

 was a very dear plate to her. Every time after washing it she kept it very

carefully in the cupboard  like an ornament. And when guests praised her

Meissen-China-set, she told them proudly:

"Yes, we got this set on our marriage. Those days it was not so expensive.

Now its price has gone up many times."

 

  Meissen-China-sets, which were produced in a small town Meissen near 

Dresden, were considered to be white gold in the eastern part of Germany

Only rich people could afford them. Therefore Monika was specially proud

of her tea set and used it only on specious occasions. But now she was

feeling as if she has lost her most precious and dearest thing.

 

 "Scheisse!" came once again on Monikas lips. Putting aside the cloth, she

bent down on the floor and collected the broken pieces of the plate. She put

them into a plastic bag and began drying other pots. After keeping them

carefully into the cupboard she went to the balcony and stared into the

atmosphere. After a while she went again to the kitchen, opened the plastic

bag, took out a piece of the broken plate and rubed it gently like a mother

embracing her wounded son and rubing gently his head. Tears came out of

her eyes and spread on the cheeks. Ten year old memories became fresh.

 

  It was a pleasant winter night. The mountains of Thyringia forest were

looking white.  Fine silvery snow was falling from the sky . The trees and

mountains were covered with snow and  became white. Young boys and

girls had formed snowmen and were throwing snowballs on each other.

People dressed in colourful winter tracs ran with Skis, losing their balance,

falling on the snow,raising again and sliding on the slopes, giving others a

chance to laugh.

 

 Monika and Peter were studying those days in an engineering college of

Berlin. They loved each other since childhood. Their parents never objected

to their affair. When they told them about their intention of going in winter

holidays to a hilly town of Thyringia, they even gave them money for winter

shoes and skis. And now they were enjoying the most interesting holidays

of their life in Oberhof.

                                                 

 

 Monika collected some snow from the ground, made a big ball of it, threw it

at Peter and laughed like a child. Peter removed the snow from his face, also

collected some snow, rushed towards Monika and rubbed it on her face.

Then he changed the direction of his skis, which were tied under his feet,

pressed the sticks, which he was holding in his hands on the ground and

quickly disappeared. After a while he turned the direction of his skis, and

sliding fast on the slope, reached  Monika. She received him with

open arms. Both of them could not maintain balance. They  lost the grip on

their sticks  and falling down the slope, rolled a distance.

 

While returning to the guest house their bodies were shivering from cold.

The teeth were grinding, blood was freezing and the snow, which had

penetrated into the gloves and had melted, war hurting the fingers. Peter

closed Monika again and again into his arms pressing and rubbing her back

and arms with his thick hands. Both of them rubbed each others hands, hopped

and sprang and ran towards the guest house in order to warm themselves

up. Monika was neither interested in the snow covered milky mountains

shining behind her nor in the gentle silver snow falling from the sky nor in the

people running and falling on snow.

 

 After reaching the guest house Peter took out a bottle of Brandy,  poured it

into a glass and offered it to Monika:

 "Take this. This will help against cold". Then he took the bottle to his mouth.

They changed their dresses and sat down near a heater. Peter took another

peg of Brandy and sitting on the floor put his head on Monika´s lap and

closed his eyes. Gently Monika´s fingers kept playing with his hair.

"Moni, let us marry!" Said Peter in a dreaming voice.

"With a bore like you?"

Peter sprang from his place. Holding Monika´s face in his hands he said:

"A better husband you won´t  get!"

"Why not my prince. How handsome you are: Tall like a camel, broad like an

elephant, a long goblet-shaped neck of a crane, nose as beautiful and

bending as a beak of a parrot  and the shining gray eyes of a cat and white

sparkling teeth of a mouse."

"And you? You look more beautiful than a little white mouse."  Darling, only

an idiot will marry you."

"Yes, an idiot will marry me."

Both laughed loudly and embraced each other. The night became more

beautiful.

 

 Few months later they were married. It was an ideal pair. Every one admired

them. They were always together - in cinema, in theatre, in disco, on picnic,

every where. Whenever they attended a party, it thrilled with jokes and

laughters.They always took care of each others interest. After completing his

education Peter was employed in a factory as engineer. Monika got a job

as a Secretary in an office. The office also provided her a cheap flat.

And the parents gave them money to decorate it. They were now enjoying a

very pleasant life.

 

One day when Monika informed Peter that she was going to become mother,

his joy knew no bonds. That night he took so much alchohol, that he could

not go to work the next morning and remained lying the whole day in bed.

They made numerous plans, bought a car, video camera, pram. He

brought every day lots of fruits and insisted that Monika should eat them in

order to get energy. Sometimes they disputed  if it will be a son or daughter,

look like mother or father, with eyes brown or blue, hairs dark or blond.

Many names were suggested, but each of them was imperfect and led to

long discussions. And when they could not decide they laughed louder and

took each other into arms.

 Gradually Monika lost interest in outings. She was not  going any more to

restaurant or bars. She had no interest in visiting friends and relatives. Peter

also asked her seldom to accompany him to a party. After office

hours he mostly went alone to his friends and until midnight spent time in

a restaurant or pub. Now he was drinking more beer. Friends used to remark

on his large belly. Monika never complained to Peter about his absence. She

was occupied with thoughts of ´comming Peter`, lost for hours in thoughts

and dreams. She didnt  even bother if Peter has come late or was without food

and was in a bad mood.

 

 After the birth of the baby they distanced from each other further. They

always found fault with partner and quarreled on little things. Peter was now

seldom to be seen at home in the evening and when he asked Monika

to accompany him to some party she refused flatly.

 

 Today was the tenth anniversary of their marraige. Peter had come homw early.

He had brought a bouquet of ten roses and a beautiful present.

Monika had prepared a cake. But after taking coffee Peter had gone to his

friends leaving Monika alone to wash the pots and look after the child. And

now at the loss of the plate she was feeling as if thousand year old ties had

broken in a jerk.

                                                 

 "Scheisse!" Came to Monika´s lips again. She wanted to throw the piece

of the broken plate at Peter´s head, but he was already gone and was  now

drinking beer in a pub. The next day also her mood was off. She was ready to

quarrel with Peter. But her girlfriend Maria had come with her husband and

inviting them to go swimming at the nearby Sports and Recreation Centre.

Monika and Peter could not resist. It a was Sunday and they had no excuse.

They enjoyed swimming in the swimming pool, tried to brown their bodies

at solarium, took ice cream in the bar of swimming pool and went round the

Sports Centre, watching different indoor games. While they were walking

thorough a big hall on the first floor  they saw some people playing a strange

game. Monika stopped near a board.  The young boys sitting on the two sides

of the board facing each other took no notice of her.

 

Their fingers were moving on the board. It was a wooden flat and square

board, about 1x1 sq. meter big, with a hole with net on every corner. In the

centre of the boards there was a small circle surrounded by a bigger circle

and on four sides of the playing surface two parallel black ines and red

circles were drawn and several small round and flat wooden pieces were

lying on the playing surface of the board.

 "What is this game?" Monika asked a young boy.

 "Carrom! An Asian game." He answered gently and turned his face towards

the board.

 The young boy put a red piece in the central circle, which was marked red.

Then he arranged one by one two white pieces to make a white Y around

the red piece. Then he put three black pieces between each of the gaps of

the Y making three small black Vs and inserted one white piece between each

black V. Thus a beautiful flower was formed in the centre of the board. With

the help of his all ten fingers he tightened the wooden flower, gave a slight

turn to his belt, took a little bigger round plastic piece in his right hand,

placed it on his base line, made an angle and with the tip of his first finger

made a stroke. The striker hit the opponent´s border and then hit the pieces.

Two white pieces travelled straight to the pockets on the corners. One by

one he pocketed two more white pieces. The next piece didnt go to the

pocket. Now his opponent  was trying to pocket his black pieces. Monika

was watching their game keenly. Also Peter, Ralf and Maria were

fascinated.

The young boy who was pocketing the black pieces also pocketed the red

one and then one of his black pieces and shouted:

 "Confirm! Queen cover!"

 "Queen?" Monika asked astonishingly.

 "Yes Madam, the red one is called Queen." The young boy replied.

 "Is there no king?"

 "Who cares for males, Fraulein, all love Queen. That is why the pieces are

arranged arround the queen." He laughed loud.

"Play your shot. Your are taking time." The other boy was getting bored

with their conversation. Peter, Maria and Ralf had moved towards other

boards. Monika also left the place.

Next day when Peter didn´t turn up straight from office and Tony had slept, 

went Monika to the Sports Centre. She collected the Carrom pieces and

striker from the counter and took place in front of a Carrom board in a

corner near the glass window, playing alone. Soon her thumb started paining. 

Every time when she tried to strike, her nails pierced the thumb and pained

and striker went to a wrong direction. She got bored and wanted to leave the

place, as the young boy, whom she had seen there a day before, came to her

and said:

 "Fraulein, don´t put your nail on the thumb, place it on the board, on the

playing surface, on the side of your thub. Then you will be able to pocket it

and have no pain and enjoy the game." 

He said seriously and without asking for Monika´s permission, took seat in

front of her.

 "Come let us play!"

 He said frankly and started arranging the pieces on the board. Monika got

up:

"Sorry, I am getting late."

 She collected the pieces in a small wooden box returned them at the counter, 

and left the Sports Centre. For weeks she didn´t go to the Sports Centre.

Sometimes she remembered that old strange Asian game,

and that young boy whom she had treated so unfriendly. But she did not

dare to go there alone.

 

 Life was moving in its normal course. Whole day in office, evenings with

the child, washing clothes, preparing food and watching films on TV. Peter

seldome came early and when he was at home he spent time watching TV 

drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. The room was full of cigarette smoke.

It was suffocating Monika. She went to the other room and opened a novel or

magazine. And when Peter didn´t change his routine and failed to stop

coming home late, Monika could not tolerate it. Her steps moved towards

the Sport Centre. Also the following night she returned late from the Sports

Centre. Peter came home at 10 O´clock in the night, but Monika was

not there. The pots were lying in the kitchen unwashed. Little Tony was

sleeping in his room.  After awhile, Peter was also sitting in the Sports Centre

in front of a Carrom board. He was placing carefully the pieces on the board

and Monika was explaining to him as if she was an expert in this game. 

A short distance away,  the same young boy, whom he had seen there on

first day, was busy playing Carrom with his friend, unconcerned with them. At

another table a few girls were enjoying Carrom. Their laughter was disturbing

others.

 

 A year has passed. Today is the 11th anniversary of their marriage. Peter

has presented Monika a bouquet of 11 red roses. Maria, Ralf and and few

other friends are also invited. Toni is now ten year old and is running here

and there in the room. Outside the room, trees are once again covered with

silvery snow.  Children are throwing snowballs at  each other and enjoying

the white snow shower. Monika has prepared with great love annanas and

Strawberry Cake. Peter has opened an expensive Remmy Martin bottle

and filled the glasses with alchohol. Beautiful pop music is echoing in the

room. Also today the Meissen China set has been taken out of the cupboard.

But no plate or cup is broken. After finishing coffee, Monika washed the pots

carefully. Peter dried them with a cloth and put them back gently in

the cupboard. Then they opened their joint present.  It was a Carrom board.

All friends clapped and  appreciated it.

                                                 

 After dinner was over, they placed the Carrom board on a stand.

Monika and Peter sat in front of the board as partners facing each other and

Maria and Ralf on other sides as their opponents. The small wooden pieces

ran across the board. Tony tried sometime to stretch his little hand towards

board. He also wanted to play. All laughed at his innocence. Other friends

took out playing cards and started playing Skatt. For Monika this was the

most beautiful evening at home. Late night after the guests had gone,

Monika collected the pieces and kept the Carrom board in a corner as gently

as she put her Meissen set in the cupbord. Then she put her arms

around the neck of Peter. The lights were switched off. Monika and Peter

were dancing to a beautiful music.

 

 The next day Monika and Peter came home earlier from work. Tony had already

come from school. The Carrom board was standing in the same corner where

Monika had kept it a day before. A big pot with water was lying near by. A

sponge was swimming in it and a soap was lying on the floor. Wasser spots

were visible on the board.

 Toni rushed to his mother and put his arms around her neck and kissed

her cheek as if he wanted recognition of his achievement. But seeing the

seriousness on her face, he got scared and went straight to a corner.

Peter wanted to say something, but in anger, he found no words he could utter.

 

 "Scheisse!"

 Said Monika once again. She tried to dry the board with a piece of cloth,

but the spots were more visible. The lines faded. Two drops of tears fell on

the board. There was quiteness in the room.

 Suddenly Peter´s laughter broke the atmosphere. Also Monika began

laughing. Life returned to the face of Tony. He came out from the corner.

Peter and Monika placed the Carrom board on a stand and with pen and

brush started correcting the lines and circles, giving it a fresh look.

 

 

 

Reminiscences

Bungalow Nr.1

 

by

 

Arif Naqvi

 

 

 

          After a long gap I had come to my native town, to meet my relatives and friends. Much had changed in the city. The streets and buildings were looking different. The dresses, faces and the habits of the people had changed. The language and the accents were different. Also the mutual relations had changed. The areas which remained desserted earlier, were full of new and beautiful buildings and the parks and historical buildings which used to be pride of Lucknow, were full of rubbish and filth and turned into ruins.

          Every evening I went to meet my relatives and old friends and in the day time visited old monuments and historical places. Some times visiting Big and Small Imambarahs1 of Hussainabad2 and Residency3 and some times going to the ´Old Cofffee House` in the fashionable area of Hazratganj or walking through the markets of ´Hazratganj`, ´Aminabad`, ´Nakhas` and ´Chowk`. The Old Coffee House in the posh area of Hazratganj, where formerly people laughed over the jokes of  the ´Israrul Haq Majaz´ 4 and appreciated his poetry and enjoyed the verses of ´Anand Narain Mullah`5, one could now listen to the filthy conversations of the people sitting over there and see the thick lairs of dust on the tables. In the tea houses of ´Nakhas`,  where ´Siraj Lakhnavi`, ´Nihal Rizvi`, ´Sharib Lakhnavi` and other local Urdu poets used to object to the  minutest mistakes of each others verses, were now lying desserted. Some times I went to any restaurant of ´Nakhas` and looked at the faces of the people sitting over there, thinking that there might be any known figure among them, but in vain. It made me nervous. Those sitting over there, dressed in ´Kurta` and ´Pyjama`  and having a typical Lucknow cap `Dopalli topi`6 on their heads, stared at me with strange eyes. As if they wanted to know, how this animal in pant and shirt, carrying a handbag has entered in their restaurant. Several restaurants in Aminabad and Nazirabad, where we used to plan our literary and cultural activites and listen to the verses of Hazar Lakhnavi, Saim Saidanpuri, Shaoor Barelvi, Dil Lakhnavi and Abdul Rasheed Qamar, were now turned into cloth stores. Now the beautiful Urdu verses are not appreciated there, but the shoutings of the shop keepers attract to the customers.

____________________________________________________________

1. There are two Imambaras known as big and small. 2. An area  in old Lucknow 3. A fort used for British soldiers

    which was one of the centres of battle between freedom fighters and colonial power in 1857.

4.Urdu poet died in 1955 in Lucknw 5. An Urdu poet who was also justice

 -2-

 

          "Brother, take your water bottle with you." My cousin sister ´Sabiha´, with whom I was staying at Aliganj, gave me a plastic bottle. It was full with filtered and boiled water.

          "You should not drink outside water. Don´t eat in any ordinary restaurant. Your stomach is weak." She quitely uttered some Quranic ´Surahas`  and puffed at my face and remained worried until I was back home.

          The burning heat of the noon had slightly died down. The sun was now hiding behind the `Ashok`trees.

While passing through the street of `Chakbast Road`, I stopped at the gate of the `Bangalow Nr.1`.

          This Bungalow was situated in a formerly posh area of Lucknow on the ´Chakbast Road´, named after a famous Urdu poet ´Pandit Brij Narain Chakbast´. In the same Bungalow I had spent my childhood. Another gate of the Bangalow opened at the `Raja Nawab Ali Road´. On the right hand side of the bangalow was the ´Distric Board office´with its garden, where we used enter to pick oranges and Pumpelmuse after climbing the small wall standing between our house and the garden. At the front side, acrosss the road, was a girls college ´Nari Shiksha Niketan´. The girls of this college, in colourful college uniforms entered very often chanting into our front garden and picked roses and Gerbaras in their handkerchiefs and shalls and before we could stop them they ran away saying: "These are for pooja". Not far from our house, on the otherside of the Chakbast Road, on a big ground was a courtyard for several courts for criminal proceedings. In front of its entrance one could see many innocent villagers surrounding the jugglers. The jugglers demonstrated their arts and cheated the innocent villagers by making interesting speeches to sell their home made primitive medicines. 

 

          Behind the Bungalow, at the back of the servants quarters, was a small canal adjascent to an American Missionary School ´Centenial`. Whenever I got up late and delayed in reaching the school in time I jumped over this canal or climbed over the boundary of the school to attend the class in time. Just a few hundred meters away from this school, near the ´Gomti` river were the ruins of the ´Residency`. During the War of Independence in 1857 the English forces were surrounded there in the fort by the Indian army of Oudh, under the leadership of Begum Hazrat Mahal1.  Even today the marks of heavy shellings of the Indian army are visible at the walls of the ruins. The boys of the Centennial School used to go very often to the gardens of the "Residency" to play and create mischiefs, climbing on the tops of the trees collecting red and green tamerins and enjoying the abusive words of the gardeners. Quite close to the "Residency", at the end of the "Chakbast Road" was the "Balrampur Hospital", where on 5th December 1955 I had seen the popular Urdu poet "Israrul Haq Majaz"2 taking his last breathes. On the other end of the street,

______________________________________________________________________________________________

 

1. Begum Hazrat Mahal never surrendered. She died in Nepal in asylum.

2. Israrul Haq Majaz died due to brain hamarage as a result of heavy drinking.

-3-

behind a big historic but broken gate was ´the White Barahdari of Qaiserbagh` wich is said to have been used by the ruler of ´Oudh` Wajid Ali Shah for the performances of his musicals although some people believe that the ´Marsia` (the poetic funeral notes in commemoration of `Imam Hussain`) by the poet Anis1 were recited there. On the right and left sides of ´Baradari`2 were the two beautiful parks  and at a short distance from there the old palaces which were reserved for the Begums of Oudh and are now known as ´Mahmoodabad House` and ´Saleempur House` etc.

During our studies in the Lucknow University many of my close friends such as Sharib Rudaulvi, Zaki Shirazi, Ashahad Rizvi, Shahid Rizvi and Ammar Rizvi used to come there from their towns to stay. Quite close to Mahmoodabad House was a primitive tea store of a man called Ahmad Ali. Often we sat there and planned our literary activities. Just about a few hundred meters away from there was a big ´Begum Hazrat Mahal Park`, named after the great fighter of the First War of Independence of India Begum Hazrat Mahal. During the British colonial rule it was called ´Victoria Park`.  During my young age I used to play cricket in that park

          I looked once again towards the Bungalow Nr.1 of the Chakbast Road. The descently arranged beds of flowers were now replaced by the large dry grass and straw. The boundaries of the Bungalow were broken here and there. Many small shops of beatles and cigarettes, and ´Aaloo Cholas were standing in front of the boundaries and street-barbers were shaving the villagers. The name plate of my uncle was already removed from the gate.

 

          For a while I stood under an Ashok tree near the boundary of the bungalow. The fresh breeze coming through the leaves gave me a strange relief. My eyes were getting closed. The beds of flowers became fresh.

The clourful flowers were now smiling. The little white flowers of the ´Rat ki rani´3(Lady of the Night) had covered the ground. The atmosphere was filled with fragrance. The birds singing on the trees were chanting louder and the ripe tamerins falling from the tree.

 

          "Please dont spoil the flower beds!"

          This was ´Chowdhry`, one of the gardeners of the Bungalow. With lot of care he used to plant new flowers in the garden and gave them water with affection. When he cut the bushes, it looked as if a barber has placed a little boy on the chair and is now cutting his hair. And when he entered the flower bed to remove the straw, it looked as if a mother is searching louses in the hair of her child. Every day he prepared a bouquet and decorated the writing table of my uncle and on ´Id`3 and ´Baqarid`4 presented beautiful bouquets to my aunt and received rewards.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

1. famous Urdu poet of Lucknow             2. having twelve doors             3. Indian name of a tree         

4. Islamic festival after fasting month       5. Islamic festival for sacrifice 

 

-4-

          Chowdhry was now replaced by ´Ramadin`. He was our old coocher.  Dressed in ´dhoti - kurta` and a small cap on his head he was carrying my cousin brothers and cousin sisters on his cooche to the ´Lamartinier School. He loved his horse very much. For hours he massaged its back with a hard brush. Some times when we picked a hair from the tale of the horse, in order to catch a chameleon, he was very angry with us. Ramàdin died of jaundice in young age.

          My uncle helped  his wife to get a job as a gardener in the ´Womens Garden` of the Lucknow Municipality and allowed her to stay in the servants quarter of the bungalow. Their little,plumpy son Bhagwandin came very often to us and watched us playing with marbles and tops.

          The old memories began to revive:

          I was seven or eight years old. My father had brought me and my mother from Hyderabad to celebrate ´Id` in Lucknow. We were staying with my uncle who was a Chief Executive Officer of the Lucknow Municipality. This bungalow was alotted to him by the government. Several brothers were living together with their families. Still a major portion remained empty. There were big lawns in the outer and inner portions of the house. Several gardeners were employed to look after them. Behind the inner lawn there were servants quarters and an stable for horses. Many kinds of flower beds and bushes and fruit trees as well as a big ´Gulnar` tree with its thousands of red flowers had graced the lawn. In summer the beds were arranged in the inner lawn for sleeping, They were covered with mosquito nets and we could hear the buzzing sounds of the mosquitos and see the glow-worms flying in the garden. During the day time when all were sleeping, we children used to run here and there in the garden, plucked the tamerins and prepared traps with horse hairs in order to catch the chameleons. We also trapped some times the mouses and threw them high in the air for the hawks.

 

          This time also I wanted to run here and there along with other boys. But it was ´Id Day`. My father had broght me and my mother to Lucknow to celebrate ´Id`together with relatives. We were given new clothes. So I did not hesitate and puting on a ´Sherwani´ (a long coat) and a typical Turkish cap went along with others to `Idgah`1 for prayer. After returning from there we took our lunch and went to `Punjabi Tola`2 to celebrate `Id`with my maternal grand father.

 

          Punjabi Tola is a small ward in old Lucknow. Three fourth houses of the ward belonged to my maternal grand father who was a landlord.

He was very religious minded and had learnt Quran by heart. His first wife who was from Bengal and was related to `Khwaja Nazimuddin` (one of the Prme Ministers of Pakistan) had given birth to 14 or 15 children. But only three of them- the elder brother of my mother, my mother and her younger  sister survived

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

1. open place for prayer on Id  2. a mohalla in old part of Lucknow

3. second Prime Minister of Pakistan 1951 to 1953.

-5-

 

          The elder brother of my mother ´Samad` with the nick name ´Babban` had some mental problems and every one was scared of him. Whenever a tenant refused to pay tax to him from the rent, supposed to be paid to his father, he threw small stones at him, calling those stones as ´Jinnis´.

 

          My grand father married again three years later after the death of his first wife.  His second wife was from Kashmir and gave birth to three sons. Two of them were little older to me and one was even younger. There was no English school in Punjabitoal or nearby. Only few religious Hindu and Muslim schools were there. In the day time we played with marbles and tops and were flying kites.

          So on that day also after exchanging the ´Id Greetings` my father went along with some other boys to the upper story of the house to fly kites. Then he had a heart attack and came down and lied on down the bed. He was admitted to the ´King George Medical College´ a hospital known in those days as ´Shahmina Aspatal`1. Eighteen days later he was brought to the Bungalow Nr.1 of Chakbast Road, sleeping on a cott, rapped in a white sheet and smelling strogly of `perfume ´. My mother had fainted of shock and my paternal grand mother was totally broken and hysteric.

 

          After the death of my father my maternal grand -father and my mother tried their best to take me to Punjabitola, but my paternal grand- mother did not want to leave me. She said that ´now I am the only light of her eyes`. And my uncle argued that the atmosphere of Punjabitola is not suitable for my growth. There I will be spending time only in flying kites and playing with pigeons. At Chakbast Road there is an English school, quite close to our house. So my mother had to agreed and I started living at Bungalow Nr.1 along with my grand mother, my uncle, aunt and my cousin sisters and brothers just like a real family.

 

          My paternal grand-mother Hajra Begum was the daughter of Nawab Munsarimuddaula, a minister of Wajid Ali Shah, the ruler of Oudh. I never saw my grand father. It is said that he was a ´Maulvi` (cleric) and leaving his wife and children in India shifted to Mecca and then never returned to India. My grandmother used to tell me the stories of the destruction2 of Oudh. She had to spend her childhood at Matiaburj near Calcutta, where Wajid Ali Shah and his top associates were kept in exile by the British. The entire property of the family was destroyed during the uprising of 1857. Later on she took her children to Jaipur and then from there to Lucknow, But how she managed to do it , is strange to me. It is pity that I did not ask her about it.

_____________________________________________________________

 

1. There is a grave of a freedom fighter of 1857 Shahmina adjacent to the hospital               2. Lucknow and other parts of Oudh were severely destroyed during the freedom battle of 1857 and the British repercussions after 1857.

-6-

 

          Two of my uncles Nooruddin and Nizamuddin also used to live in the same bungalow. Nizam uncle´s wife had already expired without leaving any child behind. But Nooruddin uncle, whom I called Kattu Chacha had several children: Farida, Asif, Majda, Shabboo, Shamsoo,Malka, Naheed and Attoo. Nizam uncle had lived in Calcutta and worked for Bata Company. He could speak Bengali fluently. He was very talkative. It was interesting to listen to him. Nooruddin uncle on the other hand looked rude but was very hard working. He was working as a film operator in a cinema house `Odeon` in Lucknow. Very often we could see films in his cinema without buying tickets.  The oldest uncle Abul Khair had already died before my birth. His wife, whom I called `Bari Amma` lived in the same Bungalow along with her son Najmuddin (Hasnu ) and daughter Sadia. Hasnu bhai and Sadia Apa were brought up under the guardianship of Misbah uncle like his own children. There was also an aunt, the elder sister of my father. She was called as `Munni Baji`and was living at the A.P. Sen Road near the ´Charbagh` railway station. Since the death of her husband `Mahmood Ali`, who was a businessman, she was living in solitary.

 

          Another uncle Wahajuddin, whom I called ´Nannhe Chacha`was professor at the Usmania University of Hyderabad and came very seldom to Lucknow. A brother-in-law of Misbah Chacha, whom I called `Chhote Mamun` came some times from the town of Unnao to stay in the same house. He was very fond of chess. Nizam Chacha and Chote Mamun played chess daily together and quarelled over the moves until the whole board was thrown away. But after a while they were again sitting together playing chess. Finally my aunt got the chess board thrown away in a dustbin and the fighting between Nizam Chacha and Chote Mamun stoped for ever.

 

Misbah uncle was a very religious minded, honest and helping man.

Aparantly a slim and serious person, with harsh tone but internally like a wachs, full of feelings for others. While performing the prayer ´Namaz´or reading Quran he always wept. People used to come to him from distant places to ask for his help. Some one needed employment or wanted admission of his son in some college, or needed financial help. Some body´s relative was suffering from Epilepsy and needed an amulet1. After hearing their request Misbah Chacha answered in such a tone, as if he has refused the request.But in the next moment the same man was returning with happy face and blessing words for him on his lips. Misbah Chacha used to get free passes from all cinema houses of Lucknow. He had just to write a slip to the manager of the cinema house. Some times I went to him, making an innocent face, and asked him for a  cinema pass. His first remark was: "Dont you want to study. Your exams are approaching." It looked as if he was rebuking. But in the very next moment he was writing a slip to the manager of the cinema house: " My nephew is coming. Please give him two passes."

______________________________________________________________________________________________

 

1. After taking bath and performing the prayer my uncle wrote some thing with the blood of a purely white cock and prepared the amulet as a therapy against the Epilepsy.

 

 -7

 

          I never saw him telling lies or doing back biting. He had so much self respect that when the British government awarded him the title of "Khan Bahadur"1, he never used it along with his name. Among his friends and aquantees included politicians like Khaliquz zaman2 and learned men like "Ali Mia" 3 and poets such as Jafar Ali Khan Asar. But he neither took active interest in politics nor wrote any poem. Although his younger brother Wahajuddin4, who was a professor at the Usmania University in Hyderabad went to New York to serve in  the UNO and later on accepted the offer of Ghulam Mohammad, the Governor General of Pakistan, to work as his Press Attache. But Misbah Chacha always refused to leave Lucknow. He was offered the job as Chief Executive Officer of Kanpur with much better salary and also a very good job in the Central Government. But the life and culture of Lucknow was much more dear to him. He never cared for his personal advantages or luxury. Whatever was offered to him to eat he accepted it, thanking God. Of course he was very fond of sweets. Even `Gazak´ of Jaipur or even ´Molassess`(Gur) was enough for him to content. While going out he alway wore a simple Sherwani5 and a matching cap. . But for the dresses and education of his children and in meeting their desires as well as in helping the needy people he was never miser. He never saved money.

 

          A nephew of my grand-mother "Hadi" was very fond of sports. We called him `Hadi Chacha (uncle)´. He was always running here and there in the sports grounds, abusing the players and giving them tips. The players liked him very much and also provoked him to listen abuses and enjoyed his shoutings on the ground. They  took him along to distant places when they went for matches. As my mother and my aunt told me Hadi chacha was a very good swimmer in his young age. During the floods when Gomti6 swallowed he used to jump in the water from the bridge called "Moti Mahal Pul". But now he had a hump in the back and could give only tips to others and abuse them. There was a bust of Hadi Chacha at the Arts College of Lucknow. Hadi Chacha was very fond of Papaya trees. He used to bring the plants of Papaya trees and placed them on the side of the garden. But when the children teased him and enjoyed his abusive remarks he dug out those plants and went to the house of one of my cousin brother `Ehtesham Mahmood Ali`(Shammoo Bhaiya) and stayed there for few days. But only after few days we found Hadi Chacha returning from there with his Papaya plants. He was angry at the atmosphere in Ehtesham Bhai´s house. It was too European and musical for him.

          I was told that Hadi Chacha belonged to a very rich family of Oudh. There used to stand an elephant on the door of his father. But the destruction of Oudh and his own mental problems ruined him. Later on when he fell sick, he could not be treated properly. Still today there is a ward in old Lucknow "Kaptan ka Kuan", which is named after his father.

______________________________________________________________

1. a title given by British for good services             2. a politician of Lucknow who played prominent role in Muslim League. He was also Chairman of Lucknow Municipal Board                    3. late Abul Hasan Nadvi, Head of Nadwa 4. remained Press Attachee until President Iskandar Mirza  5. a long coat used generally by Muslims in India  

6. a river flowing through Lucknow

-8-

 

          After his death detailed reports were published in the local news papers "Daily Qaumi Awaz", "Pioneer", "National Herald" and "Navjeevan" and Ratan Singh recited his short story "Hadi" at a literary meeting of the Progressive Writers Association Luckniw. And only then we realized how great this "Hadi Chacha" was who was teased by the children in order to enjoy his abuses. The women in our family were very scared of Hadi Chacha. Whenever any woman of our family went for shopping to the markets of Aminabad or Nazirabad, wearing  `Burqa`but without covering her face, he loudly shouted: "Gandhi and Jinnah have died asking for real independence in vain, but the Moslem women have got their independence. They are wearing ´Burqa`, but face is uncovered, walking flirting!"

          The women also recognised him from a distance:

          "Hadi bhai is coming. Hadi bhai is coming."  And the veils started falling on the faces quickly. Interestingly he never objected  to a woman who was without Burqa or was a stranger. His victims were only those women who belonged to his family, went in veils but did not cover their faces.

 

          Inside the house the administration was under my grand-mother and my aunt. Every thing was done according to their wish. Misbah Chacha never intervened in their affairs. But outside was the rule of my uncle and his servants. A small room was used as his office. People used to come there from the morning. They never required appointment in advance.  A big hall in the centre of the front portion of the building was used for special guests or some times for gatherings of  poetry recitations. Mostly the government officers interested in Urdu poetry and the prominent poets of the city were invited to those gatherings, such as Jafar Ali Khan Asar, Anand Narain Mullah, Siraj Lakhnavi, Nihal Rizvi, Hazar Lakhnavi and Sharib Lakhnavi etc. These gatherings did not continue  till late in the night like traditional Mushairas.1  Until nine or ten PM all poets had left the house. And now sitting on the dining table2 we had to listen from Misbah Chacha the verses of Hafiz, Sadi, Mir, Ghalib, Iqbal and Kabir and Rahim. He was sorry, that although he remembered the verses of many great poets by heart, but he himself could not write a single verse. Although his younger brother Wahajuddin, whom we called Nanhe Chacha, as Misbah Chacha  told us, was a good poet. I never took much interest in those poets gatherings. I did not like the bureaucratic atmosphere. I was spending my time mostly with the students demonstrations and slogan mongerings and organising literary and cultural functions in different parts of the city and also in acting in radio and stage plays.

Ideologically we both were different. He was a very honest, kind hearted man devoted to his family and religion, who disliked politics. While I favoured socialism and social justice. But he never tried to impose his ideas on me or tried to divert me from my path. The only thing he told me was: "My son, dont neglect your education."  And this increased the great respect for him which I had in my heart.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

1. Social gatherings where Urdu poets recited their verses in direct  contact with audience.  

2. all members of the family used to dine together

-9-

 

          Misbah Chacha retired in mid fiftees. A good portion of the house was taken away from him and given to a gentleman called "Nigam".

          Few years later my grand-mother died and the family was scattered. Kattu Chacha and his family shifted to  another house. Hasnu bhai, who was now working as a Sales Tax Officer took his mother and sister to another town. Nizam Chacha migrated to Pakistan. And after finishing my education at the Lucknow University I was called in 1959 to Delhi to assist Banne Bhai (Sajjad Zaheer) in bringing out an Urdu weekly "Awami Daur". After staying there for two and half years I came to Germany.   The eldest son of Misbah Chacha "Salim" went for medical studies to New York and later joined the Sunny Brook Hospital of Toronto as a cardialogist. The eldest daughter Salma went along with her husband to Baghdad, who was employed at the Baghdad university as a teacher for science subjects. Few years later after seeing the political turmoils in Baghdad he joined the university of Sulemania. After finishing the tenure in Iraq Salma and Iqbal shifted to Nigeria, leaving their two sons Saeed and Masood with grand parents in Lucknow. For Misbah Chacha´s youngest son Salman I managed to get a scholarship in Leipzig and he joined a printing institute there. Later on after going back to India he got a job as German translator at the Bharat Heavy Electricals in Haradwar, a state sector concern built with the technology from Russia and Germany. The youngest daughter of Misbah Chacha, Sabiha had meanwhile married and had four small children.

          Whenever I went to Lucknow on holidy I stayed with Misbah Chacha at Bungalow Nr.1 at the Chakbast Road. My mother had also to stay there in those days. My aunt, whom I called Chachi Amma´`, was suffering from chronic Asthma and my uncle was very worried for her. They loved each other very much. I never saw them querreling with each other. My aunt had always smile on her face and blessings for others on her lips. Even for servants she was always kindful. Misbah chacha never hurt her heart. My mother called her very often as a `God´s cow.`

 

          One day I received a telegramme that she is no more in the world. Her innocent friendly face appeared before me. The same year I went along with my wife Ingrid and daughter Nargis to Lucknow, my uncle was looking very much lost. Again and again tears came from his eyes. While reading the holy Quran he some times closed his eyes and slept while sitting on the chair. The tears were falling on his cheeks.

He was very appreciative that I have come from Germany for condolence. This he mentioned some times to his friends and other relatives also. For hours we talked about Chachi Amma and remembered her great qualities. My mother told me:

__________________________________________________________________________________________

-10-

 

          "You know waht bhabhi (sister-in-law) said to me, holding my hand fast? Qamar Jehan, tell me how many sons I have? I said you have two sons and two daughters. She said no this is wrong. My eldest son "Arif" is in Germany."

          My mother told me that after hearing these words, she could not stop her tears.Because those were the last days of my aunt.

"You are right ´bhabhi`, Arif is your son".  My mother replied to her.

 

          My holidays were about to finish and I had to return to Germany. Misbah Chacha embraced me, Tears were flowing from his eyes:

"My son, pardon me if I have ever hurt you. I cold not do much for you....I feel sorry. My son, life is uncertain. Do never leave my children when I am not there. Dont disconnect relations with them."

"Dont worry Misbah Chacha, I will be coming again, very soon!" I tried to pacify him.

"Do come before the end of December. Dont be late."

 

          I could not understand why he was insisting that I should come before the end of December.

          Unfortunately I could not go to India in December. On the 7th January 1982 I received a telegramme from Sabiha: "Father is no more."

Misbah Chacha´s words were echoing in my ears:

          "My son, life is uncertain. Do come before the end of December."

His sacred , shining face was coming again and again before my eyes. The slim body, medium size, brown colour face with a white holy beared. A mark of praying on the forehead. Strong voice but tender heart. Some times dressed in a "Sherwani" ( long coat) and Aligarh type `Pyjama`, standing behind his driver "Zahoor bhai" to observe prayer and Tarawih1 in Ramadan or reading in his room the holy Quran for hours and some times explaining the meanings of the verses of Hafiz, Saadi, Mir, Ghalib, Kabir, Rahim and Tulsi, at the dining table.

 

          I recalled. Once I had written to him:

          "I have not received your letter since long. It seems you are angry with me."

          He replied me in a long letter:

          "My son, how can I be angry with you. there is not a single day when I do not pray for the welfare of yours and Nargis (my daughter)."

 

          Even today iI feel as if his blessings are with me.

 

          Since after coming to Germany I have come across several dangerous situations:

_________________________________________________________________________________________

1. long prayers with recitation of the long parts of holy Quran during the month of Ramadan,

 

-11-

 

          After working as a lecturer for many years at the Department of Indology in the Humboldt University I had joined the Radio Berlin International as an editor for Hindustani programmes and was also working as an accreditted foreign journalist for few Indian newspapers and magazines. At the same time I continued teaching part-time in the Humboldt University Berlin.

In seventees I worked for few years as a correspondent of the All India Radio and later from 1977 as an accreditted correspondent of the Press Trust of India. While working day and night I developed severe headache. The doctors thought that I was suffering from brain tumour and needed special treatment. I had to spend two months in the ´Charity Hospital`1 of East Berlin facing all kinds of medical tests such as computer tumology, nuclear medical test, puncturing at the spinal cord. Finally the doctors confirmed that I had no illness. I suffered only from lthe Low Bloodpressure and needed glasses. I should do physical exercises and take part in sports. At the same time they prescribed a medicine called ´Foledrin` in order to regulate my blood pressure. I was asked to take tablets thrice in a day, which meant to me that I should take it in the morning at the noon and in the evening. The result was that I lost sleep. When I complained about it to the doctor he prescribed me the `Faustan`tablets ,which were for sleeping and now I was feeling always tired.

 

          On one Saturday I had to work at the radio station. I reached there in the morning.There was no other staff member of our department present. Also in other departments very few faces were to be seen. I collected the news papers and the news agency bulletins from the Duty Room, prepared a 10 minutes news bulletin and went to the Duty Officer, who signed it without knowing exactly the content of the news. Then I went to the studio, shook hand with the technician, waited for few minutes in front of the mike and after getting the signal broadcast the news. Then I went to the canteen took some refreshments and came back to my room to prepare the new bulletin. After reading the news at twelve thirty, two thirty and four P.M. I collected my papers and intended to go home. But now I was feeling very tired, almost sleepy. This must be due to low bloodpressure. I thought. So I put a tablet of Foledrin in my mouth. Then after giving few instructions to the technician I went to the Duty Officer, said him good by and proceeded to my car. The little Beatle car was standing outside the radio station at the parking place. I entered the car, started the engine and pressed the accelerater. For a while I had the darkness before my eyes  and the car hit a lamp post. The lamp post bent. The front side of the car was damaged. But I did not receive a scratch. I felt as if some hidden force has saved me. I just remembered my grand-mother, my mother, Misbah Chacha, Chachi Amma and Sadia Apa, who always used to bless me.

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1. a famous hospital in Berlin

 -12-

 

          Once in Berlin my Audi car was standing at the tram line at a crossing point. There was heavy traffic from both sides. I could not go furhter nor move back.  Suddenly a tram hit the back door of my car. The door was broken, but I was safe.

 

          On another occasion I had gone to cover a conference in Dresden, about 180 km. away  from Berlin. I was returning at about 2 Oclock in the mid-night. My Mercedece was running with a speed of more than hundred Kilometer per hour. There was no other car to be seen on the high way. It  seemed as if a ship is sailing alone in the broad ocean. I was completely tired and feeling sleepy. I slaped several times on my face, pinched my arms, pulled my hair, but it did not help. Just for a while my eyes were closed. Suddenly I felt as if some body has put search light in front of my eyes. I was shocked and opened my eyes. The car was moving towards the Kilometer board. The letters on the board were shining  and  reflecting on my eyes.

 

          Once the West German Chancellor (Prime Minister) Helmuth Schmidt had come to meet the East German President Erich Honecker. There meeting was taking place at a guest house near a lake, outside Berlin. I was covering their meeting as a correspondent of the Press Trust of India. It had become late.  I wanted to reach home as soon as possible. So I was driving fast. Suddenly I felt that snow was falling and the road had become a bit slippery. I must reduce the speed. I thought and pressed the break.The car revolved like a top. By chance there was no other car on the road. I increased the speed again and the car came into control. Also this time I recalled my grand-mother, my mother, my uncle, my aunt and other relatives and senior people whose blessings I am carrying with me from the childhood.

 

 

          After the death of Misbah uncle the atmosphere of the house changed.

His younger daughter Sabiha used to go to a school called ´Kasmiri Mohalla` for teaching and after returning home in the afternoon engaged herself with her children, helping them for their home work. Her husband Shamsuddin, whom we called Shammoo,  worked in the day time in his office in Lucknow Municipality and after 8 pm. in the evening disappeadred in his room. The grand-sons of Misbah uncle Saeed and Masood were now grown up and studying at the St. Francis college. They were considered to be the most intgelligent and deligent students of their college. The younger one Masood, who looked very smart and handsome and was prominent in sports and drammas was elected Captain of the college. Whenever I visited Lucknow both boys remained close to me and tried to help me for every thing. Their parents were still in Nigeria.

They had bought a motorbike for Masood. He took many of  his relatives, coming from outside, on his motorbike for sightseeing in Lucknow.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

-13-

 

It was a rainy season. Greenery and flowers were all over to be seen. Dark gray clouds had covered the sky and the birds were singing on the trees. Saeed and Masood were very happy. Their parents were coming from Nigeria and were on way in Delhi. On the request of their chidren they were bringing a colour TV and many other gifts.

 

There was very heavy rain in the morning. The streets were full of water. Sabiha´s daughters Mona and Sumna were waiting for their rikshaw. They were getting late for school. The rikshaw driver, who was employed for this purpose, did´nt come today. Masood said to Sabiha: "Aunty, I can drop them to their school."

Then he took both of them on his motor bike and went to the ´Lamartiner Girsls School`, which was not very far from thier house. He dropped them at the gate of the school, said good by to them and started his motor-bike. He had gone only few yards away that a jeep came from the other side and hit his motor-bike and leaving the injured boy fluttering on the road disappeared. Nineteen year old handsome and loving boy died on the spot. The whole Bungalow Nr.1 turned into mourning. Two days long the dead body was kept under ice stones, waiting for his parents. But they could not reach in time.

Three days later, when Salma and Iqbal arrived at the `Charbagh` railway station Masood was not there to receive them. ´Perhaps he is in college.` They thought. When they reached home, the Bungalow Nr.1 was surrounded with Sorrowness. Every one was mum. Every eye was wet.

Sabiha told me:

"Bhai jan, I had gone into the bathroom and shut the door from inside. I could not face Apa.1 I did`nt know what to answer her (sister). He (Masood) was her `Amanat`2 to me. He had taken my daughters to drop them to their school. I could not show my face to her."  Then nobody could stop the tears and cries. Salma was now fainted and people were trying to bring her into consciousness.

 

Few weeks later Salma and Iqbal left their elder son Saeed and daughter Sarah with Sabiha at the Bungalow Nr. 1 and returned to Nigeria.

 

Later when I reached there,  I found that the house is almost desserted. Even Mungoose were running here and there, even inside the rooms. The beautiful flower-beds were drying. Nobody was bothering to give them water or to remove the ´ghasphoos`. The tree of `Rat ki Rani`, whose white little folwers covered the ground in the morning, spreding fragrance in the whole house, was now drying out. The tree of ´Gooler`(fig), about which I had heard in my childhood that the fairies come on it and on which I had seen the fat monkies hopping and jumping on the branches and the plants of Bananas and Papayas which reminded me of `Hadi Chacha` were now lying without care. Now there were no sounds of radios and tape recorders. Nobody waited on the dining table for others. On minor

things the eyes became wet and swollen.

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1. elder sister          2. trust

-14-

 

This house where I had spent my childhood. Which was connected with many sweet memories. Where on the lawn I played badminton  with other children, enjoyed the gestures of the girls fo Nari Shiksha Niketan stealing roses and `marigold` flowers, used to climb on the trees of tamerin and ´singhri´ to collect the fruits, climbed over the boundary adjescent to the District Board Office to bring oranges and pompelmoose from its garden and in the inner garden hanged a swing at a thick branch of the `Gulnar` (?)tree and took long swings and jumping over the little canal, behind our house tried to reach the Centennial School in time and listening in the night at the dining table the verses and adivces from Misbah uncle. Now the same bangalow seemed to be biting to all. They were talking of leaving it.

 

Finally the Bungalow Nr. 1 at the Chakbast Road was vacated. In place of this bungalow another building was alloted by the government to Sabiha and along with her husband and children she shifted to the suburb of Lucknow, at Aliganj.1 Salma also took a flat at the Usman Enclave2 in Aliganj and after returning  from Nigeria settled together with her children in the same area.

The contacts with old relatives had now to some extent broken. Aliganj is a bit far from the centre of Lucknow. Therefore not many people visited them.  For me it was a mental torture, that the Bungalow Nr.1 at Chakbast Road was abandoned. I could not think of staying any where else in Lucknow. So I wrote to my mother, that this time I will stay with you at Punjabitola. But when I reached at the railway station "Charbagh"3,  Sabiha was also waiting along with my mother for me.

"Bhaijan, would you not stay this time with me, because `father` is no more?. Will you not stay with your sister? Shamme (her husband) also wants you to stay with us. I will not allow you to go to anywhere else."

Then she turned to my mother:

" `Doolhan Chachi`(aunty) Will you all abandon us? Would you not allow `Bhaijan`(brother) to stay with us? You have also to stay with us. Have you forgotten the will of my father? We should never leave each other."

My mother had to surrender once agiain. Since that time whenever I went to Lucknw I stayed with Sabiha at Aliganj. Ofcourse for some days I stayed at Punjabitola or at Salma´s place also.

 

 

Much has changed now in our family and friend´s circles. Only few old members of the family are left behind. I am one of them. Some years ago my mother also died at the age of 87. She was suffering from Breast cancer and was having a very painful life. Her younger sister ´Sultan Jehan Begum`(Munni Baji) and her daughter ´Nikhat`are still living in Punjabitola, while Munni Baji´s son Javed is now settled with his wife and two children in Mumbai.

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1. area in the suburb of Lucknow           2. a ward                 3.main railway station in Lucknow

 

-15-

 

Kattu uncle and Nizam uncle are also no more in the world. Now there is nobody to tell me about the background of our family. Sadia apa1, still remembers some thing, but her memory is also very dim. Sabiha´s husband Shammoo is also no more there. He died of throat cancer. His two daughter are now married and enjoying a happy life with their husbands. The elder one ´Mona`, whose husband ´Farouque´is running few schools, lives in the new area of Lucknow `Gomti Nagar´. Their two children, a daughter and a son, are still very young. Sumna, the younger daughter of Sabiha, who is married to the grand-son of Ístafa Khan`the oldest producer of tobacco in Lucknow, is now living together with her husband ´Saud`in Dubai. Sabiha´s eldest son Shaikhoo (Salahuddin) and his younger brother Saif (Saifuddin) are now working with banks in Kuweit. They are also now married and have their own family responssiblities.  The eldest son of Misbah uncle ´Saleem` is now settled with his Phillipino wife ´Tina` and daughter ´Khadija/Sheereen` in Canada. After working for many years at the famous Sunny Brook hospital of Toronto, he is now retired and devoting his time in `Dars-o-tadris`2. He rarely visits Lucknow. His younger brother Salman had died in Haradwar of motor bike accident. Salman´s wife is now Principal in a colege at Aligarh and the daughter Suboohi is married and settled near Dubai. Salman´s two sons are studying in Aligarh. Salma´s husband who was working for many year in Saudi Arabia, after completing his tenure in Iraq and Nigeria, has also returned to Lucknow. One of their sons Masood, as I have already mentioned, had died in a motorbike accident. His elder brother Saeed, who was also very intelligent, had gone for studies to USA and died there from virus infection in the presence of his mother and father. The last time I had seen him was in Lucknow, when I accompanied him to a dentist and later at the Indira Gandhi International Airport in Delhi and said him Good-by, when he was going to USA for studies. Salma´s daughters Sarah and Aisha are now married and settled with their husbands and children in Singapore and Sharjah.

While the youngest son Asad is also married and working in Saudi Arabia. Kattu uncle´s eldest daughter Farida and his three sons Asif, Shabbo, Shamsu are also expired. The youngest son of Kattu Chacha  ´Attu` has disappered. Nobody knows about his whereabouts.

I remember, once I was standing at the gate of the Bungalow Nr.1, waiting for a rikshaw. Suddenly a young, strong man came to me and took me into his arms:

"My brother!"

Then he started weeping.  That was Asif, the eldest son of Kattu Chacha.

I noticed that he was a bit drunk. His grips were very strong.

I had difficulty to get rid from him. He was full of affection and weeping physically. We had met after a long time. I had only heard that he was working as a truck driver.

Few months later I was told that Asif has died in a road accident leaving his wife and several children behind.

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-16-

 

Farida´s husband Iqbal Ahmad is doing practice in civil courts of Lucknow and the sons and daughters are now well placed with their families. While Kattu Chacha´s another daughter Majda, who was married to Hasnu Bhai and after his death with a lawyer Mazhar Husain, has now devoted her life for the children and grand children. She has three children from Hasnu bhai Najma, Naeem (Guddu) and Niggo and several children from Mazhar husain. Najma, who is married to a former lawyer Majeed Khan, is teaching in a school.

 

 Among the relatives who had migrated to Pakistan many are no more alive. Those who are still alive remember Lucknow and the old relatives and feel isolated. I will deal their stories in some other capital.

 

Some times when I visited Pakistan many of my relatives showered their love on me and asked about the welfare of their relatives in India. But their number is also reducing. The young generation doesn´t seem to be much interested in old relationships. Many old frieds and well wishers are also no more there. Those, few relatives and friends who are still left behind, are becoming older and older.

 

I myself do not feel any more free in this city. The freedom which I had in my childhood is gone. Now when I want to go out Sabiha will pray for my welfare and say:

"Bhaijan (brother) don´t eat outside. Take your water bottle with you. The water is not good here."

And I think, what kind of city is this? In my childhood I used to drink water on the street, direct from the tab. I used to eat hard roasted grams. I used to climb on the trees and collect tamerins, ´oranges` and `Jaman`. I used to eat  `Laiya`and roasted ´Bhuttas`. I went to the  ´Chand´restaurant in Nazirabad to eat `Pooris`andin `Noori hotel´ to eat ´Kebabs` and in ´Sunder Singh` restaurant to eat `Chholas`. I got ´Seekh Kebabs`from Chowk and ´Malai` from the  ´Ghulam Husain Pul`. 

But now I cannot even drink water freely.

 

"Bhaijan, don´t eat in any ordinary restaurant. Dont drink outside water!"

 

Suddenly the bell of `Nari Shiksha Niketan´rang and the Rikshaw drivers rushed towards the gate of the girls college. Few soldier were carrying two prisoners from the side of the court, tied with handcuffs and ´chains`in their feet,  echoing on the street.

 

 

I looked once again towards the Bungalow Nr.1. My heart was weeping on the ruins of its garden. I wanted to shake strongly the gate of the bungalo and shout loudly. But then I realized, that I am now a stranger here. People will regard me as mad. They might suspect that I am a thief, am a terrorist and have come here from Germany with some malicious plans. I am a Muslim,

am dangerous.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

 

-17-

 

The drops of perspiration appeared on my forehead. I wanted to run away from there.

 

Suddenly a voice caught my attention:

 

"Bhaiya,1 you?"

 

A young , healthy, dark coloured man asked me. His black mostache was shining. This was ´Bhagwan Din`, son of our old coach-driver. Whose mother was emplyoed in the Ladies park of the Lucknow Municipality with the help of Misbah Chacha. Bhagwandin was now working in the U.P. Government Secretariate.

 

"Bhaiya, would you not come to our house?"

"Where?"

"There, near the canal, in the servants quarters."

 

I was siting in the quarter of Bhagwandin. His wife, covering her face with a corner of her sari, served the food in a brass plate.

 

"Bahuji2` aur ´Bitiya`3 ko sath nahi laaye.?" (Why didn´t you bring your

wife and daughter along with you?) 

 

I was drinking the water from a metal glass, which offered me, forgetting what Sabiha had told me:

 

"Bhijan, dont eat outside. Don´t drink water without filter and without boiled."

 

Bhagwandin´s eyes were glittering and I was getting  a strange spiritual strength.                                                                                                   

______________________________________________________________________________________________

 

1. Bruder                 2. your wife             3. your daughter

 

 

Journey to ´paradise`
by
Arif Naqvi




"You are impossible...!"
Tears came from her eyes and spread over her cheeks. The voice trembled. She wanted to tear out Hira's collar and beat  his chest with her fists.
"You are impossible! Are cruel!"
Hira laughed.
"My dear, I am not leaving you. When I get a job in Berlin, I´ll take you along with me and keep you there as a queen. Look at Rajvinder , the son of Murlidhan ...he has opened a big restaurant in Germany. He is earning ´lakhs` of rupees, has become a millionaire. I have heard that he drives a Mercedes, lives in a grand bungalow.  You know he has taken along with him ´walnut` firniture, from Kashmir. Didnt you see. Last year, when he came here, the whole village went to see him. He was received like a king. Wherever he went the girls came out from their houses ..."

Hira tried his best to convince Surjeet. But her tears didn't stop.
"To hell...!"  She screamed. The ´Kajal`in her eyes had scattered due to tears. She was mad at Hira. Hira was every thing to her. He was the central point of her thoughts, her life and of her joys. She couldn´t imagine life without Hira. Also Hira loved her very much. He could not live for a moment without Surjeet. He did not have time any more to meet friends and relatives. They had loved each other since childhood. Now they had been meeting secretly in the mice fields or in the mango garden. Their parents had also given their consent and got them engaged. There was a grand celebration on their engagement.  The whole village had gathered to dance ´Bhangra` and along with delicious food and different juices, local wine was also served. Now they were waiting for the day when Hira´s 'high school' results would be announced and they would be tied in family bonds. She was dreaming for that day and considered herself the most fortunate girl in the village.

Today she had decorated herself nicely and came with ´Sattu` and ´Laddu` to meet Hira in the mango garden. The full moon was shining with its splendour and its light was manifesting redness of her cheeks. The stars were twinkling on the blue sky and a bird was singing to please his partner. The ragas of the sounds of the air passing through the leaves of the trees made the atmosphere very pleasant. She wanted to give in herself into Hira's strong arms, wanted to close her eyes and sink in  colourful dreams. But Hira had broken her feelings. His laughters and words were now tearing out the dreams of Surjeet. The songs of cuckoo and the melody of the nightingales and the Ragas of the air were changed into the hissings of a snake and biting her ears.
"You are cruel!"
Surjeet said again and released herself from his arms, she disappeared.

The next day there was a storm in Hira's house. Hari Singh sat full of rage in his courtyard, staring at the sky. His mother, Rajni Kaur, sat in a corner, shedding tears. Sadness had covered the whole house. Hira had informed them that he wanted to go to Germany and needed six hundred thousand rupees for it. Hira´s father looked again and again towards his oxes and to the trees in his courtyard. And mother opened and closed her box again and again, looking at her jewellry.  Six hundred thousand, the entire earning of her husband and the seperation of the son. She felt as if her breast might explode.
"Father, I´ll pay you back each and every ´paisa´! I´ll earn a lot in Germany. I´ll take you and mother with me as well. Even a worker is getting there two thousand Euros, one and a quarter ´lakh rupees´. You will also have a nice life.
"Shut up, baster! Had your mother produced you for this day!"
Hari Singh trembled out of rage. His eyes had become red. His turban had fallen to the earth. Hira did not say anything. He stood silently in a corner. His head bowed. Far from them on a tree a crow was shouting ´kaen, kaen´.

A few days later he was siting in an ordinary resaturant in Amritsar, tearing the leg of a roasted chicken. In front of him sat a clean-shaved man, wearing a turban and a thick green goggole, pouring bear through his throat, holding Hira´s photos in his hands. The men at nearby tables were unconcerned with them.  They were busy tearing the legs of their roasted chickens. A film song was coming from a radio hanging in a corner of the wall.
                               
"It is very difficult to get a passport. One hundred thousand are given to officers. It is not a journey to Jidda or Dubai. One lakh has to be given to officers for passport. Two hundred thousand to the Travelling Agent. Visa is also to be arranged. Something is to be given to others also. It cannot be done in less than six hundred thousand. The fair is also not cheap. I had already told you before. Not less than six hundred thousand rupees."
His tone was rude. His eyes behind his spectacles were fixed on Hira´s face.
"Praji", Sir...his voice didn't come out of his mouth.
"I have only this much, at the moment." He gave him an envelope.
"One hundred thousand. The rest I will pay you soon. I promise."
"Dont worry! It will also take a few months to get a passport. By that time you can manage it."  Man's tone became soft.
"Take it, drink  beer. You are going to Europe. You will not get Lassi there. You will be bathing with beer. You are lucky. You will enjoy life." He called the waiter, paid the bill and went out of the restaurant, leaving Hira behind. 

Hira had seen this man for the first time a year ago, when he visited Hira´s village, as his old comrade Rajvinder Singh had come there from Germany. People from far away came to greet him.
Also this man was coming often to meet Rajvinder Singh and siting among the village boys showing his album and  narrating the stories of Germany. And then one day he had advised Hira to go to Germany and try his fate there. But who was this man? Where did he live? Hira never dared to ask these questions. He knew only that he was Buta Singh, a friend of Rajvinder and that he belongs to a travelling agency. Also this time while delivering him the envelope with one hundred thousand rupees Hira could not dare to ask for receipt. He didn't even know his address or phone number. But Hira was sure that he will not cheat him. He was exited. The pictures of Germany were dancing in front of his eyes. The Mercedes and Volkswagon cars were running around him.

A few days later Hira's mother's jewelry box was empty. The oxen had disappeared and the house of his father was given on mortage. Surjeet came still to meet him in mango gardens, but her happiness and wanton were lost and her eyes swollen. She was neither interested in the glittering stars nor in the milky moonlight. The darkness in her heart had covered her life.   

Hira was siting in a nice restaurant in a posh colony of New Delhi, drinking coffee. Buta Singh was  siting near him. In front of them sat a short stranger, making smoke rings in the air. This was the first time in Hira Singh´s life that he had drunk coffee. It was bitter and he was feeling nauseous. But he was happy. He had an envelope in his hand, that contained his passport and an air ticket. Another envelope was in the hand of the stranger with notes of three hundred thousand rupees. The eyes of both of them were fixed on their envelops. Their eyes had strange shines. Hira´s heart was beating fast. His curiosity had increased. He wanted to ask many things. But before he could formulate his questions the stranger got up from his chair, patted his shoulders, shook his hand and went out of the restaurant. 
"Would you like to eat some thing?" asked Buta Singh and ordered a dish.
" He is very pleased with you. He likes you. The rest of the money your father can pay after you have reached Germany," said Buta Singh and he began giving instructions about the journey.
"You will go first to Russia, then from there to Poland, then to Germany and in Germany..."

A few days later Hira left his village, his mice fields and mango garden, his broken father, crying mother and dejected beloved and went in search of the paradise of the world.

It was the first time in his life he had experienced such snow. Some times in his village he had enjoyed the raining hails and collected thick hail falling  from the sky, heard complaints from his father against the frost on the trees and saw the liquid pearls on the leaves. But he could never dream of such heavy snow. It looked as if thousands of tons of  silver powder was dropping from the sky, covering the trees like thick white cotton. The entire forest had changed into snow white land. Entering into the gloves and shoes the snow had melted and pierced like knives. The lips were frozen. It was difficult to open his mouth. He didnt have energy to remove the snow from his face.
There were seven people in his group, himself, a young man from his village, Ajay Singh, whom he came to know after reaching the international airport in Delhi, Baqar Ali, a school teacher from Bareilly, wearing a long traditional coat and a cap, an amulet around his neck and a green  ´Imam zamin` and murmuring holy verses holding a string beads and was now a friend of Hira. There were three other young men. One of them seemed to be a south Indian and the two from Punjab. They had no turbans on their heads, but the metal rings in their hands betrayed their origin. He had seen them in the plane, but gave them no importance.  They were led by a fair coloured, strong Polish man, covered from top to bottom with thick woolen clothes, giving them instructions in broken English. He had seen this Polish man for the first time after coming out of the Warsaw airport, when he himself came to them, welcomed Hira and his companions and introduced himself as their guide. He had taken away their passports. And now these six Indians were walking behind him through the frozen forests of Poland.

At midnight, when the howling of the wolves became louder, they arrived in front of an old deserted house. Around the house stretched thick wires and a part of the outer gate was covered by snow. The Polish man took out a bunch of keys from his pocket and opened the door. Then he went to the courtyard and opened the inside lock and asked all of them to enter the house. Then he took them to a room, where a broken sofa and few mattresses were lying.
"Today you have to rest here. Tomorrow we have to walk much."
He took out a bottle of brandy from the cupboard.
"Take it, warm up your throats." Then he brought mice bread and some sandwiches on a tray and placed it in front of them.
"Don't make noise. Don't go out. Dont switch on the light. If the police comes to know, we will be in great trouble.You will be arrested. Lie down here quitely. I am in the next room."
Nobody dared to ask anything. The light was switched off. Every one lied down where he was.      

Some beautiful girls were dancing, holding Hira in their tender arms. Their big, attractive blue eyes looked full of stormy tides. The hearts were beating with desire. Girls with different shades of golden hair were embracing his head and gently rubbing his cheeks. The hall was echoed with the sound of pop music and laughter. The coulourful lgihts were glittering and bodies touching each other. Then lots of dishes were arranged on the table with Indian, German, Hungarian, Russian, American and Italian food : chicken, fish, crapes, mutton, vegetables, fruits, puddings, cakes and icecream and different colourful wines. The glasses were making music, lips touching each other and the sound of the wine glasses had added to the charm of music. And now he was driving a golden mercedes car through a big German city.  A beautiful young blond girl sitting at his side was trying again and agian to put her arms around his neck. A few othe girls siting on the back seat were joking with each other. He was driving fast neglecting red, green and yellow traffic lights. Suddenly the girl sitting at his side pulled him to her and put her burning red lips on his lips. The car struck a lamp post. Á traffic constable rushed towards them and was suddenly transfered into the figure of Surjeet:
"If you brought a ´gori´ (a blond girl) I´ll scrach her face..."
Startled, Hira opened his eyes. The howlings of wolves was coming nearer. A boy lying on his side was was weeping. Another boy was snoring loudly. The third one was fluttering with pain on his mattress. Baqar ali sat in a corner, on the carpet, murmuring something. Tears were flowing from his eyes. The cold biting air was coming through the rifts of the window in the room, cutting the bodies like sword.

He remembered his father, who took out a Mortage on his house, his mother who had sold her ornaments and said goodbye to him in tears, his beloved who had given him one last kiss in the mango garden and said: "You are impossible. If you brought a ´gori´ I´ll scratch her face!" The dancing mice fields in which he secretly met Surjeet and inspired from intoxicated smell of the spikes of corn bounced here and there, climbed on mango, jamun and orange trees and heaped the fruits before her feet. But now he was  wandering along with a small caravan in the forests of Poland, in search of paradise. At the moment they had neither a Mercedes car, nor Volkswagon. They had just an old deserted house, where they had come for refuge in the night and freezing in cold.

They did not know when the morning came. The windows were covered by thick curtains and they were not permitted to remove them. The Polish man came into the room with a coffee thermos and a few plastic glasses in a tray.
"Good morning!" he greeted gently and went out of the room. After a while he came again to them with some sandwiches and little gram soup.
"Take it. Tonight you have to walk a lot. Look, you dont have passports. It will be bad if the police notice. You will be in difficulty. I´ll also be in difficulty. We have to be very careful. The German borders are still far."
Then he turned to Hira:
"Your father has not yet paid the full amount. He still has to pay two hundred thousand rupees. Only after he has paid the full amount, you can cross the German border.  You are going to a big country. It is not a children's game. It is the richest country in Europe, paradise on earth. If your father didn't pay the money your life will be in danger.

In another corner a young boy was coughing loud and crying.The Polish man took out a tablet from his pocket and gave it to him. "Take it. This will help!"
"He has fever, Sir." murmered another boy.
"What can I do. There is no doctor here." The Polish man got irritated. Nobody dared to open his mouth again.

In the darkness they started their journey again. For three weeks they had been doing the same. During the day they took refuge in the forest or in some deserted house and at night fall they resumed their journey. Jogender Singh´s cough and fever
had increased. He was not able to walk any more. Others were helping him and some times pulling him.  Baqar Ali was limping. Also Hira´s legs had no power to go further. He was feeling as if he will die in the forests of Poland and the wolves will tear his body.

Suddenly the Polish man said in low voice:
"There, there is German border. Go straight. Dont be afraid!"
Then he disappeared in the darknes of the night. Hira looked back. Two people were missing in his caravan: Jogender Singh, who had died on way and his comrades had left him in forest alone and Balbir Singh, whose shoes were broken and feet bleeding and was left much behind limping and the howlings of wolves were getting closer to him.

As they walked forward the Polish soldier saw them, but he turned his back and went ahead guarding the border. After crossing the forest they reached a river. Two soldiers were guarding there. "Seem to be German." he thought. They also ignored them. As if they were not human beings. Also Hira and his comrades disappeared in the darkness of the night. In expectation that an angel will come to them and guide them to Paradise of the earth and arrange a good job in a big city of Germany. Also they will be having nice bungalows, new Mercedes cars and bundles of notes in their pockets.

A few weeks later stood Hira in a court of Germany. The police had arrested him and his comrades and brought them before the court. An Indian interpreter, who could not speak Punjabi correctly, was called to translate his statement.
A middle aged woman in a black gown sat in the judge's chair, removing again and again with a handcurchief the sweat pearls from her face.

"How did you come here?"
"I dont know."
"Who brought you here?"
"I dont know."
"At which airport did you land?"
"I dont know."
"You came by train or by bus?"
"Dont know."
"Where is your passport?"
" I dont know."
"You should know some thing."
" I know nothing. I dont understand English or Hindi." said Hira in Punjabi.

"He doesn´t  know his mother tongue? Please tell him, that if he refuses to give any statement, he will be deported to India."
The interpreter tried his best to convince him:
"Say at least some thing. Otherwise you will spoil your case."
"Then please help me. What should I do?"

Hira explained that in his village his life is in danger. The terrorists come and
beat him and ask for food. They ask to raise slogans for ´Khalistan`.  After they leave come the policemen, beat him saying that he was helping the terrorists. His life is threatened in his village. Therefore he has come here.
One by one all were produced before the judge. Their statements were recorded. All of them explained their difficulties. But they did not know who brought them to German borders, which agent had arranged their passports and air tickets. They knew nothing.

Today they are sitting again in a boeing plane. The hostess  has just finished serving food and now she is returning with a trolly of drinks.  The plane is flying over the snow covered mountains, crossing through the thick clouds. Hira Singh is lost in thoughts. In his mice fields the grass has grown, the mango branches have dried and the leaves became yellow. His father is sitting in front of a small hut, staring at the sky. The eyes of his mother have dried and developed cataract. In her torn clothes she is sitting on a cot, eating bettle leaves. And Surjeet , covered with colourful dress and ornaments, having 'sendur' in her hairs taking swinging together with a young man in the mango garden.  And the debuters running towards him.

Hira was frightend. Tears came out of his eyes and rolled on the cheeks. His plane was still playing hide and seek with the clouds. The snow covered mountains under the plane were smiling ironically.
He raised his eyes and fixed them on the roof of the plane, as if he wanted to get away from the plane and say:
"Oh God, let the plane keep playing with the clouds or leave me on a snow covered mountain, in a paradise. So that I am saved from the disgrace in the village."


 

 

 

THE SHOE SHINE BOY 

By: Arif Naqvi

 

 

"God will help you!"
A young woman was walking behind me. She had a small baby in arm.
"He is hungry. Something for milk. God will help you."
She was thirty, thirty five, dark, well built. Her Sari was upto the knee, dirty and torn. Half her breast was comming out of the blouse. Her straw hair was full of dust. The baby, which looked starving, clung to her arm like a baby ape.

I did not stop, went on. Two small girls started following me. Seven, eight years old, with dirty skirts and torn blouses, straw hair. Their cheeks were hollow. They also seemed to be starving.
"Sir some money. I am hungry. Sir I need food." Both of them had the same words on their lips.

A young thirteen, fourteen year old boy was approaching me.
"Evening news. Evening news. Latest news..."

I did not pay any particular attention to them and went straight into a shop. Saw some suits and marvelled at their high quality.

It was only one year since I had been here. Every time when I came on holidays, from Berlin, I was surprised at the changes taking place here The shops were better decorated. They had an abundance of things, plenty of variety. Dresses were prettier and more modern, close to the European taste. Colours were fine. Designs were more decent. All kinds of goods were available, Indian, European,
Japanese. And the hair styles of the women comming out of the cars and three wheelers, were more fashionable. Along with the old shops of the Cannaught Place, a big park was stretched out with a gigantic fountain in the centre, throwing colourful waters.
"Peanuts, roasted grams, massage, baloons..." Hawkers were shouting.

A short distance away, there was a small hill, covered with grass. Many people were relaxing on the soft grass after the days hard work. Some young couples found refuge there for ramance. Under the hill there was a big air conditioned market, Palika Bazar, full of garments, shoes, souvenirs, radios, recorders and all kind of other things. Countless radios and tape recorders were echoing simultaneously and the shop keepers were shouting loud to attract the customers. The couples sitting over the top of the Palika Bazar were unaware of all this. Not far away was a big cinema house, with huge posters of the actors and actresses.
The night was getting darker and chilly. The show cases were becoming brighter.

I felt proud of my country, my capital and my Cannought Place. I wished many of my friends, who knew India as a country of beggers, monkeys, cows and snakes and elephants should come here and have a look at all these things. I recalled. I had once seen a movie called "Taboos of the world" in the Zoo Palast, a cinema hall in Berlin. It illustrated merely poverty and backwardness in Indian cities and especially "marghats" at Varanasi.

"Sir, polish. Boot polish!"
My thoughts were broken. A young, ten twelve year old boy was standing in front of me, wearing a short pant and shirt, a torn pullover and broken rubber sandal. His face was dark, round with a wide nose, small chinese eyes, short hair and two sticking out teeth. He carried a dirty pouch in his hand.

"Sir, polish."
I did not wat to take any notice of him.
"Sir first class polish." The boy followed me.
"No, I don´t want any. I have no time." I said quickly and went on.
"Sir, I´ll make your shoes shine. Sir, first class polish. Sir, look your shoe is dusty."
I got anoyed.
"Ive had a polish today. I dont want any more. Don´t waste your time. Try to find some other customer." I tried to get rid of him.
"I had no customer sir. Please let me polish your shoes."
I stoped. There was pain in his voice.

"Sir, I have been roaming around for many hours. I had no customer today,. I´ll do a first class polish."
"Take it. don´t bother me."
I gave him a rupee note and tried to get rid of him. I don´t know what his face looked like, as he was taking the money. I didn´t want to look in his eyes.

"Sir!" The boy took out a piece of cloth from his pouch. "Let me atleast remove the dust from your shoes. Otherwise it will mean I am begging."
"All right, polish them. I´ll give you another rupee." I stretched my right foot towards him.

The boy was pleased. He immediately sat down, took out a piece of cloth from his pouch, placed it on his knee and then asked me to put my right foot on it. Then he opened his pouch again. Took out a few small bottles and brushes and pieces of cloth. Very carefully he removed the dust from my shoes with a brush and started rubbing the white cream till it properly dried. Then he asked me to remove my foot and put my left one on his knee. He applied the same method on the left foot. Then he again asked me to put my right foot on his knee. He sprayed few drops of water on the shoe, and on polish, wrapped his three fingers with a small piece of cloth and started rubbing my shoe till it was shining. Then he took another piece of cloth, a little bigger, and holding both ends of the cloth, started rubbing it on my shoe to give it a perfect shine. He did the same thing with the other shoe too.
I was really pleased. The shoe was shining like a mirror. My new blue suit also looked better. I liked the boy.
"How many shoes have you polished today?"
I had forgotten, what he had just told me: "Sir I havn´t had any customer today."
"This is the first shoe. You are the first person. Iv´e had no customer today."
"Why have you only just arrived?"
"No Sir, I have been here for many hours. But nobody wants polish from me. Because I don´t have the box, dont have all the things. Other boys have boxes. They have stands, on which people can put their foot."

"Why don´t you have it?"
This question was also foolish. I realized it.
"Sir, it is very expensive."
"How much?"
"Twenty five rupees."
His eyes were saying, that for these twenty five rupees countless of his desires have died before they could mature. Very often perhaps he had to starve.
I gave him few notes from my purse.
"Don´t waste them."
With wide, astonished eyes the boy stared at me. Life had come on his face. His hands were trembling. He could not even thank me. I didn´t want to hear it either. I went on.

"Sir!"
The boy called me again. He was walking behind me.
"What´s matter now?" Now I was annoyed. What does he want now?
"Sir, where should I meet you tommorrow?"
The boy asked in a very innocent way. I could not be angry.
"Why? Have you still anything on your mind?"
"No Sir, I have to show you the box. Otherwise you will think , that I have wasted the money. You will think, that I am false."

I just wanted to take him in my arms and kiss him. For me he was a prince.

I never saw him again. I never wanted to meet him. otherwise he would have thought I don´t believe him. His words are ofcourse still fresh in my mind.

"Sir, let me atleast remove the dust from your shoes. Otherwise it will mean I am begging...Sir, I have to show you the box. Otherwise you will think, that I have wasted the money. You will think, that I am false."

I still remember his face. Ten, twelve year old, dark complexion, round face with a wide nose and little Chinese eyes, short hair and two long teeth sticking out and a dirty pouch in his hand.
I don´t know his name, or whether he was a Hindu or a Moslem or a Christian. For me
he was a shoe shine boy. Who was himself shining.

(Experienced in New Delhi in February 1984)

.................................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

 

A Carrom board

Short story

by Arif naqvi

 

  "Scheisse"!

  The plate was broken into pieces. With a small  piece of cloth in her hand

she was drying the plate when it sliped down and broke into pieces. This

 was a very dear plate to her. Every time after washing it she kept it very

carefully in the cupboard  like an ornament. And when guests praised her

Meissen-China-set, she told them proudly:

"Yes, we got this set on our marriage. Those days it was not so expensive.

Now its price has gone up many times."

 

  Meissen-China-sets, which were produced in a small town Meissen near 

Dresden, were considered to be white gold in the eastern part of Germany

Only rich people could afford them. Therefore Monika was specially proud

of her tea set and used it only on specious occasions. But now she was

feeling as if she has lost her most precious and dearest thing.

 

 "Scheisse!" came once again on Monikas lips. Putting aside the cloth, she

bent down on the floor and collected the broken pieces of the plate. She put

them into a plastic bag and began drying other pots. After keeping them

carefully into the cupboard she went to the balcony and stared into the

atmosphere. After a while she went again to the kitchen, opened the plastic

bag, took out a piece of the broken plate and rubed it gently like a mother

embracing her wounded son and rubing gently his head. Tears came out of

her eyes and spread on the cheeks. Ten year old memories became fresh.

 

  It was a pleasant winter night. The mountains of Thyringia forest were

looking white.  Fine silvery snow was falling from the sky . The trees and

mountains were covered with snow and  became white. Young boys and

girls had formed snowmen and were throwing snowballs on each other.

People dressed in colourful winter tracs ran with Skis, losing their balance,

falling on the snow,raising again and sliding on the slopes, giving others a

chance to laugh.

 

 Monika and Peter were studying those days in an engineering college of

Berlin. They loved each other since childhood. Their parents never objected

to their affair. When they told them about their intention of going in winter

holidays to a hilly town of Thyringia, they even gave them money for winter

shoes and skis. And now they were enjoying the most interesting holidays

of their life in Oberhof.

 Monika collected some snow from the ground, made a big ball of it, threw it

at Peter and laughed like a child. Peter removed the snow from his face, also

collected some snow, rushed towards Monika and rubbed it on her face.

Then he changed the direction of his skis, which were tied under his feet,

pressed the sticks, which he was holding in his hands on the ground and

quickly disappeared. After a while he turned the direction of his skis, and

sliding fast on the slope, reached  Monika. She received him with

open arms. Both of them could not maintain balance. They  lost the grip on

their sticks  and falling down the slope, rolled a distance.

While returning to the guest house their bodies were shivering from cold.

The teeth were grinding, blood was freezing and the snow, which had

penetrated into the gloves and had melted, war hurting the fingers. Peter

closed Monika again and again into his arms pressing and rubbing her back

and arms with his thick hands. Both of them rubbed each others hands, hopped

and sprang and ran towards the guest house in order to warm themselves

up. Monika was neither interested in the snow covered milky mountains

shining behind her nor in the gentle silver snow falling from the sky nor in the

people running and falling on snow.

 After reaching the guest house Peter took out a bottle of Brandy,  poured it

into a glass and offered it to Monika:

 "Take this. This will help against cold". Then he took the bottle to his mouth.

They changed their dresses and sat down near a heater. Peter took another

peg of Brandy and sitting on the floor put his head on Monika´s lap and

closed his eyes. Gently Monika´s fingers kept playing with his hair.

"Moni, let us marry!" Said Peter in a dreaming voice.

"With a bore like you?"

Peter sprang from his place. Holding Monika´s face in his hands he said:

"A better husband you won´t  get!"

"Why not my prince. How handsome you are: Tall like a camel, broad like an

elephant, a long goblet-shaped neck of a crane, nose as beautiful and

bending as a beak of a parrot  and the shining gray eyes of a cat and white

sparkling teeth of a mouse."

"And you? You look more beautiful than a little white mouse."  Darling, only

an idiot will marry you."

"Yes, an idiot will marry me."

Both laughed loudly and embraced each other. The night became more

beautiful.

 Few months later they were married. It was an ideal pair. Every one admired

them. They were always together - in cinema, in theatre, in disco, on picnic,

every where. Whenever they attended a party, it thrilled with jokes and

laughters.They always took care of each others interest. After completing his

education Peter was employed in a factory as engineer. Monika got a job

as a Secretary in an office. The office also provided her a cheap flat.

And the parents gave them money to decorate it. They were now enjoying a

very pleasant life.

One day when Monika informed Peter that she was going to become mother,

his joy knew no bonds. That night he took so much alchohol, that he could

not go to work the next morning and remained lying the whole day in bed.

They made numerous plans, bought a car, video camera, pram. He

brought every day lots of fruits and insisted that Monika should eat them in

order to get energy. Sometimes they disputed  if it will be a son or daughter,

look like mother or father, with eyes brown or blue, hairs dark or blond.

Many names were suggested, but each of them was imperfect and led to

long discussions. And when they could not decide they laughed louder and

took each other into arms.

 Gradually Monika lost interest in outings. She was not  going any more to

restaurant or bars. She had no interest in visiting friends and relatives. Peter

also asked her seldom to accompany him to a party. After office

hours he mostly went alone to his friends and until midnight spent time in

a restaurant or pub. Now he was drinking more beer. Friends used to remark

on his large belly. Monika never complained to Peter about his absence. She

was occupied with thoughts of ´comming Peter`, lost for hours in thoughts

and dreams. She didnt  even bother if Peter has come late or was without food

and was in a bad mood.

 After the birth of the baby they distanced from each other further. They

always found fault with partner and quarreled on little things. Peter was now

seldom to be seen at home in the evening and when he asked Monika

to accompany him to some party she refused flatly.

 Today was the tenth anniversary of their marraige. Peter had come homw early.

He had brought a bouquet of ten roses and a beautiful present.

Monika had prepared a cake. But after taking coffee Peter had gone to his

friends leaving Monika alone to wash the pots and look after the child. And

now at the loss of the plate she was feeling as if thousand year old ties had

broken in a jerk.

                                                 

 "Scheisse!" Came to Monika´s lips again. She wanted to throw the piece

of the broken plate at Peter´s head, but he was already gone and was  now

drinking beer in a pub. The next day also her mood was off. She was ready to

quarrel with Peter. But her girlfriend Maria had come with her husband and

inviting them to go swimming at the nearby Sports and Recreation Centre.

Monika and Peter could not resist. It a was Sunday and they had no excuse.

They enjoyed swimming in the swimming pool, tried to brown their bodies

at solarium, took ice cream in the bar of swimming pool and went round the

Sports Centre, watching different indoor games. While they were walking

thorough a big hall on the first floor  they saw some people playing a strange

game. Monika stopped near a board.  The young boys sitting on the two sides

of the board facing each other took no notice of her.

Their fingers were moving on the board. It was a wooden flat and square

board, about 1x1 sq. meter big, with a hole with net on every corner. In the

centre of the boards there was a small circle surrounded by a bigger circle

and on four sides of the playing surface two parallel black ines and red

circles were drawn and several small round and flat wooden pieces were

lying on the playing surface of the board.

 "What is this game?" Monika asked a young boy.

 "Carrom! An Asian game." He answered gently and turned his face towards

the board.

 The young boy put a red piece in the central circle, which was marked red.

Then he arranged one by one two white pieces to make a white Y around

the red piece. Then he put three black pieces between each of the gaps of

the Y making three small black Vs and inserted one white piece between each

black V. Thus a beautiful flower was formed in the centre of the board. With

the help of his all ten fingers he tightened the wooden flower, gave a slight

turn to his belt, took a little bigger round plastic piece in his right hand,

placed it on his base line, made an angle and with the tip of his first finger

made a stroke. The striker hit the opponent´s border and then hit the pieces.

Two white pieces travelled straight to the pockets on the corners. One by

one he pocketed two more white pieces. The next piece didnt go to the

pocket. Now his opponent  was trying to pocket his black pieces. Monika

was watching their game keenly. Also Peter, Ralf and Maria were

fascinated.

The young boy who was pocketing the black pieces also pocketed the red

one and then one of his black pieces and shouted:

 "Confirm! Queen cover!"

 "Queen?" Monika asked astonishingly.

 "Yes Madam, the red one is called Queen." The young boy replied.

 "Is there no king?"

 "Who cares for males, Fraulein, all love Queen. That is why the pieces are

arranged arround the queen." He laughed loud.

"Play your shot. Your are taking time." The other boy was getting bored

with their conversation. Peter, Maria and Ralf had moved towards other

boards. Monika also left the place.

Next day when Peter didn´t turn up straight from office and Tony had slept, 

went Monika to the Sports Centre. She collected the Carrom pieces and

striker from the counter and took place in front of a Carrom board in a

corner near the glass window, playing alone. Soon her thumb started paining. 

Every time when she tried to strike, her nails pierced the thumb and pained

and striker went to a wrong direction. She got bored and wanted to leave the

place, as the young boy, whom she had seen there a day before, came to her

and said:

 "Fraulein, don´t put your nail on the thumb, place it on the board, on the

playing surface, on the side of your thub. Then you will be able to pocket it

and have no pain and enjoy the game." 

He said seriously and without asking for Monika´s permission, took seat in

front of her.

 "Come let us play!"

 He said frankly and started arranging the pieces on the board. Monika got

up:

"Sorry, I am getting late."

 She collected the pieces in a small wooden box returned them at the counter, 

and left the Sports Centre. For weeks she didn´t go to the Sports Centre.

Sometimes she remembered that old strange Asian game,

and that young boy whom she had treated so unfriendly. But she did not

dare to go there alone.

 

 Life was moving in its normal course. Whole day in office, evenings with

the child, washing clothes, preparing food and watching films on TV. Peter

seldome came early and when he was at home he spent time watching TV 

drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. The room was full of cigarette smoke.

It was suffocating Monika. She went to the other room and opened a novel or

magazine. And when Peter didn´t change his routine and failed to stop

coming home late, Monika could not tolerate it. Her steps moved towards

the Sport Centre. Also the following night she returned late from the Sports

Centre. Peter came home at 10 O´clock in the night, but Monika was

not there. The pots were lying in the kitchen unwashed. Little Tony was

sleeping in his room.  After awhile, Peter was also sitting in the Sports Centre

in front of a Carrom board. He was placing carefully the pieces on the board

and Monika was explaining to him as if she was an expert in this game. 

A short distance away,  the same young boy, whom he had seen there on

first day, was busy playing Carrom with his friend, unconcerned with them. At

another table a few girls were enjoying Carrom. Their laughter was disturbing

others.

 

 A year has passed. Today is the 11th anniversary of their marriage. Peter

has presented Monika a bouquet of 11 red roses. Maria, Ralf and and few

other friends are also invited. Toni is now ten year old and is running here

and there in the room. Outside the room, trees are once again covered with

silvery snow.  Children are throwing snowballs at  each other and enjoying

the white snow shower. Monika has prepared with great love annanas and

Strawberry Cake. Peter has opened an expensive Remmy Martin bottle

and filled the glasses with alchohol. Beautiful pop music is echoing in the

room. Also today the Meissen China set has been taken out of the cupboard.                            

But no plate or cup is broken. After finishing coffee, Monika washed the pots

carefully. Peter dried them with a cloth and put them back gently in

the cupboard. Then they opened their joint present.  It was a Carrom board.

All friends clapped and  appreciated it.

                                                 

 After dinner was over, they placed the Carrom board on a stand.

Monika and Peter sat in front of the board as partners facing each other and

Maria and Ralf on other sides as their opponents. The small wooden pieces

ran across the board. Tony tried sometime to stretch his little hand towards

board. He also wanted to play. All laughed at his innocence. Other friends

took out playing cards and started playing Skatt. For Monika this was the

most beautiful evening at home. Late night after the guests had gone,

Monika collected the pieces and kept the Carrom board in a corner as gently

as she put her Meissen set in the cupbord. Then she put her arms

around the neck of Peter. The lights were switched off. Monika and Peter

were dancing to a beautiful music.

 

 The next day Monika and Peter came home earlier from work. Tony had already

come from school. The Carrom board was standing in the same corner where

Monika had kept it a day before. A big pot with water was lying near by. A

sponge was swimming in it and a soap was lying on the floor. Wasser spots

were visible on the board.

 Toni rushed to his mother and put his arms around her neck and kissed

her cheek as if he wanted recognition of his achievement. But seeing the

seriousness on her face, he got scared and went straight to a corner.

Peter wanted to say something, but in anger, he found no words he could utter.

 

 "Scheisse!"

 Said Monika once again. She tried to dry the board with a piece of cloth,

but the spots were more visible. The lines faded. Two drops of tears fell on

the board. There was quiteness in the room.

 Suddenly Peter´s laughter broke the atmosphere. Also Monika began

laughing. Life returned to the face of Tony. He came out from the corner.

Peter and Monika placed the Carrom board on a stand and with pen and

brush started correcting the lines and circles, giving it a fresh look.

 

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