‘Son, it was ’55. Hundreds of rowdy students bent on a strike bumrushed the school, trying to get it to shut down. They were trying to incite violence. The innocent kids were terror-stricken. The teachers were frozen in place. The principal was worried. I couldn’t stand to see them like this. I challenged the goons, “Which son of a bitch thinks he can get the school to close without me ringing the bell? Stupid fools, get out of here, or I’ll ring your bell!” The principal called the cops. The cop said, “I can’t make out what you’re saying. .” I became furious. I grabbed the receiver and yanked out its one-metre-long cord. Then I picked up a long-bladed paper-cutting knife in one hand, and with the receiver in the other, I sprang upon the goons in my school uniform, waving my weapons about helter-skelter in the air and shouting a battle cry. The crowd dispersed. Death was hovering about them. Some fell here; some fell there. And I took care of those that didn’t fall.’
Basheer Chacha’s eyes began to twinkle. He got this from being around mischievous boys all his life. They had taught him how to daydream.
The Man Who Sits at the Foot of the Charpoy
He related some of the finer points of the art of bell ringing, which I had never before considered. For instance, the first time each day, he would hit the bell with full force right in its centre. This was done emphatically and regally. He announced recess by striking a high note along the bell’s rim that would resound in a jingling fashion. The grave clangs of Monday were completely different from the giggling chimes of Saturday. He said, ‘The new line of servants doesn’t know the difference in moods between morning and afternoon.’ Although he didn’t say this, I began to feel that while ringing the morning prayer bell, he must have imagined that he was performing raag bhairavi.
As long as I was there, he kept coming back to his official duties. If he hadn’t been a school servant but something else, he still would have carried out his duties with not only the same diligence but also the same humble devotion. When a man stops taking pride in his work, he quickly becomes apathetic. He turns his job into something dishonourable and worthless.
Basheer Chacha said, ‘One month before being laid off…’ (he uses this detested word instead of ‘retirement’) ‘. . the principal recommended that special consideration be taken and my salary increased since I’d been a loyal employee. The answer that came back was exactly the opposite: that I should retire immediately. It’s like the saying that goes, “The husband wants to cut off his wife’s nose, and she insists on a nose ring.” The reason I was laid off then was because a sycophant inspector wrote me up in his report as being too old. And bent over. And having a limp. But, glory be to God, six months later this hunchbacked, lame old man hoisted this fool onto his shoulders and took him to his final resting place. May God’s name be praised!
‘In our day, we would hold court from our charpoys. Our elders had always instructed us to never sit near the head of any bed. Always sit at the foot of the bed. That way if someone older shows up, you won’t have to give up your seat for them. So we spent our entire lives sitting at the foot of the bed. Son, now the boat’s reaching life’s far shore. I was born poor, and I’ll die poor, but, by the grace of God, I was never anyone’s punching bag. I always wore my name badge with pride and considered my uniform a robe of honour.’ He also said that each year a new crop of boys would show up, and yet he took the time to advise each and every one. Moreover, in the golden age of his service, he saw nine principals come and go, as well as thirteen inspectors. They flitted in, then flitted out. He put many of these superiors in their place. As he recounted this, his head stopped quivering, and he puffed out his chest. Quelling his cough, he said, ‘The principal said many times that he wanted to promote me to supervisor of all the school’s servants, water carriers, sweepers, and snack peddlers. I pointed out that there is only one Lord, and He is God. In my life, I’ve seen a supervisor or two. They’re all about themselves. Your humble servant doesn’t give a damn about them.’ After telling the same stories for so long, Basheer Chacha had begun to believe them. In old age, you begin mistaking tall tales for the truth.
Even Today, Friends, a Boy Is Nothing to Scare Me
To make him happy, I told him he was as strong as he had been back then. ‘What do you eat?’ I asked. Hearing this, he flung down his cane and stood up with his chest — no, his ribs—puffed out.
He said, ‘In the morning, I drink four glasses of water on an empty stomach. This is a fakir’s secret charm. A few days ago a delegation of neighbourhood folks came by. They started whispering among themselves. They didn’t have the courage to speak to me. I said to them, “My dears, speak up. There’s no shame in asking for a favour.” They said, “Chacha, you’re still childless. Please remarry. You’re still in fine shape. Wink at any passing beauty, and she’ll make a beeline for you. We’ll take your message to whomever you please.” I said, “I respect what you all think. But it will ruin my youthfulness. I’ll think about it and then give you an answer. The problem is I’ve already had one wife die. If another dies, I won’t be able to handle that.” See their presumptuousness? One glib-tongued boy said, “Chacha, if that’s the case, then marry someone who’ll outlive you. Bilqees is a widow twice over.” I said, “Watch your mouth! How well you treat your elders!” ’
I teased him, ‘Chacha, now with you in old age, it will be difficult for you to control a wife of the new generation of independent-minded women.’
He said, ‘You haven’t heard the old saying that goes, “So what if the stick is broken, you can still use it to keep things in order at home?” ’
Then he leaned his head against his cane and laughed so hard that he fell into an asthmatic fit. For ten minutes, he wheezed and wheezed. I was scared that he might not ever catch his breath again.
9.
Gautama Buddha Cum Paperweight!
Mullah Aasi and I decided to go to Lucknow, the city of lovers, famous for its beautiful evenings. (The city’s eloquent spokesman and a true lover of the city, Maulana Abdul Halim Sharar, has written about this chapter of Awadh’s cultural history in the red ink of the setting sun.) I had to convince Mullah Aasi to go with me. I didn’t have the guts to see it alone after forty years. People had warned me how that spectacle of life and liveliness — Hazrat Ganj — the pinnacle of splendour and grace — was no longer what it had been. That it was now a ghost town. Sir, I don’t know if Lucknow is haunted, but my mind was. One man scared me when he said that the Char Bagh Railway Station sign was written only in Hindi, and that there wasn’t one Urdu sign to be found anywhere in the city; that said, the inscriptions on tombs were still done in an exquisite Urdu script — you couldn’t find such pure and silky smooth calligraphy in all of Pakistan. I was a guest. I said nothing. Two days ago I was speaking with a man from Delhi and mentioned that Karachi’s nihari and gole kebabs are much better than the ones that Delhi is famous for, and, sir, he went crazy. I’ll never do that again!