Read Online No God in Sight by Altaf Tyrewala - Free Book Online Page B

I
want
to look like a joker.’
    I smiled, perplexed by the disgust on my son’s face.
    That was that. From that day on, Nawaz dresses up in his father’s finery every morning: the unaltered sherwani, the bunching pajamas, and a dark-brown embroidered skullcap. Then he gathers a pile of faded books and leaves.
    If only I knew how to read, or if I had a daughter-in-law whom I could conspire with, I would know what my Nawaz was up to.

Badru, Nawaz’s Paanwallah
    One day I will turn red.
    Not like Bengal.
    Literally!
    One day the red tinge of kattha will spread from my fingernails to my palms, arms, neck, chest, legs, penis, toes. Everything will be a healthy bloody red. Serves me right for selling paan. Such an addictive thing. It is as if the colony’s women specifically give birth to sons so that when they grow up they can hang around my booth all day like weaklings craving daily—sometimes hourly—fixes of my green, aromatic, enfolded bundles of bliss. And I always pack a sucker punch. Whether they like it or not, I finger a solid coating of white lime on the betel leaf to make my customers’ tongues burn and their brains buzz. With a thrill like that for just two bucks, who wouldn’t want more and more every boring day?
    Men form cheap habits so they can be happy quickly, any time, anywhere. Women, they want jewelry and a nicehouse and expensive visits to their parents’ homes—nothing your local tobacconist can deliver. So women remain sad, and are further angered by the easy happiness their menfolk have perpetual access to.
    But I am not without scruples. If you are a youth from a good family, I will sell you nothing. You can walk a kilometre to some other immoral paanwallah for all I care and stuff your body with useless flavors. What I sell is injurious to health. I will have no share in destroying someone if he isn’t already flawed. Like that boy from B3-2 building. Nawaz. Seen him growing up, I have. Since last week he has started packing two sweet paans every morning.
    ‘You want to be a politician or something?’ I had asked Nawaz. ‘What’s with the sherwani and skullcap?’ He didn’t answer, just stood quietly waiting for the paans.
    On the first day I refused to sell him any. ‘Son,’ I said to Nawaz, ‘I can do without your business. The people I sell this stuff to deserve it. They are rotten. But not you. Better stay away from all this paan-vaan.’ But Nawaz would have none of it, and threatened to buy the paans elsewhere.
    I may be scrupulous, but I too have to survive, don’t I?
    ‘More kattha, Badru!’ Nawaz said. ‘Lots more kattha. I want my mouth to be red like a pomegranate.’
    I dipped my fingers in the brick-brown mixture and lobbed some more on the betel leaf.
    ‘More kattha, Badru! More kattha!’ Nawaz spurred me.
    ‘You gone bonkers or what?’ I said. ‘More than this and your mouth will dry up forever like a eunuch’s privates. This kattha is potent stuff, you know,’ I counseled like a sage and packed the paans into separate packets.
    Now, every morning, Nawaz pockets the two paans, piles his books on his cycle’s carrier seat, and rides off, looking like the destitute prince of some newly impoverished territory.

Abhay, Nawaz’s Student
    Ah, there’s Nawaz-saab riding into our lane. On entering our gate, he will slide off his cycle, chain it to a railing in the car park and climb up to our flat. For the two hours Nawaz-saab teaches me Urdu poetry, maroon liquid will repeatedly streak down the sides of his mouth. He will wipe it away with a stained handkerchief and continue to expound.
    Yesterday, Nawaz-saab asked me to memorize this verse:
    Ashkon samad sa kufiya ul aasoon
Maghreeb naahid-azaan ulfati nastaeen
    Ah, these words, these words! What rhythm! What magnificence! It is a couplet by Faiz. One of his very first verses. Nawaz-saab says, when Faiz first recited these words at a gathering of fellow poets, an eavesdropping businessman swooned at their sheer