by Owen Mullen
He kept the bag of roti. On the street, a red and yellow bus passed. Blank faces stared at him. The visitor studied them, fascinated. Now and then, he asked someone if he was headed right for M M Alam Road. Every set of directions he was given added another layer of confusion. Jameel felt his belly rumble and decided to stop not knowing he was in the City of Gardens, that Lahore was famous for its gardens and parks.
It was warm; shafts of sunlight pierced the black malaise above. He sat on the grass and pulled a roti from the bag – cold and no longer soft. He broke a wedge off and ate it, grateful to Mazur. The contrast amazed him; the bustling madness yards from the peace and tranquility of here. And he wasn’t the only one who was hungry. People sat in groups, eating and talking, shaded by jacaranda. A man with a caged parrot walked by, stopped to examine Jameel and moved on. Further away, another character gathered a crowd by making a coin balance on top of a box. With a flourish he brought out a handkerchief and placed it on the ground. From his pocket he produced teeth, lifting them carefully between the tips of his fingers and laying them on the cloth.
He closed his eyes in prayer. ‘My friends’ he said to the group of curious strangers, ‘there is little in this world better than good teeth. If you’ve been given healthy teeth, then you are blessed indeed.’
He gestured to the collection. ‘These belonged to important people.’ He picked one up so the crowd could see it better. ‘This came from a Maharaja, and very glad he was to part with it because it caused him a great deal of pain.’
Then he paused and eyed the onlookers as though he suspected they harboured secrets they refused to share and nodded at some inner realisation. ‘If you have a tooth that troubles you – that aches from time to time – your worries are at an end.’
A pair of pliers appeared in his hand. ‘I can rid you of this sorrow. You’ll feel nothing, I promise. For the merest donation – a rupee or two, not more – your pain will be gone.’
He waved the pliers in the air. ‘What do you say? Come on. Step forward.’
The audience drifted away. They’d gone as far as they could go with him and his performance and weren’t interested in becoming part of the act.
Jameel was already becoming used to the city, the frightened visitor replaced by an interested observer. He lay down and curled up with a hand closed round the notes in his pocket and slipped into a dreamless sleep. On the green carpet, with the sun on his face, he thought of nothing, not even Afra. When he wakened it was dark, and the park – so welcoming in the day – was an eerie place.
He grasped for the crumpled paper: it was there. Jameel didn’t check his shoes; he could feel the bulge in each one. He breathed, relieved to have survived his nap unscathed, got up and lifted the bag of bread. Only one roti remained – he must have eaten the rest. His legs were stiff. After the heat of the day the evening air chilled him.
The street was no quieter than before, except now everything was lit up: the shops, the signs, even some of the vehicles. Jameel approached an elderly turbaned man standing in a group of people who stood in a line, some shuffling, one reading a book, others looking bored, resigned to waiting for the bus to arrive.
‘Excuse me, which is the way to M M Alam Road, please?’
The man lifted an arm and pointed.
Why did people not speak? Did they know he was a stranger? In Mundhi, everyone talked to everyone, stopped to share a moment with a neighbour, and smiled. In this Lahore, words were like gold. He hoped he would never be in too much of a hurry to say hello because that would be a lonely life.
‘Near, very near,’ a shopkeeper told him mysteriously in answer to his question.
Fear returned. The enormity of his task became clear. What if this? What if that? Negative thoughts, the currency of the defeated, pounded his brain. He was searching for one man, a man he’d never met, in the midst of ten million.
ten million plus
Even if he found him, what kind of welcome could he expect?
Jameel tried not to dwell on these things, preferring to remember Mazur’s advice about walking straight and tall. A sign on the wall above his head said M M Alam Road. It told Jameel nothing. He asked a man on a bicycle balancing a tray of eggs in one hand. ‘You’re already there,’ the stranger said.
The avenue overflowed with places where people sat eating at tables behind big glass windows. They talked to each other, ignoring the world outside, and didn’t seem to mind they could be seen. Jameel walked up one side and down the other, taking his time, finding a different wonder with every look. His heart knocked in his chest. The search was about to begin.
He stopped in front of a window and peered through the glass. A man, a woman and two children sat at a table covered by a white cloth, eating and laughing. The woman was beautiful. Not as beautiful as Afra, but beautiful nevertheless. Her companion was fat, his clothes were new: a successful man.
nothing in the world, a good boy, but nothing in the world
Would her words follow him forever? He shook them away and concentrated on his progress. A red sign attracted him. He pulled his courage round him like a coat, opened the door and went in. A waiter in neatly-pressed shirt and trousers came forward.
‘A table, sir?’
The question took Jameel by surprise. ‘…No thank you. I’m looking for someone, perhaps you know him?’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Gulzar Hafeez.’
‘Just a moment, please.’
Jameel took in his surroundings: a lot of white. Food appeared from behind a swinging door, carried on trays by other smartly-dressed people. It was cool in this place and he could hear music. His clothes were crushed and creased compared with everyone else, a long way from how they’d been the day he’d spoken to Afra’s mother. His throat was dry. He realised he must look shabby and fear crashed like breaking glass against his heart. To add to his insecurity, the older man coming towards him wore a suit and a tie: someone who walked straight and tall. He was bald and smiled with his eyes when he saw Jameel.
‘Good evening. I am Mohamed Abdul Qadir. This is my restaurant.’ He waved at the white space. ‘I’m told you’re looking for Gulzar Hafeez. Can I ask why?’
‘I have business with Mr Hafeez. I’m Jameel Akhtar.’
‘I see. Then I cannot help you.’
He raised a hand, encouraging Jameel to go, and though he still smiled there was no welcome in his eyes. The conversation had lasted seconds; the outstretched arm was an invitation to leave. Jameel’s hand touched the door handle. He turned, all pretence at worldliness abandoned. ‘He’s my only family.’
Mohamed Abdul Quadir’s expression changed. ‘Stay here,’ he said.
Jameel was still holding the paper bag with the last piece of roti inside and wanted to throw it away. Instead, he found a spot on the floor to study. Mr Quadir came back with a young man. ‘This is Ali. He’ll take you where you want to go.’
Ali seemed keen to help. He was about the same age as Jameel, wiry and alert and dressed like his boss.
‘You mean you know him? You know where he is?’
‘Of course.’ Mr Quadir beamed. ‘Everyone knows Gulzar in M M Alam Road. Besides, he’s one of my oldest friends.’
-------
Ali knew where he was going, at home with the mass of people swaying like corn in fields as far as the eye could see. He waved Jameel to follow, weaving against the current of humanity flowing along the pavement. The boy from Mundhi village knew he’d always remember the journey; the excitement of pushing against the crowd, the traffic only feet away; the smells and the colour and the joy of being on an adventure in a city of ten million people. He’d even forgotten to feel afraid, learning that the best times were when he lived in the moment.
Ali stopped to let him catch up. Ducking and diving past people who didn’t deviate from the course they were on was a talent. It took agility and confidence. And youth. Jameel followed the grinning boy, struggling to keep him in sight, aware
he might be leading him to a new life. His guide stood in the doorway of another restaurant – the street was full of them – and waited for Jameel to arrive.
Like a magician presenting a trick, he put his palms together, bowed and was gone, carried away on the flood of bodies.
The door was made of heavy dark wood with a gold plaque in the centre. Three steps led up to it. Jameel climbed to the second. From here he could see the way he’d come, a friendless stranger. Now, he was about to meet the uncle his mother had spoken of with such pride. If nothing else, he’d have someone whose blood was his. There was a second door, he pushed it and entered another world.
Inside was filled with the sound of voices and the clink of glass and china. A man in a dark suit spoke to him. ‘Salam. We’ve been expecting you. Follow me.’
Jameel returned the greeting and trailed behind. They passed through a room full of diners. Other men carrying food hurried by. No one paid any mind to the young man from Mundhi village. A carpeted corridor led to another door. The leader knocked, opened it and went inside. ‘He’s here,’ he said and left.
Lately life was full of people who appeared and disappeared – Mazur, Mr Quadir, Ali, and now this person. Maybe in a big city you eventually meet everyone.
ten million plus
He edged into the room. A figure faced away looking out of a window, arms folded behind his back. He wore a business suit and his fingers fiddled nervously with his shirt cuffs. Jameel was too young to realise that this was a big moment, not just for him. The man who turned to greet him was tall and wrinkled with a bushy grey moustache suspended over his mouth. ‘Jameel?’
‘Great Uncle?’
His uncle rushed to him and placed his hands on his shoulders. ‘Jameel!’ He hugged him and led him to a chair, holding his wrist, afraid he might escape. ‘Let me look at you.’ His fingers touched the bangles. ‘What are these?’
‘From my mother.’
‘Your mother’s? You must tell me all about her. Everything. But first let’s eat, young people are always hungry. And call me Uncle.’
He lifted a telephone and spoke. ‘Set my table for two tonight, Wasim. An important guest has arrived.’
They stared at each other until the table was ready. When they were seated Jameel said, ‘Do you always choose this table? Wouldn’t it be more fun to sit at a different one each night?’
Gulzar Hafeez stroked his moustache. ‘Look. Tell me what you see?’
Jameel hooked an arm over the back of the chair and scanned the room from one side to the other. People were eating, waiters rushed around, and when the doors swung back, he could see into the kitchen. But what was he looking for?
‘I can see everything.’
‘So can I, and that’s why I sit here. Sometimes, I eat nothing at all and I still sit here’
‘So you can see everything, I understand.’
‘And so everyone can see me seeing everything. Do you understand that?’
‘No, not really.’
‘You will, Jameel.’
A waiter brought a glass jug of water and a card with writing on it. Gulzar Hafeez took charge, calling out a series of dishes the waiter noted on a pad. He read what he’d written and hurried to the kitchen. Gulzar poured for them. ‘I want to ask you about Inas, your mother… is that all right? If you’re here, does it mean she’s dead?’ His voice was different from the one that ordered a meal from a piece of card – that was a confident voice – this one was tempered by sadness and respect.
There was no need to reply.
‘I’ve so many questions. For now just tell me this: did she have a good life? Was she happy?’
Jameel replied with care. ‘Until my father died my mother had a very good life. They were happy. She was happy. After, it was more difficult, but she didn’t lose her spirit and taught me never to lose mine.’
Gulzar Hafeez pursed his lips. ‘I knew your father, of course. He was only a boy. I’m sure he grew into a man I could like. Looking at you I see my sister. Perhaps because that’s what I want to see.’
He clapped his hands. ‘Anyway, here comes our food.’
Gulzar unfurled the white linen square next to him and placed it across his knees. Jameel did the same. From then on, plates arrived in an endless procession, each dish more aromatic and spicy than the one before. Jameel hadn’t known food could taste like this. He ate, copying his uncle. Gulzar noted the performance; the young man was a stranger to eating in public. But he learned quickly. He was sensitive and proud, clever and respectful too. He liked him already.
When the table had been cleared they sat in silence, comfortable with each other. The restaurant was almost empty. Gulzar had more to ask. ‘So, now you’re in Lahore what’re your plans?’
‘My main plan was to find you. The city’s so big, much bigger than I imagined. I’m amazed at my good fortune.’
The honesty gave Gulzar hope. He had no other relatives in the world except Inas’ son. He didn’t want this boy to go out of his life. No one could know the guilt he’d suffered. One letter in all that time. Building his business always produced reasons to keep him away and he’d been derelict in his duty to his sister.
In Lahore, he was Mr Hafeez, a successful businessman, but inside was a village boy hiding behind a façade, afraid his polished charade would be discovered.
‘That’s because it was meant to be. You’re travelling on your path. Lahore, even the world, isn’t a confusing place to a man following his destiny. Things come easily. Why would they not?’
‘I was hoping you might have a job for me, as a dishwasher perhaps. I could learn to do that.’
Gulzar gulped back his emotions. ‘You’re in luck. I do have a job for you. Though I’m afraid it’s not as a dishwasher.’
They talked after everyone had gone, chatting like old friends. ‘Tonight, you’ll stay with me, and every night. My home is your home, if you want.’
‘I do, and I thank God for finding you.’
The day had begun in a transport café with Mazur, a kind man, and was ending in a restaurant in Lahore with another kind man. Jameel felt the bumps dig into his feet.
‘Can I ask a question, Uncle?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you keep your money in your shoes?’
His uncle pondered his answer. ‘I used to. There was a time when I kept all my money in my shoes.’
Gulzar looked round his favourite restaurant, one of six he owned in the city. ‘But I stopped doing that a long time ago, praise be to Allah.’
-------
The noise came with a blast of brilliant light that hurt his eyes. He buried his face in the softest bedclothes he’d ever known. Swoosh! The room was awash with day. The brightness bored through the covers trying to reach him. He lay, unable to find the will to move. The bed was large and warm and safe, he didn’t want to leave it.
‘Wake up, Jameel.’
Gulzar clapped his hands. Jameel stirred; a gentle hand shook him. ‘Time to come awake.’
He wasn’t usually a sleepyhead. In Mundhi, he’d often be up and out before the sun, especially in summer when work started early and finished around noon. After that, it was too hot. Today was different. The night spent travelling in the truck, and the smells and sights and sounds round every corner in the city, had drained him. Also, he’d sat talking with his uncle into the small hours.
The room had gone quiet. He guessed Gulzar must have left. He’d be back soon. Jameel crept from under the covers and sat up. He was alone. The heavy curtains hanging from the ceiling to the floor had been shrugged aside, allowing sunlight to blaze through the windows. His head began to clear and he marvelled at the good luck he’d enjoyed since the truck stopped and he’d climbed aboard to see Mazur’s welcoming face and impatient gestures.
It had been dark when they got to Gulzar’s house. Jameel was close to exhaustion. Gulzar had called for tea and bombarded his nephew with questions about his mother and the village.
/> Gulzar Hafeez was rich – the bed gave some idea of how rich – his answer about keeping money in his shoes had been a joke. Jameel shook his head in disbelief. Could it really only be two days since he’d walked in the dark towards the road?
Footsteps echoing off wood and walls told him someone was coming.
‘Uncle?’ But it wasn’t his uncle. It was a boy carrying a pile of clothes. He set his load down and disappeared.
Jameel had left his clothes on the chair. They were gone. He sank into the crisp white pool. The ceiling seemed miles away, a fan purred in its centre. Up where the walls ended, intricate patterns and designs stretched all the way round. A fireplace with a fire ready set dominated the far wall. It was a magnificent room.
The house was silent. Perhaps his uncle had gone out. No doubt an important man had business to take care of which wouldn’t wait for a sleepy guest.
More footsteps, far away at first but growing louder, then his uncle burst in, arms open, a grin on his face. ‘At last, the boy’s awake!’ He’d lost none of the previous night’s enthusiasm. ‘How did you sleep? Well?’
‘Very well.’
‘Good. Very good.’
‘But someone has taken my clothes. I folded them over there. Now I can’t find them.’
‘But you have clothes. Many clothes.’ He pointed to the bundle the boy had brought. ‘Try them. If they don’t fit or you don’t like them, we’ll get more.’
Jameel was stunned.
‘New clothes are only the beginning. Later today we’ll start to make our plans.’
‘Plans for my new job?’
‘Plans for your new life, my boy.’
Part II
In the heart of the city
Chapter 9
The knock at the door brought Afra out of a shallow sleep. The light went on. It was Nadira. The night hadn’t soothed her anxiety. She spoke in a whisper. ‘Get up. You must get up, now.’
