I Remember Abbu

by Humayun Azad

  No sooner did I begin walking than I earned a new title.

  Abbu began to address me as “fool.”

  “Where has thou vanished, fool?”

  “Canst thou come here, fool?”

  “Climbeth thou on my shoulder, fool.”

  The word “fool” hung in the air all the time. What a sweet word “fool” was when it came from Abbu’s lips. At a time when I did not know how to talk. At a time when I felt no need to talk. I’ve seen photographs of myself at that age. When I cried, I really did look like an utter fool.

  Even now, I can hear Abbu calling me from a distance sometimes: “Fool.”

  “Abbu,” I respond in silence.

  Again, I can hear him call me: “Fool.”

  Only an echo sounds from the distance.

  Can’t Talk, Can Tell

  Abbu’s slippers are missing. The pair of red-white-green slippers cannot be found in the spot where Abbu always nudges them with his feet after putting on his sandals. They’re not in the living room, or outside the kitchen, or beneath the clothes rack. The maid can’t find them. Ammu cannot find them in the fridge.

  I know slippers are for feet. That doesn’t mean they can walk.

  “Where are my slippers, Fazila?” Abbu is shouting.

  “My slippers are missing,” he’s telling Ammu.

  Abbu is upset. He gets angry if he can’t find his slippers when he comes home. His sandals feel hot on his feet.

  Abbu considers me a complete fool. Otherwise, he could have asked me. I was home too. But I couldn’t talk yet. I tottered around from one room to another. I didn’t like the clothes being arranged neatly on the rack, so I pulled them down to the floor and spread them out. Clothes spread out on the floor are so lovely. I liked putting on large shoes. Wearing the left shoe on the right foot was even more fun. Why does everyone put the left shoe on the left foot?

  Since I couldn’t talk, Abbu and Ammu assumed I couldn’t tell things apart from one another. I was small, but I was a human. Does not being able to talk mean you don’t know what’s what? Didn’t Abbu know the sky even when he himself couldn’t speak? Doesn’t that cat sitting there know me?

  Abbu is annoyed. He’s sitting in the living room. I feel sorry for him.

  Putting my hands inside the slippers, I enter the living room, saying, “Oi, oi.”

  Abbu jumps in joy.

  I just keep saying, “Oi, oi.”

  Back then, I considered these little words my entire vocabulary.

  Dancing with joy, Abbu picks me up in his arms. “How didst thou know my slippers were missing, fool? How didst thou know, fool? How didst thou, fool?”

  A human is a human from the very first day, Abbu had written.

  Even as a baby, I got excited whenever that thing sitting on the table near the front door rang. Lying in bed, I’d say, “Allo, allo” to myself. When the doorbell rang, I’d shake in excitement. I knew only too well what that sound was saying. “I’m here, I’m here.”

  There was something else I liked very much. By now, I had learned to say several words. Every morning, the newspaper would slide beneath our door with a rustle. Sometimes, Fazila would run to hand it to Abbu. On other days, Abbu himself would wait for it by the door. He seemed to be annoyed when it was late, sliding under the door with a rustle. Nowadays, I’m irritated too. I used to wonder, Where does the newspaper come from? Why does it come only once each day, in the morning? What’s in it?

  Picking it up, Abbu would tell Ammu, “Here, ten dead today as well.”

  “Here, thirty dead today as well,” he would say, and start looking sad. I thought all the newspaper did was tell us how many people had died. Everyone had to read about death as soon as they woke up in the morning. At least, that was what Abbu did every day. Then he went out.

  I wanted to read about people dying too. What did dying mean? I had already begun to grasp that dying was very bad.

  I wanted to take the paper to Abbu. I would loiter by the door every morning. But that Fazila! Whenever there was a rustling sound, she would run with it to Abbu. I couldn’t run as quickly as she could. But that one day, it was so wonderful. Fazila had gone out when I heard the rustling sound. I waddled to Abbu with the newspaper and asked him, “Who die totay, Abbu?”

  Startled, Abbu told Ammu, “Listen to what the fool is saying; listen to the fool!”

  Ammu was astonished too. And I was passed from Abbu’s arms to Ammu’s to Abbu’s to Ammu’s.

  Of course, I realized at once that deaths are part of the daily news in this country. I had no trouble understanding. Now I read of the deaths every morning on Abbu’s behalf.

  Abbu had written, How does she understand this? She has never asked. She has concluded from our conversation that the news of death arrives through the newspaper every morning. Bus accidents, capsized launches, collapsed buildings, people dying like rats. She is obviously a human. Small, but a human.

  By then, I had grown a little older. I could say a lot of words. “Gaas” for “glass,” “teevishun” for “television,” “lice” for “rice.” I adored teevishun.

  I used to watch television with Abbu in the evening. Abbu would sit with a book, and I would perch in his lap or by his side. How did so many people get into that box? Why couldn’t I get in too? Watching television was wonderful, but I loved what happened when it was switched on or switched off. Abbu would fix a wire to the wall, and then press something in front of the television. At once, a picture would appear. I wanted to fix the wire to the wall and press whatever it was he pressed, but I never managed to. When he didn’t like the television, Abbu would press that thing again and pull the wire out, and the teevishun would shut down.

  One day, Abbu had gone to the bedroom, leaving me on the sofa. He began talking to Ammu. I was watching television. Abbu would be back soon. I wanted to shut the television down. I pulled the wire out and went to Abbu and Ammu in the bedroom.

  “Hate teevishun,” I told them.

  Abbu laughed. “What’s the matter, aged one?”

  Then he exclaimed, “Why can’t I hear the TV?”

  Abbu ran to the living room. He found the television off, the wire pulled out.

  Abbu was jumping in excitement. He was frightened too. He told Ammu, “Go see—the fool has pulled the wire out. She has learned just by watching me.”

  I was laughing happily in Ammu’s arms.

  I didn’t want to pull the wire out. I wanted to press that thing in front to turn it off. But I couldn’t reach that high. So, I pulled the wire out. After this, Abbu fixed things so that I couldn’t get to the wire. The fun of watching television was gone.

  One particular incident from that time made Abbu very happy.

  It was when I stood up on my own, without holding on to anything. Like Abbu, I, too, look for significance in everything now. No incident is unimportant; everything holds some significance. Just as our words have meanings, and then meanings beyond those meanings, so, too, do incidents have meanings, and then meanings beyond meanings. Take the electrical wires wound around one another next to our house, two or three of which hung loose. They have a significance. My being able to stand on my own was very significant for Abbu.

  One evening, I tried to stand up. I needed to stand up.

  Crawling wasn’t enough. Standing was necessary.

  And then when you can stand, standing isn’t enough. You have to walk.

  When you know how to walk, walking isn’t everything. You have to run.

  Now that I had crawled for a long time, I felt the urge to stand up. Abbu and Ammu were in the living room. I tried to stand up in front of them.

  The first time I tried, I fell. But I couldn’t afford to fall.

  Beads of perspiration gathered on my cheeks and nose. I lurched on unsteady feet. The weight of all mankind was upon me. As though I were trying to stand up on behalf of the entire human race.

  Once again, I tried to stand upright. I forgot the perspiration. I forgot the
small world. I forgot the tilting floor. I stood.

  My blood tingled in joy. I clapped, as though applauding the achievement of humanity.

  Abbu clapped and hoisted me on his shoulder. Ammu clapped, dancing.

  One Afternoon

  One particular afternoon was blue like a sky I’d never seen. I remember some things about it; I don’t remember some other things about it.

  Like Abbu’s face, I remember a part of it, and I don’t remember the other part. I’d been somewhere that afternoon. I don’t remember any of it. All I remember is that an afternoon came that comes only once. It doesn’t come again. I was toddling from this room to that, from that room to this. I was going up to the door, saying, “Ou, ou.”

  I loved going out. Feeling the breeze out there.

  “Want to go out, fool?” asked Abbu.

  “Ou,” I said.

  Abbu made me put on red shoes. A red frock. He combed my hair. We went outside. Where was that outside? Even today, I want to go there.

  Take me to that outside, Abbu.

  I hadn’t imagined the outside was so huge. I had been to my khala’s house earlier with Ammu. My aunt’s house. But Ammu used to wrap me in her sari. And it’s possible Ammu didn’t even take the outside route to Khala’s house. Maybe she took a tunnel or something. Ammu probably didn’t know what the outside was like. She still doesn’t. Although Ammu works in an office, goes shopping, goes to Khala’s house too.

  Abbu knew what the outside was like. Abbu had a close friendship with the outside. Where had he taken me? All I remember is that we went into a field.

  “Those two are fairies,” Abbu told me.

  “Failees,” I said.

  The fairies turned to look at me. Their clothes were redder than mine; their saris were flying in the wind. The moon and the stars were glittering on their cheeks. They gave me a flower.

  “Will you come with us?” the fairies asked.

  I agreed. One of the fairies flew up in the air with me perched on her wing. The other fairy began to dance. She sped through the wind, dancing; I can still see her soaring through the blue, dancing.

  Their names were Monimala or Muktomala or something like that. Or it’s possible they had no names. Maybe I’m just imagining the names now.

  Abbu was whooshing behind us on a ship.

  An enormous orange was dangling near my hand. I tried to pluck it.

  “Is there an orange moon too?” I think I said.

  “There’s even a blue moon,” I think the fairy said. “Want to see?”

  Before my eyes, there was the blue, and I also saw a blue moon and a green moon and a yellow moon. There were moons everywhere. Could there possibly be so many moons in the sky?

  The fairies had set me down on the back of a green fish. It swam off through the air, spraying its color everywhere. The fish flew through blue-green water with me on its back.

  Abbu was rushing behind us on a blue ship.

  I met a tree. I had never met a tree before.

  “I’m a tree,” the tree told me. “I stand beneath the sky.”

  “How happy you must be,” I may have said.

  I met a seashell.

  “I’m a seashell,” the seashell told me.

  “A seashell? I’ve never seen you before,” I may have said.

  I met a bird.

  “I’m a bird,” the bird told me.

  “I’m so happy now that I’ve seen you,” I may have said.

  “Come, let’s go back home,” Abbu said.

  We turned back homeward. That was the one time I went outside. An outside like the outside, an outside with no inside. An outside where everything is out there. I returned home with Abbu, carrying with me the scent of the bird and the green of the grass and the dance of the fairy and the smell of the fish.

  I had gone outside. Even today, I feel like going outside with Abbu.

  All Those Difficult Words

  “Well, aged one?” Abbu had said.

  Ged-one, I had replied in my head.

  I did not understand who a “ged-one” was. But as soon as I heard the word, I had an image of someone like Dadu, my ancient grandfather. The word always seems very old—a word that finds it painful to stand erect, a word that needs to be massaged all day.

  From that day, I developed a liking for difficult words.

  Ammu always referred to me as a boy. “My boy,” she told her friends when she met them.

  “My son,” Abbu would say, pointing me out to his friend.

  “Mai-zon.” How wonderful it felt to hear it. It made me think I was male. Whenever someone says “boy,” it makes me feel like a boy. Hearing the word “son” makes me feel like I’m standing next to Abbu.

  “Say ‘mai-zon,’” I told Abbu.

  “Oh my, you can say that too?” a pleased Abbu asked.

  Whenever he spoke, I’d tell him, “Say a big word, Abbu.”

  “What word?” Abbu would ask.

  “Red,” I’d say.

  “Incarnadine,” Abbu would say.

  Everything would turn utterly red at once. “Incarnadine” is so much redder than red.

  “Incarnadine” makes me picture the rising sun. Roses. Ammu’s cheeks. Whereas “red” only makes me think of putting on my shoes.

  “Abbu, flowers,” I’d say.

  “Blossoms,” Abbu would respond.

  My heart would ring with blossoms, blossoms, blossoms, blossoms, blossoms . . . I could see the garden, with blossoms on every branch. I couldn’t get enough of them.

  “Food,” I’d say.

  “Victuals,” Abbu would respond.

  “Evening,” I’d say.

  “Gloaming,” Abbu would respond.

  “Fish,” I’d say.

  “Piscis,” Abbu would respond.

  I would be astonished. There was a big word for everything. I used to love the big words.

  “Want victuals,” I told Ammu one day.

  Ammu’s eyes widened. “What! Victuals? Where did you learn that?”

  I chuckled. “Ammu fagerbasted.”

  I had heard Abbu say it. I can pronounce “flabbergasted” now. But back then, I would murmur all the time, “Fagerbasted, fagerbasted, fagerbasted.”

  Whenever anyone spoke, I said, “Fagerbasted.”

  I remember all the big words.

  I love all the big words.

  The Kittens

  One day, a pair of kittens came into our house. One was milky white, dazzling moonlight. I wanted to hug it all the time. Such a beautiful cry: “Miaow!” The other was black and white. They danced into the house.

  “Miaow, miaow,” they said as soon as they came in.

  I looked at them joyfully. There was no one younger than me at home. My heart was filled with happiness now that there were not one but two others younger than me. We didn’t have a tiger or an elephant or even a stupid cow at home. But the arrival of the two kittens made up for all that. I pulled out a handful of the white kitten’s fur.

  Within minutes, the kittens were lost in play. They rolled over each other. All they did was roll. I crawled toward them.

  “Don’t go near them; you’ll catch something,” said Ammu.

  She dragged me away.

  Abbu was also very happy about the arrival of the kittens. How much could he play with me alone? How many times could he hoist me on his shoulder, or lie back in bed and balance me on his knees, or pinch my cheeks?

  I couldn’t jump or leap like them. I could only shout, “Oi, oi!” in excitement when the kittens did somersaults.

  Abbu would roll paper balls for them to play with, and the kittens would turn into tigers. As though it were not a paper ball but a deer that had lost its way and blundered into their path.

  They would lie in ambush. Then they would extend one paw before pouncing on the paper ball to sink their claws into it. But they wouldn’t try to eat it immediately. Instead, they would hold it with their paws.

  Then they would start toying wit
h the prey.

  They turned our home into the Sundarbans forests. Abbu would throw paper balls continuously, and they would pounce on them. One hunt followed another in quick succession, and they pounced and pounced and pounced. They couldn’t stop pouncing with so many targets around them.

  “Oi, oi!” I would shout from Abbu’s arms.

  I wanted to pounce too.

  I wished I could be a milky-white kitten. Who didn’t have to crawl. Who was not afraid of catching something. Who didn’t have to drink milk from a bottle.

  Abbu grew very fond of the kittens. He would toss them up in the air, and they would land perfectly on their feet.

  I had learned to walk. And to talk. The kittens had grown.

  The white kitten refused to leave home. The black-and-white kitten refused to come home. Once, Abbu tied it up with a length of rope. Still, he couldn’t keep it at home.

  “A kitten isn’t a cow,” Ammu said. “You can’t tether it.”

  “But it refuses to stay at home,” Abbu said.

  “Lefuse home,” I said.

  Ammu set the black-and-white one loose. It went out. It didn’t come back.

  The white one stayed. One day, I heard several kittens mewing. Where were they? Beneath our bed.

  The white kitten carried them from one spot to another in its mouth. Then from the second spot back to the first.

  It set them next to me. Beneath my pillow. On my bottle.

  Dadu said, “She’ll catch something. Get rid of the kittens.”

  Abbu was sad.

  Something happened that afternoon. A tomcat came into the house and pounced on one of the kittens. Abbu ran to chase him away. But the kitten collapsed. The tomcat had bitten it on the head. The skin had come off. It couldn’t get up. Abbu put some medicine on its head. But it didn’t survive.