Feeqa's Death

Artworks by Amina

A water-carrier all his life, he sat today as Husaina Mehr's helper at the fruit shop. I picked up a melon and helad it out to him in the dream. But Feeqa spoke, 'Little master, you didn't pick up the melon from this shop, so I can't take any money for this. Enjoy!' Laughing, he turned to Hasina Mehr, 'You haven't kept melons here, Mehr. It must belong to another shop,' and then he said to me, 'You are mistaken, boss,' and laughed. Husaina peered inside the shop and found no melons there. The dream ended. I woke up happy with a free melon.

Dreams are strange enactments of life's song and dance. Even if we pick apart each strand of the rope, we won't understand them. This is the mistake psychologists make. They'd say it is the mother symbol or the sex symbol. But both these thrusts are wrong...Each strand is a different song and when you knit these strands into the rope of life, each twist then manifests a different dance! The thing was that Feeqa had stolen a melon for me once from Husaina's field, which was situated behind the shops. From that point on we were always on the prowl to steal melons at night. So Feeqa had reminded me, today, of a favour from the forgotten past by giving me the stolen melon....But there was another twist to it too...Feeqa had committed a murder which only Husaina Mehr and I had witnessed.

Swai Ram's shop was next to Mehr's. At dawn, the thoroughfare was completely empty. It was time for the cart delivering ice blocks to show up. Husaina Mehr unloaded fruit boxes inside to stack them up. He had had a quarrel with Sheeda the ice-vendor the morning before which Feeqa and I had seen. I had taken our cows to the City Park, where grazing was prohibited, and was headed back at the first hint of morning. At that time, Sheeda was unloading the ice blocks and piling them up on the platform of Swai Ram's shop. Sheeda was on dope, had an ugly mug, and enjoyed cussing with his pig-like face. Mehr was a simple man and didn't like messing with anyone. 'O, Mehr, let me shove this little mango up your ass!' This was enough to invite trouble. Mehr grabbed a piece of brick form the shop and hurled it at Sheeda. It hit him on the forehead. Feeqa and I rushed, pushing the two away from each other…'Let me go and unload the ice, and if I don't return to shove a bamboo up your ass, Mehr, I ain't my father's son.'

'Son, you don't seem to be one anyway,' Mehr dared him.

Early next morning Mehr and Sheeda were grabbing each other. Feeqa stood in the midst disentangling them even before I arrived. Sheeda's eyes were bloodshot and his temper was high. He was a habitual criminal and Mehr always tried to restrain him. Those were the Partition days; besides Sheeda had his eyes on Swai Ram. He even said to Feeqa a few times, 'Shouldn't we take off the bloody Hindu's dhoti?' On a few occasions he didn't pay for the soda bottles and had also demanded twice as much for the ice delivery the last time. cared, Swai Ram dished out the money, but complained to Mehr. The friendship between Mehr and Swai Ram was deep and time-tested..

We used to listen to the news on Swai Ram's radio, and the songs as well. Swai Ram would read the news aloud from 'Parbhaat' every day. Most people on the square were illiterates like Feeqa and Mehr. Swai Ram was an educated and political person. The faces of Mahatma Gandhi and the Muslim Frontier Gandhi had been painted on each side of the 'Royal Soda Water Factory' signboard 'by Sarwar Painter.' Most of us, including the painter, did not even know who the other Gandhi was.

While painting, Sarwar Painter gradually became a Muslim League leader, and while listening to the songs and reading the newspaper, I too became a neighbourhood leader. See, how I have digressed…the digressing thread, however, has a connection not only with the murder Feeqa committed but with his death as well.

Later I learned from Feeqa that Sheeda had cursed and challenged the moment he arrived. The whole thing got out of control an dhe started harassing Mehr. Mehr and Sheeda were exchanging blows; Feeqa too got embroiled in it though his intent actually was to pry them away from each other.

I arrived at the scene soon after and immediately attempted to disengage them. Suddenly, Sheeda's hand reached for the cart. The ice pick was in his grip. 'Sheeda's holding the ice pick, Feeqa!' I cried in alarm.

Mehr was an older man and heavyset, but Feeqa was simply lightning made flesh. He twisted Sheeda's wrist and, grabbing the pick, stabbed him three times in the chest. The blood left its splashes on Feeqa's and Mehr's clothes. Blood poured out of Sheeda's nose as well and he fell back, writhing. He raised his hand in the air once, then went cold.

'What the hell has happened, Mehr? He's dead.'

Though I was the youngest, I hadn't become the neighbourhood leader for nothing. 'Run, you two. No one has seen it.'

Feeqa was still shit scared. It had all happened in a flash solely because of his speed. Come to think of it, he had not quarreled with Sheeda. But he was loyal friend, and his friendship was deep with Mehr. He used to sprinkle water in front of everyone's shops, including Mehr's he filed their pitchers as well, but of late there was not much demand for a water-carrier. Mehr always helped out and looked after him.

Well, what had to come to pass had already happened. Mehr and Feeqa both ran off. I felt unusually brave standing at a distance. There was no one around. the first few horse-drawn carriages were about to arrive…

The early morning walkers were usually Hindus; however, they rarely came out of their houses for walks in the terrifying summer of 1947.

I tethered the cows. As I looked out from the rooftop, I spotted a tongawallah shouting aloud, 'Murder, there has been a murder!' Mehr sauntered out of his house slowly and mingled with the crowd. Feeqa too had filled his water sack again and, after a fleeting glance, began sprinkling the street as though nothing had happened. I was impatient to reach the place of action and, telling Mother about the commotion at the corner, rushed over to the spot to take a second look at Sheeda. His eyes were wide open and the open flaps of his dhoti had left him denuded in the front. Dhurrey Shah the tongawallah, who was the big bad boy of the neighbourhood, covered the front and said, 'Someone's finished him off. Mehr, go and break the news to his family. We'll catch the murderer, rest assured. What mother****** would've dared to do this in our neighbourhood? Sheeda's murderer must be from some other village. I know them well. Dhureey Shah is still alive.' He went on with his sermon.

Feeqa, Mehr, and I communicated to each other through our eyes. Feeqa had become further disoriented when I saw him in the evening. I tried to calm him down, 'I haven't told anyone, and Mehr is not going to either. No one suspects you.’

The police carried out a cursory investigation. Blood was cheap in those days for murders had become an everyday affair. The knowledge of this secret made me feel like a big boy. 'Feeqa, I haven't even told Mother.'

'Tell her if you want the entire neighbourhood to know,' Feeqa laughed. Mehr had always been a man of few words. Swai Ram felt safer now, after Sheeda's death.

Finally, Swai Ram was the sole casualty of our area in 1947. Dhurrey Shah had been breaking locks on the morning of 15 August…Among the Hindu shops, Swai Ram's was the only one open. He decided to lock it up. Dhurrey Shah was drunk. He came up and stabbed Swai Ram. This was the second murder I had seen in a week.

The whole world changed. I became a member of the National Volunteer Crops. Feeqa became loquacious. He would sing all night long. Walking around, he'd beat the rhythm on his water sack, 'akhiyan mila ke, jiya bharma ke, challe nahin jana!' yet he had changed somehow. Mehr told me six months later that he had taken to drinking rotgut. The affliction finished him off within a year. I moved from the city to Lahore and then I became a government officer. While on vacation, I'd visit Mehr to buy fruit. His mention of Feeqa would bring tears to my eyes, 'Boss, a good man's life is tough.' Mehr was a good man too; he left the world quickly. Feeqa faded from my memory. Last night, he gave me the melon -- an excuse to remember me, and be remembered.

Reprinted from A Letter From India reviewed below. Nadir Ali is a poet/short story writer who lives in Lahore. Moazzem Sheikh, the editor of the volume, lives in San Francisco.