more, and titters, ‘The man counts fine till seven. But then he stumbles, gives filthy curses and starts over, over-and-over.’
‘But why! Why won’t he open the door?’ Nilofer cries to me.
All three, even baba-doubting Kishore, shrink inautomatic obeisance and beseech me with their eyes:
Tell us, baba, why won’t the man in 1403 stop counting and open the door?
This morning, on my way here, someone at the bus stop asked:
Do you foresee a number 71 soon?
Last week at a graveyard:
Baba, where is all this going?
Arrey, how am I supposed to know? What must I say to all these people? That I’m clueless? That their guess is better than mine? Can I say such things in these clothes, with the beads around my neck and matted locks on my head?
Everyone has words he isn’t allowed to speak, statements and defeats he just can’t admit; break out of your role, speak out of character, and the world despises you and discards you.
But then, not everyone craves to be cherished by the world.
Least of all Moin Chariya.
‘How am I supposed to know why he won’t open? Probably an illiterate who doesn’t know how to count,’ I remark blandly to the three waiting with me outside flat 1403. ‘I suggest you all go now, unless you want to wait here forever.’
That’s it.
I start for the stairs.
Midway between the fourteenth and fifteenth, on my way up to the sixteenth floor where a couple has called me to exorcise their Nepali ayah, I hear Vinti remark, ‘Let’s go, let’s go. No use waiting.’
‘Hmm,’ Nilofer sighs, ‘maybe I’ll try some other floor.’
‘Ha,’ Kishore says, ‘I knew that fellow was a phony.’
The two women giggle.
And I?
I pat my proverbial shoulder for having earned, not loose change or cheap devotion, but the seal of disapproval genuine rebels die for.
Flat 1404:
Munaf, the Unsuitable Boy
After slamming the door on that choot’s face, I just stand near the entrance, hunched over my crutches. I am too exhausted for the walk back to the bedroom.
Two hours later, when my parents return from shopping, I am still standing here.
‘Why you got up?’ mom cries.
‘Someone was at the door,’ I say.
‘So what!’ mom replies, ‘Allah, what to do with this boy!’
I am not supposed to answer the door. My parents tell me—and have been telling me for years—to ignore such things. Let the phone keep ringing, they say, let the doorbell chime and the cooker whistle; you please stay where you are. Getting up on my own puts great strain on my torso. The doctor fears I might develop multiple hernias. But if I don’t get up, if I remain in my room while things keep ringing-chiming-whistling somewhere in the flat, I become restless,till I can stand it no more, and then I want to torture my spindly legs for being my spindly legs.
Dad puts down several plastic bags on the floor. ‘Who was it, Munaf?’ he asks.
I raise my head to tell my father how I had come scrambling from the bedroom to answer the door only to be told by some crazed salesman-sort that I was going to catch a horrible disease, linger, and die.
But the sight of my father’s grey, unshorn face silences me.
‘Who was at the door, Munaf?’ dad asks again.
‘I’m sure it was no one. He gets up just to disobey us,’ mom says. She comes and stands behind me. Dad yanks away my crutches. As I start to fall, mom grabs my shoulders, dad lifts my legs, and they carry me to the bedroom and sit me down on the computer chair.
‘Now, please stay in your room,’ mom says. ‘You know who’s coming this evening and I have lots of preparations to do. Work on the computer.’
‘You know I don’t work on Sunday.’
Mom slaps her forehead. ‘Then do what you want. But stay here!’
She rests my crutches against the opposite wall, leaving me no choice.
I remove a photo from my shirtpocket. The girl in the photo is coming this evening. Her name is Sophiya. She and her parents are coming to see me. They called this
‘But why! Why won’t he open the door?’ Nilofer cries to me.
All three, even baba-doubting Kishore, shrink inautomatic obeisance and beseech me with their eyes:
Tell us, baba, why won’t the man in 1403 stop counting and open the door?
This morning, on my way here, someone at the bus stop asked:
Do you foresee a number 71 soon?
Last week at a graveyard:
Baba, where is all this going?
Arrey, how am I supposed to know? What must I say to all these people? That I’m clueless? That their guess is better than mine? Can I say such things in these clothes, with the beads around my neck and matted locks on my head?
Everyone has words he isn’t allowed to speak, statements and defeats he just can’t admit; break out of your role, speak out of character, and the world despises you and discards you.
But then, not everyone craves to be cherished by the world.
Least of all Moin Chariya.
‘How am I supposed to know why he won’t open? Probably an illiterate who doesn’t know how to count,’ I remark blandly to the three waiting with me outside flat 1403. ‘I suggest you all go now, unless you want to wait here forever.’
That’s it.
I start for the stairs.
Midway between the fourteenth and fifteenth, on my way up to the sixteenth floor where a couple has called me to exorcise their Nepali ayah, I hear Vinti remark, ‘Let’s go, let’s go. No use waiting.’
‘Hmm,’ Nilofer sighs, ‘maybe I’ll try some other floor.’
‘Ha,’ Kishore says, ‘I knew that fellow was a phony.’
The two women giggle.
And I?
I pat my proverbial shoulder for having earned, not loose change or cheap devotion, but the seal of disapproval genuine rebels die for.
Flat 1404:
Munaf, the Unsuitable Boy
After slamming the door on that choot’s face, I just stand near the entrance, hunched over my crutches. I am too exhausted for the walk back to the bedroom.
Two hours later, when my parents return from shopping, I am still standing here.
‘Why you got up?’ mom cries.
‘Someone was at the door,’ I say.
‘So what!’ mom replies, ‘Allah, what to do with this boy!’
I am not supposed to answer the door. My parents tell me—and have been telling me for years—to ignore such things. Let the phone keep ringing, they say, let the doorbell chime and the cooker whistle; you please stay where you are. Getting up on my own puts great strain on my torso. The doctor fears I might develop multiple hernias. But if I don’t get up, if I remain in my room while things keep ringing-chiming-whistling somewhere in the flat, I become restless,till I can stand it no more, and then I want to torture my spindly legs for being my spindly legs.
Dad puts down several plastic bags on the floor. ‘Who was it, Munaf?’ he asks.
I raise my head to tell my father how I had come scrambling from the bedroom to answer the door only to be told by some crazed salesman-sort that I was going to catch a horrible disease, linger, and die.
But the sight of my father’s grey, unshorn face silences me.
‘Who was at the door, Munaf?’ dad asks again.
‘I’m sure it was no one. He gets up just to disobey us,’ mom says. She comes and stands behind me. Dad yanks away my crutches. As I start to fall, mom grabs my shoulders, dad lifts my legs, and they carry me to the bedroom and sit me down on the computer chair.
‘Now, please stay in your room,’ mom says. ‘You know who’s coming this evening and I have lots of preparations to do. Work on the computer.’
‘You know I don’t work on Sunday.’
Mom slaps her forehead. ‘Then do what you want. But stay here!’
She rests my crutches against the opposite wall, leaving me no choice.
I remove a photo from my shirtpocket. The girl in the photo is coming this evening. Her name is Sophiya. She and her parents are coming to see me. They called this
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