Meenu
The door (or what was left of it after withstanding years and years of termite attacks and rains) creaked open. And in came a shy and thin ray of light along with my brother (just a little thicker and brasher than the sunbeam), in our room-cum kitchen-cum dining hall-cum lounge-cum store. We all, rightly, called him “Gittu”, because of his stunted growth due to malnutrition (of which I, too, was a victim), over grown belly (again nutritional deficiency) and bowed legs (negligible calcium). Anyhow, my brother is not that worthy of discussion than what-he-was-holding-in-his-tiny-hands and what looked-like milk. Yes, milk. A rare commodity for us. Once in a blue moon type of a luxury. Before I could decipher the whole enigma and utter something, he came closer and ‘sush-ed’ me.
“Look! Meenu, look. What I brought?” He ‘proudly’ whispered, as if he was holding the Koh-e-Noor.
“Is it? Milk? I said, both shyly and un-believingly.
“Yes, Meenu, yes”! He boasted.
“Did you…?” I became skeptical.
“No… I wouldn’t do that! Ever! Astaghfirullah!” He said, while simultaneously touching his ear-lobes with his thumbs and forefingers.
“I know,” he continued, “Allah gets angry with people who steal and are not obedient.”
“Hmm… then how?” I tried to investigate.
“Today, our Chotay Saabji was trying to….”
“Wait…wait…wasn’t he in the jail? Don’t you dare lie to me, you little…..! I clearly remember that last month police took Chotay Saab to jail because “allegedly” he threw acid on Maaqi Chacha’s daughter.”
“You’re right, but he just got released today. Wadday Saabji said that it was Allah’s karam that his younger brother was home that early. I wonder why, Allah jee never got naraz of Chotay Saabji?”
“You talk too much; just continue with your story.”
“So, Chotay Saabji was trying to feed Shaka (his scary, red-eyed dog. Abba says he never loses a dog-fight and eats 3 kgs of desi ghee and drinks 4 kgs of un-boiled milk). But he, I mean Shaka, looked in no mood; he would sniff the milk and leave it. Chotay Saabji even abused him, but he just wouldn’t. And then, and then, Saabji, in a very furious mood sat in his Pajero (Gittu calls every car a Pajero) and left. Shaka, meanwhile, sat unmoved in one corner of his aluminum and steel ringed cage (Abba says the cage is as big as our room-cum-home). So, I thought of it as a chance. I, (very) noiselessly pushed my hand in Shaka’s cage and delicately removed that steel bowl, transferred the milk into this (he pointed at the filthy shopper) and came running back home”. He flattered himself.
“Ow! But, I am not going to drink this dog-milk. It is haram.” I pointed out.
“Ok, then I will drink the whole of it.” He was relieved.
Just then, the door screeched again. And entered Abba, dragging his soulless body which now looked exhausted of carrying the weight of his skeleton. We lost our breath for a while, and thought that we were caught red-handed and a beating was imminent.
To our relief, the only thing he noticed was ‘this dripping! Ya Allah! It’s been three days since the rain had stopped, but this leakage is too stubborn to go away. It literally hammers in my mind.’
Cursing his own fate and abusing the poor roof, he sat on the (only) charpoy in the home.
“Oye, Gittu! Stop, whatever the nonsense you’re doing and go to Saabji’s home and fetch some firewood for tonight. How do you think are we going to cook today? Hein?” His order was followed by hefty coughing and concluded with a slightly homogenized mixture of phlegm and blood spit.
Gittu, already panicked, vanished from the scene like a cigarette smoke.
Gittu
I was still huffing and puffing when I reached the gate of Saabji’s home (or palace). As I stepped in, I found Shaka staring right at me as if already anticipating my return. His long tongue swayed out of his mouth as his breath snored. He was chilling me to bones. Before I could find my way in, I heard Chotay Saabji’s (low-pitched, slightly womanish) voice.
“Gittu, my son. Don’t be afraid. Come here. Tell me what’s the matter?” He called me up with a gesture of his gold-rings laden hand. I regained some confidence and stepped in.
“Saabji….Saabji…wood….I…Abba…cooking….Shaka…fire….” I stammered.
“Arrey, arrey, relax. Don’t worry, I won’t bite you”, he grinned, I couldn’t figure why?
“Meeday, bring some water for our Gittu, will you?”, he continued, “now, tell me what you need?” He held my hand and dragged me closer to his chair.
“Wood…for fire…cooking…Abba said…” I was better this time.
“Leh, that’s it? Just go to the store room and get it, as much as you want…” he showed me the way.
“I won’t go to store room, Saabji, I’ve heard there is a big, black, dragon-like monster in the store room, that drinks the blood of young kids.” I was trembling.
He guffawed. His tobacco masked teeth portrayed at their might.
“These are all stories, my little boy. There is no jinn. And he certainly won’t drink your blood. Because he doesn’t drink the blood of those kids who are obedient. And, Gittu, you’re obedient, right?” He cajoled me.
I nodded.
“Come, let me go with you. And guess where, Meedu has put the milk cans today?” He smirked.
So, he did see me when I stole milk from Shaka. I, dutifully, held his finger and we walked towards the store room.
He let me enter first. I could barely see anything inside the store room. After a few moments, my eyes adjusted to whatever the light was seeping through the door, I could see wooden planks neatly arranged on top of each other adjacent to the front wall. And then, I heard the door locked, light went away in a jiffy and before I could utter a word a huge, scaly hand sealed my mouth.
There, indeed, was a ‘monster’ in the room.
Meenu
Dripping had stopped, courtesy my mother and the overtime she took to arrange a bucket of mud from a nearby brick kiln (where she works). It took us whole afternoon to fix the roof. First, we placed a plastic sheet and then layered it with paste-like mixture of mud and cow-dung. We would’ve finished earlier, had Gittu been there or Abba could’ve helped. But Gittu had gone to Saabji’s home and Abba was sleeping and we dare-not awake him.
Ammi was slicing potatoes, simultaneously cursing Gittu, when he suddenly appeared at the door. Leaning to one side, he was hardly carrying those wooden planks and was about to fall. I hopped up to hold him, when unknowingly my eyes followed a red streak on his pants.
It was dripping, but my father was fast asleep. He couldn’t hear it, probably because it was not from the roof, and definitely not the rain-water.
The writer teaches at the Forman Christian College University. He can be contacted at: [email protected]