8.
The Servant’s Golden Age of Service
I went to see Basheer, the school’s servant. He’s completely old and worn down, and yet he holds himself as straight as a gun’s barrel. When he gets riled up even a little, his voice turns into a bark. He said, ‘It’s a shame I’m still alive. The only reason I’m alive is to bear my children to the grave, those I used to sit on my lap. Well, I had my time. But these days I don’t break a sweat or dream. Once every six months I dream of ringing the school bell, and the next day I’m full of vim and vigour. Thank God my hands and feet still work. Master Samee-ul-Haq is twelve years younger than me. But his memory is faltering, and his digestion is worse. He finds himself standing with a little pot in his hand, and he can’t remember whether he’s going to the bathroom or just went: if he’s just gone, then why is his stomach upset; and if he’s on the way there, then why isn’t there any water in his pot?
‘I remember every boy’s face and his behaviour. Sir, you were considered good-looking, even though you used to shave your head. Mullah Aasi parted his hair in the middle like ladies do. Your friend Aasim wore a silver amulet around his neck. His father died the morning of the very first day of the final high-school exams. Throughout the test, I stood in the corner reciting, “God be praised,” as well as the aiyat-al-kursi. Twice I gave Aasim half-full glasses of milk. The year of the earthquake in Quetta your friend Ghazanfar committed suicide by running in front of an oncoming train. He was his father’s only son. But I have hundreds. What bastard says I’m childless?’
Those Who Cursed Politely
He started up again, ‘Son, it’s due to God’s kindness that I retired when I did. Otherwise, how much indignity would I have had to suffer? Thank God I’m still active. In old age, sickness is pure torture. But being too healthy is an even bigger pain. You don’t know how to burn off the extra energy. An active old man has no place in the world. He likes to wander around aimlessly near the banks of rivers. Last year I dragged myself all the way back to school. I stopped short in amazement. The school servants were gambolling about, and they weren’t wearing their name badges, coats, hats, or turbans. To this day, I’ve never gone even to the bathroom without a hat on. And I’ve never bathed without a loincloth. One day Hamiduddin came wearing nothing more than a kurta because he had left his coat with the darner for mending. He set out on his tasks when the principal intercepted him, ‘You’re going to appear before the kids with your family jewels showing?’ In our day, servants were like kings. The principal always greeted us before we greeted him. You’ve witnessed that no teacher has ever addressed me by my first name or without respect. And I’ve always addressed each and every boy with respect. A foul-mouthed policeman once spoke rudely to me in a busy market, ‘Hey, you, out of my way!’ At the time I was wearing my official uniform. I grabbed him by the ears and lifted him into the air. He weighed one hundred kilos. I’ve set straight my fair share of cocky men.
‘Today’s servants look like chicken farmers. In our day, people knew etiquette and were well-mannered. The upper classes never spoke down to people. Even if they were cursing you out, they did so politely. Your grandfather was very hotheaded, but he insulted people with grace and according to their rank: bhondu [idiot], bhatiyara [inn-keeper], bhardbhoonja [someone who roasts chickpeas], bhand [buffoon], and if someone stooped really far, then bhardu bhardva [pimp]. The school’s Urdu teacher said that he was a great scholar: he didn’t swear, but rather he conjugated the sound ‘bh.’ Well, I’m an uneducated man, but that day I learned what ‘conjugate’ means. They were excellent teachers. Whatever they said lodged itself in our hearts like a bucket dropped into a well. Why? Because they knew how to respect ignorant people like me. Today’s scholars are so arrogant that they think of themselves as wisdom incarnate. New things cramp their style, like new shoes. But even though they’ve swallowed the entire ocean with all the oysters in it, they still can’t spit out even one pearl.’
The Day’s Last Bell
For a while, Basheer Chacha sat laughing through his toothless grin. His gums have receded, but he still has that twinkle in his eyes. Then he sat down pompously on top of a battered stool. Although his bragging had lasted just a little while, it had calmed his shaky head, hands, and voice. He started up again, ‘Believe me, hearing them hit the bell disgusted me. Now anyone at all is allowed to ring the bell. These idiots act like they drank too much on Holi and are banging on drums. How on earth are the kids supposed to focus on studying? I got through five bells, but then, before it was too late, I took to my heels. Why? Because I wasn’t going to be able to stand hearing it again. Once an old guy gets worked up, it’s more than hard to get him to cool down. I earned the right to strike the bell after fifteen hard years. Back then the servant who rang the bell was respected and powerful. One day, news came from the principal’s house that his wife was about to deliver. Leaving quickly, he forgot the year-end exams on his desk. That night I didn’t go home. I sat on top of the test all night like a coiled snake. Another time, the geography teacher and I were on the outs for seemingly no reason. I’ll tell you something I learned the hard way. Enmity without reason and loving an ugly woman are the purest and most dangerous types of hatred and love. That’s because they both start at the point right after thinking has stopped. I mean, I went out of my mind for no reason. And his mind’s light was squelched by an ugly woman from my neighbourhood. Love is blind. It’s not necessary for a woman to be beautiful. It’s enough for the man to be blind.’
Basheer Chacha hereby fell into a laughing fit that bent him in two. Then he began again, ‘In our day, ladies as black as coal weren’t called black. They called them “milk chocolate.” Black was reserved for opium and Shakti Ma. So I was about to say that when the geography teacher had the ninth and tenth grade classes, I started ringing the bell ten minutes late. On the third day, he surrendered. The other teachers were complaining as well. They sat me down in the staff room and said, “Mr Basheer, forgive and forget. Don’t throw out the baby with the bathwater.”
‘I never listened to anyone. I did as I pleased. I rang the bell when I knew it was time. This slave of yours has never been enslaved by a watch. My internal clock has never been wrong. I was my own boss. No one dared interfere with my work. When I heard the news of Kanpur’s Maulana Hasrat Mohani’s death, I swear to God, without asking anyone’s permission, I struck the bell and closed down the entire school. Ghulam Rasool Daftari was a real coward. He said, “Basheer, you know, you’re in for it now. The Director of Education is going to want a word with you.” I said, “I’ll tell him, ‘Be rest assured, my ever-abiding lord, when you expire, I’ll be sure to do the same.‘ “ But when news of Vallabh Bhai Patel’s death arrived, the principal said, “Basheer, ring the bell, send everyone home.” He said it twice, but I ignored him. He insisted a third time, and so I drew a long face and hit the bell as weakly as I could. Some heard; some didn’t. After ’47, call it “independence,” I started using the shadow on the compound-wall as an indication of the hour. The neighbourhood set their watches to my bell. It’s been fifteen years since I retired, but my right hand starts tingling at the time when I used to ring the first and last bells. It starts to throb compulsively. The last day on the job is really hard on everyone. It was my last day. I was on my way to ring the bell for the last time when suddenly I became overwhelmed with emotion. I sat down right there. I handed the mallet to Majeed and said, “Son, I can’t do it. Take charge of things from here. Ring the bell of my departure.” Then I went to see the principal. He said, “Mr Basheer, the teachers want to give you the gift of a very fine watch.” I said, “Sir, what on earth will I do with a watch? I don’t care about time anymore. I struck the bell without ever looking at a watch, so why would I want one now? If you want to give me something, give me my name badge. I’ve worn it for forty years.” I must say that he was very generous. Without the slightest hesitation, he said, “Take it.” It’s hanging over there on a peg. Every three or four months, I use lemon to polish its brass to a high gleam. But my hands aren’t as strong as they used to be. Without the badge, I feel like my shoulders are bare and lopsided. Sometimes after I’m done polishing it, I put it on. Then I sit up straight again. For a little while, I feel as young as I ever did.