Jamila held the note from his school, shaking it accusingly in front of his face. “What is this?” she demanded, as she twisted his ear. He winced but met her gaze defiantly. She slapped him hard and almost immediately regretted it. He could be so infuriating, but she loved the boy. He was handsome, with striking light brown eyes, slick black hair, and a broad frame. He had an infectious laugh, a wonderful sense of humor, and was a habitual prankster; but he was also smart, poised, and had always been near the top of his class—a favorite of his teachers. Since their move to Bombay, however, a profound shift had occurred. His grades had plummeted, his once-unshakeable confidence had wavered, and the memory of his last genuine smile eluded her. Always the center of attention in Murud, he was lost in the big city. It seemed he had decided that acting out in the most outlandish manner was the only way to get himself noticed.
Anjuman-e-Islam was a prominent Muslim-run school situated in the heart of Bombay, just a short distance from Flora Fountain. However, two decades after Independence, it had lost its luster as English solidified its position as the language of government and commerce. Many affluent families began enrolling their children in schools run by Christian missionaries and convents. Consequently, the quality of education in vernacular schools like Anjuman-e-Islam declined as teachers migrated toward the better salaries offered by well-funded English schools. Discipline issues and truancy became widespread among the student body, which now largely comprised children from impoverished and uneducated families. Bullying, theft, and schoolyard brawls became commonplace. After enduring some initial hazing, Iqbal recognized that his survival in this chaotic environment depended on building some sort of notoriety. He needed an act that would truly get him noticed.
Zaki Alam, a proud alumnus of Jamia Milia Islamia, with a Master’s in Applied Mathematics, had dedicated his life to teaching. A staunch disciplinarian, his classroom operated under a zero-tolerance policy. Any student who misbehaved was immediately summoned to the front, instructed to bend over, and caned. This unwavering approach ensured even the most unruly students remained quiet and obedient in his presence. The message, that Alam Sir was not to be trifled with, resonated loudly and clearly throughout the entire school. His seniority now afforded him the privilege of a spacious private office. He maintained this space with meticulous order. A polished teak table dominated the center, with one side neatly stacked with papers, the other with textbooks, and a few pens resting between a blue and a black ink bottle in the middle. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the walls, a wooden ladder tucked into a corner providing access to the upper shelves. Four folding chairs were arranged neatly in front of the table, and a well-worn leather chair sat behind it. A large window offered a splendid view of the school grounds, framed by tall Ashoka and Eucalyptus trees, though he always kept it closed to keep out dust and noise.
Entering his office one Monday morning, the sight of the open window immediately signaled that something was wrong. He stared in shock at the chaos within: books and papers scattered everywhere, one of his ink bottles tipped over, forming a dark pool on his desk, and the chairs overturned. A foul odor hung heavy in the air. Approaching his table, he found a note with “A gift from Murud!” scrawled across it. Several black pellets, the size of marbles, were arranged on the note, with more scattered across the floor. Then he noticed a rope tied to his leather chair disappearing beneath the table. He leaned over to investigate. The frightened little goat, catching sight of Alam, let out a loud bleat. Alam, utterly unprepared for the encounter, shrieked hysterically like someone who had just witnessed a ghost. He stumbled backward, tripped over a pile of books, and fell clean through the open window.
Principal Mushtaq Hussein placed his hands on the table, which still showed stains from the spilled ink bottle. He leaned forward, looking straight at Jamila. “This school has strict rules. We need discipline, we need order. What your boy Iqbal did… I should expel him right now!”
An old man with a flowing white beard, sitting next to the principal, got up. “At Anjuman, we pride ourselves on our Islamic tahzeeb,” he started, his voice heavy with condescension. “Iqbal displays a total lack of respect for authority, for his teachers.”
Alam, with his arm in a sling and a bandage across his forehead, joined in. “Is this how a proper Muslim boy is raised? You may allow his rowdy behavior at home, but here, we will not tolerate it. We cannot have his bad influence affecting other children. Either control your boy or don’t send him to our school.”
Jamila’s face turned red with anger, but before she could respond, Alam raised his hand to silence her. His gaze settled on the intricately embroidered sari she wore and he continued, “A Muslim woman doesn’t leave her home dressed like this…”
Jamila fumed inside but did not lose control. She read the Quran daily. She understood the Prophet’s message. She was pious. She was a good Muslim, and she was a good mother. She was done being judged by these pompous, self-righteous men. She knew her children. She knew how to discipline them. She didn’t need to be taught how to be a parent. Not by these men.
Her gaze, cold and unwavering, locked onto Alam. “It couldn’t have been Iqbal.”
“What are you talking about?” Alam sputtered, his face reddening with disbelief and rising anger.
“He was set up,” she stated, her voice low but firm, a newfound composure settling over her.
“Set up? What utter nonsense! It was clearly him! The note itself screamed, ‘A gift from Murud!’” Alam exclaimed, his arm gesturing wildly despite the sling.
Her eyes narrowed. “Did you see him with your own eyes commit this act? Did anyone?”
A stunned silence descended upon the room. The other men, their expressions a mixture of surprise and unease, stared at her, the audacity of her assertion rendering them speechless. The principal, sensing a shift in the dynamic and seizing a rare opportunity to subtly undermine the often-overbearing Alam, stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Well…”
Alam’s face contorted in disbelief and fury. He threw his good hand up in exasperation, wincing with pain as his injured shoulder jerked, his eyes blazing. “Surely you can’t possibly be taking this woman seriously!” he shouted, his voice rising. “She’s clearly lying. Why are we even wasting our time engaging with her? Where is the father?”
Abdullah Khurshid watched the toast change color and grow moist as it soaked up the tea; just before it could turn into a sloshy mess, he deftly pulled it from the cup and slipped it into his mouth. He enjoyed these simple pleasures: the warmth of the tea, the slight crunch still left in the toast, and the repetitive nature of the exercise. He looked out from the porch of his house on Durbar Road in Murud. The shadows of tall palm trees swayed rhythmically on the narrow road tracing the edge of the beach, where white waves crashed relentlessly against the black sand. In the distance, fishing boats with colorful sails offered momentary bursts of color against the gray sea. Looming on the horizon, a stark silhouette against the morning sky, was the Kasa fort—once a formidable sentinel, now in ruins, perpetually battered by the raging waves. A few miles south was the majestic Janjira, its weathered ramparts a testament to centuries of defiance.
Though years had passed since his last visit to Janjira, the memories, once vibrant, now felt bittersweet. He remembered the grand mosque beside the Nawab’s mansion, where generations of his ancestors, as Imams, had led the faithful in prayer, commanding respect with pronouncements that carried the weight of religious and moral authority. Right next door was the house where he had spent his childhood. Between daily prayers and his many chores, he had loved reading books from his father’s library. The religious texts were dutifully absorbed, along with the divans of Ghalib and Mir, and Sadi’s Gulistan; but it was the English novels, with their tales of ambition, loss, and flawed heroes, that truly ignited his imagination. Erle Stanley Gardner’s Perry Mason adventures were his favorite. He used to imagine himself in Murud’s courthouse, striding through its arches in a flowing black robe, an immaculate white wig framing his face, legal briefs clutched under his arm—a champion of justice fighting for the wrongly accused. Defying generations of family tradition, enduring his parents’ dismay and his relatives’ scorn, he had travelled all the way to Aligarh, clinging fiercely to that dream. Now, over twenty years since receiving his law license from the Bombay Bar Association, that dream lay in ruins. The few cases he secured were endless, draining land disputes—securing land for a mosque or a widow—charitable cases that paid very little, if anything at all. His unwavering principles were no match for the ruthless tactics of the lawyers in Bombay. The Tenancy Act of 1948 had stripped away much of his ancestral land and its income, and his meager practice left him in a precarious financial state.
“Vakil Saheb, it’s almost time,” he heard his farm hand, Govinda, shout from a distance.
He glanced at his watch. The bus would depart in less than thirty minutes. He had to move. Inside, he hastily gathered clean pajamas, a couple of shirts, and his shaving kit, stuffing them into his tattered briefcase. From an envelope concealed within the pages of a Quran in his dresser, he retrieved two hundred rupees, folding them carefully into his wallet. His gaze lingered on his blue suit, its fabric creased and faded. He should have had Govinda press it, but there was no time now. He grabbed a familiar red tie and as he prepared to leave, he could hear the echoes of the last argument he had with his wife.
“Murud is no place to raise our children!” Jamila had shouted.
“Why not? We grew up here, didn’t we?” he yelled back.
“The world has changed! Wasim is a young man, he needs a real job in the city. Iqbal is smart; he is too good for these third-rate schools,” she retorted.
“And how will you manage alone? With Zaineb just starting to walk?” he tried to reason.
“Why don’t you join us? There are better clients and better cases in the city,” she pleaded.
“Start my career again? At this stage?” he responded, his anger laced with frustration.
He felt lonely, helpless. He was worried about his children’s future, angry at the hand fate had dealt him. He slammed the door shut, locked it, and threw the keys to Govinda. His briefcase swinging by his side, he walked briskly along Durbar Road to the bus stand. Heading to the ticket counter, he pushed two rupees through the cashier’s window.
“One ticket to Bombay. And a return for next week,” he demanded.
Jamila had finished her breakfast and was flipping through the pages of the Urdu daily, Inquilab. She liked to read about world events, local politics, opinions on religion, and the scandals of the rich and famous—the film stars. It had been a while since she had last seen a movie. She knew there was one that starred Meena Kumari, had great songs, and had something to do with Tansen, but she couldn’t remember the name. It wasn’t Awara—that had Nargis. Dastaan? No, she had not seen that, though she would have liked to. She liked Suraiya. Some people had even said she looked like her. Maybe there was a slight resemblance. She definitely didn’t look like Nargis, who had a long face. Round faces were pretty, like the moon. Mahjabeen—that was Meena Kumari’s real name. But what was the name of the movie? Her meandering thoughts were abruptly interrupted when her husband barged through the door leading onto the balcony and sat in the empty chair next to her.
“Want some?” he asked, pushing a bowl of boiled peanuts in her direction.
She shook her head, turned away from him, and ruffled the newspaper to straighten the pages, pretending to read. She had no intention of talking to him or even acknowledging his presence.
They had argued late into the night—about him not earning enough money and her staying alone in a big city. He claimed that her plan was a failure and this doomed adventure must end. She argued that they were doing just fine despite having no help from him. He demanded she return to Murud, and she challenged him to move his practice to Bombay. Back and forth, back and forth. They traded accusations of abandonment, pleas for understanding and trust, and warnings of dire consequences for the children’s future. There was very little listening, but a lot of shouting.
He watched her creamy skin glowing in the sun. Wisps of her curly brown hair peeked out from the sari she had draped over her head, and her lips were tinged with red paan juice. She had the ability to frustrate and anger him, but there was no denying that even after all these years, he still admired her.
He remembered the first time he had met her in Dive Agar, a village a few miles south of Murud. His elder sister was marrying her brother. He was still at Aligarh getting his law degree and was home for the summer. Being a highly eligible bachelor, there was a constant stream of prospective brides being introduced to him, but he was not interested in being tied down. He was focused on finishing his education, hoping to travel once he was done: to Delhi and Agra, to the Himalayas, to Baghdad and Istanbul, to England. He was young, educated, and rich. Marriage could wait.
It was her laughter that had initially piqued his interest—a loud, robust laugh that resonated through the room. Who was this girl, and why was her laugh so infectious that it made even a serious, dour man like him smile? She was pretty, bubbly, and full of energy. She loved to talk, and when she spoke, people listened. He had been captivated, unable to fully comprehend what she was saying because, in her company, his brain simply stopped functioning and his heart fluttered.
He heard her mutter something, the sound jarring him back to the present. She had stopped reading, leaning over now to grab a few peanuts.
“What did you say?” he asked.
She smiled, then laughed. That same laugh.
“Baiju Bawra,” she replied.
Wasim, Iqbal’s older brother, was visibly anxious, biting his nails and sweating as he sat outside the office of Mr. Prakash Parikh, a director at Cipla Pharmaceuticals’ Research and Development. Three other young men occupied the waiting area, each likely vying for the same entry-level research assistant position. A peon in a khaki uniform sat just outside the office door, rhythmically twirling his mustache, a bulge of tobacco in his cheek, his blank gaze fixed on a periodic table poster. Across from them, a woman in her mid-forties, identified by a simple wooden desk plate reading “Secretary,” shuffled papers and typed with focused intensity, her graying hair pulled into a tight bun secured with two large pins. Her heavily starched white sari featured an ornate burgundy border; delicate pearl earrings hung from her ears and a gold chain glistened around her neck.
She looked up and caught him staring at her. “Nervous?” she asked.
He smiled back awkwardly and shook his head.
As the eldest son, Wasim had seen the good times and the bad. He had witnessed the opulence of his childhood gradually wither away into a struggle for daily survival; his once proud and authoritative father retreat into a shell of obscurity; his mother, once so careless and charitable with money, scrounging for pennies and warding off debtors; his unsupervised and impressionable younger brother, Iqbal, going astray. The pittance of a salary he earned at the bottling company did little to alleviate the financial pressures on the family and gave him little time to keep up with his studies. But he was almost done. With a final exam in two weeks, he would soon have his B.S. in Chemistry from the University of Bombay.
He looked through the folder that held his transcripts, certificates, and letters of recommendation from his high school principal, his supervisor at the bottling company, and his Chemistry professor. He remembered the contentious meeting he had with Prof. Shukla a week before. The professor had been less than enthusiastic about this job he was seeking and had tried to convince him to continue his studies, get a PhD, and do some real research, instead of being a test monkey for a drug company.
“They are pirates,” Shukla had exclaimed emphatically. “They steal our research and make millions from it. And what do they give in return? Let me tell you. Absolutely nothing. A-one bastards, I tell you.”
The office door opened, and a portly, middle-aged man stepped out. Dressed in a beige suit, a white shirt, and a red striped tie, he looked more like a businessman than a researcher. He surveyed the room, and without acknowledging anyone in particular, snapped his fingers toward the secretary’s desk and shouted, “Next.”
The secretary glanced at a piece of paper on her desk and looked in Wasim’s direction. “Mr. Khurshid, you’re up.”
The office was sparse, smoky, and dimly lit. Parikh, standing in a corner with a cigarette burning between his fingers, gestured for Wasim to sit in one of the chairs facing his desk.
“So,” Parikh began, exhaling a plume of smoke that momentarily obscured his face. “Why Cipla?”
“Good morning, Sir,” Wasim started, launching into his carefully prepared introduction. “I have a deep passion for the sciences, and I am a dedicated and hardworking individual…”
“Yes, yes,” Parikh cut him off impatiently, flicking ash into an overflowing tray. “But what sets you apart? What makes you… special?”
“Special, sir?” Wasim stammered, caught off guard by the unexpected question.
“Yes, special,” Parikh repeated, his gaze sharp. “Don’t you have some special quality?”
Wasim shifted uncomfortably in his chair, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. Special? What did that even mean? Unique, perhaps, in his experiences and perspectives. But ‘special’?
“No, sir,” he replied, avoiding Parikh’s gaze. “…not particularly.”
“So, Mr. Not-Particularly-Special,” Parikh drawled, his tone now openly sarcastic, tinged with annoyance. “What is your name again, Salim?”
“Wasim, Sir. Wasim Khurshid.”
“Show me your application,” Parikh barked, his hand outstretched impatiently toward Wasim’s folder. Wasim numbly handed it over. Parikh flipped through the transcripts, his eyes skimming the letters of recommendation. With a dismissive thud, he snapped the folder shut and tossed it back at Wasim.
“You are right. Useless.” Parikh snorted, a plume of smoke escaping his lips as he turned and strode toward the door, wrenching it open.
“Sorry… are we done, Sir?” Wasim stammered, his voice barely above a whisper, a cold dread creeping into his chest. “Is… is the interview over?”
“Yes,” Parikh stated flatly, the finality in his tone crushing any lingering hope.
Wasim felt a sickening lurch in his stomach, the realization dawning that he had failed spectacularly before he had even started. Still reeling from the abrupt dismissal, he stumbled out of the office, his legs feeling heavy and uncoordinated as he slowly made his way toward the exit.
Walking back home, his mind replayed the interview on an endless loop. Should he have worded his answers differently? Should he have leaned in on some special quality he had? But what? Had he said something that had irked Parikh? Was it his name? He had heard his father complain about prejudice against Muslims. Did he smell bad? Was it the clothes he was wearing? Maybe he should have worn a tie, but he didn’t know how to tie one. Or maybe, Parikh was right: he was just an ordinary guy with an ordinary application.
As he rounded the corner from Clare Road onto his own familiar street, a sense of doom settled over Wasim. His gaze drifted upward, finding his mother—a small, hopeful figure on their balcony. Iqbal, holding Zainab next to her, raised his hand in a tentative wave. As Wasim waved back, all the pent-up emotions surged out of him, and tears welled up in his eyes.
He sat by the stairs of the apartment building, feeling ashamed, insulted, and worthless. All these years of education, and he still could not get an entry-level job. He couldn’t even finish an interview; he could barely start one before getting thrown out. He could go for more interviews and eventually maybe land a job, but how much would it pay, and how many years would he have to spend slaving at the bottom before he worked up to something he could be proud of?
As the minutes rolled by, though, he realized that wallowing in this pool of doubt and self-pity was going to get him nowhere. He was stronger than this. He needed to be. He had to make all the effort and money spent on his education count. He was going to make something of his life, be successful. He was going to be a role model for his younger brother and sister. He needed to make his parents proud.
He pushed himself to his feet and wiped his face with his sleeve. He coughed up the phlegm that had gathered in his chest, spat it onto the dusty street, and turned around, bounding up the stairs with a newfound lightness in his steps. He thrust open the apartment door and hurried to retrieve the worn satchel he used for college. Turning it upside down, he emptied its contents onto the floor. Amidst the scattered papers, a folded brochure drifted out, landing softly near his feet.
Prof. Shukla’s voice echoed in his head—something you should seriously consider. He had brushed it off then, a fanciful distraction from his immediate needs and responsibilities. But now, fueled by a fierce resurgence of determination, he picked it up. His fingers unfolded the glossy paper, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, a genuine smile stretched across his face.
“University of Heidelberg!” he declared, his voice ringing with newfound purpose. “Here I come!”
The Mahatma Phule Municipal Gardens was dotted with beautiful gulmohar trees and bougainvillea vines, featuring a lush rose garden with an ornate water fountain in the middle that never seemed to work. Dusty wooden benches and overflowing garbage cans lined a stone path that crisscrossed the park. On the far end was a small area for children with a rickety swing set, a couple of see-saws, a rusty slide, and a twisted jungle gym. It was just past noon and the park was deserted, except for a homeless person taking a nap on one of the benches in the shade.
The move had been rough. All the challenges and problems she had been warned against had, for the most part, come true. There was too much to do, with very little help and not enough money. The apartment was in dire need of repair, the roof dripping after every rain, and the children needed new clothes, shoes, and books, and were always hungry. Yet, a month in, a semblance of normalcy had returned. Wasim brought home a small but vital income from a night shift at the Byculla bottling plant. Iqbal seemed to have finally adjusted to his school and was staying out of trouble. And her little bundle of joy, her baby, her Zaineb, nestling beside her in bed and snoring gently, was healthy and happy. She pulled her closer and lightly kissed her forehead.
The oppressive heat and thick humidity were making her sleepy as well, but she tried to stay focused on the people walking by Clare Road, just beyond the park. This was the route the postman took, and for the past few days, she had been anxiously waiting for him to deliver a money order from her husband. It usually arrived within the first week of the month, but it was nearing the tenth and she was getting impatient. Her servant, Zanu, had not been paid in weeks; the grocer had threatened to stop the rations of kerosene and sugar; and the milkman and bhajiwali knocked on her door every day demanding past dues.
Adding to her mounting worries, Wasim had now latched onto the notion of studying in Germany. Germany! The sheer audacity of it sent a fresh wave of panic through her. How on earth would they ever afford such a venture? And why Germany, of all places? He didn’t speak a word of their language and knew no one there. Were there even any Muslims in Germany? He’ll come to his senses, she told herself—a familiar strategy for dealing with inconvenient truths. All that was needed was to find him a suitable girl, a nice, sensible girl from a good family, and the foolishness would be swiftly replaced by the responsibilities of marriage.
The sudden, loud rapping against the door jolted her awake. A wave of confusion washed over her—the heavy heat, the silence… How long had she been sleeping? But a more urgent thought pushed through the grogginess: the money order! It must be the postman. Her heart quickened as she hurried toward the sound, but when she opened the door, her shoulders slumped. It wasn’t the postman.
Filling the doorway was a man of considerable size, his broad frame heaving with each ragged breath. Sweat plastered his dark hair to his forehead and streamed down his flushed cheeks. His chest rose and fell dramatically, and with a visible tremor, he raised a thick index finger—a silent plea for a moment to regain his composure. He looked as though the very act of standing upright was a monumental effort, his knees threatening to buckle.
“Zanu, quickly, some water,” she instructed, her concern evident as she steered the large man toward a chair on the shaded balcony. He sank onto it with a groan and gratefully accepted the glass Zanu offered, gulping down the cool liquid in long, desperate swallows. He then mopped his brow with a soaking handkerchief, his chest still heaving as he drew in several deep, shattering breaths.
“Whew!” he finally managed, a shaky laugh escaping him. “Four flights of stairs. I am getting too old for this.”
“Would you like some tea?” she asked.
“Oh no. Thank you,” he replied.
“Nonsense,” she said with a small, automatic gesture of Indian hospitality. “Everyone needs tea. Zanu!”
“Well,” the man continued, his earlier distress returning. “I am sorry, but I have some bad news. I am from the Municipal Corporation. Regarding property taxes.”
“Property taxes?” she asked, a wave of confusion washing over her.
Apparently, when Mushir Bhai had left the country, he owed several hundred rupees in property taxes—taxes that had not been paid for over ten years. Mr. Baldev Singh was here to give her a three-month notice before official eviction proceedings would begin. As he sipped the warm tea, he listened patiently to her desperate account of their current financial straits.
“We can petition for an installment plan,” he offered, providing a sliver of hope, though his voice stressed the absolute necessity of sticking to the payment schedule. “There is only so much I can do, madam. I am just a government employee.”
As Mr. Singh continued, his voice softening with longing as he spoke of his family in Patiala, the golden mustard fields swaying in the breeze, and the thick, sweet lassi that held a richness Bombay’s watery milk couldn’t even dream of, her attention wandered. While he painted idyllic pictures of his home, her gaze kept darting past his broad shoulder. But no postman came that day.
That night, she completed her evening prayers. She woke up in the middle of the night and prayed eleven rakaats of Tahajjud. A sense of exhaustion settled over her; she yearned for a reprieve, a moment of grace. She prayed for a sign, a small beacon in the darkness, a divine acknowledgment that her struggles were seen, that better times were on the horizon.
The lone bulb in her bedroom began to flicker. She stared at it like a moth drawn to a flame, and just like that, the light from the sputtering bulb went dark. She dug her face into her pillow and started to cry.
The crying woke Iqbal, who was sleeping on the floor next to her bed. He got up, climbed onto the mattress, and snuggled next to his mother.
“Ma,” he said, “it will be okay.”
***
Coming next Sunday…. Chapter 4
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