The Benevolent One

Artwork by th Lisa

As I have said, I do not quite know the man. I don't know where he lives nor what he does for a living. I only know where the money goes. It goes to one Sakeena Bibi, care of Sharafat Hussain, Biri shop, Purnea.

I put the cup to my lips. The cream clings to my lips. Lowering the cup, I blow across the cream, exposing the liquor underneath it. As I take the first sip of the tea I feel a sweet-bitter line descending from my throat down to my stomach.

I guess Sakeena Bibi must be this lungi-wearing man's wife. I also know this man's name---Maula Baksh. The first time he had come to me with the money order form he had asked me to write Maula Baksh as the remitter and had then added: 'Please put down my address care of your own.' Thus though I came to know his name, I remained ignorant of his address.

I again pick up the cup of tea and look balefully at the crust of cream which keeps coming between my lips and the liquor. I take the tea in one big gulp and then to swish it around in my mouth.

Sakeena Bibi's husband is a dark, stockily-built man, rather squat with high cheekbones. The end of one of his earlobes is missing as if it had been chopped off. He has a working man's sun-burnt, rugged face, resting on a thick neck. His eyes are bright, though there is a hint of vagueness about them. As I sit there sipping my tea two men walk in and stopping near the entrance look around as if taking stock of the restaurant. One of them is wearing a 'Delhi Cap' aslant on his head. The other man is bare-headed, his hair unkempt. They move in and occupy a table. I gulp down the last of my tea and placing the cup in the saucer push it away across the table.

The restaurant radio, which had been blaring out a film song, suddenly starts making a rasping sound. The restaurant owner, who has been sitting resting his chin on his palms and engaged in reading an Urdu newspaper, looks up startled and turns the knob of the radio.

I keep my eyes fixed on the two newcomers. The 'Delhi Cap' after a brief huddle with his companion, orders two sheer maal and two seekh kababs. The restaurant boy, who has been standing near a big hole-like opening through which one can have a good view of the kitchen, shouts out the order. Maula Baksh shifts on his haunches and looks in my direction as if he is intrigued at my lingering in the restaurant for so long. I look away to avoid his probing gaze.

Though I remain glued to my seat, my patience is fast ebbing away. I have lost hope of meeting the editor of an Urdu paper who had made me a reckless spendthrift during the past four days on the promise of getting me a job. I had thought I would ask him for some money in advance to restore my sagging prestige in these Zakaria Street restaurants which I am in the habit of frequenting.

The red-crusted sheer maal resting in front of the 'Delhi Cap' inflames my hunger. From where I sit I can see the steam rising from the seekh kababs. The editor has indeed let me down badly. As I sit there waiting for him my thoughts languidly turn to Sakeena Bibi, Maula Baksh's wife. What does she look like? Does she have any children? Why not catch Maula Baksh's eye and then ask him if he has any children. Then I decide that the question would be irrelevant to the circumstances in which I find myself and quickly dismiss the thought from my mind. The 'Delhi Cap' and his companion have polished off more than half of their sheer maal and the kababs no longer exude steam.

At last I give up all hope of meeting the editor. It has proved to be a futile wait. I could have as well utilized this time in hunting for potential students for some private tuitions. I feel like a complete failure. This woman, Sakeena, going by her husband's age could not be more than twenty years old. And I am sure she has no child, but who is this fellow Sharafat Hussain? A relative, a friend? Sakeena…Then I shake my head. How silly of me! Why should I be thinking of Sakeena? And this man Sharafat Hussain, why should I be concerned whether he is related to Maula Baksh or not?

I see that those two fellows have done full justice to their sheer maal. Oh, with what gusto they consumed it!

It is getting on to be three. I have been waiting in this restaurant since eleven. Four hours is a long time indeed. I feel physically and mentally drained out. Maul Baksh is still sitting in the restaurant. He comes to me on the 13th of every month to have his money order form written out. If at all, there is a deviation of only a day or two, this way or that. But come he must.

I am sure Sakeena is a beautiful woman. The sparkle in Maula Baksh's eyes bears testimony to that. He must be in love with her-- the hint of vagueness in his eyes possibly denote the pangs of separation from her.

I have squandered nearly five rupees in the last four days just on the strength of a vague assurance from this editor and he has let me down so badly. I am in a terrible predicament. I am left with just six and a half annas of which six paisas are on the verge of parting company with me.

I look at the cup lying before me which I had emptied a long time back. It has become an eyesore to me. It will be the cause of depriving me of six paisas which will leave exactly five annas in my pocket. How can one carry on in a city like Calcutta with a measly five annas in one's pockets, specially when one is addicted to visiting teashops in Zakaria Street?

I see Maula Baksh getting up from his seat. He throws a meaningful glance in my direction, then sidles up to me. 'I'll come to you tomorrow,' he says in an ingratiating tone. 'You'll be at home?'

So that is that. Tomorrow he will call at my place to make his monthly remittance to Sakeena. By tomorrow these five annas would have burnt a hole in my pocket, if they are still there.

I am lying in my bed in my dingy hovel-like room, a two-anna coin under my pillow. I was awake the whole night and am now feeling out of sorts.

The calendar hanging on the wall flutters in the breeze and with the American girl who is getting down from the aircraft. She looks so cute, so ravishing.

I get up from my bed, a move that only accentuates my hunger. I am really feeling famished. I put the two-anna coin in my shirt pocket. Then I pull down my pants from the clothesline where I had hung them to dry.

I must go out in search of a private tuition -- something to fall back upon till I can get a regular job. Why not sell off my English dictionary? The very thought of selling the dictionary cheers me up.Then, as I look up, I find Maula Baksh standing before me holding a blank money order in his hand. I fill in the money order form--Sakeena Bibi, care of Sharafat Hussain, Biri shop, Purnea. Sixty rupees.

I lock my room and come out onto the street, Maula Baksh close on my heels. 'Janab,’ he hesitates. He tells me that he is in a great hurry to report for work. He is already late. Would I please do him the great favour of tendering this money order for him at the post office?

'It's no problem,' I reply. 'A man must help his fellow human beings.' Maula Baksh is gone. My pocket feels heavy under the weight of those sixty rupees. And there is the money order form too, lying neatly folded in the same pocket. Since the post office is not yet open, I decide to first call at a few houses in search of a tuition.

As the afternoon wears off I find myself sitting in a decent restaurant in Park Circus. The bearer has brought me sheer maal, qorma and seekh kabab. The sheer maal looks soft and inviting. It must indeed by very delicious. The editor who had kept me waiting after promising a job has long since disappeared from my mind. Now I am having a glorious time at the restaurant. Its gaiety increases as the afternoon advances. The tuition job has once again eluded me. As I sit in the restaurant I wonder what made me drift to this place. Suddenly I think of the Sakeena. She will never get that money order. Those sixty rupees are lying in my pocket. But the money order form is gone. I tore it up and consigned it to the dustbin in front of the Crown cinema hall.

I turn my attention to sheer maal. I dig my teeth into the kabab. How nice it tastes and nicer still when eaten with slices of onion….

It has become a daily practice with me to make a round of the Dalhousie Square in search of a job. My feet ache climbing up those multi-storeyed buildings. And there are so many of them. I have come to feel that there is no such thing as a job in this world.

It is again the same story this afternoon. I am standing on the footpath resting my tired feet while the tramcars hurtle past, clanging their bells.

I am left with twenty-two rupees and odd annas in my pocket. Of course, this time there will be no money order for Sakeena. I can breeze through many difficult days with money in my pocket. Yes, I still have twenty-two rupees with me---a lot of money indeed.

I start walking in the direction of Coolootola Street. Walking past a building which still bears the scars of Japanese bombardment during the Second World War, I suddenly remember that I have to call at a mansion on Theatre Road to enquire about a tuition.

As I pass by the Nakhuda mosque I see a corpse lying on a stretcher outside the main gate of the mosque opening on to Zakaria Street. A young man is standing by the side of the stretcher calling out to the passers-by: 'A poor man has died. Give money for his shroud and earn merit.' I advance to have a better look at the corpse and then fall back, petrified. A zipped-up T-shirt and a cut-off earlobe!

'Maula Baksh!' I mumble the name under my breath. Before the money order could find its way to Sakeena he had found his way to God.

I enquire from the young man how the dead man happened to meet his gruesome end. 'He got crushed under a truck,' the young man tells me and then removing the sheet of cloth he shows me the mangled body.

My head reels and the Nakhuda mosque swims before my eyes. Yes, it's Maula Baksh's dead body. People throw coins at the corpse and walk on.

My hand goes into my pocket. I bring out the twenty-two rupees and odd annas, throw it on the corpse and hurry away. The young man casts a quick glance at me and then watches me intently.

I turn to look. The young man is still watching me.

Kalam Haidri is an writer/editor who has published six collections of stories in Urdu. Syed Azam is an academic/part-time translator.