Since Basharat had left home in pitch darkness, when he saw Maulvi Muzaffar eating warm jalebis he realized how hungry he was. In the words of Muhammad Hussain Azad, when you’re hungry, anything tastes good. So, after wandering around for a while, he asked where he could find the sweetshop, and when he got there he ordered two-thirds of a pound of jalebis hot from the fryer. He had just picked up the first jalebi from his leaf-cup when suddenly the sweetshop owner’s dog came up to him, stuck its snout up the leg of his wide-bottomed, Lucknow-style pyjamas, and started licking his calf with amazing devotion. Basharat stood motionless for a while, letting the dog do whatever it liked. This was because he’d heard that if a dog starts following you or starts licking your hands or feet, it’s best not to run away or make a fuss because then the dog will get angry and really give it to you. Basharat gave the dog a jalebi; immediately the dog lost interest in his calf, and so Basharat managed to eat a jalebi himself. But once the dog finished the treat, it went straight back to licking Basharat’s leg without even cleaning the remaining tidbits off its tongue!
Now this became the pattern. Basharat would give the dog a jalebi and then quickly stuff one into his own mouth. But if there was any delay, the dog would go back to licking Basharat’s calf with the same feverish intensity as before, apparently trying to get at the bone inside. Basharat was no longer scared, and he began to notice the dog’s cold nose tickling him. Right there and then, he made two important decisions. One, never again would he stop to eat jalebis in the middle of the street like some country bumpkin from Kanpur. And two, never again would he try to imitate the fine folks from Lucknow by wearing wide-bottomed pyjamas. He resolved to observe these rules until death.
Having finished feeding the dog, Basharat put the leaf cup on the ground, and the dog fell to licking out the syrup. Basharat went back to the sweetshop and bought a cup of milk for himself plus a little extra for the dog, hoping that he would be able to slip away while the dog drank its fill. Basharat swallowed his milk in one gulp and set off to see the town. Noticing Basharat leave, the dog pricked up its ears in alarm, left the milk, and started following him. This confused Basharat: what on earth could this lowly creature want? Three or four times he tried to slow down a little to catch his breath, or he made as though he wanted to turn around, but the dog wouldn’t let him do anything.
At every turn in the road, dogs rushed out from the alleys to shepherd Basharat and the dog toward the next deployment of yipping canines — a veritable inter-alley canine task force. The dog fought off the others quite bravely. As long as the battle raged, as long as the ceasefire was still unsigned, as long as the skirmish with the next alley’s Lion Brigade was still imminent, Basharat stood peacefully in the middle of the action watching the goings-on like an impartial UN observer. He was trying his best to stop the village boys from throwing stones at the dogs because, in fact, their stones were only hitting him. The dog lashed out at any other dog that tried to get to Basharat, who, truth be told, found himself rooting for the dog — his dog. Just a few minutes ago it was just a dog, but now things were different, and he was suddenly worried about coming up with a good name for it.
He realized suddenly that the arrival of a stranger in a village is announced by three things — dogs, peacocks, and kids. But once the hue and cry is over, every house in the village treats you as their guest.
Dogs Named Tipu
It upset Basharat that the sweetshop owner and the village boys called the dog ‘Tipu.’ After the British martyred Tipu Sultan in the bloody battle of Seringapatam, they began calling their dogs by this name. There was even a time throughout north India when this name was so common that everyone referred to any stray dog as Tipu—’Scram, Tipu!’—without even knowing why stray dogs were called this. Other than Napoleon and Tipu, the British treated none of their enemies so badly, and this was because none made their hearts fill with such awful dread. A hundred years have passed in South Asia with the name of the martyred sultan on everyone’s lips! ‘Get lost, Tipu!’ ‘Take that, Tipu!’ The trials and tribulations — the sanctifying sorrows — and great sacrifices — of only a few select martyrs are not forgotten after they die. These are the few that God Almighty blesses with eternal martyrdom!
Sole/Soul Reader
Although Maulvi Muzaffar had spared no expense in building his own house (out of brick) and in building the school (half out of brick), he had decided to have his office in a room with a corrugated tin roof in order to exhibit the model of simplicity set by the true Muslims (those of the first generation). This is where the selection committee was to meet. There were three candidates including Basharat, and the following guidelines were written in chalk on a blackboard to the right of the door: (1) Candidates are asked to wait patiently for their turn. (2) Under no circumstances will candidates be reimbursed for travel expenses. A meal will be provided at the Light of Islam Orphanage after noon prayers. (3) Before the interview begins, each candidate will be asked to present proof of their having given a one-rupee donation to the orphanage. (4) It is kindly requested that candidates extinguish their cigarettes before entering.
When Basharat arrived in the foyer (meaning, the shady skirt of a neem tree), the dog was by his side. He motioned suggestively several times, trying to get it to leave, but the dog had no such intentions. Basharat sat down on a boulder, and the dog stationed itself right by his feet, wagging its tail happily and casting appreciative glances up at its new friend. This pleased Basharat — not only was he beginning to feel attached to the poor thing, but the dog’s presence felt kind of reassuring.
The candidate who introduced himself as LT from Allahabad was squatting in the shade drawing a good-luck mandala in the sand with a little twig. Whichever way you added up the digits of the mandala, the total was twenty — this was the very mandala considered to be a surefire way to get a woman or to win over a superior. In the intricate curlicue folds of his ear, he had stuffed a cotton ball doused in a sweet-straw cologne, and the Bengal Locks hair oil that he had profusely slathered on had begun to flow down his forehead.
The second candidate came from Kalpi and announced that he had both a BA and a BT from Aligarh. He wore sunglasses, which made sense since the sun was blazing, but he also wore a red silk scarf whose only purpose seemed to be to gather the copious amounts of sweat streaming down his face. As far as his suit, well, it would have fit just right if he had been a hundred pounds lighter — the two bottom buttons of his shirt and the two top buttons of his pants were left undone. His sun hat was the only thing that fit. It appeared as though his turquoise ring had become too tight as well, because when his name was called, he took it from his pocket and installed it on his pinkie. His shoelaces were untied, but when standing up, he couldn’t see them anyway. He said he used to be a goalie, and despite his hulking body, he was able to cinch himself between two branches in such a fashion that from a distance he looked like a big sideways ‘V’: shoes on one end, and hat on the other. He joined in the conversation from his perch, and from there he spat out his paan spittle and flicked ash from his Passing Show cigarette.
After a while, a fakir showed up and sat down near Basharat. This was the type of fakir with matted hair, a walking stick, and chains around his ankles — the type that wanders around with a little gong that he strikes from time to time. He raised his walking stick to Basharat’s forehead and said, ‘I tell fortunes by reading the soles of feet… so take off your shoes, or I’ll mess you the fuck up.’