“Mr Pandey, sorry I’m late,” said Babarr. He paused, flared his nostrils and inhaled deeply. The whole process made a distinctly unsavoury sound.
“Let’s get it sorted, once and for all.”
“Please come inside,” said Mr Pandey, looking utterly bemused.
Sajid stretched out a hand and Musa shook it with as limp a grip as was humanly possible.
“Do you have any worries?” asked Sajid giggling.
This went back to a time when Musa, then a child, was ill. Sajid had asked what the problem was and Amma, misunderstanding the question had answered, “He worries a lot.” Sajid had found this hilarious and had made a point of asking Musa if he had any worries every time he saw him, speaking in Punjabi since he was one of those patriotic people who always spoke his mother tongue to fellow Pakistanis. Musa had often racked his brain for a withering pre-emptive put-down but could come up with nothing more than a pseudo-friendly smile.
Sajid chuckled and as they followed Babarr into the house Musa noticed a curtain twitch. He looked up and glimpsed a stern face with huge glasses staring at him. Another twitch and she was gone.
They were greeted by a smell of burning incense. The spacious hallway was aglow with lavender patterns and on the wall facing them was a gold-plated clock. From the ceiling, a chandelier moved uneasily and cut dancing squares into the floor. To one side, a door stood slightly ajar and through it Musa saw a cabinet adorned by the large photo of a young man with familiar shiny hair proudly holding his degree.
Babarr led the way into the kitchen and Santosh Pandey, glancing nervously at Sajid, followed. Apurva Pandey, an imposing figure of a woman was waiting there. Her long hair was tied back and she wore a plain, blood-red sari. On her forehead was a large red bindi. The combination was dark and brooding. She whispered in her husband’s ear.
“Babarr,” said Mr Pandey gently. “Though my wife and I respect your…honest talk, we both feel that your asking price is exorbitantly high and not proportionate to the effort incurred.”
“Look Mr Pandey. You’re asking me to extend your kitchen by four feet, redo your old one and tile it. All in three months. That is worth fifteen thousand.”
“You must try to understand, ten–”
Babarr cut in. “You saw my van outside and you know what I stand for. You know how I work: I work tidy, I don’t cut corners, I don’t get pissed off, I don’t rush the job, I work my balls off, night and day, day and night. You add all that up and it’s fifteen thousand.”
Babarr’s proud defiant work ethic – combined with his simian forearms – seemed to jolt Santosh Pandey. He smiled a brilliant but nervous smile.
“I respect that Babarr and you must never for one second think that we do not value your professionalism and your commitment.”
“Then pay me what I’m worth and let’s get started,” said Babarr wearily, his shoulders drooping as if this was by now a debate as old as the Israel/Palestine conflict. Mrs Pandey again whispered in her husband’s ear. Musa could hear the final word of each sentence sounding like a bullet and ending in che.
“Oh, no, no, no,” replied the chastised Mr Pandey, on queue.
He was about to continue but stopped as Babarr had raised his right arm. From where Musa stood, Babarr’s triceps obscured the little bit of sunlight there was and for a few seconds the kitchen was engulfed in the darkness of his fury. He brought his fist crashing down on to the worktop. The resounding thwack stunned them all. After a few beats of silence Babarr raised his right arm and again struck the worktop. He took two quick steps to his left and swung his fist into the wall. A pause. Another blow. A trickle of plaster fell and Babarr swung again with the same methodical precision. At the fourth and final blow, large stainless pots and pans fell crashing to the floor, destroying the Pandeys’ orderly world.
Musa noticed that Mr and Mrs Pandey had almost merged into one body and they now took large frenzied breaths of air together in perfect unison.
Noiselessly Babarr walked out of the kitchen to the stairs. Ashen faced, the Pandeys followed him with the hesitant footsteps of conjoined geriatrics. Astonished by the noise, a young woman, the face at the window, had left her room and now hesitated at the top of the stairs, staring down at them. Babarr stood still. The veins in his neck, engorged with fury, pushed against the array of gold necklaces. He gathered himself and jumped. The noise reverberated throughout the house. Testing the floor with his foot as if trying to determine a fault line he jumped up and down like an angry child.
“Do you see what I mean?”
“No…What do you mean?” asked Mrs Pandey terrified but curious.
“What are you trying to do to us?” asked Mr Pandey in a shaking voice.
Babarr looked sadly at Santosh Pandey and shook his head.
“You see Mr Pan– Do you mind if I call you Santosh?” he asked politely.
Santosh Pandey shook his head the way drunks do when trying to shake off the after-effects of a toxic stupor.
“You see, Santosh, this house has many problems. The floorboards have not been put together properly, the plastering is a joke and your kitchen was fitted by a complete asshole. That means whoever you hire is gonna start right from the very beginning.
“That’s redoing your floorboards, cementing your kitchen units properly, doing the plaster so it’s nice and secure. All that is gonna cost money. And I am giving it to you for fifteen thousand. That’s it. I ain’t trying to trick you ’cos that ain’t my style. You and me were born under the same piece of sky, and when we die we’re gonna be covered by the same piece of mud. That makes us almost brothers. And as your brother I’m telling you to get your head out of your ass and see the light…See the light brother,” emphasised Babarr with the faintest trace of a new emotion entering his voice.
The logic of Babarr’s sentiments began to make perfect sense to everyone. The Pandeys moved apart and Santosh Pandey with a new-found assertiveness, agreed.
“OK…it’s a deal.”
“Good, I’ll go get the contract,” said Babarr.
He left the house, beckoning Musa to follow him.
“You see Musa it’s all about knowing what the customer wants. That’s the secret of any good business,” he said when they were outside. “It’s just as well he saw sense ’cos if he’d said ‘Oh, no, no, no,’ one more time, I think I might have killed the bastard.”
After the contract was signed, the Pandeys departed. Their final request to Babarr was to make sure that he cleaned up any mess after he finished, as their daughter could not tolerate untidiness. Babarr acquiesced wearily. The effort of his triumphant theatrics seemed to have silenced his body language: he now sighed every time he breathed and his pace slowed as he walked to the swish living room and slumped into a chair. Musa and Sajid followed, unwilling to leave their shepherd. Babarr reached into his pocket for a packet of Rizlas and then, delving further, he took out what looked to be a brownish-greenish wad of dried leaves. He placed this wad on to a Rizla paper and carefully prepared a roll-up which he lit up, put between his lips and inhaled deeply, his eyes glazed with thought.
Sajid, unburdened by the need for any such mental activity, sat down on a sofa and immediately launched into one of his monologues. Babarr nodded and as if soothed by the inane chatter sank further into the chair. At this point, whether by accident or divine intervention, a footrest sprang out, lifting his heavy legs, and he smiled like the child who has found a lost comfort blanket. With a barely audible voice he requested that Musa make tea. The request was probably a command but so faint and plaintive was Babarr’s voice that Musa felt it would have been positively inhumane to refuse.
First cup of tea made by Musa.
Segment of conversation between Sajid and Babarr:
Sajid: “Babarr I’m telling you the future is in socks. One of my cousins was really clever at school and his mum and dad wanted him to become a doctor but he said no. Then they said become a dentist and he still said no. Then they sa
id OK then become a lawyer and he didn’t want to do that either. So then they got really pissed off and asked, ‘What is it that you want to do?’ You know what he said? He said, ‘Mum…Dad what is it that doctors, dentists and lawyers have in common?’ They said they all earn over 50K a year. He said, ‘No, they all wear socks. I want to become a socks trader. And his mum and dad were like really really upset with him and his dad says, ‘Look son, I didn’t work all my life in a factory so my son would grow up and become a sock merchant. You’ll ruin the family name. But he stuck to his guns, yeah, and now all them bastards that laughed at him, they’re all wearing his socks. And he is sitting pretty, laughing his ass off. I’m telling you bro, socks is where it’s happening!”
Babarr’s response: “Um…”
Second cup of tea made by Musa.
Atmosphere in living room: cordial and relaxed.
Third cup of tea made by Musa.
Segment of conversation between Sajid and Babarr:
Sajid: “I’m telling you man I used to wonder, what is all this nonsense about Kashmir? Because if you ask me there ain’t no reason why Pakistanis and Indians can’t be like brothers and sisters. Remember Adnan and Sunita?”
Babarr nods slowly.
“Man, I’m telling you I ain’t ever seen a couple so hot as Adnan and Sunita. Babarr, I’m telling you those two were always making out. In the park, in his dad’s black cab, in her mum’s kitchen, in our office. I ain’t ever seen a couple like that. They never ever argued about Kashmir, they just got it on.”
Babarr: “Yeah I remember them two…Yeah!”
Fourth cup of tea made by Musa.
Atmosphere in living room: a pungent but pleasing haze is beginning to form over the head of Babarr.
Fifth cup of tea made by Musa.
Segment of conversation between Sajid and Babarr:
Sajid: “One time I’m down a mosque in Birmingham and they’re all standing in a circle. And in the middle there’s this guy who’s sitting in a chair with his hand out listening to his mobile. And all these people are taking turns to kiss this bloke’s hand. So I says to the guy in charge, ‘Why’re they all doing that?’ and he goes, ‘It’s because the guy is like, you know, really holy.’ So I said, ‘Who’s he talking to? and the guy is getting really pissed off with my questions and he says, ‘Probably God,’ and I go, ‘Why doesn’t he just pray? That way he can talk to him for free…’ Get it. FREE!”
Atmosphere in living room: A brown smog has settled. Everyone present is very happy and even Musa has found that he is becoming reluctant to leave the room despite the conversation.
When, three hours after the first, the command came to make the sixth cup of tea Musa got up from his chair with surprising alacrity. The floor beneath him felt as elastic as a trampoline and he had an irresistible urge to jump up and down. He made his way to the kitchen and noted with surprise that everything was gently moving. The large tin containing the slowly diminishing tea bags seemed absolutely enchanting and for a few long moments he stared at it, entranced by its lustrous surface. A noise broke into his trance: the refrigerator was humming with the insistence of a demented choir. Displeased he turned his attention to the task at hand.
While waiting for the water to boil he opened a jar of cumin and laid a few seeds on the worktop: with a small spoon he smashed at them. A feeling of irritation had been let loose within him and before he knew it he was furious. Did he have a sign stamped on his forehead saying Tea Boy? Was this why he had been assigned to Babarr? Was this a requisite duty of all associates of Babarr? If so how come that asshole Sajid never made the tea? The shame of it all! What an ignoble task for someone who had memorised the Quran in its entirety!
When the kettle whistled he knew it was a call to arms. A shrill request for revenge.
As he placed the ground seeds in the cup, an idea came to him. He poured the boiling water into the cup and went to the refrigerator to get the milk. Wincing at the hum of the accursed refrigerator, he poured milk into the cup but not to the brim. No, another fluid would lubricate the palate of Babarr. He cleared his throat, coughed and cleared his throat again. Musa then spat into Babarr’s sixth cup of tea. A large gob of saliva settled on the surface but refused to sink. This was bad news. Looking at the cup of tea it was obvious that it was no latte. Disconcerted, he stared furiously at the part of him that bobbed on the tea’s surface.
“Saliva is one point six times heavier than water and point five times heavier than milk. That’s why it’s not sinking,” said a calm voice behind him.
Musa turned to see who the oracle of fluid density was and recognised the daughter. She was taller than her parents and held herself with greater authority. With her large spectacles and the tightly bound puff of black hair at the back of her head she was as prim as a nun. Yet despite the austerity of her presence there was a certain tropical lucency to her, as if in another life she had been a Polynesian virgin who danced in the sun with flowers strewn through her hair.
“How long have you been doing this sort of thing?” she asked.
“Just started today,” replied Musa, intrigued and amused by the ambivalence in his answer.
She walked towards him and Musa noted with surprise that the customary compliant demeanour had somehow been waylaid. She was dressed in a formal black dress and high heels. He tried to smile but feeling himself beginning to tense up, he could not. She stopped and placed her hands on her hips. As they looked at each other he recognised her father’s eyes, far-seeing and shrewd. The beat of the moments that passed were like the whipping ticks of a crucifixion clock.
“Are you with Babarr?” she asked brusquely.
“Yes…I am with him though I am not yet with him,” replied Musa, finding it enormously difficult to keep a straight face at his marvellous spontaneous wit.
“I don’t think you’re all there,” she said warily.
“I don’t know where there is. That’s why I am here,” confided Musa.
“Are you one of these Pakistani boys who start talking shit every time he sees a girl?” she asked contemptuously.
“It’s possible I suppose,” said Musa thoughtfully.
Musa’s timidity seemed to have a disarming effect and the daughter nodded slowly and appraisingly, gradually shedding her hostility. She surveyed him briefly and came to a quick decision.
“If you ever wanted to know my name, would you ask?”
“Never,” replied Musa honestly.
The daughter smiled and Musa realised this was in response to his own smile and that where a smile begins and where it ends was to him an arc as distant as a winter moon, which amazingly was also a sign of Allah.
“My name is Armila.”
“I am Musa,” said Musa and felt immensely powerful for a few fleeting seconds.
“Uh-huh.” Instantly Armila became businesslike. “You need to add a little more hot water to the tea because the heat will expand the bubbles in your saliva and make it disappear.”
“I’ll do that,” said Musa gratefully.
“You’d better hurry. You wouldn’t want Babarr to start jumping again would you?” said Armila and with that parting advice, she walked out of the kitchen.
Musa nodded for longer than was really necessary and then began to boil more water.
When he returned to the living room Babarr and Sajid were not easy to identify as there was by now a mist which seemed to open doors and present all manner of inhibited notions in a platter from heaven. But the noise of their uproarious laughter with its explicit sense of the absurd became a maelstrom that sucked him in and then spun him out. Musa laid the tea on the table and began to reel with mirth, unaccountably and for absolutely no reason. He took a few steps, brought his hands together and suddenly bowed down as if he had just heard the joke and realised how extremely funny it was. The thrall of that insane, comic moment diminished his fear so that in a peculiar way it rested in his heart like the globule of saliva at the bottom of Babarr’s tea.
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With shaking hands and streaming eyes Babarr picked up the cup and took a huge swig. For a few seconds nothing happened and Musa had the sense of travelling many miles. And then Babarr coughed and sent a gigantic spray of tea across the room. Sajid exploded.
“Bastard! What the fuck did you put into that tea?” exclaimed Babarr.
He stood up. Disgust had now returned his senses to the fore of his consciousness but Sajid sat with tears rolling down his face. Impatiently Babarr waved at the cloudy air in front of him.
“Guys…Guys what is happening to us? We’re sitting on our backsides laughing our asses off like a bunch of monkeys. We have work to do. Come on now, shift yourselves.”
With this angry broadcast he strode out of the room, lithe with purpose.
Musa awash with relief followed him into the garden, the sounds of maniacal laughter trailing behind.
The Herculean endeavour of building was mixing cement. This was not as easy as it sounded. For a start the bags of cement weighed a ton and when Musa lifted one bag with his arms clasped around it in the manner of a bear hug he was sure his knees would give way. Once he had laid the bag on the ground he had to grab a shovel that was heavier than two fat men and pierce it. Then with the shovel he had to lift the cement into the cement mixer which was already slowly turning after some kind of powder had been put in there. The problem was that you had to shovel quickly or else the turning cement mixer would erupt and fire its contents back at you.
It was the shovelling that unmanned Musa. For hands that had held nothing heavier than the Holy Quran were simply not the paws of a builder. And Musa struggled: struggled to shovel, struggled to lift, struggled to do it quickly, and struggled not to throw the cement on Babarr who lay in the garden watching with a mild mixture of amusement and derision.
“C’mon Musa. Take pride in your work. Remember each time you throw the cement you are making a place where a kid can walk and feel happy.” All the while he fanned himself with the contract his employer had signed earlier.
Sajid stood watching Musa as though he were a two-headed dog.
The Reluctant Mullah Page 7
