Authors: Altaf Tyrewala
1…2…3…4…I start counting.
At 20 I will throw open the door and shoot that haraamzaadi’s brains out.
Kishore Malhotra rings the bell of flat 1503. A man in a nightsuit answers the door.
‘Someday you will catch a horrible disease, linger, and die,’ Kishore says and tightens his face. If he was going to be slapped, it would be now. Ten o’ clock on a Sunday morning was no time for dismal truths.
‘I would hope so,’ the resident of 1503 chuckles. Kishore opens his eyes warily. ‘Who wants to live forever? Not me,’ the man adds. He crosses his arms and grins at Kishore with absolute serenity.
Kishore is stumped. He only expects the brute in people. What kind of person is this? Through his confusion, Kishore mumbles, ‘So how will you pay the high hospital bills? What will happen to your wife and children after you die?’
The resident of 1503 retorts, ‘I don’t believe in hospitalization, or in children. And I plan to marry money. Anything else?’
Kishore’s shirt turns wet with sweat. He is ill-equipped for clever debate; he only means to trigger monetary and biological anxiety, the solution to which is right here, in his folder. He asks this freak one last question. ‘But what if your wife also falls ill and both of you are in hospital and all the money runs out?’
The resident rests against his door and frowns. ‘Cheer up, boss. What are you? Buddhist?’
No, mister smart aleck,
Kishore muses regretfully, and turns to go.
I wish I was, though. I would retreat to some ashram in the mountains, where the food is free and the air is cool. I am, in fact, an insurance agent and I haven’t sold a single policy since I began making the rounds weeks ago. I’ve tried the slick talk and the smooth moves. I’ve practiced Seven Steps to Successful Sales and improvised eight of my own. People say what I sell is superfluous. Shoo, they say, don’t corrupt us with this American mania for surety. Most days I feel like a victim. But of what? I’m not smart enough to fathom.
‘Hello, brother, you didn’t say what you were selling!’ the man in 1503 jeers. But by then Kishore is on his way down to the fourteenth floor to peddle a policy to flat 1404.
1602, 1503, 1404… the sum of all he does is a deliberate, auspicious nine.
Vinti Kambole puts down her bag of merchandise and rings the bell of flat 1302. A youth in vest and shorts answers the door.
‘Is there a lady in the house?’ Vinti inquires.
The youth fiddles with the amulet around his neck. ‘What you selling?’ he asks, when he notices the bag by Vinti’s feet.
Her ears redden. ‘Ladies’ products,’ she replies.
The youth smirks, ‘What ladies’ products?’
Vinti sucks air through her teeth. ‘Is there or is there not a lady in the house?’
The youth turns to address someone inside the flat. ‘Hey, do we need ladies’ products?’
Another youth in a vest and lungi appears. His neck is strung with several amulets. ‘What ladies’ products?’ the second youth asks, a giggle lurking in his voice.
Vinti picks up her bag and turns to go.
‘O-madam, at least give us a demo!’ one of the youths jeers and both break into howls of lynch-mob laughter.
Soon, soon,
Vinti calms herself with an assurance,
we’ll send you people packing to Pakistan.
The two voice further indelicacies. But, by then, Vinti is on her way up to the fourteenth floor to sell her goods to flat 1401.
1203, 1302, 1401…the sum of all
she
does is a deliberate, astrologer-approved six.
On my way up to the sixteenth floor of Ismat Towers, the lift mysteriously halts on the fourteenth. The metal doors rumble open to reveal a veritable mob in the lobby. My mentor Gaffur Chishti used to say:
Moin, where there people, there always something bad waiting to happen.
So I jump out the lift to investigate.
‘Who are you?’ I ask the woman outside flat 1403.
‘I’m Nilofer,’ she bows and says, ‘bless me, please, I’m waiting to get work.’ I tap her head thrice with my peacock-feather broom.
‘And you?’ I ask the woman outside flat 1401.
She puts her bag down and joins her hands. ‘Myself Vinti, salesgirl.’ I tap her head too.
I look at the man outside flat 1404. ‘What?’ he asks.
‘What “what”?’ I snap back. ‘Who are you?’
‘I myself am Kishore, sales executive,’ he mumbles. I raise my broom. Kishore ignores the cue. ‘And who are you?’
he asks defiantly.
I look down at myself. Is he blind? Who else dons a black gown and green headscarf, strings beads around his neck and grows a beard for years?
‘I don’t believe in any baba-vaba,’ Kishore says.
‘Grrmph!’ I jiggle my cloth bag.
Vinti’s door—1401—is answered by a hassled-looking matron. The two start negotiating in whispers. I start the wowgoodgreat chant. The two strike some deal. I intone faster and faster, forgetting words and rehashing new ones into a tremendous stew of good will. The back-and-forth ends; Vinti hands over her bag; the matriarch pays her a wad of notes and shuts the door. Vinti turns to us. And?
‘I hit the jackpot!’ she shrieks. ‘The woman has nine grown daughters!’
Wowgoodgreat never fails!
I raise my broom; a solemn Vinti bows to be tapped again and drops ten bucks in my bag.
Kishore blinks at us. ‘How did you…’ he starts, but quickly turns around—a handicapped man has answered door 1404.
What you sold,
I mime at Vinti. She blushes.
You won’t understand, baba,
she mimes back.
Just then, the resident of 1404 erupts, ‘What a choot!’ He jabs a crutch at Kishore, who jumps back in time. ‘Telling me I’m going to catch a horrible disease! What do you think
polio is? Some time-pass cramp in the legs?’ The handicapped man slams the door in Kishore’s face.
Hmm. Beautifully vindicated. I stick the broom in my bag and amble to the stairs.
Nilofer comes running. She begs me to stay and bless her. I agree. The other two decide to wait too.
The four of us stand outside flat 1403 for a long, long time. I start with wowgoodgreat and end up with openthebastarddoor!
Five more minutes, still nothing.
‘Is anyone even in there?’ I grumble, and smack the door with my broom.
‘There is, baba!’ Nilofer cries. ‘Some man spoke to me! He knows I’m waiting for work!’
‘Then why he doesn’t open?’ Vinti asks. Nilofer shrugs.
I lean forward and press my ear to door 1403. I hear: ‘1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 7, 7, shyaa, saalaa bhengcho…1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 7, 7, abbey kya yaar, saalaa, shyaa…’
‘Sst-sst,’ I flick a finger at Kishore, ‘come, listen.’
He steps forward. ‘Some man…’ Kishore reports, ‘he’s counting numbers.’ Kishore listens some more, and titters, ‘The man counts fine till seven. But then he stumbles, gives filthy curses and starts over, over-and-over.’
‘But why! Why won’t he open the door?’ Nilofer cries to me.
All three, even baba-doubting Kishore, shrink in
automatic obeisance and beseech me with their eyes:
Tell us, baba, why won’t the man in 1403 stop counting and open the door?
This morning, on my way here, someone at the bus stop asked:
Do you foresee a number 71 soon?
Last week at a graveyard:
Baba, where is all this going?
Arrey, how am I supposed to know? What must I say to all these people? That I’m clueless? That their guess is better than mine? Can I say such things in these clothes, with the beads around my neck and matted locks on my head?
Everyone has words he isn’t allowed to speak, statements and defeats he just can’t admit; break out of your role, speak out of character, and the world despises you and discards you.
But then, not everyone craves to be cherished by the world.
Least of all Moin Chariya.
‘How am I supposed to know why he won’t open? Probably an illiterate who doesn’t know how to count,’ I remark blandly to the three waiting with me outside flat 1403. ‘I suggest you all go now, unless you want to wait here forever.’
That’s it.
I start for the stairs.
Midway between the fourteenth and fifteenth, on my way up to the sixteenth floor where a couple has called me to exorcise their Nepali ayah, I hear Vinti remark, ‘Let’s go, let’s go. No use waiting.’
‘Hmm,’ Nilofer sighs, ‘maybe I’ll try some other floor.’
‘Ha,’ Kishore says, ‘I knew that fellow was a phony.’
The two women giggle.
And I?
I pat my proverbial shoulder for having earned, not loose change or cheap devotion, but the seal of disapproval genuine rebels die for.
After slamming the door on that choot’s face, I just stand near the entrance, hunched over my crutches. I am too exhausted for the walk back to the bedroom.
Two hours later, when my parents return from shopping, I am still standing here.
‘Why you got up?’ mom cries.
‘Someone was at the door,’ I say.
‘So what!’ mom replies, ‘Allah, what to do with this boy!’
I am not supposed to answer the door. My parents tell me—and have been telling me for years—to ignore such things. Let the phone keep ringing, they say, let the doorbell chime and the cooker whistle; you please stay where you are. Getting up on my own puts great strain on my torso. The doctor fears I might develop multiple hernias. But if I don’t get up, if I remain in my room while things keep ringing-chiming-whistling somewhere in the flat, I become restless,
till I can stand it no more, and then I want to torture my spindly legs for being my spindly legs.
Dad puts down several plastic bags on the floor. ‘Who was it, Munaf?’ he asks.
I raise my head to tell my father how I had come scrambling from the bedroom to answer the door only to be told by some crazed salesman-sort that I was going to catch a horrible disease, linger, and die.
But the sight of my father’s grey, unshorn face silences me.
‘Who was at the door, Munaf?’ dad asks again.
‘I’m sure it was no one. He gets up just to disobey us,’ mom says. She comes and stands behind me. Dad yanks away my crutches. As I start to fall, mom grabs my shoulders, dad lifts my legs, and they carry me to the bedroom and sit me down on the computer chair.
‘Now, please stay in your room,’ mom says. ‘You know who’s coming this evening and I have lots of preparations to do. Work on the computer.’
‘You know I don’t work on Sunday.’
Mom slaps her forehead. ‘Then do what you want. But stay here!’
She rests my crutches against the opposite wall, leaving me no choice.
I remove a photo from my shirtpocket. The girl in the photo is coming this evening. Her name is Sophiya. She and her parents are coming to see me. They called this morning
before boarding the bus in Ahmednagar. They know I have polio; I suppose it was the first thing the matchmaker told Sophiya’s parents about me, followed by an in-depth account of my father’s immense wealth. If today, after meeting with me, Sophiya feels she can tolerate my crutches and the braces on my legs, our families will go ahead with our marriage.
Did I say ‘marriage’? More like the shifting of a burden.
In the photo—which arrived via a circuitous route involving several strangers and relatives—Sophiya is in a red shalwar-kurta with red lipstick and red cheeks. She is holding a red rose and is standing against an immense poster showing a field full of deep-red roses. Everything else about Sophiya is either powder white or jet black.
‘I think she’s lovely,’ mom had said. Dad had studied the photo and agreed guardedly. ‘You have no reason to complain,’ mom told me.
Not ‘reason’. Mom meant ‘right’. I have no right to complain.
Sophiya isn’t the first girl. I have rejected all the substandard out-of-towners the matchmaker has been sending my way for the last three years. Sophiya seems no better or worse than the earlier eight. But this time I won’t refuse. I am twenty-five now, and after fifteen years of attending to me fulltime, of fetching my crutches and postponing their vacations, I believe it’s only fair that my parents be relieved.
*
Evening comes.
Sophiya and her parents arrive.
Sitting in a row on our sofa, all three look frayed and dusty after the nine-hour bus journey. It doesn’t surprise me that Sophiya is nothing like her photo. I am neither disappointed by her modest bust nor let down by her dusky complexion. Just a mild pang of panic when I imagine having to wake up beside one woman—just this one—for the rest of my life.
‘Money-wise everything is…?’ Sophiya’s father asks.
Dad nods. ‘Munaf has his own e-business, you know, of selling books on the Internet. Besides, everything I own is his.’
Sophiya’s mother inquires about the extent of my handicap.
‘Oh, it’s nothing much,’ mom says. ‘Would you like to see Munaf walk around?’
Sophiya’s parents say ‘yes’. They have been staring unabashedly at my special shoes. Their daughter is sitting between them, looking down at her plate heaped with the snacks mom has prepared.
Mom brings my crutches and rests one on either side of my armchair. I look at her, but her eyes are expressionless. I look at dad. He is staring at the floor. They always do this: they always make me parade my handicap. And I always refuse.
Seeing me linger, Sophiya’s father feels forced to say, ‘It’s okay, beta, doesn’t matter, forget it.’
‘No,’ I say, ‘you should know what you’re getting into.’
I sit up. I straighten my legbraces. Then I dig my palms into the armrests to lift my torso off the chair, when an urgent command shoots across the room: ‘Don’t! Please!’
I look up in shock. Sophiya is looking at me. It’s the first thing she has said since arriving.
Suddenly, everything seems awry—it is as if a spinner has delivered a fastball, as if Kenya has won the World Cup. That voice doesn’t belong to the garish out-of-town girl in the photo; it is not the voice of the skinny thing sitting between her parents on our sofa. The voice, that request, and the immense benevolence in those words belong to a woman, not some girl, but a woman, who, with just two words, has rendered my parents unnecessary.