March 3, 2105.

The buzzer went off again and I sprang out of my bed; it was 8:25PM and I was late. I was supposed to be there at 8:45PM. I had to rush.

I commanded the operating system in my room to pick my dress, shoes, cologne, watch, spectacles for the occasion and jumped into the shower. Five minutes and I was ready.

My transport was a an old 2101 model of Bugatti. Sometimes I would think of changing to a newer model, may be a Carius T model, but I always liked the classics. It was a nice smooth cruise to the venue.

The hall was full of audience. Today was the day when I was being awarded Annual Literati Award for best novel of the year.

I received the award and started my speech…

“Ladies and gentlemen! There was a time once when I found it hard even to complete a page of fiction …”

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AMIR SALEEM: BORN MARCH 3, 1976

March 3, 2005.

I woke up at 7:14 in the morning but remained in my bed till it was eight. I kept thinking about something I would do to make this day and the days to come, different. An idea for a novel has stuck in my head long enough but I would still choke on words.

There have been enough lazy days. A writer’s block is no stronger than my will to write. It has to stop now.

I start writing my first short novel.

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AMIR SALEEM: BORN MARCH 3, 1876

March 3, 1905

“Munshi Jee, Munshi Jee!!!” I heard babu jee yelling at Avinash Rai who is my father’s personal and finance secretary, “Why hasn’t today’s newspaper been delivered?” This commotion woke me up and I moved out in the courtyard.

“And here comes the landlord of the house; the Mr. Good for Nothing. Will you ever go to the shop and help me out there?” babu jee yelled at me in the same breath. “Its not going to be a good day” I thought as I walked towards the kitchen. Maan jee was preparing breakfast, the smell of those oily prathas added pain to my hunger. Little Teejo laughed a little laugh and whispered to his sister’s ear, “It starts like this for him everyday” and that was enough to awake me fully.

I wasn’t an immature person; I was a responsible man, married with three kids, and working in a local newspaper as a proofreader but my father didn’t approve of that. “Likhari baney ga ye, Arey bataey koi is ko, pait bharta hei likhney se kabhi? (He wants to be a writer; somebody tell him, writing doesnt feed the hungry)” he would often say to me addressing someone else. No one would really answer to this, because they couldn’t really take sides; I carried the same anger as my father and my grandfather did.

I spent most part of the day outside, visited Aslam’s bookshop and then had a firy chat with Akaash, Govind, Upendra and Karim about Gandhi’s call for boycotting the British goods. For once I supported Akaash and Upendra in favor of the boycott. Govind and Karim left after a while and I took off towards the Haweli.

“Janam din ki shubh kamnaaein Amir babu (Happy birthday Mr. Amir)” I heard Parinita’s soft voice from a half open door behind which she had hid her face. She was the only one who had reminded me of my birthday, “You never forget my birthday Pari” I addressed her with her nick name I gave her when we were kids. “Its the only day when you speak to me Amir babu”, she said with a soft hint of pain in her voice and rushed inside the house. I walked towards my home.

As I entered the Haweli, I saw my wife hurrying into the living room; there was something fishy going on, it was never this silent in our house. I stepped into the living room and found everybody gathered there with a somber look on each face. For a moment I just stood there silent, waiting for someone to speak and rid me of this mystery. And then babu jee stood up and walked towards me.

“Likhari baney ga tu? (You want to be a writer?” he roared, “29 saalon ka ho gya hei tu aaj, ab tau tu likhari ban hi ja (You have turned 29 today, its time you become a writer”, he said with a faint smile appearing on his face as he handed me a pair of expensive fountain pens. Everybody started laughing; there was smell of aloo ke parathey in the air.

An idea for a novel struck.

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Originally written on March 3rd, 2005.

Six people living in one room and a veranda was getting too much; and by February 1986 the plans were made to move to a new house in the New Civil Lines near Punjab House in Rawalpindi. Since I had passed my primary (fifth standard) exams, therefore I had to get admission in a new school as well. I was neither really sad about leaving my current school nor was I excited about joining the new one; because the whole concept of school was a cumbersome feeling for me. I never liked or even approved the idea of schools.

The closest school to the place where we shifted was Federal Government High School, Marir Hassan; or Marir University as it was called in the streets, given its long history of accepting enrollment of street vagabonds, and even producing its own share of the lot. The school was close and it was cheap; everything fitted in. I would just have to walk for about 10 minutes; and I never mind walking. I joined the school a few weeks after the session had begun.

I don’t exactly remember my first day in school but I do remember the feeling. Kamran, a.k.a Kami was the brightest student in 6th C, the monitor of the class and of course sat in the prime seat at the right corner of the middle row. His uniform was the cleanest and his school bag the neatest and even worst than that, he spoke another language called English. I knew I wasn’t going to give a flying damn about him.

Zafar and Ijaz were both first cousins; they must be good students as well because they sat in the second row on the far left. Now that I think back about what I was thinking then, I must be a good face reader. Zafar seemed to be a nice bloke, straight forward, who would mind his own business and focus more on studies. Ijaz was on the reverse side; his eyes would tell he was intelligent of the wicked kind. Zafar was there to study for Ijaz as well, so Ijaz focused more on extra-class activities. There was space available on their bench and they were generous enough to offer me the place; I accepted the offer.

F.G. High School Marir Hassan stands at the shoulder of Mayo Road that starts off from Kachehri Chowk and merges into Murree Road at Marir Chowk. The school is situated just before the Marir Hassan bus stop. In 1986, it was a pale old building with grim looking windows that gave it a haunting look. A few years back, the building was reconstructed and today it has a fresher haunting look to it.

The students of the school came from different social classes; the poor, the less poor, the lower middle class and some even from the middle and upper middle class. There were a few exceptions though; I remember one guy who was a class senior to me, always thronged by some very loyal mates. His uniform just didn’t look like a uniform, though it was the same color, it was brighter and better than ours; he had long hair and would never be reprimanded by the PT Master for that. What made him even more aloof was that he never bought anything from the school canteen, I never saw him eating a 5 paisa toffee or 25 paisa chewing gum; he just wouldn’t eat anything at recess, a car would come pick him up and he would go home for 45 minutes of midday break. Even though I never wanted to be friends with him, we did actually end up being pals. His uncle is a very well known politician and a former member of the Punjab National Assembly.

6th C was considered to be a below standard class, with the exception of a few front-rowers who were considered to be the brains. At the times of admission, they put me in this class and I kept wondering for the first couple of weeks as to what gave the teachers the idea that I belonged there. Whatever the idea was, they were certainly right. I wasn’t much interested in studying anyways.

Nabi Ahmad; that guy was completely the opposite of his sweet name. He sat in the last row and was the worst possible distraction for any student or teacher. I knew he was the kind of guy I would get along well with. I wasn’t a bad guy, I was a mere rebel. The thought of doing something out of the way just to please a teacher or to impress fellow students disgusted me.
I am not claiming that it was my original idea, but I can’t recall either as to where did I get this idea from; but my theme has always been to pay attention to what the teacher is saying and that’s it; you will pass your exams. And if you add a bit of your own brain to what you listen, you will pass with good grades. Just before the summer break; the internal exams took place and I came second in my class, just after Kami. The teachers noted my existence and so did the front-rowers; but I was too busy playing cricket with the so-called trash of the class.

To be continued. …

A thick silky fog swept through the street that had only one lamp-post to leave a blemish of a light on its hard trodden surface. Beside the lamp-post, rested a lazy bench, having lost one of its legs to mischief of some young souls and replaced by a distorted pile of red bricks. The morning was too young, unpolluted by the sun’s rays.

The watchman, after a long night’s journey, was ready to fall into the land of dreamless hibernation. The newspaper man, on the contrary, rode his bicycle through the street with his drowsy eyes, ringing the bell vehemently as he passed through the wavering silhouette of the watchman. The doors of the grocery shop were slit open by the shopkeeper whose hands were agonizingly shivering with cold that penetrated through his body when he touched the freezing handle. Asim, the 12 year old seventh grader, sleepwalked along the footpath, drowsy, avoiding the bench and almost hitting the lamp post; today was his day to set up the desks before everybody showed up in the classroom.

I had woken up early and even before I could open my eyes, I frisked around my bed table for my cell phone. There was no message, there was no missed call. She said she would be the first one to wish me; I thought there was still time. I slipped into a cardigan and walked out the door.

I picked up the paper and sat down on the bench. Asim reappeared from the grainy smog, rushing towards the bench, “Amir Sir, happy birthday” he said while breathing heavily, “See you later in the day” and he disappeared again.

She wasn’t going to be the first one now; still it was a good start.

“Oh, it’s your birthday” the watchman overheard the news, “well, congratulations.”

“Congratulations?” I don’t think he had ever wished anybody that before.

”Oey Hanif, get Amir babu a warm cup of special coffee with extra cream, its his big day today.” Iqbal, the grocery guy yelled from his shop to the coffee stand a few yards away and then turned his face towards me, “And Amir babu, happy birthday; foggy, cloudy and cold, it sure is your day.” I looked back at him, chuckled and then hid myself in the paper.

The day went by and she didn’t call, no message, no words. Each minute, every moment slipped away in utter silence; not even the sound of my own footsteps polluted it. It didn’t make me sad, it didn’t make me angry, it didn’t surprise me, it didn’t hurt me; it just happened to me.

In the night, when the clock was about to strike 12, I switched off the light and went to bed. Just then, before the clock would escort the night into another day, a faint knock at the door was followed by a whispering shout, “Hey Amir Sir, happy birthday” I heard Asim as he ran away laughing. I smiled and tucked my face in the blanket.

It was a good beginning to end the day.

I was sitting with my grandmother having a chit chat, when I found a “Paayal” somewhere around the couch. I started wondering to whom it belonged as no one that I knew wore it. My grandmother took it from me and looked at it. It was like a magic payal or something as it brought that smile of content and memories on her face. Without my asking, and without even her noticing I believe, she started telling me about the first payal she ever had, long time back; more than sixty years back that is.
She kept telling me about all the jewelry she ever had; before marriage and after; the necklaces, bracelets, rings, bangles and Paayals and all other types that I had never even heard of. All that time as she told me about her ornaments, she had that beautiful expression on her face, one with a lot of passionate memories. She remembered all pieces of jewelry she ever owned and that’s what hit me.

It’s not just some gold molded into different shapes, its something that portrays you, your image as a person, it makes you feel strong in some mysterious meanings of the word; it means more than just jewelry. There are memories of people and occasions attached to them and that’s what makes them priceless.

I don’t think I will ever question gold’s importance for a woman again.

One mistake overlaps all your correct actions.

One wrong step erases your righteous path.

One bad intention stains your good deeds.

One folly pulls you out of reason.

One stupidity stamps you with insanity.

One painful expression wipes years of gratitude off your face.

One disappointment labels you a failure.

One wayward glance distorts your focus.

One grief removes the memory of everlasting joy.

One offensive word defeats your hours of listening.

One farewell weighs more than a millions welcomes.

One forgetfulness is remembered more than life-time memories.

One sunset darkens a thousand sunny days.

JUST ONE LIFE?