Meda sona sada jeevay
My beloved live forever

Kisi shay da na ghum dheevey
To any being give no sorrow

Na ghum dheevay
Give no sorrow

Sada jeevay
Live forever

Sada jeevay
Live forever

‘Manwa Re’, written by Ahmed Aqeel Rubi, performed by Noori

It’s strange that we don’t refer to children as persons of character.

If you had known Murtaza, surely you would have thought of him as someone with a resilient disposition. There was integrity too; as I tell you his story you might even detect self-respect. Perhaps you think it’s a bizarre notion, even unpalatable: children as little people with personhood, dignity, and idiosyncrasies.

Now take his next-door neighbour, his best friend Vaqas. A good eight months younger and smaller than his constant companion, with stealthy fingers. If you had met Vaqas, you would have felt his forbearance, his capacity to suffer; he could stand in front of the broken glass jar with the twenty rupee note fished out from it crumpled up in his fist, with his arm raised to shield himself in the moment just before The Hand struck him with the rubber pipe of the washing machine. Vaqas’ blurry eyes would stay fixed on the rubber pipe, on The Hand clenching the rubber pipe, hoping it would stop mid-air, hoping against experience that this time it would hurt a little less. Meanwhile, the possessor of The Hand believed that the ferocity of the strike must be directly proportional to the intensity of love the son would go on to feel for the aging possessor when the son became a man.

 You don’t seem convinced of these two ten and nine-and-a-half-year-old persons with strength of character.

Perhaps you could make concessions for Irtiza, Murtaza’s eight-year-old sibling. Lack of oxygen at birth gave him the superpower that only comic book characters are endowed with: Irtiza did not recognize fear in any shape or form.

The frivolous doctors came up with a difficult little word. Auto-schism, no it was auto…some word without an Urdu translation. Ah yes! Autism. I think I got it right this time.

I can see that you are in deep thought now, so allow me to begin the story. But pay attention: forbearance, nuanced at times, is hard to spot, so read carefully.

*

Here is what you could see on that Friday afternoon.

The two little brothers went off to Masjid-e-Noor for Jumma prayers just like all the other boys in the building. It was right before the summer vacation. The lack of space inside the small mosque irked Irtiza and, like he always did when something did not go according to his expectations, he decided to march back home. Murtaza couldn’t let him go on his own; they had walked for a good ten minutes, he estimated. And he made a firm decision that he was going to offer his prayers with the congregation. He had a special request to make to Allah Mian, and the chances of acceptance of his request application were at their highest at the Friday prayer at the masjid.

Irtiza had yanked off his prayer cap and flung it somewhere inside the mosque. Out on the steps, Murtaza did his best to explain to his brother that people would spread a dhurrie, a much larger rug, on which the two would find space. But Irtiza wouldn’t hear it. He had worn his favorite t-shirt and trousers even though his Mama had tried to make him wear a shalwar kameez like his older brother. And now, too, Irtiza had made up his mind: he would have none of it, even though his brother kept pulling his arm, trying to stop him from leaving.

Irtiza began to cry, but he cried to express his annoyance at not being let go. Murtaza spread out a dhurrie all by himself on the pavement outside the Masjid and tried to get Irtiza onto it. Irtiza kept wailing. Murtaza let go of his hand and ran to hide Irtiza’s chappals instead. Irtiza stood barefoot on the Masjid’s steps while the devout namazis pushed past him to get inside. Murtaza turned around and saw that the dhurrie he had spread was completely occupied by the incoming devout. He spotted another one and pushed the leaning rolled-up rug onto the pavement with all his strength, spreading it out for his brother and himself.

“Irtiza see, see, plenty of space for us,” he began, looking around for Irtiza, only to see that Irtiza had found his chappals – or maybe they were some other boy’s – and was ready to jet. Flustered, Murtaza pushed him lightly so that Irtiza fell on his behind; he then quickly pulled a chappal off his brother’s foot.

Irtiza wailed louder. He got back on his feet and decided that, shod or barefoot, he was going to walk back home. Murtaza blocked his path, his white crocheted prayer cap still on, the collar of his kameez soaked in sweat. His glasses slid lower on the bridge of his nose.

“Aaah!” he roared at his younger brother. He turned around and saw that his dhurrie, the second one he had spread all by himself, was now occupied by eight new anxious devouts. He had lost his spot.

Irtiza continued to cry. The beggar woman who planted herself outside the masjid at every prayer call, having watched the saga, finally intervened: “Why don‘t you let him go?” “Because our building is very far. He can’t go on his own, he’ll get hit by a car.”

If only you had been there on that Friday afternoon and witnessed it all like the beggar woman and I did…

“Allah-hu-Akbar, Alhamdulillah hi Rabbil Aalameen,” the muezzin recited into the mike. All hands went up to the ears. The namaz had begun. Murtaza had lost. His special request would have to wait till next Friday. He gave the chappal back to his brother, helped him up, and they headed home together.

*

The notice sent by the school administration stated that the new term after the summer vacation, starting on August 8^th, 1997, would have only a morning shift. All afternoon shift students were to be moved to the morning shift classes. This meant that Irtiza could no longer be accommodated. He had, as it was, struck one teacher on the cheek with a board duster and bit another’s arm.

*

It should be acknowledged that Murtaza’s glasses perched on his little nose gave him a dignified look. True he was only in Class IV, but then the dew of dignity can settle on one’s skin at any age.

Lately though, whenever his Mama took Irtiza to the clinic or to the general store and left Murtaza at home to open the door for the maasi, Murtaza would get into the hollow space under the study table. He began to hide there just like Irtiza did sometimes when he was upset. Vaqas had sworn that he had watched the news on one of the new satellite dish antenna channels at home: Dracula had come to Karachi from America and was living at Quaid-e-Azam Mohammad Ali Jinnah’s mausoleum; Dracula could magically appear anywhere.

He imagined that being underneath the table was like being inside a fauji tank. If Dracula or even any thieves came in through the  balcony, they would never be able to find him. The small noises coming from the kitchen could not be heard in that tank of his. His incomplete Urdu homework ceased to matter while he hid there. He’d stay in place till the doorbell rang.

“Yes Mama. I heard the bell. But I was in the bathroom.”

“Bhaiya look, new truck,” said Irtiza, and dangled his dinky toy.

“Show me. Wait, I’m just looking at it…Here, take your dirty truck. I let you play with my green car, didn’t I?”

“Mama, I’m not doing anything. He’s just screaming for no reason.”

Of course, there was an advantage of having Irtiza as his sidekick. The broken eggs bought from the bakery below could always be blamed on Irtiza. Irtiza could shake his head left to right as much as he wanted but Murtaza got away with blaming Irtiza every time.

*

“Look Murtaza, I have an extra key to the main door. It was in the kitchen drawer. Apa doesn’t know.” The minute they set eyes on each other, the two friends poured out their news, all of which was deemed urgent and important, much of it detailed yet implausible.

“Beta, Shani saw it himself, there’s a dead body buried in the school ground.”

“Only Shani saw it? He’s always lying.”

“He saw a finger, it was sticking out of the sand.”

“Beta, he’s making it up. Like that time he told everyone he started the motorbike all by himself.”

“You don’t know, even Chowkidar Lala was saying that it’s a teacher’s laash.”

“No, he said it was the skeleton of a dead dog.”

Then Vaqas suddenly remembered he had big news to share.

“You know I’m going to Dubai. I’ll be with Papa and Bhaijan during the summer holidays. When Bhaijan returns from Sri Lanka…you know he took 5000 CDs with him. There’s going to be a lot of profit. And there’s an extra ticket. Do you want to come with me? I can ask Papa.”

“Mama won’t allow it, I can only go if Irtiza comes along.”

“But Irtiza bites all the time. Can’t he stay home? You can come with me.”

“Mama says he needs someone to play with.”

“So, he can play with those Afghan boys.”

“They scratched his face last time when Irtiza had a fight with them. Mama says Afghan children are junglee and have diseases,” said Murtaza. “You tell my Mama there’s only one extra ticket okay, just one. And that the airport people have said your Papa can only bring one more child your age.”

“Okay I’ll tell Papa to say that.”

“We’ll take that new bat then.”

“They don’t allow cricket bats on the plane. But my cousin Junie was saying that they gave him an Atari game and Pakola when he went to Jeddah; they give those out to all the children.”

*

Reader, have you ever thought of, you know, your family as a source of social embarrassment? Oh, you’ve never? I have. I still do sometimes. I guess it’s easy to be embarrassed by your family when you are a weak, shallow person like me. Coming back to our story…

*

The tall lanky teenager called Irtiza “pagal”. This infuriated Irtiza. It wasn’t the first time someone had called him that word.

Murtaza along with the other little boys stood witness to this seemingly casual utterance of that hateful word. He didn’t step back and pretend to be invisible or distance himself from his brother who would, from now on he knew, always be referred to as pagal by the other children in the mohalla. He had seen it happen to his best friend. Almost all the children in the building, including those younger than Vaqas, taunted him with “bauna, bauna,” “dwarf, dwarf.”

But Murtaza, who knew it was only a matter of time before someone’s grotesque sense of humour put the tag “crazy” on his brother – a constant source of nuisance and responsibility for him – stepped up and stood right beside him. Irtiza, still indignant, avenged this act of disrespect with all his might by swinging the cricket bat onto the foot of that dumb teenager. The leggy hovering figure yelped in pain and jumped. The spectators, who only moments ago were on the verge of echoing the title that the now-yelping older boy had bestowed on Irtiza, laughed out loud and pointed fingers at the teenager instead. They were in awe of the assailant and even let him play an extra over after he was run out, but that was only for one day. The batting turn was strictly decided on a merit or ownership basis of the battered piece of wood.

Later on Irtiza would sulk, lying flat on the dusty concrete surface. His ego could not withstand the fact that he could not be included in the game of “cona cona” simply because a building pillar has only four sides and there was no side for him to occupy.

*

A fourth-grader’s world isn’t all that simplistic.

Murtaza’s life became more tolerable when Vaqas’s sister took him on for tutoring. With this came an unexpected benefit: absolute undivided attention. There was always an extra chocolate biscuit, an ear to listen to his ordeals at school and, of course, the support to help him understand his homework with the occasional cleaning of his glasses which were always covered with his own fingerprints. The unconditional attentiveness of his best friend’s eldest sister, Aqsa Apa, gave Murtaza some semblance of his individual identity.

*

Aqsa was relieved that her mother had stopped sending her to Ghazala Apiya’s home to learn sewing. The widowed Baji next door had chided her mother: it wasn’t advisable for an impressionable girl like Aqsa to keep company with a divorced woman. Who knows what sort of views the woman might pour into her ears?

Aqsa believed that it did not take much for one to be happy. All of nineteen, she knew that happiness could be sought in the little pleasures of life: the Sunil Shetty poster, the side B of the Virasat film songs cassette, Khalilullah Farooqi’s late-night poetry program on FM, and the red Medora nail polish.

You probably have someone like her within your extended family. A second cousin or a third brother-in-law’s niece.

She wasn’t particularly good at anything. Education was a fruitless endeavour: she had written 786 on top of all her exam answer sheets but still ended up with a supplee, which she didn’t bother sitting for. The classes at Rangoonwala were fun but her kheer never quite tasted right, the crochet needle ruined her nails and knitting was too much work. Baking required her to have an “avvun” at home as her UK-returned instructor had recommended, but Aqsa only had an “o-won.” Indeed, Aqsa’s mantra for a stress-free life was to not be overly interested in, well, anything. The longest she had worked at something was cooking and consuming sabudana porridge for six months daily. She was still waiting to experience its effect, but the inch tape went no higher than the same four feet and nine inches mark.

*

3pm on a Sunday in an apartment looks the same in every apartment building in Karachi. It’s quiet at home, the children are out to play, the adults indulge in siestas, housework, or yet another visit to a nearby relative’s house.

Aqsa’s mother, dressed in her imported black abaya, grabbed the hand of her younger daughter who was mild-natured and an enthusiastic companion on her excursions. A visit to an ailing aunt’s house was on the agenda. Homework could wait; honestly, when did homework improve anyone’s life?

Murtaza finished solving the last question of the exercise set; he got the answer right. That had been happening a lot lately. On that lazy afternoon in that seepage-ridden third floor flat, it was just him and his tutor.

“Finish the biscuits quickly. Go wash your hands. Use soap okay.”

“Aqsa Apa can I go now? Irtiza will…”

“Aray, what did I tell you? Don’t call me Aqsa Apa when no one is around. Call me Ashi. No wait. Call me Sanam. Haan, Sanam is nicer.” Her front curl shook as she giggled, imagining herself making her entry in the first episode of a TV drama. “You’re different, I told you na…Tall and mature, like a grownup. Samajhdaar.”  The imaginary TV episode continued as she swayed her flower-printed dupatta.

“Sanam, we are getting a new AC in our home. Dadi was saying…” He pushed his glasses up, controlling the need to pick out the booger stuck in his nostril.

“Come here. Do you want to feel my heartbeat? Aray, this is different, not like last time.” Her imaginary TV drama was now a C-grade Lollywood film.

“You didn’t tell anyone, did you?” She suddenly remembered her tutor role, then continued. “Acha, come closer. Show me your left hand. No, wait, your right one. Bend it from the elbow. Did you wash it with soap? Good. Keep it loose. No curve it, yes, like this. Put it inside. Can you feel the heartbeat? It’s fast isn’t it?”

A firm grasp on his dry, icy hand. She moved it further down. “Can you feel it now?”

The intense gaze locked with the befuddled one. There is no nomenclature for this type of eye contact. The moment stayed uninterrupted as the key to the main door turned with caution.

Vaqas looked at his Apa and then at his best friend, both of whom stared back at him but not at each other.

Nobody said anything. Nobody did anything. Except for Apa, who pulled the small palm out of the top of her kameez; she hoped the speed of the action was so quick that her brother would miss it when he blinked.

There was no sound coming from the balcony that overlooked the main road, no manic honking of the rickety public minibuses. The old ceiling fan that made the “gang gang” noise went silent, the ticking of the faulty wall clock went dead, the drop of water in the leaky tap of the kitchen hung still.

“Murtaza, you want to play? We need a fielder.”

“Okay.”

The two friends walked down the three storeys without exchanging a single word. A couple of overs later, Murtaza stretched his long limbs and caught the red-taped tennis ball.

“Catch it!” all the boys yelled.

*

All day in school, Murtaza kept turning around and checking his bag. The girl seated behind him was sure that he had brought french fries for lunch and was sneakily eating them. Then at recess, Shani and Vaqas managed to surround him at the staircase.

“It’s not yours, Murtaza. It came from the other building. You can’t just run away with the ball,” said Shani seriously.

“I caught it,” said Murtaza. “It’s mine now.” He gripped the ball tighter.

*

“Hello? Jee, is this the home of…” The middle-aged Principal with deep parallel lines on his forehead tried being polite on the phone merely out of his belief in good phone etiquette; he was not known for his kind demeanor towards children, nor respect for the parents and staff. The school had been in a loss for a while. Merging the two school shifts saved it from bankruptcy, but new challenges cropped up every day which he simply did not have the skills to deal with. The teachers complained of overcrowding, but teachers these days, he believed, were so lazy and cunning that they would say anything to slack off from work. He did not have the skills for finance or management either but Allah Bakhshay his marhoom father had left him this rotten school in his inheritance so there he was on that Monday trying to put together the details of the scuffle that had broken out between these two to three rowdy boys over some filthy tennis ball.

“This cricket wicket craze in the country is turning children into rabid dogs; now just look at this brainless little devil that his class teacher insists is generally very well-behaved, who for some reason suddenly became violent today.”

The mean-looking Principal was still fuming. He spoke to the woman on the other end of the line, paused and glared at the puny, spectacled creature before him.

“What’s your address?”

“D9 Apsara Apartments Block 16,” the small voice said.

 “Just look at him,” the Principal addressed both the woman on the phone and the creature in front of him. “Shameless. He’s not even crying.”

The call ended but his glaring continued. Had the phone not rung just then, he would have himself arranged for the extraction of a few tears, maybe even a steady stream of them. But that next phone call changed everything – perhaps his own fate too.

The fight over the taped tennis ball during recess left the two boys with scratches but a girl of II-A who had been right behind them in the commotion as they fought ended up lying motionless at the bottom of the staircase with multiple Bata shoe prints from the other scrambling and tripping children on her cheek, on the sleeves of her uniform and on her open palm. The call from the hospital was to inform the Principal that she had died from head trauma.

The weight of the Principal’s head increased tenfold. He held it with both his hands. A new parallel line appeared on his forehead.

*

The wiry thirty-something widow did not hurry.

They must have got the name wrong. Murtaza could never be in a fight. He had spent all week memorizing the Jugnu poem, asking his Dadi what kind of insects these flying light bulbs were and how come he, Irtiza and Vaqas hadn’t seen any. Even if he were in a fight, why did the man on the phone have to make such a big deal out of it? Needless rules these schools had nowadays.

The dough for the roti would have to be kneaded later, after she returned. Keys and a small purse in hand, she left Irtiza with Aqsa next door, who luckily had not gone out with her mother to the tailor shop. She just prayed he wouldn’t bite her.

She hailed a rickshaw. A thin, worn-out chiffon dupatta covered her head. She winced as she climbed in. The ache in her left sole was constant but lately the other sole had been hurting too. She felt like a deflated old tire. The cool breeze brushed her face as the rickshaw sputtered and sped; she estimated it would take a good ten to fifteen minutes to reach the school. That was enough time for a few peaceful breaths.

She sighed and thought, “Truly, it is a blessing to have good neighbours.”