Basharat’s father thought the miracle of the horse was related to him. He kept asking what the green-robed old man looked like, and he got annoyed each time the answer came back that he didn’t look like him. Then he started calling for his son Balban after sunset prayers as well. They would put their heads close to each other and talk until the day’s last prayers, and
If people could hear what they were saying, they’d think them crazy.
After the miracle, Rahim Bakhsh had started to call the horse Balban Sahib and Shahji. Basharat’s father took to saying that the horse was auspicious. He even attributed the birth of Basharat’s son to the horse’s presence! Several barren women from the neighbourhood came to get blessed by Shahji.
Shit Happens
I forgot to mention that after Rahim Bakhsh left, Basharat hired a new driver. His name was Mirza Wahid-uz-Zaman Baig. But, according to the conditions of his employ, Basharat’s father called him Aladdin as well. He talked meekly, and looked meek too. He made sure he looked like this so that for no rhyme or reason you would want to do something for him: Mongol features, dark skin, muscular body, tiny ears, and a broad forehead. He was in such good shape that you couldn’t tell how old he was. Inside his vest’s pocket, he didn’t keep a pistol but rather a sharp lion’s claw made from a worn-out horseshoe. Behind Bandar Road near the tram depot, there was a drama company, and in their production of ‘Rustam and Sohrab’ he had played Rustam’s horse Rakhsh for a month and a half. When, on stage, he would neigh with all his might, the mares yoked to carts outside would strain on their reins, wanting to get inside. One audience member had thrown that horseshoe on stage in a show of appreciation for his acting. Even though he was short, he had a very deep voice. In everyday conversation, if he should happen to remember the theatre, he would substitute the Persian words for ‘horse’ and ‘singer,’ and he would call himself ‘rusiyah’ [sinner]. He knew the stentorian style from Agha Hashr’s fiery plays, and he practiced lines with the horse. And the truth is that perhaps this was the best audience for these lines. In Agha Hashr’s dialogues, even in the nuptial chamber, men wear helmets and chainmail and carry naked swords, while on the battlefield their every step strikes the war-drum. The main characters all have ankle-bells strapped to their swords for them to jangle about. And if right in the middle of the battle, there comes a romantic interlude (whether due to human nature or the public’s demands), even then the heroes talk to their beloveds in the same ornate and swordy language that they have used to drive back their dire enemies. Even in those critical moments, when it’s so hard to control oneself, the heroes still speak in rhyme. The lives and honour of Agha Hashr’s heroes are reduced to parroting words, and despite the small size of these parrots, they still fire enormous cannons. Back then, cart-drivers, factory-workers, and street-vendors all used lines from these plays to talk to each other.
Mirza Wahid-uz-Zaman Baig (whom I have a hard time dignifying with the title of ‘driver’) started every sentence with the phrase ‘Forgive my mistakes!’ During his job interview, he stated that he also drove cars very well. This irritated Basharat, and so he asked contemptuously, ‘Then why do you want to drive a cart?’ Mirza had put his hands together as though praying and said, ‘When God, the Cherisher, decides to give you a car, then I’ll drive that as well.’
Basharat hired him under the belief that he was a meek person who would be easy to control. Mirza Abdul Wadud Baig gave him the tip to never employ anyone on the basis of his intelligence. The more dull-witted a servant, the more obedient and helpful he will be. He was very helpful for a couple days, and then that stopped. Sometimes he came back from school an hour late. Sometimes he disappeared altogether for several hours in the middle of the day. Once Basharat had to send an important invoice to the Pakistan Tobacco Company. He returned after four hours. The kids were still standing hungry and thirsty in front of the school’s gate. Basharat scolded him. He pointed toward his special box (he called it his tool box) that he always kept with him in the cart. He said, ‘Forgive my mistakes! Shit happens! On the road next to the Municipal Corporation Building, the horse tripped. He broke one girth. His horseshoe started jingling like ankle-bells. I was fixing them up. Forgive my mistakes. If so much as one nail has fallen out of a horseshoe, I can tell from a mile’s distance which horse’s it is.’ Basharat asked with surprise, ‘You were fixing the horseshoe?’ He answered, ‘Of course. Who else? There’s a saying that anything related to farming, water, humble requests, and horse’s girths should be done by yourself even if there are hundreds of men with you. You have to attend to horses by yourself.’
Each time something went wrong, he came up with new stories and new excuses. The problem with chronic liars is that even when they’re telling the truth, you assume it’s a lie. It often came to pass that what he had said was true. Yet it was very difficult to believe him. One day he came back very late. Basharat rushed toward him, scolding him. Mirza defended himself, ‘Sir, please hear me out! I was going by the Race Club’s stables when suddenly the horse pulled up. When I whipped him, he raised onto his hind legs. The passers-by on the road stopped to watch. But then a vet happened to come out from inside. He recognized the horse, “Hey, hey, why’re you whipping this prince? He’s seen good days. Prey can’t blame the hunter for his bad luck. What’s happened is that he’s smelled Dur-e-Shahwar. She was running in the race when he sprained his ankle. Two Sundays ago she came in first again. Photos of her were published in the newspaper. God has made her owner a millionaire.” Then he called out to the horse’s former groom. The three of us unyoked him from the cart and took him inside. He knew the way. He took us straight to his stall. Nearby a jet black, ungainly horse was bucking. Beyond that, but in the other direction, Dur-e-Shahwar was standing. Recognizing Balban, she got restless. Earlier he had been so restless, but now he was entirely still and powerless. He didn’t even try to shoo away the flies on his neck’s wound. Sir, his wound’s gotten much worse. The groom fondly caressed him. Then he said, “Son, we should have put you down. Then you wouldn’t have had to go through this. But your owner couldn’t do it.” Then he gave him some of the race club’s fodder. Sir, that grain was better than some people eat. But, I swear, he didn’t touch it. He just stood with his head bowed. The groom said the horse had a fever. Then he took off all his equipment, hugged him, and started crying.