The Edges of Time

by Farahad Zama

  'Sir,' I said, interrupting. 'We don't have time for this. Besides being late for dinner, it might get dark before we reach the guesthouse and there are dakoos around. It won't be safe on the road.'

  Gandhi looked at me with those eyes that mesmerized the world and said, 'Nothing is more important than wiping the tears of a crying boy.'

  Gandhi held Ramachandra's finger and started walking towards the boy's home. I silently followed. The boy's home was a modest government employee's house in the Brahmin area of the village. Ramachandra's father was sitting on the verandah outside the house. Before he could shout at the boy, Gandhi smiled at the man and said, 'Namaste.'

  The boy took advantage of the distraction and slunk past his father into the house. Gandhi and the man talked for a few minutes. He told him that he had rescued his son from the taunts of the village boys. 'I have a question,' Gandhi said. 'Why do you dress your son up as a girl?'

  The man sighed. 'There is a curse on our house, sir. This boy is actually my fourth son,' he said. 'The other three passed away before their first year. I am afraid that I am not meant to have a boy who will light my funeral pyre and carry on my name after me. That's why I dress him up as a girl.'

  'You can't bring him up as a girl forever,' said Gandhi. 'It's not fair on the boy.'

  'My wife is pregnant again and we are hoping that it is a boy. Then I can bring up both of them as boys.'

  'You've even gone so far as to pierce his nose for a ring, Mr Godse,' said Gandhi.

  'Yes,' said the boy's father. 'He wears a naath – a nose ring – to fool the evil spirits and that's why we call him Nathu Ram. Nose ring Ram.'

  ~ ~ ~

  4. The Debt

  The ring of the phone was a harsh jangle in the still night but Mr Ali did not wake up until his wife shook him. 'What?' he said sleepily, and then came awake with a jolt when he saw the expression on her face. Silently, she handed him the phone.

  'Hello.' The wailing at the other end made him jerk the instrument away from his ear. 'Who is this?' he asked.

  'Bhai-jaan,' said the woman. 'My brother is not waking up. I heard a crash and when I went to his room, he had collapsed on the floor and he's not responding. I am scared bhai-jaan. I don't know what to do.'

  Mr Ali recognized the voice. 'Mehrunnisa! Have you called the doctor?'

  'Yes, I have called his doctor. He says he'll be here soon.'

  'That's good,' said Mr Ali. 'Meanwhile, turn him to his side and put a pillow under his head. I am coming over.'

  He got ready quickly and wheeled his scooter out of the gate. 'Be careful,' Mrs Ali said.

  He nodded and started the vehicle. It was still dark, though a little light could be seen on the eastern horizon. The normally busy road outside their house was deserted, all the shops shuttered and the silence felt oppressive. Even the few stray dogs were sleeping. As Mr Ali rode through the empty streets, he hoped Janoo was all right. How long had he known the man? Well over thirty years – he had known Janoo almost as long as he had known his own wife.

  Mr Ali had been a young man lured to Vizag on the promise of a job. But when he had arrived in the town, the promised job had disappeared as quickly as morning dew on a summer morning. The little money that he brought with him dwindled slowly away as he kept chasing leads for other jobs. He was loath to give up and go back. His father was retired and his parents were living with his older brother and he didn't want to add to his brother's burden, but in another couple of days, he wouldn't have a choice but to return unless he started to sleep rough and start starving. That evening he sat on the beach watching the surf – his mind in a loop starting from and ending at the same point: money or, rather, the lack of it.

  Soon after his father retired, he had got his daughter – Mr Ali's sister - married off, using up the savings and Provident Fund that he had received on retirement. His father received a small pension but was otherwise almost entirely dependent on his sons. Mr Ali did not want his brother to shoulder the entire responsibility of looking after his parents. He wanted to contribute too. And if he went back, not only would he not be looking after his parents, he himself would become dependent on his brother's generosity. He knew that his brother would take him in without a complaint, but he didn't want to impose on that generosity.

  He looked at the water and sighed. Who was he kidding? There was another reason for his reluctance. At his sister's wedding, a young woman had caught his eye. Slim, with long hair, a slender waist and a mischievous smile, she had been from the groom's side but despite that, she had helped out in the wedding arrangements – serving lunch to the guests, passing messages between the bride and groom's parents and a hundred other tasks that a wedding entails. It seemed to him that in those three days of the celebrations, he saw her smiling face or her ready laughter almost constantly. His mother had been busy but not too busy to notice that her son was attracted to Baji's daughter. The day after the wedding, she had asked her son what he thought of the girl and Mr Ali had mumbled that he indeed liked her. His mother knew the girl's family – they were eminently suitable and she had initiated discreet inquiries about the possibility of a match. The reply had come back almost immediately. They had seen him and liked him and were agreeable to the match. But, as always, there was a catch. They had found out that Mr Ali was unemployed. They would wait three months for him to get a good job. If not, they would look elsewhere. Their daughter had already received interest from other parties and they didn't want to wait too long to get her married off. Two of those three months were over and if he went back to his brother now, it would surely be several months before he found another job. He had little hope that anything would change, but he decided to chase up again about the promised job the next morning. His stomach growled and he eyed a passing peanut vendor like, well, a starving man, but decided to give it a miss. He would drink a lot of water and that should be enough for the night.

  As he got up to his feet, he heard a voice say, in Urdu, 'Are you from Pithapuram?'

  Only Muslims, a small minority in Vizag, spoke Urdu – the local Hindu language being Telugu – and that as much as the accuracy of the question, made him turn in surprise. He saw a couple in front of him – the man was slightly older than him and the woman had covered her hair in a hijab, like traditional Muslim women did, but had left her face uncovered. 'Salaam Wa'laikum,' Mr Ali said, hesitantly, because he didn't know who these people were. 'Yes, I am from Pithapuram, but you have the advantage over me because I am afraid I don't know who you are.'

  The man smiled. 'I thought so. I attended the wedding of my wife's cousin there recently and I was sure you were the bride's brother.'

  The man's wife bobbed her head in an acknowledgement when he looked at her, startled. He still didn't recognize them. There had been over eight hundred guests at his sister's wedding and he had had eyes for only one of them. The man pointed to himself and said, 'This worthless being is called Janoo.' It was a traditional way of introducing oneself in Urdu and the man's diction was also faultless. 'You must be Haider,' he continued.

  Mr Ali nodded mutely.

  'Would you do us the honour of coming to our humble abode for dinner?'

  'Now?' said Mr Ali, startled.

  'Aaj ka kaam kal na daal,' Janoo said, smiling. Don't put away till tomorrow what can be done today.

  Even as an automatic polite refusal rose to Mr Ali's lips, his stomach contracted painfully, reminding him that he had not eaten since the morning and he found himself nodding. Janoo and his wife lived at the top of the steep AVN College Road, in Adeni Manzil, a once-grand mansion that had been divided into small apartments, all occupied by Muslim families. Janoo's wife apologized for the simple fare – brinjals with dried shrimp, khatti dal and rice – but nothing had tasted as wonderful to Mr Ali in a long time. Janoo had coaxed Mr Ali's story out of him before the evening was out. 'You will eat every evening here,' he had told him, overriding Mr Ali's rather weak protests.

  Janoo was a writer, publishing
short stories, poems and the occasional non-fiction article in various newspapers and magazines. His house was as full of books as a library and at least twice a week there were other guests in the house. Janoo had a quick temper and he could be sharp and cutting, but then he would turn on his charm again and things would be smoothed over. Mr Ali didn't mind; he felt privileged to be among such erudite and literary company and, more importantly, he would eat nothing all day besides the dinner and thus managed to eke out the little money he had a bit longer. One evening, almost three weeks after he had met Janoo, there were no other guests in the house. They had just finished dinner and Janoo's wife was in the kitchen settling everything when Janoo left him and went into the bedroom that was off the living room in which they had eaten dinner.

  'Haider,' he called from the other room.

  Mr Ali was deep in thought – about his dwindling funds, the imminent deadline after which the slim-waisted girl with the beautiful smile would be betrothed to some other lucky bugger... He heard Janoo's call and looked up. 'Yes,' he said.

  'There is an envelope on top of the radio. It's for you.'

  'An envelope? For me?' said Mr Ali, puzzled, and went to the beautiful teak cabinet that housed the wireless. There was a fat, white envelope with the word 'Haider Ali' written in Urdu.

  Mr Ali flexed it, trying to guess its contents but failed. 'What is it?' he asked.

  'It's for you,' said Janoo. 'Just take it and go. Don't open it until you get home.'

  The envelope contained two hundred and fifty rupees – a fortune in those days, almost three months salary for a government clerk. There was also a letter with the name of an official in the provincial government who, in return for a bribe of two hundred rupees, had an opening for a clerk's position.

  Mr Ali's eyes watered as the cool night breeze whipped past him. He told himself that it was the wind that caused the tears, not the memories of the man who had come to his rescue like a veritable farishta – a heavenly angel. A dog suddenly barked and chased after the scooter but gave up when Mr Ali crossed some invisible canine boundary. Janoo was a funny man, thought Mr Ali. He had been incredibly generous but was too embarrassed to actually help him face to face and instead had hidden in another room. The year after that had been busy for Mr Ali – a new job, a wedding and setting up house with his wife. Mr and Mrs Ali regularly visited Janoo and his wife. Once he had saved up enough, on their next visit to Janoo's house, he had tried to return the money but Janoo had waved it away. 'I don't need the money right now,' Janoo told him. 'When I need it, I will collect the debt from you.'

  Over the years Mr Ali had offered to repay the money, but each time Janoo had deflected him, saying that the time had not yet come to collect the debt. 'When the time comes, I will personally ask you,' he said and Mr Ali had to be satisfied with that.

  The doctor arrived just as Mr Ali was lifting the scooter on to its stand and they went in together. Janoo was lying on the floor next to the bed in his room. His sister was kneeling next to him and crying loudly. 'Wake up, bhaiyya. See Ali bhai-jaan is here. The doctor's come too.'

  The doctor silently signaled to Mr Ali to take the woman away. Mr Ali bent down and raised the woman with his hands on her shoulders. 'Mehru, come here. Let's give the doctor some room to work. Come on now...'

  He took her into the living room and got her a glass of water. 'Stay here,' he said, and went back into Janoo's room.

  The doctor was already closing his bag. 'What happened?' asked Mr Ali.

  The doctor shook his head. 'He is dead,' he said softly. 'Must have been a massive heart attack.'

  'Shouldn't we try to... you know... revive him or something?'

  The doctor took a deep breath. 'Too late for that,' he said. They left the room together. Janoo's sister took one look at their faces and dissolved into a fresh paroxysm of tears.

  The doctor nodded to Mr Ali and started to leave. At the door, Mr Ali asked him, 'What about your fees?'

  Was this why his debt had remained unpaid for so long? But, the doctor shook his head. 'I've been looking after this gentleman for a long time,' he said. 'I am sorry I couldn't do more, but he wouldn't listen to me when I told him to cut down on salt and oil.'

  The doctor left and Mr Ali took out his phone and called the imam of his mosque and told him the news. He then called his wife. 'Come here,' Mr Ali told her. 'Take an auto and get some food.'

  'Oh!' said Mrs Ali, understanding. By tradition, no food was supposed to be cooked in a death-house for three days. It was up to the neighbours and community to feed the grieving family. 'I'll be there soon.'

  Mr Ali sat down heavily on the sofa. He had spent many evenings here when there had been laughter and good cheer, food and conversation. He looked around and suddenly noticed how bare the room was. There were still books, but they no longer filled the shelves. The silver tray and ornate water pourer with its rounded spout and flaring handle was gone. The walls had not been painted in years and one whole corner of the ceiling was damp-stained. It had all started to go wrong for Janoo when he finally caught religion.

  Janoo had been a Marxist from his student days – believing that only scientific socialism could lift Indians out of their poverty. His writings reflected his left-wing ideals. As a rationalist, he did not believe in religion – never going to the mosque or fasting. His wife was a pious woman – praying regularly, feeding the orphans twice a year at the madrassa and celebrating the festivals. To his credit, Janoo never stopped his wife from following her wishes. 'Hindus believe in many gods, Christians in the Trinity, Muslims in one God,' he once told Mr Ali. 'Don't you see the progression? I have just taken it to its next logical step and believe in zero gods.'

  Janoo and his wife had been trying for a baby for several years without success. Janoo's wife visited many saints' tombs praying for a baby – mostly she went with Mrs Ali and Mr Ali sometimes accompanied them. Janoo's wife tried to get her husband to join them as well but he was adamant. 'One religious person in this family is enough dear,' he would say.

  One day she told him that she wanted to visit Ajmer-sharif - the famous tomb of the Sufi saint Moinuddin Chisti. This was in Rajasthan, in north India, and initially he refused. But Janoo's wife was convinced that praying at this renowned shrine would make her wishes come true. Didn't millions of people visit it every year? Hadn't Moinuddin's descendant Salim Chisti predicted that the Emperor Akbar would have a son after years in which the whole empire had waited with bated breath for an heir? There was even a special train from Hyderabad to Ajmer for the pilgrims because so many travelled there. Finally, after months of persuasion, Janoo agreed. His book of poems had just been published to critical acclaim and reasonable sales and he felt in a mood to indulge his wife. 'I'd rather go and see the Taj Mahal, that teardrop on the cheek of time, but it seems that I've finally caught religion,' he told Mr Ali.

  'It's not that bad,' said Mr Ali, who had been to Ajmer a few years earlier. 'It's no Taj Mahal, but the architecture of Ajmer Sharif is amazing too and a poet like you will enjoy the qawwalis. It's quite moving to see thousands of devotees congregated in one place.'

  Mr and Mrs Ali went with them to the railway station, which was busy and noisy as usual. As they got off the taxi, Mr Ali tried to pay, but Janoo laughed. 'Are you still trying to repay my debt, Haider? I will ask when the time comes.'

  Ajmer sits in a bowl whose walls are the Aravalli mountains on the edge of the Thar desert and receives rain only during the monsoon. Floods are rare but there was one that year. It was a minor incident, said the government of India, only fourteen people died. The only reason it received a mention in the newspapers was because there was a fear that the floodwaters might reach the tomb. One of the fourteen people who were washed away was Janoo's wife.

  He was shattered by his wife's death and became more cynical than ever. When friends came over to pay their condolences and mentioned that it was God's will that his wife had passed away, he shouted at them and said that their God was a h
eartless b...d. Over time, he alienated many friends and became lonelier than ever.

  He regularly contributed to Eenadu, a Telugu newspaper, and Shama, an Urdu magazine. About a year after his wife's death, in one particular month, he disagreed with the way the editors of the two publications edited his articles and sent them both intemperate letters – missives that his wife would surely have made him reconsider – and angered the editors and they stopped publishing him from then on.

  It pained Mr Ali to see his friend so lonely and he told Janoo many times to keep a close rein on his temper. 'You need people,' he said to him.

  'I know Haider,' Janoo told him. 'But I can't help it. She knew exactly when I was about to explode and could defuse me with a single glance, but now there is no off-switch.'

  Janoo's widowed sister and aged mother moved in with him to look after him and one day Janoo told Mr Ali, 'It's a help having somebody clean and cook but bloody hell, it's so much more expensive to run a household with three people than it is with just one.'

  Mr Ali knew that Janoo hadn't published anything for months - money must be tight, he thought. 'I still owe you,' he said. 'Let me pay you back.'

  Janoo exploded. 'Do you think I am a pauper who needs your help to get by?' he shouted.

  'No, that's not what...' began Mr Ali, trying to placate his friend.

  'I can see you pitying me. You come here to look at my reduced circumstances and gloat. Get out!'

  Mr Ali was shocked and left quietly. He stayed away for a month, but then decided that his friend hadn't really meant those words and went back. In his friend's house, he noticed that the silver tray and water pourer were missing – presumably sold or pawned.

  Janoo quietly accepted him back and talked to him normally and never mentioned the outburst, except once, about six months after the incident, he softly said, 'Haider, you are a good friend and more importantly a good man. I don't deserve you.'